Sierra hadn't been back in Moscow long before the Ascendancy made his announcement. She wasn't sure what to think about magic, but then again who would believe she could talk to wolves either. She could likely walk around without her contacts and not be questioned - someone thinking it's a fashion statement much like Jaxen Marveet had. But she didn't feel comfortable doing so.

Sierra sat in a cafe after the big protest turned demonstration. It was all over the news in the lobby and Sierra had watched as the Ascendancy had created a statue. It was a big monolithic thing but what did it show - that he was a power mad god who displayed his power for the world to see. And the masses loved him for it.

What good was a sculpture going to do? Sierra could smell the fear and the anger. The Ascendancy had changed some of it, but not all of it. It was going to back fire eventually. Sierra wanted to be gone from Moscow by then. But she had to get the photos cleaned out of her camera and off the laptop.

Her camera sat next to her laptop as she scanned through the cards she'd pulled from it on her extended vacation from humanity. Her contacts securing her identity Sierra felt at home sipping her coffee and combing through so many photos. She'd taken so many while she was gone. Her emotions still ran high when she ran across an image of Snow. She missed him greatly. She might need to find another pup and care for it. But the wolves would likely let her - maybe a dog? But that was such a poor imitation of a wolf, but Sierra missed her constant companion. But it was a thought.

The last final task was not something Sage enjoyed doing, but he said he would. Hijacking a completely network for someone else was not a talent Sage wanted to possess. He could, and he did, but he didn't like it. And whenever he was tasked with a job he always sent it to 5ph1nx. He was better at it than he was. And Sphinx enjoyed the work.

But Sage didn't like talking to him either. He was thankful he'd never met the person behind the avatar, his personality was grating on Sage.

Ph453r: Got a job for you?

5ph1nx: AGAIN?

Ph453r: I need you to capture the airwaves of Africa. Anything and everything. Control is to go to Legion Premiere.

5ph1nx: I CAN'T KEEP IT?

Ph453r: No.

5ph1nx: COME ON, JUST ONE?

Ph453r: No

5ph1nx: FINE!

Sage sighed and let it go. He had agreed and now Sage could get back to his normal routine. He had promised and he would deliver. It might be a while, but he would.

The most interesting task on the list was the need to show the world that the men that died in Africa were not monsters. They were real men, with real lives that made a difference and believed in what the Legion stood for and why they fought. Sage wanted to do this himself, but the task was far larger than he was, and he knew he'd tire quickly of the search. But qu1rk would not, he lived to hunt down nameless faces and find every piece of dirt on them. He and 3p107m3 worked well together.

This time however Sage just wanted names of those who had died, he'd do the rest. Once he had names the search for information would be easy and that is what Sage loved - finding all the interesting bits and compiling them in a specific way. This time to present something illuminating - something people would understand and feel sympathy towards - something that they would know these men and women. When Sage was done they would believe they were good people. And if he found that some were not he'd leave them out. Not everyone was going to be a golden boy, or a great person. That was life. Sage knew it first hand.

Sage sent qu1rk his assignment.

Ph435r: qu1rk, I have some names I need you to find.

qu1rk: When don't you?

Ph435r: You saw my announcement for Sierre Leone, Africa restructuring?

qu1rk: yeah. What do you need?

Ph435r: I need you to find the names of all the men and women who fell from Legion Premiere in Jeddah.

qu1rk: That's all, just the names? That's right you like to do the work yourself, give me the hard part.

Ph435r: you know me so well. Can you do it?

qu1rk: I guess. I like when you let me get dirt on those names though.

Ph354r: I don't need dirk. Just names. Thanks.

qu1rk: no problem.

Sage had received a reply from Danjou he requested three things the collective could help him with. Each of with Sage was perfectly capable of doing himself. But time was probably of the essence and Sage would prefer to hand the tasks off to people who would be more excited to do such things. Chronicle enjoyed history - current events even better. What better place to stick the search for proof that two country's leaders were evil bastards.

This was simply a search, they weren't planting anything, they weren't faking or incriminating - it was purely to find information and pass it along to the right people. In this chase Danjou himself.

Maybe not. Sage would have to clarify where the information once found was supposed to go? To him? To news outlets? What would be the best course of action for the man's agenda. Sage made a mental note to ask this question in his next message to Danjou.

Sage had never physically met chr0n1cl3. They had shared many conversations with one another, but that was the extent of their relationship. It was how Sage preferred things.

Ph435r: chr0n1cl3 I have a job for you.

chr0n1cl3: Sup?

Ph435r: I need you to find proof that Liberia has hired mercenaries to destabilize Sierra Leone, to justify their occupation of the resource-reach south-eastern reaches. Proof that Nigeria is providing weapons and ammunition to General Katlego. Proof, nothing faked, nothing planted - the truth.

chr0n1cl3: I never give you anything but the truth.

