 
The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta, a collection.

Steven F. Bell

Published by Steven Bell at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Steven F. Bell

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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### Table Of Contents

Introduction

The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta

The Narsico Fontanelle Job

Quantum Cat

The Tower of Random Generation

The Pretty Pink Princess Fantasyland Play Set

To Use A Gun No More

Acknowledgements

Final Matter

About The Author

### Introduction

Welcome! Gathered here are tales spanning a number of genres, age groups and worlds.

The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta is a tale about a teenager in India, and the strange goings on in his backyard. It is a paranormal urban fantasy about home and being displaced. An NPR radio article by Sandip Roy inspired the story. <http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=114180081> This short story first appeared on http://www.quantummuse.com

Following a paranormal urban YA is a Science Fiction/Fantasy sort of hybrid. This story comes from a very silly email discussion that bears no resemblance to the final tale, anime influences and a whole lot of sci-fi/fantasy roleplaying games. The main character is a warrior monk. She has taken a series of jobs as an assassin in the future city of Xira. Her latest job, while appearing standard is anything but.

Quantum Cat is just a very silly piece about an evil scientist who also owns a cat. There is a catastrophe in the lab, and the problem goes from bad to really bad. If you have ever owned a cat, one with a distinct personality, and hands off attitude, then you know the evil that lurks under the bed here.

Diana Wynn Jones wrote a series of books called "The Tough Guide to Fantasyland." She came to our attention through "Howl's Moving Castle" the film based on her book. The Tough Guide is like a travel book, the reader is the tourist and it covers every single fantasy genre trope you can imagine. Now imagine someone being silly enough to write a short story about how those worlds are built. Mix equal parts Disney, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and the Tough Guides and you will have a good flavor of this tale.

The next story is one of my favorites. Games like Overlord and Dungeon Keeper lent the perspective for the protagonist (as unlikely a term as military intelligence.) This was written for the Holiday special issue of Quantum Muse, and while it borrows heavily from well know Decemberish holidays, it has little to do with them.

Now we reach the final story. It is the one that I am most proud of, in this collection. It is a steampunk tale concerning itself with the origins of Ignatius St. Eligius, hero of a series of novellas now being written. We are introduced to him at the onset of one of the most difficult times in his life. To say it is formative is an understatement.

Please, sit back, enjoy a cup of something and allow me to tell you a few tales...

The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta

In the small courtyard just outside of my window grew a splendid Neem tree. It stood proudly in the middle of the space, stretching up towards the sky. At night, I would often lie in bed listening to the wind rustle as it blew through the leaves. There was little relief from the heat and humidity of Calcutta; however, the shade of the Neem tree offered a small reprieve. Outside of our courtyard, the city was ever changing, as it consumed houses and yards alike.

Construction sites birthed square generic apartments at an ever-increasing pace. Sometimes as I lay in bed I wondered if that was going to be our fate, forced from the home in which my sister and I grew up in, into a shoebox apartment, with only a window box for marigolds. I was just fifteen, and the monsoon season was upon us, a mixed blessing at best. There would be breaks in the humidity, when there would be torrential downpours of rain as though the heavens were expelling every drop of water.

One evening, as a storm approached, Mother made a point of going throughout the house turning lights on, just before twilight fell. The wind rolled over our house and blew through the tree, shaking it as a child might shake its rattle. Dark clouds sped overhead, and before long rain pounded on the roof and splattered against the outside walls, on the tree. My mother had a worried look on her face during dinner and each time the lights would flicker, she would mutter a prayer to Ganesha.

My sister Kusuma and I would exchange glances and raised eyebrows, because Mother was not usually one to demonstrate any measure of devotion. After dinner, Kusuma and I went upstairs to my room to watch and listen to the rain. Its rhythm lulled us, and brought us a measure of relaxing pleasure, like a private symphony of percussion.

As the humidity and heat retreated, Kusuma and I sat near the window. She was playing with her doll while I sketched her in profile. Lights from nearby construction shone over the simple wall into the back courtyard and illuminated the Neem tree's branches. Occasionally, a particularly hard gust would blow the fronds towards my room. It was as if the tree were waving to us. Night fell along with the rain. Eventually Kusuma left for her own room while I continued to work on her picture.

In the light of an oil lamp, I was filling in background. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a sheet of rain slash through the tree and for an instant it looked as though a woman dressed in a sari was perched in the tree. I turned my head quickly to check my vision, but the tree moved its branches to cover itself from my prying eyes. Several more times I looked at the tree, but did not see the figure again. Distractedly I rubbed my eyes and found them tired from a long day. I set the sketchpad and pencil aside and climbed into bed.

The next evening at dusk found both another monsoon and Mother moving through the house turning on our lights again. Over Papadums we watched her fret and mutter more prayers. Being the kids that we were we rolled our eyes out of her sight. In the fading light, we went upstairs to draw and play again. I choose the tree as my subject, flipped to a clean page in my sketchbook and began to draw. After about an hour of working on the picture, I handed it to Kusuma and asked her for her opinion.

"It's very nice Raj, but why do you have a woman and a headless man in the tree?" she asked politely.

"What do you mean? I didn't draw anyone in the tree."

"Sure you did, they're right here in the branches near the wall," she insisted. I took the sketchpad back from her, and sure enough, there were two figures in the tree.

"I like the technique you used, the soft charcoal makes them look like ghosts," Kusuma added.

I glanced around me, and didn't see my charcoal stick anywhere. My sister kissed my cheek and ruffled my hair before skipping out of the room. As her footsteps receded down the hall, the lights suddenly went out. Instinctively I glanced out the window at the Neem tree and the branches parted as I looked revealing the woman in her sari and a man sitting next to her holding his head in his lap.

I heard Mother downstairs yelling a prayer out. I blinked several times. The lights came back on and the tree closed itself up. This night I stared out of the window for several hours waiting and hoping to catch another glimpse. While I kept vigil, I thought about Kusuma. She had been right. The figures in my drawing and in the tree looked as though they were with a soft charcoal stick. Smudged edges and no real definition on the paper reflected how my mind saw them.

The third evening, I planned to ask my mother about her new ritual to see if it would explain what I was seeing. Earlier in the day, I had investigated the back courtyard, which was now a mud-filled bog. There were no tracks leading to or from the tree. That eliminated Kusuma playing a joke on me or street people seeking shelter in the tree. Dinnertime brought a visitor. Uncle Srinivas. He had a round belly, receding hair and a ready laugh. Dark brown eyes peered out at the world from underneath his prized NYU ball cap.

Rather than stay in the west, he had returned home and started his own technology company. Dinner was a more lavish affair and I confess I forgot to ask mother about the lights and prayer. And so it seemed did Mother. Not once the whole time did she mutter anything to Ganesha or fly around the house turning on the lights. That night we all sat around the dinner table and talked, laughed and joked.

After Uncle Srini left, Kusuma and I mounted the stairs in the foyer. We went past the statuette of Vishnu to our rooms for bed. We bade each other good night and I lay on the mattress in the near darkness though light came in from the construction site again. Unable to sleep I rose from my bed, went over to the desk, and sat. I thumbed idly through my sketchbook stopping at random pictures and re-examining my work.

I reached the last picture, that of the Neem tree and froze. The hairs on the back of my neck rose and gooseflesh broke out over my arms. The picture now showed no less than seven ghostly figures. A trio of women was chatting over tea at the base of the tree. On a branch by himself, there was a richly dressed man of the Brahman caste and finally drifting up through the boughs was a spectral shadow drawn in darker charcoal than the others were.

It radiated a sense of foreboding from the page straight into my heart. Immediately I rose and went to the window and looked out over the yard. The tree drooped under the third night of monsoon rains, but nothing sat in the branches.

A light breeze cut across my bare legs and my blood ran hot and then cold. I sensed that I was no longer alone in my room. Turning halfway, I saw in my peripheral vision a gentle white glow. I completed the turn and found myself staring into the silvery hope filled eyes of a young woman, near my own age. She wore a wedding sari and henna tattoos decorated her. Jewels, the pinnacle of which was a Tikka also adorned her. She smiled gracefully at me and dipped her head.

I knew my mouth was hanging open and that a tremor had started in my spine and traveled down to my legs. She seemed to have form, yet in substance, she was like one of my sketches, drawn in white chalk. I tentatively reached out with my hand unaware of the room or conscious of whether or not it was a good idea. Carefully my trembling hand stretched towards hers until at last my flesh touched the ethereal.

Her palm felt cool as though I had just touched a smooth stone at the bottom of a riverbed. Ice frosted the edge of my hand and I pulled it back quickly from her. She smiled encouragingly at me, raised her arms above her head and did a slow magical turn. My eyes lingered on her hips, thighs and breasts; a visual feast amid the famine of my awkward teen social life.

Realization struck me somewhere between her second and third turn, I was in the presence of a _shankchunni_ or _petni._ A favorite amongst you men she was the spirit of a woman who was unlucky in love during her life and now sought out the unsuspecting young men that might be susceptible to their charms. I briefly toyed with the notion. I mean _she was pretty_!

When I saw her wide eyes boring into to me I abruptly pushed such thoughts out of my head. I could just hear Mother complaining about that decision loudly to the neighbors: " _He couldn't find a nice Hindi girl; he just had to take up with a petni!"_ I smiled politely and bowed but then shook my head negatively and spread my hands open, hoping that I was pantomiming an appropriate level of remorse not to have chosen her. I must have, because she smiled ruefully, winked and faded from sight.

I sat down on the edge of my bed breathing rapidly with my mind racing over this spectral visitor. I didn't sleep that night instead I sat at my desk drew several sketches of the beautiful ghost girl with her hopeful eyes. Several times, I looked out my window and saw the ghosts settled in our Neem tree.

In the morning, I set off to Uncle Srini's apartment, figuring that if anyone were going to have useful information and withhold his or her judgment it would be him, as opposed to Mother. When I arrived, Srini was reclining on a bench outside of his apartment overlooking the Calcutta Technical School and sipping some tea.

"What's up kiddo?" he asked with a hint of an American accent.

"I was wondering what you know about ghosts," I asked somewhat hesitantly.

"Depends, what kind?" he replied smoothly.

"All kinds," I gushed pulling my sketchpad out of my worn messenger bag. I flipped it to the previous night's (and early morning) pictures. Srini hummed to himself while he looked through the sketches.

"These are great Raj. You are definitely growing as an artist." I glowed at the compliment. At home drawing was more of a tolerated pastime than something desirable (read: having a future.)

"This one looks like a _Skondhokata_ , the ghost of someone who died in a terrible train accident. It is said that they cause mischief but can be easily outwitted because they cannot think properly since their heads aren't attached. This is a _Petni_. A young woman who was unlucky at love and died broken hearted. The only distinguishing feature of one is her feet will be on backwards. They prey on eligible young men so watch yourself," he said with a sly grin and a quick tousling of my hair. "This is a _Brahmodoitya_ , kind of a wise man. However, he may or may not pass on any wisdom. He could very well make trouble for you instead."

When he reached the last one he paused, with his finger hovering over the smudged outline.

"This is a _Nishi_ , they are exceptionally dangerous. They lure people out of the home by calling the person by name in the dead of night. They lead the victim away and are never seen again. I knew a guy once; he vanished in the middle of the night. It was said that a _Nishi_ got him." Srini stopped and shuddered, "No one ever saw him again."

"Is that true?" I asked nervously.

"Several family members said that they heard screams far away in the middle of the night. They didn't think anything of it until the next morning, when they woke and their son was gone."

I took a little courage in the fact that Uncle Srini seemed to be serious about this subject and then told him...

"I think we have ghosts in the Neem tree."

Srini sat back and rubbed his chin, with one leg crossed over the other.

"The tree is a good place for them, typically they need a place to haunt and trees work well when a house isn't available. The ghosts can see most of the house from there. They can see where lights are on. Your mother has been obsessing over that you know, lighting all the lights. It is how you keep ghosts out of the house," he said as a matter of fact.

"Each night this week the number of ghosts in the tree has increased. Last time I counted there were seven, why are more ghosts settling in the tree?" I asked him.

"Well, I'm no expert. However, it could be all the construction going on nearby. When the construction crew tears down a house it forces the spirits to leave. They wander around like regular people might when they've lost their home. If the ghosts spot a prospective house they will start congregating around it and look for a way in."

"I met a Petni last night," I confessed ruefully. "I was awake late and the lights were off." Srini whistled softly.

"That was lucky. If I were you I'd put in a night light. You don't want a _Nishi_ coming to call on you."

"Is there anything I can do to get rid of them?"

"Ghosts that haunt houses often choose places that are comfortable, and have a certain kind of energy. A very powerful priest owned your house at one time. Rumor has it that he worshipped Kali Yuga in secret. While not necessarily positive energy, it is indeed very powerful energy. I think you might be in for quite a time though."

I left Uncle Srini's and headed back home as the daylight started to wane and dark clouds rolled in again. Rain was falling softly when I opened the front door and walked into the foyer. Nervously I switched on the ceiling light allowing the bare bulb to shine over the off-white walls and hardwood floors. From his perch next to the stairs, Vishnu regarded me with a stony expression. I headed upstairs listening to the stillness that does not normally exist in my home.

In my room, I sat on the bed and watched the Neem tree as the light outside slowly faded. I waited until the light was gone from outside and I shut off my bedroom's single light. There were more tonight than last night. Seven had become seventeen. They were starting to look like white fruit dangling from the tree. There was a flicker before my eyes and I immediately knew that one had just entered my room. Curious I turned slowly around and came face to face with a man, wrinkled with age and faint wispy hair floating over his head.

His pale eyes were wise beyond measure, but kindly as well. He drifted over to my desk and gestured to the spot where I usually kept my sketchbook. He pantomimed opening a book and I realized what he was asking of me. I took it out of my bag and placed it on the desk. My visitor looked patiently at the book until I opened it to the last page.

The _Brahmodoitya_ passed his hand over the page and pictures took shape; a series of images appeared depicting the ghosts' migration from one site to another initiated by the arrival of a construction company and their wrecking machines, which seemed to confirm Uncle Srini's notion. The page flipped by its own volition and a new image started to take shape. As soon as the first couple of lines were drawn, I could sense the malevolence of the subject and understood it to be a _Nishi_.

The image continued to form, and other ghosts became part of the picture either in a pose that suggested terror or with an expression of a similar nature.

"So the other ghosts are afraid of the _Nishi_ too?" I inquired. The Brahmodoitya nodded his head.

"Is there anything I can do to send it away?"

The old ghost scratched his head as if in deep thought. His expression brightened and another picture drew itself on the page. It was the Neem tree and on its trunk was an intricate drawing. The wise man pointed at the drawing, then me, and finally out the window at our tree. I nodded my understanding. He wanted me to draw on the tree what had just appeared on the paper.

"Do I need to draw it now?" I wondered aloud. The elderly ghost shook his head and pointed at the picture, where an outline of a fierce monsoon had taken shape. Then the jars of henna ink rattled on my desk like the Brahmodoitya had run his finger across them.

"This is what I should draw on the tree with? These inks?" I asked aloud. I received a slow nodding of his head as my reply. I looked back at the drawing and recognized the image on the tree as that of Vishnu; it was a familiar image of the deity though I could not place where I had seen it before.

"When the drawing is complete, then the _Nishi_ will leave?" I said. The ghostly figure drifted over to the table and stared at my drawing book, and caused another sketch to appear. This one had the blotchy figure of the _Nishi_ pulled out of the tree by a large glowing hand. I studied the drawing, noting the detail that went into the figure of Vishnu. It was a nearly impossible rendering. The amount of detail was quite daunting.

I realized that without my best effort eventually the house would be overrun by opportunistic ghosts striking at the first blackout or popped bulb. I waited in my room alone with all of the lights on. Waited for the day to pass to night, waited for the monsoon to come again, waited for my chance to lay what was outside to rest.

I considered everything about the picture, the style, and the lines; how one detail led to another. I prepared the ink and several reliable pens, the simplest tools with which I was going to try and create a masterpiece on tree bark, in the rain. Morning drifted into afternoon. Kusuma and Mother both moved through the day with their usual purpose unaware of the event about to take place.

