The Zen and Fury in Healing
Posted: Mon Nov 09, 2020 4:42 pm
June 17th, 2026 - Early Morning
Silence had settled in the previously quarantined areas of the city. The security cordons had changed in composition and goal; now being focused on keeping everyone out while Hope's open Infernal sores dried up and crumbled. There no longer was enough negatively-charged via to allow for spirits or possession events, but that wasn't much of anything to celebrate.
There wasn't much via to go around at all. The city's ley lines were behaving like arteries in the aftermath of a stroke, miles of the formerly intricate webwork having dissipated over the last two months and shy, currently fragile bifurcations having begun to form. The city's body was working around its own impacted veins, shunting traffic where it could, crimping it where a previously fertile spot now led to nowhere. The new convergences were still weak and most were terribly inconvenient for most practitioners. It'd be years before the city's Public Works division managed to transition from mere reconstruction to actual and purposeful adaptation to the local ley lines' new state. For now, nobody so much as wanted to consider pushing billions onto the project of shifting Seventeenth Avenue in its entirety three inches to the East, so those who needed an access to some form of arcane power had to coax lines into reaching them, convince branches into manifesting themselves. Walk along Clark as it runs parallel to the Seventeenth, and you would've seen a small orgy of empty flower pots and boxes, carved chimes or even umamori charms - anything so the weak and shy flow of one of the city's new arcane confluents would spider out into capillaries. If you were sensitive, you'd have sensed that the lucky few were more than just few.
Live long enough, and this no longer seemed like a tragedy. Dryads died and passed their mantles on, and the new one either took its time or expressed a different impetus on the local network. Lines shifted and a new norm was set. If you were lucky, you could rent or buy another house with an access point and maybe avoid facing the slow and frustrating demise of your own capabilities. Not everyone could move, however, not with roughly one-eighth of the city still classified as uninhabitable.
The world of magic was - and is - a ruthless one, after all. If you can channel magic, you're a practitioner. If you can't, well... You can't. All across the country, countless arcane talents were dying off or slowly crippling themselves, while other ones slowly and timidly flourished. The first few weeks' arcane motherlode had been short-lived, and nearly all of its potential had gone towards nurturing Sophia's elected descendent. The part of the young dryad that was nothing other than a tree was growing well, but the McHale woman had told every reporter from here to Providence that some form of Sophia's would return. Her body had been destroyed, yes, but the seeds she'd kept aside hadn't just been saplings. On Eirean's recommendation, Sophia had spent the last years of her life occasionally whispering to these little lives in their shells, infusing them with her memories and thoughts. Some people believed that growing another tree out of one of the dryad's own technical clones would bring Sophia back, memories and all.
Most knew enough not to get their hopes up. They'd meet Sophia's would-be daughter, or a long-lost sister or long-neglected friend - but never Sophia herself again. How could it have been otherwise? The Chimeras weren't all copies of Aspasia and Spearhead, cognitively speaking, so why would the sapling be just the herald of an old friend's consequence-free return?
Cold dew still clung to the late-spring leaves, Clark Street's offered corridor being mostly empty, its residents still cozying up inside - still asleep or perhaps just beginning their morning routine. A black electric sedan quietly came to a stop along a stretch of unmarked fencing, and out of it climbed three men. Two of them looked obviously Celestial, but were clad in sweat pants and workout gear emblazoned with Chimera Row's color scheme and logo. The third one was Allocer, delicate silver wristbands and ankle guards adorning his limbs. He was taller than the two human angels by two heads and could've floored both of them in a single blow, but he merely stood at attention, waiting as one of the angels double-checked his restraints. He had free range of movement but was effectively tethered to them, only able to stand a few feet ahead at any given moment.
"Not too tight?" asked the blond-haired one. He had a weathered face but didn't quite reach Gabriel's levels of grizzled authority. Instead, he had the looks of an inhuman being who'd suffered enough, bled enough, to quickly and painlessly adapt to the cycles of mortal life. Valtiel was his name, but Allocer just called him Walt.
