2005-03-11 - 10:29 a.m.
Finally a bit of fiction for The New College Invisisbles.
End, part 1
I knew it was going to be a rough day when the fortune cookie I was having with my left-over-chinese breakfast said on one side, "Today is a good day to die," and "Your numbers are 3 13 23 69 88," on the other. That is why I turned on you, my sacred little black box. Need to leave a bit of a record behind, because something has everything moving, and my death might be a part of it. Hopefully the Novo Collegium Caeci (* translator note: New College of the Unknown/Invisible, [yes I think like this.]) will find you first, and find you in time.
Notes on my emminent destruction: Something big is happening. My morning meditations indicate a shifting of dragon lines in various regions of the world, but I was oblivious of meaning. Images of Void, which were either portent, or mean I am finally getting the hang of meditation. Wish I had more time to analyze the situation, but other things are pressing. A vision of corridors, escalators, and shifting maps continue.
I sit here cleaning Athanatos, my sword. Tier energy humming peacefully as I count my enemies. It is a moment wrapped in endless time. Athanatos ae psychae, deathless is the soul, the first lesson.
The Golden Bull is my primary suspect, given my recent work with them: simple reconaissance and penetration, nothing underhanded yet. I do mean their ultimate destruction, but all in good time. However they've had enough time to notice I was there, and put together a force of Fratletes to settle my score. I can't imagine actually being beholden unto the Golden Bull, but they have ties to the Agents. Agents could have my number on a good day, and today is a good day. Taurus Delendus Est!
The Pope might have woke up this morning, and decided I knew too much. I like to think we have a good working relationship. He sends someone nice my way, and I make someone bad leave his way. Of course, he'll find out or knows about my demonic heritage, and that might dampen our relationship. People just don't understand Satan's chosen people. Always blaming others for accidents of birth, like poverty. It's simply a matter of karma. It is mildly amusing that I have more to worry about from the Pope than the "Prince of Darkness". Satan has rules to follow, the Pope, like all people, gets to make them up as he goes along.
Eris would only do it as a lark, and would probably get bored with me before she finished. There is no one else I flirt with so much, and yet don't stand beside. My father always warned me women would be the death of me, but I think that was simply advice, not prophecy.
For simplicities sake, I would like to note here that I am not analyzing the Invisibles, because such an intellectual digression cannot bear ripe fruit. If an invisible is after me, he has the skills necessary to hide intent, even from me, and I have the trust as hamartia in this instance of tragedy.
All of the other various conflicts of dualism know I stand on the third side. Besides I am too wishy-washy to actually be worth seducing, and worse yet, I am a spy. I do not believe in spies that are partisan, they lack the mental flexible necessary to truly blend. That leaves autocrats with the hard choice of getting good spies, whom you know you cannot trust, or bad spies whom you know you can, but are worthless. It is such a bad idea, but I capitalize on all sorts of ideas, bad or otherwise. I am a moral man, though. I have one.
Well, enough contemplation, time for action.
I have better change into some clean underwear. While I am at it, I should also do myself up. Not everyday you get to shed this mortal coil. Polish it up a bit, you know, James Dean style.
First I get out of those robes I threw on for breakfast and meditation. Take an extra shower, with the water on hot, to burn away my spiritual impurities. It is sort of like a second baptism, annoit myself in my favorite element, and let my soul feel minty fresh, like a listerine mouth. I then grab those clean underwear mentioned earlier, and pull on my black kevlar pants. Clean socks swallow my feet, as black-leather, rune-scribed jumpboots follow them. Slip on my homemade "Happy Noodle Boy" T-shirt, made from the really soft cotton. I then pull out my belt: black, oiled leather, with extra stips, and dangling shining rings and pouches: a bondage belt meets the bat-belt and a sword slinger. The least of its power is an SEP (Somebody Else's Problem) field that keeps the unenlightened from noticing me or my toys. I slide it on, Athanatos' weight comforting my left thigh. My ritual dagger, a kukri, snuggles along the small of my back. Mojo bags hang from the belt, giving it a pleasant scent, and fueling my aura with their protection. This ending isn't going to be easy on anyone. I then pull on my armor. A black duster, crafted by the Arcanologist's own hands, leather from the skins of the deepest secrets the world has to offer, stitched with the best mysteries. After that I blessed it with Luna's Kiss, the Pope's faith, and good hard use, as well as my Father's Unction. It's good armor.
