"My name is Mara. My name is Mara."
A voice tilted thick with foreign accent muttered to the darkness of her room. The light from the hallway leaked around the edges of the door, framing a ghostly rectangle. "My name is Mara."


Something stirred in the shadows, and Mara, or Daiyu as they told her, pat the narrow strip of mattress alongside her hip. A small bounce and she curled up on her side to make room. The creature was soft as fur and warm as a sun kissed rock. She draped an arm across it and let her head relax on her pillow.

Sleep took her into the land of dreams, carried there by her faithful pet.

----

A nurse woke her in the morning. She had to be shook awake, like always. For months her doctor thought her deep sleep was the result of some side effect, but changing drugs and brain scans found no such evidence. Daiyu simply slept hard.

"Your medication this morning miss Daiyu." She left a cup next to a plastic water bottle. Everything was plastic in this place. Nothing dangerous. Nothing she could harm herself with.

"My name is Mara."
She told the nurse as she deposited the tablet on her tongue.

"I'll see you later, Daiyu. Walks this morning. And your doctor appointment is after." The nurse left.

Daiyu-Mara slipped from bed, toes curling on the cold floor, to retrieve a sweatshirt and dress herself. She rubbed her eyes as she did.

After his distraction in Moscow Sage was feeling a lot out of the touch with reality. And it did not help with Brian standing over him. Grim should not be allowed in the den, much less his apartment. But that's where Sasha had come in.

Sasha was stunning and a smart hacker too. Her purple eyes matched the purple tips of her blond hair. She had delicate tattoos along her neck and arms. She wore them like jewelry. Her skin was pale and soft and she was always warm to the touch never cold - not even in the heart of the winter.

Sasha was one of few people who had a key to his apartment. Who Sage let into his life without asking his permission. Sasha wasn't his girlfriend, or companion, or anything of that sort. They'd had sex on many occasions but Sasha was not a friend with benefits either. It was hard to explain their relationship - mostly because Sage didn't understand the need to be anything but what they were.

But as he looked up at his mentor - former mentor he chided himself, he frowned. He didn't like that Sasha had let him in the building much less inside his home. Sage pulled his legs up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them tightly and rocked back and forth, "Why are you here?"


***

Brian looked down at his friend, the boy he'd helped through worse than this and he was the one who'd hurt him this time. It was purely accidental. He'd not asked enough questions when a mutual friend, when Simon asked him to occupy Sage for a few hours. He hadn't asked him why? He hadn't cared. If he'd only thought a little harder that someone might want to hurt Sage.

And now the boy sat rocking back and forth on the verge of a break down. Brian wondered when the last time he plugged in was. Sometimes it helped, others it made matters worse. But he kept asking Brian the same question and then he'd drift off into his head again. Making answering pointless.

He couldn't even get into the system to talk to Sage that way. He couldn't even get into the Den without Sasha's help. She knew he was a mess, she didn't even touch him, and her touch usually helped bring Sage back to reality.

But he could borrow Sasha's. When he asked she passed her wallet to him and he typed a message to Sage inside his head.

  3ff3rv3sc3nt: I didn't betray you. I didn't know r3x was going to try to hit your server. I swear I didn't know. He asked me to keep you busy for a few hours. I didn't ask questions. I thought he was a friend. I'm sorry.   

Name: Daiyu Sòng

Age: 18

Birthplace: China

Location: Moscow

Goddess: Melinoë

Talent: Dreamwalker, unsparked channeler



-----

Age 3:

Daiyu thrashed in bed. Her skeletal arms waving and voice screeching terror in the darkness. Her mom scooped her into loving arms, bouncing and talking to little Daiyu, trying to break her from the nightmare.

Age 4:

Daiyu lay in bed listening to the heavy sounds of her mom and dad breathing in their sleep. When she was certain of their comatose state, she pulled the flashlight out from under her pillow, slipped her legs out and quietly padded across the bedroom floor. When she reached the closet, she winced at the squeak of the rails moving in the tracks. Her parents didn't wake as she snuck into the closet, clothes tickling the top of her head above. She flicked on the flashlight and pointed it to the corner.

"It's okay," she whispered to the shadowy shape huddled by the shoe rack. "You can come out now and play."