"Depends," replied Allocer, smirking. "What's the loosest you can afford that gives me a chance at besting you boys for a thirty-K endurance run?"
The second angel looked Indonesian, if not Philipino. Dark eyes met the demon's, hard at first and then softening somewhat. "You know Oberman doesn't appreciate these little jaunts, Al - the warden still thinks you're better off in Solitary. I let you off the leash too much, and our very mortal boss gets our immortal asses. Neither of us would care if angels and demons could still park themselves Above or Below the mortal condition, but..."
The former administrator sighed. "I get it. Bills to pay, pantries to fill. I'll get there too, eventually - once they trust me enough to not feed me with taxpayer money."
Manuel the guard - also known as Menoth, Third Sphere Angel - scoffed in amusement. "I swear you're like Rendell and Mister Rogers had the Ken doll of Pitspawn for a baby, Al. One day you'll be just slightly less reasonable and they'll think you're about to bust down the doors."
Allocer parted with a very human and very warm cackle. "That's because I'm from the section of Pride's wastes that sharing multiple arcane thoroughfares with Canadian Warlocks. If I ever knock you out, I'll write a formal complaint first and then spend fifteen minutes apologizing for spewing Hellfire on you."
Walt groaned and rolled his eyes, something like a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. "Alright, okay - let's get Mister Unsung Hero his court-sanctioned constitutional, and then we're tackling the serious issue of Canadian demons on the way back. If we reach the temple garden without our legs screaming for release, I'm putting in a reccomendation with Oberman."
Allocer's dark eyes lit up. "A computer?!" he asked, a shred of anticipation touching his voice. Manny nodded. "No network access, but I can convince Security they can start screening for dailies. Doc Cerebro's agreed to curate a selection of software, files and games. We'll pass a portable SSD back and forth."
The former commander looked like suppressing his grin would be difficult. "I don't mind," he said, "all I want is a word-processing program!
- So which deal did you take?" asked Walt, watching as Allocer stretched his legs and did his best to ignore the passing onlookers.
"Mother Jones," replied Allocer with a grunt as he carefully pulled his knee back. "Trans-planar political commentary in collumn form. For now, they're looking for an insider's perspective on Pride's many, many failings, almost begging me to make parallels between the Black Goat's court and the Supreme Court under President Jones' last mandate... A lot of old, undying money had sunk its teeth in the judicial system - not all of it especially Progressive. The Goat tore out a good few of these fangs when he blew the country apart - and then treated a few of them to an exxagerated version of their own agenda. It at least showed a few dragons and vampires that there's limits to being self-serving and self-gratifying in a society like ours-"
He couldn't finish, as Valtiel launched into a short, if intense sprint for a few steps, forcing the wristbands into action. They glowed blue, Allocer's legs reacting as though he'd been pulled along by an invisible cord. Anger bloomed across his features for a micro-second, immediately trading places for a rueful look of amusement. What had begun as a disciplinary measure was now more of a teasing gesture than anything else - at least judging by how the disgraced demon's teeth showed.
"Every time, huh?!" he said, then finding his pace and falling in near-lockstep with the two angels.
Walt shrugged as his legs pumped. "Just getting you used to the inevitable Questions period, once you do publish that book and read an excerpt in public..."
* * *
Shen Long's own exercise regimen looked less impactful to the untrained eye, but it required as much of him as any sprint. Slow, measured Taijiquan stances were assumed and then transitioned out of, his breath measured so that every intake of air would last for the entirety of the shifting stance. Eyes closed, he carefully rediscovered his muscular capacity and tested his sense of balance, making mental notes whenever the price he'd paid for the city's defense reared its ugly head: a spasm here, an errant twitch there, and a vague pall of chronic fatigue that covered his every move. He'd slept nine hours last night but still felt slightly peaked, and he knew from experience that the exhaustion would progress over the day. He'd never needed naps before and now relished his mid-afternoon hours in the darkness of his covers, knowing he'd need them for the Sons' training drills in the afternoon. He also had other students, now, and other talents to foster that had little in common with a gaggle of motivated Chinese and Japanese Americans all invested with the goal of protecting their loved ones from rogue gang members or the occasional abusive cop. Miranda needed no introduction, of course, but a few in the Legion of Burning Suns had taken interest in his skills, along with Paimon and, surprisingly, Herbert Wormsworth. The former Pride Knight sought counsel to help quell his lasting anger and shame, while the Pride lawyer had begun seeking lessons after realizing that no amount of perceived self-worth could protect from strikes you didn't see coming. Mindfulness, the demon claimed, was also a useful exercise in his approaching humility.
