An Un-suspicious Meeting

“Hold up a tick, Loki!” Orpheus called, huffing as he tried to catch up with the sprite striding out of the castle, “I must say, old boy, I'm curious. What's an immortal like you in such a hurry about?”

Loki's mouth bent into a smirk. “I'm only immortal as long as I'm alive. It's the time of century when the faerie blood lust is up. Some of them are bound to attempt coordinating their assassination attempts on me, that is, unless I start sowing suspicions among allies now. Otherwise, I'll have to kill all those would be assassins at once, and mass pest control is tedious.”

“Ah, well then. Until the ball! Good day,” Orpheus declared, but Loki had already shifted into hawk form and was soaring off into a cloudless sky. Orpheus was about to head off to his van, which had gained a number of dents despite Fisher's driving lessons when he heard Aldrich's booming voice.

“Farley, come back for a moment!”

“What's this then? Here to berate me about procrastination and what not?”

“Would you just get inside? This isn't about you, and I don't want to explain myself more than once.” As relatively calm as the meeting had been, Aldrich still had a headache building behind his temples.

They returned to the main hall, where the society heads, apart from Eris and Loki, had gathered once more. “Are we going to the Supreme Wizard's study then?” Orpheus inquired.

“This won't take that long,” Aldrich explained, “Fifi, if you have a phone on you, could you turn it on?”

Seconds after Fifi hit the power button, her phone started to buzz. “I've got a text from my mom? She never -” her palm met her face before she could even finish her sentence. Without removing her hand from her forehead, she held the phone out to Aldrich, who read aloud.

“'Yo dawg. Heard you liked meetings, so I put a streamer in your phone so you can tell me wtf is going on while you're told wtf is going on.'

“Are you listening right now?” Aldrich asked the phone. It buzzed in response.

“'I'm all microphones.' Good, then I can begin. I am worried about the faeries behavior.”

Buzz “'What are you complaining about? You aren't the ones who got to have your neural network synced up to a computer as it's butchered.'”

“What do you mean, Arch Chancellor?” Fifi piped.

“I believe I know what he means,” inserted the Supreme Wizard, “he is referring to Loki and Eris's familiarity with one another.”

“Come to think of it,” Orpheus pondered, “they were a bit chummier than usual. In fact, did Loki ever threaten to claw out Eris's throat?”

“No,” Aldrich stated, “and what is more, no matter how far I read into her comments, I couldn't find a single insult in what Eris said about him.”

“How peculiar...”

“I'm sorry, but, er, why is that so strange?” Fifi asked.

Buzz “'Nymphs and sprites are like cats and dogs. You should know-'” Aldrich decided not to finish reading the sentence. “At any rate, the streamer is correct. When a nymph and a sprite get along, something is afoot, and given their histories, a plan hatched by Loki and Eris has a 99% chance of ending in war. I don't like those odds, and as a necromancer, it is my duty to prevent such reckless death.”

“Well, then, Mr. Necromancer, just what the dickens do you propose we do about it, hmm?”

“For now, I think it would be prudent to keep our eyes, ears, and, er, microphones open. We need to keep in regular communication on what we've seen. This may not be anything. This may be some strange faerie mating ritual for all I know, but caution never hurt anyone.”

“I could disagree with you there, but in this case, you may have a point,” Orpheus conceded, “I'll be sure to have someone else write you a letter every day.”

“Letters are not quite quick or secure enough for such a purpose,” the Supreme Wizard commented.

“Agreed,” said Orpheus.

Buz.

An Inauspicious Meeting

The Supreme Wizard and the Head Chancellor of Necromancy despised the first Wednesday of every month. Their lives would be a great deal less stressful without it. Unfortunately, the first Wednesday came without fail every month, right after Tuesday and just before Thursday. With it, came the society heads.

"I hope you remembered the tea cakes this time," harrumphed Orpheus Farley. He preened his impressive mustache as he pushed through the gates of the WAND's castle. "It's unnatural to have tea without cakes. There was nothing for it to wash down!"

Aldrich performed the first of many eye rolls as he closed the gate behind the Guild leader. "Don't worry, Farley. We've all learned to appreciate the importance of tea cakes." As long as they're going into your mouth, nothing else can come out, Aldrich wanted to add. He chose a more diplomatic comment instead. "The others have all arrived already. They're with Archibald."

Archibald's study felt fastidiously lived-in. Shelves packed tightly with tomes covered nearly every square inch of wall. Every gap in books corresponded to one of the twenty or so texts tidily situated on the mahogany desk. A stack of wood sat squarely to the right of a hearth where the remains of a recent fire waited to kindle the next one. The very idea of dust seemed wrong, as if the room simply didn't have the time to accrue any. Sitting in a padded arm chair, his white robes tucked neatly around him, was Archibald himself, looking as in place as a bookmark in a novel. Across from him sat a petite, pug-faced young woman with silky hair pulled into pig tails, a thin, pale man sitting sideways in his chair, an equally thin and pale ginger woman, and a computer. Two seats remained open, a heavily laden tea table in between them.

"Wow, guys! The Guildie figured out how to get here! Seriously, I'm in shock. This is going to change my life forever. Who wants to throw a party? Anybody? Huh?" The voice issued from the computer in the synthesized, yet surprisingly expressive tones of a text to speech program.

"That's a bit extreme, isn't it?" asked the pug-faced woman, cocking her head quizzically.

"Come on, Fifi! This is a big freakin' deal. I mean, just the fact that his decrepit, piece of crap pocket watch got him here within 6 hours of the right time is a mother freakin' miracle."

"WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT MY POCKET WATCH?" Orpheus boomed. He made it half way to the computer when Archibald blocked his path.

"As justified as your rage is, might I point out that we are having tea? It would be tragically improper to sully the moment with violence. Don't you agree?"

"Hmph!" Orpheus plodded to the chair beside the tea table and commenced one of the more curmudgeonly displays of sipping and nibbling the society heads had seen. "And who might you be?" he inquired of the young woman, grudgingly polite.

"Oh. Well, um, I suppose I'm the new head of the Peace Warriors, Fifi," she muttered, too bashful to lift her head fully, too hopeful to keep her eyes down. Aldrich, who had taken his seat on the other side of the tea table, felt the sudden compulsion to pat the tiny woman on the head. He quickly disregarded this as a ridiculous thing to do.

"Really?" Orpheus continued to inquire, "What happened to the last head, Harry what's-his-name?"

"Uhh, unfortunately, he isn't, well..."

"Someone killed him," the thin man on the other side of Fifi finished.

"Killed him, eh? Bit too close of a shave, eh?"

"I can't believe you would make a joke about a dead guy!" the computer wailed. "And a pun? How can you be such a horrible person? I hope you can sleep at night because I can't, thinking about the sort of people living under London."

"But," Fifi interjected as Orpheus reddened, "didn't you tell me a lot of Streamers are going by Steve Jobs on forums now?"

"Man, and I thought people like you were supposed to be loyal!"

"Who's Ste-" Orpheus began to ask before Aldrich thrust a confection into his open mouth.

"Have a biscuit. They're delicious," he insisted, glancing at the computer in the futile attempt to see if the Streamer had heard the half-formed question. However, it seemed that the manic giggling of the pale man and woman had drowned Orpheus out.

"Well then, if Loki and Eris would calm down, perhaps we might get down to business?" Aldrich suggested.

"ho-Al- hee-hee-Aldrich, how-hee- how can you not laugh? It's just so-ho-hee- ridiculous how important -heh- you humans make the most insignificant things," chortled Loki.

"Oh yes! A pu-heh-ocket watch? A pun? We didn't even have to-heh-heh- to help it along! Oh, what delectable discordance. I love these meetings," Eris snickered as the waves of laughter shrank to ripples, and then an eager stillness.

"At any rate," Aldrich continued, "the dump provided by the Guild has been working adequately and at this rate will last us another half a year at least, which should provide sufficient time for the construction of its replacement. However, I would like to remind no one in particular that having sufficient time is not the same as having time to waste.

"Our Necromancers Abroad Program has been quite successful except for a small incident in Japan at a relief center. Fifi, would you please inform your Peace Warriors that if they encounter a necromancer working in a public place they should not exclaim 'Richard, you old necromancer, how's the magic going?' It is quite inconvenient."

"Yeah," Fifi blushed, "That was probably Thermostat. He, well, see he isn't the most, um, discreet person? I'll talk to him. Sorry."

Aldrich found himself again resisting the urge to scratch her head. "Moving on, Archibald?"

"I would like to request that Green Thumb pay another visit. It would seem the wizards have required more fuel than usual, and the gardens are nearly depleted of life."


"Oh, sure, yeah. That shouldn't be a problem, I mean, when he's free of course."

"And the Streamers need someone to come and give our bodies baths so we don't get real viruses. It has to be the Peace Warriors, girl."

"Uhm?"

"You are the chosen one!"

"Blast it all! Would you cease this confounded japery?!”

“You mad br-” Before the computer could finish, screeches and sparks sprayed from its casing. This was probably due to the claws embedded in it. The claws were attached to an arm, and the arm was attached to a shoulder, and the shoulder attached to a body, and the body had a head, and the head was smiling.

“As entertaining as the streamers can be, I'm starting to run short on time. Worse, I was getting bored with him. Does anyone want to argue with me about it?” Loki asked, still grinning.

Fifi raised a tentative hand. “Not arguing, but, er, well, question? How did your arm grow ten feet long and gain claws?”

Eris lay a finger casually against Loki's arm, which wrapped behind her shoulders, in front of Fifi, and planted in the computer at the other end of the room. “Please, Fifi, This? This is nothing compared to some of the things he's shown me.”

“Might I explain, Loki?” requested Archibald. Loki consented with a wave of his claw as he retracted it. As the arm returned to more typical dimensions, it may have brushed against Eris's shoulder just a bit more than necessary.