Age 5:

Daiyu's lips twisted in boredom as she fingered at the face of her dolly in the car. Her mom was worried, but Daiyu promised that her shadowy friends were harmless. They were just shy. When they got to the doctor's office, she was suppose to color pictures. But instead, she drew one of her many friends. They were black as sheep, small like a cat, and hunched like a grandma. They were always skittering around the edge of the bed or lurking in the closet. More than once, Daiyu found one sitting on her parents chest as they slept. When it happened, Daiyu had screamed, begging them not to hurt her them. Her friends didn't. But after that, mom and dad made her go to this doctor once a week to talk about them.

Age 6:

Daiyu sat at the breakfast table. Her parents served rice, egg and salmon like always. Alongside her plate was a cup of juice and a little white tablet that dissolved on her tongue that made her sleepy.

-----

After she started to take the medication, her pets left her alone. Daiyu was lonely at night, and after the birth of her younger siblings, she moved to stay in her own cot in her own big girl room across from her parents.

Once the nightmares eased, her childhood transformed into a more normal routine - except for the tablet everyday at breakfast.

Puberty changed all that. By 13, the dreams returned. But Daiyu did not cry out in the night anymore. She eagerly looked forward to bedtime, and was renown by her family for being so fond of sleeping.

She had found a new playground in her dreams. One where she could be anything. Do anything. Go anywhere.

Then she found her friends again. They snuck into bed with her, and she would find one sitting on her chest, nuzzling and purring like a charcoal black cat. They showed her the way through the dream land. They found her black cyclones to play in. And Daiyu was happy.

By sixteen she published her first book. It was a horror tale that astonished her parents for its dreadful imagery and complex plot. A best seller, she was contracted to write two more within the year.

By seventeen, Mara Sòng, as was her penname, was a famous author in the horror genre.

Six months later, she was on her third book tour, signing in Moscow, when she had a psychotic episode. She was sleeping more than ever, but somehow chronically deprived. She had lost weight. She wouldn't eat. She forgot about signings. All she wanted to do was sleep.

And dream.

And play with nightmares.

At age 17 she tried to commit suicide.

"No!" She kicked and bit at the hands grasping at her. Restraints bit into her wrists, arms bloodied by the trails of razor blades.

"Daiyu, you need to stay calm!"

"My name is Mara. My name is Mara!" She roared, not understanding why they called her Daiyu.

Needles poked into her veins and she screamed, teeth gnashing and head banging. Her raven black hair whipping like shadowy pine needles. A sedative was given, and warmth chased her eyes heavy.

Just before she dozed off, she saw her pet friend, the nightmare, sitting in the corner of the ER. He seemed sad.

"My name is Mara." She said just before passing out.

The squad moved like wraiths in the woods of their new mountain home. Their only light was that of the stars, and the thin silver sliver of the moon. Pine trees hugged each other close, providing ample space for hostiles to hide. In this new world, where men could kill with just a thought and a glance, the only way to survive on the battlefield was to be invisible. Not that that had ever been a problem for SUBGRU.

It'd taken months and multiple surgeries to heal after that fog monster chose to throw Andrew through a window. Plate glass was hard, and humans were squishy. Half the bones in Andrew's legs were replaced with titanium rods, and if it weren't for the ultrasonic therapy he'd have lost all his muscle mass to boot. The crunch of the soil under his boots, and the weight of a weapon in his hands felt good. He was back, doing what he was made to do.

This was a training mission. Andrew wasn't the only psychokinetic that JSOC had picked up. They were popping up all across the military, and regardless of their previous rating or MOS they were all sent to the same place. Camp Hoover was a top secret military installation located in eastern Idaho's Salmon-Challis national forest. The base wasn't so deep into the mountains as to be inaccessible, but it was out-of-the-way enough that only a few hunters and hikers had come across it.

Many historians would point to the moment when a television personality wiped hundreds of Jihadis off the face of the Earth as the moment when war changed forever. Andrew knew different. The moment war changed was when he got locked in that box. The first act of that change was the assassination of several members of the Custody's Task Force Vega. With those stolen uniforms, six men kicked off a rebellion that killed millions and drained billions of dollars from the Custody's coffers. It's a shame that that al-Hasan asshole isn't still around,
Koehler thought, He could've done a lot more.


The war game was simple. Eight squads were dropped in various places around a ten mile squared grid. Each had one psychokinetic member, and the last squad with their PK alive would be the victors. Andrew had learned quickly that holding his power at the ready would only serve as a beacon to draw in other PK's. Unfortunately for the final opposing squad, their PK hadn't gotten the message.

