The Powers that Be

A fanquisition original by Konrad A.

Part 1: Of Lesser Gods

Though we are the children of God, still we doubt our inheritance.

-Jim Sterling (presumably)

Chapter 1: Pain

Jim Sterling sat in the rigid café chair, idly twisting a Splenda packet in his fingers. His look of quiet distaste aptly described his mood as he let his thoughts drift and the moments tick by. The florescent glow of the hospital lights belied the hip vibe that the café was desperately trying to convey. Cool-patterned counter tops and contemporary music mixed with cold metallic structures. Everything has to be disinfected. Jim thought passively.

Hospital life had become more and more apart of who Jim Sterling was. At first, doctor visits had been about the waiting rooms. Overly quiet, peaceful settings where sick people were sat elbow to elbow. Everyone trying to be patient, everyone on edge, no one wanting to think why the person sitting next to them might be there. Jim realized with finality, as he rubbed the Splenda packet between his fingers, that the one thing he had tried to resist all this time had come to pass. Hospital life was no longer a separate thing. It was no longer something he could categorize as an "other". Hospital life was now a part of him.

This sour thought crosses his mind, and Jim tried to bring his focus back to the table in front of him, towards the multi-colored packets containing various forms of "sugar." Before he could stop himself the same debate he had had a thousand times before began again in his mind.

I really should have the Splenda this time.

But the Splenda tastes like shit.

But I need to watch my weight.

But what's the point of trying to make coffee taste better with something that tastes like shit.

Compromise, use real cream and Splenda.

Great, then I'll have coffee that tastes a bit like cream and shit.

Jim pushed the debate out of his thoughts. Of course, his weight had been more and more on his mind lately. Ever since then he hadn't really been able to move around much. I had been doing so well too… I got my eating under control, was making sure I got my exercise… then this fucking fiasco. Must have gained back 20 pounds since January. Like anyone who has ever tried to lose weight, Jim never thought he would actually succeed. Which is why it had been such a kick in the fucking teeth when he had started making progress, just in time for him to go and mess up his back. Everything really comes back to that, now doesn't it.

At that moment, Conrad Zimmerman returned to the table, pulling Jim out of his dour reverie.

"One black coffee!" Conrad said with a cheerfulness that was, unselfishly, one-hundred percent forced. Jim knew that Conrad didn't mean anything by it, but the pity was not something he could ever get used to.

Jim took a deep breath and let the melancholy he had been floundering in slip away. "Thank you, mate. And thank you again for coming out with me all the way to Atlanta. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

Conrad waived it away while taking a sip of his own beverage. Jim couldn't help but enviously eye the overly-sugary drink that could barely be called coffee. Envy at the drink, envy at Conrad's stick-figure frame that no number of real sugar packets could mar. Jim dismissed the thought quickly.

"Don't mention it." Conrad said, keeping the same forced cheerfulness.

"Well, I'm gonna bloody mention it." Jim said sternly. "It's a really nice thing for you to do, and you didn't have to. And you're going to accept my gratitude if I have to shove it down your throat."

For a moment, Conrad looked taken aback, and then he smiled at his long-time friend's playful manner. A real smile, Jim noted. Not the sort of smile you give to someone who you're afraid might be dying, which is all Conrad had given him on the trip up until now.

Conrad took another sip out of his straw, and then, with a little cough, tried and failed to ask nonchalantly the question he had wanted to ask the entire trip. "So, uh… do they – well, have any idea what they're going to be looking for?"

Jim sat back in his chair. The movement causing a further twinge of pain to shoot up his back. For a moment he did the same calculations that anyone who is on chronic medication gets used to doing. Last dose was at 8 with breakfast. Next dose is at 12 with lunch. Appointment is at 10:30, will probably go until 12, have to make sure I get in a proper lunch before I take the pills.

"The current theory is that I have a slipped disk. Of course, my doctor back in Mississippi said that it's a very irregular case, which is why he recommended me to see this specialist." Jim sighed deeply. "Then again, the first diagnosis they gave me was a slipped disk, which they ruled out. Then they thought it was a pinched nerve, a fractured vertebra, ligament strain. One doctor I saw was convinced that I had a hernia and was dissociating the pain to my back."

"What?" Conrad asked, trying to sound amused and not concerned.

The melancholy began to return to Jim. "But… so long as they keep saying something is wrong, that there's something that can be fixed or treated. That's what I'm most afraid of, I suppose: is them telling me that the pain must not be real, but that I'm imagining it. The greatest pain I've ever known and eventually they'll tell me I'm doing it to myself."

An awkward silence settled over the table for the moment.

"You know what pain is, right?" Jim began again.

Conrad stuttered over trying to sound matter-of-fact. "It-it-it's a chemical response from the synapses to the brain."

"It's the body's way of telling the brain that there's something wrong." Jim responded. "It's the body's way of protecting itself from something worse. The problem with chronic pain, and the thing that no doctor is ever going to tell you, is that you never get used to the pain. You always feel like there's something wrong, and it always feels like it's getting worse, and after a while…" Jim paused, and looked away from his friend. "…After a while you start forgetting what it was to feel right."

He glanced at his watch, 10:25 am, time to check in at the front desk. As he began to get up, he noticed he was still clutching the Splenda packet in his hand. He tossed it onto the table and took a drink of the bitter coffee. "Time to get going, I suppose."

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Dr. Edward Stanton was probably the most doctor-y doctor to ever doctor, Jim thought to himself. He also thought about how deliberately awkward examining rooms tended to be. As if they hope they can weasel out what's wrong by shear discomfort. The specialist in front of Jim was a 37-year-old man with straight brown hair, emerald green eyes, and the sort of energetic youth that made him look like he could be on television. I wonder if he ever really wanted to be a doctor, or if in High School a guidance counselor had said, "Right, well, your choices are a doctor or a swimsuit model, and doctors usually get better parking treatment."

At this moment, Dr. Stanton was holding an x-ray that had been taken in January, with a look of general disapproval. Mumbling to himself, he continued in the direction he had been going for the past hour. "Well, I don't see anything here."

Jim barely even heard him. Doctors had been saying things like "Nothing is jumping out at me" or "There doesn't seem to be anything immediately apparent" since he first went in for treatment six months prior.

"I'd like to take another x-ray." Dr. Stanton finally concluded.

The words were so much white-noise to Jim. "Doctor. I know that you are a specialist, but I've had four x-rays in six months. I'm not sure how this is going to help. I'm afraid that at this rate I'll be able to glow for Halloween and not have to bother with a costume."

The doctor chuckled politely, but dismissed Jim's concerns with a hand wave. Speaking with a light tone he said, "I'm sure you know by this point Jim, that an x-ray is nothing more than a picture. Like in all picture's it's possible that you miss things based on when and how you take the photo. Now, we have some great equipment here that can take much better images than what you've had before. It is a quite literal parallel between 720p and 4k images. Maybe whatever is wrong will show up with the higher resolution."

"That may be, doctor, but no photo in the world is going to help unless you have an idea as to what you're looking for."

Dr. Stanton's professional tone returned. "Well, that's true. And although there are a number of possibilities remaining, my current hypothesis is that you have a hairline fracture along one of your vertebrae. Based on how you've responded to medication…" Shittily Jim thought "…this would make sense. Also, although you've told me you've rested, you've never fully taken 6-8 weeks in bed to recover, which would prevent a small break from actually mending."

Jim sighed. Hoping that the doctor was right, that it might simply be a fracture that had gotten out of hand.

"Regardless," Dr. Stanton continued. "I think we should get you in for an x-ray right away and we probably need to re-examine your pain treatment. I wouldn't be surprised if you needed an increase dosage based on what you've been telling me."

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The same procedure.

The embarrassingly inadequate hospital gown.

The lead blanket to lay across his crotch.

The nurses telling him how well he was doing.

The radiologist telling him to sit and stand and lie down as they position the over-large camera on the boom-arm into different positions. Focusing the camera on different parts of his back. Sometimes his chest, then his stomach, then one of his whole back for good measure. Thirty minutes of playing the worlds-greatest spinal model as each position sent a different twinge of pain down his back. Beginning to count down the minutes to his next dosage of pills to try and abate the pain. His watch was off, but the clock in the corner of the room showed 12:15 pm. Shit, no wonder this hurts so bad.

The gentle reminder of the radiologist that he had to sit still as he could barely keep the tears out of his eyes. The pain increasing with each and every passing moment until the nausea began to rise.

Finally, Dr. Stanton was there, talking with the radiologist. Addressing Jim, he said, "Well Jim, these x-rays will be done soon, but I think it would be best if we scheduled again for tomorrow morning. I'll go over these bad-boys," he tapped the x-ray machine, "and we'll talk again tomorrow about where we go from here. In the meantime, I've upped your medication, which you can pick up at our pharmacy."

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It took all of Jim's calm to slowly eat the grilled chicken sandwich in front of him while sitting in the hospital cafeteria; knowing that he couldn't take his medication until 15 minutes after he had finished. Should put me right at 1 o'clock. He thought, trying to ignore the thought-splitting pain that closing and opening his jaw was beginning to give him. Grilled chicken is healthy god damn-it. Meet me half-way body, I'm begging you.

Slow seconds ticked by. 1 pm came and he took his medication (one and a half of the red pills where before it had been one). More minutes passed, the pain reaching a crescendo until thought and movement were taken from him. There was only the here and the now, and the now was pain. Finally, like a cool breeze on a hot summer's day, the pain began to dull. To dull and to lessen, but to never fully stop. When he came back to himself, he realized he was sweating heavily; he looked at his watch: the hands pointed to just before 2 pm. Barely able to believe that he had spent the past 45 minutes in pain induced semi-coma, he looked up to see Conrad reading something on his phone. Trying to distract himself and pretend that the past hour hadn't been spent frantically worrying about his friend, Conrad assumed a well-rehearsed happy face. "Well, are you done with lunch?"

Jim looked down at his plate, which had a quarter of a chicken sandwich and some limp fries remaining. "Yeah," Jim said slowly, "I think I'm finished with all this right about now."