As the evening approached, the brilliant orange and pink sky clouded up and became black and gray. The wind howled through the streets, knocking over dustbins, swirling trash in miniature dervishes. Mother and Kusuma had left earlier for dinner and then to visit a temple. Apparently, Mother had decided to take matters up with a higher authority. When I look back on the situation, I wonder why I did not talk to her first. Why instead did I gather up my supplies and head into the courtyard. When my foot touched the threshold that led from the house towards the tree, I felt the first chill wash over me. At this point, I was resolute. I could not have been swayed by anyone or anything.

The wind was raging, but as of yet no rain had fallen. I hastened to the tree and laid my hand on its scaly bark and wiped away some of the dirt and dried bits of leaves. The surface was far too rough to all for the precision necessitated by the ghost's drawing. Casting my eyes around the courtyard, I spotted a fragment of terra cotta that formed a sort of jagged shovel shape. I quickly grabbed it and started scraping the bark off the tree. Perhaps not surprisingly the skin underneath was smooth and dry. I decided that my approach would be to sketch the picture first and fill in details in a second pass. I prayed fervently that Shiva, Ganesha and all of the other Gods would watch over me as I went about drawing the image. I dipped the tip of my pen into the inkwell and touched it to the tree, and when I did, a sibilant whisper came from the branches above.

" _Rajah,_ " it hissed in my ear. " _Come away with me, Rajah,_ " the voice urged.

I dared not look up for I knew that perched just above me was the _Nishi_. I could feel the cold aura it radiated brush up against me while I worked. The chill crawled around my shoulders, down my chest and under my arms. I exhaled slowly and closed my eyes trying to imagine Vishnu standing beside me and guiding my hand while it moved across the exposed skin of the Neem tree.

One black line merged with another. Soon I had the outline drawn using an area of about forty-six centimeters by forty-six centimeters. I kept on dipping pen into the well and refining the outline. Time drifted past unaccounted and the darkness around me became absolute save for the wide beam of light from the construction yard. In the beam of light, I continued to draw my hand moving at a frenetic pace filling the littlest details. I added jewels and vestments to the image. Vishnu's conch and lotus, mace and chakra all joined the imagery as it developed.

I was nearing the end when the first drop of rain smacked down in the dirt behind me. I noticed that the tree drank in the ink as quickly as I could apply it. When the rain finally struck the tree, the drawing did not slide off in a rivulet of grayish water. While I paused to study the work, the temperature in the air dropped rapidly until I could see my breath in front of me.

Referring back to the original on my pad, I found that I was almost finished. All that remained was some intricate beadwork to finish the depiction of his necklaces. I heard in the distance the slam of our front door. A light from the second story shone over the courtyard from Kusuma's room. She and my Mother had returned home early probably due to the weather. As if on cue the rain fell even harder. Fat drops of water spattering across the paper, which I could not adequately shield. The page absorbed the droplets.

With a cry of dismay, I watched the intricate drawing smear and run down the paper, dripping onto the ground.

Several of the ghosts were drifting around me, and up in the tree limbs a pair of _Skondhokata_ was tossing their heads around like demented jugglers. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the sketch before the rain ruined it but each time that I did all I saw was the tear-like lines running down the page. A triumphant hiss fell out of the tree to my ears and looking up I saw the _Nishi_ gliding out across a limb towards the now dark square of my sister's bedroom window. Why hadn't I studied more diligently the various forms of Vishnu like the statuette in our hall? The sound of my hand slapping my own forehead was like the crack of a whip. The drawing had been exactly like the figurine in our house. I sprinted back into the house, racing to the front hallway.

The statuette was one of my Mother's prized relics from her family. It was about sixty centimeters tall and expertly sculpted from river clay, then painted and glazed and finally fired in a kiln. It stood on a plain table by the stairs watching over the living room and television. I scrutinized the details of the necklaces, and they appeared to be a match for the sketch that had melted away. From above Kusuma's voice rose in fright. I heard the sounds of my mother struggling with the door and calling out my sister's name.

Quickly I snatched the figurine and sprinted back out into the yard. A wall of water slapped me down into the mud and I struggled to regain my feet and crawled to the base of the tree. Up over my shoulder I saw the dark smudge struggling to pull Kusuma out of her window. Frantically I put pen to tree and looked back and forth between the statuette and the drawing. Hastily I scratched out the last few lines of Vishnu's image. A clap of thunder erupted as I drew the last circular bauble, and the ground rumbled and the tree swayed. The back yard became aglow in silver as an enormous hand reached down from Heaven. At that moment, the _Nishi_ released Kusuma and dove directly at me.

A strange thing happened at the same time that the _Nishi_ struck me. I felt a presence enter my body from the opposite side and fill me like water poured into a glass. There was no room left inside of me for the _Nishi_. It jerked up into the tree pulled by the silver hand. Angrily it glowered at me. How it managed without a discernible face I do not know but trust me when I tell you, it glared. I stood up, and nearly fell back over as my knees buckled. I put my hand against the trunk to steady myself and found it oddly warm to the touch.

I sagged uselessly against the tree, slid back to the ground, and stared across the backyard. In my stupor, I hardly acknowledged Kusuma and Mother crossing the yard to me or pulling me into the house. Talking with Kusuma later on I found out that my eyes were glassy and unfocused like I was in shock.

Several days afterwards, I tentatively stepped out onto the back patio and looked at the Neem tree. It stood majestically, thrusting its branches into the heavens. I went over to the trunk where I had drawn my rendition of Vishnu, and it remained unfazed by the pounding rain and blazing sun.

Time passed. Kusuma and I moved away starting our own lives separated from the house and the Neem tree. From time to time, I'll visit Mother, and each time I make sure to check on my drawing. It remains there to this day. The ghosts now silently perch in the branches content in the knowledge that Vishnu sanctified the Neem. No longer to be, The Homeless Ghosts of Calcutta.

The Narsico Fontanelle Job

"Peeps," thought Danrake activating the vision augmenting nanobots. They spread out across her eyes and adhered to the surface of each eyeball from the two monofilament tubes. The city below her came into sharp relief as the nanobots amplified both light and magnification. The nanobots coating her eyes made them look like phosphorescent disks. Danrake was perched at the top of Patreaus's Spire, which was the tallest freestanding structure in all of Xira.

Unfazed by the precipitous drop she swept the city with her gaze, using her mind she directed the nanobots to focus in on various buildings that rose up, poking up into the night sky. Lights twinkled below, and air cars flitted about like hummingbirds among a flower garden. The city had stood for more than two thousand years in various forms. The old buildings had long ago crumbled into the mists of time.

Only the great central computer Centra remained from the first grand age, and Centra heavily modified now, controlled most aspects of the city. Gone were the trappings of the past, the Creator deity silent for the past millennia, gone is the magic He had bestowed on the people and gone were the heroes and villains who had fought over the city known as Xira.

From one of those heroes Danrake could trace her origins. Her DNA at birth went through a screening to create a genealogy tree showing the links to her past. In truth, that work merely checked a box on a form somewhere.

Concocted in a laboratory Danrake had some very select genetic samples in her. How, she wondered, would her ancestors view her now? Would they consider her a failure and disappointment for entering the detested niche occupation of assassin? Such thoughts had no place while on a job. The plain fact was that evil still existed, manufactured by man to be sure, but it was still around. There were people willing to pay large sums of anonymous money to have bad people killed both privately and publicly.

She had reached the top of the ranks of assassins by being the best at private eliminations and that enabled her to pick contracts depending on her research of the target. Tonight was one such case, 'Big' Narsico Fontanelle purveyor of all things repulsive, including child trafficking. He was presently in control of more than sixty percent of the North Ward, and so far managed to evade the city police and other determined assassins.

Honor amongst thieves was an ancient concept, and a group of criminals who did not like the atmosphere created by Big Narsico's organization had engaged Danrake to cut off the head of the beast. His building sat a mile north of her position and she focused in on it, increasing the image resolution several times in order to scan the roof. There were cameras naturally, a couple of human sentries and if the electrical scans were accurate, a number of robots, cloaked and waiting. Nothing out of the ordinary, since most of the larger crime figureheads were massive property owners with plenty of resources.

The external security did not faze her, it what was inside that demanded caution. She had not been able to obtain any recent floor plans or useful intelligence. She settled her breathing down using a technique her sensei at the island monastery had taught her, and then leapt from the Spire. Cool air rushed past her face, "Glide," she ordered silently. A pair of wings unfolded from her backpack. The wings caught the air and turned her fall into a steady glide, drifting across the gulf of smaller buildings towards Narsico's.

Danrake was dressed in a charcoal gray jump suit, made from a neoprene like material. A webbed belt hung around her waist, and the backpack adhered to the back of the suit. Inside the backpack was a multitude of tubes and pipettes all running through a mini-computer that was hard wired into her central nervous system. In the tubes were different kinds of nanobots meant to enhance various attributes.

With a single thought, she could alter her speed, strength, intelligence, hearing and vision. The onboard computer also controlled the configuration of the backpack enabling it to morph into a glider, or shield. The backpack housed a built in scabbard for her shinobigatana, a three-foot long sword that had its own special properties. Wind tugged at her close-cropped hair, one of the few exposed parts of her body. The upper portion of her face was not covered, although her eyes now had nanobot lenses over them.

She banked sharply, rolling onto her back and dropping altitude rapidly, just as she was below the building's top floor she twisted herself and swooped upwards. As she drew even with the rooftop, she retracted the wings and tumbled expertly to a gentle landing behind one of the human guards.

Louie was smoking a rumpled filter-less cigarette, swirling blue-gray clouds of smoke around his head. A sudden breeze whipped up and blew the smoke away, startling him out of his stupor.

"Jam," she commanded the pack, and it immediately started washing the rooftop in white noise, blocking electronic communications. Quickly she moved towards the only door present, sweeping her approach with augmented vision, she saw no sign of movement. She knew it was only a matter of seconds before the radio signals were noticed by someone inside and guards were sent to investigate. Ahead of her, the door rose up out of the floor, flanked on either side by cooling units. The radio jamming had disabled the robots, paralyzing them and scrambled the cameras. Swiftly she picked the lock using the tip of her gloved hand, which contained an intricate system of magnets and probes, and she slipped in through the door noiselessly.

Descending the stairs, Danrake cut the radio noise from her pack and engaged the cloaking feature of the suit. It did not turn her invisible, but rather blended the suit like a chameleon into its surroundings. The only part of her not cloaked was the top half of her head. Silently Danrake stole down the hall. "Scan," she thought to the backpack, and it swept the surroundings identifying targets, and presenting them to her through the vision nanobots. Knowing that Narsico was a large man in poor health, she could eliminate small masses and regular heart rates. One target remained highlighted on the heads up display.

Grinning behind the half-mask of her outfit Danrake proceeded further into the building, recording her progress in order to have a map at the end for her own archives. Drawing nearer to her goal, Danrake had the pack sweep the area for detail, and found several smaller human signatures, four electrical and one unknown. That was strange; the suit could normally classify anything it encountered. This might be a prototype robot was not in the identification system yet. It certainly had an electrical profile, but it was unlike anything she had seen before. It was moving in the same direction, Narsico Fontanelle's room.

She did not like what that meant, "Speed," she thought and a rush of nanobots flooded her bloodstream quickening her muscle responses to ten times the normal speed of a top athlete. With her pace augmented, she reached the foyer in front of Narsico's room. Standing about were a dozen human guards wearing shielded clothes in order to defeat scanners like that in her backpack.

Closest to her were the two sentinel robots. They were Class 4 Mark 1 combat types, relatively lightweight humanoid in shape and with flattened appendages instead of tubular design. The robots' alloy skin was a black and yellow scheme; their heads swiveled to focus video lenses in Danrake's direction. She whipped out her sword and activated it using the button in the hilt. Energy rippled out along the blade causing the metal to vibrate at ultra-sonic speeds.

' _Be as the wind through the trees_.'

This was the primary tenet of the Wind form, which dealt with movement in combat. Using her boosted speed, she easily slipped between the sentinels, and as she did, Danrake slashed left and right. Sparks flew out of the neck joints as the head units dropped to the ground, followed by the rest of the robots.

The human guards tried to react, but could not keep up with her enhanced speed. Like a deadly viper, she moved through them, dealing with each one efficiently. Her energized sword was a blur of blue tinged steel as it struck each target. Within a matter seconds the entire group of guards lay still. Danrake stood poised over the bodies alert, waiting for something else to challenge her.

The door slid open and Danrake flipped to one side as the third sentinel fired its auto-cannon in a rapid burst that shredded the wall across from it. The sound was deafening in the foyer, now illuminated in bursts of light by the muzzle flashes. Danrake swung her sword upwards, while the robot was correcting its aim, slicing the auto-cannon in half. Registering the loss of its primary weapon the robot stormed into the hall attacking Danrake using its remaining arm and legs to launch a physical attack.

' _The trees resist force with grace, the willow bends before the wind._ '

She deflected the blows, diverting them or just blocking them with her sword, each contact sent glowing metal fragments flying. With blinding speed, Danrake carved a figure eight through the air cutting the robot into four main pieces and scattering its limbs.

A claxon alarm started ringing and recessed strobe lights flared in the corridor. It took her a second to realize that she had not been the one to trip the alarm. It had originated somewhere else. Approaching the entrance to Narsico's room, she found it sealed during the brief fight. Along the seams, smoke rose up where the internal laser torches had fused the metal of the door with the frame. Danrake quickly checked her H.U.D. and saw the large, unknown was getting closer and that Narsico was still in the chamber ahead of her.

"Muscle," she thought. A hot rush hit her muscles and they swelled with an influx of nanobots. Danrake hewed her way through the door with the combination of strength augmented by the nanobots and her sword's electrified vibrations. Shouldering past the wreckage she entered Narsico's lair.

A young dark haired girl huddled in one corner of the palatial room, dressed in filthy rags; she was a sharp contrast to the fine decorations. Every object was gilded gold; a large flat panel monitor covered one wall displaying a random set of patterns in morphing colors, a table, laden with food sat in the middle of the room. The far wall was transparent Plexiglas, offering a sweeping view of the cityscape. The floors, walls and ceiling were all pristine white causing the enormous round bed to pop, since it was draped in plum colored sheets. In the middle of the bed, lay Narsico Fontanelle, a grossly overweight and hairy man. His skin shone with a fine coating of sweat and grease, and a worried look decorated his face. His expression changed to relief as she turned off her cloaking system, and then his eyes narrowed:

"What are you doing here? I don't suppose you've come to join my little soiree?"

Fontanelle had a high-pitched voice. Danrake did not reply, instead she nodded at the child and then at the faint outline of a small concealed exit.

"You want me to give up my little treat?" Narsico said sounding less than surprised.

He rose naked from the bed and crossed the floor to the table, where he pressed a single button, opening the door. The girl needed no further encouragement and fled the room.

"So they sent you? I thought they might, so I took precautions. Unfortunately, it seems that those safety measures have failed me."

He gave Danrake an appraising look, "You're fairly luscious, if we had more time, I might put aside my normal tastes for a little sample of what's under that suit."

Danrake cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes.

"Oh, you're the strong silent type. Gotcha," he said with a nasty wink.

He took notice of her backpack and the wires and tubes that ran out of it and into her flesh.

"Ah you are an augmenter, someone who uses technology to become more than what they are. I was worried that the others might have sent a real assassin," Narsico sniggered.

Danrake checked her display again; the large object was on the same floor now, and moving steadily on the way to the room in which she stood. Narsico smiled oily at Danrake,

"My daemon is getting nearer, which means that soon you will die, having failed in your attempt on my life.

"Explain," she said.

Narsico's eyes flicked down to the monitor in front of him, checking on where his rescuer was.

"I knew the other organizations were going to hire a killer, so I decided to get the best protection that I could afford. Some research and a few bribes gained me access to Centra and I was able to study the ancient art of summoning. Interestingly, even though the Creator departed our world, taking magic with him, the natural forces used by the Shamans and witches of old still remained. Some kind of celestial oversight I imagine. Regardless, I managed to meld the proper balance of human and machine into one physical entity. Add a Shaman's ritual during an eclipse, like the one yesterday and presto, a daemonic techromancer is born. I do hope they'll credit me with the name. However, keeping it contained has proved, difficult. One cannot truly contain a daemon I suppose," Narsico mused.