"Contact, five o'clock. Three hundred meters."
Koehler whispered the message, and the squad redirected. Normally, this range would be ideal for engagement with small arms, but the trees and the simulated munitions didn't lend themselves well to combat at too far a distance.

So, they stalked. Koehler assumed the other squad were relying on their PK's enhanced senses to pick out movement before any enemies could get too close. Unfortunately for them, he was wearing his helmet. The most sensitive ears in the world are useless when they're listening through a speaker. The eyes of an eagle can still only see the resolution of the screen they're watching.

The other PK was careful, and quiet. If it weren't for his power, Koehler never would have spotted him. Things being as they were, Koehler raised his rifle and took a shot. The luminescent chalk round popped open on contact, giving Koehler's target a nice bright hit marker. Psychokinesis was useful, but it didn't stop bullets. The fucker thought he was invincible because he could blow shit up with his mind.

It only took a second for the message to come in from Hoover Actual. "Congratulations, Koehler. You're fit for full duty. Rest up, son. I'm putting you on a plane for Africa tomorrow."

Edited by Andrew Koehler, Aug 14 2016, 01:13 PM.

Continued from Paperwork

Jon stepped out from the Albuquerque Sunport and greeted the familiar sunny, tan New Mexico landscape. The warm air bore the pleasant reassuring smell of wet creosote that typically heralded the coming of an afternoon thunderstorm. Warm, but not too warm. April could be unpredictable but today was cooperative. This was a good thing because Jon had dressed to hold an audience upon touchdown in case his luggage had gotten misplaced. A turquoise and silver bolo accented the stiff white collar of the silk shirt, turquoise and silver threads accenting his almost black suit jacket and pants among vertical lines. Silver-tooled black boots and a black felt hat with stiff brim and a studded hatband. It was important to present himself as a native son who made good, well enough to overdress with confidence, but none of that outfit would have done for him in triple-digit heat.

Traditionally the Gathering of Nations, held the fourth weekend of April, met in Albuquerque proper, but the official representatives of the Council of Native Americans met separately on tribal land for a longer duration of time, choosing one of the nearby Pueblos for the conference. Isleta Pueblo just a few miles south of the airport graciously accepted the request to play host to what Jon could only term a pre-Gathering powwow. The taxicab ride was thankfully short, less than ten minutes. Albuquerque had become even more crowded than when Jon had attended school here. The south valley of Albuquerque had grown right up to the edge of the reservation, where suddenly development gave way to yellowed grass and mesquite brush. During the summer months the desert greenery would come to life, and closer to the Rio Grande there was always lush trees and farmland, but after a dry winter the landscape was in a dusty stasis.
The taxicab pulled up to the multistory conference center and casino. Jon checked his Wallet and saw he still had an hour before the scheduled time to start. He checked in at the concierge and had his luggage sent up to the room minus one small package which he kept on himself, a wrapped bundle the size of his palm. Jon tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.

Other Council delegates were already present in the lobby. Jon made small talk with Ysadora Chino, daughter of the Mescalero Apache president. They’d sort of briefly dated in high school but nothing serious had ever developed, Jon suspected mostly because her father had disliked Jon’s foster parents. It was just as well, from the sound of it she had done nothing over the recent years but develop a deep sense of entitlement and self-importance.

There were four ballrooms on the main floor. Jon made his way to the last one, which had a sign that simply said “Reserved for private use.” Once inside, he saw a podium and several tables set upon a platform, wired with microphones, and facing several rows of chairs. There wouldn’t be room for all of the tribal representatives, but it was already known that some wouldn’t make it. Neither Noah Crow’s Eye nor Bear-Who-Runs-on-Ice would be present. As a matter of fact none of the other walkers of the Spirit World would be in attendance. That was acceptable; Jon could see to them and some of them already had some knowledge of the events to take place.

Jon took a seat at one of the tables upon the platform. He reached out for the power of the Great Spirit. As it filled him, he cast a net around the room to prevent anyone from listening in. He looped off the flow so that it would maintain itself. Jon wondered how long a weave tied off like that would sustain itself. He’d have to experiment sometime. A cursory probe with fingers of the essence of Spirit did not yield any bugs or recording devices. Satisfied, Jon sat back in his chair, but he did not release the power.

