Because she already knew the children after spending the last several months undercover with them, Camilla, reluctantly, agreed to stay behind and watch over the remaining Scion children. Putting our heads together, Nate, Laurel, Gunnar and I got the process moving to protect young Brendan Gair and facilitate his formal adoption by Laurel and prevent his being returned to his abusive former foster family. I mostly worked the legal angles, getting to know the librarian at the UC Berkely Law Library very well, and chatting up law students on the finer aspects of California family law.
Time was of the essence though...the computer files confirmed that we needed to head for Death Valley, specifically to the Furnace Creek Inn, a place with the highest recorded temperature ever measured in the USA and last known place of employment of one Mr. Tim Pavertos, suspected enemy Scion, now deceased. After reviewing the computer files, Nate and Jack grumbled about Laurel and Gunnar's trigger-happy ways. As for me, I had no complaints, just wish for this last one Gunnar had been less talky and more shooty.
Anyway, it being only March, the weather this time of year was going to be comparatively mild. At least there was that.
To my surprise, Laurel returned from the trip to Los Angeles with an industrial size deep freeze, in which she had already placed the recovered body of Bridgitte.
Laurel installed the freezer in the garage and told the kids to stay out of it.
We geared up and headed out. It was one very long, 8 hour road trip. When we pulled into the parking lot in Nate's Reno Sheriff's Department SUV, we all noticed a white van of the same make & model of the cultists who had stormed the hotel...the raid where I nearly died. Nate and Gunnar wanted to take a closer look. I decided to accompany Laurel into the hotel.
The woman behind the desk greeted Laurel and took her information, booked her 2 adjoining rooms in a small suite on the first floor. Her expression went from cheerful to malevolent in a flash...words were exchanged and I didn't hear everything, but something to the effect of "see how you like it!"; my hand slipped down semi-consciously to touch the butt of my Sig Sauer P226 inside my jacket but by the time my hand made contact the woman had mysteriously vanished. Jack, who had been waiting in the lobby, had jumped up from his chair at the same time I reached for my pistol, and only seconds later Nate burst in the front sliding doors running, followed closely by Gunnar. Jack asked pointblank "WHAT was that about?" but Laurel just shook her head; nevertheless, the haunted look in her eyes said "I am SO fucked..."
"Fine," said Jack. "...but before long, we...you need to talk about this."
"I concur.", I said, coming up next to Laurel. Laurel wiped away a tear and just gave us a quick nod.
A rather confused hotel manager in a suit approached us, asking if he could help us or if we would be interested in a room.
Laurel put on a cheerful face and said "Yes, could you please confirm our reservation is still valid", handing him the paperwork and room key cards.
"Certainly", said the manager, pulling up the reservation. He went pale when he noticed the time the reservation was made (a few minutes ago) and who the computer said had made it (him!). "Now that...is most odd..."
Laurel interrupted "So do we have rooms for tonight or not?"
"Yes, yes, of course, of course, madam. The reservation is there, here are your keys back. It's just...I'm baffled by the fact that the computer says I made the reservation just a few minutes ago, when in fact I was concluding a meeting with the cleaning staff and...well, never mind. Have a delightful evening. Dinner is served at 6pm, black tie required. Dinner jackets are available for rent if the gentlemen need them."
We did need them and should have known, this being a five-star hotel.
I went along with Jack, Nate and Gunnar to pick up my Dinner jacket. It had been a long trip and we were all tired and hungry. Against our better judgment, we sat down to eat in the hotel restaurant. It was a fine meal, but as we ate, I noticed Gunnar's facial expression change as we ate. There was something about this food not to his liking. "Trust me guys, there's something not right about the way this food tastes", he stated. Wish he'd spoken sooner. I definitely felt dumber for having eaten this meal. It was a foolish tactical mistake, and now we'd been drugged.
There was a drunken disruption nearby and a belligerent gentleman was arguing with a steward, only to be approached by a well-but-provocatively dressed woman wearing a white dress that left little to the imagination. She took him by the arm and lead him away from the dining room, his mood considerably lightened, as if he now had not a care in the world. I unscrewed the cap to my hip flask and told Aisling in Gaelic to follow the pair as closely as she could but not to get caught and not to push her luck. She agreed and flew off, her long silvery white hair trailing a bit behind her. She kept below table-top level, flying unseen by the other guests, who were enjoying their meal and the ambient atmosphere of the restaurant. After several minutes she returned and gave me a full report of what she'd seen. She started to say it in Gaelic, but I urged her to go ahead and tell us all in English, to save me the trouble of translating for her.
Aisling blushed as she described as factually as possible the den of excess she'd borne witness to, however briefly. I gathered from her description that the remainder of The Order's SWAT wannabees were probably in no condition to harm us or anyone by this point. Probably drugged many times worse than us by now.
When the bill came at the end of the meal, Nate noticed that the amount was way below what it should have been for this many people for such a multi-course meal.
The plate captain explained that we'd been given a special discount on the house. Gunnar showed him the late Tim Pavertos's business card and said he came here specifically because of Tim's suggestion and that he would like to thank him for such a gracious meal. We were informed that Mr. Pavertos's father had actually authorized the discount for our party. Gunnar expressed a desire to thank him personally. The plate captain looked nervous and stated that Mr. Pavertos's father is a very busy man but he would be happy to relay the message of gratitude. Gunnar handed him his own PI business card with cellphone number and said fine, when the gentleman had time, his secretary or whomever could call for him then to arrange a meeting. The plate captain agreed and took the card obediently.
Jack mentioned something about "seeing about getting a job here; I'm headin' to the kitchen..."; Nate said "wait up!" and they were both out the door. I announced I'd like to take a walk to digest my meal and went outside. Gunnar and Laurel indicated they were heading back to the room. I felt a brief flash of jealousy but ignored it.
I'm coming to terms with my emotions for Laurel, recognizing the crush for what it is. A reaction to PTSD. Laurel and Gunnar have a history and I've got no right at all at t'all to blunder into the middle of that. I'm increasingly able to transform the crush into a blander, more general fondness for Laurel, which has improved Aisling's mood as well.
Feeling a bit lighter on my feet, I remembered what Ogma had said in my dream, and rounding the corner of the building, I looked around me to make sure nobody was watching and began to slowly levitate into the air, onto the roof.
For a two story building, this place had insane amounts of security...like, INTERPOL HQ levels of security. I'm sure at least one camera caught my upward ascent on film. I only hoped it was only a mere mortal watching it who might doubt his own eyes and not a Scion or God or Titan who knew better.
I landed on the roof. Nevermore flew up to me and asked what I was doing.
"Nothing much, just checking out the security on this place. You seen anything suspicious in the surrounding area?"
"Nope." said Laurel's dark winged sentinel.
"Well, I'm headed back inside. Aisling, if you could help me with the locked door here..."
"Certainly...do you need some light? I think I can get this door open without it, but if you need to see better let me know...", Aisling said.
"No, conserve your power. Just open the lock and that'll be grand."
"Done." said Aisling, opening the locked door with amazing speed.
I ducked inside, climbed downstairs to the main hallway on the 2nd floor, found an elevator and headed down to the first floor, heading back to our room.
When I entered, Gunnar was busy turning the room upside down looking for bugging devices, traps, whatever he might find. Laurel was resting in an easy chair, looking very lost in her own thoughts.
I updated them about all the pure savage levels of security this place had, stuff that even INTERPOL would be jealous of. Gunnar seemed duly impressed. Nate and Jack came up not long after, relating their adventures in cooking and that Jack had landed a job, starting in the morning!? Gunnar had also let us know earlier that the van in the parking lot was definitely of the same type owned by The Order, he'd even found (empty) weapons racks inside. I updated Jack and Nate on the hotel security arrangements I'd discovered after dinner.
All of us thought about the last time we were gathered in one hotel room together like this, and nobody felt up to getting any shut-eye. I transformed Gae Bolga to its full form and laid it up against a wall and sat down to read an eBook on my Smart Phone...J.P. Donleavy's The Ginger Man, to be specific.
Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the door at 2am. "Who is it?" said Gunnar, bracing against the door, guns drawn.
"maid service?" said a female voice uncertainly.
We had hung out the "do not disturb" sign, so this was very doubtful.
Gunnar opened the door a crack and said "I don't believe you. Who are you and what do you want."
Gunnar evidently detected there was no threat, for he opened the door wider for the rest of us to see. Standing in the doorway was another beautiful young woman, this one with olive skin even darker than Laurel's, with long, dark, curly hair and a beautiful but low cut, revealing white dress...
"I apologize for the deception. The Master will see you now." she said simply.
"This isn't what I had in mind when I handed over my business card." Gunnar started to protest.
"Yes, well, be that as it may, the Master is ready to see you now. You will come, please?" she demanded more than asked, despite the rising intonation. English was probably not her first language, I surmised.
"Give us a moment to, uh, straighten ourselves up." said Gunnar.
"Certainly" she said.
Gunnar closed the door, grabbed 2 of our M-16A2 assault rifles (which I'd modified to M-4 carbine size) and managed--somehow--to hide them both inside his overcoat. My Mossberg 500 pistol-grip shotgun was hidden securely under my GARDA duty jacket, my Sig Sauer P226 in its concealment holster. I returned the Bolga to compact form and put it back on my belt.
"Let's move out..." said Gunnar, opening the door.
The woman bowed to us and beckoned us to follow her...
There were voices down the corridor, I thought I heard them say...
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
What's the craic?
Sorry for being remiss with the updates, gentle reader.