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Dr. Stanton was not having a good day. First there had been the double-booking by that dumb bitch of a secretary at 9, causing him to have to try and fit two patience in the same hour. Then there was going to be the staff meeting at 6 tonight, in which the hospital director would tell them that they were over budget and under staffed. All of that would add up to the same fourteen-hour day that had been increasingly common this summer. Then there had been the text from his girlfriend letting him know that the leasing company that owned his condo building was demanding a 10% addition in fees due to "unforeseen increases in resident activity." Which meant that Atlanta had been facing a population boom and the real estate types were circle-jerking themselves dry over the overcrowding in the city.

He allowed himself a moment to close his eyes in his office chair, trying to not think about the 87-year-old Alzheimer's patient he had in 20 minutes who had fallen in the bathroom 4 weeks ago and who always insisted that Dr. Stanton was his son; regardless of the fact that Mr. Wesley was an elderly black man whose son was currently living in Washington state.

A knock at the door brought him painfully back to reality, partly causing him to spill some of the grilled chicken salad that sat forgotten at his desk. Jill, a very cute nurse whose company Dr. Stanton would gladly accept was already opening the door before he had a chance to say anything.

"Dr. Stanton, Greg in radiology told me to bring these up to you."

"Great!" Edward said with an enthusiasm he hadn't felt until he saw Jill's tight hospital scrubs cling to her near-perfect figure. "These should be the x-rays from the patient earlier this morning." Dr. Stanton took the manila envelope and pulled out the images. From a folder on his desk, he took the x-rays Jim had had done at the beginning of the year and placed both photos against the light fixture he had on his back wall.

Carefully he scrutinized the high-resolution image taken earlier in the day. He counted the vertebrae to himself, mentally scanning the image in a well-practiced manner, making sure to miss nothing. After a minute of examination revealed nothing of importance, he looked again at the image from January, trying to find any irregularities or differences from the x-ray taken earlier that day. But… nothing.

Dr. Stanton let out an audible sigh. Perhaps it is psychological after all. Poor bastard strained a ligament and then got addicted to the medication. Now his brain won't let him forget the pain, fearing that the high will be taken away.

Almost forgotten, Jill piped in from the doorway, "Doctor, I don't mean to pry, but you said that the x-rays on the right were from the patient this morning, but whose x-rays are on the left?"

"Oh!" Dr. Stanton said, happy that Jill hadn't left. "These were taken from the same patient earlier in the year. I'm trying to see what might be amiss."

"But… but that can't be…" Jill stammered.

Dr. Stanton's attention was now fully on Jill. "Why can't that be?" He asked.

"Because whoever's x-ray is on the right," Jill began, "Is at least a quarter inch thicker than the one on the left."

Dr. Stanton's jaw dropped. Slowly, he over-lade the most recent image over the other. There couldn't be a doubt. The more recent image, while the same length, was at least a quarter inch more wide than the one from the start of the year.

"Is," Jill almost couldn't believe what she was about to say, "Is your patient experiencing… growing pain?"

The gears in Dr. Stanton's mind were grinding to an almost literal halt. "That's not possible." Was all he could manage.

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"Are you sure you don't want me to bring the car around?" Conrad asked Jim, the concern obvious in his tone.

"Neh, like I said, the meds have kicked in and I should be good now." Jim tried to sound convincing. The omnipresent noise of urban Atlanta causing him to speak louder than he would have liked. Cars passed quickly by in congested lines of confusion. Jim looked about himself to try and get a bearing on where they had managed to park, the hospital's lot having been full. Finally, he spotted the street that they would have to travel down to get to Conrad's car.

He approached the intersection and idly waited for the "Don't walk" sign to change. The early afternoon traffic was already beginning to accumulate. Conrad's phone rang. "Hold on just a second." Conrad said, looking at the caller-ID with concern. "This might be important." Jim turned away and continued focusing on the light as Conrad tried to shout over the traffic to make himself heard to his caller.

Finally, the light turned.

Jim began walking across the street. A few paces away, he realized Conrad was no longer following. Turning, he saw that Conrad had one finger in his ear, the phone held up to the other, and was facing away from the street to try and be heard.

Exasperatedly, Jim called to his friend. "Oi! Conrad, the light…"

Jim didn't finish his sentence. He didn't see the truck that tried to take the turn too quickly. He didn't know what was happening. All he knew is that the worst pain he had ever experience in his life ran through his body. In quiet and measured steps; as if time had slowed for his torment; he felt his arm being crushed against his side; his side being crushed against his spine; and his body thrown ten feet from where he had stood a moment previous to land in scraping asphalt that burned against his cheek and cracked against his skull. The screeching of the truck's breaks was the perfect backdrop of sound to the otherwise encompassing pain that scorched through his body.

Darkness enveloped his thoughts.

Without warning, where there once had been black night was now replaced with the light of day. Not the day he had been living in moments before, but many days, more days than he had ever witnessed. Images came to his mind of far off places that he had never been. He saw people that he did not know. He understood things he did not understand but could not name. As a bandage might not be ripped off quickly but rather slowly drawn from the skin, all the pain he had ever experienced since the accident culminated in an ocular vision that does not come from the eyes of sight. A year of thought and vision filled Jim's mind, and he could no more prevent it than a child could prevent a rainstorm.

With slow and weary reluctance, he returned to the realm of mortal man.

Conrad was leaning over him, crying his name. Only a few moments had passed and the ever-present honk's and sirens of Atlanta returned into sharp focus. Finally, the words of his friend penetrated his awareness. "Jim! Jim!" Conrad cried. "Please! Tell me you're okay!"

Jim Sterling looked down at his body where the truck had hit him. His arm dully glowed with an ethereal light. His face burned where it had hit the pavement, but an undeniable truth was slowly permeating through his consciousness.

"I'm… I'm fine…" He meekly muttered.

And it was true.

His pain was gone.

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Chapter 2: Secrets and Shadows

Janet Roberts sat alone at the restaurant table; mindlessly checking facebook with a bored and distracted expression on her face. Scrolling, she saw a picture her mum and dad had posted of them out to eat; celebrating the Friday night with their friends at a local pub. Janet glanced up from her phone to stare at the empty seat across from her, where David should have been. That David had cancelled on her did not surprise her in the least. Her relationship with David had gone in waves since she started her doctorate at UCL three years previous. Every time things started looking serious, David would disappear for a day or a week or a month. What had surprised her was that David had asked her out to dinner in the first place, rather than a meal at his flat. Undercooked noodles with canned tomato sauce was more David's style.

Thinking about it more, Janet realized the date was not like David at all. She had been on campus late that Friday, which was not at all unusual, when he had texted her and asked her out. Of course they had been seeing more and more of each other lately, so Janet had hoped that this was a sign that David might finally be getting serious.

The empty seat across from her told her everything she needed to know about David's commitment.

The waiter approached the table. With a roll of her eyes, she set the phone down, and ordered for herself.

While it was true that Janet ordinarily worked late, the reason for her working late on this particular Friday was far from ordinary. Janet studied Renaissance history, specializing in the role of the Catholic Church and the myriad of Christian and pagan cults that arose during that time period. Her mentor, Dr. Niles Norton was the premier expert in the world on Renaissance history and their lab examined artifacts and texts from that time period.

Just this morning, Dr. Norton had told her they were getting in something new, something special that other experts in the field couldn't explain. "I don't think this is quite in your wheelhouse." Dr. Norton had told her. "But all the same, I think it would be worthwhile for you to take a look and see what you can make of it."

Janet had been there when Dr. Norton unboxed the artifact with several other graduate students. The wooden box was large and thin, and it took four people to lift it. Once opened, Janet saw that it was a large stone tablet; probably 75 by 200 centimeters and nearly 10 centimeters thick. On it were many carved figures and animals and symbols arranged in ways that she didn't understand. Her first impression was that the tablet must be ancient Greek, and she was curious as to why Dr. Norton had wanted her to see it.

"Isn't that gorgeous." Dr. Norton said in his awed voice that Janet was accustomed to. He had lifted his glasses up and was leaning over the piece until his nose almost touched the stone; the soft overhead lights giving strange moving shadows to the carven figures. Other students were also looking at it closely, and only Janet stood apart.

"It is quite beautiful, Dr. Norton." Janet said sincerely. "But I'm not sure how you thought I could help you with it."

"Ah, but Janet! It's not the tablet itself that I thought would interest you. It's that the artifact was found in a newly discovered, secret room in the crypts of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore. The tablet was arranged on an altar. Of course, the stone and the carvings dates the work back to ancient Greece, and no one has a clue as to what it was doing in that church."

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Janet ruminated on the paper that she was already forming in her mind. It was no secret that many of the cults that sprang up during the Renaissance had their roots in ancient Greek culture. However, while every church had its secrets; a pagan cult operating in the basement was a-typical to say the least.

Her meal finished; Janet checked her phone once more to see if David had messaged her again. No texts, no facebook messages. Idly she wondered if this was the last time she was going to let David disappear on her. She knew her friends hated him, and she knew that he wasn't good for her, but god-dammit did they have fun together. Sadly, she pushed herself away from her table and headed out into the night.

Looking at her phone she saw that it was 10:30 pm; later than she had wanted to stay out and she was surprised by herself that she had let the time get away from her. The streets of London were dimly lit by intermittent lamp posts. The few pubs and restaurants that were still open spilled foggy light and muted din into the streets. Janet was not looking forward to the walk that she had to get back to her flat, but the thought of trying to flag a cab was unappealing, and the underground would be just as long a walk as going straight back home.

These thoughts and others distracted Janet. She didn't notice that the streets, which had been mildly busy for a Friday night, had thinned to the barest amount of traffic. She didn't notice the maws of dark alleyways that she crossed one after another, each seemingly more poorly lit than the one before. As the encompassing night and deserted streets increased, Janet hardly noticed anything at all.

So imagine her surprise when the white unmarked van screeched to a halt beside her. Her gasp of fright as, in a moment, the side door slid open and three men wearing black clothing and masks jumped out at her. Her screams barely escaping her lips before a chemical smelling rag was forced over her mouth and the vice-like grip of her assailant pinned her body against his. A few desperate struggles. A pounding of her fist against his thigh. A weak kick against the van. And then the darkness of the night closed around her fully and she knew no more.