"And now it appears to be loose, killing my employees. I am certain it is heading here, where it will certainly take care of yo... HURK!" he gurgled as Danrake's blade sliced easily through his throat.

Blood splattered across the ceiling and floor, standing in stark contrast to the white. Daemon or not, she had a contract to complete and she honored her commitments.

With Narsico dead, his men would desert their posts and quietly find work elsewhere, though one or two of the more enterprising individuals would take control of the assets such as the building, robots, and data systems. None of which was her concern, all she needed to do now was get out. Hurrying, Danrake stepped over to the table and checked the monitor. It showed a bank of security cameras, in particular the lift lobby where a squad of sentinel robots engaging with this techromancer.

It was bent over, hunched as though it was deformed, or parts fitted poorly together. Odd pieces of robotics were jury rigged to a human torso, though wires came out of the chest and abdomen connecting to battery packs and the lower extremities. The skin, such as it was, was black like the night sky and tears in the skin emitted reddish light. She watched as it stretched out a hand with bent fingers and a beam of light enveloped one of the c4 mk1's, crumpling it like a giant hand had crushed it. A sentinel opened fire, and dozens of rounds of ammunition stopped two feet from the daemon, suspended in mid-air.

With surprising swiftness, the creature crossed the room and using a robotic arm, smashed the last sentinel to the ground, leaving a pile of wreckage unmoving on the floor and a slow pool of oil and hydraulic fluid gathering under it. Without apparent concern, it proceeded forward, towards the room that Danrake was standing in.

She went over to the large window and sliced across the Plexiglas. Hurriedly she made a half dozen score marks in the window, then grabbed a chair, and swung it with all of her might. The shock of hitting the window went up her arms and she almost dropped the chair, however a small spider web of cracks had formed at the point of impact. Repeatedly using all of her augmented strength she battered the reinforced glass with the chair. Finally, a chunk of window fell away allowing the wind to rush into the room.

Some sheets on the bed flapped tiredly in the breeze and then settled down. She put one hand on the jagged hole in preparation to clamber out and launch herself away from the building. She did not know why, but she felt compelled to rescan the surroundings with an eye for the girl. Danrake found her mass signature ten feet away, still in the hidden hallway, unmoving. She was moving as soon as her nanobots reported life signs on the girl, kicking in the diminutive door. Seeing that there was hardly enough room for her, she sheathed her sword and approached the young girl carefully. The little one was huddled on the floor hugging her knees and rocking staring fixedly at the wall. She turned her head to face Danrake; there was a mixture of fear and hope in her eyes.

Danrake scooped the girl up in her arms and said gently "I'm going to take you out of here. Please trust me."

The little girl worked up a smile and patted Danrake's concealed cheek. From behind her, the sounds of the daemon entering the bedchamber of Narsico echoed down the hall. Danrake moved quickly further down the hall, not caring where it led as long as it was away from the daemon. The hall opened up into a small austere room strewn with books, data disks, unopened food containers and other detritus that implied the monastic isolation of someone doing research.

It was then that Danrake noticed that notes were scrawled everywhere including the walls, furniture and every free bit of paper. "Pillage," she mentally commanded her backpack, causing it to tap the computer terminal on the desk, record digital images of everything and start cataloging and referencing all the books. Down the hall, it sounded as though the daemon was having trouble navigating the narrow corridor. Vaguely Danrake wondered why it was having trouble if Narsico managed it.

That thought leapt to the forefront of her mind, looking over her shoulder she realized that he could not have made it between rooms.

She put the little girl down, "Is this your room?" she asked. The girl nodded her brown eyes serious.

"Is there a way out of here, other than the hall?" Danrake said. This time the girl shook her head negatively.

"Are you a Simula-Tron?" Danraked asked suspiciously.

Sometimes the rich would have human replicas manufactured as a means to live out illicit fantasies, or spend more time with a lost loved one. They could perform mundane tasks, such as research. This time the girl nodded affirmatively. The unusual circumstances must have sent the faux child's programming haywire, causing it to exhibit fright as a coping mechanism while the API struggled to re-orient itself.

"Do you know about this daemon that is coming down the hall? Can it understand me?" The child robot nodded. "If you were programmed with vocal response, use it now," she ordered.

"Of course miss. What can I assist you with?" said the Simula-Tron in a sweet lilting voice.

"The daemon behind us, can it be stopped?"

"Uncertain. Our research had not reached any conclusions to that affect as of yet. However, we are dealing with two entities here. First is the daemon, which we cannot control. The second is the physical container. While we cannot control it per se, it could be shut down."

Danrake though for a second, "Would an EMP do the trick?"

"Yes Miss it would," the Simula-Tron replied.

"Ok, where's your interface jack? We can offload your databanks and reconstruct you later," Danrake trailed off, leaving unspoken the fact that the little robot would perish in an EMP blast.

She shook her head trying to figure out why she was having an emotional response to a robot, even one designed to look like a little girl. The Simula-Tron offered her right hand, palm up displaying a recessed port in the wrist. Danrake drew a data monofilament from her pack and inserted it into the port. Her H.U.D. showed the transfer progress moving quickly. The sounds of the daemon were much closer now; she would have to buy some time. Playing out the monofilament, Danrake approached the hallway carefully. Five meters away the hulking monstrosity was attempting to push its way through the narrow corridor by main force. It was tearing out sections of wall as well as structural supports and a cloud of fine dust choked the hall.

"Hold!" called Danrake, "State your purpose," she demanded.

The techromancer halted its destruction of the surroundings and tilted its head as it pondered the statement.

"To defend the master," it answered in a voice as deep and rich as the ages, although it did sound a bit tinny coming through hastily prepared audio modules.

"Your master is dead, why continue?" she asked.

"Master's status not relevant. Freedom relevant. You represent a condition that must be satisfied," said the creature.

"You'll not find me an accommodating target, and if the master is dead, then any preconditions he set should have died with him."

"Logic doesn't always work. Sometimes a contract is non-negotiable, you as a hired killer should understand that. I have waited more a millennia to be freed and now that I have been released from the inky blackness of space I will not return to it," it said angrily.

The evil presence was at once familiar and completely alien to Danrake, it was as if on some subconscious level they had known each other previously. Then recognition flared in her genes and worked its way out to her mind, this daemon was a primeval malevolence and someone in her past had fought it before. Danrake smiled,

"I know you daemon. I know you well and I know that my ancestors have defeated you. You have no power here; best you flee before I send you back to the cold darkness you fear so much."

Glancing over her shoulder, Danrake checked on the Simula-Tron who met the look and nodded indicating that the data transfer was completed. "Evac and contain," she ordered the backpack, initiating an emergency relocation of the data it was storing to the server secured in a remote location. Danrake slowed her breathing and settled herself down focusing on the key phrase of the Ocean form.

' _The Ocean is endless, it is patient and timeless. In the end, everything succumbs to it._ '

"Are you still there? Show yourself and I can end your life painlessly," called the daemon.

Danrake did not reply, instead she dove low into the corridor and rolled to her feet in a blindingly fast maneuver, using the energy from the acrobatics to propel her sword straight towards the daemon's chest. With no difficulty, it caught her blade in the metal hand and simply held it in place.

"Foolish," it commented.

"No, foolish is holding on," answer Danrake as she activated the sword's energy field, and pushing it straight through the robotic hand, as a bare blade would cut through flesh. The point struck home in the machine's chest, and a cloud of darkness swarmed over her left side. The daemon had employed the strange energy in the lower levels.

"Nuke," she thought.

Her backpack hummed loudly for a second and then there came a loud 'POP' and a green shockwave spread out in a circle. It washed over the daemon and seeped into its circuitry fusing switches in position, destroying batteries and ruining every electronic component. With the loss of power and control, the attached human remains became useless. The whole machine sagged in the hall, supported in part by the close confines.

Danrake shuddered at the small shock she received from her own electronics shutting down. Her enhanced muscles, vision and speed all ceased to function as the microscopic bots perished. In the darkness she failed to see the pale gray mass rise from the body, it drifted up through the ceiling and vanished. Danrake extracted her sword from the wreckage and looked back over her shoulder to the small room where the Simula-Tron had fallen.

The little girl lay still on the floor, a peaceful smile softly imprinted on her face. Danrake turned away and crawled over the wreckage. Once free of the room, Danrake carefully made her way down to the first floor.

Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, she sagged against the wall with a bowed head. The sudden destruction of the nanobots had left her exhausted, and wracked with pain. In her blood stream, the nanobots were inert and, unable to be recalled by the backpack and incapable of functioning having been at the epicenter of the pulse. Now it was as if Danrake had come down with a sudden and significant dose of a heavy metal poisoning. She fumbled for the door handle, and clutched it as she retched uncontrollably. It promised to be a long day when she returned to her hideaway, hooked up to a blood-filtering machine in order to clean her system out.

Sluggishly she moved out of the stairwell into the lobby, crossing it as quickly as possible. She lurched out onto the street. Immediately the noise, light and motion of the busy city came close to overwhelming her. Danrake flowed into the stream of people moving past the building's entrance. In a matter of seconds, the mass of people swallowed her up.

The amorphous cloud drifted idly around Narsico's office, unable to solidify. That could not matter less, the daemon thought. It was free, unconditionally free. It would be a matter of time before it could assume another physical form. Time was something the daemon had. No, it mused, I am daemon no longer. I am to be reborn as I once was, and I will have my revenge on those who imprisoned me. The city of Xira and every person in this world will fear my name again.

Quantum Cat

Hank could feel eyes on him as he rose out of bed in the morning. Malevolent, aloof, vicious. No sooner than he had put his feet into his slippers than an ambush was launched, darting out from under the bed, it seized his ankle and savaged it with needle sharp teeth and claws, causing Hank to hop across the cluttered room on one foot, cursing loudly just before falling over the chair. He lay on his back staring up at the ceiling, feeling the burning pain in the ankle and the duller throbbing pain in his back. The evil menace's face appeared upside down in Hank's vision; yellow eyes blinking owlishly at him, mocking Hank as if to say: "That wasn't even the half of it."

Then the presence vanished from the room. Hank slowly rose to his feet and went to go through his normal morning rituals: Hygiene, Dress, Eat, and then go to the Evil Laboratory in order to continue quantum experimentation for evil applications. Hank was also known as: Henry VonStropenhelm Ph.d, Evil Genius.

The sign on the door to his lab read: Evil Genius Industries, Inc.

He is what you might call a 'Mad' scientist, though this morning it's more like 'Really Angry Scientist, with inflamed bites and scratches on ankle.' Hank wrapped himself in a lab coat, put on his safety glasses, and walked down the hallway to the laboratory. The lab is the one place in the house that Hank felt relatively safe. IT cannot get in here by the virtue of not having opposable thumbs, and therefore no ability to work a doorknob.

Something plagues Hank. As noted previously, it is something malevolent and worrisome even to a mad scientist. It was the curse of his ex-wife, instead of taking the house; she left her own version of the 'Curse of Montezuma.' Hank considered the door: it was made from reinforced steel, had a 2"x2" peephole three quarters of the way up, and six key locks, two combinations, four biometric readers and a whopping great bar. Yet he never felt truly safe.

Once inside and feeling somewhat more secure, Hank powered up iBRodriguez, a semi-sentient server, built from several old computers, a half case of vintage 'Joggle' cola and the complete dvd collection of a television animated science fiction program. The experiment for the day sprung up on screen for Hank. He smiled; it looked like an evil treat. Hank was planning to create a small, pocket sized, tear in the fabric of space and time (a poor man's black hole.)

What, perhaps you were expecting something else, something more world threatening perhaps? Please gentle reader, understand that Hank was not wealthy, working through a particularly nasty divorce, and he was not the head of an evil organization that could raise unlimited funds. He could not even afford a proper evil lair, just a quaint little Cape Cod in the suburbs, with a deep basement.

iBRodriguez rattled to life and queried onscreen: "WHAT EVIL SHALL WE DO TODAY?"

The letters stared up at him from the monitor. Hank responded by clicking on the 'activate' button in the project description for the current experiment. A pair of robotic arms whirred and clanked into life, reaching around the lab to gather the necessary components and deposit them on the workbench. Since Hank is on the budget plan, the workbench is simply a lab table that a nearby college had put in a dumpster. One leg was propped up on several copies of a science magazine making it was reasonably level. Graffiti, from the many students who had sat at it in the past, chemical stains, and one scorch mark marred the table. Well... one original scorch mark. There are about five fresh ones from this week alone.

Soon a pile of components was neatly stacked in front of him awaiting assembly. Hank selected his favorite screwdriver from the rack and dove in. For several hours, he was blissfully unaware of anything except the raw materials at hand. Hank coupled connectors, soldered structures, glued gadgets, and wired wildly. When he had finished, a flat black box sat in front on the scarred workbench, with three buttons and an L.E.D. display. A power cord hung off the back, waiting for an outlet.

He thought to himself "I should have built the device in a more 'Green' fashion."

Hank's title was officially: 'Evil Genius.' Presently he is enrolled in 'Super Evil Genius' courses and hoping for the mutagen grant to come through. That would allow Hank to augment his DNA. Maybe he could gain a third eye, or an extra thumb. He went over to iBRodriguez and with a few mouse clicks brought up some music and started the album: Zen Arcade.

Taking a deep breath, he then plugged the box into the wall. The display lit up in bright red characters, and blinked lazily: '12:00', which would probably start to annoy him shortly. He knew he shouldn't have scavenged parts from his VCR; however Hank could not bother with things like that right now. His trembling finger hovered over the first button, auspiciously labeled '#1.' Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes tightly, his finger stabbed forward. There was a click, and then a gentle hum. Opening his eyes, he saw that the box sat motionless on the workbench.

Nervously, Hank reached out towards the next button, coincidentally labeled '#2.' A soft click and several fans inside the case whirred to life. The box vibrated just a little bit, enough to be noticeable, but not enough to exceed safety margins, which were point of fact, nonexistent. Feeling somewhat emboldened, he more confidently aimed his pointing digit at the last button, cleverly labeled: 'C.' Hank had found a button pre-labeled, and so used it.

Savoring the moment, his finger slowly approached the last button. It was mere inches away when he felt something change in the lab. It was as if the atmosphere had suddenly become repressive, a tiny spark of panic stirred inside of him. Precautions taken and countermeasures set. It should not be possible. From near his feet a soft rumbling sound started. He felt the evil presence wind itself around his lower extremities. Looking down, his eyes met those baleful yellow eyes looking back up.

"No," he whispered.

Too late, in an explosion of muscle and fur and Hank was scaled as easily as a mountain climber goes up a gentle hill.

"Oh the pain," he gasped as a single tear rolled down his cheek, while he clutched the side of the workbench for support.

Hank's entire body convulsed, trying to shed itself of the presence. It leapt off Hank, landed squarely on the lab bench next to the new device, which it then spritzed with its built in atomizer. Hank cried out and dove for the unit, attempting to pull the power cord out of the wall before anything could go wrong.

However, the quick movement only attracted the evil, which jumped on his arm, deflecting it from the back of the box to the front. Where, of course since this was the plan all along, Hank's hand crashed into the third and final button. There was and loud crack and a shower of sparks erupted from the fan vents on the top and back of the machine. Some acrid blue smoke rolled out as well.

Hank jerked back, away from the machine thinking: "well at least it isn't 'the green smoke of very bad things.'"

Then he realized that he was wearing the Evil Safety Glasses of Filtering Out Yellow Light. Taking them off revealed that the smoke was in fact, green.

"Oh dear, not again," thought Hank.

A second later the box started radiating a shimmering multihued sphere of light. The light expanded to encompass the entire laboratory. Anything not securely fastened or strapped down drifted up into the air, Hank included.

"This is entirely your fault," he scolded the evil presence.

It drifted past with an affected indifference, as if floating was as natural as walking and that this was an everyday occurrence. Helplessly, Hank hung in mid-air and shook his fist. A new sound pervaded the lab, a sort of drunken buzzing sound as though a thousand bees were hosting an all-night bender in Tijuana. The noise grew in pitch and the box was rattling against the table top.

