Ash Tourist (dreamtime)

I'm packing a bunch of Pooh Bear's old clothes, soap and other toiletries, and stationery supplies in an old messenger bag. I plan to leave it in a visible location in the Land Rover when we arrive at the camp - the dossier said that the locals' pride would not let them accept charity, but the aid workers have an arrangement worked out. They leave the donations in easy-to-steal bags in convenient locations, and the recipients get to tell their friends that they put one over on the foreigners.

The landscape is flat and grey and barren, with low mountains in the distance. There is a light dusting of frost or ash on the rocky ground. The sky is almost the same shade of grey, and there's a sharp, cold wind, whipping fine grit through the thin air. I don't understand what these people are doing out here. There are no cities, no rivers, and the land obviously isn't capable of supporting anything in the way of edible vegetation. Surely there must be someplace a little less inhospitable they could stay.

At this point, the dream starts to get a little strange. There are several small replicas of ancient temples dotting the plain. They are whitish-grey and appear to be made of local stone. There's a replica of the Parthenon, the Temple of Quetzalcoatl, Hagia Sophia, and (of course) Stonehenge. None of them is more than about seven feet high. There is also a pair of gigantic legs straddling the road. The rest of the body is nowhere in sight.

We arrive at the aid workers' base, which appears to have been set up in an abandoned air base. The workers' tents are inside the hangars, mostly for added protection from the wind and dust. A couple of other people in the Land Rover get out and demand to know where we are, because the base was definitely south of the legs and this is west. I have no idea what direction we came from, because everything looks the same, but quibbling about directions strikes me as a bit stupid, considering that this base is the only landmark other than the temples in the area anyway.

I walk out and go to the other part of the camp. Sullen-eyed people of indeterminate ethnicity watch me from shacks made of scrap metal from the hangar and tarps and tents from the aid workers. Apparently the stones here are flammable, because that's what they're using to cook the field rations they've "stolen". They wear colourful clothes in strangely shiny iridescent fabrics. I allow one of the kids, a little girl, to pick my pocket. She takes the handful of candy back to her gang a short distance away.

I woke up shortly after this.

Debate Report Summary (reconstructed)

Just finished watching the second hour of the English-language party leaders' debate on CBC.

Overall impression of the leaders:

Harper: Tired and beleaguered

Dion: Sensitive and desperate

Layton: Aggressive and smug

May: Blunt and knowledgeable

Duceppe: Just there to disturb shit

Steve Paikin (moderator): Pretty good at keeping the candidates within their time limits and preventing the debate from devolving into a shouting match.

That said - who the hell thinks 45 seconds is an adequate length of time to respond to a question? Seriously.

Layton's quote for the night: "Where's your platform? Under your sweater?"

I'm really glad someone brought up the culture question - I know a lot of people who are involved with the arts, and not one of them can afford to do it for a living, much less attend these mythical fucking galas Harper claims are going on all over the place.

Dion's quote for the night (on culture): "First, it's fun. It's bringing us beauty, emotions, a beautiful novel, a beautiful movie. We need to have more of that, certainly." I mean, it wasn't a great quote in and of itself, but it came across as disarmingly honest. Making a case for art as a purely aesthetic value in it's own right without saying how much it contributes economically or how it helps define our national identity is something I can totally get behind. And saying that your party is in favour of more fun is just plain cool.

Wow - that dude from Toronto who asked what the leaders were going to do about crime was totally and obviously a Conservative plant. Way to go Jack for calling attention to the huge rate of incarceration among young Aboriginal Canadians and what the underlying causes are (lack of education, lack of opportunities, shitty facilities on most reservations, to name a few).

Ooh - the Afghanistan question. This is one of the few policy issues I'm seriously ambivalent about. On the one hand, if we pull out and the Taliban take over again, life is going to seriously suck for half the population. On the other hand, the Canadian military don't have the money or the gear to protect our soldiers from jury-rigged roadside bombs, much less anything more substantial. Booyah to May for arguing in favour of a broader UN mission with more emphasis on humanitarian aid. And another booyah for bringing up the fact that a huge chunk of our foreign aid budget (such as it is) is being poured into Afghanistan at the expense of Africa and other seriously impoverished areas of the world.

