Firene: Lapis Exilis

[Sometime in the future]

"'Sa dingin, right? Gotcher basic kitchen sinker with a hiho moddy, but the crypto on the thing's a right bugger. Good luck tapping it if you don't know the abra. Where'd you say it came from?"

Firene glances at Treacle.

"I didn't say. My mother gave it to me for my birthday last year."

"Your mam... right. Don't suppose she spelled you the abra, hey?"

"Er... no. I don't honestly think she knew it was a dingin. My father..."

Seven cuts her off.

"Ta for the help, Vek. I owe you one, right?"

If the flowghost is offended by Seven's sudden desire to leave, he didn't show it.

"Yeah, well - if yer get any serious coin for it, I'd not say no to a new crackerjack. But I'm not holding my breath. Ask me, ye'd prolly get more for it as bijou."

* * * * * * * *

"No, but this is good, right? I mean, this must be what they wanted, so all we need to do is arrange a meeting with Arclight, give them the dingin, and they won't be after me anymore-"

Seven slams his hand down on the table.

"You still don't get it, do you? First of all, you give this to them, they're going to want the abra for it. D'you really think that they're going to believe you when you say you don't know? And d'you want to know what they're going to do to you before they finally realize you're telling the truth? 'Cos I can give you all the unpleasant details, luv, if that's what you're after. The only thing we've got now is the answer to why they want you so badly, but it's not going to do you a damn bit of good unless we can tap the bugger ourselves and see what your da put on there. I think it's fairly safe to assume that it's whatever he was working on when he got done. Assuming we can do that, then we need to figure out where who we can sell the information to who isn't going to do us over first chance they get. After that, maybe me and Treacle will retire to Colsetter Parish and you can go to Longshore. Which ought to be right around when the Black freezes over."

Firene goes white and seems to fold on on herself. Treacle clears his throat pointedly at Seven and jerks his head sharply in the direction of the door. She doesn't even look up as the two of them leave the pub.

"Taken up kicking puppies as a hobby then, have you?"

The Bellhop bites back a snarling retort, then takes a deep breath.

"Come on, Treac - we're in the business of disappearing people who don't want to be found. She still thinks she can get it all back, that this is just a sodding misunderstanding. She still doesn't believe that someone in Arclight did for her family, not really. And I'm bloody sick of trying to convince her."

"You probably have. She just doesn't want to think about it. Can you blame her, really? It's different for you, 'cos you always knew they didn't give two shits about you..."

For a second, Treacle thinks Seven is going to take a swing at him. Instead, he sighs heavily and lets his head thump back against the wall before laughing bitterly.

"Next thing, you'll have me thinking we're running a sodding charity."

"Well, let's not be hasty. One has to eat, after all."

* * * * * * * *

A man comes stumbling unsteadily out of the pub and pushes past them, quickly becoming lost in the grey mass of pedestrians trudging through the ever-present smog. Firene runs out a few seconds later. Seven catches her arm, spinning her around.

"Look - Bea... Firene. Don't run off, hey? Sorry for being so sharpish and all, I'm just trying to keep you from doing something daft, right?"

She tries to pull away, peering intently down the street before looking at him with bright eyes.

"I'm not running - that man who just came out - I think it was my father..."

Viola: Poison was the Cure

"Merricat, innit?"

The young woman nods. "Yeah - Mag gave me some stuff last month for a rash. Where is she, anyways?"

"'Er sister's 'ad a nasty accident at the factory, so she's gone to look after 'er kids until she's better. I'm lookin' after things 'ere until she's back. What's the problem?"

Merricat fidgets and looks around the cluttered little apartment, avoiding Viola's gaze.

"Well... it's Derek. 'E owed some fellas money and they got tired of waiting, so they come round and give him a beating. 'E's in a bad way, so..."

"Right, right. Just let me get my kit together."

* * * * * * * *

Saying that Derek was "in a bad way" was understating the case. One kneecap was shattered, his left hand looked as though someone had crushed it in a vise, and going by the bruises on his chest and abdomen, he probably had several broken ribs and was likely bleeding inside. Still, she'd seen worse, and Mag had trained her well.

"Right... I'll need hot water - boiling if ye can manage that. Apart from that, if you lot could all just stay out of the way, I'll set them bones and then see what I can do about the insides. 'E's not coughing blood, so it's likely better than it looks."

