NOTE: This is Part 21 of the 23 part series, The Cool War. Reading this part first is a very bad idea and will spoil a lot of the story.

From: Pico
16 hartford street come beat the shit out of me or whatever

Ruiz Duchamp stared at the message blankly.
"Carol, can I-"
Ruiz looked up; Carol wasn't behind the counter. Ruiz stood up, walking deliberately back to his studio. He paced past the foyer, entering the room filled with deathtraps. His brother had clearly turned self-destructive; the final phase of his antipsychotic withdrawal. Ruiz opened his medicine cabinet, moving his own antidepressants and multivitamins to the side, reaching to the back. He pulled out a small bottle of Clozapine, shoving it into his right pocket. He moved to his closet, grabbing a heavy brown bomber jacket. He pulled his elastic band pistol from an inner pocket, clenching it tightly in his left hand.
Ruiz sent two texts, then sprinted to Pico's hideout.

From: Snipper
16 hartford street I'm all that's left

The Sculptor sat and thought. Snipper was a reckless idiot, but on the other hand, he was an unpredictable one. Snipper had to be removed from the equation.
The Sculptor turned to the wall of clay, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Agent Tangerine sprinted down the busy road. Every one of his contacts was gone. His cover was unrecoverable, his utility had become negligible. He'd be transferred for sure: back to paperwork, back to normal fieldwork, back to gunning down The Bad Guys… it was all so mind-numbingly simplistic. So boring.
Tangerine saw the gallery in the distance. A few quick phone calls, it turned out, were all that he needed; Ruiz Duchamp's studio hadn't moved in years. Stupidity on their behalf for not doing that in the first place, but then, there was the assumed lack of carelessness on Duchamp's behalf. Tangerine kept running, dodging a man running in the other direction wearing a brown bomber jacket. He gripped his pistol in its holster tightly as he entered the foyer, turning to the help desk. Panting from the run, he blurted out the question:
"Duchamp's studio?"
The man behind the counter gestured further into the gallery. Tangerine turned and walked, slowing his breath. He looked around the corner, finding the room filled with blatant deathtraps. He tapped Green's number into his mobile phone.
"Green, I'm at his studio now. Empty."
"You stay there, we've got a new lead on the Snipper. Call me if anything happens."
Tangerine's phone beeped as the call ended. He sighed, walking through the room, carelessly moving to sit on an available stool.
Then he noticed the fedora sitting on the electric chair.

From: [METADATA CORRUPT]
16 hartford street this is the snipper hello

"Alright, boys. We don't know what's going on, we don't know what this guy looks like, we are going into this as blind as a bat. A particularly blind bat. A blind and deaf bat, with self esteem issues."
Green paused for effect, looking around at Mobile Task Force Upsilon-18.
"Admittedly, we don't know he's in there. It is quite possible, and indeed, almost certain, that this is a trap of some kind. Yes, Alcorn?"
Field Agent Alcorn put down his hand, moderately confused.
"Why are we walking into a trap, sir?"
"Excellent question, Alcorn, with a stupid answer: because we've no better course of action. We might have the address of a maliciously artistic psychopath, and if he's been stupid enough to throw us a bone, then we can't not bite. Moving out in ten minutes, gentlemen; striking while the iron's hot."
Alcorn begrudgingly trudged to the locker room.

From: The Snipper (Pico Wilson)
shit's gonna hit the fan

The Janitor turned around, emitting a buzzing sigh through its gas mask.

Ruiz finished jogging to the abandoned building. Decrepit and crumbling, errant piles of broken concrete littered the street in front of it. Four stories tall… on the outside, at least. Ruiz roughly forced a pick gun into the front door, pulled the trigger a few times, then twisted the handle open. He edged in slowly, closing the door behind him.
"PICO!"
Ruiz shouted out to the cavernous room. Cylindrical concrete pylons were distributed throughout; it looked like an industrial warehouse, despite sitting in a dilapidated residential neighbourhood. Ruiz listened to his own echoing voice, scanning behind the pillars for motion.
"Shhhhhhhhh. Keep your voice down, brother."
Ruiz twisted to his left, aiming at the sound's source down the wooden sights of his gun. Pico's distorted voice came from a small handheld radio; clearly modified from a children's walkie-talkie, given that it was pink with white flowers on. Ruiz picked it up, pushing the talk button in.
"Pill delivery service, this is Ruiz speaking, how may I help you?"
"I'm fine without them. They'd kill me."
"No. No, that's definitely not a thing that's true. You are saying not true things, and are also stupid."
"Allow me to clarify, then: I just consumed ten pills apiece of escitalopram and topiramate. I down a single clozapine pill, my heart will pretty much explode."
"Fuck."
"Anyway. Get up to the top level. Snip snip."
Ruiz pocketed the radio, static still buzzing from its speaker, and walked over to the rough concrete staircase. Cement powder spiralled from the ground with his every step, staining his shoes grey. He jogged up the stairs to the second floor, then the third, and finally reached the fourth. The final floor, unlike all the rest, was almost spotlessly clean. The ground, while still concrete, had been polished and shined to almost flawless levels of reflection. The pillars, while still cylindrical, rose and descended into decoratively carved ends, in effective mimicry of ancient Greek architecture. And then, sitting comfortably upon a pile of corpses, Pico Wilson stared apathetically at his brother.
"Ruiz. Long time no see."
Ruiz levelled his wooden gun at his brother's smirking face.
"Pico. Why'd you kill him?"
Pico reached into the pile, pulling out an errant hand.
"This guy?"
"You know who I mean."
"What, so you don't care why I killed this guy?"
"No."
"No love at all for Donovan Stilward? You don't want to know why? Really?"
"I don't think there was a reason."
"He kidnapped, raped, and killed three children."
"…what?"
"You heard me."
"You're lying. You're an indiscriminate murderer."
"I never lie, brother. Only art lies, and it's a lie that makes us realize the truth. And the truth is this: the only truth is in art's lies."
"Stop it. Why did you kill The Critic?"
"Do I need a reason?"
"Tell me why."
"So, just to clarify, you think that I killed the big man for a reason, but not good old kiddie-fucking Donovan Stilward?"
Pico waved the corpse's hand for emphasis.
"Ruiz, your problem is the same as mine: incoherence. Well, that and a drastically exaggerated sense of self-importance. Not everything happens for a reason, brother."
Pico jumped off his pile and started walking towards Ruiz, gesticulating wildly, Ruiz never taking the aim of his gun from his brother's head.
"See, the only difference between you and me, Ruiz, is I don't lie about it. You want to know why I killed Critic? You think it had anything to do with you at all? No, brother, no. Nothing of the sort. As much as you would like to be, brother, you are not the prime mover here, and it's getting under your skin."
Pico flipped a butterfly knife from his pocket and started to play with it. Ruiz steeled his expression.
"Sometimes, Ruiz, things just… happen. And it's not because of any reason, or any cause. People like to pretend there was a cause, right? They like to pretend that there's always a reason. They like to pretend that there was something that could have been done, and think about all of the little things that would have made it turn out any other way. And they sit there tossing and turning, trying to reverse-engineer the world, as though finding a solution would retroactively change things. But it doesn't matter. Those are things that have already happened, and thinking about it wastes more time, more things will keep happening, and then it all just fizzles away into meaninglessly masturbatory hypotheticals."
Pico took the knife and ran it across his chin, scraping errant facial hairs without cutting his skin.
"Sometimes, Ruiz, things just… I don't know how to say. Perhaps I would call it… 'reversion'. Sometimes things revert, have you noticed? It's as though we were living on the edge of a coin. A knife, even. Sometimes things revert and the world feels horribly different. Can you feel it? You've felt it, haven't you?"
Ruiz continued staring down his gun. Pico, having scraped his chin free of hair, started making incisions on the back of his hand.
"We're doing the same thing, always. Alluding to change, but it's not real. It's all static, it's fake, it's FAKE! Don't you see, brother? We're just playing at… at being gods. What do gods do when they live forever? I'll tell you, brother. They just keep hammering each other on the back. They tell each other that there is meaning, when it's all just easily coined bullshit. And, if they're lucky, brother, some gods even get to forget. There's only one truth, Ruiz. Do you get me?"
"You're insane."
"No, I'm incoherent, there's a difference. Sanity is arbitrary, brother. The consensus of stupid people."
"WHY DID YOU KILL THE CRITIC?"
"I guess… because… I could?"
Ruiz pulled the trigger, sending a supersonic elastic band into his brother's chest. Pico fell, winded.
"TELL ME!"
"You really want to know?"
"YES!"
"Look behind you."
Ruiz spun in place, then saw his eyes reflected in the dark glass of The Janitor's mask.

"This still feels like a stupid idea, sir."
Field Agent Alcorn was sitting across from Agent Green inside of the white, unmarked Foundation van. The nine-man squad (with the addition of Green) was awkwardly squeezed in just one vehicle. Every turn pushed or pulled the agents around the vehicle as the hurtled towards 16 Hartford Street.
"You know you're disposable, don't you Alcorn?"
Alcorn frowned angrily at Green, who appraised him apathetically.
"Don't take that personally. I'm disposable too. We're paid to be disposable. If you weren't, you wouldn't be in the field."
Green rubbed the ridge of his nose, then continued.
"There are numerous methodologies that would be safer. We could have brought more personnel. We could have gotten some snipers, we could have tried to lock the place down. Those would cost more, in exchange for lower risk. But we are disposable. And as much as we like to pretend otherwise, the men in suits aren't made of money."
Green leaned over and spoke into Alcorn's ear.
"As bad as it sounds, Alcorn, we are going with the stupidest idea because it is the cheapest."
The van screeched to a halt. Green unholstered his pistol; Alcorn gripped his rifle, then pushed open the van's back door, covering his squad as they moved to the entrance. Green sprinted to the entrance, then scanned the pillars inside. He entered, pistol still aimed at eye-level, scanning corners as the members of Upsilon 18 slowly fanned inside.