After stepping out of Laurel's shower (she had put Irish Spring in there for me, I noted. Corny, as they say here, but a sweet touch nonetheless) I finished fitting the Mossberg 500 with a shorter barrel and adjusted the sling so that I could conceal it well under a decent sized jacket or raincoat. I have taken to sometimes wearing my GARDA duty jacket about town, as nobody around here in the Bay Area knows feck all what it means anyway. Anyway, it conceals this modded shotgun rather nicely.
I know, it was time to stop screwing around and get down to business with the broken computer from the compound.
I pulled the machine into my bedroom and got to work. After patching the last piece of the computer together with spare parts and jury-rigged parts I (well, ok, Aisling...) borrowed from the UC Berkeley Computer Science Department, I looked at my handiwork and expected it should hold, at least for awhile. I threw the switch and the familiar click-whirr of the hard drive kicked on. A half second later the cycle of the HD skips back and then forward erratically telling me that this hard drive didn’t have long for this world, but ordinary no mortal mind would likely have been able to bring it up to this point.
Thinking quickly, I attached the closest storage device I could find to the computer. After sifting through what is salvageable and what is too far corrupted to save, a small list was returned on the screen:
It read:
Which file do you wish to copy?
File Name Date Last Modified
compound_gamma.eml
07/11/09
2010_4th_quarter_leads.eml
10/02/10
2011_1st_quarter_leads.eml
01/03/11
cipher.xls
01/03/11
re_black□_suspic□ou□_activi□ies.eml
02/11/11
more_suspicious_activities.eml
02/27/11
gamma_schedule.xls
02/28/11
personnel_transfer_request.eml
03/02/11
re_per□ission□for_exec□tion_ord□r.eml
03/04/11
site_x_recon.eml
03/04/11
Nate took a break from (playing games/watching movies/whatever) with the youngsters and takes a look over my shoulder.
“Hmmm…cipher.xls looks promising."
(well, duh, I thought)
"...and Site_x_recon.eml might give us a lead as to where they’re going to set up next or where the next target is. The execution order is probably for Azzizza. Could it give us an idea why they executed her?"
(more importantly, evidence that they're responsible, I thought)
...I dunno, at the very least, cipher and recon."
I nodded in response to Nate, and said “I am assuming this ‘Compound Gamma’ is their name for the place we just overran.”
Scanning over the file directory, I decided I definitely wanted to copy the following, ranked in this priority order:
cipher.xls
site_x_recon.eml
more_suspicious_activities.eml
2011_1st_quarter_leads.eml
personnel_transfer_request.eml
re_per□ission□for_exec□tion_ord□r.eml
compound_gamma.eml
…those are what I would aim for as priorities.
If the machine is still intact and even if the remaining files will be severely corrupted, my secondary priorities are to recover (again in priority order, from highest to lowest):
re_black□_suspic□ou□_activi□ies.eml
2010_4th_quarter_leads.eml
gamma_schedule.xls
Cipher and Recon were obvious choices, had already picked them mentally before Nate walked in. I decided on "more suspicious activities" in the hopes that it would make references back to the original "suspicious activities", at least in summary form, and it was more recent info. Execution Order was an obvious choice for any police investigator to make. It's hard evidence. Personnel transfer request would perhaps lend insight into the group's movements, who was in charge, who was a member, etc.
Most interesting to me was what I found in the file on Compound Gamma:
compound_gamma.eml
07/11/09
J,
Research into Compound λ has revealed promising data. The compound seems to be a mixture of two separate elements, both of which seem nearly impossible to come by. The first is from a lotus flower indigenous to the island of Djerba off the coast of Tunisa. Our agents in the field of divine inquiries have ascertained these lotus are likely the same lotus referred to in The Odyssey. The second element was easier to identify as we have encountered samples in the field before. The second element is titanspawn ichor, but it seems to be extremely more concentrated. We believe that this sample could very-well contain ichor from a titanic force of immeasurable power.
Tests prove exactly what Mr. Black boasted, subjects who ingest even a single cubic centimeter per day were observed as far more pliable to conditioning. It is the council’s decision that you should continue to do commerce with Mr. Black and acquire as much of this substance as you can with the funds that will be wired to your account.
From this point onward Compound λ will be referred to as Sway.
As always; be well in God’s eyes,
GM
It was the last file I managed to salvage before I heard a loud POP and began to smell melting computer components as the screen blacked out for good.
“Laurel should check out this entry on Compound Gamma when she gets back. Chemical compound, not military compound...(I mock slapped my forehead) I am one thick headed mhic sometimes…” I said aloud to no one in particular.
“I agree” said Aisling.
“Didn’t ask you.” I quipped.
Upon returning from the road and reading the file, Laurel amended her own notes on the compound (her detailed investigation of the vials we recovered) to reflect that, if the botanical source is in fact Djerbian then it cannot be definitively concluded that the flower in question is N. caerulea and not Ziziphus lotus. Either way, she was pleased that all of her deductions were correct and that her logic was sound.
She also remarked to me with that warm California smile that makes me melt like butter, “this is tremendous work, salvaging what you did. We’re really lucky to have such a genius with us.”
I needed that. Totally made my day; I feel like a new man, or more properly, back to my old self again.
After stepping out of Laurel's shower (she had put Irish Spring in there for me, I noted. Corny, as they say here, but a sweet touch nonetheless) I finished fitting the Mossberg 500 with a shorter barrel and adjusted the sling so that I could conceal it well under a decent sized jacket or raincoat. I have taken to sometimes wearing my GARDA duty jacket about town, as nobody around here in the Bay Area knows feck all what it means anyway. Anyway, it conceals this modded shotgun rather nicely.
I know, it was time to stop screwing around and get down to business with the broken computer from the compound.
I pulled the machine into my bedroom and got to work. After patching the last piece of the computer together with spare parts and jury-rigged parts I (well, ok, Aisling...) borrowed from the UC Berkeley Computer Science Department, I looked at my handiwork and expected it should hold, at least for awhile. I threw the switch and the familiar click-whirr of the hard drive kicked on. A half second later the cycle of the HD skips back and then forward erratically telling me that this hard drive didn’t have long for this world, but ordinary no mortal mind would likely have been able to bring it up to this point.
Thinking quickly, I attached the closest storage device I could find to the computer. After sifting through what is salvageable and what is too far corrupted to save, a small list was returned on the screen:
It read:
Which file do you wish to copy?
File Name Date Last Modified
compound_gamma.eml
07/11/09
2010_4th_quarter_leads.eml
10/02/10
2011_1st_quarter_leads.eml
01/03/11
cipher.xls
01/03/11
re_black□_suspic□ou□_activi□ies.eml
02/11/11
more_suspicious_activities.eml
02/27/11
gamma_schedule.xls
02/28/11
personnel_transfer_request.eml
03/02/11
re_per□ission□for_exec□tion_ord□r.eml
03/04/11
site_x_recon.eml
03/04/11
Nate took a break from (playing games/watching movies/whatever) with the youngsters and takes a look over my shoulder.
“Hmmm…cipher.xls looks promising."
(well, duh, I thought)
"...and Site_x_recon.eml might give us a lead as to where they’re going to set up next or where the next target is. The execution order is probably for Azzizza. Could it give us an idea why they executed her?"
(more importantly, evidence that they're responsible, I thought)
...I dunno, at the very least, cipher and recon."
I nodded in response to Nate, and said “I am assuming this ‘Compound Gamma’ is their name for the place we just overran.”
Scanning over the file directory, I decided I definitely wanted to copy the following, ranked in this priority order:
cipher.xls
site_x_recon.eml
more_suspicious_activities.eml
2011_1st_quarter_leads.eml
personnel_transfer_request.eml
re_per□ission□for_exec□tion_ord□r.eml
compound_gamma.eml
…those are what I would aim for as priorities.
If the machine is still intact and even if the remaining files will be severely corrupted, my secondary priorities are to recover (again in priority order, from highest to lowest):
re_black□_suspic□ou□_activi□ies.eml
2010_4th_quarter_leads.eml
gamma_schedule.xls
Cipher and Recon were obvious choices, had already picked them mentally before Nate walked in. I decided on "more suspicious activities" in the hopes that it would make references back to the original "suspicious activities", at least in summary form, and it was more recent info. Execution Order was an obvious choice for any police investigator to make. It's hard evidence. Personnel transfer request would perhaps lend insight into the group's movements, who was in charge, who was a member, etc.
Most interesting to me was what I found in the file on Compound Gamma:
compound_gamma.eml
07/11/09
J,
Research into Compound λ has revealed promising data. The compound seems to be a mixture of two separate elements, both of which seem nearly impossible to come by. The first is from a lotus flower indigenous to the island of Djerba off the coast of Tunisa. Our agents in the field of divine inquiries have ascertained these lotus are likely the same lotus referred to in The Odyssey. The second element was easier to identify as we have encountered samples in the field before. The second element is titanspawn ichor, but it seems to be extremely more concentrated. We believe that this sample could very-well contain ichor from a titanic force of immeasurable power.
Tests prove exactly what Mr. Black boasted, subjects who ingest even a single cubic centimeter per day were observed as far more pliable to conditioning. It is the council’s decision that you should continue to do commerce with Mr. Black and acquire as much of this substance as you can with the funds that will be wired to your account.
From this point onward Compound λ will be referred to as Sway.
As always; be well in God’s eyes,
GM
It was the last file I managed to salvage before I heard a loud POP and began to smell melting computer components as the screen blacked out for good.
“Laurel should check out this entry on Compound Gamma when she gets back. Chemical compound, not military compound...(I mock slapped my forehead) I am one thick headed mhic sometimes…” I said aloud to no one in particular.
“I agree” said Aisling.
“Didn’t ask you.” I quipped.