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Sometimes, fate intercedes.

Sometimes, the worst thing that could happen never happens.

Sometimes, a hero is there.

By chance, the Silken Shadow had been in the alleyway, taking the back paths on a very different errand when she heard the screams of a woman in trouble. At that moment she had been scaling the fire escape of a three story building; part of a shortcut through London that she knew well. But when she heard the screams, she leaped from the scaffolding. She landed in a run; the shock of the fall absorbed by the neo-composite titanium mesh suit she wore, empowered by her special abilities.

Though she was not surprised by what she saw, she had been fighting crime for months now, Janet's assailants certainly were. Just as they were loading the unconscious body into the van, out from the shadows of the alley springs a blonde woman wearing what appeared to be a full body latex outfit, so that only her face and hands were exposed. The face had a black mask that covered the features of the eyes, and the hands were gripping what looked like long pink ribbons that wound around the wrist.

Rather than debate the matter, the masked men threw Janet into the van and piled in after her.

"Not so fast!" The Silken Shadow yelled. Just as they about to slam the sliding door closed, the Silken Shadow touched the side of the van. Instantly the door jammed and the sound of the engine died.

"Floor it!" One of the men yelled to their driver. "I… I'm trying!" came the weak response.

Not waiting for the men to catch on, the Silken Shadow extended her other hand and the pink ribbon leaped to life as if by magic. In a flash it wound its way around the closest assailant and pulled him from the van and threw him into the alley. Two more quick successions and all three were now outside of the van and sprawling on the pavement. Carefully now, the ribbon extended into the van again and pulled the body of the woman out, lifting her by the waist and the long ribbon cradling her head until she was in the Silken Shadow's arms. The driver of the van didn't look back, too frantic was he with trying to get the ignition to turn over.

With the woman now slumped against her, the heroine released her hand from the van. Instantly the motor revved to life and the driver sped down the street in escape, the door of the van still open to the night.

Turning, the Silken Shadow saw the three men she had apprehended rising to their feet. They might not know what was happening, but they were ready to fight. In the cold dark of the alleyway, she heard more than she saw them flick open their switchblades.

The three men began to approach her slowly in a semi-circle. "Look Lady," the leader of them began, the one directly in front of her. "We don't know what your problem is, but we're not here for you. We just want the girl."

The Silken Shadow lowered the still unconscious woman carefully to the ground and stood before her protectively. A knowing smile spread across her lips. "Then come and take her."

The first attack came from her right. The thug pulled his arm back to slash his knife at the Silken Shadow, but she had been in far too many fights these past few months to be intimidated by one man with a knife. Her right hand ribbon struck out at the man like a coiled snake; the end wrapping itself around his arm and twirling his arm around his body and spinning him like a top where he stood until he fell unbalanced.

The man on his left took this as his chance and rushed the Silken Shadow. Before he knew what had happened, her left hand ribbon wound around his leg in a vice-like grip and he was sprawling flat on his face, his nose cracking painfully against the street.

Now the leader of the three, the one who spoke, slashed with his own knife. The Silken Shadow held up her arm in defense and the knife blade snapped against the fabric. Before he could recover he felt the Silken Shadow's foot slam against his gut, bending him over double, and then a high kick to the chin and he was falling over backwards, seeing stars, and tasting blood. Although he was also no stranger to fighting, he had never been hit so hard in his life. It felt more like he had been boxing a gorilla than a woman who could barely be half his weight. These thoughts were cut off as the back of his head hit the pavement, and blessed unconsciousness took him.

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The Silken Shadow surveyed the mess she had landed herself in. For the past few months, ever since her powers had fully taken form, she had spent every night fighting crime on the streets of London. Still, this usually meant stopping a robbery or a mugger, or more often than not, simply patrolling the back alleyways in her unique manner. This woman was the first attempted kidnapping she had ever seen, let alone foiled, and she didn't know what to do next.

She checked that the assailants were alive and piled them against the brick building on their side to prevent them from choking. There was blood, but nothing that looked too serious. Typically, now she would just leave; letting the police handle the rest. However, she couldn't leave this woman behind, and she couldn't wait for the police herself. Debating back and forth, she finally decided that only one course of action remained, she would have to take the woman back with her.

With a loud sigh, the Silken Shadow lifted the woman up and retreated into the alleyway. Her left hand reached outward and the pink ribbon slowly floated up to the second floor fire escape; wrapped the end around the railing, and pulled herself up; continuing her journey home.

When she got near her apartment building, the woman had begun to come back to consciousness in groggy stages. Now she could walk with the Silken Shadow guiding arm around her waist. In view of her building, the Silken Shadow removed her mask and entered the lobby. An elevator flight up to the third floor, and then she was at her own flat. In her special way, the Silken Shadow put her thumb to the lock of her door that no key could open. The tumblers slowly clicked into place.

Laying the still mostly unconscious woman on the couch, the Silken Shadow removed the blonde wig and put it on the bust of Shakespeare she kept by the door. She stripped the neo-composite titanium mesh suit off and let it fall noisily to the floor, relishing the feeling of her skin breathing before dressing in normal clothes. Of course for the suit to work with her powers it had to be skin tight; and of course any skin tight suit wouldn't breath very well; but for the hundredth time she tried to think of an alternative and for the hundredth time nothing came to mind. She scratched her blue hair where the wig had been itching at her scalp.

Returning to her desk in sight of the couch she noticed the unconscious woman was beginning to stir. Looking at the clock on the wall she saw that it was nearly midnight and that she was extremely late for her Skype call. However, when she opened the computer she saw that she hadn't missed any calls. A quick glance at her cell phone showed that no one had tried to message her either. This was extremely odd as Jim had promised to call with an update after his hospital visit. And now that the Silken Shadow had been put away, and only Laura K. Buzz remained, for the first time that night she was truly scared.

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Chapter 3: Joy

Any doctor or nurse, any healthcare professional or caretaker, will tell you the same thing if they are being honest with themselves: death is predictable. Death comes, and death goes. When a person dies unexpectedly, a doctor will have the same thought: I should have seen it coming. The footsteps of Death are loud.

Life; however, life is unpredictable and strange.

For the second time that day, Jim found himself wearing a hospital gown. This time however, he was lying in a hospital bed watching boring TV while wishing he could at least have had the good fortune to get run over by a truck with a cell-phone charger in his pocket. But no such luck. Apparently Samantha did something that Carrie did not approve of and now their very friendship was on the line. Jim would have stuck a fork in his eye if it would change the channel. He looked over at his new roommate and found the elderly man to be asleep. Looking towards the door and seeing no sign of any nurses, he decided to ignore the bed-order that he had been given and slowly got up to turn the TV off.

For the first time in six months, Jim Sterling got out of bed without pain.

Jim couldn't find the words to express how good not feeling bad could be. Tears began to sting at the corner of his eyes as he thought of all the days of pain that he seemed to finally have left behind. He had an IV in his arm (the doctors had insisted), and he had to roll the coat-stand like gurney holding the saline bag, but he stood upright and walked in full strides. He flicked off the television and returned to bed; letting himself sink into the mattress and pillows, moved to tears at the feeling of comfort he had forgotten.

After the truck had hit him, his first thought had been, Well, Christ, thank God I don't have to walk far to get back to the Hospital. Following this thought, he stood up and brushed himself off and looked around. Immediately, Conrad had tried to stop him, telling him that it wasn't a good idea for him to be moving, who knows what might be wrong, and that someone had called the police and an ambulance was on its way.

Jim had stared at him dazed, not understanding what all of the fuss was about. Wordlessly he pointed at the hospital, just a half a block away and within sight of where they stood. Then, glancing down the street, he saw the carnage that the accident had caused. The front grill of the truck was dented in and the windshield was broken. Glass was strewn about the street. It suddenly dawned on Jim that he hadn't merely been tapped by the truck. When the truck had hit him, it had flung him into the windshield, and the breaking had thrown him over ten feet down the street. The truck must have been going thirty miles an hour when it had taken the corner; burnt rubber skids marked the asphalt in a twisted line. Jim had looked down at his body. He couldn't see a scratch nor did he feel like was anything was broken. He had reflexively stretched his back.

After an interview with a police officer while ambulance technicians took his vitals, he returned to the hospital. Absurdly, they made him ride in the back of the ambulance, and with Atlanta traffic this took a quarter of an hour. First they had taken him to the Intensive Care Unit, but after 20 minutes they had had to reluctantly conclude that nothing was wrong. Still, they insisted that they keep him overnight for observation, because obviously anyone who got hit by a truck had to be in bad shape however much reality suggested otherwise.

At 6 o'clock they had made Conrad leave, and now Jim was alone, bereftly bemoaning his lack of charger while saying every prayer he knew to thank God that he was no longer in pain.

As he was thinking about the strange day, trying to piece together what it all might mean, a piercing thought caused him to bolt upright in bed. SHIT. I was supposed to Skype Laura to let her know how the visit went. Frantically he looked at his watch and saw that it was 8 pm, he had promised he would call her at 11 pm her time. Some quick mental math, Remember I'm in the Eastern Time Zone, not Central, and he found that he was already two hours late. A desperate check of his phone confirmed that it was dead. Fuck.

At that moment, a middle-age, female nurse walked in holding a clipboard. She noticed that the TV was off, looked at the sleeping patient and then glanced disapprovingly at Jim. "Well, Mr. Sterling. You are quite the lucky duck now aren't you."

Jim couldn't quite think of what to say. "I, I suppose I'm still trying to process what happened."

The nurse was leafing through his clipboard. "Well, that's only natural." Her voice had the tone of: Nothing about this is natural, but so long as you're not shitting the bed or dying I'm not going to worry about it. "Now, it says here that you've rejected medication, but that you had been on Vicodin for your back pain, are you sure you don't want your pills?"

"Nurse, for the first time in recent memory, I don't have any pain to dull. I'm not about to take pills I don't need."

The nurse shook her head and wrote something down on the clipboard. "Well alright. We can't force you to take anything, but I have to warn you that going cold-turkey on pain medication like that can sometimes have negative side effects."

"Anything I should be worried about?" Jim asked, suddenly concerned.

