Apocalypse: Fairy System

by Macronomicon

  Jeb glanced down, trying to see through the afterimage dimming his vision. It actually looked like there was something wrapped around the hook….

  “Crap!” Jeb tried to drop the stick, but the snakelike creature recovered first, flashing up the metal rod and onto his forearm. Out of the undamaged periphery of his vision, he could make out green scales and a strange jawless mouth.

  The creature reared back, revealing fangs, and Jeb felt a sting on the flesh of his forearm. In panic mode, Jeb tore the creature off and threw it across the room. It hit the back wall and wriggled under his desk.

  “Master Kanoth, I don’t feel so good,” Jeb heard himself mutter as he stumbled backwards, his shoulders ramming up against the unpainted wall.

  “Jeb, are you okay?” Smartass asked, fluttering up into his face.

  Jeb couldn’t manage to find the ability to answer Smartass. He knew he probably could, but there was a strand of thought in his head that didn’t want to do that, and it stood between him and the fairy.

  There was no strand of thought preventing him from watching the desk, though. He needed to be ready in case the creature came crawling out.

  Gotta be ready.

  Why is the room sliding sideways? Oh, right, it’s bedtime in the academy.

  Mevar closed his eyes, relaxing into the itchy woolen beds of the academy. Apprentice wizards were denied all but the most basic comforts. ‘To better enhance their studies,’ they said. Mevar thought it was because they were cheap.

  Mevar’s fingers scrunched the silk covers.

  Wait, silk?

  The tiny inconsistency allowed something older and darker to peel away the facade of Mevar, reeling in the darkness.

  Nope, nope, nope! Jeb thought, sitting back up with everything he had, organizing and fortifying his thoughts and identity, shoring them up against the strange thoughts and sensations.

  Jeb tugged all his thoughts and feelings, all his memory, close to the gaping wound in his mind, choosing his PTSD as the battlefield, so he would feel the strange thoughts approaching a mile away. As painful as it was, it was one of the cores of his identity and it wouldn’t go away from a little Mevar juice.

  He ran his thumb over the scar on his palm, focusing his thoughts on The Spike.

  Am I dying right now? My chest feels heavy. I promised him. Did Tyler take my place? Do I deserve to die instead?

  Chuckling, Jeb dragged his mind into the dark well of PTSD. He’d been here before, after all, but young Mevar had no tolerance for that sort of bullshit, and the invisible strands of the young man’s thoughts were viciously torn apart by the burgeoning weight of Jeb’s damage.

  Just one problem.

  Tyler was standing outside the door. Jeb’s eyes ached from the strain as he watched the ghost of his past rush to his side, struggling to pull the beam out of Jeb’s chest.

  “Jeb! Hold on, man! I’ll get you outta there!”

  “Am I gonna die?” Jeb heard himself whisper. He couldn’t move air through his lungs, only the blood-soaked oxygen already in his throat.

  “You’re not gonna die, I promise!” Tyler said, grabbing his hand. The blood from the cut on Tyler’s hand mixed with Jeb’s. “I’m gonna get you out of here!”

  Jeb was jettisoned out of his own body as a ball of burning golden fire. The scene below him was frozen in place: two men, one on his deathbed, the other clutching his hand. A scene that had played out time and time again in Jeb’s mind, always with the wrong actors.

  Tyler is the one who died, not me. Why do I dream about myself being the one dying so often? the scraps of Jeb’s consciousness wondered.

  There was a strange web between the two frozen men, a gossamer promise, made of glowing, immaterial, woven gold. Something in Jeb’s core told him that it really was Tyler’s promise. Or perhaps powered by it?

  The scene began to play in reverse, and Jeb watched in fascination from his strange, omniscient viewpoint, as the world rewound like an old VHS tape, the gossamer thread travelling with the two actors.

  It rewound, showing the two of them prepare for bed, getting all their gear squared away in the nitpicky way their drill sergeant had, well, ‘drilled’ into them. It rewound further, showing the two hours of R&R before bed, where they had been drinking and playing Mortal Kombat.

  Like a living thing, the gossamer gold seemed to sense an opportunity, jumping into Jeb’s body with a soft flash of light.