Ph435r: I know, it's why I like you. You in?

chr0n1cl3: of course. I'll get on it right away. You want all the info I go through?

Ph435r: of course.

chr0n1cl3: righto - silly question.

And then the conversation ended just as abruptly as it had started. Sage smiled. One task down. Only two more to start.

When Lacey Frieburg, the White House Chief of Staff, told Nicholas she would see him in Washington soon, Nicholas hadn't been expecting to find himself outside the Oval Office less than a week later. Security had been on a constant rise since Nikolai Brandon confirmed the existence of magical powers. The White House looked more like a fortress than a statesman's home.

But the newly risen concrete walls surrounding the perimeter wouldn't be worth a damn, if push came to shove. But then, Nicholas supposed, it was better to look like you were doing something. The wait dragged out for several minutes, and Nicholas could picture Dawson sitting behind those doors thinking he was sending some kind of message.

Blessedly, an aide came and opened the doors, ushering Nicholas inside. "Mr. President,"
Nicholas said as he made eye contact with a man he'd spent a career lambasting.

Dawson had probably spent the whole morning mentally preparing himself to meet a power user face to face. The expression that met Nicholas was neutral and expectant. An obvious front; if there was one thing Republicans feared it was that which they didn't understand. "Thank you for coming today. Let's sit and chat. Lacey said you were open to the position on the Cabinet?"

Nicholas crossed the room, and took a chair. "There's nobody better for the job,"
he said, looking Dawson in the eye.

And with that, Dawson began. "You'll be my primary advisor in matters relating to this newfound power so many seem to be afflicted with. There are laws to write. Policies to design. We must know what this power is capable of inflicting." And there it was. The fear.

Nicholas nodded. "Afflicted with, Mr. President?"


Dawson waved his hand. "Oh you know what I mean. The Sickness."

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, briefly considering siezing the power before deciding against it. Instead, he just smiled. "Fair enough. It's a health crisis. But tell me, what are you planning to do with all these magic users?"


Dawson frowned and shook his head. "Thats why you're here. We have to figure this out." He offered a hand to shake. "Will you formally accept the position?"

That was a new one. Almost the last thing Nicholas expected the president to say, in fact. But, then again, only time would tell whether those words held truth. Nicholas shook the hand. "I accept. We're going to do this better than the Custody is."


After they shook, it wasn't long before the order was signed and the press conference scheduled. Things were about to get interesting.

Mami died. And then Beto knew. When Papi died, when Nico died, he felt...nothing. But they were not his Mami. They had not been the center of his world. So he could tell himself excuses. Papi wasn't around much anyway. Nico had been an annoying older brother who had perpetuated all the usual older brother cruelties. But he had no excuse when Mami died. There was nothing he could say.

And so at 8 years old, Beto found the truth. He knew he was a monster. Because he felt nothing. Even when she was laid out and painted by the mortician and Abuelita cried and cried, seizing the lifeless shoulders, hugging and kissing that grotesque waxy face, all he wondered was what was wrong with him. He touched her face all he felt was a cold piece of meat. He felt nothing. He should miss her. He tried to miss her. He was supposed to miss her. The smell of her hair when she leaned over and woke him up from sleep; the sight her cooking platanos when he came home from school; the sound of her voice helping him with his homework. He remembered it all. So...why didn't that mean anything to him in here, in his heart?

He didn't know. And he didn't miss her now that she was gone. He did not wake up crying at her memory. The smells that reminded him of her did not cause him to pause and reflect, to feel that aching emptiness everyone else said they felt. He remembered her. But remembering didn't do anything to him.

He was a monster. And that was the only thing that truly scared him, would be the only thing that ever scared him. Scared him somewhere deep inside, beyond words and feelings. The dizzying feeling of looking over the rail of the Brooklyn Bridge, the ground so far below and the magnitude of what could happen if he just climbed the rail, stood on the edge, the wind rifling his hair and the sounds of the street below, the lights of the city a sea of stars that surrounded him, and there is a part of him that feels like the universe isn’t real, it is all in his imagination, that the people, the places, the entire world are merely there for his amusement. Not real. And he feels as if he is leaning forward and will take his place in this world, the center of the world, and it is dizzying and terrifying and freeing and oppressive to him. Just one step, one decision. Just once is all it would take, and he would fall.

And that is what scares him. The realization that he is capable of anything. That he feels no empathy, no remorse, no pity, no nothing. He thought he felt nothing when Mami died. But it’s not true. He felt set free. Untethered. Lost. Adrift. Because he realized there was nothing holding him back now.

And he chooses to be different. He doesn’t know why. He cannot explain it. He is forever on that edge, ready to jump. And he clings to any and everything he can to stop from doing it, the smallest thread.