"Nothing to really worry about. Strange dreams, on rare occasions hallucinations. Emotional imbalances, that sort of thing. So long as you're careful you shouldn't have to worry; I'm just more concerned if the pain comes back."

A shudder ran through Jim. "Me too."

"Well," the nurse concluded, "If you need anything just let me know. I'm on shift until tomorrow morning, just ask for Carla."

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Sleep alluded Jim. He knew he should feel tired, it was well past 11, but his body didn't seem like it needed sleep. Finally, he simply closed his eyes, and willed sleep to come to him.

In a surprisingly short amount of time, he found himself in the middle of a dream. A bright sun was shining down on a field of wheat; making the stalks look as if they were made of gold. Jim looked about and saw mountains on the horizon, a lake in the distance. Cool crisp air gently washed about him, and he watched the wind move in shifting shades of yellow as the stalks swayed in the distance. In a moment of clarity, Jim was suddenly aware of himself as well. He was wearing his black trench coat and red tie; the ensemble he normally saved for his videos. In his heart of hearts; when Jim thought of who he was, he was typically wearing this outfit. Taking off his black gloves, he saw that his skin wasn't the Elmer's glue-hue his English inheritance had given him, but rather his skin was bronze, as if richly tanned, and reflecting the same glowing light as the wheat around him.

Slowly, not thinking what else to do, he began to walk.

Knowing that he was in a dream, he was still very perplexed by his situation. Normally, things happened in dreams. Now, however, he simply found himself walking. Hours seemed to pass, and each step brought more vitalization to his body than he had ever known before. The gentle stalks slowly parted in his wake.

After what must have been days of walking, although the sun hadn't moved, he finally noticed something white in the distance. Rounding the top of a hill and getting closer, he saw that it wasn't a something but rather it was a someone. A young woman with raven hair and creamy skin, wearing a trailing white gown was sitting in the field, sniffing a broken stalk of wheat she held in her hand. Coming closer, Jim could see that she had a laurel reef of white flowers in her hair, and she was wearing a necklace and rings of gold. As he approached, she turned to him, her warm hazel eyes seeming to pierce his very being.

She jumped and ran to him. "Hello, newcomer! Welcome, welcome! Are you here to stay, or are you only resting?"

Standing beside the woman, Jim realized that the woman must have been about five and a half feet tall, but based on where she stood compared to him, he was several inches taller than normal. Not sure what the woman was asking or what to make of the situation, he replied. "I'm only resting… I believe."

The woman tilted her head and continued the same piercing gaze. "I can see that you are confused. I am Joy; may I ask, what is your name?"

"I'm… Jim Sterling." Words were beginning to feel awkward. Suddenly Jim felt as if he were in High School again, tripping over his words whenever a pretty girl might talk to him.

"Sterling." She said with soft satisfaction, as if the word itself pleased her. "Meaning honor and value. It is a fitting name. Well, my good lord Sterling, are you a brave warrior who has fallen in battle, a circle of your slain at your feet as you valiantly cried your last?"

Jim looked down at himself to check if maybe there was something that she was seeing that he hadn't noticed. Shaking his head, he lamely replied. "No, I'm not a fighter. I've never been to battle." Been to battle, are you a twit?

"Well then…" she said slowly. "It has been long since one of my own kind has come to visit."

Jim started to doubt they were truly speaking the same language, "What, well, what kind might that be?"

The piercing gaze and questioning look intensified. "You seem to be more confused than I first imagined. Do you still live on Earth?"

"I do." Jim said with confidence.

"Where are you now?"

At first Jim looked about himself, and then realized she meant on Earth. "I'm currently staying in Atlanta."

Joy brightened. "Oh I love Atlantis!"

"No, no. Just going to have to slow you down there. Atlanta, as in Georgia, as in much less beachfront property."

Joy gave up and grabbed Jim's hands. Closing her eyes, she spent a moment in meditation. Quietly she proclaimed, "Where the griffin dances amongst the flowers, search for the broken crown. There you find an Oracle."

Jim shook his head. "What does that mean?"

Joy looked solemnly. "An Oracle will help you with your questions, as to the rest, I do not know, Lord Sterling. But it is time for you to return, you are in danger."

Disquiet filled Jim at the warning. "Return… How? How do I wake…" But at the mere thought of waking up, Jim found himself sitting upright in his hospital bed. His watch read 11:45 pm.

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Reeling from the strange dream, Jim came slowly back to reality. Despite the fact that he could only have been asleep for a few minutes, he felt more refreshed than he ever had in his life. Strength seemed to fill him, and he couldn't imagine sleeping again that night.

He didn't have long, however, before the door to his room began to open. A very muscular looking man wearing hospital scrubs was walking in the door, holding a medicine box. He seemed surprised to see that Jim was awake, and looked back out the door. Jim got the impression that he was nodding to someone out of sight, and the entire experience immediately put Jim on edge.

"You should be resting, Mr. Sterling." The man said. His voice was overly smooth. "I just came to replace your IV bag and give you another dose of medication." The words felt oily to Jim's ears, and he couldn't help but tell the man was in some way lying.

"I'm not on medication." Jim said very flatly.

The man assumed a confused look that did not fool Jim. He went to the foot of the bed and checked the chart. "It says here that you've been prescribed a pain regiment due to your car accident."

"I rejected medication. I don't feel I need it."

A lecturing tone came into the voice of the man, "Mr. Sterling, you can't simply deny medical treatment. Now, don't you worry, this will help you to feel better." Again, the words had a gross feeling to Jim on a level he had never known before. The man began to approach his IV bag, and he took out a syringe.

Sternly now, looking concerned at where the needle was taped into his forearm, Jim repeated. "I rejected medication. You can go ask Carla about it."

The man didn't look at Jim as he prepared the needle. "Carla's off duty tonight, but I will let her know that you were concerned."

This was too much for Jim. Besides the certainty that the man was obviously lying, it seemed that he was up to something down-right malicious. Before he could think about it, he ripped the IV needle from his arm.

The man at first seemed taken aback, and then without warning he jabbed the needle towards Jim's thigh. Jim caught the man's arm in his hand and held it tight. Despite the fact that the muscular man was pushing down with all of his strength, Jim held the wrist firmly with very little effort. The man seemed shocked and with his left fist punched Jim in the face. Jim felt the blow more on an intellectual level than a physical one, and heard the fingers in the man's hand break in a sickly chorus of cracks as they made contact with his cheek.

Un-phased, Jim pushed the man backwards by the hand holding the syringe. Jim felt the arm bend towards the man without resistance, then the arm was against the chest, then the man was flying in the air and collided with the television. The man screamed; the television shattered and fell with the man to the floor.

Instantly, two men wearing black suits and black sunglasses rushed into the room, pistols un-holstered and pointed towards the ground. They saw the broken television laying on top of the collapsed man and raised their guns. Jim didn't know what to do, so he did the only thing he could think of: he rushed them. In the time that it took for him to get out of the bed, and begin running towards them, the men had yet to fully raise their guns. It seemed strange to Jim, who didn't notice he was moving faster than was physically possible for any normal man. Before the two men could realize their peril, Jim had a hand on each of their faces and was pushing them towards the wall behind them. Both skulls dented the drywall and they fell to the floor unconscious.

His heart pumping harder than he had ever known, Jim looked at the room around him. Three men were on the floor and he was somehow responsible, standing in the middle of the room with his ass hanging out of his gown.

Quickly, before anyone else might discover what had happened, Jim dressed in his clothes that had been stored away. He checked to make sure he had his phone and wallet and was about to head out the door. One more look around to make sure he hadn't forgotten something, and he saw that the elderly man in the other bed was awake and staring at him. Not knowing what to say, Jim stared back like a deer caught in headlights.

After a moment the man said in his grizzly, disapproving voice. "Male nurses, what's the world coming to?"

Jim shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know, mate." And he was out the door.

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Miracle of Sound Break

Gavin slammed the snooze button on the alarm, but the ear-splitting beep-beep-beep didn't stop. Groggily, he opened his eyes and looked. The small plastic clock next to his bed displayed 9:00 in neon red numbers and Gavin let out an exasperated groan. Without a second thought he gripped the clock, jerked it forward, ripping the plug from the wall, and tossed the clock across the room. It took him a moment to realize that the beep-beep-beep hadn't stopped and then he remembered he had set the alarm on his phone.

He found his phone (which had fallen off the bed side table during the completely unavoidable alarm-clock incident), swiped the alarm on his phone silent, and then threw his phone across the room where it bounced against the wall and landed next to the alarm-clock. The "15 unread messages" display having gone unnoticed.

At 10:30 Gavin got out of the shower and dressed (underwear, undershirt) and got breakfast (cereal and milk). Sitting down at his computer, he scrolled through his twitter feed, continuing his morning routine. General news articles passed by.

Nintendo to hold press conference about lower than expected stock prices.

Kotaku sued by Angry Birds developer for liable.

Un-expected DLC for Witcher 3 coming soon.

Popular games journalist Jim Sterling dead from injuries sustained during a car accident.

Gavin sputtered and choked mid-bite of cereal. He dropped the bowl to the ground which exploded in milk and Cinnamon Toast Crunch and leaped from the computer.

"HOLY SHIT!" He exclaimed in his heavy Irish accent. "Witcher 3 is getting more DLC!"

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Chapter 4: Lost and Found

Following her morning routine, Laura was showered by 7:30 and having a light breakfast of jam and toast, or as she still thought of it from childhood: toasted jam, and orange juice. By 8 o'clock, she was washing up her dishes and settling down at her computer to begin her daily routine. She was still worried about Jim, but figured he would message her as soon as he could.

She saw the young woman she had rescued was still on the couch; snuggled under a blanket that Laura had given her the night before. The woman had slipped from unconsciousness into uneasy sleep and Laura figured it would be best to let her wake up naturally and peacefully. In the meantime, Laura might as well start her day. The first thing she did everyday was to spend a half-hour working on the Podquisition. Typically, this simply meant looking up news articles or filtering questions, but on Tuesday's and Wednesday's this also included minor editing and uploading of sound files. Since it was Saturday, a quick glance at the computer calendar and yes indeed, it was Saturday, she might as well collect news articles that might be interesting to Jim and Gavin.