Ruiz stared at The Janitor, stunned like a deer in the headlights. Pico slowly got to his feet, laughing lightly.
"There you are, you beautiful thing. Over here."
The Janitor turned, making its way over to The Snipper. It kneeled in front of him; Pico patted it softly on the head. Ruiz was stunned into silence.
"See, The Janitor here's basically… well, 'god' is a bit much. Demigod, do you think?"
The Janitor raised its face up to its master.
"I am not divine."
"Oh, but you are divine, my dear, you are. What do you think, Ruiz? I'm not sure what we'll do for a wedding dress; white on black would be fantastic, though."
Ruiz recovered, again returning his aim to The Snipper's head. Pico simply laughed.
"You're threatening me with elastic bands, Ruiz. You're threatening me with stationary."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do any of this? What's your endgame?"
"Why do you think there's an endgame? Hell, what was yours? Kill the Critic, then what?"
"Things would change."
"Nothing ever changes. Even now, nothing's changed. Everyone just changed places, but it's all the same. They're playing a game of musical chairs, you stopped the music, but forgot to remove a seat."
"You're wrong. I cut him out, I sliced him out like a cancer. His side-jobs had replacements, but I don't care about them. There is no Critic."
Pico Wilson spread his arms wide.
"Of course there is. You're talking to him."

"We secure, Alcorn?"
"This floor is, at least. We going up?"
"Yep."
"Perkins, Dorfman, with me. Everyone else, keep this floor locked down. Nobody in, nobody out."
Perkins and Dorfman joined Alcorn and Green at the base of the stairs.
"You first, Green."
They swept carefully upwards to the second floor, spreading out to search.

"You're not The Critic."
"Of course I am. I emptied the seat, I get to take it."
"HE WOULD HAVE KILLED HIMSELF."
"The keyword being 'would'. I got him first. Mine to claim in his absence. Didn't you realise that?"
"So then… if I kill you?"
Pico tilted his head back, cackling madly.
"Go ahead and try, brother. Janitor. Clean up the mess."
The Janitor stood, turning around to face Ruiz. It walked towards him, hands raised. Ruiz began to grin.
"And… cut."
The Janitor spun around, tackling Pico to the ground, sending his butterfly knife clattering into a distant corner. The Snipper struggled, trying to escape the masked figure's grip. He wildly clawed at the mask with dirty fingernails, until getting his fingers underneath and pulling it cleanly off.

REWIND

"Oi. Sandra."
The Director sat comatose in her bed. Ruiz Duchamp stood next to her, poking her cheek with his finger.
"Come on, Sandy. You might have fooled them, but you can't fool me."
The Director opened one of her eyes, whispering through her oxygen mask.
"Bugger off, Ruiz."
"I've got the cameras on loop, and the door's locked. Take off the mask."
Sandra Paulson pulled it off, then yanked several fake IV drips from her arm.
"Damn it, Ruiz, what do you want?"
"Well, for starters, I want to know why you're pretending to be unconscious."
Sandra rubbed the back of her head.
"Suits got me. Drugged me up, not that it had any effect, of course."
"Of course."
"Fed them some bullshit about you leaking the play to me as well. Watch out for that."
"You what?"
"Hey, calm down. First name that popped into my head, man. You shouldn't have turned up last night."
"I needed to warn you!"
"You seriously think I wouldn't know about the Hanged King? That's old-school stuff, everyone knows about it. Hell, I wrote a pilot for a sitcom adaptation. 'Hanging with The King', I think it was."
"Then why the hell were you running the show?"
"I was being watched. Did you really think I'd turned into a stupid, crotchety old lady? I was an actress before a director."
Ruiz frowned, thinking on her words.
"So… who gave it to you?"
"The Sculptor. That asshole's trying to kill us all."

The phone sitting on The Director's bedside table started to ring. She picked it up, placing it to the side of her head.
"Ruiz?"
"Sandy, I need some help. I can't be in two places at once, and Felix is watching me."
"Wait, you've been talking to Felix?"
"Yeah, we… started hanging out, or something. Still not sure if I can trust him."
"He's harmless. What do you want?"
"I need you to tail my brother. Figure out where he lives."
"Do you know where he is right now?"
"No, but I know where he's going to be tonight. 27 Rokan Avenue. The whole gang's meeting up for tea and cookies."
"Tea and cookies?"
"Sorry, I mean in order to plan their attack at an exhibition that I'm not even going to be attending while The Sculptor insists on using my name as the motivation behind a witch hunt. I'm not sure how I got those two mixed up. Can you do that for me?"
"Sure. Any luck with The Sculptor?"
"One problem at a time, Sandy."
The Director placed her phone on the bedside table. She pulled an inflatable doll from underneath her bed, stuck it under her covers, then changed into plainclothes. She locked her door (fortunately, she had her own room), then carefully lowered herself outside onto the window. They'd never notice she was gone.

Ruiz's phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it out, pushing it to his ear.
"Hey Sandy."
"Ruiz. I've got an address. 16 Hartford Street. Big abandoned building."
"Fantastic."
"He has also met The Janitor."
"Who?"
"Tall guy. Gas mask."
"I have no idea who you're talking about."

Sandra's phone buzzed in her pocket. She'd not actually returned to the hospital after her first escape. The nurses still hadn't noticed.
"Hey Ruiz."
"Critic's dead."
"Oh. It worked then?"
"Nope. Pico killed him."
"Shit."
"Indeed. Keep an eye on him for me."
"What are we doing about The Sculptor?"
"I'm working on it. Don't worry."

Ruiz's phone started ringing.
"Sandy?"
"I just had an idea. You know how I'm really good at acting?"

To: Sandy
go time.

To: Felix
can you get the janitor to meet me at my studio? need to ask something

Felix glanced at his phone, tapped at a few keys, then returned it to his pocket.

From: The Snipper (Pico Wilson)
shit's gonna hit the fan

The Janitor turned around, emitting a buzzing sigh through its gas mask. Its phone beeped again.

From: The Clipper (Felix Cori)
Ruiz Duchamp's asking for you at his studio.

The Janitor examined the screen, thinking about the messages.
It knew what had happened.
It exhaled another deep, buzzing sigh.
Then it removed its mask, and became the person beneath the mask.
The person beneath started walking to a coffee shop.

AND BACK TO THE PRESENT

"Miss The Director. I see. I SEE."
Sandra, free of the stifling gas mask, easily reasserted her full-body pin. The Snipper began to laugh loudly.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA… Oh, Little Miss The Director. How Would You Like To Play?"
The Director switched to a stranglehold, trying to block Pico's airways.
"no i don't think that will work here. Not on us, you know? NOT ON US."
The Snipper twisted, tearing his shirt off and using the leeway to escape The Director's hold. His emaciated ribcage rose and fell as he panted madly.
"We Aren't Going To Go Down As Easily As That Miss The Director. and we haven't forgotten you either RUIZ."
Ruiz shot two elastic bands at his brother's head. The first grazed Pico's ear; the second snapped into his eye. He recoiled, covering his face with his hands.
"no you see this is not how it goes down. We Can Just Restart. We can just… restart, you know? It's not real. It can't be. IT CAN'T BE."
Pico ran manically to his pile of corpses, diving amongst his collected bodies.
"There Is No Control. It's an illusion, you understand? It's all just a dream, it has to be a dream. we cannot live in a world where the world is lived in."
Ruiz sprinted to the heap; Sandra pulled a hypodermic needle from within her black trenchcoat.
"THERE IS NO VALID RESPONSE TO A WORLD THAT DOES NOT OBEY THE RULES BUT NOT TO OBEY ITS RULES. i just help the people leave through the most obvious exit, am i some kind of reaper? Perchance A Psychopomp, Hm?"
Ruiz reached past the severed limbs, latching onto the only one with a pulse.
"I always wanted to pretend as though I was important. I fooled a couple of people. this isn't how it was meant to end. I WAS SUPPOSED TO WIN. Do Not Let Me Die Here. You Are Better Than This. You Can Be Better Than This."
Ruiz yanked his brother from the pile, Pico kicking and screaming all the while.
"wasn't there something better than this? DO YOU HATE ME THAT MUCH, BROTHER? Our Jesus Taught Us Better Than This; Our Adam Knew Us More."
Sandra pulled the cap from the needle, readying it for insertion.
"THIS IS NOT MADNESS, BROTHER. Sanity Is As Arbitrary As Sinfulness. I committed no crimes here. you have no right to judge me."
Ruiz nodded, holding his spasming sibling in place. Sandra plunged the needle into Pico's chest, pushing the sedatives into his bloodstream.
"WE ARE GODS, YOU AND I, BROTHER! Gods Among A Stupid And Negligent Populous!"
The Snipper struggled shirtlessly.
"We aren't supposed to live like this. We're all creators here. The world exists for us."
Pico's eyes drooped.
"we can't afford coherence."
Ruiz dropped his limp, unconscious brother to the floor.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA…"
Agent Green turned to the far wall, startled by the noise.
"Alcorn. With me."
Alcorn joined Green; the pair of them moved towards the stairwell. They carefully started moving upwards, hearing muffled yelling through the thick concrete floors. Halfway to the third floor, Alcorn's radio crackled with a message from his men on the ground.
"Sir, we've detained a man trying to get into the premises. Callin' himself The Sculptor."
Green turned, holding his hand out expectantly. Alcorn sighed, handing his radio over. Green talked into the microphone.
"How much resistance did he put up?"
"None at all, sir. Held out his hands for the cuffs while grinnin' like a lunatic."
"Don't take your eyes off him. That man is considered a high-importance person of interest."
"We're moving him to the van now, sir."
"Good. Keep someone with him; you have permission to terminate if he tries anything. Over."
Alcorn took the radio back, clipping it to his belt. He started talking as he followed Green up the stairs.
"You think this guy's backup for Snipper?"
"Not after what happened last Friday. He's probably got-"
"WE ARE GODS, YOU AND I, BROTHER!"
Green raised a finger to his lips, remaining silent as they reached the third floor.

Ruiz frisked Pico for any concealed weapons; his pockets were empty, barring an old mobile phone. He picked it up and navigated through the screens, moving to sent texts.

To: sculptor
16 hartford street I'm all that's left

To: the fuckwad brigade
16 hartford street this is the snipper hello

"Fuck."
Sandy turned to Ruiz, having pulled Pico's body up onto her shoulder.
"What?"
"Suits and The Sculptor inbound."
"Fuck."
"My thoughts exactly. Battle plan?"
"Leave before they get here."

Alcorn's radio crackled again; he immediately deferred it to Green.
"Sir, we've apprehended another person."
Green frowned.
"Have they identified?"
"Well, sir… they're saying they're The Sculptor."
Green looked at Alcorn, concerned.
"Is the person previously identifying as The Sculptor still in custody?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do they look the same?"
"Yessir."
"Terminate both immediately. Keep a look out for more."
"Understood, sir. We've… wait, sir, we have another Sculptor attempting to… wait, five… seven! SHIT! Sculptors closing from all angles!"
"Open fire; aim for the head! Everyone to the lobby!"
Green and Alcorn started sprinting back down to the second floor as gunfire echoed through the building.