It is not surprising that Beto (short for Roberto) Josemaria AlvarezTrujillo was drawn to law. When he had been a teenager, it was the priesthood, in the hopes that the holiness and piety and forced contemplation would give him the strength to hold out. But the rituals held nothing for him, the Mysteries ridiculous to him, the Fathers and Reverends as venal as any in other professions. There was no God here. It had been his last hope, to find God, to meet him somewhere. But there was no god, no rules from on high, no higher power to cling to.

But what he sought and failed to find in the church, he found in the law. A messy convoluted system, an imperfect expression of humanity attempting to codify and impose conscience on society. Somehow, here, the contradictions, the abuses, the corruption and foolishness did not bother him the way the church had. Maybe because it acknowledged its imperfection. It never claimed to be anything other than it was.

And he could tie himself about with the strictures and rules, with the rituals and language, and could feel, for weeks or even months at a time, like he was off that bridge, that he wasn’t on the edge, ready to fall.

He enrolled at Fordham on a scholarship and graduated in 2030, at the age of 23 with his Juris Doctor and passed his bar the following year. He found himself working as a public defender, work he threw himself into. It was baptism by fire, as most public defenders worked an astonishing number of cases in such a short period of time. He was noticed very quickly. From there, he went on to private practice for a number of firms, working his way up and then into the Justice Department. He can fake emotion, enthusiasm, empathy, interest. But they are a mask. He is very good at wearing masks.

He had no wife, no children, no pets. Work was his life. So he excelled at it. No one guessed his secret. And he was good at it- excelled at it- because he felt nothing. He was not swayed by emotion. Tears and angry protests did not elicit feelings, nor was he afraid of going after high powered individuals. If they only knew what was in his head. It came down to what was legal and logical and what could be proved. And he used the law like a scalpel to cut away the detritus of emotion and chaos, of lies and deception, until the truth, as proved by law, remained.

He is now 38. He still stands on the edge of the bridge. He will stand there until he dies. But he has gotten practiced at staring into that maw of death and suffering that has been inside him since he was a child. He never relaxes. But he is content with the balance he has struck.

And now there is something new. Magic is real. It is irrefutable, now. He has seen the videos. He is intrigued at the challenge the world faces. An entire of body of law will have to be crafted all at once. The next few years will set precedents that will impact the country in a very real way, the way Marbury v. Madison did in shaping the country 250 years ago.

More than that, though, above that…something is here. For the first time, he senses a divine presence. He does not know what it means. But he wants to find out. He does not feel excitement. He tells himself that. Not excitement. Never excitement. But he is intrigued.

Katchina had been well advised to keep her hands and legs well inside the canoe as they made the seven-hour trip upriver from Palacios, a tiny village in Honduras that she had been assured was so remote you could see the end of the world from it. It wasn't long before she saw a coral snake drop from a decaying tree branch into the water in a flash of red, yellow and black. A charming little creature unlikely to bite unless threatened, but it was enough to convince her to listen to her guides. The powered canoes chugged their old diesel engines against the current. She'd been told that the guides often took people to Las Marias, home of the Pech People and only accessible by river. But it didn't look like it. This place was bristling with life but none of it human.

“Be sure to watch out for the mosquitos,” the guide said. Kat had long since taken care of that problem. She'd become quite adept at weaving out nets that let through air and light but kept out even the smallest insects. It was a useful skill to have in a third-world nation, especially one where people could get eaten by ants.

“Gracias,”
she replied. She'd been told these people weren't exactly cut off from the modern world. Some of their sons and daughters were quite well educated, having been sent out to study and then return and aid the village. They only chose to live in a place that was, and kept very much to themselves. Communities like this were ones Kat had been looking for. This was the third such study expedition she had undertaken in her two years of research under the Centers for Disease Control and their attempts to understand the Sickness. Incidence of the sickness was truly worldwide, and Kat had gone to interview and study cultures in Mexico, Peru, and now Honduras. Other researchers for the CDC, and likely other agencies, were doing much the same thing across the Americas.

Kat had quickly learned upon reaching Atlanta and taking a job with the CDC as a researcher that they really didn't have much of a way of a plan to deal with the Sickness. Maybe another government branch did. In any event, Kat hadn't found out yet, and no one knew what was being made of the data they had gathered. The CDC had gone through the tests and research with new patients but came up without solutions. Noah had predicted as much. So for those who survived, they were cut loose with their name put in a registry. Those were turning up dead more often than not, from one accident or another.

Kat had chosen to focus on indigenous peoples, particularly those who were isolated. The Pechs, for example, had lived in remote mountain communities for the past four hundred years with little contact with the outside world. Today there were less than 3,000 remaining. The Native American tribes in the United States had been exhibiting a greater incidence of the Sickness by about four times the current average, and it seemed to be clear indication of a recessive genetic mutation causing the Sickness and magnified among small populations with less dilution of genetic material. The data she gathered appeared to support this conclusion thus far.