The room filled up within the next few moments, and when the appointed time came the chairman of the Council, Red Kickinghorn of the Pawnee, approached the podium gave it a sharp rap with his gavel. “Take your seats ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned. “I call before the Council our legal advocate Jon Little Bird of the Mescalero Apache tribe, who has called this emergency conference to make a report of recent events.”

Jon leaned towards the microphone at his table. “Honorable chairman, I request before I begin that we invoke article 6 of the Council Charter.”


Chairman Kickinghorn nodded to Jon. “Are there any objections to invoking article 6?” he called out. With no responses, he continued. “Therefore article 6, the pledge to internal secrecy, is invoked. Let anyone not known to be a delegate be expunged from the Chamber, the chamber doors sealed, and all recording devices strictly prohibited. Violation of the absolute secrecy of any proceedings while the chamber is sealed beyond what is later determined as permitted to share will be treated as a treasonous offense and will result in expulsion of the delegate and his tribe from the Council of Native Americans.”

That would have to do for now, though the old saying “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead” came to mind. Jon stood and made his way to the podium.

“Brothers and sisters,”
he began. “There have been longstanding traditions of story, dance and lore among our peoples. Chief among these is the concept of the medicine man as a spiritual guide, an honored sage who possesses the medicines of the Gods and is in tune with the Great Spirit, called Wakan Tanka by the Sioux, that flows through all things, dwells in all things and gives life to all things.

"We have, at least as a tradition, believed in the power of nature and the ability of our own spirits to tap into this force. These beliefs and stories came from somewhere, and even in recent memory tribes of the native peoples of this land believed that a medicine man could alter the physical world, a belief that had disastrous results during Pontiac’s Rebellion and at Tipeecanoe. The braves were not, in fact, bulletproof. But studies conducted by pre-Columbian scholars show these beliefs appear to come from a sort of collective consciousness of the time before memory that appears in our myths of gods who walked among men.

“These stories may very well not have been made up. In recent years, no few of our youth have come under the affliction of the sickness, seemingly at random. Some recovered with no complications, and some died without apparent cause. At the same time I have witnessed in Moscow and elsewhere, as numerous others have, of the emergence of people with supernatural abilities. Indeed, the ability to tap into this power is awakening in individuals around the world and the Sickness is a manifestation of that power coming to life.”


The chamber erupted in chatter. Jon banged the gavel. “I will take questions one at a time.”
He gestured to a raised hand in the front row.

The man stood. “Are you saying that magic is real, then? How is this to be believed?”

Jon nodded to him. “I am confirming that the reports from the US and CCD governments are true and accurate, though I would not term it to be ‘magic’ as magic implies the miraculous, without explanation. This power appears to follow certain metaphysical laws and its nature appears consistent with Wakan Tanka, the Great Mystery or the Great Spirit. I can also confirm that there are efforts underway to better understand this in working with our sons and daughters that have manifested the symptoms. Once they are able to learn sufficient control they are no longer any danger to themselves or others.”
Unless one was mentally unstable, of course. Best not to bring that up.

Someone else did instead: “What about those who want to use this power for criminal actions?”

Jon shrugged. “Policies will have to be developed for certain,”
he said. “I’m not at liberty to speculate. It very well may be that people with these powers will be the most effective policemen. If we provide these individuals with resources to run Spiritual Development centers, they may be able to train themselves into Spirit Warriors for tribal protection.”


That earned another question, this time from Chairman Kickinghorn. “You mean to train them in use of force? Like an army? We would be prohibited from doing that by treaty and forced to rely on federal policing through the Bureau of Indian Affairs. That would devastate us, we would be at the mercy of the federal bureaucracy. If they did not just roll over us. What if the federal government forces registration -- ”

Jon raised a finger to stop the shotgun blast of questions-turned-fearmongering. “Not so fast. See, our peoples have long been at the mercy of forces who have not hesitated to use the government against us. And while it is good to cooperate with the US efforts on this issue, we should also insulate ourselves from their missteps. On the legal side this was anticipated.


“The Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act was recently signed into law as a result of a year of lobbying efforts. While this was written with the Sickness in mind, it accomplishes several things. It prevents registration of Native Americans, it allows us to freely treat our own members on our own reservations…and it allows us to operate our own treatment facilities on reservation land free from government interference which may be utilized by tribal and nontribal members at our discretion. And in the case of the Sickness, the way to treat it is to teach control. Training.”