By chance, she came across the same articles that Gavin would see in a few hours' time, while going through her own sources.

Nintendo to hold press conference about lower than expected stock prices.

She quickly glanced at the article. This was something she and Jim might get a kick out of talking about, but Gavin probably wouldn't be interested. It seemed that Nintendo's NX had actually been a platform for playing Blu-ray disks, and once people got their hopes up for a more powerful console the development team had panicked.

Kotaku sued by Angry Birds developer for liable.

This one was a bit more interesting. It seemed that Rovio entertainment didn't have permission to let Kotaku pre-review the Angry Birds movie. Kotaku wrote an unflattering article about the movie before the opening night, and now Sony and Columbia were seeking legal action towards Rovio. In an "offensive legal move" Rovio decided to sue Kotaku, saying that they had given permission to see the movie but had specified that Kotaku was only allowed to write about the movie in ways that it pertained to the video game.

Laura smiled to herself and wrote down some notes towards what she would want to bring up during the podcast. She always seemed to have trouble making jokes on the fly, and to help she often tried to imagine the conversations in advance to try and prepare funny statements. She could see the conversation going like such:

Me: It would seem Rovio claims they never actually gave permission to talk about the movie… only things in the movie that reflected elements of the video game.

Jim: Elements of the video game? It was an iOS puzzle game that got lucky. It didn't have a story or characters. It had angry birds that flung themselves at poorly constructed masonry for our amusement.

Me: Well, that may be so, but it seems that the bigger development is that apparently this is a play by Rovio to protect them form a lawsuit by Sony pictures. It seems Rovio didn't have permission to show the movie to anyone, and now Sony is upset by the poor review pre-opening night and Rovio is trying to cover their feather-y asses.

Jim: No, Kotaku is the bird in this example; the poor bastard that got loaded into the slingshot not knowing what was going to happen to it. Rovio are the pigs in their game; living in a shitty house of their own doing and in the end they'll have nothing but egg on their faces.

Laura chuckled a bit at the joke she imagined Jim might make. She wrote down the term "egg on their faces" in her notebook to remember it. As expected, trying to guess what Jim might say often brought her back to the two times she had ever met Jim Sterling in person.

The first time she had seen Jim was during a video game event in London. "That must have been… 10 years ago now, at the Eurogamer Expo in London." Laura said to herself. The funny thing was, Laura hadn't wanted to go. At the time, Laura was a freshman at university, studying computer science and absolutely miserable with life. Laura was dating a girl named Samantha, who she quite fancied. Samantha was bonkers over video games, but Laura didn't much care for them. Laura smiled fondly as she thought of Samantha, her Xbox 360, and her collection of neon-green bound video games. Laura didn't like crowds; and after 3 months learning that she was obviously in the wrong career path with no idea of what the right career path might be, she didn't feel like she could put up with an overly-enthusiastic atmosphere. But Sam had begged her and said "Pretty pretty please" and Laura couldn't say no.

While at the expo she came across Jim at a booth for Destructoid. Jim was giving advice on game journalism. Laura caught the end of a conversation Jim was having with a small group of people.

"The thing that makes video games different from any other piece of artwork…" Jim began.

Laura stopped in her tracks. She thought back to the Halo games that Sam was always playing and couldn't quite think of how that was art. Of course there was graphics, but that didn't make videogames art.

"…is that everyone who plays the game will have a different experience. It's not like a movie or even a book; where the narrative can be played or read the same way a thousand times and nothing will change. Of course different people may have different understandings and appreciations of the movie or book, but in that case it's the person who changes. Indeed, the same person can read the same book and have different experiences, but that is because the person who read the book the second time is not the same person who read the book the first time.

"The same isn't true for videogames. I could play a game and have an absolute rubbish time. I could hate the game from beginning to end, but a different person, even a person much like me, might have that be their favorite game of all time. The reason for this is that videogames are an interactive piece of art; the experience depends on a person willing to give as well as to take. It's why I am so reluctant to give a game ratings or to tell a person if they should buy a game or not. Just because I didn't respond well to a game doesn't mean another person won't, and I don't want to be the reason they missed something they would have truly enjoyed. So, the role of a games journalist is to tell a person why you did or did not enjoy a video game. Saying, 'It is compelling' isn't enough. More than most other critical professions, a game's journalist has to be able to be honest with themselves or else they're failing their audience."

The world around Laura seemed to have gotten just a tiny bit larger. Up until this moment, artwork to Laura had been about the thing. This painting or book or statue was what made up art. After overhearing one conversation she saw that art was not a thing, art was an experience. Suddenly all the times that Samantha had ever played a game came back into focus, and Laura saw the art not as the pictures on the screen, but rather the emotions that Samantha went through while playing them. The cheers and shouts and cries as her character went on a journey she was guiding. Laura thought of how often Samantha would do something she was proud of and then would pull Laura in for a kiss. The art wasn't in what Samantha was playing, the art came through the fact that Samantha was playing. Art was transformative; the medium was the artwork.

Later that day Laura returned to the booth with Samantha in tow and insisted that Sam introduce themselves to Jim. After telling him they were in university he had said, "Oh, nice. And what are you studying?"

"Political Science," Sam said, "And Laura's studying…"

"Journalism!" Laura interrupted. Sam gave her a surprised look and Laura was taken aback at her own interjection. "I mean…" she stammered on, trying to sound natural. "I haven't started yet."

Jim tried to give an understanding smile. "Well, if you have any troubles, you can give me an email. I'm by no means a professional, but I might be able to give you some tips and tricks."

The next day Laura had gone to the registrar's office and changed her program of study to Journalism. She gladly withdrew from her classes and began planning for her new career. She only made two promises to herself: one, she wouldn't actually email Jim with any questions; and two, she wasn't going into games journalism.

To her credit, she didn't break the second promise because of Jim; rather, it was because of Sam. With her new-found appreciation for the genre, she began playing the games with Sam rather than simply watching her play. The journey began with first-person-shooters (Halo, Call of Duty), which she enjoyed but never found herself doing very well with them. From here, though, she discovered more narrative driven games and simply fell in love.

In slow and steady steps, however, she and Sam began to drift apart. No one cheated on the other; there were no massive fights, but still the spark was gone. Before summer vacation began, Sam ended the relationship. For weeks Laura was devastated. Even though she knew in her heart it was for the best, and even though she didn't blame Sam for the break-up, she still missed her partner's presence. In the absence of Sam, Laura filled the gap with videogames, completing the transition from being a "Gamer-Girl" (as she had then thought of herself) into a simple gamer. From here, her focus naturally transitioned into games journalism.

By the time she broke her first promise, she had convinced herself it was really to get professional advice from Jim and not because she had vague and undying hopes of getting to know him better and to get him to talk to her. Two years had passed, and Laura was doing her first freelance project for a small website. Her publisher needed someone to attend a convention in the States and she had volunteered. Feeling quite silly, and thinking of how much of a long shot she was taking, she emailed Jim and asked if he was going to be at the convention and if they could meet so she could ask him questions. She knew that he wouldn't remember her and probably wouldn't appreciate being asked to meet, and she was shocked when he had responded the next day giving her a way to contact him when she arrived at the states.

She could barely believe her circumstances when a few days later she found herself sitting in bar across from Jim Sterling talking about the ins-and-outs of journalism. Laura allowed herself to have a fruity-sugary adult beverage and laughed when Jim had told the bartender "And one for me as well, mate." After she had allowed herself several more fruity-sugary adult beverages she began to feel warm and comfortable. Jim had an easy quality that made him instantly likable and very fun to be with.

She finally had the courage she needed to ask the question she had been wondering for days. "I'm surprised you remembered me." She paused, and swayed only a bit, and followed with, "That was meant to be a question."

Jim laughed, but then was suddenly a bit serious. "It was because when I asked what you were doing at university, you told me you were studying journalism, but that you hadn't started yet."

Laura instantly blushed remembering the moment well, but Jim wasn't finished. "I couldn't possibly forget that sort of enthusiasm to follow your heart." Laura blushed redder than before, the warm feelings travelling all the way down to her toes.

Time went on. Eventually, Laura was a real games journalist and although she and Jim hadn't met face to face again they stayed in contact. After a while, they started the joint project of the Podquisition. Unfortunately, not that Jim was anything more than a friend, working together began to build the wall. The "do not cross" wall that any professional relationship demanded. Laura accepted it; enjoying Jim as a friend, and telling herself that she truly didn't want anything more.

Coming back to the present, Laura read on.

Un-expected DLC for Witcher 3 coming soon.

She made a small note. This would give Gavin a chance to talk about a topic he enjoyed.

Laura had never before had as much trouble reading any sentence in her life as what next came across her screen. She tried to wake up from the nightmare of reality that was slowly infecting her dreams; shattering her life in thirteen simple words.

Popular games journalist Jim Sterling dead from injuries sustained during a car accident.

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An hour later and Laura had finally managed to stop crying. She and Janet were sitting on the hardwood floor, their backs against the couch, a cup of tea in each of their hands. Janet had explained who she was and what had happened and Laura had told her about the Silken Shadow and her rescue. The Silken Shadow was meant to be a secret, but it didn't seem worth keeping secrets anymore. For a moment, Laura thought back to the lies she had told this summer: that she was sick, that she needed surgery, empty words that she used to hide her secret life until she had gotten things in order. Now there didn't seem to be a point.

Overcome by curiosity, Janet finally asked, "So…. You're a superhero?"

Laura laughed ironically at how helpless she was and how opposite to a hero she currently felt. "I suppose I was. I'm not sure what I am right now."

Not letting Laura slip backwards, knowing that there would be grieving but that it would have to come with time, Janet persisted, "But, do you, well, like, have a super power?"

Laura nodded. Reaching up onto the couch she grabbed a pillow. She held the pillow in the flat of her palm and then twisted her hand, palm-face down. The pillow stuck to her hand as if by glue. Janet stared in confusion and disbelief. "You can… levitate objects?"