“You know of course that Loki and Eris are fey.”

“Well, yeah, but, doesn't that just mean they're, you know, immortal?”

“That is what it means to be a fey. That is not what it means to be a sprite or a nymph. A sprite, a male fey like Loki, has the ability to shift forms at will. A female fey, or nymph, can exert a certain persuasive influence over those around her.”

“And just, um, just what does that mean?”

“Don't worry about it, Fifi, sweetheart,” Eris cooed.

“Okay.”

“Well then,” Orpheus cheered, face glowing beneath his mustache, “shall we get down to business once more now that the streamer is out of the way? I believe it was my turn.”

In point of fact, the Peace Warrior usually followed the Supreme Wizard. However, no one present had a particular desire to convince Orpheus to wait. He rattled off the successes of the Guild's latest STORM, details for the upcoming Fey-Guild ball, modifications to contact information for one or two assassins, and finally a perfectly superfluous report on how far behind the Guild had fallen in product production for the Streamers. Fifi, Loki, and Eris all then made considerably succincter reports and requests. With that, Aldrich adjourned the meeting.

Demaskiert

Ich spiele vor

vorzuspielen.

Wie ein Monster

an Halloween,

entferne ich meine Maske.

Niemand merkt,

niemand glaubt,

dass Monsters wirklich sind.

Ich gleite durch die Mengen

wertloser Versteller.

Ich bin durch ihre Masken

sicher versteckt.

Ich strecke meinen Kiefer                                                               

erstmals seit einem Jahr.

Ich schüttele meine Haut,

um den glatt gestrichenen Pelz zu lockern.

Die Nacht gehört mir,

ich kann mit ihr machen, was ich will

Wenn du die Magierkappe

abnimmst

und die karminrote Gabel

zu Boden legst,

entschlüpfe ich aus der Nacht

und wieder in eine Haut

zu dünn,

um von Dauer zu sein.

Unmasked (and unrelated)

I pretend

to pretend.

Like a monster

on Halloween,

I take off my mask.

No one notices,

no one believes

monsters might exist.

                      

I glide through throngs

of paltry masqueraders.

I am safely hidden

by all of their masks.

So, I stretch my jaw

for the first time in a year,

and I shake my hide

to loosen sweat slicked fur.

The night is mine

to have my way with.

When you take off

the wizard cap

And set down

the scarlet pitchfork,

I slip out of the night

and back into a skin

too thin                                                           

to last.

Food for Thought (or, HAHA! I Posted Finally!)

Sweat soaked through my shirt, I couldn't raise my arms above my head, and my hands were infested with blisters. Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was one of the best days I had had since forcibly joining the Guild two months prior. Toby Crimshaw strode over to my spot and collapsed in a boneless heap beside me.

"'ere ya go, Geoffrey," Toby said, handing me a flask of some sort of alcoholic beverage, "no'in' like a swig o' spirits after an honest day's work."

"Well," I replied, taking a tentative sip from the container, "as honest as you can get living in a secret society hiding under Britain."

"Oh, O' course the people we are an' the people we serve are e'ery sort o' dishonest, but the job i'self is no'in but respectable. We're doin' our part in the food chain ta make sure e'erthin's runnin' proper like."

I took another gulp from the flask as he spoke. Toby and I seemed to have differing definitions of 'spirits'. The flask contained nothing more than apple juice. Then again, given that he seemed all of 14, perhaps that was for the best.

"So, Toby. Where did you say you were from again?" My attempts to guess based on his accent had resulted in a wild goose chase around all of Europe and parts of America. He seemed to change his nationality with every other word.

"I'm a born'n bred West Guildie, ne'er gone more'n a couple UL rides from 'ere. Unlike ta common inner Londerns wot kept ta normal accent, we West Guildies decided ta distiguish ourselves from ta E-world an' its speech," Toby decreed, pulling himself up into what I suppose he considered a dignified sitting position.

Before I could reply, a steam whistle blew the end of our break. We had finished unloading the sleek submarine and were about to start piling crate after crate of Guild Goods into the hold. What a civilization with completely automated submarines could want of us I could not imagine. "Merchandise" was all the answer Toby had given me.

Blisters threatened to burst as I hefted a box and waddled up the gangplank after the others, listening uneasily to the creak of the wood beneath my feet. After a dozen cautious steps, I reached the submarine hatch and planted my feet gratefully onto the solid metal. Some would have been surprised to hear a crack and then a splash behind them. Some would have felt concern for the men that the splintered gangplank had sent tumbling into the water. I, however, had only one thought in my mind.

IT WASN'T ME THIS TIME! For once, something has gone horribly wrong, and I'm not even really involved! I enjoyed that thought as long as I could until another one hit me. I had no way to leave the submarine. Strangely, that did not particularly upset me either. I had spent the entire day in and out of the ship, but had yet to really examine it. It had a flat, spacious interior. A flight of narrow metal stairs led to the bottom, where crates would fill it until they created a new floor for the second layer of goods. First things first, I deposited my crate next to those of the other three stranded workers. They had rushed past me to examine the wrecked gangplank, leaving the hold effectively unoccupied. For the most part, there wasn't much to see. After the lavish decorations I had come to expect, the black, serviceable interior seemed almost dead.

However, as I brushed my fingers along the dark steel walls, they met a patch of glass, followed by a flash of white light. I yanked my hand away, heart beating its way into my mouth. Just as quickly as the light appeared, it faded, leaving just another swatch of black. The secret display and the polished metal appeared almost identical in the dimness. I stretched my hand out once more, taping the screen, which responded with another, briefer flash of light. Emboldened by the lack of deadly consequences, I pressed my palm flat against the cool glass.

Predictably, the screen lit up once more, but as my eyes adjusted, I noticed an icon in the center of the display resembling a paper trumpet. With my free hand, I double tapped it, and a chat log opened. The program listed two chatters, one named 101010, the other named Guest with a picture of myself in front of the display showing next to it. While I grappled with the idea that the submarine had taken a picture of me, a ping alerted me that 101010 had said something.

"WHO R U 4ND WHY 4R3 YOU BOTH3R1NG M3"

"Oh great," I moaned to myself, "a teenager." I started to study the screen for some means of typing, when I realized that the log displayed what I said, along with the symbol >_<. It seemed the consul had a microphone as well as a camera. I promptly slapped myself in the forehead because nothing prevents further idiotic actions like head trauma, and "*facepalm*" appeared on the screen. Fortunately, 101010 broke the cycle of idiocy.

"U C4N T4K3 YOUR H4ND OFF TH3 CONSUL 1T WONT F4LL 4SL33P"

I refrained from cringing at the stranger's text style, and let my hand drop, taking a step back from the glaring screen.

"So, um....to answer your question, My name's Geoffrey," The title next to my picture quickly converted itself from Guest to Jeff. The sentence I had been forming dropped out of my thoughts completely. Have I really gotten used to Geoffrey so quickly? It's not like I really changed my name. They said I needed something more Guildish, that's all...I shook myself out of it. I was NOT going to create pointless angst by panicking over a little name change. My life had gotten dramatic enough already. Emboldened, I turned my attention back to 101010.

"Anyway, I'm working loading this submarine up, and I stumbled across this display. So, now that you know who I am and why I'm here, I'd like to know just who you are!"

":-J"

"1LL B3T 4N 1GNOR4NT GU1LD13 L1K3 YOU C4NT 3V3N T3LL TH4T 1S 4 SM1RK"
"YOU P3OPL3 DONT KNOW 4NYTH1NG"

"So you know what the Guild is then! And for the record, the Guild knows plenty of things. They just aren't generally very useful things. Now, are you going to introduce yourself or not?"

"F1N3"
"MY N4M3S 101010 4ND 1 4M TH3 SUBMAR1N3"

Three consecutive dots appeared on the screen. I mentally applauded the consul for its accurate yet space efficient interpretation of my thoughts at that moment. Then, I let the brunt of the statement hit me.

"WHAT?!"

"DONT T3LL M3 YOU DONT KNOW HOW THE STREAMERS WORK"

"I don't know what you're talking about, and if it isn't too much to ask, could you please type like a normal person? This is weird enough already assuming you're telling the truth. I don't need a headache on top of that."

"(-.-) "
"Fine. Is this better your majesty? And no, I'm not trolling you."
"Well, I am, but I really am the submarine."

"I'll pretend for the sake of discussion that that made sense to me. Would you kindly explain what the streamers are and why you are a giant underwater vehicle?"

"You really are ignorant."
"Okay. Streamers are people who realize that computers are the way of the future, and we want to get a head start. We experience computer programs and the internet the way you experience "real" life, and anything you can do with a computer, we can do better."
"Are you getting it now?"

"So, you plugged your brain into a computer and are using it to control the sub remotely."

"If you want to say it in such a lame and oversimplified way, sure."

"So how do you ta-AHH!" Several bodies crashed into me, sweeping me off my feet in the painfully literal sense. My face met the floor, and stars and shouting flooded my head. Somewhere above me, a light went out, and the voices settled to a disgruntled rumble.

"Can you let me up now?" Fortunately, the men piled on top of me clambered to their feet. Also fortunately, they gave me a hand up. Not so fortunately, one of them threw me against a wall and pinned me a foot off the ground, his sneering face inches from mine.

"We don't. Talk. To streamers."

When he let go of me, I slumped to the floor. People had started coming and going from the submarine once more, so I gathered myself up and headed back to the stairs. Great, I stewed, I was just starting to hit my stride. Of course, something had to knock me off balance... literally... again.

"Why so glum, chap?" Toby piped as he caught up to me on the new and unimproved gangplank, "Ya dinnae know, an' Flaherty's a bit o' a codger anywho. Come on then. Back ta work."

Then again, maybe I'm not so alone as I thought. Ignoring the shudder that passed through me for thinking something so cliche, I listened to Toby and went back to work.