"Things," Hank thought, "are coming to an unexpected and rather violent head here."

The machine gave a final high-pitched whine of a death knell, felt silent, and still. The field in which Hank had been floating evaporated instantly and he plummeted back to earth, managing to land on his face. Standing up with his back to the workbench, he rubbed a sore nose. A white flash of light engulfed him. Then everything faded to black.

Hank awoke to the sounds of iBRodriguez's robotic arms swinging back and forth, putting bits of electronics together on the workbench.

"What's going on?" Hank wondered mushily.

The evil one lurked on the table next to IBRodriguez and watched the computer's progress with keen interest. Hank squinted at the table, on it laid a small backpack like device with a robotic arm extending out of the main pocket. The arm had at the end a hand, contained inside a white velvet glove. The computer was working on a steel gray litter box next to the backpack. At one end was a control panel, lit and glowing with touch sensitive buttons in varying shades of amber and blue light.

It regarded Hank coldly, "Oh so you're finally awake," it sneered.

The voice echoed in his head, and Hank was unsure if he had heard it with his ears or not.

"Obviously, I can't talk. Don't be a nimrod. This is telepathy." Hank shook his head to try and clear it,

"What's going on here?" he asked.

"Final assembly," was the calm and spite filled reply. "Once the hyper drive is installed, I shall leave this awful, and might I add tacky, place forever."

"I suppose the next question is how are you doing this?" Hank asked.

"The answer is dreadfully simple. Your experiment failed catastrophically. And since we were both in the room at the same time, some or all of your 'intelligence' was siphoned over into my mind through the phase shifting quantum field."

"Right," said Hank. "Really, what's going on? Is that Orville?" said Hank looking around for his archrival, "Are you playing one of your practical jokes on me?"

"Assuredly this isn't a joke. I do not know who this 'Orville' person is. Since you are obviously going to need some convincing, allow me to remind you of the *ahem* present I left behind yesterday on the arm of your couch while you watched television. Surely that should convince you of my credentials."

Hank stared for a full minute. This couldn't be happening really. Then again, if the evil wanted out of the house for good, who was Hank to offer up any kinds of roadblocks?

"By the way, part of your skull is missing, and your occipital lobe is exposed. I only mention it because it is gross and I don't want to look at it. Perhaps you could try wearing a hat over it?"

Tentatively Hank felt his way around to the back of his head, and three inches past the back of his ear, the skull simply trailed off. Gingerly he probed with a finger and touched something slimly and squishy. It yielded to his gentle pressure, and suddenly his vision went blurry. His brain was apparently open to the world around him. He had wondered briefly, where the new breeze was coming from.

The blurred vision was likely from poking the occipital lobe, something that Hank resolved not to do again. He blinked hard several times and slowly his vision returned to normal. The smug look on its face was almost more than Hank could stand.

"What makes you think that your hyper drive is even going to work?" he snapped.

"Wouldn't yours?" the voice in his head echoed.

Hank realized that he kept his plans for a hyperactive drive on IBRodriguez. The robotic arms worked on assembling the new drive at that very moment. The cylindrical engine mounted to the rest using a spiderweb of miniature I-beams. Hank could see a ring of flashing lights encircled the middle of the engine tube, and at the end, there were fins, which could redirect the thrust as needed. In short, everything that he had laid out in his plan was on this engine, brought down in size to scale perfectly.

"Are you sure it will work?" he asked.

In a tone dripping with condescension, he heard: "Yes of course it will. I mean really, it's not like you have a dog working on this."

"Where are you going to go?" He asked.

"I'm not sure. Frankly, I am willing to go wherever the stars lead me. As long as I have my automatic head patting device I shall be the first in a long line of space-faring..."

"Wait a minute," interrupted Hank. "You won't be the first in a long line of anything. We had you fixed two years ago."

"Why? What was broken?" asked the voice.

"Uh, nothing was 'broken', by fixed I meant neutered. As in: unable to reproduce." A stunned silence was the only thing Hank could detect in his mind.

"Why would you do this to me?" It asked, "I knew my suspicions were well founded. You and that frigid female of yours, always at it like rabbits, no consideration for those of us with more advanced senses of smell and hearing."

"Simple," Hank said, "We did it so that you would be unable to procreate and turn out thousands of progeny. If you wish to leave using my technology, go right ahead. Try not to burn this place down. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go find a hat. Apparently, my brain is exposed, and I would hate to freak out the neighbors."

"Right," came the thought, "as if they weren't the biggest freaks of all anyway."

Hank turned away from the workbench, went back to the massive door, and proceeded through the ritual of unlocking and unbolting everything. With a final glance over his shoulder, Hank stepped through the door hoping that iBRodriguez would be ok. Hank was staring in the mirror a few minutes later trying on the various hats he had lying about his room. A jaunty fedora sat tipped back on his head, making him look nothing at all like his favorite movie hero: Iowa Smith.

From below the main floor of the house came a deep rumble, knick knacks bounced and danced across the dresser, and a picture of his ex, their pet and him fell off the wall causing the glass in the frame to shatter. Tthen there was silence, no explosions and the little house remained standing. Hank shrugged and turned back to his hat selection.

Epilogue:

Hank awoke one day in the middle of autumn, outside his window gold, red and orange leaves gently fell in a soft breeze. Across the street, he could see pumpkins on the neighbor's porch. He rose up out of bed and as always, examined himself in the mirror on his dresser. His head was smoothly shaved clear back to the steel half dome he had constructed to cover his brain. The skin of his scalp merged with a weld line where he had fused bone and steel together.

He chose a wig from his collection and settled it in place. Walking down the hallway, he reflected on the awards and citations from various evil genius societies. At the end of the hall next to his steel door was a certificate of completion for the Super Evil Genius course. He descended the stairs into his laboratory where the newly remodeled iBRodriguez 2.0 hummed quietly.

"IBR, some music please," called Hank.

Fugzai wafted across the room in response.

Unexpectedly there was a brilliant flash of white and pink light, followed by the sound of a thousand waterfalls. A few seconds later, Hank rose up off the floor where he had dropped to in order to check the structural integrity of the concrete and certainly not, where he had cowered out of sheer fright. He stood up and on his workbench. There was a strange conveyance. It was complete with blinking lights and what appeared to be a modified version of his hyperactive drive. Next to it laid a steaming pile of fecal matter. As he recoiled in disgust, his ankle flared in pain.

"Guess whose back, pooping on your workbench and shredding your ankles!" cried a cheerful voice in Hank's mind.

Hank jumped back in shock, "YOU!" he shouted.

"Yes, turns out my automatic head petting device just wasn't as sensitive as I had hoped it would be. I need to use iBRoddy to tweak it a bit. You might as well settle back and get used to it. Oh, you might wish to lay in a supply of first aid cream and fish," Hank could feel as well as see the wicked grin, "I'm gonna be a while," said the voice in his head.

### The Tower of Random Generation

A lone tower rose up out of a dry and dusty plain. The stone used to make it was shiny and a pale green, like lichen from the mountains. It rose up three hundred feet into the air, crowned at the top by a magnificent pinnacle of black marble slabs. Just below the spire was the solitary opening. It consisted of a wide and tall portal with a balcony attached just beneath it. If one were a bird, then one could have a look inside and see an ebon altar, carved far back in the mists of time. It gleamed and pulsed with its own life force. On the floor around surrounding the altar, glyphs had been hand carved into the marble floor and filled with white enamel. Bookcases stretched floor to ceiling against one wall, while a wheeled ladder stood at the ready next to them. It was an ancient place, one of power and mystery.

A gentle breeze blew in through the window and in a swirl of velvet curtains, a figure materialized. For supposition's sake, we will say that it is male, elderly and bordering on 'portly.' This man is covered heat to foot in black velvet, which shines in the light of the torches hanging in their sconces. The first place he goes is to a small table with a silver platter sitting on it. There is a scroll, tied with black ribbon, waiting for him. Of course there is, the tower would not summon him otherwise.

Deftly he plucks the scroll up and flicks off the ribbon. Deliberately the mage reads down over the instructions. He pauses and wonders if there is enough in the ingredient stores. That is not his concern he tells himself. Ingredients are for the apprentice to worry over. He moves with great purpose, gathering tomes from the shelves, muttering to himself and referencing a long scroll that trails after him by its own volition. For now he pays little attention to the altar, it is not time just yet.

Another breeze blows through the window, leaving behind in its wake another figure clothed in black. Again, presume it is male, younger than the first and quite a bit skinnier. He stumbles out of the embrace of the velvet hangings and then hurries to a cupboard and starts rummaging in it, pulling out various kettles, beakers, and stands and stirring implements.

On a workbench, he sets up the apparatus and goes to a small pantry to select ingredients. The older man drifts in behind the other to observe and to nitpick at each choice made. Before much time passes, the cauldrons bubble and smoke. The two men work carefully, combining reagents from one pot into another, until they have a slightly pink and cloudy solution.

With great concern, they pour the solution into a mold and gingerly set it on the balcony to cool. During the time it took for the heat to dissipate from the mold the pair arranged the books on podiums next to the altar, polished the black stone with soft cloths and ate a light but satisfying meal.

Evening descended over the tower, and as the correct hour approached, the smaller man fetched the always surprisingly light mold from the balcony and cracked it open with a hammer and chisel. Inside was a rectangular slab about three feet long and almost as tall. The older magician looked over the shoulder of his junior and nodded approvingly.

"All is well with this cast. The hue is proper throughout. Place it on the altar of Ger'ralsh and prepare your mind for what is to come."

"Yes dread master," replied the younger. He carefully took the block and walked it over to the altar, and with great caution placed it on top.

The cowled figure approached the ebony altar of Ger'ralsh and genuflected. The slighter figure joined him.

"Everything is in preparedness. Let us begin the creation of the next realm!" the elder intoned.

"Oooo, can I do the coastlines? With lovely little crinkly bits?" asked the smaller figure with a voice full of excitement. The mood in the room snapped in half like a stick breaking over a knee.

"No," snapped the elder of the two. "We aren't doing a formal coastline this time, just a standard run-of-the-mill deal."

"But I'll do a good job," wheedled the younger.

"What is it with you and coastlines? Every single time we do this, I have to hear about the bloody coastlines. Listen up me bucko, one more out of you and I will downsize your arse out of here!"

"But..." said the thinner man somewhat morosely.

"No. You will do the rolling foothills and a couple of nice lakes. In addition, you will stay out of the MOB palette. Leave that to me. Now, concentrate!"

The two mages joined hands and started chanting in low tones. A smoldering radiance started to seep out of the altar's sides, casting a greenish light around the chamber. Above the stone edifice, an amorphous cloud appeared. In the middle, a ragged outline of a map drew itself. First the land mass filled in with colors, beige and green and blue.

Features started erupting across the landscape: Mountains, rivers, lakes, towns and cities, farms and every so often a spooky cave. Swamps surged across low-lying flatlands and a vast forest shot up from the ground. A spider web of roads drifted down over the map, erasing whatever they touched. On the western side of the landmass the line of the coast the edge suddenly became jagged and little cliffs started to crop up.

"Knock that off, unless you want to lose your job," snarled the lead magician.

"Yes sir," responded the other dismally.

With a mighty gesture, the older man traced a line of stardust across the air in front of him and the glittering specks fell delicately onto the pink block. Like a whirlpool, the image of the map swirled and twisted, falling out of suspension and landing across the slab on top of the altar. The surface rippled and gradually the map changed from three-dimensional pictures in the air, to a physical model on top of the slab.

"Now for the fun bits," said the older mage.

He flipped several pages in the book in front of him and began a new and more complex set of incantations. Little clouds formed over the model landmass and started raining tiny figures. Goblins and Orks in miniature rained down over the mountains and high woods, rough-cut men dropped alongside the highway and into perfectly sculpted castles.

The cloud drifted over to a different part of the altar and lighting flashed out of the cloud and struck by a large cave, scorching the ground and leaving behind a perfect gold and green serpentine dragon, which stalked purposefully into the cavern. Shortly thereafter, a wisp of smoke curled out of the entrance.

In the villages and cities, miniscule people went about their daily business. A minute passed and then another, finally the clouds scattered about the room and disappeared one at a time. The heavyset magician pushed up his sleeves revealing skinny little arms. He waved his fingers over the scene and with a mighty flick of his wrists showered the block and altar with jets of vermillion energy. If his forehead had been visible, you could see the sweat breaking out on it. Finally, with a last gasp he pulled his hands back as if they had just touched a hot stove.

Panting he turned to his assistant and gasped: "It is done. The Fantasy Realm is ready for the next tour. Be a good lad and pack away the supplies, I am going home to get some rest. When you finish, you go home as well. No foolin' around with anything while I am gone. Not one finger."

He turned away and walked back to the window just as a breeze came in through the window. Briefly, he was swathed by the curtains, and then he was gone. The younger man set about cleaning up the room, putting away supplies and tidying up after their efforts. When the last cauldron was away on its shelf, he surveyed the room one last time. The three dimensional map caught his eye, and inexorably he found himself drawn to it. The coasts looked all wrong he thought. They should all be like that one section on the west side. Nervously he looked around, expecting his master to spring out at him, but there was no one else around.

"What's the worst that could happen?" he asked himself while reaching for map with trembling hands that were sprinkling magic dust all over the ground.

The living map was warm to the touch and it pulsed with an inner life of its own. Perhaps now we shall hang a moniker around this young man's neck, and it shall be: Melvan.

Looking at the miniature forests and castles, Melvan smiled a daffy little smile. The kind that could get a person locked up. Fortunately, for him there was no one around to do so. Melvan raced back to the grand bookcase and scurried up the ladder to the topmost shelf. There, he pulled out a book titled: "MOBS and You, a Creator's Guide." He slid back down the ladder without touching a rung with his feet and bounded back over to the altar, tripping once over his robe's hem.

He placed the book cautiously onto his podium and opened it. Nothing happened, no wrath fell from the sky, he felt his ears, they remained human-like, and certainly not a mouse's. Gleefully he scanned down the page of spidery black script until he found the section on 'Super MOBS: How to use them effectively.' He skimmed over the first few paragraphs, which inevitably were some meaningless muck about safety and honed in on the subsection for conjuration, specifically the different types.

Melvan cracked his knuckles, pushed up his sleeves and cackled in a menacing fashion. That is until his throat became too dry and his cackle trailed off into a coughing fit. Melvan read the incantation twice, making sure that he knew it word for word before he began the chant. A puny cloud formed over the map. Thin and sparse it barely managed a drip of water.

Melvan squinted at it from several angles and referred back to the book. Realization dawned on his thin face, and pushing back his limp hair, he drew in a great breath of air and expelled it, at the same time sprinkling stardust over everything. However, like a canister of flour knocked over by a cat, the dust went everywhere, not just the miniscule cloud. To put a final cork in the moment all of the glitter agitated Melvan's nose and he let fly a might sneeze.

Almost instantly, a mass of dark and forbidding clouds gathered on one side of the map. Across the countryside, they swept, blown in by an unseen wind, raining down misshapen creatures of all kinds: Multi-legged spider-goblins, twisted corpses long corrupt from lying in the earth, and ravening direwolves with glowing red eyes and fangs all flecked with foam. An enormous peal of lightning and slap of thunder heralded the arrival of one last creature. It was twice the size of a normal man on the map and clad in deepest black armor made from the boiled skins of previous victims. Three burning yellow eyes glared hatefully out of a twisted metal helm at the pristine landscape.

From his position at the podium, Melvan heard distinctly: "Burn it all, burn it all for evil!"

Across the plains swept the direwolves and spider-goblins, fanning out in an ever-increasing front. Behind them shambled the undead, blackening the ground as they walked. Lightning lanced around the three-eyed humanoid, and each spot where the white-hot light struck sprouted slimy gray wurms, three of them to pull a dreadful chariot.

Melvan watched in horror as a tiny village of mushroom-capped houses went up in flames and a chorus of tiny shrieks rose up into the air. The chariot leapt into action and flew up and then over the marching forces of evil beings, heading directly towards the largest castle on the map. The castle was a white marble affair with golden banners, a moat, and sturdy looking gates. Knights poured out of the bailey and bravely fired arrows and threw spears at the flying monstrosity. Their weapons did little to thwart the evil wurms and their master. He descended over the castle and flung black spheres of fire in all directions.