Upon returning from the road and reading the file, Laurel amended her own notes on the compound (her detailed investigation of the vials we recovered) to reflect that, if the botanical source is in fact Djerbian then it cannot be definitively concluded that the flower in question is N. caerulea and not Ziziphus lotus. Either way, she was pleased that all of her deductions were correct and that her logic was sound.
She also remarked to me with that warm California smile that makes me melt like butter, “this is tremendous work, salvaging what you did. We’re really lucky to have such a genius with us.”
I needed that. Totally made my day; I feel like a new man, or more properly, back to my old self again.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
A visitation.
I finished attaching the pistol grip to the Mossberg 500. Re-adjusting the sling and barrel would have to wait until morning. I put it away into the inexpensive nylon case I'd bought for it and zippered it shut. I was exhausted and it was late. I could hear the soft echoes of Aisling's snores from inside the flask that is her mobile home.
I was in one of Laurel's guest bedrooms, with a window facing the San Francisco Bay. I could see the lights of the city off in the distance.
I faded off into a deep sleep.
Not unexpectedly, I found myself back in Ireland, on the sacred Hill of Tara. I saw Ogma standing before me, and I immediately dropped to my knees and averted my eyes.
"Rise, my son.", He spoke to me softly.
"To what do I owe the honor, my father...?" I murmured.
"Not been feeling yourself lately, have you?" He asked, apropos of nothing.
"No," I stammered.
"Perhaps your piety has been slipping a bit of late? It has been some time since you were last in America, and the first time on her other coastline, yes?", Ogma asked rhetorically.
I nodded twice. "I have been struggling, yes, father."
"But what has your misfortune taught you?", implored Ogma
"That sometimes I need to depend on others?", I offered.
"Yes, and?", asked Ogma, in a Socratic manner.
"That I have perhaps been neglecting my geas to you.", I said, looking at the soft grassy ground of Tara.
"Not once did you consider visiting the very modern campus of UNLV....", sighed Ogma.
"...and you, a computer scientist. At least today you came to your senses and visited UC Berkeley; You do know what you need to do, though?"
"I do, father." I said, not lifting my eyes.
"You know Aisling needs reassurance that you are keeping pious and committed to the pursuit of knowledge.", He continued.
"I do, father.", I repeated.
"You have at least drawn emotionally closer to your teammates. Especially this Greek-American woman."
I blushed but said nothing. Ogma let this last sentence hang in the air, and let me writhe in my own conflicted thoughts and fantasies about Laurel. I keep telling myself, "it's just the PTSD talking.", and I know it's true...but it doesn't make it any less painful or my heart any less sick for the moment.
Ogma broke the silence, an act of mercy...
"You do right by the boy Gair, but take care you do not overshadow or smother him. He is a divine cousin, not your brother. We will confer more on this later.
Now look at me my son."
I looked up as I was commanded, into father's eyes.
"I have allowed you to be humbled for a time; your suffering was not without purpose. I am sorry for the pain I let you endure, but I sought to impress upon you the seriousness of these endeavors, and to give a kick to your complacency. You have not been yourself lately. When you wake you will feel differently about yourself. You will find you can do things which seemed only possible in dreams. You will find things you believed you could do in life were merely shadows, dreams, phantoms. It is because you are less pious than many of my Scions that I made you endure this. I expect you to re-dedicate yourself, Breandan, from this day forward. Aisling, too. She has not been put to good use. Your failure to lead her has caused her present confusion, especially with respect to her emotions."
Ogma paused to let the winds gather and blow through Tara before continuing.
"I have been discussing your situation with Lugh. Since you live part of the year in Lyon, France, which was named for Lugh, it seemed appropriate. He will let you understand the ways of the sky and winds, as I have asked. Pursuit of divine knowledge is as equally valid as pursuit of mundane knowledge. But as regards mundane knowledge, you have dallied long enough. Your teammates are counting on you to salvage the computer you recovered from the compound. I am expecting you to do your utmost to help them recover the data. Yours is the best mind for the task. Spend time with the UC Berkeley Computer Science faculty if you must, to regain your confidence."
"This I promise, my father.", I said.
"Good.", said Ogma. "Now rest until the sun rises over the bay of San Francisco."
I awoke with a fuzzy head, and my face wet with tears. Then I remembered Ogma's visitation clearly in every detail. I breathed deeply, looked out across the San Francisco Bay from my window, and decided a shower sounded mighty good to me.
I was in one of Laurel's guest bedrooms, with a window facing the San Francisco Bay. I could see the lights of the city off in the distance.
I faded off into a deep sleep.
Not unexpectedly, I found myself back in Ireland, on the sacred Hill of Tara. I saw Ogma standing before me, and I immediately dropped to my knees and averted my eyes.
"Rise, my son.", He spoke to me softly.
"To what do I owe the honor, my father...?" I murmured.
"Not been feeling yourself lately, have you?" He asked, apropos of nothing.
"No," I stammered.
"Perhaps your piety has been slipping a bit of late? It has been some time since you were last in America, and the first time on her other coastline, yes?", Ogma asked rhetorically.
I nodded twice. "I have been struggling, yes, father."
"But what has your misfortune taught you?", implored Ogma
"That sometimes I need to depend on others?", I offered.
"Yes, and?", asked Ogma, in a Socratic manner.
"That I have perhaps been neglecting my geas to you.", I said, looking at the soft grassy ground of Tara.
"Not once did you consider visiting the very modern campus of UNLV....", sighed Ogma.
"...and you, a computer scientist. At least today you came to your senses and visited UC Berkeley; You do know what you need to do, though?"
"I do, father." I said, not lifting my eyes.
"You know Aisling needs reassurance that you are keeping pious and committed to the pursuit of knowledge.", He continued.
"I do, father.", I repeated.
"You have at least drawn emotionally closer to your teammates. Especially this Greek-American woman."
I blushed but said nothing. Ogma let this last sentence hang in the air, and let me writhe in my own conflicted thoughts and fantasies about Laurel. I keep telling myself, "it's just the PTSD talking.", and I know it's true...but it doesn't make it any less painful or my heart any less sick for the moment.
Ogma broke the silence, an act of mercy...
"You do right by the boy Gair, but take care you do not overshadow or smother him. He is a divine cousin, not your brother. We will confer more on this later.
Now look at me my son."
I looked up as I was commanded, into father's eyes.
"I have allowed you to be humbled for a time; your suffering was not without purpose. I am sorry for the pain I let you endure, but I sought to impress upon you the seriousness of these endeavors, and to give a kick to your complacency. You have not been yourself lately. When you wake you will feel differently about yourself. You will find you can do things which seemed only possible in dreams. You will find things you believed you could do in life were merely shadows, dreams, phantoms. It is because you are less pious than many of my Scions that I made you endure this. I expect you to re-dedicate yourself, Breandan, from this day forward. Aisling, too. She has not been put to good use. Your failure to lead her has caused her present confusion, especially with respect to her emotions."
Ogma paused to let the winds gather and blow through Tara before continuing.
"I have been discussing your situation with Lugh. Since you live part of the year in Lyon, France, which was named for Lugh, it seemed appropriate. He will let you understand the ways of the sky and winds, as I have asked. Pursuit of divine knowledge is as equally valid as pursuit of mundane knowledge. But as regards mundane knowledge, you have dallied long enough. Your teammates are counting on you to salvage the computer you recovered from the compound. I am expecting you to do your utmost to help them recover the data. Yours is the best mind for the task. Spend time with the UC Berkeley Computer Science faculty if you must, to regain your confidence."
"This I promise, my father.", I said.
"Good.", said Ogma. "Now rest until the sun rises over the bay of San Francisco."
I awoke with a fuzzy head, and my face wet with tears. Then I remembered Ogma's visitation clearly in every detail. I breathed deeply, looked out across the San Francisco Bay from my window, and decided a shower sounded mighty good to me.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Corrigan Brothers - There's No One As Irish As Barack Obama
This video is just for fun, says Brendan. Apropos of being in America again, he says.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
'Tis the sorrows of a Scion.
Alas, further investigation of the boy Gair's family roots revealed that his only connections to Ireland are his divine ones. Not the sort of evidence I can take to the Irish consulate, then. 'Tis a pity, and one of the sorrows of being a Scion, especially when your pantheon is rooted in an island halfway round the world from where you live. Not unlike Gunnar, actually. Yes, 'tis truly a pity. I was relishing the thought of invoking a UN Human Rights case against the State of California for failing to protect an Irish citizen...
Still, I feel strongly that the Sanderson's don't deserve custody of this boy in any case. I'll pull what strings I can and serve as his advocate to the best of my ability. Dual citizenship would've been the strongest card I had, but now I'm going to probably need the help of Nate and Laurel to protect Gair and look out for his interests the best I can.
I also feel the need to use our down time waiting for Jack's return to make a spiritual connection to both Ogma, and to Manannán mac Lir.
I need to know what the gods will are for not only for Gair but for myself. I know what I feel in my heart, that I must protect this lad, but I also don't want to interfere with divine will.
I also think I need to modify this Mossberg shotgun a little. I'd like to replace the stock with a pistol grip, adjust the sling, and shorten the barrel a bit so I can conceal it under a black raincoat. I need to get more confident with hurling my divine weapon, Gae Bolga, as Ogma intended, rather than using it strictly as a melee weapon, as if it were just another pole-arm.
Ogma himself was well known for hurling objects great distances in the time of the ancients. I should strive to be more like him in my ways and actions always.
It would just be convenient to be able to rush in with a heavy back up-weapon like the Mossberg in more compact form while I go retrieve the Gae Bolga from the body of my opponents.