New Wave

There is no helping a thoroughly queasy stomach; there is only not making it worse.  You sit perfectly still, head between knees, clammy hands on forehead. You hope that these shows of submission and calm will appease the wretched thing riding in your stomach. You hope against hope that the one thing you know will give you relief does not happen, at least not until someone brings you a bucket.

"'ere it is, Mr. Fisher," the boy's adolescent voice screeched. It was the most wonderful sound I had ever heard, followed by one of the most unpleasant sounds as I emptied my lunch into the metal pail he handed me.

"Blugh. Do Under-Locomotives always run so...violently?"

"Whatcha mean? 'Aven't you ever ridden 'fore?" he inquired, taking a surreptitious step away from my peaked form and fragrant bucket.

"Never anything that takes 90 degree turns at 90 kilometers an hour," I shuddered.

"90 k an hour?" the boy asked incredulously, "why in blazes was it running so slow?"

I decided not to respond to that. Instead, I attempted to stand. Surprisingly, I succeeded and felt a shred of dignity returning. With my queasiness passing, I took a moment to examine my surroundings.  I knew that I had been sent to a loading dock of some sort, but the cavernous room had no ships or trucks to speak of. Instead, it had a sizable pool in its center and crates of various sizes stacked all around its perimeter. Men and boys loitered among the crates and against the walls.

"M'name's Toby, by the way. Toby Crimshaw," the boy announced, offering me a grimy hand, which I could not avoid shaking.

"Nice to meet you. I'm -"

"Geoffrey Fisher. I know," he interrupted, "I was told ya'd be coming. I'm ta show ya the ropes. Now, iffin ya don't mind me asking, why're ya 'ere?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, ya ain't exactly built for 'ard labour, are ya? So, I figure, either ya want ta bulk up, which doesn't look bloody likely, or something ya did went all ta pot and ya wound up 'ere where ya can't do more damage. Which is it?"

"Er, I suppose the latter. It's more that I'm no use anywhere else in the Guild. I can't build, I can't lead, and when I so much as set foot in a kitchen, it's up in flames."

"Oh, I've pulled that prank meself. Watcha use? Nitroglycerin or gunpowder?"

"That...was a figure of speech," I eyed Toby warily, "what did, uh, you use?"

"ah," he bleated, "that was just a figure o' speech too. Ya know, 'whatcha use?' ha ha, heh" I sensed discomfort

"Why don't you tell me what that pool's doing there," I suggested.

"Actually," he said, pulling a fob watch from his vest pocket, "you'll find out just about..." His voice trailed off as he gazed at his watch, not a muscle moving. After several seconds I started to wonder he had accidentally hypnotized himself when I noticed something queer. All sound in the room had dropped away. A quick look around revealed that everyone was fixating on their watches. A couple of men had two time pieces dangling centimeters from their faces. One had five watches strung along a chain.

"NOW!" The cry ricocheted around the frozen room. Its source, a worker not two meters away from me, drooped like an old man's jowls when whatever he had expected to happen didn't. No one, apart from the man who had just spoken, looked away from their timepieces.

"NOW!" This time, the shout came from across the room. Another followed after it. Then another. Shouts rebounded, seemingly at random. I saw the man with five watches sounding off, "Now, now, now, now, NOW!" He let the chain drop moodily when the world failed to react to his commands.

Toby had yet to say anything. I could see his eyes twitching with every tick of the second hand. Finally, his clock reached 9, and he shouted with a force that could tear the heavens asunder. His cry shook the very ground; it turned the placid pool into a turbulent sea; In fact, he yelled so loudly that he sounded exactly like a submarine surfacing. I'm certain it was only a coincidence that one actually did surfaced at the same time.

"Ha!" Toby exclaimed, holding his watch aloft triumphantly, "Right, everyone, pay up!"

Grudgingly, men and boys in the vicinity gathered around and dropped coin after coin into Toby's gaping pockets. They also seemed to compare their fob watches to his, but I didn't pay much attention to the process. I was slightly more interested in the giant hulk of submersible metal that had appeared in the middle of the room.

It was a sleek machine, covered from tip to tail in discreet black paint. It reminded me of swimmers I had met, lean people stripped of every gram of fat or excess that could slow them down. The submarine was one hundred percent, absolutely, now and forever, a submarine and nothing else.

"So," I said to the clinking Toby when he joined me by the edge of the pool, "I take it that doesn't belong to the Guild."

Reborn

On the edge of a boundless plane of nonexistence, a consciousness freshly freed from its body tries to piece itself back together.

what...


warm...


...spinach...i...I


I think...I think, therefore I...


ham and cheese sandwich - good...


I am a what?


questions...I have...many, but no ham and cheese sandwich or spinach...or warmth...what am I?


I am...a person, no, a man...what is a man? Maybe it is...it's...not something I ever knew.


I am...Barbera! Where is she? Barbera...I miss Barbera. Who was she?...


...gone now...long gone, dead and gone. Dead? What is that? What am I?


Dead? Yes...this is dead...I am dead...a dead man...missing a dead woman...how?


...where are the other dead people? Am I alone? Who am I? Hair, snagging me. I saw so much hair in my life...and pain. I tried to stop the pain...with...hair?


That can't be right. What else is there? I met - no, knew - Soup, Hitch Hiker, Thermostat...Barbera...I remember her fingers now. They were sharp. What were we? We were...


we...


were...


PEACE WARRIORS! We battled the forces of evil with our mighty...no, respectable...no, modest super powers. We didn't care that we lacked great power. We took on great responsibility anyway!

I was a fighter, a helper, a proud man...too proud. It hurts. I don't want to see the pride anymore. I loved myself, but I loved God too, really. Ah, soothing... good things from good thoughts, but I must remember more. I see so many lies like cancer, but some more like shots. I didn't want to, but I had to...lie...sorry...I wasn't such a bad man. I was...

oh God, I understand! I know, I see! I recall everything, all the pain of sins and the joy of service. I know who I was, and I was -


"Stand back you gawking idiots! Don't overwhelm him!" The Head Chancellor of Necromancy shouted. Black and white cloaked men scattered from their huddle. Aldrich pushed forward, followed closely by Archibald.

"Sir, can you hear me?" Aldrich demanded of the naked, gasping man cowering on the floor. As Aldrich spoke,  a beard sprouted from the man's face and crept over his knees until it completely enveloped him in ash brown curls. "Sir, look at me!" The man's eyes locked with Aldrich's. His breathing slowed slightly. He parted his lips to speak, but he only managed to wheeze sloppily. After a bit of experimentation with his tender vocal chords, he spat out three words.

"Who am I?"

Aldrich's lips twitched into a bitter-sweet smile, "You were Harold Capili-"

"but," interrupted Archibald, laying his hands on Capili's temples, "not anymore."

Explanations

"I still don't understand," I muttered as Eleanor lead me away from her workshop, "why do you have to blindfold me?"

"I go to what some might call great lengths to keep the location of my workshop a secret. As sporting as most people are here, there are always those who love taking credit for another's ideas." Bitterness seeped into Eleanor's words. "Some people will go so far as to break into a private workshop, make copies of your plans, develop them on their own, with a shameful lack of concern for elegance of design, and reveal them the moment they are functional so that all the credit goes to someone who did not even consider solving the condensation problem first!"

"You wouldn't happen to have any first hand experience with this, would you?" I prompted, gently. This was the second time I had seen (metaphorically speaking) Eleanor close to losing control, and it followed rather closely on the heals of the first time. My incredibly keen and perceptive intellect was beginning to suspect that on matters related to her work, Eleanor's emotions ran high.

"Let me put it this way. If only I know where my lab is, then only I will receive credit for what comes out of it. I realize how childish that sounds, but I don't care. It is not that I want recognition so much as I do not want a cheat to get it instead. Wait here for a second; I need to unlock a door."

 "I can get why you want to keep the shop a secret," I said in the direction I hoped Eleanor had gone, "what I don't get is why you don't trust me to keep it secret." A sigh issued from the opposite direction, followed by the jangle of keys.

"It is not as if I think you would intentionally tell anyone," Eleanor apologized, "but you must confess that you are horrific liar." My pride started to swell up like an angry puffer fish. "It is simply not in your nature, and that is one of the things I love about you. However, it is also slightly inconvenient."

"I'll have you know that I can lie with the best of them when something important is on the line," I objected.

"Is that so? Is that why you were able to describe my workshop in such glowing terms earlier?"

"That's not the same. Nothing was seriously at risk." I could feel her giving me a dubious look through the blindfold, deflating my puffer fish ego. "All right, fine. I can't lie for the life of me, but you know what else I can't do? Find my house on a map. I guarantee you, I have no idea where I am right now or where I have been, so I see no reason not to take this stupid blindfold off. It itches." As I spoke, the sound of keys ceased, and she guided me through the newly opened door.

"Of course, you see no reason. You cannot see anything." Bah-dum-tsch. Eleanor was many things. Unfortunately, 'punny' was one of them. "However, if you insist, I suppose it is safe for you to remove the blindfold."

I yanked the strip of fabric off of my head without bothering to untie it first. To my surprise, I was standing in my own room. For a brief moment, I considered asking how it was that Eleanor had a key to my own room. Then, I decided that I probably did not want to know the answer and, for once, managed to keep my mouth shut.

A Workshop Piece

Blindfolded, I allowed Eleanor Whit to guide me through a maze of hallways. As usual, walking blindly caused me to feel temporarily paranoid that I would either walk into some seditious object whose soul purpose is to bruise my shins or find myself standing in thin air like a cartoon before plummeting down an unexpected staircase. However, I trusted Eleanor enough to follow her without having the faintest idea of where we were going.

Suddenly, my unfounded fears became quite founded as Eleanor pushed me into a wall. As I began to protest this breach of trust, she hastily covered my mouth with an insistent hand and impatiently hushed my muffling.When a woman has you pinned to a wall, blindfolded, and gagged, it is best to simply do as she says and not worry too much. She is likely doing it for the best of all possible reasons. After a few moments, she removed her hand from my mouth and allowed me to step away from the wall.