Sandra slowly moved to the stairwell, Pico's body still slung over her shoulder. Ruiz moved down the stairs, aiming his elastic band shooter around each turn.
"I think we're alone."
The end of Ruiz's sentence was punctuated by echoing gunfire. The Director massaged her temples in exasperation. They moved down to the third floor, looking out a window and surveying the scene below. Hundreds of Sculptors were running through every street, swarming to the base of the building. Three of the Suits' Agents were shooting wildly at the horde, barely thinning the ranks. One of them threw a fragmentation grenade into the crowd; metal pellets ripped through the swarm, breaking the illusion of flesh and bone and sending streaks of clay across the ground. Ruiz looked at his small wooden gun, suddenly feeling profoundly inadequate.
"Well shit."

Agent Green ran down to the first floor, Agent Alcorn trailing behind. The members of MTF Upsilon-18 shot in short, controlled bursts at the horde of angry clay artists; one of them had blocked the front door with a metal pipe. Green saw one of the Sculptors attempting to crawl through a window. He lined up the shot and pulled the trigger, leaving the clay body blocking the entrance. He appraised his pistol; a less than ideal weapon for the current situation. Green shouted over the gunfire.
"ALCORN! DO WE HAVE A SPARE RIFLE?"
Alcorn shook his head; Green swore an unheard oath. The two of them moved to join the rest of the squad, taking cover behind the messy piles of broken concrete slabs. Every shot meant one less angry artist; at the same time, it meant one less bullet. They were equipped for an in-and-out raid, not a prolonged siege. The Sculptors screamed warcries as they broke through windows, trying to crawl in over their fallen duplicates.
"THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS-"
The synchronous chorus chimed through the building, barely audible over the sounds of firing bullets.

Ruiz turned to Sandra, who had already pulled her phone from her pocket.
"Who are you calling?"
"The real Janitor. Sculptor's directly tried to kill me. He's broken the rules, his protection is void; mine, however, is still intact."
The Director tapped the screen, then put it to her ear. Ruiz looked out the window again. The crowd was thick, but no further duplicates were forthcoming. Ruiz pulled a stick of chalk from his pocket, then grabbed a piece of concrete debris. He wrote the phrase "ceci n'est pas une bombe" onto it, then hurled it out into the horde. He grinned as it burst into a ball of flames, splattering Sculptors across the ground.

The person beneath the mask received a call. The person beneath the mask answered, muffling their voice with their hand.
"Director. You've dropped your façade."
"Yeah, about that. Sculptor's the one who hospitalised me."
"Purposefully?"
"Yes."
"Location?"
"16 Hartford Street."
"Understood."
The person beneath the mask pulled the mask back over their face.
The Janitor sped across the rooftops as though skating on ice.

"GREEN, WE'VE GOT TO FALL BACK!"
The squad continued firing at the now-open door as artists continued to flood through. One of the duplicates had overpowered one of the Agents, throwing his screaming body outside to be dealt with by his brethren. Alcorn gestured for his squadmates to retreat up the stairs to the second floor. Green emptied the last of his pistol's clip into the clay skull of the closest Sculptor, then threw the useless firearm to the side. He followed Alcorn back up the stairs, stopping to grab a length of steel pipe lying halfway up. Green shouted to the closest troops over the continued chanting.
"BLOCK THE STAIRWELL!"
As the last of the squad ascended the stairs, Green helped push a nearby pile of concrete down, squishing two overzealous Sculptors below its weight. Another tried to climb over the blockade; Green brought down his pipe on its head, hearing a satisfying BONG as its head deformed and it dropped lifelessly to the ground.

Sandy pushed her phone back into her pocket, joining Ruiz at the window. Pico snorted as Sandra readjusted her grip on him.
"Janitor's on its way. We've got to last until then."
"You have anything useful?"
The Director pulled a grappling hook gun from one of the inner pockets of her coat.
"Great, let's get out of here."
"It won't carry all of us."
"Fuck. Alright…"
Ruiz looked out the window, then pointed out an adjacent rooftop.
"Can you get there, drop Pico off, then come back for me?"
"Takes a while to reload this thing."
"Best plan we've got."
"Okay then. See you in a bit."
Sandra shot the grappling gun at the building, pushed a button on the side, and was pulled out the window. Ruiz looked as she climbed to the rooftop, then started to respool the projectile.
"UNIDENTIFIED PERSON ON THE NEXT LEVEL UP, OPENING FIRE!"
Ruiz spun around, barely having time to duck behind a concrete pylon before being shot at by one of the Suits. He aimed around his cover and loosed a pair of elastic bands towards his assailant. Ruiz yelled incredulously.
"EXCUSE ME, PLEASE DON'T SHOOT, THANK YOU."

The Janitor jumped from rooftop to rooftop, finally reaching 16 Hartford Street. It jumped to the ground, sending Sculptors scattering. It waved its hand towards a nearby duplicate, dispelling the anomalous and reducing it to raw clay. Nearby copies were struck immobile from a combination of awe and fear. The Janitor buzzed a comment from inside its gas mask.
"You have broken protocol. This was a poor decision."
The duplicates ran screaming from The Janitor, each of them seizing suddenly before crumbling into dust. It walked fluidly through the building's front door, sending the Sculptors fleeing up the semi-blocked stairwell.

The Suit continued to fire at the concrete pylon, preventing Ruiz from escaping. Ruiz took another pot shot in his general direction.
"SANDY, NEED SOME HELP!"
The Director came barrelling through the window, joining Ruiz behind the pylon.
"Alright, alright, no need to shout. Grab on."
Ruiz grabbed Sandra's shoulders tightly. She pulled a small ball from inside her trenchcoat, throwing it hard against the ground; it exploded into a small cloud of smoke. Sandy ran to the window, jumping out and aiming at the opposite rooftop. For a split second, Ruiz felt his heart stop as they started entering freefall into the crowd of ravenous Sculptors below; then, the hook shot out, securing them to the opposite rooftop and pulling them slowly upwards. They pulled themselves up onto the rooftop, both panting heavily from overexertion. Ruiz stood up, dusted himself off, then looked around, confused.
"Where's Pico?"
Sandy looked around, confused.
"Shit. Doesn't matter, we're getting out of here. He can look after himself."
Ruiz swore colourfully under his breath, joining Sandra in their rooftop escape.

Agent Green had fallen back from the front lines; the squad was concentrating their fire on the stairwell below, and close-quarters combat and high-speed bullets make a poor mix. The Sculptors surged through the hole, pushing aside the concrete scraps and swarming around the closest Agents. Two of them fell and were trampled by the stampede. Alcorn pulled a grenade from his belt, pulling the pin and counting down.
"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"
He threw it into the swarm, thinning their numbers substantially. Green shouted out to the remainder of the squad.
"WE NEED TO MAINTAIN A CHOKE POINT! EVERYONE UPSTAIRS!"
The second floor was flooded with Sculptors as the remaining seven agents retreated up to the third floor.

The Janitor walked briskly through the first floor, tapping Sculptors on the shoulder and reducing them to piles of ash. It waved its hands, tearing the illusions from the clay. Its mask buzzed as it breathed slowly, calmly eradicating the plague. One of the duplicates turned, jumping towards the tall, dark figure; it impacted onto The Janitor's shoes, the clay hardening as it cooked solid from internal heat. It scanned the room for movement, nodding when satisfied it had cleared the area.
The Janitor moved slowly up the staircase to the second floor.

Alcorn shot the last of his clip, watching the last tracer round exiting its barrel. He threw the useless rifle to the side, picked up a stick of rebar from the ground, and stabbed it through the nearest Sculptor's head. Green forced his pipe into the chest of a duplicate, spun around, then struck its head cleanly off its neck. The rest of the squad had resorted to close-combat weaponry, their firearms spent; Dorfman spun like a dancer, slicing through clay with his combat knife, while Perkins had taken to simply grabbing heads and smashing them into the walls and pylons.

The Janitor moved up to the second floor. Hordes of Sculptors surrounded it, refusing to go out without a fight. They moved in towards it, trying to tear off its trenchcoat, remove its boots, yank off its mask; they desperately struggled to avoid their imminent demise. They screamed in chorus:
"ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS ALL THAT THIS IS-"
The Janitor clicked its fingers, and the assailants turned inside-out.

Agent Green stood panting heavily, staring at the piles of clay that littered the room. Dorfman flicked the last of the stuff from his knife, Perkins squished a final skull beneath his feet. Alcorn walked over to Green, patting him on the shoulder while grinning from the adrenaline.
"Still alive!"
"Still alive. Okay. Alright. Still need to check the top floor before we-"
Green stopped mid-sentence, readying his pipe as a tall figure wearing a black gas mask ascended the stairs. The Janitor looked around at the Agents beneath it, kicking some errant clay from its boots. It walked towards Agent Green; Green readied his pipe for an attack. The Janitor stopped, then bowed deeply, kneeling upon the ground.
"Deepest apologies for the inconvenience. It will not happen again."
The Janitor stood, walked briskly to the window, and jumped to the ground with a resounding thud. Green looked to Alcorn, then at the open third-floor window. Green calmly reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, then lit it. He inhaled deeply, breathing out with exhaustion.
"I have no idea what the fuck's going on any more."

Ruiz walked dejectedly through the gallery lobby. Sandra had gone off to search for the real Sculptor; having lost Pico, there were no leads left.
"Mister Duchamp, a guy came through here looking for you before."
"Who was it?"
"I… sorry, Mister Duchamp, I've forgotten."
Ruiz sighed. Incompetent fools, the lot of them. He turned the corner into his studio.
A red-headed man wearing a Hawaiian shirt was sitting on the electric chair.
The man was wearing a grey fedora.
The grey fedora.
Ruiz massaged his temples.
"God fucking damn it."
The new Nobody laughed, then clicked his fingers, sending Ruiz into a dreamless sleep.

Agent Green and Agent Alcorn returned to the battered van, having thoroughly searched every level of 16 Hartford Street. As they were about to get into the vehicle, Green's phone rang. He flipped it open, looking at the caller:

Agent Tangeee**@%

Green tapped the screen of his phone.