"No." Laura laughed again. "I wouldn't be able to lift anything heavy like this." She patted the couch. "I'm still holding the pillow through my own strength." She turned the pillow over again and now the fabric began to ripple as if it were the surface of a puddle with a breeze disturbing the water. "I can control any inanimate object I am touching."

Laura explained her suit; how it looked like skin-tight latex, but was actually reinforced with a titanium webbing, and how the ribbon was made in the same way. "By touching the suit with my skin I can control the titanium as if it were an exoskeleton. That way I can fall long distances and distribute the shock through the suit rather than my body. Similarly, I can kick much stronger and run much faster than normal because the strength is coming from the titanium. The suit itself actually weighs close to one-hundred kilograms, and I have to put it on in stages. However, once it's on I control the material such that the suit carries its own weight. I am more like a pilot inside of it. The only skin I leave showing aside from my face is my hands. I originally had gloves which made it so I could lift and throw and punch with super strength, but eventually I found that I would want to control other things outside of the suit, and I need to have contact for it to work. So I came up with the idea of the ribbons; the ribbons are over 10 meters long each, and they wrap around my wrist and forearm. Whenever I need to lift something, I send my ribbons out like tentacles, an extension of the suit and my strength."

"Can… can I see?" Janet asked tentatively.

Laura smiled, happy to finally share her secret. She got up and began walking toward the bedroom. Janet watched as Laura entered the bedroom and began to strip. For a moment Janet didn't realize what was happening. "Oh!" Was all that she could manage.

Laura jumped reflexively and turned, covering her front with her now removed shirt. "Sorry!" She said sincerely. "Life without flatmates has caused me to forget some social norms." She hurriedly closed the door.

A few minutes later she emerged. She wasn't wearing the wig or the mask, but the overall look was extremely intimidating. Although the outfit would not have seemed out of place in a fetish video, Laura gave the look strength.

"Watch." Laura commanded kindly. The pink ribbons extended, sliding through her grip and unravelling from her wrist. They wrapped around the sides of the couch, and lifted it clear off the ground. It didn't seem to Janet that Laura was straining herself in anyway; though she knew that she would barely be able to lift one end of the couch on her own.

Just then there was a loud knock on the door. Her concentration broken, Laura dropped the couch and it thudded loudly against the floor. The knocking continued. "London Police, mam. We have some questions for you." Laura quietly ran to the door and looked through the peak hole. She didn't have to be a detective to know that several things were seriously wrong. For starters, the men had American accents. Furthermore, they were carrying guns and not wearing police uniforms. Laura just had time to register this when she saw the two-man battering ram begin its swing.

Reflexively she put her hand to the door. She heard the loud thunk followed by yells on the other side. The battering ram had bounced off the door; causing the men who wielded it to fall back from the shock. Another man tried to kick the door down. What he thought he might do that the battering ram couldn't was beyond Laura, but regardless she kept her hand on the door and the man fell backwards as well. Laura didn't know quite what to do; obviously the men were after either her or Janet, and obviously they would go to great lengths to enter. They were trapped. From behind her she heard Janet loudly whisper, "Laura! Your ribbons!"

It took Laura a moment to understand, and then she realized that she was still wearing her suit. Quickly, one hand still on her door, she controlled her right hand ribbon and slid it under the door. The group of six men watched in shocked silence as the pink fabric raised to man-height on their side. They gave each other questioning looks before one man decided to grab it. The ribbon wound around his wrist and slammed the man into the wall. Now the men were in full attack mode, but they hadn't a clue as to what they were fighting. Some tried grabbing at it, others pointed their guns at it. The ones who grabbed were pushed into the ones with guns. A few minutes of struggle and bumping and slapping and soon all the men were disarmed, some running back down the hall, others knocked out on the ground, until all that remained of the fight was Laura, standing on her tiptoes to peer out the apartment peak hole.

Laura didn't have a choice anymore. Whatever she had landed herself in was too big, and she needed help. It didn't take long for her to pack some clothes and her laptop into her bag, to put some clothes over her outfit, and then she and Janet were in a cab heading out of town.

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"Are you sure you want to come with me?" Laura asked for the fifth time. Fidgeting a bit in the cab as her double layer of clothing bunched. The cab suspension tilted awkwardly from the weight of Laura's suit. "I can't say for certain if the men were after me or you."

Janet shook her head. "I don't know what's going on. I'm not important; I'm just a normal girl who can't even get a date on Friday nights. All I know is that I'm scared and hooking up with you seems to be my best bet at keeping safe."

A few minutes of silence. The streets of London began to pass away and they entered the suburban outliers of the city. Laura finally said, "I told you that I knew where we could get help, but that doesn't mean that I know that I can protect you. I just know that these people are very powerful and might be able to fix things. Beyond that, I don't know what they'll actually do."

"Who are they?" Janet asked, wide eyed.

Laura didn't answer.

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By noon they were on the outskirts of a small hamlet called Henley-on-Thames. Laura gave directions to the cabby and before long they were approaching the driveway of a large mansion. Janet guessed that the building must be over two-hundred and fifty years old by the architecture of the columns and arched windows.

"This the place, mam?" The cabby asked in obvious disbelief.

"This is it." Laura said with a finality she did not intend. The fair showed just over thirty pounds.

"Okay, that'll be sixty pounds." The driver said.

Janet was shocked. "That's outrageous, the meter says half that."

"Yeah, but I gotta charge you for the ride back as well. Ain't no one out here going to be taking a cab out to London."

"It's alright, Janet." Laura said, unconcerned. From her wallet she pulled a black credit card. Handing the card over to the driver she knew her course was set.

Bags in hand, they rang the bell and the door was opened almost immediately. A tall, thin man with thin gray hair and an impeccable crisp suit stood in the doorway.

"Hello, Laura." He said warmly.

"Hello, Roberts." Laura replied with equal warmth. "Are Catherine and Arthur home?"

"Mr. Arthur is at the office, but I am led to understand that he will be home for dinner. Mrs. Catherine is in the parlor having lunch. Shall I lead you?"

"Thank you, Roberts."

Janet started to lift her bag, she had borrowed some of Laura's clothes, but a few servants in uniform came and took it for her. Wordlessly, she followed Laura inside.

As they walked, Janet saw paintings and statues beyond number. She had been in museums with fewer pieces of artwork. Everywhere she looked she saw the same rich, mahogany wood; the fanciful rugs and curtains; the signs of history that wove itself into the fabric of the extremely wealthy British upper class. At last, Roberts lead them into a room with large windows and sparse furnishings that faced out onto the southern lawn; the early afternoon sun somehow not brightening the atmosphere of cold formality that Janet sensed.

Sitting in the room by herself with a book in her hand, a cat in her lap, and a silver tea-tray on a small table was an older-than middle aged woman with perfect brown hair, an expensive, tailor made outfit, a pearl necklace, and a hundred other tiny details that shouted wealth. Janet couldn't help but compare herself and Laura to the woman. Janet was still wearing her same clothes from the day before, and she hadn't showered. Laura was wearing grungy jeans and a leather jacket that barely hid the black latex suit she wore; her blue hair looked like it should have disqualified her from entering the room.

The woman assumed a forced smile and lowered her book. "Hello, darling." She said coldly.

"Hello, Mother." Laura replied.

A few minutes later and they were seated around the table together. Laura had taken a moment to "freshen up" which Janet had assumed meant she was stowing her suit in her bag. Servants had brought them finger sandwiches which Janet politely accepted, but she was having a hard time finding her appetite. The tension in the room was stiff and palpable. The woman, who Janet still couldn't believe was Laura's mother, finally began. "So, you've returned home."

"Yes, I have." Laura was trying to remain civil.

"I suppose this means you are in trouble?" Catherine didn't have concern in her voice.

"I might be. I'm not sure."

"Well then, does it have anything to do with…" Catherine trailed off and looked at Janet as if she were just noticing her. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your girlfriend's name."

Janet's mouth dropped and she started to stutter an explanation but Laura cut in harshly. "She's not my girlfriend and her name is Janet. But she might be in trouble too. That's why we're here."

The mother looked suitably offended at Laura's raise in tone. "Well, I am sorry." She said, not sounding sorry in the least. "I know you don't like talking about your lifestyle choices, but I only assumed she was your latest damsel."

"It is not a lifestyle choice, it is who I am." Laura said firmly, continuing the pattern of the debate, unable to stop herself.

"I know, darling." Catherine's voice had an overly patronizing tone. "But we agreed what coming back here would mean. Your Father and I would let you out on your own; you could do anything you wanted, but the moment you came home you were to forget the silly nonsense ideas you had about yourself and start behaving rationally."

"We'll discuss this once Father's home." Laura said icily.

"I don't know what there is to discuss." Catherine said matter-of-factly. "You swore after last time you left you would never return, no matter what, and yet here you are."

"This is important, Mother!" Laura was nearly screaming. "This doesn't have anything to do with who you think I am or what you think I should do. We might be in real danger and we need help!"

Catherine rolled her eyes. "I'm sure darling; I've been saying for months now you were in need of help."

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Janet sat at the long dining room, trying to slowly understand the undercurrents of tension that pulled throughout the room. She studied, Laura's dad, who she now knew was Mr. Arthur Buzzworthington; CEO of a company that owned all of the Salt Mines in Europe and parts of North Africa. Mr. Buzzworthington was a 60-ish year-old man; very tall with a build to match. His hair was thinning and graying in places, but he had a quiet strength that Janet couldn't help but to respect. While Mrs. Buzzworthington was harsh, as if she were rocks that lined a quiet harbor, Mr. Buzzworthington seemed like the waters themselves: calm, powerful, and potentially dangerous. Janet stirred the dish in front of her; unable to remember what it was called and doubting if she could pronounce it correctly if she did.

At first the conversation had been quiet and restrained. Laura introduced Janet to her Father, and Arthur talked about the Salt-Mine business.

"What people always forget." Arthur had told her. "Is that there is never going to be more natural salt in the world. All of it that ever was has been made; and we are operating on a limited supply. Now, of course, unlike oil or natural gas, we return salt to the earth when we are finished with it. Either we pass it naturally,"

"-Language!" Catherine interjected.