I have a date that I can't be late for. The peace-wax wards on the house seem well, but I draw over them again. I don't want anyone slipping in here while I am out. I grab the SCHEMA on my way out. (Archimedes Loch, I hid it in the tunnels benethe the second joy buttons event horizon.) These fortunately are on my way to Destiny.
That's what I call him on days like this, but most days I simply call him Ferret. He is a tall Invisible, with long limbs and wiry muscle. Perfectly proportion for the worlds finest swordsman and Destiny's child. He has the goofiest grin though. Naturally he doesn't believe in magick. He has powers of pure reason. Magic doesn't work on him, at all, because there is no such thing. For all my scrying on him, I have never learned anything more than the lessons I recieve from his own tongue or sword. I am here for another sword lesson. He has come dressed-up as well. All black leather renaissance garb, with green trim, and the Italian Silver Rapier.
"Good day, Master Chaan."
"Si Valet, Maestro Ferret. Call me Thnaskein today. What is your mood today?"
"Whatever you like, Squee-Bass. . . I am feeling classical. . . Rapiers at 10 yards, you the Spaniard, and I the Man in Black?"
"Your are picking on me for my abundant lack of ethnicity. I am so white that I am yellow, red, and black."
"No, I am picking on you for not being as good as me."
"I am going to die today."
"That's unfortunate, but it is no excuse to waste time. En Garde."
I slid off my coat, and dropped my belt as he pulled a spare French-grip Rapier and tossed it at me.
No sooner had I gripped it, than we began. He opening with Tybalt's Gambit. I counter with Fechtmeister's feint, setting him a bit to the left. He replies with McLeod's defense. I move in position for a Nightcrawler's Prayer. He switches at the last moment to Elwes' Advance, nearly nabbing me, but I clumsily counter with Sun Tzu's Lightning Block. Unfortunately this is a sabre-style stroke, that leaves me all too open for a straight lunge into 6, so I do the best I can, and try to dive for the ground, too late.
I caught my breath as I lay there, meditating on the recent actions, picking out strengths and weaknesses. It was a good match. It reminded me of my last lesson with Archimedes, levitating over the plane of pain by the purity of mind alone, knowing we would sink, if we gave into the deepest enemy, ourselves. The match wasn't about technique or style, it was about remembering the Higher Self. Two friends fighting over the screams of the damned. The motions of violence, matched with the sounds of agony, and maintaining ones center inspite of all the agony. It was the best lesson I ever learned. Best of all, was when I let myself sink at the end. Gave him a heart attack, practically, but I healed up fine.
"Don't rest to long, your muscles will forget what I just taught you, if I don't reinforce it with another bout."
"Do you care if I die?"
"That is for me to know, and you to find out. We have business, which is pleasure, which comes before pleasure that is pleasure. En Garde."
We go through the previous match, in perfect reproduction, only this time, with my body learning what to do, and how to do it better. I feel parts of my brain taking apart the steps, reorganizing them, sorting into new variants. When we reach the point of Sun Tzu, I had figured out the next step, or rather, counter-parry, reposte to Elwes'. He let the match settle into the Jester's Duel, our traditional end, and I played my part well, and gave him the touch.
"You won't die. There are still dragons to slay. Of which, I must go."
"Later. . ?"
"You betcha, wolf boy."
So I make my way home, a little better than when I left. I am wary on the way home, but nothing happens.
I pick up the package that sits next to my door. The label reads "Open Enterprises." I realize too late that the Label is a NLP bomb, that triggers my reflexes to open the package. Pandora is unleashed upon me, and my last thought is "Athanatos ae psychae, deathless is the soul, the last lesson."
P.S. I hope it is worth the wait. My original ideas would have wound up much lengthier, and not much better.