  The scene resumed in regular time, and Jeb watched himself get beat by Tyler repeatedly, a gold flash in his eyes appearing every now and then just before a critical error. Of course, every game in the army is also a drinking game, and Jeb was forced to imbibe an inordinate amount of beer, sending him into a spiral of defeat.

  The exact same scene replayed itself as they stowed their gear, got ready for bed, lay down…

  But this time, Jeb was the one who got up in the middle of the night and went to take a piss…not Tyler.

  What the hell am I looking at? Jeb thought, reaching for the scar on his palm.

  The power of a promise. Do not make them lightly, Scion.

  Unfortunately, as a ball of bright orange light, he didn’t exactly have a palm to check his scar, sending a wave of dread through his…ball. Am I dead? Did I finally manage to kill myself, and this is what I wanted to happen? Or is it just omniscience in death that allows me to see all the ways things could have been?

  Jeb glanced up and spotted wood above him, the cracks in the ceiling slowly growing. Any second they would send beams crashing down into his chest. He needed to get out, right NOW.

  But I don’t have a body. How the fuck am I supposed to get out of here?

  The beam fell through the ceiling and slammed into his chest, which he now had.

  Tyler was standing outside the room.

  “No, fuck this, this already happened! I’m alive!” Jeb shouted, his body fueled by pissed-off outrage, beating back the fear for a couple seconds. Long enough to hear what Tyler was really saying.

  “Jeb! Jeb, wake up!”

  Wake up?

  I can’t open my eyes. My eyes are already open. I’m not dreaming. I can’t be dreaming, my eyes are already open… This is real?

  It’s not real. Can’t be real.

  Jeb looked up at Tyler, really looked.

  Tyler had white hair and crow’s feet around his eyes.

  Tyler wasn’t Tyler at all. It was Mr. Everett shaking the shit out of him.

  Jeb’s throat was hoarse, probably from screaming.

  “Anybody see the thing that bit me?” Jeb whispered, his voice not quite working as he tried to sit up.

  “Huh?” Mr. Everett asked, frowning. “Something bit you?”

  “Under the cabinet,” Jeb whispered, pointing, his limbs weak from adrenaline backlash.

  Cautiously, Mr. Everett knelt down and peered under the desk, scanning back and forth. A moment later, the old man grunted, leaning down further and reaching under the cabinet.

  Is this dude crazy? Jeb thought. The thing obviously had sent Jeb on a hell of a trip and nearly killed him.

  “Nothing under here but this,” the teacher said, pulling out a book.

  “Looks like an unused diary or something,” Everett muttered, flipping through the pages. “Doesn’t have anything written on it.” He tossed the book onto the bed.

  “I’ll check under the bed,” Everett said.

  “Nevermind,” Jeb said, finding his voice as he stared at the book. Its cover was made of green scaly skin, with two long fangs bracing either side of the binding, and rib-like bumps on the sides. “I had a flashback.”

  “You sure?” Everett asked, raising a brow. “No trouble at all.”

  “I’m sure. I get flashbacks every now and then. I’ll live.” Jeb shrugged. “But if you wanna check under my bed for spooks, more power to ya.”

  The teacher chuckled and checked under Jeb’s bed and nightstand, declared the room clean, and bid Jeb a good night.

  Jeb pick
ed up the book.

  Principles of Myst Sensors and Behavior Programming 101.

  Jeb cracked the book open, studying the first page.

  “Can you read this part too?” Jeb asked, pointing to the signature at the bottom.

  “What part?” Smartass asked, frowning as she studied the paper.

  This book is owned by Mevar Salis. If found, please return to room 113 of the Mestikos Myst Academy.

  “Huh. That’s odd. I wonder…”

  Jeb took the Appraiser and blew a cloud of smoke, stepping into its effect.

  Jebediah Trapper

  Mystic Trapsmith, Level 39

  Accolades: Krusker’s Brawn, Siren’s Cunning, R-R-RubU’s Mysteries, Gresh’s Subtlety, Innovator, Lagross’s Power

  Body 21 (9)

  Myst 71 (16+3)

  Nerve 26 (10)

  Abilities: >>FATAL EXCEPTION. Ability missing or corrupted. Awaiting resolution by Administrator.<<<

  Accolade Pending: Lagross’s Power suspended due to multiple instances. Awaiting resolution.