His mind having wandered, the dragon's sense of balance shifted. Vertigo briefly clutched at his chest, instinctive fear rising as the White dragon junior's voice sounded.
"Excuse me, sir?"
The Eastern dragon's feet slid into position on the ground, and he managed to conceal his needing to shift his centre of gravity by placing his arms up against his back. You would've needed a supernatural being's eyes to have noticed the near-stumble, but it was there.
"Yes, Richard?
- It's just - your secretary would've liked to remind you you have appointments booked for today. You've got Allocer in a few minutes.
- Yes," calmly nodded the dragon. "I know today is Wednesday, Richard. I was only almost killed by demons, you know. I'm still here up there," he said, then tapping his own skull with a finger. I had my calls screened so I could practice my routine, there is little need for anyone to worry."
Richard nodded. "Is your balance back?
- I won't fall down walking, if that's what you mean," replied Shen, chuckling as he did. "There are a few stances I won't be able to assume again, however - at least not for several months. My right shoulder, left thigh and right knee still feel tender. It won't be ideal for Miranda, but it is what it is..."
The junior nodded and then licked his lips. "What's it like?" he then asked. "Teaching a Prince, I mean."
The dragon's lips parted in a silent ah of both amusement and understanding, and he turned to his spacious kitchen nook to brew himself some tea. "I'm not sure this is exactly metaphorical," he replied, "but Wormsworth seems to follow my lead in removing his crown, before we begin. I've taught him to ground his Ego in the same way I might ask of someone with chronic pain who comes to me for Reiki; he knows no-one in my dojo will ever attempt to claim what was sworn to him."
He shrugged lightly as he poured water inside his kettle. "I'm not even sure anyone could. With Rhandamantus having sworn him in, Herbert Wormsworth is as incontestably of Pride as the Black Goat is.
- How's he doing, without it?"
Shen Long shrugged lightly. "I don't concern myself with this creature. Buddha says I should have pity to spare, but I have no contempt, at least. I would suggest asking Miranda or Aspasia, once they arrive."
Ricky glanced about. "How do you think he's doing, then?"
By that point, the dragon had caught on. Richard Kwai's father was in the HPD, and his father's partner was a certain lieutenant named Claire Redding - also known as Clarimonde, formerly of Valefor's stables. Mrs. Kwai stated that Miss. Redding had been nothing but charming, but she'd been an unaffiliated Wrath operative during the war, striking back against a Vice that she felt was acting without due cause. In her mind's eye, the only ones who would've been worthy to petition Wrath were the mortal and supernatural resistance. Her anger was cold, easily clothed in smiles and affected human warmth, her people skills approached a succubi's - but she was of the outspoken minority that believed that Pride should have been obliterated outright.
The boy was afraid his father's new partner would see him as a tool to be used, then. Considering, Long made an effort and withdrew in his thoughts for a moment. How would it be, he wondered, to be of Pride and to have none of it?
"It must be difficult," he then conceded. "Punishments are never meant to be easy. Mister Wormsworth tells me the Goat makes for a pitiable sight during his visits. Fallen grandeur and hubris made flesh, as though something in his mind were unable to grasp just how indigent he has become. He still acts as though he were powerful and then breaks down when magic and Hellfire both fail to answer his call.
Wrath's circlets were destroyed, Valefor himself reduced to one of Grimley's clowns, and all that is left of Pride's aristocracy now openly works with us. The Goat is, for all intents and purposes, alone."
