by Drew Hayes
“I’m sorry,” June said, giving Bubba and I her full attention. “I was so caught up in seeing Krystal that I let my manners slip. My name is June Windbrook, and, like Krystal, I’m an agent. We’ve known each other since her recruitment.”
“Bubba Emerson,” Bubba said, sticking out his impressively sized hand. June accepted it, the handshake almost completely obscuring her own dainty digits from view. “Old friend of Krystal’s.”
“Fredrick Frankford Fletcher,” I said, mimicking Bubba’s offer to shake as I felt a familiar sense of social awkwardness wash over me. Should I introduce myself as her boyfriend? We were in a committed relationship, after all. But I didn’t know the rules surrounding agents and dating. Perhaps playing it aloof was a better strategy. Besides, June’s mention of an engagement still had me curious as to the full expanse of her connection to Krystal. “Krystal and I went to high school together, and we’re currently . . . um . . . well—”
“Freddy is my boyfriend,” Krystal said, ending my suffering with a mercifully swift assertion. Relief washed over me, but as the hand I was shaking grew cold and stiff, I realized I wasn’t the only one who’d had a reaction to her words.
“Boyfriend?” June asked. Her eyes looked me up and down once more, this time with an appraising gleam. I couldn’t fault her for her skepticism. With my khakis, glasses, clean button-down, and fresh sweater vest, I hardly looked the type to be romancing a beautiful woman like Krystal, let alone an agent.
“Yup, boyfriend,” Krystal confirmed.
“How lovely,” June said, finishing our shake and giving me a polite smile. There was no warmth in this expression; it was done clearly for the sake of formality. “Listen, Krys, I still want to catch up, but I could really use a break. Do you mind taking over the booth while I run and get a coffee?”
“Not at all,” Krystal replied. “We brought the rest of the stuff, so we’ll keep the set-up moving along.”
“Thank you.” June grabbed a small handbag from behind the booth and walked away at such high-speeds that it seemed like she was sprinting. Within moments, she was out of sight, and I began unfastening the ropes that had done a surprisingly good job of holding the boxes in place.
“Hey, Bubba, why don’t you go get us checked into our rooms. I’ll want a shower when this is done, and waiting though the line at reception won’t be fun,” Krystal said.
Bubba said nothing, merely took the hint and headed down the convention’s long hallway. Once he was gone, Krystal turned her attention on me.
“Freddy, you never need to do that.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Be afraid that I’m ashamed of you, of what we are.” Krystal took my hand away from the rope I was having an unexpectedly hard time unknotting and held it in her own. “I know how you are, and I know you get worried and all, but I’m proud to be with such a sweet, caring man. Introduce yourself as my boyfriend, because I’m sure as hell going to introduce myself as your girlfriend when the tables are turned. Okay?”
“I . . . okay,” I said, abandoning all hope of pretending that wasn’t exactly what had just happened. “Sorry, it’s just intimidating meeting another agent. I felt she would expect you to be with someone more like you, a tough, powerful parahuman.”
“June’s expectations have no impact on my dating life. Trust me on that one.”
“Good thing, because she seemed pretty disappointed in your selection of men,” I pointed out.
“Don’t take that personally. June was just a little upset seeing me in a relationship at all. She had to know it was coming eventually, but I think she’s been pretending otherwise.”
“Why would it bother her for you to have a boyfriend?”
“Because,” Krystal said, her voice growing several degrees more timid. “That engagement she mentioned? It was mine. I was supposed to marry her brother.”
3.
After last Christmas, when I was nearly killed by Quentin, my crazed vampire sire, Krystal and I had taken the time to have a long talk about our relationship: both what we wanted from it and where we hoped it would go. Part of this was discussing previous relationships, and while I had little to add on that point, Krystal did inform me that she had been engaged when she was younger. So, I was not taken by surprise at the declaration of her previous status, merely by being confronted with the sudden reality of it. Krystal didn’t like to talk about her former fiancé, and I had never pressed the subject. He’d always been a nebulous existence, something I was aware of in an intellectual way, but that had lacked any sense of substance.