“They will see you before you see them,” the guide rattled off in Spanish. “They tend to watch from the shore.”

Highly unlikely, Kat thought to herself. She'd been holding the Great Power for some time, as she was now calling it. She could pick out individual insects on the shoreline. Soon she could pick out flickers of movement from behind the trees.

The canoes made landfall and Kat jumped out with her backpack. Soon a collection of people began to form, wearing relatively modern clothing, darker – skinned than most of the Honduras city dwellers. They chattered among themselves in a language Kat didn't recognize. She'd been told it was a Chibchan dialect that was only spoken in this place. Fortunately her guides could translate. The villagers started to show her pots and carved masks. Kat politely waved them off but pulled out some candy from her backpack for the children, giving each of them a sweet. “Please tell them I'm not here for trade. I am a physician and I've come to give aid to the villagers.”


The lead guide translated for her to the man who appeared to be in charge. He gave a big grin, and motioned for Kat to follow. Kat did, expecting to be led to a room where she could conduct examinations.

Instead he brought her to a field with small mounds and markers. At least three of them were freshly dug no more than a few months at most. He chattered away in Chibchan. “The elder says that they have lost three of their youth this year.”

Three...out of perhaps 600 villagers. “I mourn your loss with you,”
she said to the elder, taking his hand. “I'd like to see their parents. And any other youth between 16 and 30. And anyone who needs to see a doctor.”


A few minutes later the guides hauled out her equipment into an empty hut. Her Wallet had lost even satellite signal before arriving, but she had a receiving dish with her that she could use to link up to the CDC database in Atlanta. She quickly organized bloodkits and her other equipment. She'd be able to transmit blood and DNA information straight from the site into the mainframe for analysis. It was her hope that they would be able to develop a genetic profile and test to determine whether someone was afflicted before they began to develop symptoms. She wondered who else was doing this sort of research. Probably both the CCD and China, but everyone had been very tight-lipped when it came to sharing medical research about the Sickness. Others, somewhere, had to know that it was connected to supernatural abilities, but yet by failing to share information they were letting people die who didn't need to.

Over the next few hours, Kat got typing done for the parents of the deceased, as well as all youths from 16 to 30 and the parents of two young men who had reported the same symptoms of the sickness. She also saw an ingrown toenail, pneumonia in an infant, two broken bones, and a gentleman who had a tumor growing in his pancreas. All were easily detected by a scan with the Great Power, and just as easily treated. At least she thought the cancer wouldn't return. She'd become quite proficient with both scanning for, and healing of, most minor incidences, as well as making use of natural medicines that would be beneficial without the healing. It made for less explanation. Aloe for instance was a good ointment that covered up the chill that some people tended to experience when she used the power to divine their illness. Sometimes however it couldn't be avoided, but in a remote area like this it was unlikely she'd get reported. Her biggest worry was inflaming a mob against her for witchcraft and that was unlikely.

And then there was that girl. She was about Kat's age, and had been watching her the entire afternoon. When Kat asked her to come and have herself evaluated, she just scrunched her face and shook her head with a smile. That was fine, she wouldn't compel anyone. But there was a … familiarity … that she couldn't place. All afternoon and evening the girl watched her.

Kat accepted an invitation to stay the evening, and was treated to dinner, song and dance. Some of the women invited her to take part in Miskitu Kuka Nani, called the “Dance of the Grandmothers.” Her guide explained that normally only elders could participate so it was an honor to be selected. She could honestly say she tried her hand at it. Later, as she laid her head down, her spirit was content.

The next morning as she prepared to leave, Kat checked to make sure the CDC database was done transmitting, and noticed she had an urgent message from her supervisor Rodger Kimpbell. “CALL ME NOW”
it said.

She checked to make sure the dish was aligned properly and connected the satellite link. Rodger came to the other side of the screen, looking frantic and buried behind a pile of paperwork. “Kat, where have you been? Did you fall off the edge of the world?”


“Not quite,”
she replied. “But I'm a little remote right now. What's the urgency?”


Rodger sighed. “You need to get back to Atlanta. The teams are getting recalled, everyone is being pulled out of the field. Every field resource on the Sickness and every research project is on hold. The whole department is getting reorganized. And it needs to happen, like yesterday.”


Kat blinked. Everyone was getting pulled? “What happened? A funding scandal or something? Top level resignation?”


The harried bureaucrat on the other end chuckled nervously. “Heh. I wish it was that simple. Haven't you seen the clog app-- no, of course you haven't. You're in Bumfuck Honduras. Kat, the Ascendancy from the CCD has announced that...the cause of the Sickness...is...Magical. Powers. The CCD has people who have Magical. Powers. Kat, we're behind the 8 ball here.”


Oh.....
so that happened while she was upriver. “I'm packing my canoe now, OK?”
She terminated the news feed.

