Fiction Friday #4: Super

Sorry this was late.  I took some time in the middle of the story to apply for a new job. ~AJ

By Original works: Vegas Bleeds Neon Derivative work: FRacco [CC BY-SA 4.0], via Wikimedia Commons

What?

No.  No, I don't think I need my lawyer right now, do you?

Okay.  So, let me get this out of the way: I don't like these so-called "heroes" running around today.  I don't.  I could say it was the way I was raised, and, truthfully, that's probably a lot of it.  I mean, my father is who he is, and you don't get raised by someone like him without it influencing your views on such things.  But I think a lot of the reason he became . . . well, you know—is because of those heroes.

They did kill my mother, however inadvertently.

Still, you should know where I stand, and it's not on the side of heroes.  Just so we're clear before we start.

It's not like I like the villains much more, despite my father.  They're all destructive bastards in the end, aren't they?  Look at Toledo—and I feel very, very bad for the few survivors left from the Destruction.  It was monstrous, what happened there.

I suppose that's another thing we should get clear: I do not support what happened there, nor did I give aid or succor to anyone involved in the Destruction.  Well, no one except for my father, but he's my dad–no matter what he's become–and I couldn't let him die.

The other one?  The one you lot practically worship?  Yeah, he's dead.  I made sure of it.

No, it's not how it sounds.  I didn't kill him.  I just didn't save him.  I watched as he breathed his last. It didn't take long.  He was mostly dead by the time I got there.  And I don't think he was in much pain, but I'm unfamiliar with his particular physiology, so I can't be sure.

Could I have saved him?  I don't see the point in answering that.  He would've ended up this way sooner or later.  And I don't know why you think I'm so obligated to save him anyway.  It's not like he was a good person.  Sure, you lot called him a hero, but what did he ever do that was truly heroic? Saved some people here or there, stopped a few robberies?  Whatever.  Who hasn't done that?  And he certainly didn't save Toledo.

No, I'm not registered.  And, no, I'm not telling you what my powers are or if I even have any.  It's not your business.  I don't care what the law is.  You're not going to see me running around in tights, having epic battles on rooftops, or anything like that.  I'm just trying to live my life with as little interference from heroes, villains, or other as possible.

No, I do not consent to being tested.

Yes, I would have tried to stop my father.  I've been trying to get him to stop for years!  He's an old man now, and he's going to get himself killed.  His quest for vengeance or whatever has gone way too far. It's transformed him into something else.  And it's not about vengeance anymore for him.  It's not about getting retribution for his wife, my mother.  It hasn't been about that for a very long time.  He may use Mama's death as an excuse for what he does, but that's not why he does it.  I couldn't tell you why.  He's not right.  He's not sane.  Maybe he never really was, and her death just pushed him over the edge.  I don't know.

What I do know is that he needs help.  I'd say he needs to be locked up in Arkham, but look at the monsters that place produces.  At his core he's a good man.  I know that.  He's just lost, in pain, angry, and maybe more than a little power-mad.

He is a good father though.  He was always there for me.  I mean, mostly before his mission took over his life, but even now if I really need him, he'll come.  He cares, you know?  He's just . . . unstable.

No, I don't know where he is now.

I'm telling you the truth!

When I got him out of Toledo he was bleeding, broken.  And he was being hunted.  By you guys, by "heroes," by whoever.  And I thought he was going to die.  I couldn't let him die!  I got him out, got him patched.  Then he ran off.

No, I didn't know what was going to happen in Toledo.

Hey! I said I didn't want to be tested.  Get the fuck away from that equipment!

Look, I didn't know what was going to happen.  I just—I just got this vague note from my dad saying something about a "final showdown" in Toledo.

Yeah, he really talks like that.

Here.  Look at the note.  It mentions Toledo, but nothing about what was going to happen.  What did happen.  I followed because I was afraid for my father.  I wanted to stop him.  Talk him out of whatever he had planned.  I was afraid he'd be killed by Captain Asswipe, you know?  And he almost was!

Oh, boo-fucking-hoo!  I'm supposed to cry over that raging narcissist?  That man has caused more destruction than my father ever did.  Hell, he's caused more destruction than my father and his colleagues combined.  He made my father the way he is.  Do you understand that?

And I'm not entirely convinced it was an accident.

No, no, no.  Think about it.  A hero's gotta fight someone.  He's gotta have an opponent.  Otherwise he's just a monster.

I wouldn't be surprised if these fucking heroes in their fucking halls and fortresses and caves had some kind of supercomputer making a database of the population.  Looking for traits, instabilities, latent powers.  People they can exploit.  People they can make their enemies just so they can stay the "good guys" in the eyes of the rest us.  They don't care about collateral damage.  They don't care about the deaths they "accidentally" cause.  We're bugs to them.  Our deaths, our suffering is too small for them to notice or care about.

Don't give me that.  Some of these guys aren't even human, did you know that?  Like, not even born on this planet—a completely different species.  Do really believe they have the same values and emotions?  How do you know you're not just projecting that?  Hm?

You know Toledo's not the first town to be destroyed.  It's just the largest.  Off the top of my head I can name at least ten towns a fraction of Toledo's size that were completely wiped out by your. Fucking. Heroes.

Solomon, KS.  Humansville, MO.  Clinton, MO.  Adair, IL.  Bone Gap, IL.  Jonesport, ME.  Milan, MN.  Canton, OK.  Prague, NE.  King Salmon, AK.  St. Paul, AK.  That's eleven.  Shall I go on?

Maybe a handful of people made it out of those towns alive.  And there were no villains anywhere near them when they went up.

I have proof.  I've been collecting data on this for years.  Just a hobby I have.

There are copies–scans of documents, recordings of interviews with survivors, etc–on my computer. You've got the computer, feel free to analyze the information there.

The originals?  Scattered, hidden, left with people I trust, or whatever.  Like I'm going to leave them around for whoever to find.  Hell, even telling you that I have what little I have puts me at risk.

I don't know what I'd do with it.  Right now I'm just sitting on all this information.  I don't think you guys will do anything constructive with it.  It's going to be buried or dismissed.  But I think history will show I'm right.

I knew when you showed up at my door that it was unlikely I'd walk away.  Not clean, at any rate.  It doesn't bother me that much.  You're not going to kill me.  You can try to imprison me, but I don't think it'll take.

You see, my father loves me.  No matter what else he is, or what he's done, he's my dad.  And he's very protective.  I don't think you'd want to make an enemy like him.  So it's just a matter of time before you let me out on my own, or he comes to get me.