Still, I feel strongly that the Sanderson's don't deserve custody of this boy in any case. I'll pull what strings I can and serve as his advocate to the best of my ability. Dual citizenship would've been the strongest card I had, but now I'm going to probably need the help of Nate and Laurel to protect Gair and look out for his interests the best I can.
I also feel the need to use our down time waiting for Jack's return to make a spiritual connection to both Ogma, and to Manannán mac Lir.
I need to know what the gods will are for not only for Gair but for myself. I know what I feel in my heart, that I must protect this lad, but I also don't want to interfere with divine will.
I also think I need to modify this Mossberg shotgun a little. I'd like to replace the stock with a pistol grip, adjust the sling, and shorten the barrel a bit so I can conceal it under a black raincoat. I need to get more confident with hurling my divine weapon, Gae Bolga, as Ogma intended, rather than using it strictly as a melee weapon, as if it were just another pole-arm.
Ogma himself was well known for hurling objects great distances in the time of the ancients. I should strive to be more like him in my ways and actions always.
It would just be convenient to be able to rush in with a heavy back up-weapon like the Mossberg in more compact form while I go retrieve the Gae Bolga from the body of my opponents.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Brendan, meet Brendan
We piled into the van and began the road trip to Laurel's second home in Berkeley, California, in the San Francisco Bay Area.
I made conversation with young Brendan Gair, showed him my Garda badge, explaining to him that I was an Irish policeman, come all the way from Dublin. I also introduced him to Aisling, though I told Aisling in Gaelic she needed to behave herself in front of the boy and that we'd have a proper talk later. Aisling was a good girl this time and was very nice to young Brendan, whose eyes lit up when he saw her.
I let the boy simply talk, talk about all he'd been through in recent years. Outwardly, I maintained the taut, strictly-business demeanor of a police inspector, nodding and making agreeable noises as if I were interviewing a witness to a crime. Inwardly, I found young Brendan's story heartbreaking. His mother had said such horrible things to him, and his stepfathers had been such abusive arse-holes. I'd investigated cases like this in North Dublin in the late 1990s, and recognized the type. This boy was the divine son of Manannán mac Lir, but from where I sat, a fat lot of good it'd done him up to now.
But perhaps it was part of Manannán mac Lir's plan that I should meet young Brendan. I also felt sure that Ogma would want me to stand up for this young man, down on his luck. He said he never wanted to see his stepfather Brian again...the brute who had extinguished a cigarette on the boy's arm, more than once. I reassured young Brendan he never had to live with or see Brian ever again, that was a solemn promise from me to him. He smiled such a happy smile when I said that.
Since Ireland's immigration policy is not unlike Israel's, and since it shouldn't be too difficult to prove young Brendan's Irish heritage, it'll be no problem obtaining an Irish passport for him and dual citizenship with the Republic of Ireland. Once Brendan has dual citizenship and an Irish passport, I'll be in a much better position to assume (temporary?) legal guardianship over him. I checked on my smart-phone and found the address of the Consulate General of Ireland in downtown San Francisco. For the time being, I plan on keeping Brendan close by my side. More long term, just have to see what he wants and is willing to do.
My mother's still alive and living on her librarian's pension in Dublin. Although it would be quite a culture shock, I could leave Brendan in her care in Dublin and see to it he gets a proper education in one of the state schools in the Dublin Metro area. I've also got plenty of friends still on the force in Garda who will keep an eye out for young Brendan in my absence. So far, California hasn't been much of a dream to this lad, more like a nightmare. A change of scenery, a connection with the Auld Sod...it might let him commune more closely with Manannán mac Lir, closer to the Irish Sea.
He would, I know, stick out like a sore thumb, with his Yank accent and American sense of fashion. But Dublin's a pretty diverse and modern city. I'd feel much worse for him if my mother lived in Cork, say, or smaller towns further inland, or if she decided to leave the Republic and move to Belfast where her late husband came from, the long dead IRA man I grew up believing was my father. My mother had met her late husband in Swinging London of the middle and late 1960s...two Irish hooking up amidst all the free love and experimental drugs of the time. It was a good time for the Gods as well, and Ogma was definitely a fan of the hippies, both here in California and in Swinging London and back in the Auld Sod as well...which was how he ended up with my dear old mum and how I came to be.
I would definitely encourage Brendan to hang on to his US Passport and citizenship, however, and to definitely *not* follow in my footsteps into the Irish Defence Forces. If he shows any inclination towards military service--or especially Navy service, considering his divine parent, then I'd definitely encourage his joining the United States Navy rather than the Irish naval forces or even the Royal Navy. If he serves in the Irish Defence Forces, he could put his American citizenship at risk, whilst serving in the American Armed Forces would *not* jeopardize his dual citizenship status with Ireland.
I also have to ensure that my mentoring young Brendan does not cause eventual strife between Manannán mac Lir and Ogma. The gods' ways are inscrutable at times, but caring after young Brendan, who otherwise has no one in this world, seems the only humane and decent thing I can do under the circumstances. He's seen enough hardship in his short life, by heaven. It's time he were able to take a step back and be allowed an easier, more rewarding path to walk on for a spell. I intend to look after him like an older brother. Aisling, too. I'm almost old enough to be his father...if, say, I'd had the misfortune of getting my high school girlfriend pregnant the way some of my eejit classmates did. I was, I fully admit, very bad Catholic at 17 and 18...and while I find Belfast to be a thoroughly unpleasant place, but it was good for one thing...Condoms. I'd slip over the line to NI and buy up a healthy stash and sneak it back over. Repeatedly. I got very good at smuggling contraception of all kind back into the Republic, using the best for myself and selling off the remainder to the highest bidder. I also never arrested any teenagers I caught doing this while I was a patrolman in Garda. I developed a reputation as a cop who didn't give a fiddler's fart about that kind of stuff, which gave me some leverage when it came to pumping information on crimes of a more serious nature, like burglary, rape or murder.
I feel the need to stand by younger Brendan until the lad is able to mature and stand on his own two feet. If he wants a university education, I want to help him do that. If he doesn't, the American Navy is a fine choice as well. I know I can count on my mother's support in this. I plan to remain with Interpol for now, despite the necessity of spending so much time away in Lyon, France. It gives me the clout I need in the human realm to get Ogma's work done and advance his interests vis a vis the other gods. I need to communicate with both Ogma and Manannán mac Lir on this, but I can't see them objecting to strenuously, at least not to begin with. If Manannán mac Lir would like to step up and send another of his Scions to be young Brendan's mentor, let him do so. If not, I plan to until Brendan is actually able to take care of himself.
I do regret the culture shock that life in Dublin will mean, but I daresay it'll be an improvement over the hell this lad has been through far to much out here in sunny California. I admire Nate's zeal to see Brian prosecuted, but the system out here has clearly failed young Brendan. Perhaps he should have a chance to connect directly with his Irish roots back in the old country. It might renew his sense of purpose, give him ambition again. Could do the same for me as well, of course.
In the meantime, we've got some time to kill in the San Francisco Bay Area. The bureaucracy of the Irish consulate will take some time, but we do need to find some kid-friendly activities in this area to keep them occupied while Jack is away returning the little he-man twins to their mum in Spokane, Washington.
After that, we've all got to trek down to New Orleans, hopefully in time for Mardis Gras. I was initially hopeful if heading to Chicago with Gunnar in time for Saint Patrick's Day, to see them turn the river green...but that may have wait until next year. Gunnar seems to have snapped out of the funk he was in, and he and Laurel seem to be back to being lovey-dovey..."If you're going, to San-Fran-Cisco...Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair..." (yes, my hippie mum sung that song all the time from her Swinging London days, even though she never set foot anywhere in America outside of the city limits of Boston).
The sunrise this morning over the Bay, with the Golden Gate bridge, was, I admit, truly breath-taking. Laurel really has a nice pad here, and Gunnar is one lucky bastard.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Irish Slang & stuff :), Part 2.
I don't know if Aisling sounds like this or not, but she'd definitely be familiar with the vocabulary. All I know of this YouTuber is she's NOT from Dublin, but I don't know where she is from.
I don't think I can bring Brendan to say "What's the craic?", though...however authentically Irish that sounds...
And now for something completely different: Irish Slang and Explanations
Brendan studied in Cork and might sound a little like this. But he does have more of the Dublin accent. He was born there, after all.
By contrast, my Cthulhu character, Seamus O'Hearne, is a Cork native.
We're on a mission from gods...Part 2
So we had to opt for Plan B. It was agreed that Gunnar would sneak into the compound first and make a sniper's nest on top of the school's auditorium building. Nate advised he would accompany Gunnar inside and try to make contact with the Scion kids and lead them to safety. The idea was that once Nate located the kids, the rest of us, with mighty Jack leading the way, would launch the main frontal assault and give Nate the distraction he needed to get away with the Scion kids.
Gunnar and Nate sized up the security situation for about an hour. They noticed a crucial gap in the change of guards rotation and exploited it. Gunnar texted that he was in position, and Nate reported he was entering the student dorms. He texted us regularly "...found another one.", etc.
It seemed like an eternity before we got the text from Nate: "Have kids, but need a distraction. Now." Jack gunned the engine of his van and motioned to Laurel to follow. I twitched in the passenger's seat beside her, ready for action but also nervous as hell. I hadn't felt this keyed up since the UN Peacekeeping missions in my youth, serving with the Irish Defence Forces. Sure, I'd been on drug raids in Dublin and engaged in foot chases that ended with a brawl and my slapping cuffs on. I'd even been in some hostage rescue situations, bomb threat situations with the Emergency Response Unit (ERU) of Garda. But I was still feeling jumpy and ill at ease.
