StarDestroyer.Net BBS

I was sitting on a little jetty, overlooking a river that was really a big stream. It was a hot summer day, but the jetty was under the shade of a pair of tall trees and cool breeze ran near the water. I was sitting with my feet hanging off the edge with a fishing rod in my hand. Next to me was Uncle Dom, looking about fifty with his hair all gone to white. There was a picnic basket just behind us. "Oh fuck," I said.

"What's a matter?" asked Uncle Dom.

"That scrawny Vietnamese fuck must have really laid a hurting on me if I'm here."

"Would you rather be there?"

"I could do something," I said looking him in the eye. "Or maybe not."

"Shock, tissue damage, blood loss, the whole nine yards John. On the bright side, you won't be feeling much pain."

"Fuck."

"You might live. It'll require something close to a miracle, but its possible. Why don't you stay and talk for awhile.? It's better here than bleeding out in the grass."

"Why the fuck not?" I said. "If I'm going to snuff it, at least I won't be hurting here. Your dead, you know? Five years now."

"Well, I'm not really your Uncle Dom, so that doesn't really matter does it?"

"Guess not."

"Was it worth it?"

"What? Getting my ass shot off on the wrong side of the Cambodian border?"

"Yes."

"Fuck no. I signed up to serve my country, not keep whatever asshole is president this week at the top of the maggot pile. Those fucking Viet bastards won't give up. No matter how fucking many of them we kill, there's always more ready to die for their fucking country, no matter how fucking hard we make it on them."

"Well it is their country John."

"We should fucking let them have it. What the fuck is Vietnam to us any fucking way? We sure as shit aren't helping anybody. We're just fucking things up even more and upping the body count keeping total assholes in power instead of letting communist fucks, who can't possibly be worse than the current bunch of fucks, take this shit hole over. And what does it fucking matter if it goes communist? Some shit hole in southeast Asia? Fuck, most people couldn't find it on a globe. Stupid ass domino theory. Doesn't mean shit. It's just a hole to pour in blood and treasure."

"I take it you don't believe in the war?"

"Nobody who has spent anytime In Country and has three braincells to rub together believes in the war."

"What about General Westmoreland?"

"I said three braincells. Not two. Fuck him."

"Then maybe you should think about doing something else with your life John. Something with meaning, something that will take you and other people somewhere good."

"Like what? Besides, it doesn't matter. I'm a dead man. I need a miracle right?"

"Or something close to it," Uncle Dom said with a smile. The shadow around us depend and the sunlight faded away. Darkness was everywhere.

I could hear a distant voice speaking. "Holy fuck, he's still got a strong pulse. What is this fucker made of?"

Another voice answered. "Pig iron man, pig iron. They broke the mold after they made him. Think he'll make it?"

"Fuck if I know. I would say one in five for most, so yeah, he could. Stubborn son of bitch."

"He better. He's a righteous life taker and heart breaker. Without him to pull our asses out of the fire its fucking dangerous out there." There's laughter and then I hear nothing more.

Colonel Asshole was making a tour of the hospital, not because he cared but because that's what good soldiers were supposed to do. He wanted that first star so bad he would sell his own mother to the devil to get it, if he hadn't already done that to become a full bird colonel.

He stopped at the bed of each of his soldiers and said some encouraging words and then went to the next. You could see it in his eyes that he didn't give a shit. You could always see it in his eyes that he didn't give a shit, that his soldiers were just tools for him to climb the ladder with. Fucking careerist piece of shit. It was only bearable because he was probably better at doing this shit than half the colonels In Country, which mattered when your life was on the line.

He reached my bed. "Sergeant," he said, "I'm glad you made it. We need good men like you." He looked right through me.

"Yes sir," I replied.

"Doctors say you might make a full recovery," he continued. "I'm glad we'll be keeping you. You rest up and heal." His eyes drifted over to a passing nurse. She skinny with short brown hair. His gaze lingered on her.

"Yes sir."

He turned back to me and patted me on the shoulder. "Good man." He straightened up and left the room, heading in the same direction as the nurse went. Fucker.

A guy came in as the colonel went out, that is if spooks were really humans and not all sons of bitches hatched from toad spawn. He was a little taller than me and I'm not short. Say six-four and built like a track and field athlete who lifts weights on the side. Not a guy to casually tangle with. He had curly light brown hair, a mustache, and wore aviator glasses. He wore a light blue t-shirt, khaki pants, and had a Swedish K slung over his shoulder. He might as well have Christians In Action tattooed on his forehead. The fucker went straight for me.