Seriously, guy?  You're not gonna test me without a fight.  So far you've no call to test me anyway. I've shown no symptoms of ability.  All I've been doing is talking.  You're not compelled to believe me, are you?  I haven't dented the table with my fists.  I haven't sneezed and blown someone through the wall.  The only reason that you have to be suspicious that I might have power is because of who my father is, and everyone knows that he wasn't born with his powers, and I was born before he gained them.  So he can't have passed powers down to me genetically.  There's no cause.  And you'd be going against the Supreme Court ruling Constantine v. the NBPP, which states that a person cannot be tested for superhuman abilities without their consent unless said person shows symptoms of ability, or has an immediate relative with a genetically inherited ability.  It is to protect the privacy and sovereignty of the people who have abilities but choose not to use them.  It also prevents the person from having to choose a life of either an outlaw–hunted by government and heroes alike–or a slave–forced into government controlled heroics.  I mean, that alone is a recipe to create a villain if ever I heard.

Oh, I know.  Most heroes don't work for you.  Most work for groups that are occasionally given assignments they can't refuse from the government to keep their hero status.  They're certainly not ugly, are they?  And the more prominent the hero is the less of these jobs he has to do.  Can't have a boy scout be seen killing people in China, can we?  Not in the age of smart phones and youtube.

I know how this game is played.  I've been living it since my mom died when I was a kid.  You can hold me for helping my father escape Toledo if you want.  Or you can let me go.  But you can't test me unless you want to deal with a lawsuit.

That's better.  Thank you.

So, have you decided if you're going to charge me with obstruction or whatever?

Conspiracy?!  Well that's a hollow threat!  You'll never get that to stick.  There's no way that you can prove that I had anything to do with planning Toledo.  Sure, I got my dad out of there, but I also personally assisted emergency personnel and survivors.  I've given you my computer which is full of interesting information on at least fifteen other crime scenes, hundreds more victims, and profiles of both heroes and villains that you'll find very interesting.  My lawyer's going to eat you alive.

No.  No, I still don't think I need my lawyer.  I mean, our conversation's being recorded and if I end up needing her she'll have access to this interview, but I think you're going to let me go before it comes to that.  If only to avoid the trouble my father will cause.  Anyway, you start persecuting–I mean, prosecuting–mostly innocent family members and you'll find yourself in a world of trouble. There's too many of us now.  You've gone and made the world all black and white.  Maybe in the grey days you could've gotten away with it, but not now.

Yeah, mostly innocent.  We're all mostly innocent.  I mean, I did help my dad survive, and I suppose you can spin the saving of a life into a bad thing, but I don't think so.

Oh, we're done talking now?

Okay.

No.  I'm not staying in town.  I don't live here, and don't see the need to waste money on a hotel for however long your investigation lasts. You can reach me on my cell if you need me.

No, I'm not going to call you if my father gets in touch.  It'd be a breach of trust, you see, and my relationship with him is more important to me than helping you put him in prison.

I'll be seeing you.

Fiction Friday #3: The Fox

I thought about canceling this today since–again–I'm unprepared.  Which is to say, I have no story finished to publish, but I did promise that I wouldn't miss a month.  So–again–you all get the roughest of rough drafts.

By Haggblom, Lisa [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

There once was a fox who fell in love with a human.  Needless to say, the fox found this to be highly inconvenient.  Foxes are wild, wily creatures not generally given to sentiment or domestication, both of which plague humans in abundance.  But he could not deny that his heart beat a little faster at the mere scent of her, his human.  Nor could he fail to notice that his nightly wanderings nearly always ended near her den on the edge of the deep woods.  So, as much as he'd have liked to deny it, eventually he had to admit that he was indeed in love.  With a human.

After this difficult self-realization—and, really, what self-realization isn't difficult?—the fox was left with the problem of how to woo a human.  Humans are very different than foxes.  The fox tried everything that worked with foxes. He scent-marked her yard to let her know that he was there and interested, but she just thought it stunk.  The only males that he could fight to show his prowess in battle were humans many, many times his size, and the old cat who lived with her.  He didn't think he could win in a fight against a human, and as she seemed inordinately fond of the cat he doubted she'd appreciate him fight him.  The dead animals he left in her garden went completely unappreciated.

So how were humans courted?

The fox took the question to the oldest fox he knew, sheepishly admitting his feelings for the human (since such things are not commonly done), and asked for her assistance.  The elder fox was aghast, and scolded the younger one for his foolishness.

"What's wrong with you?!" the elder fox barked.

"I know, I know," the young fox said, laying his ears down in shame, "It's wrong, me loving a human, but I do anyway.  Can you help me or not?"

The old fox thought about it and said, "I may be able to cure you of this unnatural love."

"No!" said the fox.  "I mean, it's all kinds of horrible, but I don't want to cure myself of my love, because it's kind of nice too."

"Well," the old fox huffed, "I can't help you.  Go ask someone else."

So the young fox left to ask someone else.  The bears were known to have a certain amount of wisdom, the fox decided that he would go ask them.

The fox found the oldest and wisest bear in the forest and asked him about wooing humans.

"Bears do not woo humans," the bear said.  "Human and animal kind do not mix.  It's unnatural.  I cannot help you.  Go away."

The fox was disheartened, but determined so he left the bears and went further afield in search of someone who could help him.  Maybe the wolves—he'd heard stories of the wolves' dealings with humans.  He decided to seek out the wolves.

At the wolves' den the fox spoke with the two oldest and wisest wolves, the grandmother and grandfather of the pack.  Wolf cubs played tumble-rumble at their feet.

"I am in love with human," the fox told the wolves.  "I don't know what to do about it."

"That is the way with love," the old female said.

"True, true," agreed the male, "love is the greatest of foolish acts, but with a human?  I don't see the point."

"I think what my mate is trying to do," said the female, "is ask what you want to do with this human female?  What are you're intensions?"

The fox thought about this for a bit and then said, "I love my human.  I would like her to love me too.  I want to make her my mate and raise kits with her."

The old wolves' howled with laughter, joined by the pups who, though they didn't really know why their elders were laughing, thought it must have been a grand joke.  The fox wanted to curl his tail over his nose.

"We can't help you," the old female said.

The male shook his head.  "It's been over a hundred years since we had close relations with humans," he said, "and even then we didn't mate with humans, we just raised the occasional human cub."

"What should I do?" the fox cried.

"We don't know," the wolves said.

The fox left the wolves' den and went in search of better help.  But who could he ask?  He couldn't think of who could help.  He wandered the woods asking all the animals he saw.  The mice just squeaked and ran away.  The squirrels threw nutshells and chittered from the tops of their trees.  The deer didn't even deign to look his way.  The birds were too empty-headed to do anything but sing obnoxious limericks at him.

After days and days, and miles and miles, the fox was beginning to lose hope.  He thought about going back to his den and pining away for his human.  What was the point of continuing on?  No one could help him.  No.  He had to go on.  His heart wouldn't let him do anything else.

"Hey, little cousin," a sly voice crept out of the shadows towards him, "Why do you wear such a sad look?"