That set off more murmurs, and rightly so. It was a bulletproof piece of legislation that gave the tribes tremendous power. Jon was so fortunate to have gotten it through before the Ascendancy’s announcement, else it may have tipped his hand what he was going to accomplish. But they now had legal authority – insulting to say that sovereign peoples needed authority, but nevertheless – to gather people who could use this power and train them free from interference. He grinned despite himself. It was okay to gloat every now and then when you did something clever. Spirit Warrior -- it had a good ring to it.

But finally, the question that Jon didn’t want to answer asked: “Why can we believe what you’re saying is true?”

Jon sighed. Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead, right?
How many people were in the room? Two hundred? “Because I am one of these people. I can wield the power of the Great Spirit.”


His heightened senses caught a sudden movement in the back of the room. Someone was reaching for a gun.

Sage woke to memories of girls he'd enjoyed, the dead blue-eyed girl was the one he'd woken up to and forced himself to sit up and shake off the sorrow that poured through his veins. Sage never dealt with death well. He'd seen enough of it in his own life, as well as in those he'd followed. It was sad really.

Sage picked up a slice of pizza from the night before from the box still on the table and sat and found Aurora's brother's breadcrumb program and followed it to his last few days. He was staying in some sleazy motel now that his warehouse blew up. There had been no cameras in the warehouse but they were outside. He watched as the van had pulled up a few blocks down and a few people entered from several locations and then the house came crashing down. It was a spectacle - almost magic. Almost. Though the fire it had cause - now that had been magic. Sage just didn't know who had done it.

Aurora's little brother, granted only by a few minutes was born an entirely day later, was often found with a green-eyed girl with a sword. He'd found her intriquing and was following her around now too, and back tracking many things. She was interesting and had many secrets. Secrets Sage wanted to know. He had to know.

Sage pulled up the feed outside of the motel and watched a few days of scans and found a strange man - a ragtag looking man using a key to walk into the room Nox kept for himself. Had he checked out? Sage hacked into the computer system and found it still under his name. Weird...

Sage had to know. He broke through rather meager security of the wi-fi network on the television and flipped the screen on. A rendering of an abstract face appeared on the screen and asked, "Who are you? and why are you in Nox's room?

It was only a few moments longer before Sage had a view of the man in the room and could hear what he was saying. The camera wasn't exactly well placed but it didn't really matter and the mic sucked but it was all he had at the moment. All of Nox's toys were defunct now and his laptop was crispy, everything he owned fit in one bag.

Such a pathetic life.

Edited by Sage, Aug 11 2016, 03:28 PM.

**sent directly to Jacques' personal communication device (wallet, whatever he uses) via a specially encrypted program Sage installed and without deep technical knowledge will be near impossible to uninstall**

What help do you need precisely? My skill set, Our skill set is limited to what we can reach electronically. I can offer one bit of information already, your cyber security nearly everywhere in the country is shit. Any ideas of how the collective can help you on your way to a better Africa?

-- Phaser

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Code: Digital Signature</dt>
<dd> </dd>
</dl>

Code:

01010000011010000011010000110101001100110111001000100000
00101101001000000011000100110011001101000110010000110011
01110010001000000011000001100110001000000111010001101000
00110011001000000110001000110000011100100011100100100001

[[Continued from Waves in the crowd]]

By the time the crowd finally thinned out to ordinary traffic, the anchor Elias offered was no longer necessary. The peripheral distractions peeled off in layers until they receded to what Asha considered normal interference. She didn't let him go, though, less from need and more from want. The connection was pleasant.

They meandered a route, which Asha guided back on course every now and then with a faint tug or nudge. The quiet was comfortable. The natural ebb and flow of his emotions was like floating in a calm sea. She was happy to drift.

"I work in the bookshop sometimes, though it's purely cash in hand until I can get my papers sorted out. All my ID was in the car,"
she said, fumbling about for her keys. "It's going to take forever to save up for a new one. I miss the road."
Which was not to say she had not found a way to be content with her circumstances. She adored travelling; missed haring down a highway with the windows down and the music loud. But Moscow was not such a bad city to find oneself stranded in.