Wherever they hit, darkness spread in an expanding circle. Wrestling the lines to his terrible beasts, the evil one landed heavily on the castle's roof, knocking tiles loose. He sprang from the chariot and plunged down through the ceiling into the castle. More shrieks and screams followed.

Melvan recoiled in fright, what had he just done? In the room, a wind picked up and snatched stray papers, and whirled about. The flames in the torches flickered and went low. Melvan quickly flipped the book shut and snatched it off his podium. With his robes flapping all around him, he ran back to the bookshelf and quite randomly shoved the book in between several others, certainly not where he had found it.

Melvan sprinted across the room towards the window and curtains, planning to flee the scene. Just as he arrived at the draperies, and as he was casting the incantation to leave, he rebounded off the sizeable gut of his elder, who we shall now call: Gerald. Gerald looked down at Melvan. With woeful eyes Melvan looked up at his master. Gerald shook his head sadly.

"Lad, there's no use staying late, the company just will not pay overtime." Melvan stammered at the other mage.

"Wha-a-t-t-er you doin' here?" he asked.

Gerald shrugged nonchalantly, "I forgot to cast the inhibitor over the map, in order to lock everything in place. Otherwise someone could add or remove objects from it without our knowing..." Gerald trailed off as his gaze fell on the altar and the raging storm above the map.

"What is going on here?" he demanded, hauling Melvan up by the front of his robe. "What is the meaning of this?" Gerald hissed pointing a quivering finger at the altar.

Melvan quailed in Gerald's grip, "Please sir, I only wanted to try adding a few pixies, a dancing sprite or two perhaps?"

"Then why is there a level six full scale invasion of the Evil Empire going on right now?" screamed Gerald.

Melvan shrugged weakly, "Everything has its place?"

"That may be, but not Everything has a place in Princess Kipporah's 'Super Sweet Sixteen Fantasy Realm', complete with dragon and Prince Bloody-Charming 'Rescue the Princess and Get the Treasure Adventure!'" roared Gerald.

"Erh, it appears that the dragon was hacked to bits by rioting trolls, and I think I spotted Prince Charming running for a cupboard a little earlier," Melvan said between gagging sobs.

"Is that supposed to be good news?" asked Gerald quietly. "Because from where I'm standing I see a product that we cannot ship and a deadline that is about to pass. I swear you bloody apprentices are all alike," Gerald said in disgust, flinging Melvan away. "Pack your things, leave anything that belongs to the company, including your immortal soul and report to HR on your way out. They will have a few 'questions' for you to answer."

Gerald slapped his hands together and Melvan disappeared in a puff of green smoke. Next Gerald faced the map and took in the chaos that was starting to quiet down.

"Right, into the discount bin for you," he said, and was just about to wave his hands but stopped himself. "Yes, the locking spell, mustn't forget that." Gerald clicked his fingers and a crystalline dome sprung up around the map, and then everything vanished off the altar.

"Now, what to do for the princess..." wondered Gerald casting an experienced eye around the room. In a corner, he spied a two by two block of pink material, seized it, and slung it onto the altar. Arranged neatly across the face of the block was a regal city.

"You know, add a bunch of courtesans, some knights and a really deep dungeon with a 'hidden secret' and we could have all the fixings for a court intrigue murder-mystery dinner party for Princess Kipporah. Yes, that just might work." Gerald agreed with himself.

Pushing up the sleeves on his robes, he waved over several books and a cauldron and started to prepare the Princess's new gift Realm.

"Bloody apprentices, no use at all," Gerald muttered under breath while peering at the book in front of him. A lone tower rose up out of a dry and dusty plain. The stone used to make it was shiny and a pale green, like lichen from the mountains. It rose up three hundred feet into the air, crowned at the top by a magnificent pinnacle of black marble slabs. Just below the spire was the solitary opening. It consisted of a wide and tall portal with a balcony attached just beneath it. If one were a bird, then one could have a look inside and see an ebon altar, carved far back in the mists of time. It gleamed and pulsed with its own life force. On the floor around surrounding the altar, glyphs had been hand carved into the marble floor and filled with white enamel. Bookcases stretched floor to ceiling against one wall, while a wheeled ladder stood at the ready next to them. It was an ancient place, one of power and mystery.

A gentle breeze blew in through the window and in a swirl of velvet curtains, a figure materialized. For supposition's sake, we will say that it is male, elderly and bordering on 'portly.' This man is covered heat to foot in black velvet, which shines in the light of the torches hanging in their sconces. The first place he goes is to a small table with a silver platter sitting on it. There is a scroll, tied with black ribbon, waiting for him. Of course there is, the tower would not summon him otherwise.

Deftly he plucks the scroll up and flicks off the ribbon. Deliberately the mage reads down over the instructions. He pauses and wonders if there is enough in the ingredient stores. That is not his concern he tells himself. Ingredients are for the apprentice to worry over. He moves with great purpose, gathering tomes from the shelves, muttering to himself and referencing a long scroll that trails after him by its own volition. For now he pays little attention to the altar, it is not time just yet.

Another breeze blows through the window, leaving behind in its wake another figure clothed in black. Again, presume it is male, younger than the first and quite a bit skinnier. He stumbles out of the embrace of the velvet hangings and then hurries to a cupboard and starts rummaging in it, pulling out various kettles, beakers, and stands and stirring implements.

On a workbench, he sets up the apparatus and goes to a small pantry to select ingredients. The older man drifts in behind the other to observe and to nitpick at each choice made. Before much time passes, the cauldrons bubble and smoke. The two men work carefully, combining reagents from one pot into another, until they have a slightly pink and cloudy solution.

With great concern, they pour the solution into a mold and gingerly set it on the balcony to cool. During the time it took for the heat to dissipate from the mold the pair arranged the books on podiums next to the altar, polished the black stone with soft cloths and ate a light but satisfying meal.

Evening descended over the tower, and as the correct hour approached, the smaller man fetched the always surprisingly light mold from the balcony and cracked it open with a hammer and chisel. Inside was a rectangular slab about three feet long and almost as tall. The older magician looked over the shoulder of his junior and nodded approvingly.

"All is well with this cast. The hue is proper throughout. Place it on the altar of Ger'ralsh and prepare your mind for what is to come."

"Yes dread master," replied the younger. He carefully took the block and walked it over to the altar, and with great caution placed it on top.

The cowled figure approached the ebony altar of Ger'ralsh and genuflected. The slighter figure joined him.

"Everything is in preparedness. Let us begin the creation of the next realm!" the elder intoned.

"Oooo, can I do the coastlines? With lovely little crinkly bits?" asked the smaller figure with a voice full of excitement. The mood in the room snapped in half like a stick breaking over a knee.

"No," snapped the elder of the two. "We aren't doing a formal coastline this time, just a standard run-of-the-mill deal."

"But I'll do a good job," wheedled the younger.

"What is it with you and coastlines? Every single time we do this, I have to hear about the bloody coastlines. Listen up me bucko, one more out of you and I will downsize your arse out of here!"

"But..." said the thinner man somewhat morosely.

"No. You will do the rolling foothills and a couple of nice lakes. In addition, you will stay out of the MOB palette. Leave that to me. Now, concentrate!"

The two mages joined hands and started chanting in low tones. A smoldering radiance started to seep out of the altar's sides, casting a greenish light around the chamber. Above the stone edifice, an amorphous cloud appeared. In the middle, a ragged outline of a map drew itself. First the land mass filled in with colors, beige and green and blue.

Features started erupting across the landscape: Mountains, rivers, lakes, towns and cities, farms and every so often a spooky cave. Swamps surged across low-lying flatlands and a vast forest shot up from the ground. A spider web of roads drifted down over the map, erasing whatever they touched. On the western side of the landmass the line of the coast the edge suddenly became jagged and little cliffs started to crop up.

"Knock that off, unless you want to lose your job," snarled the lead magician.

"Yes sir," responded the other dismally.

With a mighty gesture, the older man traced a line of stardust across the air in front of him and the glittering specks fell delicately onto the pink block. Like a whirlpool, the image of the map swirled and twisted, falling out of suspension and landing across the slab on top of the altar. The surface rippled and gradually the map changed from three-dimensional pictures in the air, to a physical model on top of the slab.

"Now for the fun bits," said the older mage.

He flipped several pages in the book in front of him and began a new and more complex set of incantations. Little clouds formed over the model landmass and started raining tiny figures. Goblins and Orks in miniature rained down over the mountains and high woods, rough-cut men dropped alongside the highway and into perfectly sculpted castles.

The cloud drifted over to a different part of the altar and lighting flashed out of the cloud and struck by a large cave, scorching the ground and leaving behind a perfect gold and green serpentine dragon, which stalked purposefully into the cavern. Shortly thereafter, a wisp of smoke curled out of the entrance.

In the villages and cities, miniscule people went about their daily business. A minute passed and then another, finally the clouds scattered about the room and disappeared one at a time. The heavyset magician pushed up his sleeves revealing skinny little arms. He waved his fingers over the scene and with a mighty flick of his wrists showered the block and altar with jets of vermillion energy. If his forehead had been visible, you could see the sweat breaking out on it. Finally, with a last gasp he pulled his hands back as if they had just touched a hot stove.

Panting he turned to his assistant and gasped: "It is done. The Fantasy Realm is ready for the next tour. Be a good lad and pack away the supplies, I am going home to get some rest. When you finish, you go home as well. No foolin' around with anything while I am gone. Not one finger."

He turned away and walked back to the window just as a breeze came in through the window. Briefly, he was swathed by the curtains, and then he was gone. The younger man set about cleaning up the room, putting away supplies and tidying up after their efforts. When the last cauldron was away on its shelf, he surveyed the room one last time. The three dimensional map caught his eye, and inexorably he found himself drawn to it. The coasts looked all wrong he thought. They should all be like that one section on the west side. Nervously he looked around, expecting his master to spring out at him, but there was no one else around.

"What's the worst that could happen?" he asked himself while reaching for map with trembling hands that were sprinkling magic dust all over the ground.

The living map was warm to the touch and it pulsed with an inner life of its own. Perhaps now we shall hang a moniker around this young man's neck, and it shall be: Melvan.

Looking at the miniature forests and castles, Melvan smiled a daffy little smile. The kind that could get a person locked up. Fortunately, for him there was no one around to do so. Melvan raced back to the grand bookcase and scurried up the ladder to the topmost shelf. There, he pulled out a book titled: "MOBS and You, a Creator's Guide." He slid back down the ladder without touching a rung with his feet and bounded back over to the altar, tripping once over his robe's hem.

He placed the book cautiously onto his podium and opened it. Nothing happened, no wrath fell from the sky, he felt his ears, they remained human-like, and certainly not a mouse's. Gleefully he scanned down the page of spidery black script until he found the section on 'Super MOBS: How to use them effectively.' He skimmed over the first few paragraphs, which inevitably were some meaningless muck about safety and honed in on the subsection for conjuration, specifically the different types.

Melvan cracked his knuckles, pushed up his sleeves and cackled in a menacing fashion. That is until his throat became too dry and his cackle trailed off into a coughing fit. Melvan read the incantation twice, making sure that he knew it word for word before he began the chant. A puny cloud formed over the map. Thin and sparse it barely managed a drip of water.

Melvan squinted at it from several angles and referred back to the book. Realization dawned on his thin face, and pushing back his limp hair, he drew in a great breath of air and expelled it, at the same time sprinkling stardust over everything. However, like a canister of flour knocked over by a cat, the dust went everywhere, not just the miniscule cloud. To put a final cork in the moment all of the glitter agitated Melvan's nose and he let fly a might sneeze.

Almost instantly, a mass of dark and forbidding clouds gathered on one side of the map. Across the countryside, they swept, blown in by an unseen wind, raining down misshapen creatures of all kinds: Multi-legged spider-goblins, twisted corpses long corrupt from lying in the earth, and ravening direwolves with glowing red eyes and fangs all flecked with foam. An enormous peal of lightning and slap of thunder heralded the arrival of one last creature. It was twice the size of a normal man on the map and clad in deepest black armor made from the boiled skins of previous victims. Three burning yellow eyes glared hatefully out of a twisted metal helm at the pristine landscape.

From his position at the podium, Melvan heard distinctly: "Burn it all, burn it all for evil!"

Across the plains swept the direwolves and spider-goblins, fanning out in an ever-increasing front. Behind them shambled the undead, blackening the ground as they walked. Lightning lanced around the three-eyed humanoid, and each spot where the white-hot light struck sprouted slimy gray wurms, three of them to pull a dreadful chariot.

Melvan watched in horror as a tiny village of mushroom-capped houses went up in flames and a chorus of tiny shrieks rose up into the air. The chariot leapt into action and flew up and then over the marching forces of evil beings, heading directly towards the largest castle on the map. The castle was a white marble affair with golden banners, a moat, and sturdy looking gates. Knights poured out of the bailey and bravely fired arrows and threw spears at the flying monstrosity. Their weapons did little to thwart the evil wurms and their master. He descended over the castle and flung black spheres of fire in all directions.

Wherever they hit, darkness spread in an expanding circle. Wrestling the lines to his terrible beasts, the evil one landed heavily on the castle's roof, knocking tiles loose. He sprang from the chariot and plunged down through the ceiling into the castle. More shrieks and screams followed.

Melvan recoiled in fright, what had he just done? In the room, a wind picked up and snatched stray papers, and whirled about. The flames in the torches flickered and went low. Melvan quickly flipped the book shut and snatched it off his podium. With his robes flapping all around him, he ran back to the bookshelf and quite randomly shoved the book in between several others, certainly not where he had found it.

Melvan sprinted across the room towards the window and curtains, planning to flee the scene. Just as he arrived at the draperies, and as he was casting the incantation to leave, he rebounded off the sizeable gut of his elder, who we shall now call: Gerald. Gerald looked down at Melvan. With woeful eyes Melvan looked up at his master. Gerald shook his head sadly.

"Lad, there's no use staying late, the company just will not pay overtime." Melvan stammered at the other mage.

"Wha-a-t-t-er you doin' here?" he asked.

Gerald shrugged nonchalantly, "I forgot to cast the inhibitor over the map, in order to lock everything in place. Otherwise someone could add or remove objects from it without our knowing..." Gerald trailed off as his gaze fell on the altar and the raging storm above the map.

"What is going on here?" he demanded, hauling Melvan up by the front of his robe. "What is the meaning of this?" Gerald hissed pointing a quivering finger at the altar.

Melvan quailed in Gerald's grip, "Please sir, I only wanted to try adding a few pixies, a dancing sprite or two perhaps?"

"Then why is there a level six full scale invasion of the Evil Empire going on right now?" screamed Gerald.

Melvan shrugged weakly, "Everything has its place?"

"That may be, but not Everything has a place in Princess Kipporah's 'Super Sweet Sixteen Fantasy Realm', complete with dragon and Prince Bloody-Charming 'Rescue the Princess and Get the Treasure Adventure!'" roared Gerald.

"Erh, it appears that the dragon was hacked to bits by rioting trolls, and I think I spotted Prince Charming running for a cupboard a little earlier," Melvan said between gagging sobs.

"Is that supposed to be good news?" asked Gerald quietly. "Because from where I'm standing I see a product that we cannot ship and a deadline that is about to pass. I swear you bloody apprentices are all alike," Gerald said in disgust, flinging Melvan away. "Pack your things, leave anything that belongs to the company, including your immortal soul and report to HR on your way out. They will have a few 'questions' for you to answer."

Gerald slapped his hands together and Melvan disappeared in a puff of green smoke. Next Gerald faced the map and took in the chaos that was starting to quiet down.

"Right, into the discount bin for you," he said, and was just about to wave his hands but stopped himself. "Yes, the locking spell, mustn't forget that." Gerald clicked his fingers and a crystalline dome sprung up around the map, and then everything vanished off the altar.

"Now, what to do for the princess..." wondered Gerald casting an experienced eye around the room. In a corner, he spied a two by two block of pink material, seized it, and slung it onto the altar. Arranged neatly across the face of the block was a regal city.