"John DiMarco," he said. "I'm pleased to meet you." He grabbed a chair and took a seat by my bed. "You've done some very good work," he said. "The number of confirmed kills you have is very impressive."

Of course it was, since it was at least twice as large as the number of actual Vietnamese I had killed. Colonel Wyatt always had a large body count for Westmoreland or whatever rear echelon motherfucker he reported to. I didn't say anything. That didn't stop him.

"My name is Gregory Nilsen and I'm here to make you an offer. Same sort of job, much better money, more discretion, more support. A chance to make a real difference."

"A real difference?" I snorted.

"Yes," he said. "Something better than these half baked counter insurgency missions with no overall plan and strategy. I'm talking about operations that matter, whose success won't be thrown away when command tries a different set of tactics next week or some dickhead drops artillery on the wrong spot. I'm talking about helping Southeast Asia becoming a decent place to live." He adjusted his sunglasses.

I felt my resistance weaken. He was persuasive, even if he was a CIA scumbag. "I've still got time left on my hitch." Fuck, that was weak. Why was I caving in? Maybe it was what Uncle Dom said, or whatever part of my brain conjured him up. Doing something that had meaning.

"Not a problem," he said. "You'll get seconded to my operation and then hired on as a civilian when you're up. You'll be doing everyone a favor. Yourself, your country, and these poor backwards bastards as well." He took off his glasses, examined the lenses, and put them back on. All resistance faded.

"Alright," I said. "I'll do it."

First chapter is a bit random, and requires too much knowledge of Mage to understand. Second chapter is awesomer, and less preachy-cliche

For those who missed it: yes, whatever the guy was doing with his glasses did mess with DiMarco's mind so he'd agree.

DEATH wrote:First chapter is a bit random, and requires too much knowledge of Mage to understand.

DEATH, there is this thing called "mystery". The reader is not required to understand everything that is going on at the beginning, only by the end. And that will happen. Those with knowledge of Mage will probably catch on faster, but it isn't required.

I like it. It's an interesting setting for a Mage story, or basically any fantasy story that I know of.

basically Death....

The main character experienced his Awakening at the very begining of the story. It may have saved his life.

"John," said Uncle Dom's voice, inches from his ear, "you know you don't have to do this, right?"

"Not the fucking time," muttered John DiMarco as he crept forward toward through the jungle. Fuck this crawling through mud shit. Only Marines were crazy enough to like it. Why hadn't Nilsen tapped some of those motherfuckers for this job?

"He did," said Uncle Dom.

"Shut up," John whispered. He could see the boat and the jetty now. A long shack served as the smugglers barracks/warhouse. A pair of boats with outboard motors were their ships. Nilsen said these motherfuckers were smuggling to the VC, shipping guns and ammo. I had my doubts, but this was the plan. Fucking Laos. How the fuck did that spook prick Nilsen talk me into this?

"He didn't," said Dom. "He coerced you."

"Yeah," I said. "Used fucking spook magic on me. Shut the fuck up."

Kneeling stance isn't my favorite, but I can do it and it was the best choice for my position. I knelt in front of a rotting log and sited my M-16 on one of the bastards standing guard. He was pretty meaty for a Southeast Asian.

"Actually," said Uncle Dom, "that's exactly what he did. If you would only listen."

I didn't reply. I was carrying three guns, which is probably at least one too many. The M-16 which I was using now, the .45 automatic under my armpit, and the MAC-10. I really shouldn't be carrying the MAC-10, which is not a gun I love but we'll need to go in and secure that shit once most of the shooting is over and it's a better close quarters gun than the M-16. Not enough fucking manpower.

I could see Rory move into position about a dozen meters off to my right. He hand signaled me. I signaled back. A shot rang out. One of the smuggler's had his shirt turn red and fell. I fired, semi-auto, cranking out a half dozen rounds. Several hit the guy I was aiming at and he fell over.

There was gun fire everywhere. The smugglers opened up the AKs, a Garrant, and at least one old Mauser from god knows where. We shot the fuck out of everyone on dock or on deck. It was a fucking turkey shoot. Guys were coming out of the shack and firing. Others were shooting from windows. We shot every fucking bastard who tried to get out and fired suppression fire through the windows. Rifle rounds went right through the walls. It had to be hell in there. Good.