That sentiment faded rapidly after having met his sister. I was, admittedly, not the most perceptive of people when it came to socially oriented things; however, I did have the skills of a solid accountant, and that meant I could do basic math. Krystal was an agent, and June was an agent who had known Krystal since she was recruited. If June’s brother was Krystal’s former betrothed, that meant he was probably an agent as well. These people were like action heroes mixed with Greek legends—they commanded fear and respect amongst entities that were accustomed to being the ones everyone else was afraid of.
As we unpacked the booth and set things up, I found myself wondering more and more how she had gone from being with an agent to spending her time with a . . . me. The one upside to my distraction was that I lost track of the work, and before I knew it, Krystal had dropped her duffel bag on one of the booth’s flat surfaces with a jingling thud.
“Finally.” As she moved her hand away, the jingling in the bag seemed to grow louder, despite the fact that she was no longer touching it. “Hold your damn horses. Let a girl pop the crick from her spine first.” She leaned backward until a crackling noise came from her vertebrae and she sighed with relief. That done, she reached into the bag and began to unpack its contents.
“Are we expecting a fight?” I asked.
“Technically, an agent is always ready for shit to go down, but no, I’m not worried about anything in particular today.”
“Then why did you bring an entire duffel bag of weaponry?” I was watching in a mixture of curiosity and fear as Krystal pulled out ancient instruments of battle, one after the other. The majority of them were swords, but there was also an occasional axe or mace tossed into the mix.
“These aren’t for fighting. Well, I mean they are for fighting, but not against anyone here. Shit, I hope not anyone here, I’d be in for a nightmare of reports if that level of violence went down. Anyway, these are for people to take.”
“Wait, instead of bookmarks or pens like most convention booths, you give out weapons?”
“No no, the only people who can take these are the ones who own them.” Krystal paused, then held up the blade in her hand. “Sword of the Vengeful Moon. Can only be wielded by a therian who is destined to find revenge on someone who has wounded them.” She set it down and pulled out a small hand-axe. “Axe of the Bloody Poltergeist: meant for a warrior who will topple the wicked and dead.” Down it went, and she began taking more out of the bag. “Dagger of the Angry Ogre. Mace of the Wild Stag. Sword of the Demon God. Blade of the Unlikely Champion.” The last one rattled in its scabbard as she said its name, and Krystal smacked the pommel with the back of her hand.
“These are magical weapons, ones that have some aspect of destiny to them. The Agency keeps them safe, but they’re meant to be out in the world and getting used. Damn things will get antsy if they stay put away too long: falling off shelves, lying in that perfect way so you trip over them, that sort of thing. Every now and then, we pull some out—usually the ones that are making the most racket—and see if they can find new owners. When people come by, I’ll let them try to draw or wield any weapon that calls to them. If they can, then it’s theirs.”
“Aren’t you worried about what people will do with them?” I asked. “Some of those sounded pretty dangerous.”
“They are, but if we don’t let the weapons out regularly, then our warehouse will blow up, or thieves will
break in, or something. Destiny isn’t the sort of thing you can fight long-term. This way, at least we know who to keep an eye on. Plus, if they pull one of the more powerful ones, I get to shove a recruitment form under their nose.”
My eyebrows went up without bothering to ask my brain if that was okay. “Those things can make someone agent-level powerful?”
“I’d say it gives them the base requirements. There’s still a lot of training to be done after that, but the gist is, yeah, they can.” She set the Blade of the Unlikely Champion on the table, and I felt my eyes drawn to it. It was in its scabbard, a simple black-and-gold piece with a matching hilt. The harsh florescent convention lights seemed to soften when reflected off its shiny surface.
“How does that one work?” I asked.