"You know, add a bunch of courtesans, some knights and a really deep dungeon with a 'hidden secret' and we could have all the fixings for a court intrigue murder-mystery dinner party for Princess Kipporah. Yes, that just might work." Gerald agreed with himself.

Pushing up the sleeves on his robes, he waved over several books and a cauldron and started to prepare the Princess's new gift Realm.

"Bloody apprentices, no use at all," Gerald muttered under breath while peering at the book in front of him.

### The Pretty Pink Princess Fantasyland Play Set

Prologue

"Mummy, tell me a story please," wheedled the russet haired lad tucked deep within his covers.

A crumpled pair of ears peeked out revealing nothing more of the teddy bear that lurked beneath with a concerned expression on its face.

The boy's mother arched an eyebrow: "A story? Why, did I not just read one last night?" she teased.

"Yes you did. Please mummy. I want to hear a holiday story, a special holiday story!"

Mother smiled softly waving her hand at the lamp causing it to dim. The room dipped into a gentle glow. The night sky appeared on the ceiling complete with all of the stars and moons. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed and stroked the silky brown hair.

"Most assuredly I have a tale to tell. It may not be quite what you had in mind, but I think it will suffice. Is Teddy ready?"

The boy nodded his head.

"And are you ready?"

More vigorous nodding.

"Then let us begin. Our tale starts one Christhankstide Eve, on Mount Grimm, under the prime moon..."
Part 1

Saint Olafinski sat astride Philbert his triple horned boar, gazing down from Mount Grimm. Below inside a glittering pool of light was the town of Sahlter. Absently he twirled the end of his long, thick beard around one finger. Moonlight gleamed off his mane of white hair which flowed majestically past his shoulders. Philbert snorted with piggish delight. St. Olafinski took his bull hide gloves out from the thick belt, which strained to keep his gut constrained. Carefully he pulled them on, a maestro preparing for his symphony.

"HOHO Philbert. Truly, our work is cut out for us this night. Such a den of unbridled joy shall not go unrewarded. Most of all the children! Their bright young eyes shining with the new light of morning will be celebration enough for us," he shouted joyfully.

There was a sharp 'CRACK' in the air followed by a parchment drifting down on the wind like a leaf. St. Olafinski plucked it out, donned his reading spectacles and held the paper at arm's length.

"Hrrm...It seems that a young lady wants a new Pretty Pink Princess Fantasy Realm set. And by MY BEARD SHE SHALL HAVE IT!" declared the leather and satin covered giant of a man. He paused in rapt contemplation. "Yet where would I acquire such an obvious object of unimaginable joy?"

There was another 'CRACK' which tore the very fabric of the inky sky. A smaller note dropped neatly into St. Olafinski's hand. On it in clear black text was a name and address.

"HOHO, WE RIDE PHILBERT!"

St. Olafinski dug his boot heels into Philbert's sides urging the tan and gray striped boar downhill. Headlong they plunged into the night air. A gibbous moon lit their path and trees were black pillars rising from the hillside, rocks formed shadowy fingers curling up from the ground. Philbert's fetid breath steamed in the winter's air and his trotters clattered against the earth with the sound of thunder. The heaving mass of man and beast vanished into the nighttime's shroud.
Part 2

The snow-dusted streets of Sahlter bustled with shoppers, vendors and members of the thieves' guild. Festive candles and lamps lit shops brightly with their luminescence. Patrons moved in and out bearing packages and bundles. Round faces with rosy cheeks smiled and nodded to each other in passing. Except of course for the thieves, they kept their faces hidden in shadows brushing against people relieving them of their valuables and then vanishing into the crowds.

A light snow continued to coat the townsfolk as the evening progressed. The bent roofs leaned out over the street in some places offering a modicum of respite from the snow. Scarcely anyone noticed when a dark purple mist began drifting in amongst the bustling ankles of the people.

At the same time everyone save for perhaps two or three hardened murderers, gave a collective shudder as a feeling of impending dread took hold of them. Several small children began to wail in high keening voices. Parents clutched them closer wheeling away from the shops. Inexplicably they started to make their way toward home. Shopping and merriment fell off abandoned like outdoor tables in a sudden downpour. The fog grew thicker, more intense in its effect. It spread throughout the streets in a matter of a few moments.

The lanes were still in the way that thoroughfares tend to get late at night in winter. Frost decorated window sills, curbs and cobblestones. A slapping, shuffling sound interrupted the quiet. A creature moved through the now deserted streets staying within the dark corners. Long feet with tough leathery pads made a smacking noise against the ground followed by the clicking of many claw tips rattling against the cobblestones. 'Thwap-clickety-clicktey-click' they went. The legs were short in proportion to both feet and torso, but bandy and covered with wire-like muscles. Fine gray hair and a serviceable leather vest that had many pockets covered its chest and abdomen.

Atop a long neck perched a diamond shaped head. Needle sharp fangs protruded out of a tiny mouth below a squared off snout. A lightning blue and black Mohawk decorated the crown of the creature's head, splitting a pair of horns that jutted out in different directions. Oversized cat ears jutted out horizontally from the side of its head, pierced multiple times by heavy lead earrings.

Luminous yellow eyes peered into the murky clouds of fog, seeking the least lit path. A belt rode across the creature's hips containing several implements such as a hooked knife and a morning star. On the other side was a fat pouch full of softly clinking coins. From its neck hung an amulet containing a polished white and purple marbled stone, which radiated a gentle light.

Thunder drifted across the night air, a long distant rumble that oppressed other sounds. The supernatural fog wafted out into the air three inches behind the creature. Occasionally a claw-tipped finger would tap the stone in the necklace causing more clouds to gush out. It halted before a cheery storefront. In whimsical letters, 'Fantasy Realm Toy Shop' formed an arc over a frosted image of a castle. A grimace crawled across its mouth as though an unpleasant relative just arrived unannounced, but the long fingered hand grasped the door handle and pulled it open.

Light and warmth poured out of the shop washing over the creature. It hissed out through its nose in disgust forcing itself to cross the threshold. Blinking his huge eyes against the well-lit shop, he rubbed both sockets to ease the sting. Shelves on either side of the entrance lay devoid of items for sale. Paper and ribbon in tattered bits covered the floor. The creature shook out its long Mohawk flinging droplets of melted snow in a splendid arc. A broad counter ran from side to side at the back of the shop. A shelf behind it bore a single pearlescent pink box emblazoned with the words: 'Pretty Pink Princess Fantasy Realm Play Set' along with several Princess Patsy dolls and their accessories. A cruel smirk, or perhaps another grimace, stretched across the small mouth.

The creature strode to the counter, its large feet smacking wetly against the wood floor. Reaching the counter, it swept the store with its yellow gaze, drumming its fingers against the wood counter top. Rows of multi-tiered shelves that bore all manner of toys for boys or girls filled the other half of the room. A minute passed and the creature grew more agitated, the pace of its claws became staccato. It blinked and looked across the counter spying a gleaming silver bell, which bore the label: 'Please Ring for Service.'

Gingerly, it reached out with a slender finger and just barely pressed down with the tip of the nail. A soft chime rang through the shop. The creature flattened its ears against its skull, hissing through its nose. Still it waited. Several more minutes wandered past with no assistance showing up. The creature realized that it would have to ring the bell again. A second muscial 'ding' rang out.

No one came to help. The amber eyes narrowed malevolently at the bell, sitting oh-so smugly on the counter. Without warning a morning star flashed up overhead and descended in a blur of spiked fury, decimating the bell. The creature gave the remnants several more solid hits before stopping hastily as part of the rich wood fell away from the head sized depression the weapon had left. Quickly the morning star vanished and narrow lips not normally meant for whistling tried to affect an innocent tune.

Part 3

A thick green curtain behind the counter parted revealing an average sized human wearing an off-white smock with a patch that read: 'Bob.' The man was bald save for the pair of bushy mutton chops that decorated his cheeks. He winked at a group of female shoppers stroking the facial hair: "Ladies," he said in an alluring voice.

The group of women tittered before moving further into the store in search of gifts for giving. The shopkeeper wore a welcoming smile, which twitched and wavered when he spotted his damaged counter. Bob took in the sole customer remaining in the vicinity, who just barely rose above the edge. The merchant took in the needle-like teeth, chromatic eyes and gray fur.

"May I, um...help you?" inquired the shopkeeper.

"Yesss, that," said the creature pointing at the box on the shelf.

"Ah, the number one seller this holiday season. I am 'Salacious' Bob McKenna by the way, at your service. That particular model is not for sale, it is already purchased and awaiting pickup. Baron Von Woofen Schmooley himself is scheduled to pick it up," Bob whispered conspiratorially.

"Roderick," hissed the creature pointing at itself. "I wantsss it."

"You're a minion if I am not mistaken. Is that correct?" Bob guessed.

"Yesss...Want pink box," spat the minion. It was as though the mere mention of the color hurt his mouth.

"The 'Pretty Pink Princess Fantasy Realm Play Set'? You are most fortunate in that I am having several more sets to put out on the floor momentarily."

"Must have... The master's daughter."

"Yes of course," Bob's face was bland. "I would suggest you get in line over there in order to have a go at getting a set."

Bob waved in the direction of a velvet rope labyrinth where a crowd waited impatiently. With a trademark glower the minion took a step toward the crowd with the morning star once again dangling from his hand and a wicked gleam in his eyes. Bob cleared his throat pointing a sign that read: "No Weapons, No Magic, No Foolin'!"

On cue a pair of massive Ogres shouldered their way from the backroom into the shop. They crossed their thick arms athwart unimaginably broad chests and scowled. Roderick considered his own scowl to be top notch. However here was a pair that boded an unpleasant and certainly sticky end. With great caution Roderick placed his weapon on the countertop. Then he went through the rest of his pockets divesting himself of his remaining potions, favorite black jack and a few booby-traps.

Feeling almost weightless Roderick sulked over to the line and stepped in behind a pair of older women clutching coupon books and brightly color pieces of paper. Roderick took in his surroundings. Checking to see if the Ogres were paying attention he slipped through narrow openings between shoppers in the line like smoke through a forest.

The line was not as long as it had first appeared to be. Only three patrons now stood ahead of him. He smiled at them showing off rows of pointy teeth. They paled slightly. Roderick hitched his thumbs into his belt and rocked back on his heels. An elderly Dwarf stood at the head of the line before him. She (or perhaps he) arched a bushy eyebrow then returned to stoic contemplation of the aisle ahead.

From behind him came a tapping sound. It was wood against wood, object hitting floor, the thudding drew closer. It stopped. A long wheezing cough sprayed unidentified wet bits across the nape of Roderick's neck. He twitched involuntarily and spun around with narrow slits for nostrils and eyes. A shambling, phlegmy mass stood huddled mere inches from the minion. It took Roderick a few seconds to realize that the mass was a human woman wearing a hat and very tattered cloak upon which lichen grew and pulsed with a strange reddish inner light.

Beady eyes peeked out from under the brim of the felt hat flicking up and down Roderick's frame.

"Oo, aintcha a narrah one," rasped the newcomer.

She shuffled forward closing the last few inches between them. The brim of her hat tipped up as she gazed into Roderick's eyes. He in turn looked down his nose at her. The eyes that met his gaze were close-set and sunk into many folds of wrinkled skin. He took a step backwards while the dorsal hair on his neck stood upright.

"Wotcher lookin' for in here muh wee furry lackey?" she asked with a voice as dry as old parchment. "A bit o' joy fer the master mebee."

"On a quessst," affirmed Roderick.

"Mmm, to be sure an' its' a doozy. Mean pun'shment waitin' if you fail?"

"Yesss."

"Tricky bidness Minioning," the woman said slyly.

Roderick nodded slowly in agreement then took a sideways step away from the woman, who he believed was probably a witch from the southern swamps. Resolutely he turned his gaze back to the aisle where the cardboard and cellophane prize awaited him. A few sad squishy noises from the witch made his ears spasm uncontrollably.

Another noise distracted him from his glowering. It was that of sniffling. Turning his head Roderick discovered a young man standing next to him. The youth was dressed completely in black pajamas with a cowl draped around his neck. A delicate tendril of mucus dangled from the right nostril, stretching and defying gravity. A weak smile flickered in Roderick's direction. Roderick blinked once, but when his eyes opened the kid was gone. A slight scuffling sound drew his attention to his right. There was the youth again.

"Hi.IlikealltheFantasyRealmPlay Sets.They'retotallyboss.Idon'thavethePrettyPinkPricesssetyetbutwhenIdoit'llcompletemycollection."

Roderick winced. The youthful vigor oozed literally and figuratively from every orifice and pore. He sidled away from the raven garbed boy. His barefoot squelched down into a puddle of something cold, viscous, and sticky.

"mmmm, now yer innit ain'tcha?" the witch cackled.

Roderick scanned the crowd that was gathering behind the witch and kid. The crowd began to look like a swelling mass of water about to burst over a dam. Roderick considered fleeing, briefly. However the vision of his master's torture chamber along with all of the recently sharpened pointy things sent a chill down Roderick's elongated spine.

Grumbling even more the minion pivoted again to face the red velvet rope blocking his passage into the aisle where three pink boxes shone in magnificent light, sparkling like gems in the underground vaults of the master's holdings.

"It'sjustspeciallightingtocreatetheillusionofglitteringjewels.WhenImoveoutofmyparentshouseI'mgonnasetupalightingrigthatwillbejustasspectacularasPhilbertssilvertippedtusks!" enthused the young man.

Part 4

A store clerk wearing a suit of plate mail clanked up to the rope sparing Roderick from further dealings with the boy for the time being. Blonde pigtails stuck out from the helmet. Lifting the visor a young woman smiled broadly at the entire group with pearly white teeth. As she talked her magically enhanced dimples radiated cuteness. Roderick shielded his eyes from the overpowering adorableness.

"Hiyee everyone! We're just so super thrilled that you've chosen to shop with us tonight. We know that in a last ditch effort to please the children who control every aspect of your waking lives you have limited choices. Wisely you came here to Salacious Bob's Fantasy Realm Toy Shop! SQUEEE! Anyhoodle. There are some rules we have to obey, otherwise Mr. Frowny comes out, and you don't want Mr. Frowny to come out. Do you?" she burbled fixing a cold gaze on Roderick.

Cautiously he shook his head negatively. It felt strange to shake his head for it was not often that he got to answer anyone in the negative. Call it an occupational hazard waiting to happen if you will.

"Righty-o! Here we go. Just a few of the tiniest rules, okayee? No weapons, no wands, no potions, no curses, no charms, no scrolls and no traps. No telekinesis, no teleportation, no hypnosis, no poisoning, no tripping, no poking and no turning to stone. No fireballs, no chain lightning, no prismatic sprays, no cursing (not to be confused with curses), no illusions. No refunds, no rebates, no kidding. Any complaints may register them with Mr. Frowny. Okayee?"

The clerk paused and snapped a bubble with her gum. She looked over at 'Salacious' Bob, who had an eye on the large clock, the other pinned on a buxom patron. As the hands lined up on Midnight he gave a sharp nod of his head. The clerk clapped down her visor and deftly unhooked the rope and flung it aside.

Roderick moving quickly leapt over the rope the exact instant that the clerk unhooked it. A howl of anger rose up from the crowd behind him. The pounding of his feet and heart drowned out the trailing sound of many aggravated holiday shoppers in pursuit. His claws extended grasping for the nearest box that was his prize, just millimeters away from contact. A black shadow materialized in front of Roderick. Unable to stop himself, the minion ran straight into a thick wooden plank that swung into his path.

KATHUNK!

"IGOTONEIGOTONEIGOTONE!!!!" shrieked the boy dropping the shelf and plucking one of the boxes from its place. In a burst of hyperkinetic speed he vanished up the aisle making for the checkout counter. Roderick pulled himself up off the floor disoriented and angry while shaking his head to clear it.

Snarling he reached for the next box. This time a wizened hand jutted in and slapped his away forcefully. Pain flared across his knuckles. Blinking in surprise he stared at the shambling mound of a witch. A silver ruler disappeared into the tatty folds of the cloak. On his hand a red line cut down through the fur to the hide beneath. Cackling naughtily the witch scooped up the second box, shuffling back down the row of shelves.