In theory we had guys covering the shack ready to pop anyone who came out the jungle side. In theory. I reloaded and continued firing. By the time I had blazed my way through my third clip we were pretty much the only ones shooting. I reloaded and signaled Rory. We advanced, with the others covering us.

We had done a pretty good job of shooting the place to shit with small arms. Blood was dripping from the jetty into the brown river water. A few of the fallen moaned or twitched. I put two rounds into the heads of the wounded.

Nilsen came out of the jungle, his Swedish K in hand. Like the rest of us he was wearing unmarked fatigues, like that would fool anyone. Little Mike came with him. "You take the boats," he said. "We'll take the shack." He kicked open the door. I heard a lot of shooting. It lasted for about three seconds. "Clear," he said. We headed for the boats.

I slung the M-16 and drew the MAC. It was a nasty gun. Not very comfortable to hold and the recoil could be a bitch. The plus side was that it could empty its magazine in less than two seconds and it .45 caliber. If you really had to throw down at close range, it would do the job.

The boats were devoid of the living. Hell both of them were slowly leaking. We had done a great job of shooting anything that moved on them. The deck was stained with blood. Partially full fish nets covered concealed cargo. They weren't trying that hard to hide what they were smuggling. Probably didn't have to. One of the crates was punctured. It was leaking white powder that wasn't icing sugar. "Son of a bitch."

"What is it?" Rory asked.

"China white," I told the Marine. "Fucking H."

"Everything good?" asked Nilsen as he came down the jetty.

"No," I said. "They're smuggling drugs, not guns."

"Yeah," said Nilsen. "Not a problem."

I glared at him. I could see my expression reflected back in his shades. "Not a fucking problem?" I half shouted at him.

"No," he said coolly. I felt my will weaken. "Not a problem. We can use this. That will be all sergeant."

"Everything about this is wrong," Uncle Dom whispered in my ear. He was right, but I was too numb to pay attention.

Man, this is delightfully screwed up.

I'm intrigued; it's not often I see a Mage fanfic. I think I'm gonna have to brush up on the setting now.

It's hotter than hell and wetter than a fucking swamp. God damn I hate Southeast Asia. I wish the whole god damn subcontinent would drop off into the fucking ocean and I would go fucking home. Fuck it all.

The room fan is going full power, which makes the temperature merely hellish as opposed to unbearable. He got up from the bed and reached for the bottle of Johnny Walker Black. Drinking alone in a fucking Saigon hotel room, that was a sure sign of health. Fuck it. He refilled the glass. At least Uncle Dom hadn't shown up.

His door opened and he sprawled forward and grabbed for his .45 next to the whiskey bottle. "Easy," said Nilsen. I lowered the gun, considering whether or not I wanted to put two in his chest and one in his skull. "Your wound pretty tight."

I pointed the gun away, but didn't put it down. "What the fuck do you want?"

"You've been fucked up since the river," he said. "I've been worried. This isn't that reassuring."

"I've been fucked up since I came to 'Nam," I replied. "Taking custody of a ton of china white didn't help. I"ve gone from soldier to fucking spook to fucking drug smuggler."

"No," said Nils, "you're still a soldier. I'm the spook. Congress doesn't want to win this war, nor does the brass. They don't want to do what needs to be done and so we have to. For that, we need funding. Better our boys pay us to stick good heroin in their arms instead of paying some slope pirate for whatever adulterated shit they're selling. It's not pretty, but it's what we have to do."

"For America," I said bitterly. "I heard that fucking speech already. Well fuck that. America isn't doing any god damn thing here that's worth the god damn damage. So fucking what if a few Southeast Asian shit holes get commie dictators instead of our puppets. Shit, they're probably be fewer of the god damn commies if we weren't here making the our 'friends' look even worse by god damn association."

"That's now," said Nils. "The darkness is always the greatest before the dawn," he quoted. He took off his aviator glasses, folded the frames, and stuck them in his pocket. "We're almost at the end of the tunnel. Just a little further. You're almost through."

"Kill him," a voice whispered in my ear. It wasn't Uncle Dom. She moved forward, towards Nilsen. She had waist length black hair, pale skin, and was impossibly beautiful. She wore a dress of some shimmering black fabric. Her eyes were pits of darkness. On her forehead glinted a silver crescent moon. "Kill him now," she said.

The gun in my hand felt so god damn heavy. "Why don't you put that down John? You've gone this far, just come a little farther and you'll see the positive benefits of all your hard work. It hasn't been for nothing. Just see it through a little longer."