  Attention, this User has been flagged for exclusion from The System by executive order.

  Jeb raised a brow, thumbing his chin.

  He glanced between the book on the bed and the missing Ability.

  Mystic Trigger.

  Principles of Myst Sensors and Behavior Programming 101.

  So I had…information and experience stitched to my head? Jeb thought. The information was the book, the experience was the memories of the Mevar kid.

  Why am I the only one who can read it? Why was it a snake-thing?

  Why should I care?

  Jeb picked up the book, sat down on the bed, and started reading.

  Chapter 15: Knock Knock

  “Boss!”

  “Ngeh!” Jeb grunted, peeling his eyes open to stare at the ceiling. Principles of Myst Sensors and Behavior Programming 101 lay open on his chest where he’d simply dozed off somewhere halfway through the night.

  “There’s some kid at the door!” Mr. Everett said, jutting his head through Jeb’s door. “You wanna check it out?”

  “I thought I locked that thing,” Jeb muttered, eyeing the door.

  “Given your mental state, we thought it best if you didn’t have a locking door, so Pedro swapped it out while you slept.” Mr. Everett gave him a big grin.

  “Anyway, everyone else is busy, so hop to it, boss.”

  The teacher ducked back out of his room and clomped through the hall, his footsteps swallowed by the sound of carpentry in progress. Jeb got a waft of wood-scent from the doorway.

  “When did I lose control here?” Jeb muttered, sitting up and putting on his pants, shirt and leg.

  “He’s just trying to make you feel needed,” Mrs. Everett said, barging in the door.

  Jeb yelped and covered himself, glaring at the matronly old lady setting the platter down on his desk.

  “That’s how my Harv shows he cares,” she said. “Hands up.”

  “Wha?”

  Without warning, the old lady brusquely yanked the shirt over his head, and then bent down to grab his pants.

  “Whoa there, that’s far enough,” he said, grabbing his waistband.

  “Please,” she said, rolling her eyes before yanking his pants and underwear off. “You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen a thousand times.”

  Jeb probably could have stopped her, but that would involve getting into a wrestling match with an old lady, and that wasn’t really high on his bucket list, so he let her get away with it.

  “What’s your waist and leg size?” she asked, folding the clothes over her shoulder.

  “Thirty-six, thirty-four,” Jeb said, frowning.

  She opened the door, revealing a cart full of clothes and food, along with a basket full of dirty clothes, where she dropped Jeb’s old pair. She went through the tags for a moment before finding what she was looking for.

  “Here.” She tugged out a pair of jeans and tossed it at him, along with a new pair of underwear and a shirt. That done, she put her hands on the cart and moved to the next room.

  “Looking good, boss!” one of the janitors said from where he was fixing the second-story railing, giving Jeb a thumbs-up.

  Jeb slammed the door shut with telekinesis.

  You get about the same level of privacy in the army, so it was nothing Jeb wasn’t used to…but still, the casual disregard for their owner’s comfort stung a little.

  Jeb glanced at the steaming beef soup on the desk with a BLT beside it, then at the non-greasy pair of underwear in his hands.

  On the other hand, forgiveness is divine, Jeb thought, grabbing the soup and wolfing it down before jumping into his new clothes. He still had to go answer the door.

  A flat sixty seconds later, Jeb yanked the front door open, revealing Rufio, looking pissed and impatient as hell.

  “What’s up?” Jeb asked, taking a bite of his BLT in front of the starving kid.

  This wasn’t entirely to torment the teen for being a teen. It was also to signal that there was food on Jeb’s side of the fence. That probably wasn’t lost on the boy, as his eyes tracked the sandwich like it had begun to sing and dance.

  “You said something about catching the guy who took Nancy. I’m here to talk.”

  “Excellent. Let’s sit at the bar in the kitchen. Mrs. Everett can fix you up something.”

  “No.” Rufio scowled at him, tearing his eyes away from the sandwich.

  “No?”

  “We’re not talking until you show me every room in this place.”