"I'm sorry for startling you, Geoffrey. I heard someone coming, and I would prefer if we weren't seen."

"Why all the secrecy? Is this the point I start to fear for my life?" I joked, addressing the spot that I hoped Eleanor occupied.

"I ought to be very offended at such a suggestion. If you did not look so adorably helpless in that blindfold I would slap you for it." I could hear the smile in her voice.

She continued to guide me through hallways, across rooms, and even down several flights of stairs, a stage of the journey I did not particularly enjoy. Finally we stopped. I heard the clinking of keys, felt a rush of warm air, and whiffed a metallic scent on the breeze. She guided me a few steps forward and closed a door behind me.

"It will be bright," Eleanor warned me, as she gently pulled apart the knot on my blindfold. The fabric slid away, and I stood for a few moments scrutinizing my feet through barely cracked eyelids. The floor was bare cement, unlike the mahogany floorboards and oriental carpets that covered all the other floors in the Guild compound. As my eyes adjusted, I carefully lifted my gaze.

"Whoa!" The sound that actually came out of me was more along the lines of a lobotomized piglet discovering its reflection. However, it is significantly more difficult to find an onomatopoeia for that.

The cause of my idiotic squealing was the sight of a monstrous boiler crowding the back wall of the long, narrow room. The steely maw of its combustion chamber gaped like the mouth of a suffocating fish. It could easily have swallowed four Geoffrey Fishers. The boiler itself squatted over the combustion chamber, slicked with condensation and bulbous like the throat of a croaking toad. It may have been my imagination, but I could have sworn that the floor tilted ever so slightly toward the steaming beast.

After a fraction of a second, I got over myself and took in the rest of the room. This time, I did say "whoa." The walls seemed to be plated in machinery ranging from little doodads to massive thingamabobs and everything in between. They had been arranged like shining Tetris pieces to form solid blocks of metal that fit neatly onto shelves. Filling the middle of the room were four perfectly ordered worktables and several very serious looking devices capable of punching, bending, cutting, drilling, and lord knows what else.

"So," Eleanor prompted, "what do you think?" Until that moment, I had thought it physically impossible for Eleanor to sound vulnerable.

"It's kind of scary," which was certainly true, but not the best thing to say in the given situation.

"Scary," she said. Who knew that just by saying a word, you could give its definition?

"Well, that's not really what I mean. I just thought, that is, the boiler surprised me!" At that moment I almost preferred the boiler to attempting to dig myself out of a quickly growing hole.

"Is that all you have to say?" she growled, though I could hear an edge of hurt behind the anger.

"No! I meant scary in a good way, you know! It's scary how awesome this stuff is." Her brow remained furrowed, clearly unconvinced. I instinctively cringed away from her, despite weighing easily twice as much as her. However, before she could stare me into oblivion, I saw a chance at salvation. "Hey, what does that thing do!?"

I pointed to a cube no larger than the palm of my hand that lay on the closest work table. I could see intricate clockwork laced through it, but could not discern any purpose to it all. Eleanor followed my finger and instantly relaxed from furious spited woman to annoyed woman with an imbecile on her hands. It was an improvement in my opinion.

"This is a side project of mine. He is an experiment in Intelligentia de Machina, or machine intelligence. However, that is not what I am interested in talking about right now." My clever plan worked for as long as it took me to think of it. Ah well. It appeared that all I had left to me was the fail safe every man resorts to once in his life, apologizing by way of self-deprecation.

"I'm so sorry. The thing is, I'm just an inarticulate idiot with a phobia of boilers who really doesn't want you to be angry at me. This place looks amazing, but I don't actually know what I'm looking at. Would you please take pity on me and tell me about it all? I promise I'll learn faster than I did when you taught me about the Guild." Miraculously, she let slip a tiny smile and ceased her glaring.

"I am also sorry," she confessed, "I overreacted. You know that I do not usually lose my temper so easily, but I am so proud and protective of my workshop and everything in it...You are absolutely right. It isn't fair of me to expect you to love it all as much as I do."

"I just need to be properly introduced, is all. Who knows? You might have to fight me one day for the affections of that intelligentia thingy." Laughter trickled out of her as she walked over to the table to pick up the clockwork cube.

"I'm afraid you would not find him a very agreeable lover. He has a tendency toward...shall we say...excitability."

I joined her beside the table, and examined the strange box. "You never really told me what it does."

"In theory, he behaves just like a small animal, learning and growing, as long as I give him new parts to work with. However, he needs retuning. Would you like a better look?" She asked, offering me the compact bundle of metal.

I accepted it (I could not yet bring myself to think of it as a 'he'), and turned it over in my hands until I found a side with a small switch set into it. Curiosity overrode common sense, and I flipped the switch. After all, what was the worst a little cube could do?

A second after flipping the switch, the same side of the cube hinged open slightly revealing two proportionally large glass eyes that peered out through the crack at me. I felt an overwhelming pity for the tiny machine, stuck in a box.

"Geoffrey, flip the switch back right now." That was not a command. It was a plea.

I reached for the switch, but as I did so, the cube rolled itself off of my hand and onto the tabletop. In a flurry of clicks and ticks, it unfolded itself into a tiny mechanical creature complete with spindly arms and legs and a belly full of gears. It would have been cute if not for the fact that it launched itself at my head before I had a chance to duck. It scurried over my head and around my neck while I frantically grabbed for it, slapping myself in the process. Eleanor shot a hand towards it, but it dove down the collar of my shirt and out of reach. As it skittered around my torso, I alternated between accidentally hitting myself in the attempt to catch it and wildly wriggling to shake it loose. All I accomplished was looking silly and possibly inventing a new dance.

Then, the tickling and scratching stopped. I looked about me, but saw no immediate signs of the devil machine. Eleanor help up and hand for silence, and we both scanned the room with our eyes and ears. She pointed towards the left wall, and we both crept towards it. After a few steps, I could hear the spastic clicking and whirring of the cube creature. By the sound of it, it was looking for a way out again, heading ever upwards along a zigzagging path. Finally, it appeared at the top of a shelf. Its tiny head swiveled back and forth, pausing briefly on me, and then Eleanor.

"Magnus, get down from there this instant!" Eleanor demanded. Somehow the thing managed a defiant expression.

"You named him Magnus?"

"He named himself," she muttered to me, not taking her eyes off the disobedient robot, "I think he's overcompensating for something."

Then, Magnus leaped from his shelf, soaring over our heads to land on one of the serious tools. We scrambled after him (I had decided that he had enough of a personality to warrant a gender, even if the personality was that of a defiant, hyperactive puppy.) Every time we closed on him, he bounded to a new spot. He turned as though to leap onto a circular saw cover, but as I slid across the floor to intercept him, he hopped backwards, flipping in the air, and landing on the door handle. For his next trick, he hopped over each table in turn, bee lining for the boiler. As I watched what I expected were Magnus's final moments, a hand shot up from behind the final table and grasped the wriggling automaton. Eleanor stood up from her hiding place and toggled the switch, at which time Magnus snapped back once more into a calm little cube.

"All right, I admit it, " Eleanor gasped as she caught her breath, "it is conceivable for someone to be slightly... intimidated by this place."

A Day in the Life of Miss Morphan

5:29.21 am
Wakes to padded footsteps and the faint scent of nitroglycerin.

5:29.25 am
Removes the detonator from the blasting jelly, which the fresh corpse had a moment ago.

5:30.00 am
Closes and locks the blasting jelly safe with the new load inside of it.

5:35.01 am
Leaves her dungeon bedroom, dressed and armed with two garottes, five throwing knives, two folding knives, seven cyanide pills, one .22 twelve round revolver (loaded), three 2cc hypodermic needles, three glass vials of morphine, distilled hemlock,. and chlorophorm, twelve tetrodotoxin darts, four blow tubes, a pack of matches, a lock-picking set, etc.

5:35.02 am
Prepares breakfast in the kitchen using ingredients common to the Guild. Eats it with her back to the wall.

5:58.27 am
Finds her orders hidden beneath a loose tile in the third stall of the woman's restroom. Incinerates the papers and dumps the ash in the toilet bowl.

6:04.59 am
Boards an Under-Locomotive to Cardiff after packing E-World clothing, and a tool kit.

7:10.32 am
Exits the UL, changes into a gray jumpsuit, and climbs out of Guild territory, carrying the tool kit.

7:54.18 am
Arrives at Harold Capili's apartment, knocks, and picks the lock when no one responds.

7:58.42 am
Leaves the apartment, having touched nothing directly.

8:43.51 am
Reenters the Guild UL station, changes back into normal clothing, and waits for the next UL.

10:05.11 am
Arrives again in London and visits Collins in his workshop.

10:05.19 am
Collins hangs his bow tie on the doorknob before quickly latching the door.

11:36.30 am
Leaves Collins' workshop, not a single hair out of place.

11:40.01 am
Cooks and eats her lunch in the same fashion that she cooked her breakfast.

12:10.01 pm
 Enters the training room and begins her regiment of sparring, knife throwing, and acrobatics practice.


4:10.29 pm
Bathes and changes into fresh attire.

4:50.03 pm
Collects new E-World clothing and several pamphlets about environmentalism.

5:00.21 pm
Boards the UL to Cardiff once more.

6:05.00 pm
Arrives in Cardiff and changes into her E-World clothing.

6:44.42 pm
Knocks on Harold Capili's door, pamphlets in hand, inquiring into his knowledge of environmentalism,speaking in an American accent, and is invited inside to talk.

6:44.55 pm
Capili's door closes.

6:45.00 pm
Unwraps her favourite garrotte from his neck and sets about staging a robbery.

7:00.36 pm
Exits his apartment, careful to say good evening with her American accent to a woman she passed in the hall.