Okay, then. So that cat was out of the bag. Five years she'd been hiding her ability, but now what? Kat hauled her cargo to the river as she considered her next move.

Katchina Makawee considered herself and her two older brothers privileged among her peers. Her father wasn't a gambler and he didn't drink. Those things alone put her family head and shoulders above most of the others on the Isabella Indian Reservation, especially in the harsh reality of 21st century postindustrial Michigan. On a winter's morning one could look across the flattened plain and see undisturbed snow like a pure, pressed blanket of white silk. No one was trying to get to work because no one had any work to get to.

Mount Pleasant was hardly any better off. The BIA took care of people on the reservation for the most part, well enough at least – kept them in food and water, gave them all the necessities for living, enough to skirt basic personal responsibilities in lieu of gambling and drinking – at least until the austerity cuts came and it didn't anymore. The casino did well enough afterward. Subsidized hopelessness, her father called it. Okimantu Makawee, ceremonial chief of the Saginaw Chippewa, preached personal responsibility tempered with compasison and education. He believed the Saginaw Chippewa were not done yet as a people. “There is an arrogance in ignorance, Katchina,” he told her. “And hopelessness is a sickness. But for every disease there is a cure.”

By the time Katchina reached high school and learned something of biology she would argue that last point. There were many diseases that had no known cure. But she understood what her father meant. He was a good man, gentle and confident. Slow to anger. Quick to encourage his children to show compassion. “There, but by the grace of God go I and you,” he would say when approached at the store or the gas station by a fallen away tribal member asking for money, who more often than not reeked of sour mash and cigarettes. He would never give away any money, but would always be sure to touch the person, and offer other aid as he could, a ride, the use of a mobile phone, or just a good word. "Whatever we give will be taken and multiplied," he would say. "Even if it's just a minute of time. And what people need most is hope. The feeling that they are still worth something."

Also, her father would take her out into the most remote parts of the reservation, too far away from civilization for her mother to tolerate. Far enough away where on a winter's day there would be only the sound of silence. Not even wind, or a creature stirring. “Do you hear that, Katchina?” he would say. “That is the sound of Gitche Manidoo, the great Spirit that is in everything. The great Spirit flows through mother Earth. It gives us life and the earth gives us substance. It connects all things together, from the sun and the stars down to the worms in the dirt. See, we are all connected. When one gets sick we all feel it, and when one recovers we all become brighter. We live and die as one.” This lesson stuck with her for some time.

When Katchina was 15 – and now calling herself Kat, since Katchina seemed a little pretentious to her – her school shut down, the local district having run out of funds. Kat's brothers had long since graduated and left for other studies, but her future was still uncertain. Her mother and father decided to complete the family's schooling at home. This actually turned out to be much more efficient, and at 16 Kat was accepted into dual undergraduate programs of education and biology at Michigan State University. When asked why she chose this undergraduate degree, she said with a straight face and matter-of-fact tone, “I intend to find a cure for hopelessness.”
That earned more than a few stares, and even the occasional guffaw. But why should Kat care whether anyone thought it was silly? These were her goals, not anyone else's. She didn't need permission.

Her studies progressed well, and she made friends at school, and even made waves on the basketball court. Interest from boys, not so much. If a young man wasn't respectful enough to at least introduce himself to her father before trying to take her out on a date, it just wasn't going to happen. And so she acquired a bit of a reputation for being prudish. It didn't bother her much. Being two years younger than the other girls, Kat wasn't really interested in getting pressured into dating or plied with alcohol or any of the heartbreaking drama. So it left her more time to advance her studies or be helpful to others.

Then she turned seventeen and everything fell apart.

* * *

It was Michigan State vs. University of Connecticut, and in the late second half Michigan State was up by 3. Kat was sitting on the bench awaiting the order to go back in. So far she'd scored 12 points this game, not a bad run.

“Kat, are you nervous?” said her friend and teammate, forward Michelle Harmond, who was sitting next to her.

Kat shook her head. Nervous, no. Uncomfortable, a little. She should have un-stitched the tag on her sports bra instead of cutting it off, the remainder of the tag was causing her back to itch right where she couldn't reach. It'd been annoying her the whole game. “Why should I be nervous?”


Michelle blinked. “Well, if we win, we're going to North Carolina and we're going to play Duke for a Final Four spot!”

“I know,”
she replied. She checked her laces to ensure they hadn't slipped. “Does that make you nervous?”


“Well, yeah,” Michelle replied. “We'll be like on national TV and people are going to see us. Like, what if we look stupid?”

“Can people see you now? It isn't really any different, right? And we've all done stupid things and we got over it when people saw us. Right?”


Michelle bit a fingernail in thought. “Huh. I never thought of it that way. Cool.”

Duke sunk a three-pointer. It was a tie game. The coach called a timeout and sent Kat and Michelle in, Kat to guard and Michelle to forward. “Get in there Spartans! Whip em Huskies good!”