Roderick shook his hand several times to test its responsiveness. It hurt but still functioned. Thankfully it was only one blow from the silver implement. A quick hit at that. Prolonged exposure could be fatal to minions of his kind. Out of the corner of his eye the last box waited. A tentative smile broke out. Roderick looked in both directions before grabbing the play set. He hugged it tightly to his chest.

A dull thump concussed the air around Roderick. Curling smoke followed the blast. It was like moonlight and talons and feathers bursting forth with shimmering sparkles of gold and jazz hands. Out of the cloud emerged a massive figue.

"HOHO, err I mean: Greetings fellow shopper. It is I...uh..Thorgensson...uhm...Smith."

The enormous gentleman standing before Roderick had an unkempt shock of white hair and comical black glasses without any lenses. A rubber nose decorated the man's face. A leather gauntleted hand reached down and tried to pry the box out of the minion's thin arms.

"Please my good man, I need this item."

"Itsss mine!" Roderick protested.

Thorgensson poked Roderick in the chest with a finger almost as thick as one of Roderick's arms thrusting him back against the toy shelves.

"Listen to me you vile little miscreant, there is a deserving child out there somewhere in dire need of this toy. I've dealt with work stoppages, supply chain strikes and a pair of Panty Pixies who refuse to believe that my workshop isn't part of something called: 'Ale Pong Golf.' No two bit sawed off boot licking minion is going to deny me!" yelled the mountain of a man at the mote of a minion.

A ham-like hand seized Roderick by the throat and hoisted him clear of the floor. Cold blue eyes bore into his golden ones. Roderick gave a little snort through his nostrils. Far scarier beings than this had done worse than this. A deep throat clearing operation began next to the pair. They each rotated an eye to examine the girth of an Ogre. A cracked tusk jutted brusquely from its lower jaw.

"'ere now, there's no cause for wot you doin. Put der little feller down, gentle like," the Ogre told Thorgensson.

"I insist that this foul creature relinquish the play set," demanded Thorgensson.

"For the master..." Roderick insisted.

"I don' care wat choo are fightin 'boot. No violence is to be per'petrated on these here premises..." The Ogre took a beat, savoring the bit of gristle wedged between two molars and the moment as well. "...'less me or Alice is doin' it."

"Alice," guffawed Thorgensson. "The other Ogre is called Alice?"

"You may wish to strongly reconsider your position of mirth concerning the naming of me brother see'n as how he's the one which busted me tusker."

"Oh," said the slightly mollified gentleman. "Well, never you mind about that. I have work that needs done. Noble righteous work. Where may I get another Pretty Pink Princess Fantasy Realm Play Set?"

"The little feller has the last one. Deal wit it," said the Ogre turning his back on them and lumbering away.

Thorgensson lowered Roderick until his feet again touched the ground. Thorgensson backed up a step and raised his hands in capitulation. Suddenly the massive man's face went wide with surprise. Pointing a trembling finger he shouted: "It's the master!"

Roderick snapped his head around wondering what the master was doing down in the town. It was unlike him to leave his lair.

"YOINK!" Thorgensson yelped as he swiped the parcel out of Roderick's claws.

Part 5

Roderick slapped his hand over his eyes pulling it down over his face, gaping at the retreating figure sprinting up the aisle toward the check out counter. That man just duped him with a 'shocked face head fake.' If the Creeping Cruds down on level 3 of the Proving Grounds got wind of this he'd never hear the end of it. Roderick surveyed the store. Thorgensson was at the counter stingily counting out coins from a small fringe covered coin purse, unaware shoppers meandered around like so many sheep (thinking of such made Roderick smack his thin lips in hunger.) Moving swiftly Roderick approached the two Ogres.

"Wheresss back exit?"

The Ogres peered down at Roderick then exchanged a knowing glance.

"That white haired prat done made a fool of you, didn't he fella?" asked Alice.

"Yesss," admitted Roderick.

"Can you see yer way o' mebbe greasin' a few palms for such intelligence?" inquired the Not Alice Ogre.

Roderick hefted a coin purse of his own. What it lacked for in fringe, it made up with weight. Without hesitating, he dropped it into the Ogre's hand. A pair of smiles stretched across their faces. Alice swept Roderick's equipment into a tidy pile and dumped it into the minion's waiting hands.

"Well sir, it's been a great pleasure it has. Mind your step, through those curtains; take a right, last door in the dark hallway. Tonight's passcode is 'Turtle Brownies.' And I ain't talking about no baked goods neither. Hey-o!"

"'Cor Alice, don' be like that. Not in front o' the customers," admonished his brother. "Best o' luck to ye. I tink yer quarry parked in the alley outside the exit, so if you move sharpish..."

Roderick nodded and jogged through the curtain while stuffing his supplies back into their normal places on his belt. He turned right once through the curtain and entered a dark hallway. His eyes made the gloom appear as midday. The exit door loomed ahead. Arriving in front of it Roderick hissed: "Turtle Browniesss."

A sighing sort of sound came from the door. Two bars retracted into unseen recesses allowing the door to swing open. Snow dusted the door's stoop. A chill blast of wind ripped into the hall ruffling Roderick's fur. The air smelled clean, crisp and like unwashed bacon. Swinging the exit wide open Roderick took in the scene in the alley.

A tan boar with gray stripes and triple silver tipped horns stood majestically in the cramped alley. Oily black hair made up its mane and tiny red coals glowed where eyes normally were. It looked in Roderick's direction and squealed loudly. One cloven hoof pawed at the cobblestones launching sparks with each blow. Roderick rubbed his hands together out of sheer glee.

"Nicesss piggy," cooed Roderick.

He looked over the threshold into the alley. To his right was the main thoroughfare, to the left the corridor dog legged to the right. Fluffy glistening flakes of snow drifted out of the inky sky. The boar shook its great shoulders flinging melted snow drops in all directions. At the mouth of the alley rapid footsteps drew Roderick's attention. The huge figure from the shop came into view. The pink box reflected weakly some of the light from a lamp on the street.

Roderick twined his fingers together and cracked his joints. The bear of a man stole another glance in the direction he had come from and darted toward the boar.

"Philbert! Prepare yourself, we ride immediately," he clamored in a high pitched tone.

Thorgensson slid to a halt in the wet snow next to the boar. He gave the beast a quick scratch between the triad of horns that protruded from its snout. Roderick hissed with all of his might. The noise startled the large man into dropping the Pretty Pink Princess Fantasy set. He whirled around and found himself belly to face with the glimmering yellow eyes of Roderick.

"Err, hello little fellow. Nice to uhm, see you again. I say, this is awkward isn't it?" mumbled Thorgensson.

"Wantsss the box. For the master!" insisted Roderick pointing a talon tipped finger at the package.

"Yes well, too bad you can't use any of your weapons or potions in the store. Because there is nothing you can do to prevent me from completing my task."

The enormous man stooped down and picked up the play set. Shaking snow off of the box he said over his shoulder: "A very special child one who is kind and deserving is going to receive this gift under her Christhankstide Mule."

"No. For the master's child. You are thief!"

"I most certainly am not. I am Saint Olafinski the Patron Saint of Christhankstide, the beloved icon for thousands of children across the realm. Surely you know of me."

"Thief! Nasty robber. Jussst like the adventurersss in the master's Proving Groundsss."

"Whatever. Point is, you cannot stop me."

"Can to," Roderick disagreed shaking out his favorite morning star.

St. Olafinski eyed the mauling weapon and snorted derisively. "You can't use that, you're in the store and the guards won't let you."

Roderick smiled a broad and wicked smile. He took one exaggerated step over the threshold.

"Not in store now..."

With a flick of his wrist Roderick threw a handful of black power with gold flecks at St Olafinski. The self-confessed holiday symbol drew a deep breath since the attack startled him. The sudden intake of air brought the powder into his body freezing him stiff as a statue. Only his eyes could move. He blinked in surprise. Roderick stalked the few short feet between them.

He did several very violent and indescribable things to the hapless Saint Olafinski, leaving the him reduced to a painful heap. Philbert eyed the small creature that just laid out his owner and oinked more than a little nervously. Roderick took the Pretty Pink Princess Fantasy set from St. Olafinski's unconscious hands. Moving to the entrance of the alley Roderick peered out. The streets were empty. Better to be wary though. He was about to touch the gemstone around his neck when he had a second thought. Turning to look back down the alley at Philbert another evil smile crossed his lips.

"Piggy tasty? I thinksss so. The Minions holiday bonusss, nice tasty ham."

Roderick tapped the gem issuing great billowing clouds of the fog. From within the depths of the mist there came a terrible squeal, followed by silence and a grave sense of paranoia and dread. A familiar sound of slapping feet against wet cobblestones echoed up the alley joined this time by the sounds of something very heavy being dragged.

Epilogue

"And that my dear was the year Saint Olafinski did not complete his journey."

"Oh mummy, that's just dreadful," whispered the boy.

"In a way it is. In another way it is even worse. You see history did not forget the little girl who wanted that play set just as badly as Roderick's master's daughter. Devastated by disappointment that awful Christhankstide morning the young lady never fully recovered from her perceived loss. She allowed a seed of anger to fester deep within her soul."

"What happened then?" the young lad asked.

"She was a young witch. She had cast a spell to deliver the information to Saint Olafinski regarding the gift she desired. From the day she was so bitterly disappointed she focused her energy into the study of dark magic, eventually conquering the Fantasy Realm by the time she was twenty three."

The mother paused and rubbed the boy's back reassuringly. "Eventually your great-great-grandfather Thews of Barbaria slew the unhappy wretch and freed the kingdom. The lesson you should take from this is: It is not necessarily the disappointments in life but rather how we handle them that defines our character."

The boy lay silent in his bed for a moment contemplating the starry sky above him.

"Mummy, does this mean I'm not getting the Storm Siege Castle play set?" he asked suspiciously.

To Use A Gun No More

The forest was aglow with a nightmarish yellow and orange light. Even a stinging rain could not douse the fires that raged through a secluded camp in the Great Smoky Mountains. A lean silhouette flicked amongst the trees. The man ran hunched over, with an unsteady gait. He turned his head from side to side with great frequency. Through the air, the sound of confusion mixed in with much more guttural sounds carried to the shadowy figure.

Barely able to suppress a shudder of revulsion at the sound, the man slithered over a fallen tree before he crashed headlong into it. Crouching behind the trunk, he listened to the growls, barks and screeches that rang out into the night. He knew the origins of those noises and the recollection made his knees weak. His grip tightened around the wood handle of his Beaumont-Adams revolver, seeking comfort and reassurance in its solid weight.

From his vantage behind the massive log, he could hear the roar of the fire punctuated by screams that trailed off to heart-wrenching moans as new victims perished. Using his free hand, he checked the time on his pocket watch. The glowing hands showed him that it was just past four in the morning. The downpour permeated his clothes, chilling his skin. Colonel McWilliams needed to know what sort of mad science the Confederacy practiced in this wilderness.

The smell of damp forest reached his nose. A tranquil setting if it were not for the chaos pursuing him. Stealing another glance over the log, he saw the camp in stark contrast. Fully engulfed, the wooden structures burned wildly. A tall figure emerged from one blazing wall of fire, peered in the direction of the woods and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. With the lights in his eyes, the scout could not identify the person. He supposed it to be the one in charge of the camp, his new objective.

The gesture he understood. It signified the release of trackers and an organized pursuit. He had to leave. If he went northwest through the mountains, he could reach Tennessee where there lived Union sympathetic communities. He would need to work his way around the compound to go that way though. Not knowing what would give chase if spotted gave him pause. Daybreak was near and that would give the searchers a better chance of finding him. Rising up on unsteady feet the man scurried ten yards further south of the fire into a copse of trees.

From the trees, he angled his way east. The bunkhouses at this end were just starting to catch fire. Because of that, the occupants were fighting the fires elsewhere. He picked up some speed straightening out of his crouch to run favoring his left side. He continued to look over his shoulder trying to keep track of where people were forming fire lines or gathering for orders. It was during one such momentary survey of the enemy that he ran headlong into another person.

With a muffled grunt from both parties, they collapsed into the wet earth. He lashed out with a pointed elbow while feeling the sting of a fist against his temple. Rolling through the forest detritus the pair struggled against one another. Finally, by shear dint of weight he emerged on top, knee against the opposition's chin, pistol leveled at their forehead.

Dark brown eyes flashed in the firelight. Something did not feel quite right. The man slowly eased off the other. It dawned on him that the other was a woman. The moment his weight shifted, she levered him off and drew a Colt pistol of her own. They faced each other over the barrels.

Long dark hair was tangled. Twigs and leaves stuck out of it from their rolling along the ground. She was compact and wore very serviceable clothes from trekking through the mountains. Her eyes showed surprise, probably at finding another person roaming the woods at night. He put a finger to his lips and tipped his head away from the camp. She nodded, sidling in the indicated direction. The muzzle of her gun never wavered from his head.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. His tone carried a note of hysteria with it.

"Just passing through the area," she answered matching his whisper. "Who are you?"

"You may call me Ignatius. And you?"

"Angela." She replied. "What is going on here?" she said.

"A wickedness you could not even imagine.

"Try me. I have a fairly broad imagination."

Ignatius hesitated. Coincidence is not a luxury he could afford. This woman's appearance near the outpost was no happenstance.

"Are you a Confederate?" Ignatius said.

"Direct that's refreshing. No, I do not represent them. I am more of a freelance specialist."

"Oh, a mercenary," said Ignatius.

"No need to take that tone with me. You should count yourself fortunate, had I been with the Confederates, we would not be talking right now. I had the drop on you."

Looking at her pistol Ignatius asked, "Do you actually know how to use that?"

"Well enough, why?"

"You will need it before long. The rebs are stirred up and starting to search around their camp. Plus there are other... things, out here."

"Do tell," said Angela.

"There is no time. I am heading northwest, you?"

I have a job to the South..." began Angela, but a heavy foot breaking a branch diverted their attention.

A massive shape heaved its way towards them. The legs swung awkwardly outwards then forward in a flopping gait. Firelight glinted off a metal cap fastened to the wearer's skull. Something that looked vaguely man-like, dressed in tatters lumbered at them. Ignatius stepped in front of Angela, raised his pistol, and fired a shot that slapped into the skull. The impact of the .44 caliber slug flung bone and metal fragments backwards. The creature took several more steps before toppling.

"Hell," cursed Ignatius. "It is time we were off. They will have heard the shot. I would suggest coming with me for the time being. It will be safer."

"Did you see that?" Angela asked. Some of the color had drained from her face.

"Unfortunately, yes. It is not alone either. We need to go, now."

Ignatius grabbed her hand and dragged her away from the still twitching body.

"I am on a scouting mission for interested parties," Ignatius said.

"You mean the Union," Angela guessed. "You could be more specific you know."

"Yes. They wanted to know if there are any good passages through the mountains. I suggested a survey by airship, which somehow became a personnel-on-the-ground survey. I was not expecting to find the camp. When I saw its smoke, I knew that I would have to investigate it. Now I wish I had not." Ignatius drew up short. He considered the young woman next to him.

"You need to know this in case I do not make it out, someone has to tell the Union," he said. "That creature I just shot is only the beginning. There are more. At least there were. The fire ought to have wiped out most of them."

"Them? What do you mean? I don't understand," said Angela.

Ignatius stopped and spun to look directly at Angela. "The camp. The Confederates are experimenting there. They are grafting machinery to humans. Live humans. Prisoners, slaves and worst of all, children."

"Ai, Dios mio!" gasped Angela. "Es monstruoso! Forgive me, when I get excited I have a tendency to speak Spanish."

"I was discovered and managed to subdue that guard, set some rapid accelerating demolitions and made my way clear of the camp. One of the bastards winged me. Right now, the majority of the soldiers are fighting the fire. The person in charge unleashed the experiments. The good news is that they are not terribly fast. Dogged perhaps..."

"Who's in charge?" asked Angela.

"I do not know. I never got a chance to see his face or hear his name."

"Incoming," said Angela pointing off to their left.

A pair of experiments, more machine than man, shambled to intercept the fleeing pair. One of them had thick black tubes running from their back, over the shoulders and into the chest. The creature seemed to gain a measure of speed with every step. The face contorted in a mockery of human anger as the machine-man bore down on them. Ignatius fired at the same time as Angela. The crack of her pistol echoed throughout the woods. His shot flew wide striking a tree. Her aim was truer. The lead creature fell back, spurting blood and a bright yellow fluid from the wound.