Unknown Caller

He put the phone to his ear.
"Agent Green."
"Who is this? How did you get this number?"
"Ruiz Duchamp is lying unconscious in the Genossenschaft Gallery of Contemporary Art. Pick him up at your leisure."
"Who are you?"
"A forgotten friend."
Green flipped his phone shut, confused about the anonymous tip.

the fifth of first is strategy
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"And we're back for the last session of this seminar. We're almost done. I just have a few more things to say, and then we'll be able to break for the night.
"I do want to address one thing that I was asked over dinner… namely, now that Unified Thaumatology exists, can it be considered a grand unifying theory for the paranormal?
"We would like that to be the case… but sadly, the answer is 'No.' Unified Thaumatology does provide a strong basis for the study of magic: we believe that it may also have implications into other fields. But there are places dealing with the paranormal where the theory starts to break down.
"Two very large examples are Type Green Reality Benders and Type Black or Ex Machina Divinities. Remember what I said before, that every thaumatological working has a source and causes a backlash. Type Greens violate both of those rules: they are able to alter reality without a Source, and their alterations do not cause backlash. There are a lot of theories as to why this may be: one theory is that the backlash is shunted into a parallel reality… perhaps as a paranormal phenomenon for them to deal with? Another theory is that the backlash is absorbed into the Type Green's own consciousness. Perhaps that explains why so many go insane. Unfortunately, we don't have the answer to that. It's one field that the Institute is devoting many resources to study. Progress is, by necessity slow, as is any study revolving around Type Greens. It's hard to collect useful data when that data could be manipulated by your test subject.
"Type Blacks and Ex Machinas… they're even stranger. Their effects are similar to thaumatology and reality bending, but they don't seem to obey any of the thaumatological laws we've encountered. There are no bursts of Aspect Radiation caused by their abilities. They can't even be detected through Aetheric Resonance Imaging. In fact, the code word designation for a demi-divinity, 'Type Black,' comes because many of them simply don't have aetheric auras… sorry, EVE patterns… at all. We have no idea what these things are… except that they are very powerful, and in many cases, hostile to humanity.
"Then there are the many threats you might face that have nothing to do with Aspect Radiation. Anomalies in space-time. Cryptids. Mad cyborgs. Telepaths. The truth is, the more we learn, the more we realize that the world is a stranger and more terrifying place than we did before we began our study. For each answer we find, two more questions are raised.
"But that's the nature of scientific inquiry, after all.
"If there is a point to this seminar, however, I hope it is this: that you came away from here with a basic understanding of what thaumatology is and what it is that thaumaturges do. Part of the fear and power of magic was that it was so mysterious. By peeling away some of that mystery, it is our goal to arm you with the strongest weapon you will need if you ever come up against a thaumatological threat: the knowledge that you, as a non-thaumaturge, are not helpless. A student of mine once gave me a novel with a line I enjoyed greatly: 'No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife in the back can seriously cramp their style.'
"I will now be taking questions."

Can Sharp and Flat can be tied to sex with protection, or in vitro fertilization?

Well, yes. But in practice, the procreative act is most effective when done for the purposes of procreation between two persons. I suppose if I had to list them on a sliding scale, it would probably be in-vitro, masturbation, nonprocreative sex, procreative sex, with childbirth somewhere near the top as well. Then again, there are also acts of sex that tend strongly towards Flat. I won't go into details here. I'm sure you can think of them.

Why use blood? Couldn't you just get some jugs of milk at a supermarket if you need EVE?

You could, but the longer that a bodily fluid is separate from the body, the less effective it becomes. Same with dead bodies… at some point, a dead body or jug of milk ceases to be a living thing and just becomes… a thing. Although I suppose that breast milk for lactating persons could work in a pinch… blood is simply more universal. And there's a bit more dignity in cutting your thumb with a secespita than in the alternatives.

Have there been any attempts to utilize type greens in the same way that type blues are employed? Or has it always been recognized as too dangerous to consider?

I cannot speak for the Coalition on that, but yes, there have been attempts to utilize Type Greens. They have invariably failed, due to the tendency of Type Greens towards megalomania, and the difficulty in taking them down if they break control. Although rumor has it that there have been one or two successful cases. The two most common suspects are D.C. al Fine and the Cornwall Hero.

Is the Coalition squeamish about using anomalous means to combat parathreats?

That depends on your definition of anomalous. The official position of the Global Occult Coalition is that Type Blue thaumatology falls under the realm of "tangential technology," not anomalous parathreat. Those of us employed by the Coalition have sworn the same oaths as the rest of you. We are still human. We still want to protect humanity. And we do so with all the talents at our disposal.
The eventual goal of thaumatological research, after all, is to incorporate magic theory into our modern understanding of physics. Once that is done, won't the concept of "magic" have been finally destroyed?
There are ways to eliminate parathreats aside from a bullet.

If the Coalition had to look at itself as a parathreat, what threat level would it be at? What would it take for it to grow a threat level?

If the member organizations of the Coalition were to turn against the best interests of humanity, it would result in an immediate failure of all missions, probably requiring a Pizzicato Level Response. The Coalition exists, however, to prevent such events from occuring.
It is, however, interesting to contemplate what might happen to the Coalition if its major rivals were eliminated or incorporated into its ranks. Absolute Power corrupts absolutely, after all.
Perhaps it is best that no one organization controls all the power in the paranormal world.

Where is the point at which thaumatology becomes inefficient and impractical when compared with technology, even 0+ technology? I mean… I'm thinking about the previous example involving a bus ride and/or a massive orgy, it is clearly impractical. Does magic require more effort than what it's worth for important material changes?

In many cases, yes. For instance, it's easier to build a rifle using a factory than a working. It's also much more useful to take a cab downtown than it is to apport there.
Where thaumaturgy excels is when you need to do the impossible. For instance: you need to get a Strike Team from Michigan to Siberia… in one hour. Thaumaturgy. You need to get into a person's files and erase their identity? Thaumaturgy.
Speaking of which, that does remind me of a case where thaumaturgy proved to be 100% more effective than anything that normal technology could do: I oversaw an identity reassignment to a young trans woman joining the Coalition. I don't care how good of a surgeon you are, you'll never perform a sex reassignment good enough to result in a fertile adult human female.

Is information gathering easier and cleaner than reality bending? I heard of a Type Blue agent using a subject's hair to determine their relative position within an unmapped forest area. Can that have a backlash, or does it have less negative consequences?

In many ways, every thaumatological spell is a form of scrying: remember that it all comes down to the observer effect, and how hard you observe. Locating individuals is a common spell, and in most cases, the backlash is easily manageable through shunts and sinks. It's a fairly low-Intensity application, for one: remember that backlash occurs proportionate to the original spell. If the original spell only used a small amount of energy, the backlash is usually negligible.
That is, of course, assuming that we're doing looking cross-or upstream… sorry. Into the present or past. Downstream scrying… that is to say, predicting the future… is much harder, like riding a mountain bike uphill as opposed to laterally or downhill. In fact, the most effective downstream scrying working to date is the Silicon Nornir… and they require two entire supercomputers calculating and scrying upon the present and past in order to drive a third cluster performing the future sight.

Sorry, Sir, I just wanted to thank you for a wonderful presentation and ask you… is there any chance whatsoever that religious groups built around certain miracles or portents are actually the inheritors of Type Green or Type Blue founders? Do we have evidence on the matter?

Yes, there is a chance. Yes, we do have evidence. No, I'm not going to tell you who.

I'm not sure I got that right a couple of hours back, sorry. Is a Type Red able to bend reality in any way?

That depends on the type of Red we're talking about. Many of them simply have accelerated healing systems. Many others, however, especially Expanding Regenerators, are the result of out of control thaumaturgical powers. Remember that Type Red is an indication of effect, not source.

For how long can Aspect Radiation related to a Blue event remain in the environment?

Proportionate to the intensity, pitch, hue, and weave. In general, these three factors tend to increase Aspect Radiation duration: greater intensity, lower hue (that is, tending more towards Ruby then Ebony), and tighter weave. Pitch tends to degrade, over time, towards the center: it will usually swing back and forth for a bit, before slowly settling down, rather like a pendulum.
Of the three, however, weave is the single most important aspect to determining ARAD longevity. There is a reason why the tightest level of Weave is called "Locked."

If one part affects the whole, couldn't you use any object to change the nature of the entire universe?

Yes. But it's a matter of inertia. Namely, that the universe shows a resistance to change. And the more you try to change, the more energy it requires, and the more difficult it becomes. For instance, it could be possible to change the gravitational constant of the universe using a grain of sand. We would need to devour the entire energy output of around one hundred thousand galaxies the size of the Milky Way to do so.

What's the difference between a Type Black and a type Ex Machina?

A Type Black is a human being that exhibits the characteristics of a Type Ex Machina. Ex Machinas tend to operate at a much higher level than Type Blacks. But functionally, in thaumatological terms, they're pretty much identical.

Are there any types of thaumaturgical resources other than vital energy?

There are, but EVE is the most efficient energy source we've found so far. And in many cases, what we thought were alternative energy sources to EVE turns out to be EVE in a different form… Ley Lines, for instance, were once thought to be an alternative energy conduit to EVE, before we came to realize that it was EVE pitched and hued in a combination we'd never seen before.
The current cutting edge in EVE research is consolidating Elan Vital theory with the Grand Unified Theory. Exciting stuff.

Has anyone ever tried to use thaumaturgy to deal with global issues like war and hunger? And if so, how come they never worked?

They did. We called it the Cornwall Incident: a Type Black, in alliance with a large coven of Type Blue allies, attempted a massive magical working to end human pain and conflict. The end result threatened the end of the human spirit.
You see, war and hunger all derive from dissatisfaction with your current status quo. When you are completely satisfied with your status quo, you have no motivation or desire to do… anything. Getting rid of war and hunger and pain required getting rid of jealousy… getting rid of identity. And there were some who felt that sacrifice worth it.
If it weren't for the heroic actions of a few Global Occult Coalition, humanity as we know it would cease to exist. We still strive to end war and hunger… it is the goal of the United Nations, after all, to promote Peace on Earth. But we have to do it the long hard way. The short path is paved with good intentions.

Whenever I imagine magic, I think of old guys in robes, holding staves and wands and stuff like that. Did you guys ever use any of that stuff?

I've got my ceremonial robes, hat, and staff in my office. Interesting fact: the wizard's stave originates not only from the very practical walking stick, but also from the staff used to mark time in ancient shamanic rituals. Early thaumaturges also found them useful for inscribing circles: much easier to draw from a standing position than having to drop down to your knees. The idea of the magic wand, I think, probably originates from the practice of using live cuttings from trees in ceremonial practices.
We use them about as often as modern scholars wear cap and gown, or use quill pens and inkwells. Some older institutes and GOC member organizations still require them: same with grimoires. On the other hand, I can get a much more precise pattern using lasers and mirrors, or even a high resolution LCD screen. The modern thaumatologist generally has less to do with old guys in robes carrying staves, and more to do with younger people in jeans, carrying laptop computers.
Of course, some claim that the ceremony and emotional state that comes from wearing a fancy robe and hat and carrying a staff can help the thaumaturge perform their working. If it works for you, more power to you. Me personally, I think that robes are way too breezy and staffs are a pain in the ass to carry around.