"Kill him," she said. "He has lived too long already. He has nothing to give to this world but misery." Yeah, that was probably right. Fuck, you could say the same god damn thing about me and you would be right. But the gun was so heavy.

His eyes bored into me. "Put the gun down." I put it down. "Good. Now buck up, go pick up a couple of bar girls and get fucking laid. You'll feel better afterward, back on side and part of the team. Go."

I walked passed him and out the door. "You are one stubborn son of a bitch," I heard Gregory say as I walked down the corridor. "Nine out of ten would have woken up and have started playing for the right team by now. Good fucking thing that you're a kick ass foot soldier so you're pulling your weight in the meantime." Then the elevator doors closed behind me and I heard nothing more.

We were heading up river in a shitty boat to do some business with a big shot that could deliver serious amounts of powder. Besides myself we had Mike, Nilsen, Rory, and two Thais that Nilsen had called in. They were big and muscular by Thai standards and they steady hands and dead eyes. I wondered if Nilsen had long line of shooters ready to replace the ones that fell and what that made me. A disposable enforcer for a CIA drug lord. Fuck it.

Uncle Dom's sex change was bothering me as well. I didn't pick up on it at first, not really, but she bothered me. There was something familiar about her. Something going way back, like one of the old stories my mother used to read to me. Greek and Roman myths with gods and heroes and monsters that were far more interesting than the Bible stories about people sacrificing their sons or conspiring to murder their brothers or neighbors or pimping their daughters to angry crowds or that other shit that was somehow supposed to involve a righteous god that I could never really see.

But that's beside the point. The point is, I managed to track the bitch down and boy she was a dozy. Didn't feature in many stories but she was a piece of work. Hecate, goddess of witches and the crossroads. More of a protector than an evil goddess, but an avenger and not one to cross.

So mystery man has decided the switch faces, from Uncle Dom to a Greek goddess I barely remember. Why the fuck for? "You're thinking too much man," said Rory. "Got let go and let it flow. These mother fuckers may decide to kill us all. You've got to be on the ball."

"Muscles Are Required Intelligence Not Essential," I joked.

"Spoken like an Army fag," he said with a smile.

"I'm on the ball," I said. "You know me. I'm worth at least three Marines in a fight."

"In your dreams soldier boy," he said.

"Heads up," said Little Mike. We were heading around a bend in the river and another boat was coming to meet us. Another piece of shit like ours, powered by an outboard motor. There were a dozen guys on board with a lot of weapons. I dismissed them as posturing dickheads. No one who is serious about fighting carries that many guns and blades. It's for show, intimidation and talismans to reinforce their courage.

One of the guys wasn't carrying any weapons, I big Thai motherfucker with muscles like a god. He was bigger than Little Mike, who wasn't a big guy, almost Rory's size. Pretty damn big for a Thai. "Take a look at that fuck," said Little Mike.

"See him," Rory told the black man. "Shoot him first if it goes in the shit," he said. Our boats slowed down as we approached each other. No one was being rude or stupid enough to point their guns at one another, but you could feel the tension.

"Grease 'em," said Nilsen hoarsely. What the fuck? This was his deal and it was going down just fine and he suddenly decides to kill them? What the fuck is going through his spook brain? Syphilus?

Part of my brain is thinking that, but the rest isn't hesitating. My M-16 comes up, the fire selector already flicking over to full auto as the gun rises in one smooth and quick motion. Practice makes perfect.

In the movies you can fire on full auto for a year and a day without reloading. In real life you have a few seconds and then you're empty. Accuracy tends to suck, but you're putting a lot of lead into the air and that's nasty. It will make them want to take cover and fuck up their own accuracy and that might just save all of our asses since they're armed to the teeth and outnumber us two to one.

I beat everyone to the draw and empty the M-16's clip into the drug runner's boat. Most of them go scampering for cover or the deck and I think I hit one or two of them. I put multiple rounds into the big scary motherfucker and the guy beside them and they both drop. Not too fucking bad at all. I drop to my knees and reload.

Rory, Little Mike, and the Thais are firing semi-auto and tearing the shit out of them, killing them before they can get their shit together and fire back. In a second I've reloaded and I'm firing with them. So is Nilsen. The bastards are dead meat. They barely get to shoot back before they're all dead.

There's brass all over the place. I reload. I see the big guy fall over the far side of the boat. It's impressive that he's still alive. I hit him at least three times in the chest. Doesn't fucking matter. He's a deader for sure. "Where's their leader?" Nilsen asked.