Nobody moves for a long moment, then one of the younger girls scurries from the room. Viola glances up and notices that a lot of the girls in the room aren't in much better shape than Derek. Merricat turns away quickly, but not before Viola catches a glimpse of the other side of her face and sees the ripples of scar tissue under the heavy white makeup.

"So what's that from then?"

Merricat mutters something under her breath.

"Beg pardon?"

"Spilled some tea."

"On yer head?"

She doesn't answer. Viola shrugs. The girl comes back with a steaming bucket of relatively clean water. There are ugly bruises in the shape of a massive handprint around one stick-thin arm.

Viola pauses, looking at the girl's arm, then slowly letting her gaze slide down to the basin, over the surface of the water, to Derek's broad chest hitching laboured breaths.

"All right, you lot. Clear out. I'll manage here."

* * * * * * * * *

"Yer Miz Viola, right? Uster live in Scurt's Hutch?"

She turns around slowly. The boy in the doorway is small for his age, and with the angle of the grimy light and the cap pulled down over his eyes, she can't read his expression.

"Maybe. 'Oo wants ter know?"

"I heard you done for Big Derek. Did yer?"

She considers her options. Maybe the kid just wants a bit of dosh to keep quiet. She's gotten better at her secondary calling, more careful, but there are some lines she won't cross. She could always leave again.

"Look, laddie. I don't care what you 'eard. I done my best, but 'e was just hurt too bad. End 'o story. Now, anything else I can 'elp yer with?"

The kid shuffles his feet, looking like he'd rather be somewhere else. Then he pulls himself straight and looks her in the eyes for the first time.

"It's just... well, if ye had done for him..."

She waits. There's a dark smudge under the boy's left eye that might be dirt or something else. He looks down again, rummaging in one threadbare pocket. His voice shakes when he speaks again, and he holds out a few tarnished coins in a trembling hand.

"There's this feller my mam's been seeing, and 'e beats on 'er something fierce..."

The Night Starts Here (Alex & Felicity)

The night passes in a series of stuttering flashbulb moments. The initial spark, the burning manor, is guttering into waterlogged silence when the young man in the slightly scorched tuxedo slides a tattered manila envelope across the back corner table at the Tavern Lafayette to a hatchet-faced man in biker leathers with iron-grey hair. The biker smiles broadly, his teeth a little too sharp, and passes the young man a length of bone carved with odd symbols and decorated with coloured string and glossy black feathers. He holds it carefully, nodding with deep respect to the older man, then leaves abruptly, his beer untouched. The biker shrugs and drinks it, then steps outside to make a few calls.

* * * * * * * *

"Omar."

"Alexander."

"Are you sure you want this? I mean, even with the new arrangement with the fuzziwuzzies, you're going to have a huge-ass 'Stake me' sign on your back for the next several years."

"Dear boy... there's nothing like the prospect of iminent death to give one a surge of youthful vigour. Besides, I think you overestimate the capabilites of the barbarians at our gates. They may have numbers but their tactics..."

He pulls out his fan, snaps it open, and flutters it dismissively.

"Well... guess this is it. Thanks for the lessons in realpolitik. Don't do anyone I wouldn't do, hey?"

Omar pouts.

"I say, don't you think you're being a bit unreasonable? Considering, as you say, I'll be facing the prospect of death nightly, I deserve a little indulgence, n'est-ce pas?"

"Omar... you seem to have me confused with someone with a sense of moderation. Salut, mon frere."

* * * * * * * *

Omar's 'Vette roars through the dead suburban streets of Kanata. The cheery cherry-red paint job sticks out like a moving bylaw violation against the pastel stucco condominiums. The pursuing Mercedes, on the other hand, resemble mechanical sharks, and they're closing in, mainly because Alex hasn't driven a stick in close to eight years. He curses at length in an eloquent mixture of Quebecois gutter French and English as the transmission jerks and shudders, thumps the dashboard, then thumps it again when the tape deck starts blasting Roxy Music unbidden.

She's sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the window with interest - she's never been in this part of town before. When Alex barely misses slamming into a fire hydrant, she turns to face him slowly.

This is unconcerning.

"Glad you think so," he mutters. There's a sharp bang and the driver's side mirror shatters, confirming Alex's suspicions that the fucking Tremere are packing heat.

She unfolds a map of the city and traces a path - not direct by any means - towards the highway. He feels her slide in easily behind his eyes, directing his movements. She's looking out the window, using his knowledge of the city to follow the map, but another portion of her attention is outside the car. One of the Mercs skitters sideways into the path of the other two, and there's a cacophony of squealing brakes and mangling metal behind them.