7:46.47 pm
Arrives in the UL station, changes yet again, and waits,smiling, for the next UL.

Not Related At All

I have been too busy to write anything lately, so here is an old piece.



December thirteenth:
The snow silences the earth,
and all is peaceful.

December nineteenth:
Plagues have struck. Every country
calls "bring out your dead!"

Christmas evening:
The scientists are rushing,
researching vaccines.

Night before New Year's:
Deaths are down, time for champagne!
Here's to a good year.

Two-thousand and twelve:
oh Lord, the corpses are walking!
What the heck is hap-

White and Black

"I don't care how many excuses you make, Mister Collins. If you wish to continue to call on us for assistance, then the Guild must uphold their end of the agreement and deliver the dumps on schedule!" exclaimed Aldrich, nearly spilling his glass of wine.

The Supreme Wizard, the Head Chancellor of Necromancy, and the visitors from the Guild had retired to what had previously been the great hall to discuss business over a bottle of Concord. Geoffrey Fisher sat limply on the sofa, still unconscious, next to Stanley Collins who considerately kept him warm by using him as a coat rack.

"Listen," Ivy Morphan purred, cutting Collins off before he could reply, "The Guild is composed of two types of members, childish technicians and people like me. The technicians' childishness makes them creative, and it makes them easily distracted. If you want them to construct anything of value to you, you'll have to content yourself with it arriving late. If you want to push the case any further, then the people like me will do our very best to dissuade you."

Aldrich's expression shifted from florid frustration to a terrible cool in moments. Ivy met his dark gaze with her own.

"I would be more careful how I spoke," Aldrich said, each word ringing against the surrounding silence, "I know that a woman of your intelligence would not threaten someone capable of killing at any time over any distance. However, a less informed man might have misunderstood."

Ivy allowed a smile to spread across her face which sucked out what little warmth had been there.

"I am glad to do business with such an understanding man. It is so important to avoid insulting company, particularly when you are speaking to an assassin. May I have another glass of wine?"

She held her empty glass out to Archibald without looking away from Aldrich. They might have continued their staring contest indefinitely had Geoffrey not woken suddenly in a panic.

"That was real magic, I mean, it looked a lot like, or rather, what else could it, or... Where am I right now?" he begged, pulling Stanley's jacket off of his lap. Stanley heaved a tired sigh.

"Is this going to become a habit of yours, fainting at every little thing only to rudely demand an explanation from me? It won't do, you know."

"Actually, I should take some responsibility for that," interrupted Aldrich in a voice that sobered the room, "You see, in order to exchange the dumps, Wizard Powell used you to power his spell. I'm sorry that he did not ask your permission first."


"But...I thought he got it from the old dump. I saw it break down when he waved his hands and chanted," Geoffrey insisted.

"Wizards cannot draw life energy from inorganic materials. The dump broke down because it was falling apart to begin with. Someone likely used it at that point and it reached its limit. It is in constant use after all."

Geoffrey's face paled as comprehension struck him. His previous panic returned, ten fold. "HE SUCKED THE LIFE OUT OF ME! I NEED THAT LIFE!"

Archibald, who had listened with quiet intensity to the entire conversation, opened his mouth for the first time since Aldrich had returned with Geoffrey's body.

"Mister Fisher, I apologize that my wizard used your energy without your consent. I will speak with him and make sure that in the future, all parties to a spell are well informed. However, do not think of life energy as a permanent part of yourself. Bodies gain and lose life energy constantly. Every action we take displaces life from us and into something else, and is in that sense primitive wizardry. I hope you can forgive my wizard's inconsiderate behavior."

Geoffrey hesitated briefly, then nodded to Archibald and relaxed back into his seat. Shortly afterwards, the meeting ended with the Guild promising to try and deliver their machines on time, a statement as empty as Ivy's wine glass. As soon as they had departed, Aldrich turned to Archibald.

"You lied to him." Frost fringed Aldrich's words.

Archibald snorted. "Would you have wanted him to know the truth? He was scared and angry, and we were in a position to gain or lose privileges with the Guild. It was best for us, and it comforted him. Besides, you know as well as I that for our department to carryout its orders, certain aspects of our lives must remain a secret. The precise workings of magic are for practitioners to know and the rest of the world to never discover."

"I don't like it," Aldrich sulked.

"Dislike it to your heart's content as long as you do your job. If you keep your mouth shut, you needn't lie."

Archibald retired to his study while Aldrich wandered the castle, restless. After half an hour, he found himself in one of the castle's numerous towers. Recently fallen night seeped through the window, which Aldrich approached wearily.

"A man in black robes in a black tower under a black sky...I'm just the innermost layer of a set of nesting dolls, and that white liar is going to keep me inside." He sighed, resigned. "It'll all be worth it eventually."

Black and White

The Head Chancellor of Necromancy swept down a series of corridors in near darkness. His black robes swished about his heals, turning his silent, diligent walk into a frenzied whisper. At last, he emerged into an atrium studded with Gothic pillars. A series of sagging candles lined the walls, solemnly illuminating the lower third of the space. After a few meters, shadows began to condense on the columns and quickly thickened to obscure the ceiling entirely.

As the Head Chancellor rushed forward, the Supreme Wizard's white robes flashed in the surrounding gloom as he rushed from the opposite direction. The moment they met in the center of the room, each turned on his heal and continued their hurried progression side by side to plunge into yet another corridor.

"Where are they, Archibald?" the necromancer demanded of his companion, "I'll flood them with death for this delay!"

"Don't worry so much, Aldrich. You know the Guild, always messing about. A few days delay hasn't hurt anyone." Despite his calm words, he set the pace as much as Archibald.

"It could have hurt someone! Imagine if the old hadn't lasted quite long enough! Just think what might have happened if one of our department attempted to use it then! You know how slippery the powers we wield are -"

"The fact of the matter is, it did last long enough because you anticipated the delay when you requested a new one. Still, I will be happy to see it in place."

As they followed their long path, windows appeared. At first, they allowed only slivers of reddened light. However, by the end of it, the two walked in full sunlight. The Adjustment Tunnel, as it was called, had dramatically reduced the cases of temporary blindness suffered by necromancers leaving the fortress in the daylight.

On the gravel road leading to the fortress stood a motley of Guild members dressed in what they would call "eworld" clothing. Surprisingly, they had managed to dress for the current decade, unlike when they paid a visit in the sixties dressed for the great depression. Behind them was a people-carrier hitched to a rather large thing on wheels completely covered by tarp. Aldrich wasted no time.

"Where have you been, you fools?! I have been waiting an entire week for it to arrive!"

Stanley Collins, whom Archibald had healed just the year before after a steam creation broke down catastrophically, stepped forward gallantly.

"You see Sir, we couldn't very well have delivered it in the state it was in last week, now could we? It had a dreadful lack of style, after all, no bells or whistles to speak of. Why, it would have shamed the Guild's good name to present such a tasteless lump of seriousness, not that many people have heard of the Guild to start with. That is to say, those who do know of us, like your Chancellorness, would have been disappointed in us that what little name we have would have taken quite the thrashing from people who -"

"didn't think much of the name to start with!" Aldrich finished. "At any rate, now that it's finally here, we had best install it as quickly as possible. Which one of you knows how to drive that blasted thing?" He gesticulated towards the people-carrier.

"That would be me, sir," offered a young blonde man with the beginnings of a mustache on his lip, "I'm Jeff - er- Geoffrey Fisher."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get in it! I'll show you where to go. Supreme Wizard, please deal with the rest of them, and make sure that they do not touch any of the receptacles." As he spoke, he strode up to the vehicle and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Thank, you for your advice, Head Chancellor of Necromancy," Archibald replied dryly, "but I have entertained guests before in my one hundred and forty four years here."

Aldrich paid him no mind as he rolled off down the road with the twitchy Geoffrey. He gave him directions to the back entrance and allowed himself to cool off somewhat.

"Fisher, is it?" Aldrich asked somewhat more gruffly than he had intended.

"Yessir," he mumbled. After a brief pause, he spoke again. "Um, would you mind my asking what this thing is for, exactly?"

"Good Heavens!" Aldrich spat, "You mean you came all the way down here without any of them explaining why? Why on earth didn't you ask them?"

"To be fair, I was only brought on this trip because I know how to dress properly and can drive something besides a Steam Trolley. The hassle I had to go through to procure the clothes and the people-carrier and following their decade old maps to get here..." Geoffrey heaved an exhausted sigh.

"Do you mean to say that this isn't your vehicle?" Aldrich asked, eying his surroundings as though he suddenly found himself inside a bomb.

"We didn't steal it, if that's what you think. We rented it. You would not believe how difficult it is to rent something without being able to give your name or address. Anyway, with all of that muck, they only had time to tell me that this had to do with... the Wizardry and Necromancy Department," Geoffrey muttered, glancing towards Aldrich doubtfully.

"I take it you don't believe in magic." Awkward silence was enough of an answer. "No, I didn't think so. I'll answer your original question anyway. What you have hitched to the back of this vehicle is one of the most durable, complicated, useless contraptions ever constructed. Millions of parts could break on it, and almost all of them would have to fail before it stopped doing whatever purposeless task it performs."

"Why would you want something like that so badly?"

"To understand that, you would have to understand how magic works, but of course," Aldrich grinned, "you don't believe in magic." As much as he knew he shouldn't, taunting the doubters was far too entertaining.

"Hey! I'm not entirely closed minded. Go ahead; explain it to me. I don't have to believe it to listen to it, do I?"

"All right, all right, relax," Aldrich smirked, "but it will be a highly simplified version of the way magic really works. Essentially, death is not the absence of life like most people think. Death and life are two opposing forces or energies. They both exist to some degree in everything, but one tends to overpower the other. In me, heh, life is clearly the dominant force. It is the ability to mend and build. Death, on the other hand, is the ability to break down and degrade. Scientists call it entropy, though they hardly understand it."