What is the process for becoming a Type Blue?

If you figure it out, publish your results. There's a ten million dollar prize on the line for the first person who figures out how that works.
Because really… no one knows. We just don't know why it is that some people gain the ability to manipulate magic and others don't. It seems to be linked to genetics in some cases. In other cases, it seems to be linked to intelligence, or close proximity to magical effects. But then there are 'wildcat' mages that appear out of nowhere, defying all perceived factors.
The best analogy I've seen is cancer. There are a lot of risk factors involved in whether you will get cancer: age, genetics, environment, exposure to carcinogens, and so on and so forth… but whether or not you're actually going to get cancer is mostly a matter of luck.

"I guess that's everything then. I've got one more thing to say, then you're all dismissed.
"The consumption of alcohol is a pretty-much universal means of establishing brotherhood and friendship. You see examples all the way from Christ's Last Supper, to the cult of Dionysus, to frat and stag nights all around the world. I personally am a fan of sessions: similar to the Chinese yum cha, where the drinking and eating is secondary to the fellowship and conversation around the table.
"What I'm trying to say is: the seminar may be over, but there's no reason why the conversation has to end. Feel free to meet me at the enlisted club, and I'll buy the first round of drinks."

Thaumatology Seminar Series
« Thaumatic Workings | Return to GOC Hub | END»


"I see that my little statement last time got everyone's attention. Let's get into it.
"Every thaumatic working, whether it's carried out using eye of newt or a desktop computer, has four components: the Source, the Shaper, the Target, and the Sink. You might think of them as the components of a firearm: the Source is the propellant that drives the entire process. The Shaper is the barrel and firing chamber that directs the force of the explosion. The Target is the bullet that is driven down the barrel, the effect you're trying to perform. And finally, the Sink consists of the recoil compensation mechanisms.
"There is, of course, a fifth component that isn't an actual part of the working: the Practitioner. That would be you, the finger that pulls the trigger.
"I see I'm starting to lose some of your attentions, so please direct your attention here.
"I knew that would get your attention.
"What you are looking at is not only an orgy, but the source of a thaumatic worki— yes, she does have impressive breasts, and—"
<pause>
"Do I have your attention again? Thank you.
"As I was saying, what you are looking at is the source of a thaumaturgical working. Remember what I said before about Pitch of aspect radiation: Sharp is creative, while Flat is destructive. And there are few acts more creative than the act of reproduction… or more destructive than the act of murder.
"… I'll give you another moment.
"All right, let's continue.
"The examples I've just shown you are extreme, but they are also clear examples of two different very extreme kinds of thaumaturgical Sources. In each case, the practitioner was attempting to "pitch" their energy source hard towards Sharp or Flat. What kind of working do you think they were trying to perform?
"… actually, no. In both cases, the practitioner was attempting to perform the same working: namely, the creation of a Constructed Intelligence… or the summoning of a demon, as was said in the older days. In both cases, the end purpose of the ritual pitched strongly towards Sharp, or creation. The difference came in just how patient the practitioner was in setting up their Source.
"Remember what I said about Backlash? When a working is performed, the excess energy bounces off the fabric of reality and rebounds… at an opposite Pitch and Hue. Hue is generally easy for the practitioner to shape right out of the source… what is harder to shape is Pitch. The latter working began with a Source that was Pitched strongly Flat: destructive. The energy was then channeled into a simple working at a low Hue: the circle of light that you see appearing around the practitioner's feet. The remaining energy Backlashed at an opposite Pitch: Strongly Sharp and opposite Hue: High Ebony, heavily creative and heavily blatant. The energy was then recaptured and worked into the final spell. Thaumatologists call this a Speckmann Rebound.
"Allow me to show you an example from an actual PHYSICS Division operation. A Strike Team, equipped with Current Gen technology is raiding the home of a rogue thaumaturge. Teams Alpha through Delta provide perimeter security, while Echo Team acts as the assault element. Echo Team's point man enters the working area and discovers the following scene: Two persons engaged in sexual intercourse, one of them the Type Blue. Across the room from them, a Class 9 ectomorphic entity is taking shape. Meanwhile, the walls are starting to light on fire. You are Echo Team's point man. What do you do?
"Terminate the Type Blue? That is one option… but the working is already in progress. There is a lot of free Aspect Radiation being generated. If you terminate the controlling agent… well, unless you're a Type Blue yourself, you're going to end up on the wrong side of a high amount of wild EVE. Not a good place to be.
"Terminate the ectomorph? I did mention it was a Class 9, wasn't it? And the team had Gen +0 Technology? Not a winning proposition there.
"What the Echo Team agent did instead was terminate the Type Blue's sexual partner. The agent recognized that the working's Source was the same Pitch as the Target… namely, both Sharp, or creative. He then shifted the energy of the Source powerfully towards Flat… towards destruction. The end result disrupted the still-forming ectomorph and caused the working to fail. It also had the side effect of creating a mist that quenched the flames caused by the backlash. On the other hand, it resulted in most of the team having to be treated for steam burns.
"Yes, sir, you had a question?
<pause. audience laughs.>
"… I actually don't find that question particularly funny. Actually, the gentleman had a good point. If the source had been a human sacrifice instead, one method to disrupt the working could have been to introduce a strongly Sharp pitched energy into the working: and yes, I suppose that making love inside the Source area would have worked. On the other hand, I doubt that any man… or woman, for that matter… could be heroic enough to maintain arousal in the presence of a rapidly forming hostile Class 9 ectomorph… or skilled enough to complete in time to disrupt the working. In that case, a better response would be to disrupt the initial working that is being used to shift the Pitch of the spell: the Speckmann's Rebound. Destroy the heat sinks or light sources that are being energized to create the backlash.
"Alternatively, you could push the original practitioner into the target area and terminate him there, introducing a surge of Flat Aspect Radiation into the circuit after the Rebound. I know at least one team that dealt with a nasty working in that manner. It has the disadvantage of leaving no one to question afterwards.
"In practice, of course, most modern thaumaturges prefer to use less dramatic Sources for their workings, mostly because the majority of the workings we perform don't require that dramatic of a Pitch, but also because we've learned techniques to alter the pitch of a working more precisely: they're less efficient than Speckmann's Rebound, but far more controllable. The most common Source thaumaturges use these days, in fact, is a simple drop of blood: blood is fairly neutrally pitched, and can actually provide quite a bit of EVE if properly Sourced. At higher energy levels, there is the Everhart Resonator. The conversion rate from electricity to Aspect Radiation is inefficient, and still requires a thaumaturge as catalyst, but it's still the most convenient way to generate high levels of EVE.
"As an example: a simple apportation working, like the one that transported your squad here, would require thirty human sacrifices… or an hour-long orgy with over one hundred participants. I suppose that would be more entertaining to watch than an Everhart Resonator slowly spinning up for a few minutes… but not exactly the thing one can order up at a moment's notice.
"We will take one final break for dinner, and when we return, I'll wrap up my lecture, and answer any remaining questions you may have."

Thaumatology Seminar Series
« Aspect Radiation | Return to GOC Hub | Questions and Answers »


"Good afternoon. I hope you had a pleasant lunch. Please be seated, and we will resume with the second portion of this seminar.
"The first portion of my lecture covered the three fundamental laws upon which thaumatology is based, and the ways in which they may have an effect upon a PHYSICS Division operative's choices in the field. At this point, I am going to proceed to a somewhat more esoteric field: Elan-Vital Energy and Aspect Radiation.
"EVE is the fundamental energy that powers thaumatology. What EVE is, we are still trying to understand. It appears to be somehow linked to the Observer Effect directly. It has been described as 'life energy,' or 'magical particles,' but such terms are gross oversimplifications. If you are interested in the more esoteric aspects of EVE theory, you will find some recommended reading in your seminar syllabus. But for now, I will simply discuss the aspects of EVE that are pertinent to a Coalition field agent.
"EVE is emitted by living things. It is also often emitted by paranormal objects. EVE emission is not a perfect indication of whether or not a person or object has paranormal properties, but often, that is the case. Higher and more intense levels of EVE are generated by beings with higher levels of sapience: their Observer Effect is stronger, thus their EVE levels are stronger as well. Humans over Animals, Animals over Plants.
"Interestingly enough, the Goddesses that the Servants of the Silicon Nornir operate also generate EVE energy. Food for thought.
"Training you on recognizing and identifying EVE patterns is beyond the scope of this one-day seminar: you'll be provided a handbook with common patterns and schemes to recognize and memorize. But for now, let's try it out.
"On the table in front of you, you'll find a COLLICULUS Aetheric Resonance Imager1. I've already set up the imaging nodes, so all you'll need to do is put on the headset. But before you do that, let me give you a quick rundown on how to use it.
"The system can be put on like any other personal image enhancement headset. It can be worn using a headstrap, or attached to your helmet. Other variations attach to your rifle's Picatinny rail. There are three components: power supply, headset, and image processor. For now, the power supply will be the extension cords at your tables, and the image processor should be left on the surface of the table.
"When I tell you to do so, and not before, pick up the image processor and turn this wheel here all the way to 0. That's the image brightness control. You also want all three of these switches: "CAL," "VIS," and "ARI," set to the "ON" position. Only then will you flip the power switch and put the headset on. After that, you can adjust the image brightness until the calibration bar at the bottom of the screen is properly adjusted: you should see eight distinct squares, each one a different shade of grey, ranging from near-black to near-white.
"Go ahead and put them on now. I'll be coming around to help anyone who's having problems.