Laurel and Nate had both performed rituals from their pantheons beforehand, saying they would help us in battle; I knew of similar rituals from The Tuatha, so I knew this to be true. I could see the concern in Laurel's eyes as she glanced at me. I knew what she must be thinking, making a mental diagnosis...
PTSD
Yeah, probably so. Feck all I could do about it right now.
When Jack rolled up to the main gate and a guard approached, Jack used the vehicle's door like a battering ram and sent the mall-ninja SWAT wannabe flying back. At the same instant, Gunnar's Barrett sniper rifle roared to life and the other Guard at the fence took a .50 cal round to the back of one of his shoulders. SHOWTIME!
I sprang out of the van and drew a bead on the man who had just been hit, while Nevermore flew in high arc, diving down just after I released a volley from my Sig Sauer P226. Not all my shots penetrated but I definitely had his attention now. With a magic bird in his face and a few of my bullets in him, he tried to raise his weapon but his shots went wild, missing everyone. I took more careful aim and dropped him with my next volley as Jack continued to physically assault the gate and, holy hell, now he was hoisting it up as high as his waist.
Laurel dropped the man on her side and shouted to me: "Phalanx!!"
"Ah, the Greek way..." I shouted back.
Laurel said "Right!!!"
Laurel and I took cover behind the massive chunk of fence that Jack was hefting. More camp guards were pouring out from the security office and opening up, beginning to splinter the fence...Some of them aimed where they knew Jack must be, given the position of his legs, but Jack just shrugged off the shots, which did no damage to him. The gate in splinters, Jack rushed forward to punch the nearest guard. Laurel let loose a mean but only marginally effective volley with her M-16, while took my time to line up a shot with my Sig. I took my next man down but his buddy drew a bead on me at the same time and unleashed a hellish volley of M-16 fire.
I don't know why, but in that instant I flashed back to a moment when I was on the Trinity College Rugby team. We were playing a tough team from Londonderry, Northern Ireland. Tensions were high, and the NI team had really clobbered us in the first half of play. After a motivational speech from our coach...not unlike Nate's pep talk before this battle...we fought our way slowly back to a tie game. With seconds remaining, I slipped past the NI defenders and sprinted and dove into their goal to score the winning point. I felt as if I was re-enacting that moment...I did feel a few rounds from the rifle slam into my body, but this time my Irish luck came through for me...no penetration yet. I quickly assessed the tactical situation and decided I needed to gain a height advantage; I lept up onto the auditorium roof in a single holy bound, holstered my P226, unslung my M-16 and took up a crouching position right next to Gunnar.
"Hey Brendan, what's up?" said Gunnar quickly without looking up, getting ready to squeeze off another shot.
"Got shot--not as bad this time." I replied in staccato.
Gunnar finished off the rest of the attackers before I could let loose with my M-16.
I pointed to the roof of the student housing and Gunnar read my thoughts and nodded, both of us leaping over to the next building. From our vantage point on the roof, we could see a new platoon of bad guys advancing on our position from the Teacher housing complex/Administration area. I spotted our quarry, Father O'Brien, at the back of the formation and pointed him out. Gunnar took aim with the Barrett and let loose a volley, aimed at the frocked fuck's head. Everything seemed to slow down and I swear I watched the bullet track and ever so slightly veer off course, where it struck and killed one of the rifle toting guards instead. Jesus, Mary, and Holy Saint Joseph what the in the name of hell was THAT? I glanced down at my Garda nightstick and said to myself "try dodging this when I stick it up your Yank arse, ye bastard son of Erin."; The opposing platoon split into two squads, each heading for a door of our building. I let loose a volley of full auto fire against the squad headed for the cafeteria below, but only managed to wound and slow them down. I saw Father O'Brien fleeing back into the Admin complex. Gunnar was slightly more effective with the other squad, but still only managed to inflict some wounds and slow them down. Both squads breached the doors and I could hear the gun battle beginning to rage below us. Gunnar looked as though he wanted to jump down and join the fight, but I was still filled with rage watching the coattails of the fleeing priest disappear into the administration complex.
"That fucker has to be stopped before he gets away..." I yelled to Gunnar.
"We should do this as a team" Gunnar protested, thinking of Laurel fighting for her life below us.
"I'm going NOW!", I insisted
Gunnar paused for a split second then retorted "I'm coming with you."
We both lept from the dormitory roof, and I activated my Gae Bolga in midair, but it must've thrown me off balance a bit, because I landed rather hard and it knocked the wind out of me and I stumbled a bit. Gunnar hit the ground more gracefully and was already speeding down the passage when I had regained my balance and looked up.
I could see down into the passage ahead that there was a fork; Gunnar hugged the left wall, and pointed his rifle down the right fork when he approached, but evidently heard Father O'brien running up the other passage and yelled back to me "He's headed left."; I charged forward in pursuit.
I was always several steps behind Gunnar; he had already turned the next corner when I reached the first.
"Damn it." I cursed, to no one in particular, and kept running.
When I cleared the next corner, I felt more than heard a massive explosion ahead and saw Gunnar rocket backwards into one of the passage walls in front of me, propelled by flames and a shock wave and shrapnel that I could see and hear embedding itself into the walls, into the ceiling and into Gunnar.
As he nonchalantly picked the still smoking shrapnel from his face, he casually commented that he'd evidently turned the good father into an involuntary suicide bomber. I was happy for the win, but felt cheated from being able to skewer that frocked fat fuck for myself. I helped Gunnar gather the birthrights and we headed back to the student dormitory. Knowing Jack and Nate and Laurel, and some new Scion named Camilla, I figured (correctly) that the battle would be over already. I was happy to be proved correct.
Gunnar and I stepped into the cafeteria as one of the children were explaining something about the dead girl named Brigette and said that she says a normal person needs her glasses to see her. I recalled that one of the birthrights we recovered were a pair of glasses with a missing lens...
"You mean this?" I said, handing them to Laurel...Laurel took them from my hands and put them on her face and I saw an expression of shock, amazement and surprise cross her face. She began a conversation with this invisible entity from beyond. Turns out we'd had another spectral member of our party for some time now. Brigette asked us to return her corpse to New Orleans for a proper burial...which we agreed to.
"Just in time for Mardis Gras", I thought. "That's Grand."
We made introductions and returned the birthrights to their owners.
Nate and Gunnar went outside to bring the vans around.
We began to clear the kids out when one of the boys bumped into one of the girls, and she wheeled around and stabbed him with her trident. Laurel and the student named Camilla (who, we learned was 27 and working under-cover for her pantheon and only *looked* 18) managed to break up the fight...the children seemed dazed and amnesiac about what had just happened. We removed their birthrights as a safety precaution for now. Gunnar texted to know WTF was taking so long, and we informed him to get his ass back in here; Nate, too.
We gave them both an updated Sit-Rep on what had just transpired in their absence.
I perhaps thought I should invoke the ability I have called "Smoking Mirror"...by staring at the moon I can get a bird's eye view of the land...but before I could mention this, Laurel had already launched Nevermore aloft on a recon mission. Nevermore located a man on a distant hill. Gunnar and Nate and Camilia bounded back outside, while Laurel, Jack and I looked after the kids.
A few minutes later, Gunnar came back in and let us know they found Timothy and he blew his head off. Gunnar said he'd called Timothy on the phone before shooting him, and Tim had told him, as if by divine command, to drop his weapon, but Gunnar said "no" and dropped him with a well placed sniper round. Nate revealed all the evidence he collected from Timothy's person. Security consultant my pasty white Irish arse. I had a suspicion this Timothy was too good to be true. Gunnar seemed rather out of it, though. Like he'd reached a certain point mentally and just broke. His eyes had that 1000 yard stare I'd seen before in IRA men who'd fought too many battles. He was mumbling, not talking with the same confidence I'd always known up to this point. He absently even mentioned wrapping things up and heading back to Chicago. The hurt expression on Laurel's face in reaction to this made me wince as well. We agreed to split up into the two vans. I felt obligated to ride along with Nate and young Brendan Gair in the other van. I felt grateful for being spared the long awkward silences that were bound to await the passengers in the other vehicle. I also felt a sense of obligation to look after young Brendan. Sure, he was a Yank and only of distant Irish heritage...but he was still of The Tuatha...and we Irish have to stick together in this cruel world.
Gunnar and Nate sized up the security situation for about an hour. They noticed a crucial gap in the change of guards rotation and exploited it. Gunnar texted that he was in position, and Nate reported he was entering the student dorms. He texted us regularly "...found another one.", etc.
It seemed like an eternity before we got the text from Nate: "Have kids, but need a distraction. Now." Jack gunned the engine of his van and motioned to Laurel to follow. I twitched in the passenger's seat beside her, ready for action but also nervous as hell. I hadn't felt this keyed up since the UN Peacekeeping missions in my youth, serving with the Irish Defence Forces. Sure, I'd been on drug raids in Dublin and engaged in foot chases that ended with a brawl and my slapping cuffs on. I'd even been in some hostage rescue situations, bomb threat situations with the Emergency Response Unit (ERU) of Garda. But I was still feeling jumpy and ill at ease.
Laurel and Nate had both performed rituals from their pantheons beforehand, saying they would help us in battle; I knew of similar rituals from The Tuatha, so I knew this to be true. I could see the concern in Laurel's eyes as she glanced at me. I knew what she must be thinking, making a mental diagnosis...
PTSD
Yeah, probably so. Feck all I could do about it right now.
When Jack rolled up to the main gate and a guard approached, Jack used the vehicle's door like a battering ram and sent the mall-ninja SWAT wannabe flying back. At the same instant, Gunnar's Barrett sniper rifle roared to life and the other Guard at the fence took a .50 cal round to the back of one of his shoulders. SHOWTIME!