We may leave now.

* * * * * * * *

It's a few minutes before sunrise on a deserted stretch of highway north of Lake Superior. The young man gets out of a red Corvette with heavily tinted windows and walks around to the other side. He opens the door and helps out a young woman in a tattered wedding dress streaked with soot and browning blood. They embrace, and then he leads her around to the back of the car. He opens the trunk and helps her into it, tucking several heavy blankets around her and kissing her once more before closing it again. He throws the carved bone into the woods, gets back into the car, and drives away.

Seconds to the drop but it feels like hours...

Nothing to report. The current tenant is not demonstrating any particular haste to vacate the premises, despite nigh-constant bitching about the lack of space.

I am very tired.

FAQs and Other Crap I'm Sick of Dealing With

1. Due date is November 23. Order may be delayed due to imprecise dating methods, first-time jitters, or congenital tardiness inherited from both parents.

2. No, we don't know what gender it is, and at this point in history it shouldn't make a damn bit of difference. So STOP ASKING.

3. No, we don't have a name picked out yet. The naming office is not accepting any additional submissions at this time.

4. Just because I'm eagerly awaiting the birth of my own child doesn't mean I'm interested in hearing about / seeing pictures of / making stupid noises at someone else's, particularly if I don't know them and I've got work to do.

5. Just because my body is currently slightly preoccupied with growing another human being doesn't mean I'm incapable of carrying on a conversation about some other topic.

6. If you don't know me, don't even think about touching my belly if you want to keep that hand.

7. The Alien reference was funny the first half-dozen times. Now? Not so much.

8. Thank you - I wouldn't have noticed I was "as big as a house" unless you pointed it out. Placenta brain, you know. And no, it's not twins. I think the ultrasound would have picked that up pretty early.

Walked Through the Fire With a Ten-Headed Lion (Mage)

The tea was strong like whoa, but it was icy-cold so I just knocked it back. The guy stood there grinning at me, so I finally got a little ticked off about it and asked him what the heck his problem was.

"How are you feeling?"

"I dunno. Less thirsty. A little cooler. Why?"

"Oh... just wait. You'll see."

Then he just wandered off. I was starting to think that while Median and Fata and most of their crew were okay, this guy was kind of a jackass.

* * * * * * * *

"Fuck me."

Median glances at Phenex quizzically.

"What, right now?"

"No... shit. Something's happening. Where's Rosemary?"

"Went to get a drink at Lemonhead's... Phenex, what the fuck, man?"

He's on his feet and heading towards the lemonade vendor.

"Something's wrong. She's starting to spike, but it's all fucked up. Did you give her anything?"

Median steps back at the sudden fury in his voice.

"No... I wasn't even going to bring it up until tomorrow night when they light the Man up. Phenex, what's wrong with her?"

"I don't know. Get Inri."

He staggers off, trying not to grit his teeth. Rosemary's broadcasting static, but there's a steadily rising shriek of psychic feedback underneath.

* * * * * * * *

Sunset sure looks pretty tonight - it never looks that good in pictures. And the clouds look like big poufs of cotton candy like they used to have at the church fair.

I sure hope my dad doesn't find me.

Don't want to think about that. Think about something else. Go watch the stilt-walkers. That was fun.

"IAO! EVOHE!"

What?

Why are all these people staring at me? Guy comes up to me, dancing kind of jerky like a puppet. He's wearing black tights with glittery skeleton bones painted on it. The glitter shows up nice in the redgold sunset light.

"Glory to thee from gilded tomb!"

That was weird. Is it just me or are people generally acting really weird tonight?

Maybe it's me. Everything's starting to look kind of wobbly, like it's underwater. Hope I don't have heatstroke. Maybe I should go back to the van and have some water - I don't think that tea's sitting right with me.

Crackle from someone's huge sound system makes her jump, and the noise creates faultlines that radiate outwards from the point of origin. The landscape holds for a moment in a brittle mosaic of hairline fractures, and then

everything

shatters.

"Glory to thee from waiting womb!"

The lady (?) is bright green - ivy waving up her arms and legs and she's wearing a toga-looking thing, only I can't see her face properly. Her belly is glowing bright pink and fading dark to bright like a heartbeat.

"How do you do that?"

Funny looks again. That didn't sound right. Maybe I should sit down.