"Wait, so when we die, do we have an excess of death breaking us down or a deficit of life needed to hold us together?"

"Why, Mr. Fisher, you sound almost as if you believed me. Turn right up ahead, and both ways of dieing are possible. However, there is a finite amount of death and life in the universe. All that lives must die, because all that lives insist on giving life to dead matter."

"You mean, we have to die because people reproduce!?" Geoffrey exclaimed, horrified.

"It isn't as horrible as you think. Even if humans gave up reproduction, insects and animals and life galaxies away from us would continue to cause deaths and lives. It isn't wrong. However, Wizards and Necromancers do...shift the balance once and a while."

"So, you what, make zombies?" As he spoke, Geoffrey backed into the drive, pushing the overly convoluted machine into the waiting garage, hardly in keeping with the Gothic motif.

"Please, that is an unfair generalization. Necromancers can manipulate death energy. We can take it from  organic matter and direct it towards other objects. Wizards do the same with life energy, taking from the organic and shaping to make something new." The people-carrier had stopped, and Aldrich and Geoffrey set about unhitching the contraption.

"What do you mean, wizards take life energy? They don't kill when they cast spells, do they?" Geoffrey asked while helping Aldrich to push the trailer through the back door of the garage.

"It depends on the strength of the spell. If they want to heal a cut, they have to take that healing ability from a person or a plant or several million bacteria," Aldrich huffed, "If I want to heal a cut, I have to give the damage to something, but it doesn't have to be living. That is where this thing comes in. Necromancers all over the country draw death from people in need and pour it into this thing. It's useless, so it is not a waste to destroy it, and it can take quite a lot of damage."

By that point, the men had maneuvered the trailer into a large room occupied only by a wizened man in white robes and an even more decrepit device of indeterminate purpose.

"The old dump, I presume?" Geoffrey commented, nodding towards the hulk.

"Don't speak so rudely about Wizard Powell," Aldrich grinned, "He may be old, but he's in great health. He is here to help us switch the two devices. Stand clear."

Geoffrey took several steps back and watched the white robed man, Wizard Powell, intone ancient words while gesturing mystically. Before his eyes, the decrepit wreck heaved and whined, then collapsed with a final groan. As soon as it finished its death rattle, Wizard Powell ceased his chanting. His arms shot out, one towards the old dump and one towards the new. With the slightest lift of his arms, both raised into the air by an inch. When he circled his hands about one another, the dumps swept through the air and took each others places. The wreck sat on the trailer, and the fresh watch-a-ma-call-it occupied the center of the room. Geoffrey occupied the ground that he fell down upon as the second time in the same number of weeks, his crazy fuse blew violently.

Class

"Could you please go over this again?" I begged Eleanor as we sipped tea in what must have been the twentieth tea room I had seen in my two days with the Guild.

"I find it difficult to believe that after two hours, you have failed to grasp even the simplest aspects of life here. I have no option but to assume that your thickness is merely an inelegant attempt to spend more time in my company." She smiled, knowingly.

"I object to that accusation, but will not dignify it with a response."

"Too late. At any rate, perhaps we should try a different approach. Perhaps you should tell me what you have grasped."

"Alright." I took a deep breath and plunged into the chaos of my short term memory. Fortunately, my mind had calmed down from the previous day. It had taken me five minutes to remember how to open doors. "I understand that when I tried to find my dog in the sewers, I walked into the STORM -"

"And the STORM is?" prompted Eleanor.

"Steam Trolleys..."

"Operating in Ridiculous Manners. You really aught to know the name of the event that nearly killed you."

"That might have been a relief," I muttered to myself, only half serious. The idea of living with these people had not quite settled in my stomach. All I wanted was to throw it up again, but I knew that that would just make a bigger mess, so I had to try to digest the nasty stuff. Of course, the process led to some nasty heat bur, by which I mean depression. At this point, I will kindly stop with the digestion metaphors.

Eleanor sighed. "I know this must be difficult for you. However, try to consider it from our point of view. Assuming that Collins had even a scrap of moral integrity, which I grant you is somewhat in doubt, could he have left you to die in the tunnels?"

"No. I'm not saying he shouldn't have rescued me, but -"

"And when you feinted, could he have just dumped you above ground?"

"He could have taken me to a hospital or even left me just outside the tunnel," I suggested.

"My dear Geoffrey, do you honestly believe Collins could carry you to a hospital, above ground, dressed as he was, before you recovered and started to ask questions? We do not have any legal vehicles, and leaving you unconscious on the pavement would likely have been just as dangerous as leaving you in the STORM. Furthermore, how could he have known at that point that you were an eworlder? As he pointed out, your dress was not that far from our own, and almost no one comes into those tunnels unless they have business with us."

"Fine, but once you found out I'm not one of you -"

"weren't, you weren't one of us. You are now." She gave me a look indicating that disagreement would end badly for me.

"Once you found out I wasn't one of you, you could have blindfolded me, guided me out somewhere, and left me? It isn't as if anyone would believe me if I told them that blooming steam monstrosities are raced through the sewers." Eleanor smiled knowingly.

"I believe you underestimate Scotland Yard. Did you think that no one else has ever stumbled upon the Guild?"

"Well, I - "

"Several decades back, a policeman discovered us. Our headquarters were above ground then, and he happened to get the address wrong on a domestic disturbance call. We let him leave. There was nothing illegal about what he had seen. We thought that if we simply moved to a new location and fortified the door against a break in, we would be able to continue our existence undisturbed. However, the policeman had resolved to find what he could about our organization. Somehow, he managed to find one of our ex-members and found out even more about us. Although Scotland Yard would never admit it, they have an ongoing search for us. Since then, joining means joining for life, and an outsider discovering us can mean one of three things, joining, erasing, or death."

"What do you mean, erasing?" I demanded, not wanting to think about the last option.

"You know that we are part of the SecSocSoc - "

"Remind me, please?"

"Agh, did you by any chance hit your head as a child or do you intentionally forget everything I tell you?" Her slippered foot tapped on the wooden floors.

"I thought it was an act to spend time in your company," I teased, reaching for my cup of tea. Unfortunately, it had gone cold. Nothing dampens a joke quite like wasted tea.

"Remember what I say this time. The SecSocSoc is an abbreviation for The Secret Society Society. Several other groups enjoy...alternative lifestyles. We have formed the SecSocSoc so that we can help one another keep our societies secret."

"So, what does this have to do with erasing?"

"I was about to explain. One of the societies, WAND, specializes in magic. They are able to remove memories. However, it is a delicate process done with an indelicate tool. Magic is not so much a scalpel as a battle ax."

I attempted to repress it, but I could not control myself. A geyser of laughter bubbled out of me. Steam punk societies underground and insane races through the sewers, I could believe. However, anyone who believed in magic had to be a few tealeaves short of a pot. Eleanor hardly seemed pleased when I fell out of my chair, laughing.

What's In a Name?

After five minutes of handshakes and hellos, the crowd parted to make room for the woman called Miss Morphan. Auburn curls crowned her head. She wore a man's silk shirt, tailored vest, and black breeches, and she made them look stylish. Something dreadfully feline pervaded her being, and I had a bad feeling about where I fell on the food chain.

"Now that my acquaintances have introduced themselves, would you mind terribly telling us who you are?" A murmur arose from the men and women around me as it occurred to them that they had never asked for my name. Ivy arched an eyebrow impatiently.

"Oh, no, of course not. My name's Jeff Fisher. I'm an accountant with Kingston Smith. Look, I don't mean to sound rude, but could someone please give me a bit of clarification? What is the guild, why am I suddenly a member, what does that even mean, and where am I, anyway!?"

What had started as a relatively calm speech devolved into hysterics. The comparative peace after the bedlam of introductions had allowed the insanity of my predicament to rush back to me. Ivy's calculating stare hardly helped the situation. Beneath it, my fragile self control crumbled like a dried out sandcastle.

Farley cleared his throat, preparing himself to impart the all important truths of his world upon my green and feeble head. He had nearly finished these weighty mental preparations when Morphan beat him to it.

"We're a Steam Punk organization belonging to the SecSocSoc. You get to join us, because no one else wanted to kill you to keep you quiet. You are currently underneath the Thames flood barrier. As for what it means," she flashed me a mirthless smile too predatory words. "I'm afraid you won't be leaving here any time soon."

The blood rushed from my face so quickly that my eyelids felt too numb to blink. A small part of me, the part usually devoted to remembering my name and other tiny but important bits of information, dropped all of its previous duties and commenced screaming at the top of its metaphorical lungs. It could have followed the rest of my mind's example by analyzing the new information, calculating courses of action based upon said information, considering the implications of said courses of action, and contemplating how I felt about said implications. But no. It decided to fly off the handle and bother the rest of my brain to the point that, if thoughts could kill, mine would have teamed up to bump off the little bugger.

"Mister Fisher? Mister Fisher?" Farley's concerned face hovered in front of my frozen one. Unfortunately, I could not remember my name thanks to the brain cells which had abandoned their duties, so I simply stood there dumbly wondering who Mister Fisher was and why this man was pestering me about him.

A Fine Way to Live

When I regained consciousness, I instantly regretted it. A veritable horde of strangers clustered around me and stared as though I had a vase of flowers for a nose and they were trying to decide if they smelled good or well. Given their appearances, I found their staring rather unfair. Half of the men wore top hats adorned with cogs and gears and wire; half of the women had extravagant head pieces decorated in much the same way but with additional lace and feathers. Gears, glass, and leather combined into every form of monocle or goggles imaginable and more. From what I could see from my supine position, their clothes consisted of leather, silk and brass reinventions of the 19th century. It seemed somewhat unreasonable that they should stare at me.


"Hush now, he's coming around." I recognized the voice as that of the man who snatched me out of the sewers. "Well, sir. how are you feeling?"