Sealab 2021 moment: "Oh, that tears it! How many more times am I gonna have to hear the phrase 'kitchen tables' today?!"

The "building a shed" guy sounds like a plant too, but damned if I can figure out for which party. Maybe he's just making the most of his 15-odd seconds of fame among the small subset of Canadian voters watching this debate instead of the no doubt riveting trainwreck of the U.S. vice-presidential debate.

I'm really glad May brought up electoral reform, although it could be argued that it's kind of self-serving, as (sadly) it's the only way the Greens are likely to get enough seats to be taken seriously. Regardless of motivation though - hells yeah, let's get proportional representation in Parliament. I'm sick of feeling like my vote doesn't count (see earlier discussion of dressing up orangutans and running them as Conservative candidates in Alberta).

Duceppe quote of the night: "I know I won't be prime minister, and three of you won't be prime minister neither. Some of you know it, but you won't say it."

Okay - I know I've got some heavy screaming pinko lefty bias going on here, but even so it looked like May was the clear winner. She'd done her research, and unlike certain other party leaders (Jack, I'm looking at you), she wasn't constantly getting into slanging matches with Harper. Harper just looked like he had better things to do than be there. Duceppe really didn't need to be there. Layton came across as a better politician than any leader the NDP has had since Broadbent, but I'm not sure that's a good thing. That, and he was kind of acting like a dick, especially when he went after Dion for things previous Liberal governments had done. I just feel more sorry for Stephane Dion than anything. He's inherited a real basket case of a party (thanks a lot, Jean), and it's probably going to be at least two more elections before the Liberals get their shit together.

Getting What You Pay For

In other news, apparently the LHC is on the fritz less than two weeks after they first fired it up. I'm picturing wild-eyed Swiss scientists standing hip-deep in rapidly evaporating liquid helium screaming "You're the reason we can't have nice things!" at each other in chipmunk voices.

In other news, I'm very easily amused.

Soft Power / Bun Fight at the OK Economy (dream)

1. One of the others in the group hands me the binoculars so I can see the soldiers (?) camped in the clearing below us. We're unarmed, at least with conventional weapons. I reach into the bag at my hip and pull out a snake's skull and a cord of braided red, yellow, and black ribbons. I tie a large knot in one end and pass it through the mouth of the skull, then mutter something under my breath and whirl it around my head a few times before letting go. Everyone ducks as the thing goes whipping though the trees before swerving around and coming back, snapping at everything it comes into contact with. I'm beginning to think that the manbo was right and I probably should have tried this maneuver with a real snake first, but I duck to one side, grab the tail and then yank back hard before grabbing the braid just behind the head. It's hellishly strong, this spirit, and it's thrashing around trying to take a bite out of me before I finally pull it taut and say the words to control it. Once it's calmed down, I take out a little ziploc baggie with a small vial, two black glass beads, and a bunch of loose fangs in it. As I put the beads into the eye sockets, I tell it that I'm giving it eyes in exchange for not biting me or my friends. Then I put the fangs into the appropriate spots, exacting a promise that it won't attack any civilians or animals. I slot the vial of poison into a hollow behind the fangs and tell it that this is for taking care of the men down the hill. Then I let it go and watch as it slips into the shadowy undergrowth. There's some screaming from below, a short staccato burst of gunfire, and then silence before the forest sounds start up around us as we pick our way down the hillside.

2. We're at a con at the U of S. It's lunchtime and we're all scarfing down standard-issue overcooked cafeteria pasta like it's going out of style. Several of us are still dressed up from the last game we were in or have already changed for the next one. Conversation stops dead when Ferlak turns up in a godawful eyesore of a Hawaiian shirt and bermuda shorts. (For anyone who doesn't know him, Ferlak never dresses like this.)

"I'm playing the ugly American tourist after lunch."

"Ah."

"Ah."

"Ah."

At which point he gives me this shit-eating grin and adds, "Had to borrow this from your husband."

X. flips him off, and I throw a stale dinner roll at him, which, unsurprisingly given my aim, hits a guy dressed as a gargoyle at the next table. I suddenly feign great interest in the shaker jar of parmesan cheese on the table, but Mal's still laughing when the guy turns around. He comes over and snarls, "You want to step outside for a physical challenge?"

I woke up snickering.

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..."