It was a coyote.  The fox perked up, he hadn't asked a coyote for help yet.  In truth, he hadn't even thought about asking a coyote for help, for though coyote's are wise it is a crazy sort of wisdom.  The kind of crazy that is just as likely to cause disaster as to avert it.  Coyote's are sly too—not as sly as foxes, mind—but they carried a cunning unique among the animals.  The fox sighed, he had nothing to lose and love yet to gain.

"I've fallen in love with a human," he said, "I want to make her my mate, but I don't know how to woo my human.  I don't know a way to be with her.  Can you help me?"

The coyote chuckled, a spark of madness danced in her eyes.  "That's easy," she said, "and difficult.  Humans don't mate with us animals.  So what you need to do is become human."

"How do I do that?" the fox asked, hoping against hope that the coyote wasn't playing some trick.

"You need to learn how to shed your skin and become something new," said the coyote.  "If I were you I'd talk to the snakes, they're always shedding something."

"But snakes shed their skin and are still snakes," said the fox.

"Yes, but they like being snakes and see no reason to become anything else," the coyote said.  "You, if you really want to be with your human, have a reason to change.  Ask the snakes.  What harm could there be in it?"

Then, with a yip and a scurry the coyote ran off to do whatever damn-fool-crazy thing coyotes do, and the fox thought that maybe asking the snakes was a good, if dangerous, idea.  He set off in search of sun-warmed rocks and dark burrows to find one.

And soon enough, he did.

The snake he found was a big king-daddy of a forest rattler.  Old-old by the size of him and the number of rattles on his tail.  Snakes, now, are dangerous creatures.  Some of the oldest predators in the world.  For the first time since he grew to adulthood the fox felt afraid for his life.  The other creatures the fox knew he could outrun, outthink, or outfight, but snakes, especially ones with venomous bites, were different.  Snakes struck fast, often without warning, and would eat anything they could get their jaws around.  Generally the fox avoided snakes, except for the small, harmless ones he sometimes ate for supper, but he needed to know how to shed his skin and change his shape, so he had to get close enough to have a conversation.  He shuddered and stepped closer, the old rattler eyed him speculatively.

"Do you want sssomething from me, little fox?" the rattler asked, his deep, sibilant voice swept along the ground, and the fox could almost feel it slide into his ear.

"I have fallen in love with a human," the fox said.  "I want to make her my mate."

"Humansss don't mate with animalsss," the snake hissed.

"I know," said the fox.  "I have asked every animal in this forest for help, and they have all said the same thing.  But a coyote told me that to mate with my human I must become human.  She suggested that I speak with one of your kind, because to become human I must shed my skin."

The rattler slid around behind the fox, looping his body around the smaller animal, and held his face so close to the fox's snout that should the snake flick out his tongue the tip of it would touch the fox's nose.  He looked directly into the fox's eyes and said, "You want to ssshed your ssskin and become a human."

"Yes," the fox was so scared that it came out as a growl.

The snake shook his rattles in response.  "It'sss been a long time sssince a mammal hasss wanted to ssshed itsss ssskin," he said, coiling slightly tighter around the fox.  "Cccenturiesss, I think.  Are you sssure you wisssh to do thisss?"

"To win the affection of my beloved I would do anything," said the fox, "What do I need to do?"

"You're ssseriousss."

"Yes."

"Then, it isss sssimple," said the snake.  The fox felt the spark of hope inside of him flare into a wild blaze, he almost asked the snake again what he needed to do to shed his skin and become human, but the old rattler continued before he could speak.  "To ssshed your ssskin, all you need to do is die."

And the snake struck.  The fox barely had time to think before the rattler's fangs were pumping his small body with venom.  It was all he could do to bring the vision of his beautiful human to his mind's eye before the world went black with pain.

At the edge of the deep woods there is a little stone cottage with a thatched roof and a lovely garden.  A woman lived in the house alone, just her and her old tomcat, and most of the time she preferred it that way.  She didn't fit in in town, and while she was not exactly shunned, she wasn't exactly welcome there either.  She was too independent minded, too much a creature of the forest for the townsfolk to feel comfortable around her.  Some whispered that she was a witch, and though she knows a bit of magic, and worships different gods, she'd never done anyone any harm, so most were content to leave her be, and she was content to let them.

Sometimes though, when the wind was right, the woman dreamt of having someone to love.  Someone to help her with her chores and the upkeep of the house.  Someone to laugh and talk with.  Someone to hold her during the lonely nights.  Someone who could give her a family.  But she knew that what beauty she has is not great enough to lure a man out to the woods, and she couldn't stand being so close to so many other people for long periods of time, so she wouldn't move into town.  After having to refuse one legitimate proposal of marriage, and several other more insulting offers to become a mistress, she decided that that particular dream of hers wasn't meant to manifest, so worked instead on other projects.  Still, there were nights when her heart ached for what she knew she'd never have.

Most days, unless she needed to go into the forest for something, or into town for something else, the woman could be found in her back garden tending the plants.  Vegetables, herbs, and flowers grow in near jubilant abundance, and she found peace turning the soil and discouraging weeds.  She'd sing to the plants, and watch them grow.

That is where she was, kneeling on the ground, tending a young juniper plant, when a tall, thin man stumbled out of the woods, naked as an animal, with hair as red as the fox's pelt he clutched in one hand.  He smiled at her, a crooked grin that showed off his white teeth and rather long canines, and said, "I did it.  I did it," in a scratchy sort of growl, before collapsing into her patch of basil.

"Goodness!" the woman said, jumping to her feet and running to the man.  "Sir!  Sir?  Are you alright?"

The man whined deep in his throat.  "I hurt," he said in halting syllables, "but it was worth it.  You are so lovely."

The woman blushed, it'd been a long time since anyone called her lovely, and said, "You're injured we should get you inside.  Can you walk?"

"Yes.  On two legs even!" the man said as, with her assistance, he struggled to his feet.  He would have fallen again once he got there, but the woman draped one of his arms over her shoulders and put her arm around his waist to steady him.  He struggled to put one foot in front of the other.

"Come on now," she said, "We'll get you off your feet again soon enough.  Let's go inside and you can tell me how you came to be here."

"Okay," the man said, distracted by the feel and smell of her, he'd never been so close before.  "What are you called?"

"Aubry" the woman said.  "What should I call you?"

The man thought about this, and answered, "Fox.  You can call me Fox."

"It suits you," Aubry said, he thought he heard a smile in her voice.  He hoped he was right.  "What happened to you, Fox?"

"I was bit by a snake, but that didn't happen until the end."

"And what happened at the beginning?"

"I fell in love with you."

Fiction Friday #2: The Impossible Island (1st draft)

Inspired by stories of disappearing islands off the coast of just about every country that borders the sea, and the floating city over China this past October.

Áine was fairly certain she was losing her mind.  She stood on the balcony of her apartment, still in her pajamas, a cup of tea in her hands, gazing at the morning landscape.  It was a ritual she began when she moved in, nearly a year ago.  There was a time when her ritual of morning tea steadied her before she had to go to work.  Of course, that was before the landscape changed.  