I sprang out of the van and drew a bead on the man who had just been hit, while Nevermore flew in high arc, diving down just after I released a volley from my Sig Sauer P226. Not all my shots penetrated but I definitely had his attention now. With a magic bird in his face and a few of my bullets in him, he tried to raise his weapon but his shots went wild, missing everyone. I took more careful aim and dropped him with my next volley as Jack continued to physically assault the gate and, holy hell, now he was hoisting it up as high as his waist.
Laurel dropped the man on her side and shouted to me: "Phalanx!!"
"Ah, the Greek way..." I shouted back.
Laurel said "Right!!!"
Laurel and I took cover behind the massive chunk of fence that Jack was hefting. More camp guards were pouring out from the security office and opening up, beginning to splinter the fence...Some of them aimed where they knew Jack must be, given the position of his legs, but Jack just shrugged off the shots, which did no damage to him. The gate in splinters, Jack rushed forward to punch the nearest guard. Laurel let loose a mean but only marginally effective volley with her M-16, while took my time to line up a shot with my Sig. I took my next man down but his buddy drew a bead on me at the same time and unleashed a hellish volley of M-16 fire.
I don't know why, but in that instant I flashed back to a moment when I was on the Trinity College Rugby team. We were playing a tough team from Londonderry, Northern Ireland. Tensions were high, and the NI team had really clobbered us in the first half of play. After a motivational speech from our coach...not unlike Nate's pep talk before this battle...we fought our way slowly back to a tie game. With seconds remaining, I slipped past the NI defenders and sprinted and dove into their goal to score the winning point. I felt as if I was re-enacting that moment...I did feel a few rounds from the rifle slam into my body, but this time my Irish luck came through for me...no penetration yet. I quickly assessed the tactical situation and decided I needed to gain a height advantage; I lept up onto the auditorium roof in a single holy bound, holstered my P226, unslung my M-16 and took up a crouching position right next to Gunnar.
"Hey Brendan, what's up?" said Gunnar quickly without looking up, getting ready to squeeze off another shot.
"Got shot--not as bad this time." I replied in staccato.
Gunnar finished off the rest of the attackers before I could let loose with my M-16.
I pointed to the roof of the student housing and Gunnar read my thoughts and nodded, both of us leaping over to the next building. From our vantage point on the roof, we could see a new platoon of bad guys advancing on our position from the Teacher housing complex/Administration area. I spotted our quarry, Father O'Brien, at the back of the formation and pointed him out. Gunnar took aim with the Barrett and let loose a volley, aimed at the frocked fuck's head. Everything seemed to slow down and I swear I watched the bullet track and ever so slightly veer off course, where it struck and killed one of the rifle toting guards instead. Jesus, Mary, and Holy Saint Joseph what the in the name of hell was THAT? I glanced down at my Garda nightstick and said to myself "try dodging this when I stick it up your Yank arse, ye bastard son of Erin."; The opposing platoon split into two squads, each heading for a door of our building. I let loose a volley of full auto fire against the squad headed for the cafeteria below, but only managed to wound and slow them down. I saw Father O'Brien fleeing back into the Admin complex. Gunnar was slightly more effective with the other squad, but still only managed to inflict some wounds and slow them down. Both squads breached the doors and I could hear the gun battle beginning to rage below us. Gunnar looked as though he wanted to jump down and join the fight, but I was still filled with rage watching the coattails of the fleeing priest disappear into the administration complex.
"That fucker has to be stopped before he gets away..." I yelled to Gunnar.
"We should do this as a team" Gunnar protested, thinking of Laurel fighting for her life below us.
"I'm going NOW!", I insisted
Gunnar paused for a split second then retorted "I'm coming with you."
We both lept from the dormitory roof, and I activated my Gae Bolga in midair, but it must've thrown me off balance a bit, because I landed rather hard and it knocked the wind out of me and I stumbled a bit. Gunnar hit the ground more gracefully and was already speeding down the passage when I had regained my balance and looked up.
I could see down into the passage ahead that there was a fork; Gunnar hugged the left wall, and pointed his rifle down the right fork when he approached, but evidently heard Father O'brien running up the other passage and yelled back to me "He's headed left."; I charged forward in pursuit.
I was always several steps behind Gunnar; he had already turned the next corner when I reached the first.
"Damn it." I cursed, to no one in particular, and kept running.
When I cleared the next corner, I felt more than heard a massive explosion ahead and saw Gunnar rocket backwards into one of the passage walls in front of me, propelled by flames and a shock wave and shrapnel that I could see and hear embedding itself into the walls, into the ceiling and into Gunnar.
As he nonchalantly picked the still smoking shrapnel from his face, he casually commented that he'd evidently turned the good father into an involuntary suicide bomber. I was happy for the win, but felt cheated from being able to skewer that frocked fat fuck for myself. I helped Gunnar gather the birthrights and we headed back to the student dormitory. Knowing Jack and Nate and Laurel, and some new Scion named Camilla, I figured (correctly) that the battle would be over already. I was happy to be proved correct.
Gunnar and I stepped into the cafeteria as one of the children were explaining something about the dead girl named Brigette and said that she says a normal person needs her glasses to see her. I recalled that one of the birthrights we recovered were a pair of glasses with a missing lens...
"You mean this?" I said, handing them to Laurel...Laurel took them from my hands and put them on her face and I saw an expression of shock, amazement and surprise cross her face. She began a conversation with this invisible entity from beyond. Turns out we'd had another spectral member of our party for some time now. Brigette asked us to return her corpse to New Orleans for a proper burial...which we agreed to.
"Just in time for Mardis Gras", I thought. "That's Grand."
We made introductions and returned the birthrights to their owners.
Nate and Gunnar went outside to bring the vans around.
We began to clear the kids out when one of the boys bumped into one of the girls, and she wheeled around and stabbed him with her trident. Laurel and the student named Camilla (who, we learned was 27 and working under-cover for her pantheon and only *looked* 18) managed to break up the fight...the children seemed dazed and amnesiac about what had just happened. We removed their birthrights as a safety precaution for now. Gunnar texted to know WTF was taking so long, and we informed him to get his ass back in here; Nate, too.
We gave them both an updated Sit-Rep on what had just transpired in their absence.
I perhaps thought I should invoke the ability I have called "Smoking Mirror"...by staring at the moon I can get a bird's eye view of the land...but before I could mention this, Laurel had already launched Nevermore aloft on a recon mission. Nevermore located a man on a distant hill. Gunnar and Nate and Camilia bounded back outside, while Laurel, Jack and I looked after the kids.
A few minutes later, Gunnar came back in and let us know they found Timothy and he blew his head off. Gunnar said he'd called Timothy on the phone before shooting him, and Tim had told him, as if by divine command, to drop his weapon, but Gunnar said "no" and dropped him with a well placed sniper round. Nate revealed all the evidence he collected from Timothy's person. Security consultant my pasty white Irish arse. I had a suspicion this Timothy was too good to be true. Gunnar seemed rather out of it, though. Like he'd reached a certain point mentally and just broke. His eyes had that 1000 yard stare I'd seen before in IRA men who'd fought too many battles. He was mumbling, not talking with the same confidence I'd always known up to this point. He absently even mentioned wrapping things up and heading back to Chicago. The hurt expression on Laurel's face in reaction to this made me wince as well. We agreed to split up into the two vans. I felt obligated to ride along with Nate and young Brendan Gair in the other van. I felt grateful for being spared the long awkward silences that were bound to await the passengers in the other vehicle. I also felt a sense of obligation to look after young Brendan. Sure, he was a Yank and only of distant Irish heritage...but he was still of The Tuatha...and we Irish have to stick together in this cruel world.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
We're on a mission from gods...Part 1
(from Brendan's journal)
I was really hoping Aisling could help us in this upcoming assault. Alas the contractor info on who built this compound was sketchy, and I had trouble trying to track it down. I'm convinced I could've done it if given enough time and ability to concentrate...but having Jack, Nate and Gunnar asking me "didya find it yet?" every five FECKING minutes was NOT helping me. I'd be damned if I was going to send Aisling in blind without proper intelligence. Unless I could tell her exactly where to go, exactly what to do, and exactly where to hide, there as no way I was going to risk her life on this mission. Aisling, Ogma bless her, protested, argued she could find the power switch on her own...her loyalty to me nearly brings me to tears at times...but I said no. She started to cry and I switched to the soothing Irish Gaelic of our native land...
"Aisling, a thousand pardons my sweet, but alas, a thousand times no. I must ground you for this mission; I can't risk your life. I've asked Laurel to look after you if I should die in the battle ahead. She will ensure your safe passage back to Erin's shores...back to County Galway."
Aisling burst into tears and sobs and said "No! Brendan no!! ...I...Brendan, I love you!"; I was really glad to be having this conversation in Gaelic, to spare Aisling any embarrassment. Or perhaps myself...I could hear the sincerity in her voice and read it on her face. This was more than sisterly/brotherly love in her eyes, and I found it unsettling. At least this was all in Gaelic, sparing the others the awkwardness of this at least somewhat.
"I know, sweetness, I know. And because I love you, too, 'tis why you're going to sit this one out. You are to listen to Laurel and do whatever she says if I untimely pass. I trust her, and I ask you to as well." I said to Aisling, brushing her hair our of her eyes, wiping her micro-sized tears with my littlest finger.
"I don't like the way you look at her..." blurted Aisling in a huff, averting her eyes from me. I blushed myself, feeling a pang of discomforting embarrassment mixed with unexpected reactionary jealousy of my own and butterflies in my stomach.
"Aisling, she has another, there's nothing between us." I reassured, lying like the two-bit North Dublin hoods I arrest regularly back home.