She found the keys. Paused. Glanced up at him. Her smile was open, a window to her own emotions. Shyness tinged it now. Exhaustion was nipping at her toes, and she longed to curl up and sleep until her body recovered. It warred with the part of her that was reluctant to let Elias go. He would drift out of her life again without much resistance, she imagined. And she did have his number. But she didn't want to relinquish the new found connection so soon; the peaceful company of someone who knew what she was, and didn't seem to care. Not something she'd ever thought she'd find. "You coming in?"

**Posted across several popular boards around the world**

A compilation of Trace's speech stating he could use magic followed by a snippet of the more recent speech made by the Ascendancy with a big number 2 flashing in read over it. Date and Time Stamps run in the bottom right hand corner in both snippets

Other random snippets of magic use is splice between frames for dramatic effect.  Some footage has never been seen before -  taken from street cams around the world - most notable cities are Moscow and New York.  People in the videos are unidentifiable by any known software at the time due to alteration of the videos.

-- Ph453r

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Code: Digital Signature</dt>
<dd> </dd>
</dl>

Code:

01010000011010000011010000110101001100110111001000100000
00101101001000000011000100110011001101000110010000110011
01110010001000000011000001100110001000000111010001101000
00110011001000000110001000110000011100100011100100100001

The Law Office of John Little Bird, Esquire was hardly a bastion of wealth or prestige on display. He hardly ever met clients here so there wasn't any point. And he certainly didn't choose the location for the view. The corner office and attached storeroom, conference room and assistant offices sat on the seventh floor of a relatively nondescript twelve-story building in the middle of New Haven. The view wasn't terribly impressive. If he looked out to the north he could see the gray stone buildings of Yale, aging halls of learning creaking with internal structural and academic decay while attempting to uphold a veneer of Old World prestige. To the east, the historic Omni hotel and its overpriced 19th floor pub of a restaurant. Just to the south stuck out the Tootsie Roll building, also known as the Knights of Columbus headquarters, a sturdy square building supported by round granite pillars in its four corners that very much resembled massive, 250-foot tall Tootsie rolls. One couldn't even see the ocean from here.

The location wasn't terribly convenient, either. Jon had leased the building when he was on a tight budget and at the time had slept in his office half the time just to avoid the commute home. It wasn't the safest neighborhood, either. The train station, just a couple of blocks north, tended to attract large numbers of the city's persistently homeless population, and they along with new visitors were the first choice of prey for the violent mugger. At night things could get dangerous for the lonely traveler.

No, if Jon were to swear by his ancestors truthfully why he hadn't moved, it because he didn't want to deal with the paperwork involved in leasing a new location. Paperwork was nothing but constant drudgery that had to be patiently endured from time to time. It was one thing to draft a brilliant motion or piece of legislation; that took skill, finesse and when completed stood as a work of art that could endure the test of time, like a marble statue or a mighty conifer. That sort of paperwork was a challenge. But then there was the more mundane paperwork, like returning correspondences, following up on little technical details that should have been done correctly the first time or answering media requests. Even with Caroline at hand to pick up the bulk of it, there was still plenty to waste away his hours. Jon would do anything to avoid dealing with that kind of paperwork.

Which was why Jon was scanning the Vulpesnet headlines on his Wallet with his legs propped up on his black oak desk instead of attending to the stack of thank-you cards by his feet. Jon's grandfather had never approved of electronics and so he had never caught the habit of spending all day staring at a screen, so he knew he really wasn't going to find out anything new going on in the world by wasting time on his Wallet. But just five more minutes. Five more minutes and then he'd get to finishing up those cards. They were addressed to the key congressmen who were behind the recent passage of the Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act, which had passed largely among party lines just two days ago and had been signed into law by President Dawson. Jon had taken a gamble on the bill by suggesting to the main sponsor, a Republican from Oklahoma, that pairing up this bill with a farm subsidy that he wanted for his voters would lessen the public's outward distaste for the pork spending. It was good for Jon as well. The best bait to reel in a congressman was pork largess from the public, as idealistically distasteful as it may be. It made little difference, for what was done was done. Natives with the Sickness could now be taken care of by their own tribes and would be protected from any sort of registration or oversight from the federal government. They would be unmolested – and they could begin to develop methods of teaching control over their power. No native son or daughter would be taken from their tribe and experimented on, imprisoned or – he thought of the Atharim and Noah's warnings – or worse.