  Jeb pursed his lips. “Sure, kid. Knock yourself out.” He opened the door the rest of the way and stood aside.

  “I’m gonna stay at the bottom of the stairs, until you finish looking up there,” Jeb said. “Holler when you’re done.”

  Jeb had no interest in following the kid around as he made extra-double sure Nancy wasn’t being kept here.

  Why would I be keeping Nancy here if I’d already given him the address? Jeb thought, resting his chin on his palm. The boy was suspicious and untrusting, which was good, but he was plainly a teen of limited experience.

  This’ll probably take a while. I’m curious as to what Eddie has gotten done.

  Jeb hauled off and went around to the back of the mansion, into the storm cellar, where Eddie was working on Buddy.

  Buddy was a bomb-defusing robot, with decent armor and resistance to getting blowed up. Eddie was currently attaching the fireball wand to the front of the robot’s controllable arm. He’d created a machine that twisted the rangefinder on the wand back and forth with the speed and precision only a robot was capable of. That was connected to a firing mechanism that threaded back under the robot’s armor, along with a set of shiny motors Jeb hadn’t seen before.

  “How’s it going?” Jeb asked.

  “Well, I replaced the entire battery power system with a pair of two-stroke motors. Two-stroke motors aren’t the most efficient, but fuel isn’t a problem, and with them offset like this, we should get a full power stroke with minimal vibration. The gas tank is fed by a lens I carved off of the big one according to your light-ray theory,” he said, pointing to what looked like a gasket attached to the top of the small fuel tank.

  “So I had an issue with throttling the gas output, but I managed to figure out what functioned as a resistor in the Myst regulators you gave me.”

  He pointed to a little chunky piece of steel and pried it open to show the regulator encased in soft foam. “Since you claim Myst from an engine acts as a sort of radiation, the first thing I thought of was a way to increase the resistance to decrease the regulator’s release speed. So I busted the regulator open and checked the walls, and sure enough, the business end had what looked like a piece of glass electro-plated with gold.

  “The walls and receiving end are coated with a material I don’t recognize, but they aren’t immediately important. I would guess they are some kind of one-way transmissible material.”

  “So
it’s like a laser, with a one-way mirror on one side and a slightly less powerful mirror on the other,” Jeb said.

  “Eh, more like a leaky fuel tank. My theory is that when the pressure in here reaches a high level, the Myst actually reverts back to a gaseous state, until the pressure forces it out the gold side as light again. Once that happens, the floodgates are open, and it drains out until it’s empty again, but never faster than the gold resistor here will allow.

  “So I took a few pieces of glass and electroplated them with varying concentrations of dissolved gold and just recently got a regulator plate that limits the gas output enough that the machine doesn’t leak fuel everywhere and catch fire. There’s a fuel sensor and a manual disconnect, so the robot can remove the Myst power from the fuel supply if it ever gets overfull, too.

  “I don’t have the same weight restrictions I would if this were a drone, so I was able to put a honkin’ DC engine in there, which gave me enough power to overclock the motors in his joints and give Buddy some sick moves.”

  Eddie pulled up the robot’s control pad, and pressed a few buttons.

  The motors turned over and caught, filling the room with a loud rumble. Eddie put his hand on the chassis of the robot.

  “Feel that!”

  Jeb followed suit and remarkably, the robot barely trembled despite twin motors blasting away inside it.

  “Now, a normal bomb disposal robot is pretty much just a fancy RC. I had to add some thinkmeats to it, which took up space and caused some heating concerns, but I think I did a pretty good job, all things considered.”

  He pushed another button, and Buddy’s arm with the fireball wand whipped up and aimed at Eddie, the rangefinder zooming down to the 20ft minimum in a fraction of a second.

  Click click click. The robot dry-fired the wand three times at Eddie’s heart before moving on.

  The arm spun to aim at Jeb’s center mass a split-second later, sending a wave of ice down Jeb’s spine.

  Click click click.

  Did Eddie just almost blow us up?

  Eddie entered another command and the mechanical arm relaxed back to its resting posture, tucked in tight against the armor.

  “Remote control is a little too slow. I’ll program this a bit further with some strong friendly-fire protocols, but it should help rapid response times if it locks on to its targets by itself, at least.”