Kat gave the thumb's up, and play resumed. Immediately she found herself between two maneuvering opponents and having to cover them both as they passed the ball around her. The back one took the shot – and it bounced off the backboard. Kat stretched out an arm over her opponent and tipped the rebound into her arms, and passed it down the court. The Huskies darted back down court to intercept.

Michelle pivoted and reached out to receive the pass – and an overzealous Husky fouled her hard, running head on into her, moving too fast to stop. She reeled and turned, catching herself on an ankle that went sideways. Kat heard something go snap as she watched her friend collapse.

She ran to her friend's side and reached for her hand, heart thumping. Michelle looked pale and her foot was swollen and purple. She was having trouble breathing from the shock. No, no no.
Just a glance she could piece together what was going on beneath the skin. The sudden pressure caused by the inward rolling had fractured her distal fibula and maybe torn a ligament too. It was six to twelve weeks in a cast, and she'd be struggling with swelling for years to come. Her college basketball career was over. Basketball had been her ticket to an education, and Michelle would have been the first to admit she hadn't the academics to get by without her athletic appeal. All because of some carelessness. The Huskie who had run into Michelle was sobbing, tears running down her face as she blurted out apologies. A sports medic reached Michelle's side and told Kat she needed to move. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could hope for.

At that moment Kat would give anything in the world to see her friend stand on her own, but there wasn't a thing she could hope to change. So she let go of Michelle's hand.

The sports medic felt Michelle's ankle. “Can you move it?” Surprisingly, Michelle found that she could.

“You're fine,” he said. “Let's get you up.”

What a relief. Maybe things weren't as hopeless as Kat had thought.

* * *

Durham, North Carolina. Everyone was talking about the 2041 Spartans and their UConn upset. If they got past Duke they were angling to take on Number 1 ranked Kentucky. There were two minutes left on the clock and Kat was having the game of her life. What a thrill to be alive and at the top of one's game! She was already at 26 points this game and counting. Her father had come with the team and was glowing with pride over on the sidelines.

The coach called a time-out. “Kat, if you can keep this up, you just keep on playing. You are on fire, girl. All we need to do is hold onto a narrow lead and not give up more than three points without getting two back.”

There was some back and forth. Duke scored twice unanswered. They were still up by one, though. With thirty seconds left, Kat stole the ball and took it down the court. She whipped her head back, tight brown braids trailing behind – she'd outraced the opponents, it was just her and the net. All she needed to do was take the shot and that coffin would be nailed.

And things started to look kind of weird. Suddenly the basket seemed far away, and her arms were like jelly. She couldn't focus. She stood with two feet planted on the court floor, the ball in two hands, wavering back and forth.

The shot clock ran out and the ball dropped from her numb hands. The Duke players ran back past her. There was cotton in her ears or something, why was there all this muffled cheering all a sudden? And then she was feeling the hardwood floor against her cheek.

Next thing she knew, she was being pulled to her feet by her father. He threw a jacket around her bare shoulders. “Did we win?”
she asked.

“Don't worry about that,” he said. He was already on his Wallet, making phone calls, having brought Kat back to the sidelines. She thought she picked out a whisper of something like “sickness” from the stands. The Sickness?
She reasoned that she must be ill, possibly with the Sickness that was afflicting so many youth without explanation and which seemed to have no treatment. She wasn't afraid, though. There wasn't anything that could be done by being frightened.

“...never see her again if I do that...” her father was saying over the phone. “All right. That sounds like the best option.” He led Kat out of the stadium by way of the locker rooms and to their car. “Lie down in the back, Katchina.” She obliged him.

“Where are we going?”
she asked.“Am I going to a hospital?”


Her father shook his head. “No, Katchina. I don't think a hospital can help. I'm taking you to a reservation." His thick forehead wrinkled and his jaw was clenched. He's afraid.
"There is a theory that the hospitals aren't doing us any good that's being seriously studied by a man around these parts. I won't let anything happen to you. Are you comfortable?”

Kat nodded. She had never seen her father frightened by anything before. And if he was frightened, should she be? She looked out the window at the passing trees. In short time she saw a sign that said “Cherokee, N.C. Home of the Oconaluftee” and saw a cluster of teepees. That was out of place. Teepees were used by the nomadic plains tribes and not agrarian cultures on the east coast. Kat thought everyone knew that.

The car pulled to a stop. Kat's father helped her get out. Her head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and her limbs were like jelly, not wanting to move where she wanted them to. They were next to a simple house with brown clapboard covering. A man came out to meet them, moving with the mild aid of a wooden staff. The skin of his face was parched with age but his eyes were sharp, and his bleach-white hair lay in a braid to his waist.

The man stopped and leaned on his staff, eyes regarding Kat. “So you have the Sickness, Katchina Makawee. Come inside. I am Noah Crow's Eye.”