"Slipped over the side with at least three in the chest," I reply. "He maybe a tough motherfucker but he isn't that tough."

"Fuck!" Nilsen almost screams.

Rory reloads his M-16. "Doesn't fucking matter. The rest are dead, we got his shit, he'll be dead in an hour. Look," he said, pointing at the water. "No one's come up for air. Probably going straight to the bottom. He'll bleed out or drown. He's no one's problem."

The water erupts right in front of him. Time slows, like it goes from running over a water fall to the speed of cold molasses. A shark, a big god damn shark springs out of that god damn brown water like a monster from a child's nightmare. It has god damn hands, arms really, instead of fucking flippers. It grabs Rory's shoulders and bites his head clean off. It falls back into the water, taking Rory's body with it. The attack takes about two or three seconds but it feels like an eternity.

"Holy fuck!" said Little Mike. The Thais are screaming. I can't fucking blame them. It comes up again, leaping half into the boat to grab one of the Thai's by the arm and drag him into the water. We shoot the fucker a half dozen times at least. The water is roiling where it goes under. Blood and chunks of human flesh come up. I empty my mag at that spot and Mike does the same. We move to the center of the boat and reload.

"What was that fucking thing?" I ask as I reload. Something bumps the bottom of the boat. Mike and I look at each other.

"Fuck," said Little Mike.

"DiMarco," says Nilsen. His voice is calm. The motherfucker is acting like this is a walk in the park. The spook must have ice water running through his veins. "Get to the outboard and get us to the shore." The bottom gets bumped again, harder. "Before that thing breaks the hull and capsizes us," he says.

"We'll cover you," said Mike.

"Yeah," I said as I put my M-16 down and draw the Ingram. "I got that." I head toward the back of the boat. My footsteps sound like thunder in my ears. I'm heading straight toward the maw of a hell shark. Fuck.

I get to the engine and turn the boat. Water erupts just off to my left as Sharkey leaps out to eat me. There isn't a wound on the motherfucker, as if we hadn't touched him at all and I saw him get hit and bleed. He's about five feet from me when I open up with the Ingram. It burns through the thirty-two round clip in less than two seconds. Every round hits. Chunks of gore splatter me as I damn near blow Sharkey in half. Sharkey goes back into the water, writhing and twisting with a huge fucking whole in his body. Funny, I can't see his limbs anymore, just flippers.

I reload and burn another clip into his body. Mike does the same. "Fucking crazy shark," says Mike.

"That was no fucking shark," I say.

"No," said Mike, "that was a mean motherfucking shark, but just a shark. Must have been one of those kind that can tolerate fresh water."

"Fuck that," I say.

"John," says Nilsen, "we need to talk." I look into the water. For a moment I can see my reflection in the murk. Standing beside me is a big man wearing a tunic fastened with a a gold broach. He has fire instead of eyes and a curly black mane and beard. There's a gold band around his head.

"Yeah," I said, not looking at Hades, "let's talk." I head to the front of the boat and the spook. "That was no fucking shark," I say quietly.

"No, it wasn't," Nilsen agrees. "Most people can't accept that. Their minds deny the reality of their senses."

"You knew."

"When I saw it, yes. I have specialty rounds. If I had gotten a clear shot that would have been enough, but you took care of it."

"That thing, there are more like it?"

"Yes, and other things that go bump in the night. Other things man can't bear to admit exist and that prey on him as if he were cattle. In most of the world they have to hide, but in places like this they are in the open."

"What are you trying to say?"

"It matters to America if Vietnam and Laos and Cambodia go communist. It matters to the free and the unfree world. But it matters to mankind that these things exist and in primitive, superstitious countries they can rule parts of these places like kings and spread like cancer. The world will survive a pissant country like Vietnamn going red, but these things, these things can't be allowed a foothold anywhere. They have too many as it is even in places where they can't be as open."

"Are you saying there's shit like this back home? In the World?"

"Yes, but not as strong, not as numerous, not as established. We're fighting two wars here son. One for Uncle Sam and one for the whole god damn human species. The things that go bump in the fucking night, things like smuggling and piracy draw them like flies. Easy money, easy source of followers, easy supply of victims. That's why we need to take it over or at least drive them out. Because the big war is on them."

"I need to think about this."

"Take your time. This is a big step. You've seen the world as it truly is. Most men can't do that. Your eyes have finally opened."

Rokea. Nasty fuckers to try to take on open water.