Áine's apartment once overlooked her neighborhood: buildings, roads, an outdoor shopping center, other apartments, parking lots, trees, and the like; and while the view had not been exactly idyllic, it had been comfortable.  Steadying.  She'd lived her entire life in neighborhoods like it.  Now though, now her comfortable life had been upended, because when she looked out from the balcony of her apartment now what she saw was unbelievable: an island, off in the distance, rising up from the sea, and, closer,  a craggy beach which met the end of her building's parking lot, swallowing the dentists office that once shared the same property line.  It was pretty, and would have been refreshing if she were vacationing in some coastal city, but Áine lived in Kansas, possibly the most landlocked land ever.  She shouldn't be able to smell the salt sea wind from her balcony, or hear the gulls, or gaze upon an island just a few miles off the coast.

What worried her most was that the island, along with surrounding sea, et cetera, et cetera, was definitely moving closer.  A few days ago the dentist's office had still been there, now, poof!, replaced by some disturbing moving ocean.

Still it was beautiful.  

Áine sighed and sat down in the little chair she kept on her balcony.  Leaning back, she cupped both hands around her teacup and brought it to her mouth.  She didn't drink, just breathed the steam and pondered her island dilemma.  Another few days moving like it was, and the island would completely overcome her apartment building.  What would happen then?  Would she drown?  Be crushed?  Or would nothing happen at all?  Would the island pass over and she not notice it in the least?  She'd noticed other people continued driving on the roads that passed through the island and surrounding sea, and there hadn't been a rash of mysterious disappearances in the weeks since it first appeared.  She'd been watching for that in the nightly news.  Other people didn't seem to notice the anomalous landscape at all.  Meanwhile, she'd been driving hours out of her way to avoid the island on her way to and from work.  It had really affected her performance and mood, but she just couldn't bring herself to drive through the damned scene.  She was afraid she'd ruin her car, and possibly drown herself, by driving right into the sea.

What could she do?

Well, it was the weekend, she had a few days off work to figure it out.  Áine sipped her tea and stared out at the island.  Who was she kidding?  Figure it out.  She may as well try to stop the wind.  She listened to the waves lapping at the shore, and she could almost see the landscape inching forward.  This was not something that could be stopped.  Though, perhaps, it was something that could be endured.  She wasn't sure.  Áine drank her tea and thought about that for a long time.

After a long time, and rather an excess of sighs, Áine removed herself from her little balcony and went back in her apartment to clean her teacup, get out of her pajamas, and start her day.  Food and fresh water were put down for Legbiter, her large, mottled black and orange cat.  Legbiter wound his way through her legs affectionately as she did so.

"Oh, kitten," she said, "do you see the island when you look out the window?"

The cat just looked at her, gave an inscrutable "mrow," and turned his attention to his food.

"You're no help," Áine told him.  "I don't know.  I feel like I have to do something.  I'm just not sure what."

Áine stood looking out her window at the now familiar seascape and thought.  Then, decision made, announced, "I'm going out," and bolted for her door before she had a chance to change her mind.  Once outside she slowly, partially regretting her decision, made her way across the parking lot and to the rocky beach.  She stopped at the point where sand met asphalt, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the strand.  It was surprisingly difficult, that step.  It felt like pushing her way through thick spiderwebs.  Not exactly sticky, but the air clung.  Then she was there, in that liminal space where sea met land, and it was as real as anything.  She'd been half expecting the landscape to just fade, but it didn't.  Áine wondered if anything would ever be the same again.

Áine breathed deep.  The air was cool and clean.  Disturbingly pure.  She couldn't smell car exhaust or chemicals or any of the scents that came with the city.  She felt slightly intoxicated, her body tingled, and her thoughts fluttered and wouldn't be still.  There was music, something like music, coming from somewhere, and suddenly she wanted to move move move.  To run towards the ocean, leaving her clothes behind, and swim in it.  She wanted to swim all the way out to the little island.  It was calling to her.  Laughing.  Singing.  Barely audible.  Promising her all the things she wanted, but never thought she could have.  She wanted it all.  She wanted to go, to leave behind everything, and explore the unknown.  She wanted it with a clarity, a hunger she had never experienced before.  Áine lifted her foot to take a step closer to the sea, barely registering the movement.  Then she stopped and turned to look back at her apartment, wondering if it would still be there.  It was.  But it was hazy, not quite real, like some sort of mirage.  It also seemed very far away, for all that the border was still just a half step in front of her.  A sudden thought struck Áine, it would probably be wise to go back while she still had a chance, but the sea called to her, and all she wanted was to explore the little island floating in it.  

Looking up to her floor, Áine saw Legbiter sitting in her kitchen window looking down at her, and she was torn.  He needed her, so she couldn't go, but she wanted to.  So, so bad.  She felt like nothing in her past was real.  Her apartment, her job, her friends, her cat, all part of a long and boring dream.  She was standing on the precipice of her real life.  All she had to do was step back, turn away, and she could get on with it.  Legbiter yowled, and pawed at the window, and she knew, with regret, that she could never turn away.

One of her neighbors, the elderly man who lived across the hall, exited the building with his dog.  He crossed the parking lot, coming toward her, and Áine realized with a start that he was heading for the patch of grass that was between the dentist's office and the lot.  Not her.  He couldn't see her.  To her he was hazy, slightly out of focus, like everything beyond the spider-silk strands of the border she crossed.  To him, she thought, I'm invisible.  Maybe that's why no one else has been reacting to the island.  They literally don't see it.  Then, why do I?

That thought in her head, Áine pushed through the border—it was harding going back—and returned to her real life, shocking her neighbor in the process.  He filled her ears with Where'd-you-come-from's and I-didn't-see-you-standing-there's, or some other such noise, she only half-listened while exchanging pleasant banalities with him.  Her mind was busy planning something she couldn't quite touch.  After her neighbor wandered off with his dog, Áine looked back toward the island.  It was still there.  Her nebulous plans became more solid.  She ran into her building, and up to her apartment to get her keys and purse.  She paused, briefly, to pet and coo at Legbiter, assuring him that she was fine and that she'd be back shortly.  Then she ran back out, and to her car.  She had some shopping to do.

It was night when she got back.  She had to take the long way around, after all.  The island was still there, she sent a quite "thank you" to the universe.  Áine didn't want to think that she'd spent several thousand dollars—that she didn't actually have, thank you—on a kayak and tent that she was never going to use.  She spent several hours going through her things, packing some, saying goodbye to others.  She kept up a one-sided conversation with Legbiter while she worked.

"This, quite probably, is going to ruin my life, Leggie," she said, "I really . . . I don't know why I'm doing this, but it just seems right.  I don't know.  I don't know.  I don't know.  But if you were there, you'd know.  You'd understand.  I'm right.  I'm right.  I'm right.  I know I'm right about this.  How's the harness?"