Magic training center to open in South Dakota
<small>CNN Instant News Report</small>

GWENDOLYN PETERSEN, CNN ANCHOR: Good Evening, I'm Gwendolyn Petersen, it's 6 p.m. Eastern Time and this is CNN Instant News, America's Most Trusted newsmaking source that you can count on to move truth forward (trademark).

(camera closeup)
Are you ready to send your kids to magic school in South Dakota? CNN has just learned that a training center for these recently revealed so-called magical powers is set to open on the Cheyenne River Sioux Indian Reservation in central South Dakota. Yes, you heard that right. The Native Americans are opening up a magic school on their reservation. And apparently it's perfectly legal!

The Cheyenne River Sioux say that the center, tentatively called the Lakota Spiritual Development Institute, will be located in a remote region of the reservation far from any populated areas, and they say it will be used primarily to ensure treatment of people going through the sickness and ensure they don't become a danger to themselves -- or anyone else. But they admit that students will also develop magical powers there!

Council of Native Americans spokesman Jon Little Bird, no stranger to controversy, had this to say:

(Cut to clip)

JON LITTLE BIRD: "The indigenous peoples of this country have a duty, a responsibility and a right to treat our own children and help them learn how to use these powers in a safe and responsible manner in a way that honors and preserves the traditions of our peoples and our cultures."


(Cut back to newsroom)

GWENDOLYN: Now at this time details are very scarce so we can only speculate and make assumptions on what sort of impact this might have and what this will mean for you. So let's go to our panel. Joining us now from Washington we have former Vice President and Democratic Representative from Texas Anna Hernandez Luna; from Detroit Mr. Henry Corman, public coordinator for the Michigan Minutemen; and the mayor of Wasta, SD Mr. Peter Robertson.

Madam Vice President, since we know so little about the abilities of these powers, isn't it a little insane for our federal government to permit a school where people can learn how to blow things up with their mind and set things on fire? What do you say?

LUNA: Oh, absolutely Gwendolyn. We saw in Moscow with the University fire that we are literally playing with fire. And this just goes to show the disaster that will be is the legacy of the Dawson administration, he is literally playing with the lives of our nation with his racist and discriminatory politics. I mean seriously, let the Native Americans fend for themselves? But that's just the kind of thing we've come to expect from this administration.

GWENDOLYN: Mr. Corman, what say you? Native Americans fending for themselves and developing powers? Doesn't that seem like a threat? I wouldn't think the Minutemen would be happy one bit about this.

CORMAN: Well I wouldn't really phrase it that way, in fact I don't think President Dawson could take much credit for this if he wanted to, it seems like he hasn't done much here other than get out of the way, and if the former Vice President can stop hyperventilating this hysteria we can see this isn't the worst thing in the world here. They're taking some initiative and if the Indians --

GWENDOLYN -- Native Americans Mr. Corman.

CORMAN: --If they want this thing in their backyard they're welcome to it. And I tell you what, they want to build one in Michigan I won't argue as long as they're on our side, because it looks like the CCD has gotten the jump on us with this magic thing in a big way and if we don't do everything we can to make America great again they're going to roll over us.

LUNA: That's insanity. We don't know what these people are capable of --

CORMAN: Eh if one of them goes off the reservation and starts burning things down I reckon there's plenty of armed ranchers around able to put a 6.8 mm bullet on target.

LUNA: You're just like the gun lobby, wanting unregulated, unchecked power let loose on the American people --

GWENDOLYN: Ok you two...

CORMAN: --Well I guess if it's up to you they'll all go on a registration, like the CCD is doing and probably going to strip away their civil liberties. Thankfully not everyone is in the pocket of the CCD like you --

LUNA --People dead in the streets and you and Dawson will have blood on your hands!

CORMAN: --You and Bullock took money from the CCD, you traitors --

GWENDOLYN: Cut their mikes. (Pause - muted shouting) Mr. Robertson, mayor of Wasta, now that you will have this institute basically in your backyard since your town of 82 --

ROBERTSON: Eighty-one. Old man Daniels passed away last night, bless his weak heart valves.

GWENDOLYN: I'm sure he'll be missed. Since this town of eighty-one people sits right on the border of this reservation, how do you feel about Native Americans learning to use magic powers in your backyard?

ROBERTSON: You know, this whole magic thing seems really fishy. Like, I've never seen anyone with magic powers. Where's the evidence that this isn't some sort of conspiracy? Our government faked the moon landing I mean what's to say this whole thing isn't just being faked too? The Russians and the Muslims were getting along real well until recently and that seems kind of fishy that now they have a problem all of a sudden they are saying magic is real. I want to see one shred of evidence before I'll believe anyone who says some magical sky fairy dust is real.

GWENDOLYN: .... Thank you.