I love how it turns from the Apocalypse Now boat shooting scene to motherfucking Jaws.

They're lucky the River didn't have room for the Were to go Megalodon-form.

Little Mike and I were holding a two man wake for Rory by getting ourselves smashed to his memory. The poor fucker should have stayed in the Marines, but then again no one should have joined up with Nilsen.

Mike wasn't a big guy, tough as nails, but size matters when it comes to how much alcohol you can handle and we had both been going at it hard. He held up a shot glass. I really don't know how much we had drunk by then, but it was a lot. "Semper Fi asshole," he said. He had that precise diction drunks get when they're trying very hard not to slur their words. "You were almost as good as you said you were."

"Here here," I said and drank down another shot. The jukebox was playing "Paint it Black" by the Rolling Stones at a volume that was slightly below totally deafening. I motioned for the bartender to refill my glass. I hate these shi tholes. I miss the World, but what the fuck would I do when I got back home? Not much call for ambush planners who are a steady hand with an M-16. Did I even know how to fucking live

"Dweath by shwark," Mike slurred. "What a fwucking way to go."

I didn't want to think about it. A fucking were shark selling China White down the river. Of course, we had been in the fucking market for it so who the fuck was I to judge? For all I knew I had killed more men than he had.

"Going to take a leak," I said. I was a little unsteady as I moved through the semi-lit gloom to the restrooms at the back. Bar girls descended on Mike in force the moment I left. Westerners. We blow shit up, we take shit and we buy shit. We're warping this whole god damn region with our guns, arrogance, and money and we're not going to fucking clean up the mess. Hell, it's blowing up in our faces too.

There's another guy, Thai, in the bathroom which is fairly clean. He's on his way out. I head to a urinal and unzipped my fly.

"You know what you have to do," said Hades from the stall next to me. I almost pissed all over the floor.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" I yelled. "Don't fucking do that!"

"Sorry," said the King of the Underworld.

"I almost pissed all over you."

"Little details of material existence," he said hand waving it away. "That's not what matters here."

"Easy for you. You're a figment of my imagination. I'm the guy with the full bladder."

"You know better than that. You saw the truth and everything you've been pretending is not real is real. I am not a product of an overheated imagination, you did not survive being gut shot and ending up with barely a scar by luck, and Nilsen does use mind control on you ever team he sees you having doubts. You would have come to the truth sooner, but he doesn't want that. He wants to steer you to his side and you fight him and he drags you. He wants to make you like him."

"Fuck that spook bastard and his drugs and his operations. He wants a brave new world no matter how many fucking corpses he has to build it on. He's walking poison."

"He is and for the moment you are not under his influence, but that will not last. He will use his powers on you again and you will again be his slave until he beats you down into one of him."

"You're right," I said. "There's a lot of shit going on that I don't know about, but a mind controlling, drug lord spook isn't one of the things that is going to make the world a less fucked up place."

I emptied my bladder and zipped up. Hades, Hecate, Uncle Dom, whoever the fuck he was, had pulled a vanishing act. I was stone cold sober though. I headed back to the bar and dropped a couple of twenties on Mike. "On me," I yelled into his ear and then headed outside toward the hotel.

The streets were alive, but the crush wasn't too bad. We weren't that far and I made good time. The .45 felt like a brick in the back of my pants. It would get the job done. I went through the lobby and up the elevator to Nilsen's room. Nilsen. Always Nilsen. Never Greg or Gregory. Just Nilsen the fucking spook.

I knocked on the door. Nilsen opened it. "John," he said. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "We need to talk."

"Come in," he said. I closed the door behind me. He reached for his sunglasses on the nightstand. No surprise there. The fucker was going to try and do me again. Some shit never changes.

And some does. I pulled out the .45. "Leave the glasses alone Greg."

He stood up straight and turned towards me. "What do you think you're doing."

"Some things you can't deny and conservation of mass raping shark men pretty much means there's a whole 'nother ball game when it comes to what's really real. I want answers, not your tricks."

"And if you don't get them?"

"I'm cool with wasting you for your mind control slavery shit."

"Ahh. So you've figured that out. Good. Now put down the gun and I'll let you in on the real secrets."

"How about you start spilling your guts or I perforate them?"

"The world is you believe. There is a veil over the darkness, a veil we have drawn to keep men safe."

"We?"

"People like me. Men of science. The promoters of technology and progress. We've driven the creatures of the night into hiding or to the edges of the world after centuries of hard effort. We'll guide humanity into a golden age."