Legbiter gave Áine an annoyed look and continued his awkward pacing around her bedroom, trying to get used to (or out of) the harness she bought for him.  She wondered, briefly, how he'd react to the leash she got to go with it.  Then she resumed her manic inventory.

"Do you think I'll need this?" she asked holding up a dress.  "No, I'm not going to need this.  Why would I need a dress?  A skirt, though.  I might need a skirt.  I have to make sure I can carry the bag, though.  Can't be too heavy.  I really have to weed stuff down.  Oh gods, I wish I could take my books.  Maybe just one.  Or two.  Three at most.  I can live with that.

"Do you think I should take some booze?  I mean, I have food and stuff, but do you think I should take some liquor?  Maybe some wine?  

"Thank the gods I already had hiking boots!"

And so on.  She was manic, frantic, and feeling more than a little unbalanced.  Áine knew she was packing things with little rhyme and less reason—it's not as though she'd never been camping before—but she couldn't stop herself.  Every instinct she had was screaming, telling her that what she'd needed on those aforementioned camping trips was not what she would need on the island.  So she packed most of her jewelry, a penny whistle, five books, her journal, three changes of clothes (including a skirt that matched all of the tops she was bringing along), and a variety of other items that would normally be completely useless on a long hike or camping trip.  But she felt she needed them, so they came.  

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she said several times throughout the night.

It was midnight before she calmed down, her belongings packed, and Legbiter finally used to his harness.  She wrote a letter to her mom trying to explain what she was doing, and apologizing for it in advance. Then she taped her spare key to the paper, before folding it in an envelope to mail.  Thinking about it, Áine decided it was probably best if she mailed it tonight rather than wait.  Thinking a bit more, Áine also decided to spend the night on the beach, just in case.  She was so afraid that it all would disappear, her great chance for adventure, for magic, gone while she dithered about.  Chances, she knew, do that: disappear while you're deciding whether or not to go for it.  She made her decision and didn't want to wait.  

Áine ran down the block to the mail box and back to gather Legbiter and her things in record time.  Then Legbiter leashed and grumbling, her pack on her back, she exited her apartment locking the door behind her.  In the parking lot, she drug the small kayak off the roof of her car, and then fumbled everything back across the spider's web barrier to the impossible.  There, on the beach above the tideline, she and Legbiter curled up to sleep until dawn.  

She woke feeling slightly damp with mist, looked around herself and gulped.  The sea and the island were there as she half hoped/half dreaded, but there was nothing else.  Her apartment, as hazy as it'd seemed the day before, was completely gone.  There was no going back.  That too was something she half hoped/half dreaded would happen.  She stood up, packed the kayak, and dragged it closer to the sea.  Then she collected Legbiter, holding him to her chest and rubbing her face against his fur.

"Well," she said, "I guess we're on an adventure."

The cat purred.

Fiction Friday #1: Bartleby Jones

1.
Bartleby Jones, Mr. Jones to his clients, considered himself a master of information.  It's how he made his living as something of a fixer/hirable detective.  There wasn't much he wasn't able to find out with the hodgepodge computer and other tech he built himself.  His office, on the eighth floor of one of the few office building still standing, was an incongruous blend of wires, plastic, and metal.  Visitors often felt like they'd stepped into an incongruous mix of film noir and space opera when they entered his office.  Every piece of  technology in it was lovingly slapdash, made by Jones himself, and all for the purpose of siphoning info and other useful bits from the city.

The man himself was considered a useful eccentric by his acquaintances, someone to count on my his friends, and vaguely dangerous by everyone else.  He was tall and almost painfully skinny, with skin the color of wet earth: deep brown with a hint of red.  For the past couple of years he'd taken to wearing ill-fitting three piece suits whenever he left his apartment, the entire ninth floor of that same office building.  The suit he chose for the meeting with the paunchy, pale, middle-aged man sitting just on the other side of the desk from him, was dark blue, made from some kind of synth fabric, and several inches too short in the arms and legs, giving the impression that he was an overgrown teenager wearing an outfit he'd outgrown years before.  His clients outfit was subtly rich: boots, pants, and tee.  Jones thought the t-shirt was real cotton, but couldn't be sure.  A backpack leaned against the leg of the metal chair his client sat in.

Jones typed something, read what came up, frowned, then repeated the process.  He had found all he needed earlier, before this appointment, but wanted to watch the reaction of his client.  He surreptitiously watched his client.  The man was sweaty, and nervous-looking, which could mean anything.  If he'd found himself in the situation his client claimed, he'd likely look the same, but something about the man rubbed Jones the wrong way.  He found he wanted to needle him, test his story, but it wouldn't help: whether the man was lying or not Jones would still have to call in a specialist.  He didn't like risking his tentative friendship with Jack by putting him danger, but with this case he knew he'd have to call Jack in.  Still, he looked up at his client and said, "I'm sorry.  Christoph Jacobi doesn't exist."

"No," his client said, "no, no.  No.  I exist.  I'm sitting right here, aren't I?"

"Are you?" Jones asked, and thought to himself, Did the man pause too long before speaking?  Did he look relieved that I found what I was supposed to find, which was nothing.  Or -

"Of course I am," the man said, rising to his feet and slamming his hands down on Jones' desk, " I exist damn it.  I'm real and I'm really Christoph Jacobi.  I'm not selling you something.  I need you're help.  I just want to go home."

Was that upset real?  Could this be some kind of trap?  I just don't know.  I'll just have to watch him.

"I want to go home," the man claiming to be Christoph Jacobi practically shouted, "This isn't a joke or a con.  I heard you could help me, but if you're not going to take me seriously I'll find someone else!"

Jones leaned backed, steepled his fingers, and stared Christoph down.  "Who," he said darkly.

"What?"

"I'm just curious who you think will help you with your problem?  Do you know anyone this side of the city wall?"

"No - I just . . ."

"Sit."

The man sat, and Jones leaned forward.  "I doubt very much that you'll find anyone else out here who'll willing to help you.  I doubt you'll find anyone else who won't rob you, rip you to pieces, and feed you to the cannibals in the Edge.  Not with you're rich clothes, and . . . are those boots real leather?"

Christoph blanched, and Jones smiled.

"I didn't say I wouldn't help you," Jones said, "Or that I couldn't help you.  I only said that you didn't exist."

"But I do . . ." the man's voice had a whiny edge to it that made Jones want to cringe.  Could you fake that?

"What I mean," Jones said, sharply cutting the whine off, "when I say you don't exist is that Christoph Jacobi, the name and ID code you gave me, is nonexistent in every database to which I have access, both legally, and . . . otherwise.  In essence, for the sake of legal niceties, and most certainly in the eyes of the government, Christoph Jacobi does not exist.  You shouldn't feel too bad about it, not many people on this side of the wall do.  It's a perfectly legitimately way to live."