"-Or we store it in our body until we die." Arthur continued as if he hadn't heard. "We in the Salt Industry are shepherds, caretakers if you will, of a resource that every man, woman, and child needs to survive, but which on itself is a poison."

Unfortunately, the dinner went on, and soon Catherine brought the focus of conversation back to the immediate concerns. "So you've returned."

Laura looked up from the piece of meat she had been jabbing at with her fork. "I'm not back. I just need help."

"Well the result is the same." Her mother said shortly. "Your father will get to the bottom of things as usual, and in the meantime you will prepare yourself for the homecoming party we will set-up; now that you're grown we need to properly introduce you to the neighbors. We'll let your silly past stay in the past and get you ready for the bright future we have planned for you."

Instantly defensive, Laura responded. "I will do no such thing!"

Her mother was not deterred. "You promised you would give up your lifestyle choices if ever you came home."

"It is not a choice; it is who I am."

Catherine scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Speak to her, Arthur."

Taking a deep breath, and looking with regret at the meal he had been enjoying, Arthur said, "Laura dear, we did agree that you could have all the help you needed, but you would have to put the past behind you and get serious about your future."

"You don't understand what's happening!" Her voice towards her father was more pleading than sharp. Quickly, Laura described Janet's attempted kidnapping and rescue as well as the men that had attacked her flat earlier in the day. The craziness of the day began pouring out of her faster and faster and without meaning to she was sudden talking about finding out about Jim's death. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks and Janet pulled her close.

Arthur had a look of severe concern; Catherine took another sip of wine. From a signal from Arthur, Roberts approached the table. "Put security on high alert for the next 48 hours." Arthur told him. "And start making inquiries; I want to know who might be after Laura and Janet." Catherine rolled her eyes again.

After a moment, Laura stopped herself and was whipping her eyes. She couldn't stand crying in front of her parents and she tried her hardest to push her feelings away and deal with the task at hand.

Catherine was the first to break the silence. "Well, now that that's settled…"

"It's not settled!" Laura interjected.

Catherine's composure finally cracked. "Oh for heaven's sake, Laura! Stop being silly!"

"I'm not being silly!" Laura replied with equal venom.

Catherine turned to Arthur, "This is your fault. You encouraged Laura with this nonsense. Fix it!"

Letting out a long sigh, Arthur turned towards Laura. "Laura, you must understand. It is not uncommon to be confused in the way that you are."

Laura muttered to herself, "I am not confused."

Arthur continued. "Many people of influence at one time or another think they were born to be super-heroes. It is a phase that passes in time."

"I am a superhero." Laura said flatly.

Catherine glared at Arthur. "I knew it was a mistake for you to have that rubbish suit made for her. You said if we just humored her it would pass, well it hasn't!"

Looking at Laura, Arthur went on. "It is important to know when enough is enough in these matters. We are willing to help you in whatever trouble this is, but we can't let you take it further, for your own safety."

"But I have superpowers." Laura said calmly.

"Oh please!" Catherine rolled her entire head this time and took another large sip of wine.

"Now look, Laura," Arthur said, "I'm sure it seems that way but you must be realistic. You don't want to know some of the things I've heard about other wealthy people and their 'super-powers'. It always amounts to the same thing: people making fun of you behind your back and nothing really changing."

Catherine's tone changed to matter-of-fact, "I have it on good authority that Bill Gates still puts on a batman outfit and beats up the homeless in Medina to gentrify the city. David Cameron, I'm told, would stand on the Parliament building at night and scream at the heavens to try and prevent global warming."

Laura held up her fork, and everyone at the table watched as the head bent in half of its own accord.

Undeterred, Catherine said, "And how are your little magic tricks going to help anyone?"

Laura stood and was about to scream at her Mother to use common sense, that it wasn't magic but a real power, when Arthur held up his hands and said, "Nothing good will come by arguing in this manner. Now listen, it will take some time to unravel what is going on, and in the meantime you have to stay here, and while you are here there will be no super-hero-ing required."

Finishing her wine, Catherine said, "That's right, we'll let our guards and the real heroes of Smith and Weston clean up your mess."

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Slow hours passed in silence.

Laura slept in her childhood bed and awoke early the next day.

The mansion didn't have Wi-Fi and her phone signal was terrible, but she tried to hunt down any articles she could about Jim. Most of them talked about his work as a youtube personality and the controversies he had been involved with. People speculated what might happen to the lawsuits that had been filed against him. And at least half of every comment thread was someone trying to make a joke about the fact that he had really died of a heart-attack and that no car could make a dent in him.

That afternoon Laura spent most of her time in an uncomfortable couch, going back and forth between looking at her phone and staring at an antique grandfather clock that slowly ticked. Janet had asked to be allowed to explore the grounds and Laura found the loneliness hard to bear. She finally jerked back to the presence when she heard her father coughing for her attention, standing a few feet away.

"I have some news, Darling."

Laura was having trouble bringing herself out of her misery. "Oh?"

"It seems that the people after Janet on Friday night were the same people who attacked you on Saturday morning. They are a part of a mercenary group that is based in the States. We don't know what they want with Janet, nor how they traced her back to your apartment, but it seems clear that she is wanted by some very powerful people." Arthur opened one of the folders he was carrying. "Which is odd, because there is absolutely nothing of interest about Janet, her parents, or anything that we could find. She's just a graduate student working at UCL." He closed the folder and put the papers on a desk next to the couch, holding one remaining folder between his hands.

Laura's mind was having trouble conjuring thoughts, and Arthur could see the pain that she was suffering from. Screwing up his courage, he continued. "Did I ever tell you about my friend, Alan?"

The change in conversation shifted Laura's attention away from herself. "No…" she said quizzically.

"Well, as you know." Arthur sat down next to Laura on the couch, still holding one of the remaining folders. "I grew up in a much less well-to-do family than your mother." He unconsciously looked around the room. "We weren't struggling, mind you, but we worked hard for what we had. But I suppose that doesn't matter… What I'm trying to tell you is that my best friend in childhood was a little boy the same age as me named Alan. He and his parents lived in a flat in London, and one day I was visiting while his parents were at work." He paused in deep reflection.

"A few hours later the fire began." He looked hard at Laura. "It wasn't anything we had done. Someone a few floors below us started a stove-top fire that got out of control. We heard the screams but didn't understand what was going on. It wasn't until we saw the smoke that we realized that anything was amiss, and a few minutes later the apartment was engulfed in flames. We hid in his parent's room, and we were rescued by firefighters not long after."

Laura was in shock. She had never heard of this before.

"At least," Arthur continued, "that's the story I told your Mother. It's mostly true. What I didn't tell her was that when we went into his parent's room to hide the ceiling above us gave out. Alan was trapped under the debris on one side of the room while I huddled next to the windows on the opposite side. The window allowed for the smoke to escape so I was mostly fine, but Alan was pinned amongst the fire. At first I tried to pull him out, but the heat and smoke and flames quickly turned me away. I opened the window and yelled for help. For five minutes while the firefighters were trying to get to us and save others I listened to my best friend scream in agony and I couldn't even find the courage to face him. It took three firefighters to get him unpinned."

Laura could barely find her voice. "Did… did he die?"

Arthur looked away. "No, he survived. I had minor problems from smoke inhalation; Alan suffered burns through most of his body and had to have an arm amputated. The firefighters told me I was a hero for opening the window: letting smoke to escape and helping the rescuers to find us, but I knew the truth. I was a coward, and in my darkest moment in that burning room I wished my friend would have died if it could have stopped his screaming and the terror that it caused me."

"Dad," Laura said slowly and softly, "why are you telling me?"

He looked Laura in the eyes again. "Because that event is what drove me for the next ten years of my life. I always blamed myself for not being able to do more, and I wanted to be a better person so that next time I might be able to do something. I studied hard and worked harder. I tried to make myself into someone with power and influence, so that I wouldn't be helpless again. But I still know the truth." He sighed deeply and spoke slowly. "If I were back in that burning room again, it wouldn't matter how much larger and stronger I was; there would be nothing I could do for my friend other than listen to him scream."

Laura couldn't find words to say. She had rarely ever seen this side of her Father before. Before she was prepared, Arthur was looking into her eyes again. "I contacted some trusted sources I have. I believe that your friend Jim is in serious danger, but he is still alive."

Tears came unbidden to Laura's eyes. She tried to stammer a response but nothing would come. Finally, she asked, "How?"

"I've seen this sort of work before. If one tries and fails to murder a target some will fake their death regardless. It muddies the water, possibly isolates them, and makes tracking the target easier. I have it on authority from the hospital director in Atlanta that Jim Sterling did not die while in his care."

Laura was on her feet before she realized he had stood. Panicking, she exclaimed "I need…"

Before she could continue, Arthur opened the remaining folder he was holding and pulled out two airplane tickets. With trembling hands Laura took them. "I have a car waiting for you, you leave from Heathrow this afternoon. I already talked to Janet." Arthur reassured. "She told me she wouldn't be separated from you. But you, I don't know what you can do, Laura, but I think you can save your friend."

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Chapter 5: Friends

Jim lazed on the bed, wishing he felt tired.

He stared at the white stuck-o ceiling until he began to imagine patterns in the grains and shadows. The early morning sun softly filtered through the cheap curtains of their hotel room. Jim tried to blank his mind; to forget everything that had happened and just feel tired, but he couldn't.

Conrad's slow pacing and mutterings weren't helping.

Jim had run back to the hotel; being out at night in downtown Atlanta almost more terrifying than what had happened in the hospital room. By the time he made it back to his room it was 2 in the morning. Not being able to think of what else to do, he got in one of the double beds and lay down; waiting for morning. Conrad had woken up, Jim let the man shower, and then he told him everything that had happened. Conrad instantly began to over-react, as Jim saw it, but Jim couldn't muster any concern. It was too strange for him to be bothered about it. Of course he had turned off his cell phone (and removed the battery, the memory card, and the SIM-card, because who really knew how those things were tracked), but what else could he do? Whoever they are they found me at the hospital. Where could I go that would escape them when I don't even know what they want?

Conrad asked again, "And you don't know why they were after you?"

Jim apathetically shook his head. "Nah, man. I couldn't tell you. One-minute I was minding my own business, dreaming about wheat, and the next I had a man try and poison me and two others try and shoot me."