"Everyone all set? Having fun? Interesting stuff, isn't it?
"What you're seeing in the COLLICULUS headset is the EVE energy being given off by you and your classmates. You'll see that different people have different color and shape patterns. Over time, you'll learn to read and recognize these patterns. A skilled COLLICULUS operator can not only detect a person, they can also read their emotional state and some paranormal properties.
"They can also see through walls. In a moment, I am going to activate a secondary COLLICULUS array located in the conference room next door. If you will please all direct your attention to the front of the room…
"There we go. Location and position of every human being in the room next door, through the walls. I am now going to ask you to set the VIS switch to "OFF," but keep your thumb on the switch, please. It might be a bit difficult for you to find it once you've turned off visible light processing.
"Interesting, isn't it? How you can see the entirety of the next room? Aetheric Resonance. Older models of the ARI system could only directly detect EVE emission patterns. The newest ones can also use EVE interaction with inert matter to draw a map of the surrounding area. The resolution isn't very good at the moment, but we're already working on the next-generation technology.
"Ah. I can see that someone noticed that Midnight here comes off as a bit different. Midnight, if you'll recall, is a Constructed Intelligence. That is, to say, she is a piece of raw mind put into the form of a cat. You'll notice that there are some unusual spikes in her aura signature, as well as some dips that don't appear in human beings. Her color scheme also tends towards blue significantly more than the rest of the class.
"Aha! And now the gentleman in the front row has recognized something else as well… my aura pattern also tends blue. And now you're remembering that "Type Blue" is the GOC designation for thaumaturges… Not a coincidence, I assure you. The image processing software is designed to process the EVE signature of a thaumaturge as blue. Same with Type Reds and Greens. Type Blacks… they're another story.
"In any case, take a few more moments to experiment with the COLLICULUS system. I'll be coming around to answer any questions you may have."

"I'm going to end this segment of the seminar with a discussion of Aspect Radiation, or ARad. EVE, you see, isn't just an indication of the Observer Effect. It's also a transformative power in its own right. When EVE intensity gets to the point where it can alter or change reality, that is what we call Aspect Radiation.
"So, to answer the first question: Aspect Radiation is simply EVE in concentrations high enough to cause reality warping effects. Think of it as gamma radiation: Gamma rays are simply the upper end of the electromagnetic spectrum, the same spectrum that contains X-Rays, visible light, heat, and radio waves.
"We categorize Aspect Radiation along three axes: Hue, Pitch, and Weave. Plus Intensity, that's four characteristics that should provide a solid description of the level of reality alteration that we might be dealing with.
"Intensity is measured in Caspers, a term which has a very technical definition that I will not get into here. One hundred Caspers is considered normal "background" radiation levels. At one thousand, you may start seeing paranormal effects. At ten thousand plus, you are seeing severe and immediate reality alteration. Word of advice: unless you are specially trained to deal with reality alteration scenarios, you should avoid any ARAD field higher than one thousand.
"Hue. Originally, Hue used six of the seven colors of the rainbow. That turned out to be a problem… people would call in "Type Blues" with ARad characteristics reading "3 thousand, Black, Flat, Tight," and people would get confused. So we extended the scale a bit and changed the terms. The Hue scale is now: Ruby, Topaz, Lemon, Malachite, Sapphire, Ebony, and Over-Ebony. Or, you could just say Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Black, and Over-Black if those colors sound too frou-frou for big, manly soldiers like yourselves… but you might confuse people.
"One common misconception is that Hue is a measure of the danger level of Aspect Radiation. Not the case. Hue is actually a measure of… I guess the best way to put it is how "blatant" the change is. For instance, a Ruby change might just be an acceleration in the decay rate of a small amount of radioactive material, while an Over-Ebony alteration changes the past fifty years of history to add an event back in the past that didn't occur before. On the other hand, Pitch, Weave, and Intensity also need to be considered… A Ruby level alteration that causes a sub-critical mass of plutonium to reach prompt criticality is a much more severe event than Mussolini having tea instead of coffee for breakfast one morning.
"Pitch is what mages used to call "White Line" versus "Black Line" magic: how destructive a particular burst of Aspect Radiation is. It comes in five categories: Double-Flat, Flat, Natural, Sharp, and Double-Sharp. Double-Flat is the most destructive, the most disruptive to the operation of the mundane universe. Double sharp is the most constructive: these changes tend to become integrated into the very fabric of reality itself. This is not to say that Double-Sharp is necessarily good… if you want an example of a hostile Double-Sharp working, consider the anomalous Daeva Civilization: an ancient civilization of bloodthirsty thaumaturges that, periodically, have their decline and fall a few years later than before. That's a Double-Sharp Over-Ebony scenario right there.
"Finally, Weave. Comes in four varieties: Sparse, Loose, Tight, and Locked. Explaining it is… difficult… mostly because it's the only characteristic of Aspect Radiation that we don't have a way to detect. The only way to assess Weave is by direct observation by a Type Blue like myself. But what you need to know is: Sparse is vague and strange. Loose is a little more understandable. Tight is usually about where we get to what most people think of as "magic" or "reality warping" - the purview of Type Blues and Greens. And if you ever hear "Locked," turn and run like hell, because there's a Type Black in the area.
"All of this must sound complicated, because it is. I'd have to give you an undergraduate level course in basic thaumatological physics to explain further. But this all relates to one of the big questions I keep getting asked: namely, why doesn't the Coalition use magical workings for everything? Why do we need Strike Teams and Assessment Teams?
"The reason is backlash. Every time you utilize Aspect Radiation to make a change in reality, it bounces off the fundamental fabric of existence and causes a secondary effect called Backlash. The formula for measuring Backlash intensity is a bit complicated, but it can be summed up like this: A percentage of the original spell's Intensity. Opposite Pitch. Opposite Hue. Same Weave.
"So let's say I perform a working to create a door in that wall, where there wasn't one before. That might be… 3 kilocaspers, Ebony, Sharp, Tight. I plug the numbers into my formula here… and I can expect a backlash of 1.75 Kilocaspers, Ruby, Flat, Tight. Maybe I suddenly give off a burst of gamma radiation. Maybe the carpet in a five meter radius bursts into flame. Maybe there is a burst of light and a glowing pattern of runes. In fact, when I do my working, I'm going to be trying to redirect the backlash into as harmless a pattern as possible. That's why thaumatologists use casting circles and geometric patterns: to redirect the backlash into predictable patterns.
"On the other hand, there are some workings that we still haven't figured out how to reabsorb all the backlash from. The most notorious being apportation. Altering reality so that quantum tunneling causes a large amount of mass to instantly appear somewhere else… it's a really ugly alteration, and the ARad backlash is huge.
"Worst of all, backlash itself is a burst of Aspect Radiation which can itself cause backlash… and so on and so forth. In fact, one theory as to why paranormal objects exist is that the Big Bang was the most powerful magical working in the universe… and it's still backlashing upon itself, causing reality to bend and alter at regular intervals.
"I'm starting to see that I'm losing some of you. Let's take another break, and when we get back, we'll talk about killing things and having sex."

Thaumatology Seminar Series
« Basic Thaumatology | Return to GOC Hub | Thaumatic Workings »

Footnotes
1. Since the recording of this Seminar, COLLICULUS has been retired and replaced with the more advanced VERITAS system.


"This is a really dumb idea," Skunkboy muttered. He shifted his weight on the chameleon-cloth pad he'd been laying on for the past thirty-six hours. He was pretty sure he was developing some sores on his elbows and knees. Worst of all, he was running out of bags to store his piss in, and pretty soon, despite all the immodium and MRE peanut butter, he was going to have to take a shit… and it was a choice between sneaking into the building and risking getting caught, or taking one of the alternatives that would make him even more miserable.
All in all, it was pretty much like any other mission for a scout sniper, except that he was laying all alone on the roof of a Hong Kong skyscraper rather than in the middle of the woods or the desert. On the other hand, there was the fucking noise. Even with the plugs in his ears, the dull roar of the building's ventilation equipment was beginning to rattle his jaws.
He blinked back the exhaustion and closed his eyes for a few moments to clear the blurry double-vision from them, then lowered his face back to his spotter's scopes. Hong Kong at night was actually kinda pretty, he decided. It was just a shame that he wasn't going to have the chance to do any sightseeing. Except for a small stretch of warehouses near the docks.
A flicker of light and movement caught his attention. He swung the scope around very slowly, then nodded to himself and keyed his throat mike for the first time in over six hours. "Sparkplug Two to all units. How do you read? Over."
"Sparkplug one, reading loud and clear."
"Three, loud and clear."
"Four, loud and clear. Over."
"Got it. Everyone reading loud and clear. Two here. I've got a mission report: Opposition elements are approaching the docks on schedule. Convoy consists of four vehicles, description follows: One convertible sports car, red, highly customized. Two SUVs, both black. One van, also black. VERITAS reads… two persons in sports car. Four persons each in the SUVs. Two persons in the van… no VERITAS signature from the back of the van. All persons read as baseline humans, no parathreats. Break."
"Um, Four here," Spider said, interrupting Skunkboy. "You're certain there's no VERITAS signature from the back of the van? There should be at least one. Over."
"Two here. Wait one." Skunkboy adjusted the settings on his VERITAS scope and did a second scan of the van. "Yeah, no dice, Spider. Nothing, over."
"That's not right. The manifest included at least one living creature… damn it." Skunkboy heard Spider mutter under her breath. He was sure that the team's thaumatologist was pacing back and forth again, as she tended to do when agitated. "Damn."
"Do you want to abort, Spider?" Bullfrog interrupted.
"No. I'm good," Spider said. "But keep a close eye on them for me. I don't know what's going on."
"All right, then. Mission is go. If the shooting starts, I initiate. Acknowledged?"
"Two here. We wait until you shoot or order it. Over."
"Three," Kitten said. "You start the shooting. Over."
"What do I do if we start shooting?" Spider asked.
"Hit the deck and find some cover," Bullfrog said. "And hope you don't get shot."
"That's not a very comforting prospect." Spider said sardonically.
"It'll have to do. Let's cut the chatter. Out."
Skunkboy adjusted his stance and stretched his toes out a little bit. Just a little longer, and it would all be over.