"I don't want to live this way."

Jones shrugged, and said simply, "I can arrange for that as well."

Christoph paled, and stammered, "I-I don't mean - I mean, I don't . . . No - I mean I was . . . and, and now I'm not - and -"

Jones thought to take pity on him, if it was a lie he was committed, and if it wasn't he really needed help.  "Look," he said, "if what you're telling me is true then there are two possibilities.  One, you were erased.  By someone high-high in the government.  That could happen for a number of reasons: You stepped out of line, pissed someone off, were some kind of threat, you asked the wrong question, saw the wrong document, drank the wrong coffee.  I don't know.  You'd be surprised how little it takes."

"I haven't done anything.  I didn't do anything!  I swear it.  I'm a good citizen."

"I don't really care."

"Take this seriously, damn it!" the man cried, almost standing up again.  Jones waved him back down.

"I am taking this seriously," he said, "which brings us to option two."

"Which is?"

Jones reached for the drawer under his desk, it slid open without a sound, the second option, a convenient lie with just enough truth to sound convincing slid to his lips, "That you're a government agent with an assumed 'identity' sent here to catch me doing exactly what you seem to want me to do, which, I'm sure you know, is highly illegal."

Christoph Jacobi, or whoever he really was, inhaled loudly and leaned back, as though trying to get as far away from Jones as he could without getting out of his chair.

Jones smiled thinly and almost whispered, "Which option, do you think, gives you the best chance of leaving this room alive?"

The man sitting across from him jumped up, toppling the chair and started to back towards the closed office door.  Jones rose, following him, gun in hand.

"I didn't do anything!" Christoph cried, "I'm not - I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Boy," Jones growled, "If I believed that you'd already be nothing but a stain on my floor.  'Cause if you're a spy, you didn't do anything wrong.  And if you're just some little lost 'zen, well . . . You must've done something."

"I'm the victim here.  I swear, I'm the victim," Christoph was practically in tears, but didn't make any further move towards the door.

Jones bent down, righted the toppled chair, then leaned back against his desk, gesturing for Christoph to return.  The man did, slowly.  Jones put the gun on the desk, not out of reach, he wanted to look threatening, but not too threatening.

"As it happens," he said picking up the little dagger he kept on his desk to open letters and other things.  He fingered the dagger, twirling it around his fingers, it was sharp, well-balanced, perfect for throwing, "I find I'm not entirely convinced of either possibility.  Now, let's talk about you."

"What about me?" Christoph grumbled.

"Oh, little things.  Like, how you got on this side of the wall, being a good 'zen and all.  Or how you heard of me.  Or how you expect to pay me.  You pick."

"I-I  . . . wh- I came home and my imprint didn't work.  Y-you know, the door didn't open.  It happens sometimes.  Um, I tried getting an officer to open it and reset it, a-and when he scanned me . . . i-it didn't work  I didn't show up.  He laughed.  Laughed!  Called me a slum rat.  I was arrested, thrown out of the city.  I-I didn't know what to do.  I ran into some guy near the wall.  He told me, he told me about you, th-that you could help me, and I came.  I don't know what else to tell you."

Hmm, Jones thought, truth or lie?  Both?  He did have agents near the wall for occasions such as this, but something about the man didn't jibe.

"And my fee?" Jones prompted.

"I-I don't know."

"I don't do this out of the kindness of my heart, boy," Jones said.

"If, if you can get me my life back . . . I can pay, I will pay whatever you want."

Jones smiled wide, showing his teeth, "Twenty-thousand hard credits, paid the day you get your life back."

"I can't afford that!"

"You're welcome to find someone else to help you."

"You just told me there's no one else!"

"True.  Then we have a deal?"

Christoph looked mulish, "If I can't pay?  If I don't pay?"

"We don't haggle here," Jones said, leaning forward to put his face just inches away from Christoph's, "If you don't pay me, I'll just arrange for you to lose your life again.  You'll end up back on this side of the wall, back at my door, and I'll give you to Esme to take it out of your ass before you lose your life in a more permanent fashion."

"Who's Esme?"

"My wife, and the proprietress of the lovely little whorehouse downstairs."

"What if you can't get me back in the city?"

"You still have to pay, but my fee will be discounted, and we'll work out another form of payment.  Do we have a deal?"

"Do I have a choice?" Christoph sounded resentful.

"No, not really," Jones said, and thought, Neither do I.

"Then we have a deal," Christoph said, reaching out to shake Jones' hand.

A half an hour later, Jones sat at his desk alone.  He felt glum and gloomy.  He'd arranged for Christoph to have a room at Esme's Place.  It was safer than making the man squat somewhere, and he'd be able to keep an eye on him.  He didn't like it, this story of Christoph's, it smacked of danger, true or no.  The door hidden at the side of the room opened, Esme leaned against the frame.  She was beautiful, his wife, with her curvy body, long black hair, and angel face.  She wore a knee-length white sundress that was almost, but not quite shear.  He loved her for her looks, which hadn't faded in the twenty years they'd been together; and he loved her for her mind, which was full of all sorts of clever twists and turns.  She was beautiful, yes, and as dangerous and cunning as a snake.

"How much of the interview did you see?" He asked her.

"Most of it," she said smiling, "You channeling Jack.  Kind of sexy."

"He does have a way about him."

"That he does."

"Should I be jealous?" he teased.

"Stop being foolish," Esme scolded.  She moved to stand arms akimbo, and Jones' attention was drawn to the lush curve of her hips.  She laughed, and raised an eyebrow when he looked back at her face.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"About that look you just gave me, or about you're client?"

"Client."

"He wasn't one of yours?"

"No.  I quit that scam months back.  The 'zen authorities were beginning to catch on.  Ground boiling beneath my feet, you know?"

"I remember," Esme said, as she walked over to him and found a comfortable place on his lap, "It was too dangerous to walk.  Couldn't take a step without tripping over some pig-headed, overzealous 'zen enforcer.  That moron, Skinned-Ed, still can't walk."

"Well, he did used to be just Ed," Jones said.

"Don't joke," said Esme looking troubled, "What do you think?  He's your client after all."

"Something about him doesn't ring true, but I can't put my finger on it."

"What are you going to do?" Esme asked.

"Figure it out," he said as he put his arms around her and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

2.
Jones took a circuitous route to Jack's house.  A different route than the last time he visited, different, even, than the time before that.  It was a pain in the ass, but every time he came to Jack's house he tried to take a different path there.  This time he cut through several burned out buildings, crossed over the territories of three different gangs, and skirted the Edge.  At times he sprinted, at other he meandered, looking, hopefully, like he had no real destination.  All this to make sure he wasn't followed, to keep the location of Jack's home as secret as possible.  Jones didn't know who exactly Jack was, nor did he know who exactly was looking for his friend, but he knew the man was being looked for by very dangerous people.  He'd seen the footprints of the search himself in the ether of the net when he'd checked to satisfy his own curiosity.  Whenever Jones visited, he always got the impression of being followed, and felt it best to take precautions.  Today was no different, if anything, it was slightly worse.  Jones could practically feel the boots at his back.