“Old-school style, just pull it out,” Krystal said. She glanced at me, and I suppose something in my face must have given away what I was wondering, because she kept going. “Of course, drawing or wielding one of these isn’t all power and picnics. When you take a weapon of destiny, you become a part of its fate. A lot of these end in untimely death, and almost none of them allow for a peaceful life.”
I looked away from the sword and back to my girlfriend, who wore an uncharacteristic expression of concern on her face. Perhaps we might have talked things out right then and there, but Bubba came jogging over with two small envelopes in his hand.
“Krystal was right about the check-in. I thought I would never make it through that line,” Bubba said. “I’m a little down the hall from you two, but we’re on the same floor.” Bubba handed Krystal one of the envelopes, which she immediately passed to me.
“Freddy, why don’t you go rest a little,” she said. “Since I’m on the Agency’s dime, you can rent some fancy flicks on the pay-per-view system.”
“Don’t you need more help getting everything set up?”
“The booth is done; all that’s left now is to shine and position the weaponry so it doesn’t throw a hissy-fit.” The distinct sound of clinking metal answered Krystal’s words, but it stopped immediately when she glared at the pile of blades. “Plus, I feel like I should talk to June, and that will be a little easier without you here. Just at first.”
“I haven’t actually seen her since we arrived,” I said.
“She’s been around, but keeping her distance. I’m not trying to brush you off, promise, but she is a friend. Just a complicated one.”
“I understand.” I accepted the envelope from her, noting the floor and room number written on the outside. “How long do you want me to stay gone?”
“Give me two movies, or until sunrise, whichever comes first.” Krystal leaned in and gave me a light, but unexpectedly tender kiss. “I know how you like those foreign snoozefests that run for half a day, and I don’t want to be down here by my lonesome for the entire morning.”
“You might like one of those snoozefests if you paid attention, or bothered to stay awake through them.”
“Maybe, but with those requirements, I don’t think we’ll ever find out.” She pulled back slightly and glanced over at Bubba. “As for you, seeing as you actually need things like sleep and food, take some downtime as well. Both my helpers are officially off duty for the rest of the night.”
“Call if you need us,” Bubba said. This was more for form than anything else; the sorts of things Krystal couldn’t handle were the sorts of things we weren’t likely to be able to do more than die in front of.
“Go. Sleep. Watch movies. Drink blood. Shoo.” Krystal gave us the brushing motion with her hand, which Bubba and I took as our cue to head upstairs.
As we walked down the tile hallway, Bubba’s heavy-booted, thudding steps filled the hall with sound, and a thought struck me.
“Bubba, you’ve known Krystal a long time, right?”
“Years now,” Bubba confirmed.
“Did you ever meet her former fiancé?”
“Just once.”
“What was he like?” We boarded our elevator, and Bubba pressed the number “13” on the panel. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised that a building the Agency had helped construct wouldn’t be bothered about having a thirteenth floor.
“He was handsome, but most of his kind are. Strong, too. The sort of man who looks you in the eyes and you just inherently know he can take you down in two moves flat. Well-spoken, good dresser, more or less what you’d expect an agent to be.”
The elevator came to a stop, and the doors opened.
“I couldn’t stand the fucking guy,” Bubba continued as we exited.
I twisted my head in surprise. Bubba usually managed to find the good in everyone he dealt with or spoke of.
“Why not? He sounds amazing.”
“It had nothing to do with him. At least, back before the break-up. I just hated the effect he had on Krystal. And that’s all I’m telling you, since you’re obviously digging for dirt.”
“Nice to know I’m still awful at subterfuge.” I passed a familiar assortment of numbers and realized I was at my door. “My stop, it seems.”
“I’m further down,” Bubba replied. “I’d offer to talk things over with you, but Krystal was right, I do have to sleep at least a little.”
“Please, by all means. I’ll be fine.”