Silence had settled in the previously quarantined areas of the city. The security cordons had changed in composition and goal; now being focused on keeping everyone out while Hope's open Infernal sores dried up and crumbled. There no longer was enough negatively-charged via to allow for spirits or possession events, but that wasn't much of anything to celebrate.
There wasn't much via to go around at all. The city's ley lines were behaving like arteries in the aftermath of a stroke, miles of the formerly intricate webwork having dissipated over the last two months and shy, currently fragile bifurcations having begun to form. The city's body was working around its own impacted veins, shunting traffic where it could, crimping it where a previously fertile spot now led to nowhere. The new convergences were still weak and most were terribly inconvenient for most practitioners. It'd be years before the city's Public Works division managed to transition from mere reconstruction to actual and purposeful adaptation to the local ley lines' new state. For now, nobody so much as wanted to consider pushing billions onto the project of shifting Seventeenth Avenue in its entirety three inches to the East, so those who needed an access to some form of arcane power had to coax lines into reaching them, convince branches into manifesting themselves. Walk along Clark as it runs parallel to the Seventeenth, and you would've seen a small orgy of empty flower pots and boxes, carved chimes or even umamori charms - anything so the weak and shy flow of one of the city's new arcane confluents would spider out into capillaries. If you were sensitive, you'd have sensed that the lucky few were more than just few.
Live long enough, and this no longer seemed like a tragedy. Dryads died and passed their mantles on, and the new one either took its time or expressed a different impetus on the local network. Lines shifted and a new norm was set. If you were lucky, you could rent or buy another house with an access point and maybe avoid facing the slow and frustrating demise of your own capabilities. Not everyone could move, however, not with roughly one-eighth of the city still classified as uninhabitable.
The world of magic was - and is - a ruthless one, after all. If you can channel magic, you're a practitioner. If you can't, well... You can't. All across the country, countless arcane talents were dying off or slowly crippling themselves, while other ones slowly and timidly flourished. The first few weeks' arcane motherlode had been short-lived, and nearly all of its potential had gone towards nurturing Sophia's elected descendent. The part of the young dryad that was nothing other than a tree was growing well, but the McHale woman had told every reporter from here to Providence that some form of Sophia's would return. Her body had been destroyed, yes, but the seeds she'd kept aside hadn't just been saplings. On Eirean's recommendation, Sophia had spent the last years of her life occasionally whispering to these little lives in their shells, infusing them with her memories and thoughts. Some people believed that growing another tree out of one of the dryad's own technical clones would bring Sophia back, memories and all.
Most knew enough not to get their hopes up. They'd meet Sophia's would-be daughter, or a long-lost sister or long-neglected friend - but never Sophia herself again. How could it have been otherwise? The Chimeras weren't all copies of Aspasia and Spearhead, cognitively speaking, so why would the sapling be just the herald of an old friend's consequence-free return?
Cold dew still clung to the late-spring leaves, Clark Street's offered corridor being mostly empty, its residents still cozying up inside - still asleep or perhaps just beginning their morning routine. A black electric sedan quietly came to a stop along a stretch of unmarked fencing, and out of it climbed three men. Two of them looked obviously Celestial, but were clad in sweat pants and workout gear emblazoned with Chimera Row's color scheme and logo. The third one was Allocer, delicate silver wristbands and ankle guards adorning his limbs. He was taller than the two human angels by two heads and could've floored both of them in a single blow, but he merely stood at attention, waiting as one of the angels double-checked his restraints. He had free range of movement but was effectively tethered to them, only able to stand a few feet ahead at any given moment.
"Not too tight?" asked the blond-haired one. He had a weathered face but didn't quite reach Gabriel's levels of grizzled authority. Instead, he had the looks of an inhuman being who'd suffered enough, bled enough, to quickly and painlessly adapt to the cycles of mortal life. Valtiel was his name, but Allocer just called him Walt.