At that, Jon reflexively reached out and grabbed hold of the power of the Great Spirit. It flowed into him like a torrent. It seemed that Jon had more than recovered from the incident in the Moscow subway; indeed, he could hold more than ever before. If he was not done growing in strength, what was the upper limit for someone?

Jon regarded the stack of thank-you cards. His senses now sharpened, Jon could feel the crisp edge of each envelope with his eye. He sent out a tendril of invisible Air, and lifted up the pen, then cradled the card with another flow. A minuscule thread of Air went into the pen and he fashioned a conduit, from which he drew out ink and wrote out his autograph. The first one came out a little lopsided so he set it aside, but with a little practice he found he could sign his name and even write a little message with greater speed than doing it by hand. His skill and dexterity was improving as well. The flows felt less...slippery...and even though simple Air was one of the easiest weaves to form this still took more attention to detail and fine manipulation than he would have had in the past. After a moment he was confident enough to resume looking at Vulpesnet. Nick Trano was recovered from his injury, it had seemed, and was in South Dakota, which was as good a place as any to build a bunker and prepare for the end of the world. Jon frowned at the report. Trano was attempting to out Nikolai Brandon as a power wielder. A bold way to do it, but by claiming in public to be connected to the power of the Great Spirit himself? Sometimes you had to step out from behind the boulder to shoot your arrow at the bear, but it was best to wait until his back was turned first. Still, it was too soon. He wasn't ready yet.

Jon stopped the flow of ink and released the power. He grabbed a piece of stationery from his desk and penned a quick note to Nick Trano. “My best wishes on your continued recovery and good health. Glad to see you have returned to American soil in one piece and without too many new holes. With warmest regards, Jon Little Bird.”
He paused a moment before adding “P.S. Save some of this for me.”


Jon nodded at the paper, blew on it to ensure it was dry, and collected the stack of completed cards. He left his office and turned to the left, where in the side office Caroline was busy apparently wrapping up a face-to-face conversation with what sounded like one of the delegates to the Council of Native Americans. The sturdy woman with skin one shade lighter than obsidian and bright eyes gave a laugh and ended the conversation before turning to Jon. “Are you done with those? Bring them here and I'll mail them out.” She shook her head. “Don't know why you still bother with that snail mail. I hadn't ever sent a letter till you hired me here. Didn't need to. What a slow way to talk to people.”


Jon shrugged. “People remember it.”
He put them on the desk, and pointed to the letter to Nick Trano. “This one needs to go to Nick Trano, and would you please pick out a fine, but not too fine, bottle of scotch whiskey to send as a gift.”


Caroline nodded. “You got it. The good client gift. Not the regular client gift, and not the gift that says it's a bribe.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, I'll find something for you. But if you ask me, you need a woman in your life.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And no that's not an offer and I mean that as one professional to another. Period.”


Jon chuckled. The only reason Caroline was not a high powered lawyer herself was that she chose not to complete her courses at Yale after her second child was born with Down syndrome. She was always at the top of her game – and particularly careful to skirt the very edges of political correctness in her own humorous way. “Thank you Caroline, I'll take that under advisement.”


She turned back to her screen as Jon turned to leave. “Wow. Look at this. Have you seen this scroll report out of Moscow? The Ascendancy himself just held a press conference.”


Jon shook his head and turned back to her. “No, I hadn't. What is it about?”


Caroline frowned. “I swear that man has just gone off the deep end. Apparently he is admitting that magic is real, your friend Mr. Trano was right, and he a wizard too.”


Jon stopped cold. The memory of the things he'd seen while prowling the paperwork in the Spirit World reflection of the Oval Office came back like a pin pricking a bubble. He blinked, twice. The world had changed, and a new age was upon them.

“Caroline, cancel all of my appointments and send out an immediate message to the councilors of the Council of Native Americans. I will hold a private teleconference...”
No, that was unsecure … “Scratch that. Book me a flight to Albuquerque.”
The Gathering of Nations would be there later this month, many of the tribes would hopefully have representatives there. “Tell them I will address them about this matter in private. Before the Gathering begins. Please get me a draft letter immediately.”


It was too, too soon. But what had been accomplished would have to be enough, for there was no going back now. The world wouldn't wait for Jon's plans to be completed. At least he wouldn't have to deal with any more paperwork for the moment.

Continued in Powwow


Edited by Jon Little Bird, Aug 11 2016, 10:08 PM.