Aisling glared at me, her green eyes burning holes into mine.
"I KNOW you like her Brendan."
"What's this?" I protested. "What are ye like? Do you think me to be the Son of Angus? A regular Fenian Casanova for feck's sake??"
"Brains are sexy to some women, Brendan...and she's a doctor; last time I checked humans had to be pretty smart to make it through any medical school, much less UCL-of-Feckin' A.", Aisling shrieked.
"That's enough, Aisling!" I roared. "...'Tis decided, yer sitting this one out, and Laurel's to ensure your safe passage back to Ireland if I die; I don't plan on dyin' so you can continue this tirade then, once the Scion kids are safe and not one minute before."
With that, I grabbed Aisling quickly but gently yet firmly in my fist and put her back inside my flask that is her home away from home.
I looked up and noticed everyone else look away quickly, and there was nothing but awkward silence for a while. Even though our conversation had been in Gaelic, I'm sure Laurel heard her name, and "UCL-of-feckin' A" Aisling had said in English, for emphasis. Whereas up until this moment I found it hard to take my eyes off her, for the time being, I just couldn't bring myself to make eye contact with Laurel for at least an hour afterwards.
We prepped for the assault. Gunnar had *acquired* a new, if beat-up looking white van with...Tijuana license plates. Nate rolled his eyes and just muttered "Don't tell me; I'm sure I *don't* want to know..."
It was going to be a long night ahead of us.
I was really hoping Aisling could help us in this upcoming assault. Alas the contractor info on who built this compound was sketchy, and I had trouble trying to track it down. I'm convinced I could've done it if given enough time and ability to concentrate...but having Jack, Nate and Gunnar asking me "didya find it yet?" every five FECKING minutes was NOT helping me. I'd be damned if I was going to send Aisling in blind without proper intelligence. Unless I could tell her exactly where to go, exactly what to do, and exactly where to hide, there as no way I was going to risk her life on this mission. Aisling, Ogma bless her, protested, argued she could find the power switch on her own...her loyalty to me nearly brings me to tears at times...but I said no. She started to cry and I switched to the soothing Irish Gaelic of our native land...
"Aisling, a thousand pardons my sweet, but alas, a thousand times no. I must ground you for this mission; I can't risk your life. I've asked Laurel to look after you if I should die in the battle ahead. She will ensure your safe passage back to Erin's shores...back to County Galway."
Aisling burst into tears and sobs and said "No! Brendan no!! ...I...Brendan, I love you!"; I was really glad to be having this conversation in Gaelic, to spare Aisling any embarrassment. Or perhaps myself...I could hear the sincerity in her voice and read it on her face. This was more than sisterly/brotherly love in her eyes, and I found it unsettling. At least this was all in Gaelic, sparing the others the awkwardness of this at least somewhat.
"I know, sweetness, I know. And because I love you, too, 'tis why you're going to sit this one out. You are to listen to Laurel and do whatever she says if I untimely pass. I trust her, and I ask you to as well." I said to Aisling, brushing her hair our of her eyes, wiping her micro-sized tears with my littlest finger.
"I don't like the way you look at her..." blurted Aisling in a huff, averting her eyes from me. I blushed myself, feeling a pang of discomforting embarrassment mixed with unexpected reactionary jealousy of my own and butterflies in my stomach.
"Aisling, she has another, there's nothing between us." I reassured, lying like the two-bit North Dublin hoods I arrest regularly back home.
Aisling glared at me, her green eyes burning holes into mine.
"I KNOW you like her Brendan."
"What's this?" I protested. "What are ye like? Do you think me to be the Son of Angus? A regular Fenian Casanova for feck's sake??"
"Brains are sexy to some women, Brendan...and she's a doctor; last time I checked humans had to be pretty smart to make it through any medical school, much less UCL-of-Feckin' A.", Aisling shrieked.
"That's enough, Aisling!" I roared. "...'Tis decided, yer sitting this one out, and Laurel's to ensure your safe passage back to Ireland if I die; I don't plan on dyin' so you can continue this tirade then, once the Scion kids are safe and not one minute before."
With that, I grabbed Aisling quickly but gently yet firmly in my fist and put her back inside my flask that is her home away from home.
I looked up and noticed everyone else look away quickly, and there was nothing but awkward silence for a while. Even though our conversation had been in Gaelic, I'm sure Laurel heard her name, and "UCL-of-feckin' A" Aisling had said in English, for emphasis. Whereas up until this moment I found it hard to take my eyes off her, for the time being, I just couldn't bring myself to make eye contact with Laurel for at least an hour afterwards.
We prepped for the assault. Gunnar had *acquired* a new, if beat-up looking white van with...Tijuana license plates. Nate rolled his eyes and just muttered "Don't tell me; I'm sure I *don't* want to know..."
It was going to be a long night ahead of us.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Note from the actual Author (not Brendan)
This blog is written from the perspective of the player character Brendan O'Shea in the game Scion, currently participating in the campaign "Taking it to the Titans".
What is Scion? It's a fantasy RPG whose fictional universe is very much like our own, with one main difference. All of the Gods of Mythology are real. All. Every last one. And the player characters are all children of Gods called Scions...think Zeus, people.
If America's first President, George Washington, had been a Scion, his life history might have been more like this:
What is Scion? It's a fantasy RPG whose fictional universe is very much like our own, with one main difference. All of the Gods of Mythology are real. All. Every last one. And the player characters are all children of Gods called Scions...think Zeus, people.
If America's first President, George Washington, had been a Scion, his life history might have been more like this:
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Think of me like an Irish Sonny Crockett...
Have had some interesting conversations with Nate Prichert since I joined up with this band of Scions. He expressed some scepticism at my appearance, even after showing him my INTERPOL badge and Garda badge, commenting how my hairstyle didn't look Garda regulation to him.
I explained to the good Deputy (who is himself still uniform patrolman), I just made the rank of Investigator in 2008, and was posted to INTERPOL later that same year. I'm a plainclothes detective for the Gardai, which sometimes necessitates my going under cover.
I can't do that convincingly if I keep my hair cropped to regulation length. "Think of me like an Irish Sonny Crocket", I said; This Nate understood, and he nodded in acknowledgment. Though I suppose in style of dress I take more after Tubbs than Crocket. Although my bulletproof vest does read GARDA, that's usually worn under a shirt and not readily visible. Unfortunately THAT vest now has some .223 caliber sized holes in it now. I'll have to make due with the American tactical vests we recovered as a replacement for now.
On any given day I wear dark dress pants and a casual dark men's jacket...it's sort of like an American sport coat, I guess, only way more Euro-trash ;-) The sort of thing you wear to a Discotheque in Dublin (or Lyon). Underneath, I wear either a collared shirt (usually white or grey or pale lime green) with no tie or else any number of t-shirts, many with patriotic Irish imagery. My station chief did once chew me out for purchasing shirts off the Sinn Fein website using my work computer, since it provoked unwelcome inquiries from M.I.6 and G2...as I knew it would, actually. That chief was a right eejit, and I knew how to push his buttons. Stupid feckin' culchie from County Kerry. He didn't last long, thankfully, and was replaced with a better man.
Anyway, rounding out my attire, I wear comfortable black dress shoes...the kind worn by waiters and other working people on their feet all day. I also am never without my wireframe glasses. I had Lasik done a number of years ago and no longer require corrective lenses...but these are no ordinary glasses. They're ostensibly prescription sunglasses...and they are of the "transitions" variety, that is, grow darker the brighter it is outside, and are completely transparent/clear after dark. They are the means by which Ogma has given me to be able to use an ability known as "night eyes", which should prove to be a tactical advantage in the upcoming assault.
That and having grown up always wearing glasses, I just find them fashionable and don't care to part with that look. Vanity on my part? Perhaps. But others seem to like it as well. Fits in with my bookish, "academic" persona, I'm told.
The men's jacket moreover helps me with the concealment of my Garda-issue Sig Sauer P226 that I wear in an Inside-the-waistband (IWB) concealment holster on my right hip. I also conceal my police baton behind my left hip. I've been known to enter rooms on missions with the baton in my left hand and the pistol in my right. It's how I should have been in that hotel room back in Fresno. It's a bit atypical for a plainclothes investigator to carry a riot stick more commonly worn by uniformed patrol officers, but it's also atypical for such a riot stick to transform itself into a massive, mythic spear once wielded by the mightiest hero of Ulster in the distant past, too. I tell my fellow Gardai it's a symbol of my moral authority as an officer of the law. Not like I can tell them the truth about what it's really for and what it really does, at least not to them. Not on my day job.
I held back from wielding my spear against the invading cultists...I didn't want any escaping and tipping our hand, and I didn't feel them worthy of facing Gae Bolga. Plus being shot at tends to make you react wanting to return fire instead of lunge at your attacker with a spear.
I'm sometimes amused at the undeserved reverence and deference some Americans show towards my INTERPOL badge. I'm not above taking advantage of their ignorance about what INTERPOL actually does. I do think Nate should widen his ambitions and go ahead and take the time to join the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI). Credentials like that could really help us down the road. Sure, it's many months for the application process and many weeks of training at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, but I think it would be worth it for Nate to go through with it.
Nate needs to understand these human offices we hold are simply a means to a greater end. His joining the FBI would be instrumentally useful to us, besides being a logical career move. Nate does sometimes talk about having long wanted to be part of the US Marshall's service. While FBI would be better, I do encourage this track as well. A US Marshall in our band would be a good deal more useful than a local lawman well outside his jurisdiction most of the time. While my credentials are truly international, they don't carry much weight in the USA unless I can tie my investigation to international cartels, conspiracies, terrorist links, etc. Something INTERPOL has a real stake in. I feel awkward walking into American jails to question suspects; Thankfully Nate is pretty brazen and can act like he belongs in a place, even if he doesn't. Do have to admire the man's confidence, I'll give him that much.