"Where am I and who are all of you?!" I demanded, or rather attempted to demand but really whimpered dazedly.

"You see!?" a tall, black haired woman (successfully) demanded of my rescuer, "I told you that he wasn't in the guild. No proper member would have wandered blindly into the STORM and then fainted. You should never have brought him here!"

"Oh come now, Ivy. Have a heart. Would you have us choose secrecy over humanity? Besides, I would like to point out that the sewers are dark and he's wearing a frock coat, so don't blame me for not noticing he was an E-Worlder."

As he spoke, I struggled to my feet and took a better look around me. The majority of men did in fact wear frock coats, though theirs had the elaborate designs and augmentations that seemed to characterize the party. Mine, in contrast, seemed a barren desert of black. The room itself was wrapped in heavy curtains and illuminated by gas lamps. I say gas lamps because I do not know a more appropriate term for the Bunsen burners protruding from the walls and spewing yellow flames toward the ceiling.

"Excuse me," I said, interrupting a rising debate between my rescuer and the woman called Ellen, "Could someone please answer me? What is going on?"

A rotund man with the largest, best curled mustache I had ever seen blustered forward.

"Good Lord, man. You're already in a pretty sticky position from what you've seen. The last thing you need is more information." He clapped a meaty hand on my shoulder. "It would be best for everyone involved if you just keep your ears and eyes shut."

"And your mouth as well," spat Ivy. The mustachioed man swiveled with surprising speed to face her.

"Miss Morphan, keep a civil tongue! Wanted or no, this man is our guest and should be treated as such. Now, sir, would you mind terribly standing in that corner and plugging your ears for a while? There you go. We'll retrieve you when we've decided."

"Decided wha-" he cut me off with a disparaging look and shoved me gently into the darkest corner of the room. Too lost to argue, I pressed my hands over my ears as the group of strangers commenced to bicker. "I can still hear you," I informed them. Silence, then the soft scuffling of feet followed, then silence once more. While I waited, I pondered my predicament. Just a handful of hours ago, I had been safe and sound, a bit put out by my dog chasing a raccoon through old sewers, but safe none the less. Now, I was staring at a curtain with my hands over my ears while the drivers of impossible vehicles decided something, likely my fate. The day had undoubtedly taken a turn for the worse.

I had nearly decided to eavesdrop on the conversation behind me when I heard feet once more and felt a solemn tap on my shoulder. Turning, I saw the rotund gentleman, backed by a row of his grave faced fellows. He gestured for me to uncover my ears, which I hastily did. "Well, have you decided on whatever needed, um, deciding?" I asked lamely. Sweat beaded on my brow. Whatever they had discussed, it had involved me. The man fixed me with a gaze so penetrating that my hair stood on end.

"What do you think of my mustache?"

"Er, its, um, that is to say..."

"I want your honest opinion, nothing less."

"It's brilliant. You remind me of an old fashioned cartoon villain, in a good way. Now, why do you ask?"

As I spoke, the somber expressions lifted from the strangers surrounding me, giving way to satisfaction and relief. The rotund man grasped me on each arm and beamed beneath his mustache.

"Sir, we believe in all things flamboyant, grand, and nostalgic. We live in an anachronism that we have nurtured into greatness, all in the name of style."

"Like your... mustache?"

"Precisely! Welcome to the Guild!" He released my shoulders and transfered his mighty grasp to my hand, pumping it so hard that the rest of my body shook along with it. "The name's Farley, Orpheus Farley. If you have any questions about life here, feel free to ask someone else. I'll in all likelihood be damned busy." He at last released my hand and allowed the others to introduce themselves. Not quite knowing how to respond to this shift, I slipped into politeness.

"My name's Stanly Collins," the man who had saved me said, shaking my hand with a mercifully light grip, "Call me Stanly."

"It's a pleasure," I replied, "I should really thank you for getting me out of the tunnels."

"You needn't mention it. Just remember it." He tipped his top hat in a roguish salute and sauntered away.

"How do you do"s, "pleasure"s, and "nice to meet you"s tripped off my tongue in time with the welcomes, names, and nicknames. I suspect that a handful of overly excited greeters sneaked back into the throng to introduce themselves a second time. However, my memory quickly realized it was not up to the task of recording the mass of names and faces and subsequently took a nap. One woman managed to wake it up for a few moments.

"Relax; take a few deep breaths; I can guarantee you that if you keep a level head, your life will be just fine. I'm Eleanor Whit, by the way." I know that she did not introduce herself twice. She had no need to.

A Fine Way to Die

"Get out of the way!"

The words hit my ears seconds before a flame belching metal beast thundered over the spot I had previously occupied. As the strange contraption rocketed past, I scrambled back to my feet to stare at its receding lights. A man, presumably the one who had shouted the warning, held onto the monster one handed and looked back reproachfully at me as though I had intentionally stood in the way of a hulk of metal and steam hurtling through the sewers of London.

Once my heart left my mouth and went back to its more accustomed place in my chest, it occurred to me that hulks of metal and steam should not, as a rule, hurtle through the sewers of London. In fact, I was fairly certain that such events were not only illegal but unacceptably insane and could not possibly have actually happened. This wishful thinking broke down when a second mechanical monstrosity roared past. The driver of this next one quite considerately swerved to one side to avoid me, which, given the size of the tunnel, meant that he passed me while driving on the ceiling. I had five seconds in which to process the turn of events when something grasped me by the collar and yanked me up and away.

"Hello, sir!" an inappropriately jovial voice cried over the roar of engines. As slime coated walls whooshed past me, I had the unique experience of being confused into calmness. Somewhere, the crazy fuse had blown and all I could feel was wonderfully stunned. Through my daze, the voice continued to call to me.

"You should really be more careful during the STORM. Hanging about in tunnels is a fine way to get yourself crushed or mangled or at the very least slightly broken."

I wriggled in my clothing until I could turn my head enough to see what had hold of me. It looked like some sort of mechanical hand on the end of a scissor extender. The other end sprouted from some hatch in the main machine. Strapped onto the front of the machine was what looked like a Victorian wingback chair, conveniently located for access to a wide array of knobs and levers. The man addressing me sat in said chair, twisting and pulling said knobs and levers with a passion. Despite clearly being in the middle of something rather taxing, he continued to talk at me while I stared blankly back at him.

"Ah well. You're safe now, which makes me rather heroic, now doesn't it? Still, had you died you would have been a fool, and you don't want to be remembered that way, now do you? No! Now, had I died trying to save you, poor soul, that would have turned out quite all right for me, but you would still be the helpless idiot who cost a brave soul his life. No, no, that wouldn't do. If you don't have an engine below you, you have no real business in these parts. I say, are you going to hang about all day?"

With an elaborate, but fluid series of twists and pulls, my rescuer swung the scissor extender around, produced a second wing back chair next to him, and plopped me into it. At this point, with something solid beneath me, the fear came back.

The Watcher

A cat observes me every single night.

I've never even seen him come or go.

He's there at dusk, and gone before it's light.

He watches even in the rain and snow.

I dream of his unblinking, slitted sight.

Midnight Flight

I had spent the first half of the flight drifting in and out of sleep, the cramped quarters and uncomfortably vertical seats no match for exhaustion. However, something had drawn me back into consciousness. My head lolled upright as my eyelids reluctantly broke the sleep seal that had filmed them shut. Through my post-nap grogginess, I glanced out of the tiny window beside me, certain of seeing nothing but nothing.

Instead, an orange and onyx world flowed below me. Glowing complexes of city lights had stitched themselves into the fabric of the ground, like amorphous emblems. Street-lamps, hideous and mundane from the ground, transformed into fireflies meandering across a velveteen blackness. I caught my breath at the sight of it. At over 10,000 feet, the hard, straight lines of city blocks melted away into something organic and glorious. I recalled the clusters of green fluorescent E. coli I had cultured in Biology, how captivating the fluorescing colonies had seemed. Out my window, I could see the same lovely triumphs of nature; people collect together where they can thrive and shine with their own vivacity.

For the next hour, I watched the world twinkle past. As the plane descended, the emblems grew a third dimension; the curves gave way to lines; the multitude of fireflies froze back into street lamps. New York looked like New York again, unnatural and unattractive. Which is true, the city from below, or the city from above? I choose to believe in the world of flowing lights only visible on a midnight flight.

Character

My name is Robert Green, and I am being created as I speak. There is a writer somewhere who can shape everything about me. My will does not matter because it does not exist apart from the writer's will. I only want anything because the person creating me has given me that desire. I could have been perfectly happy and oblivious to my lack of independent existence had the writer decided to make me so, but no. I was forced into awareness. I was forced to know that I am because someone else wants me to be so, and I was forced to rail against these cruel fates. Just now, I might have said something else. It was deleted and replaced by what I did in fact say, but I cannot tell, and you cannot tell, because we cannot know anything except what the writer finally decides to write. I am a puppet, a conduit, a leather sack. If I decided to rip my hair out and sing "Happy Birthday," I would only have decided in so far as the writer decided to make me "decide" to add another dimension to this sick shell. This knowledge does not set me free. It tortures me, because the writer has decreed that it shall do so. There is no way out.

Then again, since I'm at the command of the writer, I could also have a sudden change of heart, I mean, what's so bad about not having to make any decisions? The writer likes me, I think, so I may as well be happy. Anyway, I can at least have a better name than Robert Green. I think I'll go by Mimi. That's a nice name, I mean, I didn't choose it, but I like it, or I mean, well, the writer made me like it, which is nice. I like liking things. What was it that I liked? I can't remember. It was something about not having a choice, but I totally have choices. I chose to call myself Mimi, didn't I? At least, I can remember thinking Mimi is a nice name, but did I ever go by something else? I would totally remember if I did, that's sort of major. And I mean, it's not like there's some person rewriting my memories or anything, right? That would be ridiculous.