Jack's house was fairly typical for the neighborhood, just one more beat-up old house, brick built, two stories not counting the attic or basement.  A big porch overlooked a front garden that, come harvest, produced enough edibles to feed several large families.  Some of the bricks on the facade were pitted and scorched.  Mortar shells exploded near enough to damage but not destroy.  Above the porch was a deck with a low brick wall running around it.  It gave a good view of the surrounding area, and Jack had cut down several trees and knocked down some of the walls that still stood from other houses that hadn't quite so lucky the mortars were fired.One of the battlefronts was not far from here, during the war some of the buildings were used as aid stations, Jones often wondered which ones, and if his friend had chosen his home for that reason.

The door was some kind of thick hardwood, reinforced with steel, and Jones knew the jam and surrounding wall was also reinforced.  Jack was slightly paranoid, Jones thought he had a right to be, but the younger man never seemed to let it get to him.  He had secrets, but was so skilled in diverting attention away from him that even though Jones could find no one who actually knew anything more about Jack than he did, no one else seemed to notice until Jones had inadvertently pointed it out to them with his questions.

Jack knocked, thinking of his previous blunders and frowning.  There was no answer.  He knocked again, and waited.  Then again.

"Leave off the knocking, will you, Bart? You'll wake the neighborhood and dent my door." Jack called from the balcony, sounding amused.  Jones got the oddest feeling that he should have seen him when he walked through the yard.

"What neighborhood?" Jones asked, "You're the only one living for several blocks."

There was no answer, but Jones imagined Jack shrugging gracefully.  Jack did everything gracefully.

"I think I need your help, Jack," Jones said.

"Is that what brings you to my door?"

"Yes."

"I'll be right down," Jack said, and Jones heard a door close above him.

Jones turned towards the door, waiting for Jack to open it and let him in.  He felt a hand on his back and jumped.  Jack laughed quietly behind him.

"I thought I'd take the quick way down," he said.

"How'd you get down here, man?" Jones asked.

"I jumped."

"Why didn't I hear you land?"

Jack shrugged and said, "Let's talk upstairs."

He unlocked a series of complicated looking locks and opened the door, leading Jones inside, then relocking every lock carefully.  The inside of the house was all wood, stained dark and polished bright.  Every room had a wall of books and weapons.  Jones knew Jack was never without at least one blade on him, not even, it seemed, at home.  Jones also knew that Jack himself was a weapon.  He was fast, strong, more dangerous than anyone gave him credit for.  Jones' had seen him kill a man once, the man was a local thug, tried to set himself up as a boss, tried to start something one night with Jack, and had been cut three different times before he even knew he was dead.  And he was dead before anyone had even realized that the fight had fully started.  Scary stuff.  Takes some serious training too.

Jones followed the man through the rooms of the ground floor, up the stairs, through a sumptuous bedroom, and out onto the front deck.  There was a little table with two chairs, and on the table, as though waiting for Jones' visit, was a teapot and two cups.

"Tea?" Jack asked holding his arm out to indicate Jones should sit.  Jack was in his usual uniform of crisp, white, impeccably tailored shirt and dark grey, just as tailored slacks, but his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and Jones caught sight of the red holodermic band tattooed around Jack's wrist, his breath caught sharply in his throat.  Jack noticed, of course he did, "I won't hurt you, Bart, you know that."

"I know, man, but--" Jones gestured to Jack's wrist.

Jack smiled a small, tight smile.  "It's not really a tattoo, you know," he said, "it's holodermic thread sown layer by layer through your skin.  The pain is incredible, you can feel it wrapping around your bones.  Some are permanently disabled by the process, can no longer use their hand.  They were more careful with me."

"It's red, man.  Fuck, what I know?  Means you're a breeder, right?  What the fuck are you living on this side of the wall for?  Who are you?"

"I like it here.  It's as good a place as any."

"Ratshit.  I don't believe that for a second," Jones was scared and angry, he trusted Jack, and this revelation, intended or not, had shaken that trust, "That," he said indicating the tattoo, "marks you as a fucking 'zen enforcer--"

Jack scoffed, "I can guarantee that no one as unimportant as an enforcer wears this mark."

"That's not a fucking answer," Jones spat, "Who are you?"

Jack sat with a sigh, and poured some tea into the cups.  "This," he said lifting his forearm, "doesn't exactly mean what you think it means."

Jones sat opposite Jack, a warm cuppa in front of him, and said, "Then tell me what it means.  I need to know.  If I'm going to let you near Esme, the girls, my family . . ." he hardened, "If I'm going to let you keep breathing, I need to know.  As much as you can tell me."

A smile came and went across Jack's face.  He leaned back in his chair, sipped his tea, and said, "Do you really think that you could even touch me unless I wanted you to, old man?"

"I'm serious, Jack."

"I'm getting that, Bart."

"Who are you?"

Jack took a slow, deep breath, "You're asking the wrong question.  This bracelet, my bracelet, means that the wearer's, my, genetic code -- the engineering that went into making me . . . The anomalies that make me what I am are . . . considered valuable to the people who run the world.  Yes, I'm a breeder.  They'd like me to breed, to pass on my valuable genes.  So this marks me as a breeder, and something else.  So when you ask me who I am, you're asking the wrong question."

"What are you?" Jack whispered, afraid the answer would mean death by the hands of a man he considered a friend.

"I'm not really sure, but I don't think I could be considered human."

"Are you going to kill me?"

Jack's smile was wider now, "That option was considered and dismissed when we first met, and you've give me no real reason to reconsider.  No, Bart, I'm not going to kill you.  I like you too much."

Jones could breathe again.  He picked up the little cup and sipped his tea, it tasted real.  Jack wasn't telling him everything, but he could live with that.  For now.

"Why are you here, this side of the wall?" he asked the not-quite-human across from him.

"Why are you?"

"What?"

"Seriously, Bart, you've got the skills to make yourself a nearly foolproof ident.  You could easily move yourself into the city's walls."

Jones thought about it, he'd grown up in the city, run away as a teenager, met Esme, fell in love, built a home and a business, and never really looked back.  Sometimes his nights were sleepless and filled with what-ifs but not often.  He didn't speak until he thought he had an answer, "The 'zens are little more than slaves, gears working in a machine run my tyrants.  Here, I'm free."

"Mostly," Jack said.

"Yeah, well, mostly's good enough for now."

"That's why I'm here too," Jack said and held up his forearm again, "This isn't a key.  It's a manacle."

The two drank their tea in silence.  Then Jack asked, "What do you need my help with?"

And Jones told him about his client.