"Depends," replied Allocer, smirking. "What's the loosest you can afford that gives me a chance at besting you boys for a thirty-K endurance run?"
The second angel looked Indonesian, if not Philipino. Dark eyes met the demon's, hard at first and then softening somewhat. "You know Oberman doesn't appreciate these little jaunts, Al - the warden still thinks you're better off in Solitary. I let you off the leash too much, and our very mortal boss gets our immortal asses. Neither of us would care if angels and demons could still park themselves Above or Below the mortal condition, but..."
The former administrator sighed. "I get it. Bills to pay, pantries to fill. I'll get there too, eventually - once they trust me enough to not feed me with taxpayer money."
Manuel the guard - also known as Menoth, Third Sphere Angel - scoffed in amusement. "I swear you're like Rendell and Mister Rogers had the Ken doll of Pitspawn for a baby, Al. One day you'll be just slightly less reasonable and they'll think you're about to bust down the doors."
Allocer parted with a very human and very warm cackle. "That's because I'm from the section of Pride's wastes that sharing multiple arcane thoroughfares with Canadian Warlocks. If I ever knock you out, I'll write a formal complaint first and then spend fifteen minutes apologizing for spewing Hellfire on you."
Walt groaned and rolled his eyes, something like a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. "Alright, okay - let's get Mister Unsung Hero his court-sanctioned constitutional, and then we're tackling the serious issue of Canadian demons on the way back. If we reach the temple garden without our legs screaming for release, I'm putting in a reccomendation with Oberman."
Allocer's dark eyes lit up. "A computer?!" he asked, a shred of anticipation touching his voice. Manny nodded. "No network access, but I can convince Security they can start screening for dailies. Doc Cerebro's agreed to curate a selection of software, files and games. We'll pass a portable SSD back and forth."
The former commander looked like suppressing his grin would be difficult. "I don't mind," he said, "all I want is a word-processing program!
- So which deal did you take?" asked Walt, watching as Allocer stretched his legs and did his best to ignore the passing onlookers.
"Mother Jones," replied Allocer with a grunt as he carefully pulled his knee back. "Trans-planar political commentary in collumn form. For now, they're looking for an insider's perspective on Pride's many, many failings, almost begging me to make parallels between the Black Goat's court and the Supreme Court under President Jones' last mandate... A lot of old, undying money had sunk its teeth in the judicial system - not all of it especially Progressive. The Goat tore out a good few of these fangs when he blew the country apart - and then treated a few of them to an exxagerated version of their own agenda. It at least showed a few dragons and vampires that there's limits to being self-serving and self-gratifying in a society like ours-"
He couldn't finish, as Valtiel launched into a short, if intense sprint for a few steps, forcing the wristbands into action. They glowed blue, Allocer's legs reacting as though he'd been pulled along by an invisible cord. Anger bloomed across his features for a micro-second, immediately trading places for a rueful look of amusement. What had begun as a disciplinary measure was now more of a teasing gesture than anything else - at least judging by how the disgraced demon's teeth showed.
"Every time, huh?!" he said, then finding his pace and falling in near-lockstep with the two angels.
Walt shrugged as his legs pumped. "Just getting you used to the inevitable Questions period, once you do publish that book and read an excerpt in public..."
* * *
Shen Long's own exercise regimen looked less impactful to the untrained eye, but it required as much of him as any sprint. Slow, measured Taijiquan stances were assumed and then transitioned out of, his breath measured so that every intake of air would last for the entirety of the shifting stance. Eyes closed, he carefully rediscovered his muscular capacity and tested his sense of balance, making mental notes whenever the price he'd paid for the city's defense reared its ugly head: a spasm here, an errant twitch there, and a vague pall of chronic fatigue that covered his every move. He'd slept nine hours last night but still felt slightly peaked, and he knew from experience that the exhaustion would progress over the day. He'd never needed naps before and now relished his mid-afternoon hours in the darkness of his covers, knowing he'd need them for the Sons' training drills in the afternoon. He also had other students, now, and other talents to foster that had little in common with a gaggle of motivated Chinese and Japanese Americans all invested with the goal of protecting their loved ones from rogue gang members or the occasional abusive cop. Miranda needed no introduction, of course, but a few in the Legion of Burning Suns had taken interest in his skills, along with Paimon and, surprisingly, Herbert Wormsworth. The former Pride Knight sought counsel to help quell his lasting anger and shame, while the Pride lawyer had begun seeking lessons after realizing that no amount of perceived self-worth could protect from strikes you didn't see coming. Mindfulness, the demon claimed, was also a useful exercise in his approaching humility.