"Lao Feng isn't going to like this," Zheng muttered.
"Lao Feng can kiss my ass," Yang said. "His superstitions haven't gotten us anywhere. Meanwhile, the Silver Swords are cutting into the market… girls, guns, and drugs aren't going to cut it any more. We need to get in on this on the ground floor."
"This isn't like running hookers or heroin, or even guns," Zheng insisted. "This is more like getting involved with dealing nukes or chemical weapons… I don't like this."
It wasn't a new argument: the two men had argued these points many times in the past few days. Every time, the disagreement ended the same way.
"You'd rather let Shi Wang Zhou and his thugs run all over us? You'd rather see that dogfucker Lefty feeling up your little sisters?" Yang growled. "Because that's what's going to happen if the Silver Swords get a lock on the market."
"You know I don't want that, but… shit. This is fucking scary."
"Keep it to yourself, then," Yang muttered. "I don't want you pissing yourself in front of the foreigners."
"You know I've got your back, bro."
"I know you do," Yang agreed. "All right. Game face, lil bro."
The red convertible pulled up to the warehouse and came to a halt, followed shortly by the two SUVS and the van carrying the goods. Yang's brow furrowed as he looked into the dimly lit, empty warehouse.
"I thought they'd bring more people," he admitted.
"Arrogant fuckers," Zheng agreed.
He got out of the convertible and jogged over to the first SUV, rapping on the window. It rolled down, tinted glass giving way to reveal a huge man with a sardonic grin and an ugly, puckered scar running across the entire left side of his face.
"What's up, Yang?"
"They've only got three people. I don't want to spook them. So have the rest of the boys wait outside," Yang said.
"Shit, you sure that's smart? What if something goes down?"
"Shit's much less likely to go down if the foreigners don't think this is a fucking setup. Everyone stays outside," Yang insisted. "But keep an eye out… and make sure everyone's armed."
"You got it, bro."
Yang took a moment to adjust the collar of his shirt in the reflection on the side of the SUV, before rejoining Zheng by the convertible. "Ready?" he asked.
"Yeah, let's go."
There were three of them waiting inside the dimly-lit warehouse. Two of them looked like brainless thugs: one of them a tall, muscular looking woman with bored eyes and short-cropped hair. The other was a short, stout looking man with a big beard, whose ill-fitting suit strained to contain his broad chest. Yang marked them as soldiers. Probably bodyguards for the third: an Asian woman wearing a well-tailored suit: fairly young and attractive in a broad-hipped sort of way. She was nervous, despite her best efforts to hide it: she kept pushing up her glasses and fiddling with her expensive-looking tablet computer. Maybe a new lieutenant for the actual boss.
"You're late," she said irritably, as Yang walked into the warehouse. "And you brought too many people with you."
"Are you sure you didn't bring enough?" Yang said, grinning disarmingly. "If I were carrying that much cash on me, I'd have brought more than two guards."
"I did," the young woman said curtly. She fiddled nervously with a lock of her hair. "Tell the thug outside to please look down at his chest before he gets any more ideas about sending teams to flank us."
Yang turned and looked out the door, and pursed his lips, before nodding to Zheng.
"Cuntface," Zheng growled into his walkie-talkie. "Quit trying to be clever and tell the boys to go back to the cars."
"But…"
"Look at your chest, you fucking idiot," Zheng snapped. "The foreigners have you in their sights."
There was a brief bout of cursing over the radios, as the scar-faced goon finally saw the red dot floating on his chest, and a flurry of movement and shouting as a bunch of guys sheepishly emerged from the shadows and jogged back to the cars.
"I thought that snipers usually don't use laser sights," Yang mused. "Especially not visible light ones."
"Consider it… making a point," the woman said, sighing with relief. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, shall we move on to business?"

Skunkboy carefully turned off the laser pointer and slid it back into his pants pocket. It was a silly trick, but one that worked pretty well for intimidation purposes.
The taller one with the fancy silk shirt nodded to his friend, who growled a couple of words into his walkie-talkie. The big van pulled away from the two SUVs and began backing up towards the warehouse door.
"Shit," Skunkboy whispered over the comms. "I don't have a line of sight to inside the van."
"Watch the fuckers outside," Bullfrog muttered. "Let Kitten and I worry about the van."
"Boss, there's eight of the motherfuckers outside," Skunkboy griped. "Even I can't take on eight of them."
"Then get the leader and keep the rest of their heads down, if it comes to that," Bullfrog said, "and we'll help out as soon as possible."
"Easy for you to fucking say," Skunkboy muttered, but he ducked his head back down and continued to scan the exterior scene through his rifle scope.
Just to be sure, though, he made sure he had a round in the chamber.

The van doors opened, and the young woman's brow furrowed. She reached into the back of the van and rattled the bars of a heavy-gauge wire cage. "… it's dead," she said.
"It was alive when we left," Yang insisted.
"Well, it's dead now," the woman hissed. She rattled the bars of the cage again and threw her hands in the air. "What am I supposed to do with a dead specimen?"
"Stuff it and mount it? I don't know…"
"Wait," the woman snapped. "Are these cage bars steel?"
"Is that a problem?"
"Yes, it's a problem! These things are allergic to ferrous metals!" the woman shouted angrily. "No wonder it died on the way here! It was probably dead of shock before it got halfway here! And your brainless thugs didn't notice?"
"Kai?" Yang growled.
"… we heard it yelling and thrashing!" the younger man admitted. "But we thought it was just…"
"You stupid dogfucking idiot!" Yang shouted. "You didn't think to tell me?"
"But…" Kai halted and bit back the rest of his words, before bowing his head respectfully to the older man. "No excuse, sir."
"Get the fuck back in the van and start unloading. I'll deal with you later," Yang shouted. He turned back to the woman and gave her his best, most charming smile. "Now… I deeply apologize for…"
"I'm not paying full price for the shipment," the woman interrupted. "Two million only."
"That's half of what we agreed upon!" Zheng objected. "Just because one stupid animal is dead?"
"That stupid animal was the most valuable thing in the shipment. All the rest is trinkets. Two million. Take it or leave it."
"We'll take it," Yang said curtly. He turned to his friend and said, in a low voice, "You want them to start dealing with the Swords instead?"
"… two million isn't enough. We can't arm ourselves on two million. We need at least three," Zheng pointed out.
"We'll make do with two million for now. And we'll set up a second shipment for the foreigners."
"That's not going to help if the Silver Swords make their move before then."
"Then we'll just have to pray that they don't," Yang said. "Maybe you should invest some of that two million in incense for the gods."
He slapped his friend on the shoulder and turned back to the foreigners. "Two million."

"Oh, thank fucking God," Skunkboy sighed. "You have no idea how close that ugly dude out here came to shooting. He actually had his gun out of its holster."
"Well, it's over now," Bullfrog said. "So get packed up and let's get the fuck out of this country."
"All right, I'll see you… wait one." Skunkboy halted as something moved in the corner of his field of vision. He panned the scope down and to the left. "Fuck!" he snapped. "Boss, I fucked up!"

Yang was surprised when the big foreigner, the man, put his hand to his ear and shouted, "Situation report!" in English, very loudly. He was even more surprised when the foreigner grabbed the young woman by the shoulder and pulled her away from the van and pushed her to the ground, one hand dipping into his jacket as he did so.
"What the hell is this?" Yang shouted.
"We're about to get hit!" Bullfrog snapped. "This is a fucking setup!"
Yang turned to yell for Cuntface Teng and the boys to get ready, but as he turned to face his soldiers, he realized that all eight of them had their guns out… and pointed at him.
Oh. So it's THAT kind of setup.
He grabbed Zheng by the collar and pulled him to the ground just as the shooting started.

It was really too easy, in the end. All but two of the boys were in on the plan, and those two were in the warehouse with Yang and Zheng. It was too bad that his plan to sneak a few guys to block off the back exits had failed, but he would make do with two-to-one odds.
Cuntface Teng wasn't exactly the brightest bulb in the pack, but he was smart enough to see where the tide was turning. And the tide was most definitely turning away from Lao Feng and towards Shi Wang Zhou. Not that he had anything against the old man, but there was no way the family was going to survive, not against the resources the Silver Swords could muster.
Lao Feng was old school. He believed in the gods and the spirits. That sort of antiquated mindset wasn't going to work any more.
It was a shame that a bunch of good boys were going to die, good boys that Shi Wang Zhou could use. At the very least, he'd get to see that faggot Yang get it.

"Skunkboy!" Bullfrog shouted over the comms. "Take these fuckers out!"
"Can't!" Skunkboy shouted back. "I've got three fucking vehicles full of fucking Triads coming up the road!"
"Shit!" Bullfrog shouted. He was seriously hating this entire fucking mission. Bullets were snapping past his head and splintering the wooden crates behind him and punching holes into the side of the van. He could already see one of the Triad guys laying on the ground in a pool of blood. A second was huddled behind the van's wheel, weeping and cursing as he tried to stop a wound in his leg that was pouring blood. A second burst of gunfire skipped off the concrete and into his gut, and he slumped over, breath gurgling.
The two remaining gangsters had managed to get behind cover along with his team: the boss guy with the fancy shirt and his friend with the angry eyes. They had pistols in their hands, and were firing wildly over the tops of the crates, before ducking back down as another burst of gunfire stitched through the air.
The situation, Bullfrog realized, was looking pretty much unsurvivable. He was pinned down by a force with superior numbers and firepower. He had the advantage of cover for now, but it was only a matter of time before the enemy managed to flank him. Then he was going to die.
It was time to do something stupid.
"Kitten!" he shouted.
The tall, wiry woman glanced up from her position. Her expression had not changed one bit from its usual boredom, even when a close burst caused a bullet to whip by so close to her face that it actually ruffled her hair.
Bullfrog slid his pistol across the concrete to his teammate. "Go start some shit," he shouted.
Kitten's eyes lit up. Her mouth twisted into a fierce, angry grin. Bullfrog saw her draw the biggest fucking knife he'd ever seen from some hidden sheath under her suit jacket and hold it in her teeth. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaled once long and slow, exhaled sharply.
Then she moved.

Skunkboy had a bit of a love-hate relationship with the United States Marine Corps. On the one hand, they'd taken half a decade of his life, forced him to endure shitty food and idiotic colleagues, and basically given him nothing but hatred and contempt for the modern military. If he had to deal with one more slogan-spewing jarhead in his life, it would be too much. When the recruiter had asked him to re-up after his first term of service, he'd laughed at the guy to his face.
On the other hand, there were times when the Marine Corps way of doing things could be useful. Like when you were a lone marksman on the roof of a Hong Kong building trying to stop three big vans full of bloodthirsty Triad gangsters.
At times like those, there were few things that felt more comfortable, more familiar, to him, than his old Parris Island indoctrinations.
"This is my rifle," he murmured, as he shifted over to his weapon and lined up his shot. "There are many like it, but this one is mine."
He was going to have to time his shot perfectly. It would be best if he could catch the convoy just as they were about to exit where the street narrowed, between two warehouse buildings.
"My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life."
The driver… that would be a tough shot. Maybe he should go for the engine instead?
"My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true."
Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Take up the slack. Line up the shot. Get into the rhythm of your own beating heart.
"I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me."
Crack.
The first round was a good one, but Skunkboy was already working the bolt and lining up his second, even before the first round hit home. He had barely enough time to see the bullet punch through the hood of the vehicle, enough time to see the hood start to spew smoke. He fired his second shot, was gratified to see the driver's side window shatter, but the driver had slammed the brakes so hard that the car behind it rear-ended the lead vehicle. He saw the driver stumble out of the door and start yelling and waving to his allies.
"I will."
Crack.
Skunkboy saw the driver of the lead car stumble and slump to the ground, rolling in agony as he clutched his abdomen. The guy riding shotgun was trying to lean over and get the car moving again, so Skunkboy put another round through the hood, for good measure.
Then he got to work.