Conrad's hands were waiving in confused frustration. "I still don't understand that part. How did you disarm three men who wanted to kill you?"

Jim pursed his lips. "The thing is, I don't think they wanted to kill me. They wanted me for something, sure, but they tried to poison me first."

The tone in Conrad's voice raised an octave. "The question is still valid."

"I told you, mate," Jim continued, sounding bored, "apparently I have the strength of at least several men."

"Prove it."

Jim let a hand fall to the side of the bed where his bag lay. Blindly, he rummaged through it until he found something solid and pulled out his Nintendo 3DS. Distractedly he gripped the device with both hands and snapped it in half as if he were breaking apart a loaf of bread. Conrad took a step back in visible fright.

"All right," Conrad conceded. "Apparently you have inhuman strength. But do you have any clues, any clues at all as to what we should do next."

Realizing he had just lost his saved data for Majora's Mask took Jim out of his apathetic state a bit, and he sat up in the bed. Looking at his worried friend with pity he began, "Now… this may sound a bit crazy."

Conrad gestured dejectedly. "Go for it."

"I can find an oracle where the griffin dances amongst the flowers; where the broken crown is. She can answer some of my questions."

A depleted sigh and then Conrad was on his laptop searching the internet. After a few minutes of frustration he asked, "Was there anything else? I'm not finding any links between griffins and flowers in mythology."

Jim put his hands to his face. "Uhggg…. Why couldn't she have just given me a street address?" Jim snapped at the thought. "Conrad! Is there a griffin street in Atlanta?"

A few patronizing taps of the keyboard and then Conrad let out a "Huh!" in surprise. "There is a griffin street. Let's see… it goes past a park."

Jim got beside him. "No, no, keep scrolling." Conrad did, and they saw that Griffin St NW intersected Magnolia St on the outskirts of downtown. Looking on Google Maps they saw that although the neighborhood was mostly run-down residential, at the intersection was the sleaziest looking bar either of them had ever seen. The bar's name was Head Splitters.

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Jim was trying to tell himself that there's nothing weird about going into a bar at 10:30 AM on a Saturday. Especially not when the building's brick was painted solid white and had bars over all the shuttered windows. The sign on the door (behind the iron grating) said "Closed" but it was obvious that staff was inside.

Conrad had an extremely skeptical look. "Do… do we go in?" By the tone of his voice it was obvious that he hoped the answer was no.

"I'm not sure." Jim hesitated. "The girl in my dream didn't specify."

Conrad looked like his brain was about to explode. "The WHAT?"

But before he could mount further protest, Jim was knocking on the iron grating over the door. A few seconds passed when a young black woman opened the inner door a few inches. "What?" Her tone was confused and annoyed.

"Well," Jim began, assuming his well-rehearsed stage voice. "My colleague and I were, well… mostly me I suppose. That is, I would like to have a word with the oracle. If that might be possible. If she's available. For just a minute."

The girl looked at Jim suspiciously. "Who sent you?"

Jim wasn't prepared to get this far. Without knowing what else to say, he answered, "Joy sent me." He felt ludicrous, and for an instant the thought that this was all a hallucination passed through his mind.

He didn't have long for thought; the woman opened the door fully and unlocked the iron door. Pushing it open slightly she said, "Follow me."

Jim and Conrad entered inside. The one-room bar was dark and grungy. The few employees that were setting up looked at them with hostility and confusion. The young woman they were following shouted to the back room that she was leading them to. "Gran! I've got a white-boy looking for you!"

An old woman with leathery skin peaked around the corner and replied in a thick southern accent, "Larger fellow? I've been expectin' him; send him in." Jim and Conrad started towards the door, but the young woman put a hand on Conrad's chest. Signaling that Jim was to go in but Conrad was to wait at the bar.

Conrad watched his friend disappear around the corner and then the door closed. The young woman went back to cleaning glasses behind the bar and he was left wondering what in the hell was going on.

He drummed his fingers on the bar; realized that that was dumb and annoying and he'd never before done that in his life; and then stuck his hands in his pocket. Finally, he resigned himself to the fact that anything was going to do was going to be awkward. Looking at the young woman he asked, "So, uh… how long as your family been in the oracle business?"

Jim studied the woman in front of him. She looked like a figure carved from wood. But however hard he was looking at her, she was staring back with a thousand times more intensity. Finally, not being able to stand the gaze any longer, Jim broke the silence. "You knew I was coming?"

The woman nodded. "Yes, Jim. My name is Sybille."

"Subtle…" Jim muttered.

"No, Sybille. And I'd heard that you'd be comin' my way. I've been talkin' to Joy an' she warned me to keep an eye out for you."

Jim was startled. "So Joy wasn't in my dream then."

The woman shook her head and smiled. "She'd told me that you were confused about yourself. Said that you didn't proper know which way the sun was shinin' and that you're in need of some explainin'."

"I'd say that was fair." Jim conceded.

"I am a daughter of Athena." The woman said seriously.

Jim, unable to think of literally anything else in the universe to say, responded with, "You're looking well for yourself."

The woman laughed and waved her hand. "The daughters of Athena are an ancient group devoted to keeping communications open between mortals and the gods. We hope that a day might come when the gods might decide to return to earth and help restore balance to the mess we've made of things." Getting closer to Jim and looking him in the eyes she continued, "You, it would seem are a child of Zeus."

Jim shook his head slightly. "Is that another ancient group?"

"No," Sybille said matter-of-factly. "As in lineage."

Refusing to understand, Jim stated, "So, way back in my ancestry, at one time…"

"No," Sybille was firm. "I'd say probably your grandfather, although you're at least half-Olympian."

That was enough for Jim. Whatever was going on he wasn't going to find the answers here. "Right." He said, unconvincingly and started to get up.

"We can test it if you like." The woman said calmly. Opening a drawer, she pulled out a steel letter opener, very long and very sharp. She laid it on the table in front of Jim.

Jim looked at it with obvious concern. "What, you want me to stab myself though the heart?" His tone was panicky.

Sybille gave him a look as if she thought he were a puppy in need of training. "No, child. Prick your finger. It'll prove if I'm right or not."

"But…" Jim was trying to find reasons to resist. "Hypothetically, if I am a g-" he almost couldn't bring himself to say the words. "-a god. Shouldn't he knife not be able to hurt me."

"It won't really hurt. And it will cut your skin if you let it. Just do it, Child, the day is waistin'."

Slowly, almost as if he were watching his hands in a movie, he reached out and grabbed the haft of the letter opener. Pulling it close, the dim overhead light sent a shine down the edge of the blade. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he pushed the point against his forefinger on his left hand. He saw the indentation but felt no pain. Pulling the knife away, a small cut was left, and a drop of what looked like pure spring-water beaded on his skin. Jim almost fainted in shock.

"Put the finger in your mouth, child, and let the wound close." Jim obeyed. The water tasted sweet and cool and refreshing. He thought about the cut closing, and when he removed his finger from his mouth the wound was gone.

Sybille's tone was deadly serious. "You must be infinitely careful when doin' that. If a mortal drinks those waters it will be perilous."

Not being able to tear his eyes away from his fingers, in a pleading tone Jim asked, "What… what does it mean?"

The woman sighed, knowing that she finally had Jim's full attention. "Mortals are made of clay and blood. The gods are carved from marble and water. You are a god, Jim. As far as I know, the only one to still walk the earth."

Jim looked Sybille in the eyes. She pitied the panic she saw. "I still don't understand."

"The world is much larger than you know, Jim. What we consider the universe is just one ship of many that travel down the same river of destiny. Different boats may be of different sizes, and no two boats will ever be in the same water at once, but they may come alongside each other from time to time. Mortals only have one boat, one earth, they can live on at a time. When their body dies and their spirit leaves them they will travel to a different boat, a different earth to live. The gods are different. The gods can travel from boat to boat at will. It was once the duty of the gods to guide the spirits of man to a fitting boat; a fitting afterlife if you will. It is why gods cannot die as mortals can. If the body of a god is destroyed they may return in different forms. It is not easy to explain and no analogy will be perfect, but those are the basics. Earth is one such boat, the home of mortals. Olympus is the home of the gods. Hades and Elysium are also different realms; ones that mortal spirits are known to travel to after their earthly body dies."

Jim couldn't believe what the woman was telling him. More and more he was convinced that this must all be a strange hallucination. "But, I wasn't always like this. I've bled human blood before."

"It is difficult to predict that nature of the demi-gods. Some born to the Olympians on earth will be mortal; others immortal; some have been known to transition back and forth. The power of the gods to travel beyond the earthly plane is difficult and dangerous. However, if I had to guess in your case." Here she gestured for his hands and closed her eyes. Wordlessly, he put his hands in hers. "Yes, child. You were in great pain, I see. And then even greater pain found you." She released her hands. "I would think that a time ago you were meant to die. Your god-side, however, intervened and tried to save you. The pain you've been feeling was your body fighting towards which nature would gain control of your spirit: your god-side which was weak from neglect or your mortal side which was slowly dying. However, the fates must be appeased, and your latest accident killed your mortal body; leaving nothing but the god-side behind. Like cracking the mold of a statue: the mold was destroyed but the plaster inside remained. Your trial of pain gave you time for your new body to form."

"But, but what about my parents?"

"It was not uncommon for the gods to take a child, especially a demigod in the later days, and put it in the womb of a surrogate. To grow up with the child thinking it is human. The gods are not without their own dangers. However, the fact remains Jim, you are a god."

Jim stood up slowly, still dazed from what he heard. The words "you are a god" ringing in his head over and over until nothing else remained. Before he knew what was happening he was standing next to Conrad.

"So, what did she say?" Conrad asked.

"Well, mate. Apparently I'm a god. As in, Zeus is my grand-daddy and I should hit him up about a few birthdays he's missed."

Conrad furrowed his brows. "Okay… So what should we do from here?"

Snapping back to the present, Jim said, "Oh right, forgot that bit, give me another minute."

Sitting across from Sybille again, Jim asked, "Okay, so what should I do from here? Last night three men attacked me and I don't know why."

Sybille sighed deepl