His mind having wandered, the dragon's sense of balance shifted. Vertigo briefly clutched at his chest, instinctive fear rising as the White dragon junior's voice sounded.
"Excuse me, sir?"
The Eastern dragon's feet slid into position on the ground, and he managed to conceal his needing to shift his centre of gravity by placing his arms up against his back. You would've needed a supernatural being's eyes to have noticed the near-stumble, but it was there.
"Yes, Richard?
- It's just - your secretary would've liked to remind you you have appointments booked for today. You've got Allocer in a few minutes.
- Yes," calmly nodded the dragon. "I know today is Wednesday, Richard. I was only almost killed by demons, you know. I'm still here up there," he said, then tapping his own skull with a finger. I had my calls screened so I could practice my routine, there is little need for anyone to worry."
Richard nodded. "Is your balance back?
- I won't fall down walking, if that's what you mean," replied Shen, chuckling as he did. "There are a few stances I won't be able to assume again, however - at least not for several months. My right shoulder, left thigh and right knee still feel tender. It won't be ideal for Miranda, but it is what it is..."
The junior nodded and then licked his lips. "What's it like?" he then asked. "Teaching a Prince, I mean."
The dragon's lips parted in a silent ah of both amusement and understanding, and he turned to his spacious kitchen nook to brew himself some tea. "I'm not sure this is exactly metaphorical," he replied, "but Wormsworth seems to follow my lead in removing his crown, before we begin. I've taught him to ground his Ego in the same way I might ask of someone with chronic pain who comes to me for Reiki; he knows no-one in my dojo will ever attempt to claim what was sworn to him."
He shrugged lightly as he poured water inside his kettle. "I'm not even sure anyone could. With Rhandamantus having sworn him in, Herbert Wormsworth is as incontestably of Pride as the Black Goat is.
- How's he doing, without it?"
Shen Long shrugged lightly. "I don't concern myself with this creature. Buddha says I should have pity to spare, but I have no contempt, at least. I would suggest asking Miranda or Aspasia, once they arrive."
Ricky glanced about. "How do you think he's doing, then?"
By that point, the dragon had caught on. Richard Kwai's father was in the HPD, and his father's partner was a certain lieutenant named Claire Redding - also known as Clarimonde, formerly of Valefor's stables. Mrs. Kwai stated that Miss. Redding had been nothing but charming, but she'd been an unaffiliated Wrath operative during the war, striking back against a Vice that she felt was acting without due cause. In her mind's eye, the only ones who would've been worthy to petition Wrath were the mortal and supernatural resistance. Her anger was cold, easily clothed in smiles and affected human warmth, her people skills approached a succubi's - but she was of the outspoken minority that believed that Pride should have been obliterated outright.
The boy was afraid his father's new partner would see him as a tool to be used, then. Considering, Long made an effort and withdrew in his thoughts for a moment. How would it be, he wondered, to be of Pride and to have none of it?
"It must be difficult," he then conceded. "Punishments are never meant to be easy. Mister Wormsworth tells me the Goat makes for a pitiable sight during his visits. Fallen grandeur and hubris made flesh, as though something in his mind were unable to grasp just how indigent he has become. He still acts as though he were powerful and then breaks down when magic and Hellfire both fail to answer his call.
Wrath's circlets were destroyed, Valefor himself reduced to one of Grimley's clowns, and all that is left of Pride's aristocracy now openly works with us. The Goat is, for all intents and purposes, alone."