3.
A year before Jones came up with a scheme to get money, food, clothes, meds, and tech from the 'zens inside the wall.  He hacked the 'zen registry and found 'zens with access to what he needed.  He didn't do this just for himself, but for Esme, her employees, their neighbors, hell, everyone this side of the wall.  They were dying out here.  Slowly.  They grew what they could, bartered or scavenged what they couldn't, but there were still things, like meds, that they couldn't get.  What little hard credits they got from 'zen tourists looking for a wild night, went fast and never covered as much as they should've.  Taxes, the city guards called it.  Things were getting desperate, and more and more people were going to the Edge, because at least there you usually had something to eat.  That is, if you managed not to be made a meal yourself.

His plan worked pretty well, too, for a few months.  Then 'zens started showing up that he didn't erase.  At first Jones thought one of the other area hackers had found out and was working the same con, but the theory didn't fly.  Then the enforcers showed up, and Jones shut down.  People looking for help tapered, and months went by with no one looking for that kind of help.  Until a few days ago, out of the clear blue, Christoph Jacobi showed up.

Jack told Jones that they should kill him.  Jones didn't like the idea of killing some innocent 'zen, but Jack didn't give up easily.

"Think of it as a mercy killing," he said, "By the gods, Bart, if, and I really mean this, if he's not some government though, then seriously pissed off some government thug.  Either way, it's dangerous for you.  It's better for everyone to quickly and quietly get rid of him.  Bury the body, or take it to the Edge and get some use out of it.  Then just pretend none of this ever happened.  That's the smart play."

Jones couldn't stomach the thought of killing an innocent person.

Jack thought him hopelessly naive, and told him so, "You're far too chivalrous, and I think you're an idiot for doing this.  It's just asking for trouble.  I'll help you, but only because I've been bored.  And I'm doing this under protest of idiocy."

"Duly noted," Jones told him.

That's how Jones found himself sneaking up the back stairs of his own home and onto the floor that housed Esme's Place.  Christoph, a quick call to Esme had confirmed, was busy with a couple of her girls, and, most importantly, in their room, not his own.  Christoph's room was in the corner near the stairs, the murder room, easy to sneak in and out of.

"Why are we here again?" Jones asked quietly.

"What?  Are you new?" Jack answered, "I want to go through his stuff."

"I told you that Esme and I did that already.  All he had was a backpack and I checked it at our first meeting, then Esme rechecked it when I moved him here.  He didn't have much."

"I believe in being thorough," Jack said, "It's a quirk.  Think, Bart, when did one of your marks have anything coming to you, let alone a bag?"

"Well, yeah, the bag was suspicious, but I checked it and he had nothing."

"Nothing can turn into something pretty fast."

"What?"

"Just shut up and help me search, old man."

Jones reluctantly joined Jack's searching, annoyed that the younger man was completely disregarding two separate searches.  He was poking sulkily around the empty closet when he heard Jack "a-ha!" and turned to find him laying on the floor and pulling a backpack out from under the bed.

"What 'a-ha'?" Jones said, "There is 'a-ha'.  There's nothing here that hasn't already been checked.  A couple of times, remember?"

Jack ignored him and dumped the contents of the bag on the bed.  Then he took a closer look at the inside of the bag, reached his hand in, fiddled a bit, and pulled out a phone and a switchblade.

"So you knew he had a blade and a phone when you booked him here?" he asked looking smug.

"What?  No.  Those weren't in his bag earlier."

"I'm afraid they were.  Hidden compartment."

"I checked for hidden compartments," Jones felt new and very stupid.

"Very well hidden.  Don't feel bad, I've seen this bag before.  Well, not this one, but one just like it,"  Jack snicked the blade open and used it to pry off the back of the phone.  He poked around at the insides, and said, "We're moderately lucky, no GPS.  Let's see who he's been talking to."

Jack turns the phone on, swiping at the screen, he lifted the speaker to his ear, listened a minute before dropping it and crushing it under his boot.  He looked up a Jones, "You really should've let me kill him."

"Yeah," Jones said looking over Jack's shoulder, "I'm getting that."

Jack turned and saw what Jones was looking at, Christoph, or whatever his real name was, was standing in the door, pointing a gun right at him.

"Find something interesting?" Christoph asked mildly.

"Not really," Jack told him.  Glancing back at Jones, Jack asked, "So this is your Christoph Jacobi?"

"Yeah," Jones said.

"I'm not terribly impressed," Jack said.

"You should be," Christoph spat, "I found you, didn't I, Jack?"

"And what do you expect that to get you?" Jack asked, he sounded amused, "A promotion?  That's only if you can hand me over, and I won't let that happen."

"You think not?"

"I know not," Jack dismissed him and the gun he was pointing at Jack, and turned to Jones, "Come on, Bart, let's get you out of here.  I'll kill this guy later."

"I think he'll shoot us," Bart said blandly.

"No," Jack said smiling wickedly, "I'm betting that he was ordered not to hurt me.  That's a big handicap."

"I was ordered not to kill you, but nothing was said about him," Christoph snarled and gestured towards Jones with the gun before bringing it right back to point squarely at Jack, "and nothing was said about hurting you either."

Jack looked at Christoph mildly, and Jones thought, not for the first time, that he might just be a little past crazy.  He didn't seem worried at all.  Jones, however, was sweating.  He really didn't want to get shot.  A movement in the shadows of the hallway behind Christoph caught his eye,  Esme.  The mad woman was there with a bat, she smiled at him.  He shook his head slightly, praying she'd catch it and back up the way she came.

Jack took a step toward Christoph and said, "I think it's highly unlikely that you'll stop aiming at me.  I'm the biggest threat to you, and that gun?  It's your only leverage.  Hurt fades.  You won't cause me any permanent damage.  You were ordered not to."

"What do you know of orders?"

"I think I know who's giving you yours."

"Who?" Jones asked, unable, even now, to check his curiosity.

"Someone I hoped would never find me," Jack said somberly.

Christoph snorted, "His mother."

"What?!" Jones half asked, half exclaimed.  His mother?!

"She's a terrifying lady, Bart," Jack said.

"She's a pussycat compared to me," Christoph said.

"Right," Jack didn't sound convinced.  He moved forward another pace.

Christoph stepped back just enough to clear the threshold and enter the hallway.  Just enough that Esme had the room to brain him with the bat she held, which she did without hesitation.  Jack laughed as Christoph thumped to the floor, and Jones ran to his wife.

"Are you crazy, woman?" he all but shouted at her, "You could've gotten yourself killed."

"Pffft," Esme waved away his worry, "I was perfectly safe."

"What if he'd seen you?" Jones asked.

"He didn't.  I'm fine," Esme said toeing the crumpled man beside them, "Do you think he'll wake up again?"

"Does it matter?" Jack asked her.

"Meh," she answered.

"Jack," Jones said, "I think you need to tell us a little bit about your family."

"It's a long story."

"We've got time right now."