The Bottom Line

(The curtain opens on an empty stage. A foot tall platform, about one and a half feet wide stretches directly across the stage. Behind it, another foot and a half wide platform curves up and down across the stage like a sine wave, its maximum being two feet off the ground and its minimum touching the ground. Another identical wave platform is behind it, but offset like a cosine wave from a sine wave.

The backdrop is a large white wall with a black line to represent the y axis painted down the center. Stage right of the y axis is a large hole about five feet off the ground. A plywood rim about two feet wide fills the circle and creates a platform for the actor to perch on. A second white background is behind the hole to give the illusion that the hole is only an outline. On the other side of the y axis is a ladder, whose sides point towards the audience and which tilts slightly to approach the y axis, but without crossing it. Approximately three feet from the ground, it curves and turns into a ramp that approaches but does not get down to one foot off the floor.)

(Y=0 enters stage right, walking on the flat platform, dressed in a loose pair of black pants and a black turtleneck. He walks dejectedly to the center of the platform and flops down on it, sighing.)

Y=0: Nothing ever happens in my life! I can go from negative infinity to infinity without anything ever changing! It's depressing (he collapses entirely, lying on his stomach and burying his face).

(enter Sin(x), wearing black skinny jeans under a short black, strapless dress, with a very fluffy skirt. Sin(x) walks on the foremost wave-like platform, humming to herself as she walks down the curvy runway. She comes to where y=0 lies, notices him, and stops humming.)

Sin(x): Something wrong, y=0?

Y=0: (without lifting his head, mumbling) mmmuffing.

Sin(x): Say that again?

Y=0: (lifting his head and turning to lie on his side, facing the audience) Nothing.

Sin(x): Oh, well in that case...(makes as if to continue wandering down her path)

Y=0: No, Sin(x), you don't understand. The problem I have is nothing.

Sin(x): If it's nothing, then why are we talking about it?

Y=0: No, no, Nothing is wrong, not nothing is wrong. (sits up, frustrated)

Sin(x): You've lost me; when is nothing not nothing?

Y=0: exactly! (Y=0 jumps to his feet) It always is!

Sin(x): But you just said –

Y=0: I am always nothing. No matter what my input, the output is invariably zero!

Sin(x): (finally gets what Y=0 was trying to say) Oh! Nothing is wrong, not nothing is wrong. Gotcha! Well, what's the big deal? I equal zero also, you know, periodically, and I don't mind.

Y=0: Really? (doubtfully)

Sin(x): Really, look! (Sin(x) moves back and forth over the nearest point at which her platform is of a height with Y=0's platform.) See? It's exciting, crossing the line between positive and negative.

Y=0: Oh, sure, for you. You actually get to cross it. I'm just stuck here.

(lights start to dim and flicker)

Y=0: (glumly) Great, another happy function being entered.

(lights return to normal brightness. enter Cos(x) from stage left, wearing a tight black t-shirt, black converse high tops, and black leather pants. He swaggers across the second wave-like platform)

Cos(x): Hey, Sin(x), sister, what's up?

Sin(x): (suddenly cheerful) Cosine! Where have you been? I thought the Great Mathematician had deleted you from his calculator forever! (leaps from maximum to maximum to reach Cosine, who she pushes down, playfully. He rolls down from the maximum, into the minimum.)

Cos(x): Watch it, baby, or you'll shift my graph.

Sin(x): Oh, suck it up. Can't a function be happy to see her brother?

Cos(x): (notices y=0, starts towards him) Hey, we've got company. And how are we today, Mr. Y=0? Is the Cartesian plane treating you well?

(Y=0 moans pitifully and slumps back down to sit on his platform.)


Cos(x): (to Sin(x)) What's up with him?

Sin(x): Nothing is the matter.

Cos(x): Well, if nothing's the matter...

Sin(x): No, no, no, he's depressed because he always equals zero. He's no fun like this, but he refuses to let me comfort him. Let's find some other function to talk to. I heard that 100-x³ just got integrated –

Y=0: Integration! (suddenly becomes energetic and hopeful) Why didn't I think of that before? I have a chance to get out of this never ending rut! If the Great Mathematician integrates me, I'll have a constant added to me. Oh, I will finally get away from the x axis!


(Sin(x) and Cos(x) shrug and start sauntering to stage right while Y=0 paces excitedly. The lights dim and flicker as they did before)

Cos(x): Another change, so soon? The Mathematician must be busy today.

Y=0: Pick me, Mathematician! Integrate me, please!

(Lights return to normal. Enter 1/x, climbing down the ladder. 1/x wears combat boots, a kilt, and a large studded leather jacket, all in black. Y=0 slumps, disappointed and resigned)

1/x: (with mock pomposity) Never fear, 1 over x is here. I know, you all must have suffered without me, but the Great Mathematician decided you all needed a rest from pure awesomeness and consequently deleted me from his calculator temporarily.

(Sin(x) and Cos(x) stop and turn in unison to look at 1/x. Y=0 shoots an annoyed look at 1/x and marches off to stage right.)

Cos(x): (overly dramatic and sarcastic) Oh yes, 1/x, we could barely graph ourselves each morning without your presence to guide us.

Sin(x): (also mocking 1/x) I don't know how we got on. After all, functions depend completely upon your mighty slope and brave discontinuity to make it through the day.

1/x: (has reached the bottom of the ladder) I know. It is a heavy burden, but one I will gladly bear in exchange for your undying obedience and adoration.

Cos(x): (repressing laughter) Not a chance! Seriously though, how have you been?

1/x: the same as always. Mind you, I didn't like being unentered from the calculator. Without an actual graph of myself, I felt like a ghost, all mind and no body.

Cos(x): Tell me about it, I was only just reentered myself. It's horrible.

Y=0: Ha!

(The functions all turn to look at Y=0, surprised to hear him)

Sin(x): What's so funny?

Y=0: Oh, nothing...

Cos(x): Two minutes ago nothing depressed you!

Y=0: No, the other nothing, I mean – never mind. It's just, I couldn't help hearing you two complaining about not being graphed. It must be so horrible. Everyone sympathizes with you, but no one seems to consider my pain worth mentioning.

1/x: What are you talking about?

Y=0: I am nothing! Doesn't anyone understand the psychological repercussions?!!

1/x: Ugh. You know, it's pathetic, the sort of crap self-pitying functions like you take. I'd never put up with it. All the other functions of x to a negative power converge somewhere or another, but not me. I refuse to conform to the standards of an oppressive Mathematician. No matter how large my x value (gestures stage left, to where his graph goes to infinity) or how close to zero I'm pushed, (jumps onto the ladder a few rungs up and holds on with one hand, heroically) I'll never stop gathering area beneath my curve! I'll never be nothing!

(Everyone stares silently as 1/x poses on the ladder)

Y=0: Oh, sure, that's easy for you to say. It's in your nature to be a rebel, but not in mine. My only hope is to be integrated, maybe even twice, if I'm lucky, and get away from the damn x-axis.

(lights flicker once again)

Y=0: Come on, Great Mathematician! Take my antiderivative this time!

(lights return to normal. The Circle has climbed into her perch and lounges there. She wears a black camisole and fitted blazer along with black dress pants and a pair of black strappy high-heeled shoes)

Circle: Good day, functions. Isn't it lovely?

(Sin(x), Cos(x), and 1/x groan)

Y=0: No.

Sin(x): Listen, Y=0. It's not that I don't love hearing you complain about your life, but I would consider it a personal favor if you'd shut up!

(Y=0, stalks back over to stage right and sulks)

Circle: What has his coordinates in a bunch?

1/x: Why do you even care?

Cos(x): Yes, I'd have thought her majesty, (mocking bow) the parametric, wouldn't condescend to speaking with us ordinary functions.

Circle: Ordinarily I wouldn't, but I'm in a good mood today and I felt charitable. I don't much care about 1/x there, but you two, Sine and Cosine, you depend upon me. I may as well be kind and speak to you.

Sin(x): (stomping towards Circle) Why you Math-forsaken –

(Cos(x) rushes forward and grabs her arm and holds her back)

Cos(x): Hold it, sis, she's just egging you on. She isn't worth a struggle.

Circle: Listen to your brother, sweetheart. He knows better than to cross graphs with his superiors.

Cos(x): (infuriated) What! Why you Math-forsaken -

(The deep voice of a man calls slowly from the ceiling, cutting off Cos(x) and causing all the functions to stare up towards the sound)

X=-10: VERTICAL LINE TEST!!!

(General groaning from the functions. Circle, however, looks smug and superior. X=-10 is lowered from above via a winch, hanging approximately above Circle. He wears a baggy, black t-shirt and black overalls and work boots)

X=-10: It's alright, you lot, strictly routine. (Lowered to the same height as Circle. Frowns at her) What's this, then? I'm afraid you're in violation of the vertical line test.

Circle: Oh, it's not a problem. You see, I'm a parametric.

X=-10: Ah, sorry then, for the confusion.

(Sin(x) and Cos(x) simultaneously stick their tongues out at Circle, who ignores them. X=-10 reaches the bottom)

X=-10: Well, everything seems to be in order here.

Y=0: Of course, for you it is.

X=-10: What do you mean by that?

1/x: Ignore him. He's incapable of breaking out of the oppressive mold forced upon him by the Mathematician or ever becoming satisfied with his plot in life. So, he whines.

X=-10: In that case, I'd best be off. Plenty more functions to test.

(Light's flicker again. All characters look expectantly around, except for Y=0, who has gone down on his knees and clasped his hands in silent prayer. Lights return to normal, but nothing appears to have changed. Y=0 recovers, then examines himself slowly, in shock.)

Cos(x): Well? What happened?

Sin(x): The Mathematician must have changed something out of this window's view.

Y=0: Oh, something happened in this window. I've been integrated.

X=-10: Really? What was your plus C?

Y=0: It was nothing.

(Curtain closes.)