“No, more likely you’ll keep being worried and a bit obsessive.” Despite his accusing words, Bubba’s tone was surprisingly gentle, and a soft smile spread across his wide face. “But nothing I can say will stop that anyway, so I won’t bother. Just remember: you’re the one she wants to be with. Try and hang on to that when the worry gets too strong.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promised. It was the only response I could truthfully give him.
4.
Two movies and a packet of blood later, I was heading back toward the main convention floor. As I passed through the lobby, I saw a line of attendants snaking out from the registration booth—these would be the actual attendees, rather than the people working behind the scenes. I had been to a convention before, something comic-book based that I’d attended in the fruitless hope of meeting people on par with my level of social skill. At that registration, people had been dressed in all manner of strange and elaborate garb, some so encumbered by their outfits that even basic movements required concentrated effort.
Such was not the case at the Calcucon registration line. If anything, people looked exceedingly normal; almost aggressively so. It was such a bland arrangement of beings that I would have fit in perfectly, and that was saying a lot. It struck me as strange, but only until I passed through the wide white doors that separated the convention area from the rest of the building.
Stepping through, I was immediately struck with wonder at the number of inhuman beings casually walking around. Though the convention didn’t officially open until ten, many attendees were already wandering around and checking things out. There were several therians shifted into their hybrid forms, a couple of mages with telltale glowing enchantments around their bodies, other undead that I could only recognize by smell and paleness, as well as a few centaurs and winged creatures I only knew from my CPPA courses. Even the more mundane beings had horns, or strangely colored eyes, or extra arms. Only then did it strike me why the registration line had seemed so unimpressive.
The people out there were in costume. They’d come from the outer world, where they had to blend in with regular people. Only in here, in the safety of a space specifically set aside for them, could they cast aside their false faces and live as they truly were. In that moment, I genuinely appreciated how fortunate I was to be a parahuman that could blend so naturally into society, without the need for elaborate costumes or costly illusion enchantments.
I meandered my way through the convention floor, noting how many more booths had sprung up in the relatively short time I was away. Many of the business-based ones caught my eye, advertising things as ubiquitous as parahuman-friendly home retrofits to services as niche as at-home hoof-cleaning. It seemed I would indeed ha
ve to grab an information packet or two before we left; getting in front of a crowd this size could do wonders for my budding business.
At last, I came to the Agency’s familiar booth. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but the booth Krystal and I set up was much larger than the surrounding ones, occupying a space big enough for three normal-sized stalls. Either they were trying to create a subconscious image of size and power, or they were expecting to draw a big crowd. Regardless, things looked more or less the same as when I’d left, with only minor exceptions: the signs were a bit straighter, and the weapons more symmetrically laid out.
The one large exception was that June had rejoined Krystal at the booth. Both women were sitting on stools behind one of the display tables, clutching cups of coffee next to empty pastry bags, and June was smiling at my girlfriend with the same warmth she’d shown in her greeting. As they realized I’d arrived, June’s demeanor cooled slightly, though not as intensely as I’d been expecting.
“‘Bout time,” Krystal said, hopping off the small stool she’d been perched on and giving me a quick peck. “Bubba got down here half an hour ago. We already sent him on a coffee-run.”
“What do you call that?” I pointed at the still steaming cup in her hands.
“I call it free convention pisswater, because I wouldn’t sully the good name of coffee by comparing it to this.”
“Yet you’re drinking it anyway.”
“Still caffeinated,” Krystal said, giving a half-hearted shrug as she took a sip. “And, unfortunately, June and I have to be extra alert. Seems there’s been a bit of thieving going on already.”
“Already? Were you expecting it?” I asked.
“There’s always something,” June broke in. “People misplace items they’re sure they brought or a mage accidently teleports some boxes to a different place and sooner or later someone starts crying thief. Parahumans of so many cultures don’t often gather together in one spot like this, and some have literally ancient grudges against others. Paranoia gets a head start before common sense can even get its shoes on.”