Well, tis getting late, I'd best be signing off for now.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Of Aisling, and other thoughts.
My near death experience has made me think long and hard about Aisling's fate if my so-called Irish luck should run out and I end up buying the farm. What many Americans don't know is that given Ireland's long, sad history, the best that can be said of Irish luck is that if we didn't have bad luck, we wouldn't have luck at all.
Aisling is my wee traveling companion, a Galway country girl....who just happens to be only a few inches tall and lives most of the time in my custom whiskey hip flask. She's one of the Faerie-folk of Erin, specifically what is classified a "Sprite". Her image is featured as the bottom graphic of this journal. She was bonded to me by Ogma as my guide and traveling companion, and we've been together since I was a teen. Chronologically, she's older than me...how old, I don't ask--wouldn't be polite nor proper. But since Sprites live longer than humans, she hasn't matured much emotionally these several years. She's still as giddy and emotionally unbalanced as a 17-year old girl, just as I first met her.
On this trip I've been wracking my brains for ways to let her help, let her out of her confinement but that keep her safe at the same time. It's a definite challenge of late. She doesn't like being crammed up in the flask all the time, but so often it's for her own protection. I think intellectually she knows that, but emotionally still finds it hard to accept. She's so incredibly loyal to me.
It pains my heart to realize how irresponsible I've been with her since leaving Ireland's shores. She's a long way from home, and one of my worst fears now is being ambushed alone somewhere and killed with Aisling still bound in my hip flask...and slowly starving to death because no one knows she's there or how to let her out.
The guilt was so strong I asked Laurel out of the blue to look after Aisling if I should die in the upcoming assault. I don't think Laurel was expecting that, could see her eyes widen with surprise and alarm. I guess maybe I spoke too impulsively, but I can't help feeling a deeper emotional closeness to Laurel now. Sort of like the way wounded soldiers bond with their nurses in Army hospitals, I suppose. Shite, I've read too much feckin' Hemingway. I know that Laurel and Gunnar seem to have this thing going, whatever "it" is. I know that. I do. Still, a man can't help feeling how he feels sometimes...though I'm not sure I can put a name on what it is I do feel now, other than to say it's different now than when I first met the group.
I know I need to talk this all over with Aisling, and I know she's not going to like it, but we have to be clear on this issue. At the very least, I would like someone, preferably Laurel, to ensure Aisling's safe passage back to Ireland. Just get her to the city of Galway and she'll be fine. Aisling shouldn't be dropped off in Dublin; even though she knows the city well, she doesn't know how to get from Dublin to Galway safely on her own. I've always taken her.
Laurel's initial reservations were that she wouldn't know how to properly care for Aisling. Left unsaid was perhaps consideration of Nevermore's emotional response and possible jealousy. I guess just ensuring Aisling's safe passage back to Ireland is the most I could ask of anyone.
I don't like dwelling on any of this, but nearly dying at a hotel in California, if not THE Hotel California, has forced me to.
I do have a responsibility to Aisling to make contingency plans for her if I should die. We Scions probably all intrinsically believe we'll beat the odds, ascend to Godhood, and live forever. As the old Porgy and Bess song has it, "It ain't necessarily so".
I do look forward to sending Aisling into action to cut the power to the cultist compound. I worry about being able to collect her after the action is over. I want her to stay on scene and hide and keep sabotaging the power supply if their security forces manage to restore it the first time. We'll just have to make sure to sweep back by the main power allocation centre to collect Aisling on our way out. I don't want to have to rely on "Dad" to help me find her. He entrusted her to me, so she's my responsibility. Always has been.
It's a shame Aisling's not a full-sized human girl, as she's certainly attractive. I'm even amused when she exhibits flashes of jealousy when I flirt with other women in her presence. Even when she's pouty she's cute. But she will always be a sprite, and I will always be a part-human, part Godling Scion of Ogma.
I want her to have the best life I can provide for her, and I want to be able to spare her a violent death if at all possible. She's my scout, a second pair of eyes, but strictly a non-combatant. I thought of having her remove the CS canister, but the gas might have overwhelmed her, and there was always the possibility of her catching a stray rifle bullet, and that would've been the end of her. So instead I just held my breath and kept on fighting as best I could...and better, thanks to Laurel working her...magic...? on me, both during and after.
She touched me and now I have a hard time keeping me eyes off her, stealing a glance here, there. Gods, the guilt. It's like I'm a little Jesuit schoolboy all over again, even though I walked away from that belief system ages ago. 12 years of Catholic school sticks with you, good and bad. Part of me thinks of going to confession, laying all my troubles to a Father Rodriguez or Padre Gonzales out here in California...not because I believe any of it anymore, but just to talk about it to a third party not involved with no stake in the issue.
I need to drive these errant thoughts from my head and stay focused on the mission. Or at least grab a pint to calm my nerves. Alas, I don't think there are any friendly Irish bars between where we are now and Badger, California, or that I have time to pop into one, even if it exists. Shite.
Aisling is my wee traveling companion, a Galway country girl....who just happens to be only a few inches tall and lives most of the time in my custom whiskey hip flask. She's one of the Faerie-folk of Erin, specifically what is classified a "Sprite". Her image is featured as the bottom graphic of this journal. She was bonded to me by Ogma as my guide and traveling companion, and we've been together since I was a teen. Chronologically, she's older than me...how old, I don't ask--wouldn't be polite nor proper. But since Sprites live longer than humans, she hasn't matured much emotionally these several years. She's still as giddy and emotionally unbalanced as a 17-year old girl, just as I first met her.
On this trip I've been wracking my brains for ways to let her help, let her out of her confinement but that keep her safe at the same time. It's a definite challenge of late. She doesn't like being crammed up in the flask all the time, but so often it's for her own protection. I think intellectually she knows that, but emotionally still finds it hard to accept. She's so incredibly loyal to me.
It pains my heart to realize how irresponsible I've been with her since leaving Ireland's shores. She's a long way from home, and one of my worst fears now is being ambushed alone somewhere and killed with Aisling still bound in my hip flask...and slowly starving to death because no one knows she's there or how to let her out.
The guilt was so strong I asked Laurel out of the blue to look after Aisling if I should die in the upcoming assault. I don't think Laurel was expecting that, could see her eyes widen with surprise and alarm. I guess maybe I spoke too impulsively, but I can't help feeling a deeper emotional closeness to Laurel now. Sort of like the way wounded soldiers bond with their nurses in Army hospitals, I suppose. Shite, I've read too much feckin' Hemingway. I know that Laurel and Gunnar seem to have this thing going, whatever "it" is. I know that. I do. Still, a man can't help feeling how he feels sometimes...though I'm not sure I can put a name on what it is I do feel now, other than to say it's different now than when I first met the group.
I know I need to talk this all over with Aisling, and I know she's not going to like it, but we have to be clear on this issue. At the very least, I would like someone, preferably Laurel, to ensure Aisling's safe passage back to Ireland. Just get her to the city of Galway and she'll be fine. Aisling shouldn't be dropped off in Dublin; even though she knows the city well, she doesn't know how to get from Dublin to Galway safely on her own. I've always taken her.
Laurel's initial reservations were that she wouldn't know how to properly care for Aisling. Left unsaid was perhaps consideration of Nevermore's emotional response and possible jealousy. I guess just ensuring Aisling's safe passage back to Ireland is the most I could ask of anyone.
I don't like dwelling on any of this, but nearly dying at a hotel in California, if not THE Hotel California, has forced me to.
I do have a responsibility to Aisling to make contingency plans for her if I should die. We Scions probably all intrinsically believe we'll beat the odds, ascend to Godhood, and live forever. As the old Porgy and Bess song has it, "It ain't necessarily so".
I do look forward to sending Aisling into action to cut the power to the cultist compound. I worry about being able to collect her after the action is over. I want her to stay on scene and hide and keep sabotaging the power supply if their security forces manage to restore it the first time. We'll just have to make sure to sweep back by the main power allocation centre to collect Aisling on our way out. I don't want to have to rely on "Dad" to help me find her. He entrusted her to me, so she's my responsibility. Always has been.
It's a shame Aisling's not a full-sized human girl, as she's certainly attractive. I'm even amused when she exhibits flashes of jealousy when I flirt with other women in her presence. Even when she's pouty she's cute. But she will always be a sprite, and I will always be a part-human, part Godling Scion of Ogma.
I want her to have the best life I can provide for her, and I want to be able to spare her a violent death if at all possible. She's my scout, a second pair of eyes, but strictly a non-combatant. I thought of having her remove the CS canister, but the gas might have overwhelmed her, and there was always the possibility of her catching a stray rifle bullet, and that would've been the end of her. So instead I just held my breath and kept on fighting as best I could...and better, thanks to Laurel working her...magic...? on me, both during and after.
She touched me and now I have a hard time keeping me eyes off her, stealing a glance here, there. Gods, the guilt. It's like I'm a little Jesuit schoolboy all over again, even though I walked away from that belief system ages ago. 12 years of Catholic school sticks with you, good and bad. Part of me thinks of going to confession, laying all my troubles to a Father Rodriguez or Padre Gonzales out here in California...not because I believe any of it anymore, but just to talk about it to a third party not involved with no stake in the issue.
I need to drive these errant thoughts from my head and stay focused on the mission. Or at least grab a pint to calm my nerves. Alas, I don't think there are any friendly Irish bars between where we are now and Badger, California, or that I have time to pop into one, even if it exists. Shite.
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