"With drugs and bombs and guns."

"Tools, those are just tools. The world doesn't run on money, no matter what some people think. Are you holding a gun on me to get paid? Are the fucking Vietnamese still fighting the United States for money? No. The world runs on ideology, causes. But money will buy guns, fake identities, information, other things. It buys success."

"Over how many bodies? How many bodies for this golden age? How many bodies when every country in Southeast Asia starts ripping its own guts out so you can have your glorious progressive nations?"

"The future is worth it."

"A future run by liars and murders and slavers like you. No thanks." I raised the gun to his face and pulled the trigger.

"I thought you might do that," he said. "So I performed a Procedure on your gun. Shame you couldn't see the light, but you are so god damn stubborn. Too bad for you."

And updated

Just to duck in and voice somethin here...I know precisely, absolutely dick about Mage as a setting, and I'm still jazzin to this. True, I'm missing some things, but at the same time, shit can still surprise me, so six of one, half a dozen of the other.

White Haven wrote:Just to duck in and voice somethin here...I know precisely, absolutely dick about Mage as a setting, and I'm still jazzin to this. True, I'm missing some things, but at the same time, shit can still surprise me, so six of one, half a dozen of the other.

Thanks. Things will become clear to the novice at the same rate they do to the protagonist . . . who is also a novice.

Oh DiMarco, you silly, silly man.

Ford Prefect wrote:Oh DiMarco, you silly, silly man.

Give him credit for trying at least. How could he know a Mage can fuck with a gun so it misfires.

A note for next time: shut the fuck up and just kill the motherfucker. He had me now, or more correctly, thought he had me now. I corrected that error by jumping Nilsen before he could do anything else.

He wasn't expecting me to go on the offensive now that he had taken out my gun, which really showed he had no fucking clue about how the people he used as minions worked. I landed on top of him and we both down. I ended up on top.

I still had the gun in my hand and it was still damned deadly. I just couldn't shoot anybody with it. I slammed the butt into his head and he got a whole lot less frisky. So I hit him again and this time there was blood and he couldn't put up much of a defence. Three more times and he was still.

I stood up over his body and then rifled through his body. Took his watch, wallet, gun, and a few devices I didn't really recognize. I put them on the dresser on the other side of the room, with the exception of his .45. That I took.

I hadn't thought this through. I could erase the signs of my presence and make it look like a mugging, but Nilsen had implied he was part of a larger organization. If any of them started asking questions while doing that sunglasses trick, I was screwed.

I could vanish. I had half a dozen fake identities and the contacts all over Southeast Asia to get more. I had more than enough dirty money to last me a while. I was in way over my head, but at least I was starting to swim instead of being dragged along.

"Good," said Uncle Dom. He appeared beside me, as usual. "This could have gone better, but you did good John."

"Could you change shape?" I asked. "Looking like Uncle Dom-"

"-while congratulating you on a murder is disturbing," finished Hecate.

"Don't do that."

"Hard not to."

"What the fuck are you anyway?"

"So there's no question about my reality?"

"You're one of the fucking saner things I've seen since I came here. Answer the question."

"I'm part of you John, an aspect of your existence. The Christian concept of an indivisible soul isn't the only one. The Epyptians, for example, believed in a tripart soul. I am that which survives death and passes on to other realms or other lives, the part that endures. You are the being I am now."

"Do other people talk with their immortal souls as separate people?"

"Some do," she said. "Ever heard of arguing with your conscience or hearing a voice in your head telling you not to do something? Your connection is much, much stronger than that. So was Nilsen's, although he would'nt describe it in those terms. Both of you can see the gears behind the curtain, the machinery of existence rather than the outward of appearance of reality."

"And that means?"

"Awakening. Enlightenment. Reality Engineering. Magick."

"Magic."

"Mind control, gun jamming, and conservation of mass defying were-sharks."

"Right. Magic. What next?"

"Make sure he's dead, make it look like a mugging, and then disappearing. Your journey will begin."

"What journey?"

"There are many kinds of mages in the world. Nilsen wanted a world were every cog fitted into it's assigned place even if he had to make nations into graveyards to make it work. Even his magick couldn't bind you to that road. You will have to find your own path before you can walk it."

"Alright," I said. "Sounds like a plan." For the first time in years I felt something like hope.

Hope? In the World of Darkness? I just hope he lives to further enjoy his hope.

The fun was when you found a GM who could make you have hope in the World of Darkness, and give you those small victories. It gave the over-all "shit going to hell" story more pathos, as there -were- people trying and making small victories against the darkness.