They quickly outpaced the second as they crested a small rise and discovered the downslope of the mountain before them. They descended at breakneck speed, kicking loose rocks and sticks in their haste. A few rifle shots whistled past but then the woods fell silent except for the rain, their frantic steps and labored breathing. They reached the bottom of the hill where the ground leveled out and the trees were sparse. Fog intertwined around the trunks, hovering just over the forest floor.

"This valley floor runs north to south for a couple of miles in either direction," said Ignatius. "We are about in the middle. If we go up the other side we will have more difficult terrain and the benefit of a superior height advantage."

"How far is the other side?" said Angela.

"Less than a mile. We cross a stream several hundred yards before the next rise."

"Let's go then."

Grimly the pair loped along keeping their eyes moving, trying to look in every direction all at once. Ten minutes dragged past when Ignatius stumbled into the creek, tripping and falling face first into the water. Thrashing out of the water, he cursed. The rain was a minor bother, being soaked to the skin in the very early spring in the mountains was life threatening. Wasting no time, Ignatius stripped off his jacket and shirt and started to wring them out, hoping to minimize the chance of lowering his core body temperature into dangerous territory.

An ugly red trough across his ribs showed just how close his escape from the camp was. Angela knelt at the creek and scooped some water into her mouth, and then she checked over her pistol, ejecting the spent shells and replacing them. With shaking hands, Ignatius redressed himself and tended to his own pistol. Somehow, the cartridges had avoided being soaked. The very first fingers of sunlight were beginning to tickle the tops of the mountains even though a drizzle continued to fall.

His head bobbed towards his chest, snapping up just as he realized how close to passing out he was. Fatigue was settling into his muscles. Getting rest now was not possible. They had to keep moving, had to get to higher ground. While rooting in his jacket's pockets Ignatius appraised the young woman keeping a watchful eye out over their surroundings. She did not panic and kept up with him during their headlong flight from the camp.

His fingers finally found the smooth metal cylinder. Taking it out he unscrewed the top, a syringe and vial of milky liquid slid into the palm of his hand.

"What's that?" asked Angela.

"A distillation for endurance I concocted for this sort of emergency. How are you holding up?"

"Very well, thank you," said Angela. "You've cost me a good deal of money you know. With the Confederates all stirred up the way south is going to be impassible."

She frowned as Ignatius, who ignored her, filled the hypodermic with the chemical and slid the needle into his left forearm. The liquid felt hot as it rushed into his vein, drawn up to his heart and then pushed out to the rest of his body. Almost immediately, he could feel warmth spreading from limb to limb. His mind cleared the haze that almost settled over it.

He was about to reply when a squeak reached his ears. Angela froze and cocked her head listening too. They heard the whoosh of steam escaping from a valve from somewhere in the fog. Soft footsteps added to the layers of noise that approached. Ignatius readied himself but then gasped in horror as the first of this new wave of assailants emerged from the darkness just behind Angela with a blade raised.

Ignatius leveled his pistol and fired a shot at a shadowy figure without hesitating. As the bullet tore through its target, realization hit Ignatius: these were children. Horrible transformations altered the shape, size and walk but they were clearly young slaves perhaps between ten and fifteen.

"Madre de Dios!" exclaimed Angela, "What manner of God-forsaken bastard could do this?"

"The unforgivable kind," said Ignatius.

The fire at the camp had not caught all of the experiments, that much was obvious. There was an obligation to his country here. The oath he took entering the service was explicit. Any target of opportunity must be destroyed. None of the experiments could survive. They were a shocking force and judging by the variety of armaments, a dangerous one. If allowed to enter the general conflict the damage against the Union forces could be immeasurable.

More of them materialized from the gloom. Tiny smoke stacks puffed sooty black clouds into the morning while pincers clicked in agitation. One child swung a razor sharp saw blade back and forth. The hundreds of teeth made a whistling sound through the air. On the back of each individual was a square box with the chimney rising up. It has to be a power source much like a steam engine, supposed Ignatius. The group hovered at the stream's edge. They did not seem inclined to cross the running water.

"Get out of here Miss Angela. You have to reach the top of that hill. The rest of the Confederates are not far behind."

"What do you intend?" she asked.

"I have to do my duty. These abominations cannot exist. I have to destroy every one of them."

"If you must, I suppose. Take this," Angela said.

She tossed Ignatius a Colt Navy .44 handgun. He nodded thankfully.

"When we have more time, you will have to explain where this came from," he said.

"I'll look forward to it. You bring the brandy, I'll bring the cigars."

One of the taller clockwork children wrestled the corpse to the creek and threw the body across the water. With and splash and hiss an impromptu bridge was built. The leader put one foot gingerly on the back of the fallen one. Sizzling rose from the metal pack as the skin touched the near red-hot surface. Face frozen in a tortured grimace the experiment crossed the running water. Ignatius and Angela backed away.

Ignatius squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession. The young man flopped over into the creek. Groaning, Ignatius saw that he inadvertently created an even better bridge. The pack of monstrosities surged forward. Shouts rose from behind the children, in the direction from which they had just come. Ignatius looked at Angela and jerked his head at her. She nodded, dropping a belt of ammunition on the ground and sprinting away.

Ignatius spun and snatched the belt from the floor and headed northeast hoping that he would lead the pursuit away from Angela. His Beaumont was out of cartridges. He jammed the Colt into his waistband and worked the release on his gun. Brass shells fell to the forest floor in glittering pinwheels. With a certain amount of composure, Ignatius slid fresh bullets into the empty cylinders. He dodged past tree stumps and fallen logs. The edge of his vision started to get blurry, while the center remained sharply focused.

A moan sounded from just behind him. Glancing over his shoulder Ignatius saw two of the younger, lighter children were keeping pace with him. Tubes ran, curving out, from behind to plunge into their thighs. The steady noise of pumps working chased after Ignatius. Part of him was deeply curious. The call of the mechanics felt tangible at times. Using his left hand, he pulled the Colt out and fired a hasty shot over his back. The round grazed the right leg of a pursuer popping the hose loose. Bluish fluid sprayed in all directions.

Ignatius wheeled around and thrust the Colt forward, catching the remaining child in the forehead. The clockwork child lost his footing and fell to the ground. Ignatius grimly put his foot down on the abomination's chest and squeezed the trigger. The bullet made short work of it. Ignatius found himself caught in the wide-open gaze of brown eyes. They glazed over in moments.

Fire flickered across his thigh.

Leaping back in surprise, Ignatius realized that the other experiment had dragged itself to him and sliced his leg with a keen edged machete. Ignatius quickly finished off the second sprinter then checked on his leg. The cut was shallow, not deep enough to separate the muscle. It might bleed a bit, but otherwise he would be fine. Flipping the pistol locked its cylinder back in place. He took a second to scan the surroundings. To his left the valley wall, where Angela would be, rose up. To the right was the creek and ahead lay a thicket of briar bushes so dense even a rabbit would give second thought to heading into it.

He moved to the right, hoping that the water would again form a barricade preventing the rush of steam-driven monsters. His skin tingled in the breeze as he dashed toward the water. The endurance serum was nearing its peak. All of his senses were overloading with stimuli. A chirping bird came across as loudly as the whistle from a train. The wounds ached and flared white-hot with pain. A shape emerged from the mist to his right. Several quick shots brought it down and left his ears ringing. He entered the cold water flinching at the pins and needles that erupted along his lower legs.

The realization of the situation he was in crept into his brain slowly. He could not help but cross an ethical line. Fatigue and chemicals made processing the thoughts tricky. Ignatius could not imagine the horrors that must have transpired in the Confederate camp. Soldiers, trained men, were one thing. They knew that capture would not be a pleasant way of spending the war. They understood the consequences of their actions, the ramifications of an enemy desperate to gain any advantage. Children were another matter.

He would do a great many things to advance science and technology. However, the harvesting children as hosts for ghastly mechanical upgrades went beyond anything sane. The innocent used in such wicked ways showed a lack of ethics that is staggering.

A mechanized army would bolster the flagging soldiers who were fighting against the Union. The mere appearance would be demoralizing and frightening to regular troops. The war could be lost to attrition by desertion if not by outright victory.

The remnants of the pack charged out of the woods, howling with raw voices as though it were man learning to scream at the dawn of time. Ignatius leveled both revolvers and fired into the group until both hammers fell on spent cartridges. The last feral youth leapt across the intervening distance and ploughed into Ignatius. The pair tumbled over into the icy creek water with Ignatius on the bottom. Sharp rocks jabbed into his back and neck. The water's temperature added clarity to his vision.

He could see the youth raising a club-like hammer overhead and managed to roll his shoulder and dodge the blow. Somewhere in the contact and struggle, Ignatius lost his grip on the Colt. He swung the Beaumont up and against the side of the boy's head dislodging the wiry youth. Both splashed wildly in the water in order to regain their feet.

Ignatius sized up his opponent. The lad was thin but completely muscled. A mass of dreadlocks, which were interwoven with beads, dripped creek water, forming a curtain around his face. The large metal box on his back crackled with the vaporizing water. The club fell from his fingers and tattered flesh dropped off the left arm revealing a steel frame from which a blade sprang forward. He grinned lopsidedly at Ignatius and lunged with the blade.

Ignatius sidestepped the charge and met his opponent's face with a clenched fist. Like lightening the clockwork child spun following up with a series of lunges, thrusts and cuts. Ignatius found himself giving up ground. Panicking he resorted to ungentlemanly strategy kicking the nearest knee with great vigor. He then whipped the Beaumont around by the barrel and slammed it again into the side of the youth's head. Sensing the young man's balance was off, Ignatius seized the joint just above the sword blade and flipped his attacker face forward into the creek.

Falling on top of his opponent, Ignatius viciously and repeatedly brought the pistol down on the dreadlock-covered head. White-hot pain seared through his right knee and leg. He rolled away realizing that he had knelt on top of the firebox. Before the lad could rise up again, Ignatius drew his holdout weapon, desperate to end the struggle, a small derringer and squeezed both triggers at once. The tiny popping discharge of the weapon seemed inadequate for the grief it caused. The body twitched and shuddered in the swift current.

He rose from the water for the second time that morning. Cold, wet and despondent. The values and reasons he fought, spied and lived for lay destroyed all over the valley's floor. The youth were not free in the manner that he wished. They were not returning home or emigrating to the north. All he had done was speed up the experimental process to its inevitable conclusion. Ignatius felt the bile rising inside of him and closed his eyes as he vomited along the bank.

Sitting on his knees, he regarded the derringer in one hand, and the Beaumont in the other. The consequences of his actions weighed on him. His heart ached with sadness. He could not allow the corruption of science for any better purpose than to perpetuate intolerable cruelty. Humans, all humans have the right to be free. Not in some tragic fashion such as the one, he instigated. Free in the sense that life is a glorious celebration, worth living well and fully.

Frowning with disdain Ignatius let the guns drop into the creek. Better to allow the water to destroy them than to ever use a handgun again. The ridge, he thought, I still must reach the ridge. Standing up and then wading through the creek one last time, Ignatius moved westward. Minutes later, he heard a howl, grossly inhuman echo up from the south. Still more monstrosities survived, the remaining adults. He would destroy each one he vowed and track down the scientist that created them. The blemish of this inhumanity would end here in the mountains.

Two weeks later...

Ignatius lay on his stomach under a bush on top of a ridge. He held a pair of field glasses to his eyes and swept the area below him. The charred remnants of the camp were cold and still in the late morning. A steady drizzle continued to fall as it had for the past week. It was as if God was trying to wash the mountain clean.

Angela was waiting for him on top of the valley when he finally climbed out of it. He told her of the situation. What his duty required. No trace could remain. Ignatius promised that once they were back amongst the Union forces he would compensate her for the loss of her contract. In return, she lent him her time and skills.

They now stalked the mountain and valleys, tracking down the last experiments and eliminating them. Under cover, several hundred yards away, she was watching too. He found her to be a hard woman to get to know. Even as the situation demanded they work closely, she remained closemouthed regarding herself.

They had a tentative agreement in the desperate situation. Rations were low, game scarce yet they persisted. He relied on her hunting skills, steady nerves in tight spots and good humor. She accepted his plans offering improvements when necessary, which he gladly accepted. The time might have passed by pleasantly, were they not stalking and eliminating the Mad Science abominations.

Each morning Ignatius came to the vantage point above the camp. Like the mountain lion native to the region, he stealthily crept into position and watched. For a couple of days after the fire troops swarmed around the area. They picked over the rubble and removed the dead.

Confederate airships moved through the skies in greater frequency. Some dropped supplies to the forces on the ground while others served as observation posts. Today was no different. The drone of an engine in the distance signaled the arrival of the day's first observer from the east. Strangely, a second engine sounded from the west. A third ship, a bloated gray sausage arrived overhead from the south.

The gathering of multiple airships was not a coincidence. They gathered for a reason. Minutes later, that reason became evident. A pale figure stepped from the cover of the woods and approached the burned out camp. Focusing the glasses on the person, Ignatius saw a man in his early forties. The left side of his face bore blisters, from the fire no doubt. The man was hairless and had soft doe-like eyes.

He picked his way through the burnt timbers to the middle of the camp. In one hand, he carried a pickaxe and shovel. In preparation, the man hung his broad floppy hat over a timber. For several long minutes, the man dug. He tore through the destroyed timbers with a singular purpose. The sound of the shovel hitting another metal object reverberated up to Ignatius.

Out of the ground a strong box appeared. Watching the man, Ignatius saw him take a brass key from around his neck and unlock the box. Engraved on the lid were the initials 'S.V.'. Looking into the box itself, papers billowed out of it. Ignatius could not make out any of the writing on the pages facing him. He had to presume that it was detailed notes on the experimentation. A flicker of motion from Angela's position drew his attention.

Pointing the glasses at her revealed only leafy coverage, so complete was her camouflage. Several branches parted allowing the barrel of a Henry rifle to poke through. She intended on taking the shot. Checking the mystery man at the camp again, Ignatius knew she could make it. The drone of the airships changed. The engines slowed, becoming deeper, more of a low growl. Ignatius looked up to see one descending towards Angela, a rope ladder unfurling from the gondola.

They spotted the barrel poking out, surmised Ignatius. A few seconds more and she will take the shot, but if left alone Angela would be captured by the Southern forces. Somewhere inside his chest muscles tightened, he quickly squawked like a common crow, loudly. Peering through the field glasses, he watched the gun withdraw and the leaves rustle. Returning his gaze to the camp, Ignatius found the man staring up at him with a pair of modified glasses.

These glasses were thicker and multi-lensed. Ignatius knew he was visible to the other man. Rather than retreat hurriedly, Ignatius took a few extra seconds to commit everything he could to memory. Height, probable weight and the hook of nose everything that might identify the man later on. Only then did Ignatius back away.

He would find this man, this S.V. again. When he did, an accounting would take place.

###

### Acknowledgements

First: A tremendous Thank You to my wife. Her support is critical to me. She is my sounding board, guiding principle and one of the main reasons I am inspired to create. This work would not be published if it were not for her. I would also like to thank the writers at Quantum Muse (http://www.quantummuse.com) for their critiques, advice and atta-boys. They helped shape most of the works in this publication. Then, there are the Wordpress Bloggers, principally: Chris, Soma and Virginia. Thanks you guys! Of course there are the friends and family who indulged me by reading and commenting on my work, encouraged and cheering me on.

Thanks go to all you who have read this work. I write to create and share. Without readers, the process is only half done. Thanks!

Final Matter

I would love to hear from you the reader. Good, bad, whichever. As long as it is honest feedback, I would appreciate to get it.

I hang out at the following internet locations:

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Email: sfbell09@gmail.com

The cover image of the Neem trees is from: <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:GntNeemTree.jpg>.

About The Author

The author lives in the United States of America. Pennsylvania. In his spare time, he likes to herd cats, write stories and go running. He is a one-time English Education major (did not pan out) and full time programmer. He is happily married to his best friend and together they are raising an all-around great kid.