Cuntface Teng's first warning was when the two smoke grenades came rolling out from the dimly lit warehouse and began spewing red smoke all over the area, causing the world to become shrouded in a scarlet mist. In the light of the streetlamps, it gave the entire place a hellish air.
"Watch it!" he shouted to his teams. "They may try to escape through the smo—"
There was the sound of rapidly moving feet. He saw the tall female foreigner sprinting across the open court. Her eyes were wide and wild, and she had a giant knife in her teeth and a gun in each hand.
Cuntface Teng wanted to laugh. Everyone knew that there was no way in hell to shoot straight with a gun in each hand! The foreigner had been seeing too many John Woo action movies!
He ducked behind the van as a wild fusillade of gunfire snapped towards him and the boys. The shots were mostly wild, and failed to hit anyone, as expected. All he'd have to do is wait for the bitch to run out of ammunition, and then…
He saw Loverboy Lu go down. Something spun in the air where it had bounced off his forehead: one of the two pistols the bitch had carried. Fatheaded Kai tried to shoot her, got his submachinegun kicked out of his hand, and then she beat his face in with the butt of her empty pistol before slashing open his throat with that huge fucking knife.
She'd never intended to hit anyone.
The pistols were just to keep him and his boys' heads down while she closed the distance.
She slid the empty pistol back into the direction of the warehouse, where the big male foreigner stopped it with his foot and reloaded it. He raised the pistol in a two-handed grip and began firing slow and methodical, hugging the wall of the warehouse.
Within a few moments, six of his guys were down. Two more killed by that crazy bitch with the knife, two of them shot by the big male. Teng's will broke. He turned and ran for it.
As he fled, he could hear the screaming of his two remaining guys. After a few minutes, he couldn't even hear that any more.

Skunkboy often thought that an enemy unit in panic mode looked a lot like an anthill, after someone had poked it with a stick.
There were a bunch of the Triad guys milling around, pointing in every direction, shooting out windows at random and yelling at each other a lot. It was almost comical.
A moment like this didn't seem to deserve the solemnity of the Rifleman's Creed. It was time for something a little more… upbeat.
"We shoot the sick, the young, the lame, we do our best to maim," he hummed. He knew he had the biggest grin on his face. He didn't care. "Because the kills all count the same…"
Crack!
"Napalm sticks to kids…"
He ejected the magazine of his rifle and laid it neatly next to the two empty mags he'd already gone through. He carefully seated his third magazine, worked the bolt, and raised the rifle back to his shoulder.
"Flying low across the trees, pilots doing what they please…"
Crack!
One more Triad down. That made four.
"Dropping frags on refugees… Napalm sticks to kids…"
All things considered, this was actually going pretty well for him.

"Situation report!" Bullfrog snapped, as the firing ceased.
"I've got the backup pinned down," Skunkboy reported. "Looks like they're getting ready to bug out."
"Eight down," Kitten said. "One got away. The scarfaced one that started the shooting."
"I'll find him," Zheng hissed. "Lao Feng isn't going to let him get away with this. Ten good soldiers dead in one night."
"I know," Yang said grimly. "But for now…" He turned back to the Asian woman who he had thought was their leader, and bowed deeply and respectfully. "My apologies," he said. "I was unable to control my men, and put us all in danger. If you had not been ready for them, we would have all lost our lives. I promise you, we will find the traitor and exact our punishment against him."
"When I find him I'll feed him his own balls raw. After I cut off a finger for each of our brothers he killed," Zheng agreed.
"I think I can help you with that," Spider said. She pushed her glasses up into place, and her dark eyes were fierce and angry.

Cuntface Teng wept as he staggered through the alleyway alone.
It just wasn't fair. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. American bitches weren't supposed to murder ten trained Triad killers with a knife and a pistol. He, Cuntface Teng, was supposed to be the terror of Lao Feng's soldiers. The terror of Lao Feng's soldiers wasn't supposed to run from a battle with pants stained with urine and a giant gash across one arm.
He was going to have to go to Shi Wang Zhou. It was his only choice. That faggot Yang would make sure everyone knew what he had done… and the Families didn't treat traitors very well. He'd gambled and lost… it was time to get out of the game before he lost his entire stake.
He was stepping out into the light of the rising sun when he felt the pain stab into his lower abdomen. He screamed as he crumpled over and clutched at his stomach… then began to howl in agony as a burst of blinding pain started at the base of his spine and raked slowly up his back. Then he clutched at his eyes and wept as what felt like pure fire stabbed into his optic nerves.
As the sun rose over Hong Kong, the man they called Cuntface Teng writhed and howled in agonizing pain, unable to do anything but huddle in the shadow of the abandoned warehouses and scream.

Spider gave the burlap doll one more vicious stab in the groin for good measure, before pinning it to the side of the van with Kitten's knife. She had stitched the doll together many weeks before, filling it with graveyard earth and a dash of silicon oxide. It only needed a link to her intended victim to provide the contagion it needed to find a target… a link like the blood Kitten had drawn when she had, spectacularly, slashed open the unfortunate Teng's arm with her kukri.
"Are we done here, Spider?" Bullfrog asked.
"Yeah, we're done." She turned to the two Triad leaders and slipped back into her childhood Mandarin. "You'll find your traitorous dog of a former colleague at the east side of the docks. He'll be screaming in agony. Don't take the knife out until you find him."
"… who the hell are you people anyway?" the fancy man in the nice shirt asked.
"… don't worry about it," Spider replied, smiling disarmingly. "Better to think about what you guys are."
"Which is?"
"The ones who rooted out the traitor working for Shi Wang Zhou, and brought him back to Lao Feng alive."
She hopped into the back of the van alongside Kitten and Bullfrog, who had finished loading the goods into their vehicle while she had performed her working. She gave the two perplexed-looking Chinese gangsters a cheerful wave as the three of them drove out of the warehouse.
"You do realize," Kitten pointed out, "that we need to retrieve Skunkboy, evade the Hong Kong police department, and somehow make our way back home now, right?"
"Yup," Bullfrog said.
"Just wanted to be sure." The tall woman leaned back her seat and closed her eyes.
A few moments later, she started snoring.
"Sometimes, I envy that crazy bitch," Bullfrog admitted.

"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I agreed to this joint operation," D.C. al Fine said to the shimmering image of the old Chinese man sitting in the chair across from her.
"The objectives were met. The shipment was stopped. The mole was rooted out, and soon Shi Wang Zhou's illegal operation will be halted," Lao Feng, Leader of the Immortal Lily Brotherhood said. He picked up a teacup that didn't exist in al Fine's office and took a small, measured sip, before wiping the rim with a napkin and putting it back down on the tea table.
"We also shot up a Hong Kong warehouse, killed over a dozen guys, and brought the attention of the Hong Kong PD upon the entire thing," al Fine pointed out. "I hope whatever you found out from the informant was worth it."
"It was. We confirmed that Shi Wang Zhou found and took over an abandoned Factory manufacturing plant and reopened it. He has been pumping out threat entity-level artifacts daily. His quality is shoddy, but his prices are much cheaper than his competitors." Lao Feng laughed and shook his head. "The irony was not lost on me."
"Will you need our help in taking them down? I could dispatch a couple of Strike Teams."
"The day that the Immortal Lily Brotherhood needs your help in a war against its rival gangs is the day that we finally join your Global Occult Coalition," Lao Feng said, smiling politely. "No, I thank you for your help, but we shall handle this matter ourselves."
"Just so long as you hand over all Factory assets to the Coalition," al Fine insisted.
"Of course. I have no desire to get involved in paranormal matters. The affairs of ghosts and gods are no place for a simple Hong Kong businessman."
"You are going to have to, eventually. It's not a good sign that two of your most trusted lieutenants tried to pull off a paranormal arms deal right under your nose," al Fine pointed out.
"I knew of their plans long before. If I had not wished to root out the traitor in my organization, we would have… had words… long before. As it is, I feel I owe Yang an apology… and an explanation. Perhaps it is time to tell him what the Immortal Lily Brotherhood really is."
"He might not be happy. He signed on to join a Triad gang, not an ancient Chinese order of monster hunters."
"He will adapt. Good bye, Ma'am."
"Good bye, Lao Feng."

"… You know," Zheng sighed. "One of these days I'm going to end up following you into an early grave."
The two gangsters were sitting together on the balcony of one of the Immortal Lily Brotherhood's safe houses, watching the sun set over Hong Kong. The city, Yang thought, had never looked more beautiful.
"No one says you need to follow," Yang pointed out. "You could just run."
"Dying would be easier," Zheng said. He put his hand over that of his friend's, and leaned in to kiss the other man on the cheek. "As it is, you owe me for this, my brother."
"Dinner at the Lucky Dragon, then? Once the heat dies down?"
"That would be a good place to start." Zheng laughed. "And maybe now we can enjoy ourselves without that homophobe Teng giving us shit."
"It would be hard for him to call me a faggot with no tongue," Yang agreed.
He kissed Zheng back, and the two men shared a brief moment of affection, before walking back into the apartment and turning out the lights. Outside, the sun finally dipped below the horizon, shrouding the city in twilight.

"Sequence"
« "AWTOK" | Return to GOC Hub | Trauma»


the worst part of living
if you really think about it
is thinking.
immortality
it wouldn't be so bad
if you didn't have to notice.
the only way
that one could stand knowing
anything
is the knowledge that one day
with luck
they may forget.
and so we sat down
learned the core mechanics
and decided to live forever
as stupid fools.
but it was misaligned
the others knew nothing
and through the worst of fortunes
I knew everything.
an eternity
of knowing.
all conversations known.
all possibilities conceived.
all people understood.
there is nothing
that I do not know.
I know that
there is nothing
that I do not know.
there is no meaning
when there are no questions.
there are no questions
when there is no meaning.
I know I cannot be cured
of the plague called life.
I know I cannot not know.
hear my words and
take them to
your enviable grave.
the most grievous wound
that anyone can inflict
is knowing.
the most beautiful gift
that anyone can share
is not.
and so with my curse
I gift the world.
secure knowledge.
contain wisdom.
above all
protect the stupid
for their lot is enviable.