I'm simply wondering what paradigm he's following.

Calcutta is a sink hole with some pretty decorations on top. It had skyscrapers and prosperous middle class workers to give it the illusion of prosperity, but up close it can't hide its true nature. The poor are everywhere. They are on the streets, on the sidewalks, and in armies in the shanties. At night you can't go anywhere where they are not sleeping in the open.

Some hustle, other scavenge, and others operate feeble shadows of enterprise trying to claw their way up. An army of predators and exploiters stalks their numbers pimps, thieves, extortionists, muggers, con men, pushers, rapists, and murders. That's just the humans.

I see others now, cruising like sharks through the shoals of destitute humanity. I can recognize them by sight now, the others. Shapeshifters are rare and mostly pass on by, but the vampires are more common. I'm not sure if they can recognize me, but they can tell I'm not prey. They're elusive, capable of vanishing around a corner or into a crowd. The city must be like a gigantic cattle pen for their kind. I wonder if they need to kill to feed or if they can just take enough blood to live on for awhile. In Calcutta, no one would notice either way.

The misery is intense and concentrated. No health care, no sanitary services, poor diets, and concentrated squalor allows disease to rip through the poor like a tidal wave through a fishing village. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know what I can do here. It's just so big.

I have seen Mother Teresa's brigade fail to do a god damn thing at all. Just warehouse the dying on thin mattresses with a roof over their heads and food and water while they die. There are no shortage of the dying in Calcutta and they do nothing to help the living. The volunteers, eager young westerners in blue jeans who have come to India to do some good, wither like leaves in a furnace when confronted with the reality of their work.

"Fuck it," I whisper. I'm not sure what drew me here or for what purpose. Uncle Dom's been silent and the gods haven't shown their faces. I don't have a plan or enlightened insight, but there is one thing I can do.

I walk through the shanty. I attract more looks than others, but I'm a white man in an India city and better dressed than most. The crude shelters, constructed from scraps, lean against each other almost ready to collapse. It stinks like an open sewer. Most of the inhabitants are asleep. A few flickering fires provide light.

It's dangerous here. I'm an outsider and one with more money than the locals. The predators will take me if they think they can, but most don't. Dogs will only attack tigers when they possess overwhelming numbers.

They are laughing and joking around a fire in a burning barrel. A bottle passes between them. They are young. I doubt the oldest is twenty. I could almost smell the death taint coming off them. I had seen them rob, steal, and terrorize and the shadow of worse crimes clung to them.

They saw me coming and sized me up. Gaped toothed smiles of yellow teeth greeted me. Hands dropped to where weapons were carried. One held out the bottle. Such a primitive lure. He spoke in that sing song accent that a lot of Indians had. "Would you like a drink?"

The others were already beginning to move, to circle and flank. I pulled out the MAC-10. Pure overkill, but after the fucking wereshark my standards for adequately armed changed. On single shot it would get the job done just fine. They flinched as I shot the one on the right twice in the chest. The other two tried to run.

I put bullets through bottle-boy's left lung and spine and dropped him. The last one ducked around a shanty and I didn't have a clean shot. I ran after him.

He was fast, the way a jacked up scared teenager can be and he knew the area better than I did. He hauled serious ass and widened the distance. Darkness and terror are, however, poor companions when running through crowded slums laden with trash. He tripped and went face first into the muck.

He pulled himself up and started to limp away, but I was the one with the speed now. He moved around a sagging shack and out of my line of site. I turned the corner and he lunged at me with a knife. I shot him in the face and blew out the back of his skull in a spray of red. He fell without reaching me. I put the gun away and started walking away.

"You were sloppy," said a voice beside me. A woman's voice with a trace of an upper class British accent. I turned. She was Indian, dressed and black who barely came up to my shoulder. My hand went to the hilt of the kukri knife I carried.

"Who are you?" Another one of Uncle Dom's incarnations? She was no goddess from mythology or friend or kin to me.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Don't you know already or is this a riddle? You don't seem dismayed that I just killed three men."

"I am not troubled that three murderers and rapists will no longer inflict misery on the people of this city," she said. "I would have taken care of them myself if you weren't more important."

"And what do you intend to do about me?"

"Help you," she said. "If I can."

"Why?"

"Because I should."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I read the threads of destiny and they guided me to you," she replied. "And I think I can see why. Who is your teacher?"

"I don't have one."

"Now you do."