(Camera angle changes to close-up)

Is the next civil rights movement frontier the Trans-Powered? Up next, we have found a guest who claims that while he does not manifest magic powers, he identifies as a person with magical abilities and needs to be accommodated. You don't want to miss this story, coming up after the break, only here on CNN Instant News.

Copyright 2046, Warner Industries Group, a division of BFCG, Intl.

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<small>(Comments are anonymous unless you state your character's name in the timestamp))

Comment: "NAME" (TIME TIMEZONE) ))</small>


Edited by Jon Little Bird, Aug 13 2016, 12:50 AM.
</small>

Yeah. So doing time at Butyrka was fucking like getting punched in the dick. Especially when you fucking got punched in the dick. And with the summer months coming again things weren't looking like they were going to get any better.

First he got the galloping shits. Then that needle he scored was full of dope that wasn't even dope. His reaction to the cell mate who ripped him off, especially after what he paid for it, went over so poorly the guards had to put him in solitary after that. And he didn't even want to get started on that Pi'zda caseworker assigned to his defense. She wouldn't do a fucking thing about getting him out on good behavior. Said he needed rehab. Fuck that.

Yeah, it was lonely, but so what. Food was probably half rat turds and half jailhouse chef splooge, too. The worst part was being stone cold sober. He tried making toilet wine but kept forgetting to shit somewhere else. There was no energy in life. The power was all gone and he couldn't touch it. Or even see it. That was the real loneliness. Life was so damn dull and drab it made him want to stick himself on the end of a bedsheet rope. If he had a little more courage he'd do it.

Even watching Mudak decorate a room with his brains wouldn't have been worth this shit. And he didn't even get to see that, cause of that stupid fuck fighting back against the pigs. He'd wished he had the foresight to keester some Blue Candy. If he'd just be able to touch the power he could probably remember how to make it. The pattern was there. One, two, shit in the loo...Yeah...

Midday came and went. He sat on the thin foam mattress laid across his concrete slab bed and watched the sunlight move across the floor of his three meter wide cell.

A guard came by. "Inmate 345432. Get up, you're coming with me."

Yuri perked up. "That's what your mom said to me last night."
He stepped back in expectation of a swing from the dude's nightstick, but the guard just gave a halfhearted sneer. Someone's got the case of the Fridays. He stuck out his hands so he could be shackled in order to make the trip. He was saving a wicked fart to let out when they did his leg irons, but the guard never put them on. Fucker was slacking.

The guard took him down to the first floor where there were some offices and shit. He put Yuri in a concrete room with no windows but a camera in the corner and a second door. There was a concrete table and bench. No metal furniture and nothing that can be moved. He waited.

The other door opened, and that fucking Pizda came out. She even had her hair back in one of those nanny buns and black framed glasses that screamed bitch. "I fired you already,
" he sneered at her. Get me a lawyer that knows her twat from her asshole. I'll show you how to tell the difference."
At least that fart wasn't going to go to total waste.

The bitch gave no hint she was bothered. "Yes, I know. And you represented yourself. That's why you got four years for a possession charge. The judge decided you were not competent to represent yourself and that it would be a miscarriage of justice to allow it to continue." She looked down at her notes. "I'm going to file to get you another trial. It seems some of your...behavior at your first trial was believed to have tainted the jury. But you were going through withdrawal symptoms. If the judge won't retry the case I'll ask for a plea down to a lesser charge. I can probably get you down to a two year sentence."

Two years? "Why the fuck two years? For trying to run a fucking bakery? I didn't do nothing wrong."


The bitch wrote on her notepad. "I understand. It's complicated because CCD law enforcement officers were killed during the raid, and it pissed them off that they came up with no drugs, only sugar."

Yuri smacked his fist down on the concrete table. Ow. "That wasn't my fucking fault! Tell them that. I didn't do that, that Mudak did all of that! I don't know what his fucking problem was!"


She took a step back. He knew she was a fraidy fuck. "Look, the reality is you're the only person that the state has who is still alive to point to to show that justice is being served, since they already killed Vladimir in the raid. There are family members who wanted you strung up as well. They were out for blood. Look, I'll keep working on it. Is there anyone you want me to send a message to on the outside?"

Yuri stood up and made the fig with both hands. "Yeah. Tell Date a Russian Inmate this is what I think of their girls. Put a personal in the local rag for me instead. Partying SWM nonsmoker likes to spend time in contemplation and DTF. And don't fuck my case up or I'll fire you again."


Pizda was on her way out already but fuck her. The guard came in. "All right, I'm taking you home," he said." Don't get behind me."

"That's not what your sister told me last night."
That one earned him a stiff jab in the gut. Guess it wasn't quite Friday yet. As Yuri struggled to suck his breath back in he couldn't help but grin. You got your kicks out of what you could when you were doing time.


Edited by Yuri Obrechennyy, Aug 12 2016, 10:43 PM.