Reappearance

[Slate Morrison]

Friday, November 16th, 2018.
A few hours off the coast of New York in stormy seas.
Atlantic Ocean: 36.270812, -58.398122

PLOT THREAD

The ship’s bow rolled with the growing swells, a titanic, undulating seascape dwarfing the fishing trawler. Violet eyes, their intensity rivalled only by the vibrancy of the Nevus’ glow stared into the swaying blackness. They saw everything. The gathering storm to the north. The steady rise and fall of the waves as the trawler plummeted and climbed massive bodies of water.

Pushing a stray lock of hair from an eye fingers traced down to his chin, stroking the smooth, pale skin while studying the instruments. The hand fell, a digit moving across the labels as he translated the French text flashing on the radar screen. They were close now. After more than a week at sea Slate was ready to feel land beneath his feet.

[atticus]We there yet?[/atticus] A deep voice resonated from behind.

Slate tossed a smirk over his thick shoulder, glancing at the vessel’s only other crew member. A tall Nordic man far larger than himself, leaning in the doorway, filling it, pale blonde hair flowing in the wind. Curiously, his chin was as hairless as his own. Often a time-telling feature among men their chins weren’t at all heavy with the beards typical of a seafaring men, but then neither had bore a single whisker since the Resonance of 2010.

Pulling out a pack of cigarillos Slate shook one out and slipped the plastic filter between his teeth. [slate]Thought you were gonna get some shut eye?[/slate] he replied before striking a match. The bridge was quickly permeated with the sweet, smoky scent Atticus Gale had come to associate with the gruff detective.

The taller man tentatively strode to the starboard side window, his eyes taking on an strange blueish glow as he peered out into the black of the night. [atticus]I don’t know how in the hell you do it.[/atticus] he conceded, [atticus]How ‘bout I take the helm.[/atticus]

[slate]Yeah, I don’t feel much like ending up in Greenland.[/slate] Slate jabbed.

The big Nord grinned. [atticus]I went off course once. A few degrees.[/atticus] he admitted with an animated shrug of his bowling ball shoulders beneath the bright yellow slicker.

Slate stood silent, unconvinced, eyes trained on the bow as it swung up toward the starry sky and plummeted into a dark watery valley. Perhaps he might have handed over the wheel in calmer seas. Not that either of them had much nautical experience, his own amounted to their week of travel but being more mechanically inclined Slate had developed a feel for the ship. That, and after having to repair the engine a few times he felt we was entitled to ‘captain’ the ship. His ‘number one’ didn’t seem to care much either way. His desire to steer the ship had been more of a polite offer. Slate had been at the helm for a straight six hours, pressing for the mainland. Atticus was just as anxious to get home but the difference of a day or two didn’t matter much to him. Rations were low but still enough to get buy for a few more days before they’d have to start worrying. Not that Slate would bat an eye at the crisis. Few things rattled the man’s cage. He was as tough as they came, which is why there had been no one else Atticus could have depended on more.

Looking back, Atticus couldn’t believe how much time had passed. It was almost a year ago that he’d received the news back in October; a ransom demand for his friend and boss, Karl Reinhardt and his immediate supervisor, Lyric Locklin. During a conference in Paris, France the two high profile officers of the New World Defense Division were abducted by a known terrorist organization calling themselves ‘The Fourth Regime’. The moment they took them their fates had been sealed. The NWDD had strict policies when dealing with terrorists, they never negotiated. Every officer of the Division was aware of this and knew the risks of taking up the shield but Atticus wasn’t about to write off his friend, nor was Director Primus Starling. That’s when she contacted him.

Sasha Starling knew Atticus, knew what he was and what he could do. Aware of the close relationship he and Karl shared she offered him the opportunity to accompany a elite team that specialized in these kinds of situations. He jumped at the opportunity but wasn’t so foolhardy as to think he’d make a profound difference. Despite all skill and ability he was no soldier but it just so happened he knew a guy that could even the odds in any battle.

Slate was at home when the call came. It’d been months since he’d heard from Atticus. For a while the two had made it a habit to get together every few weeks for a beer and shoot the shit, but then, as was his custom, Gale up and fell off the map. He obviously needed something to which Morrison was inclined to agree to. ‘Guess he should’a asked a few more questions first.’ This was a little more than dealing with gangs and street punks. The terrorist kidnapping of two corporate big-wigs was some major international shit to get into. Slate had to take a leave of absence from the force, which was arranged by the NWDD, he was even deputized into the organization, given a badge and rank.

[slate]Shit. You’re gonna fuck’n owe me for this.[/slate] Slate reminded his ‘acquaintance’ before getting on the plane. He disdained the military and it was pretty obvious the feelings were mutual.

Atticus simply nodded in compliance. ‘He sure was.’ The others already onboard weren’t so convinced. Hard nosed soldiers, all of seven of them former special forces. They sized up their excess baggage in a matter of moments. The bigger one, ‘the beach-bodybuilder’ wouldn’t last two seconds in a fire fight and the cop was nothing more than a liability. If it had been up to them they’d have tossed their asses out of the plane at ten thousand feet; maybe if they were feeling generous they’d kick a parachute after them. The orders, however, came straight from the top so they were stuck with the two pretty boys and made their discontentment over the whole situation apparent through the entire flight.

Many hours later the unmarked dark grey coloured cargo jet touched down on a remote runway off the coast of France. There they were met by other military types, loaded into transports and taken to a New World Defense Division base just outside of Paris. It was there that the briefing took place and it turned out that they knew where Reinhardt and Locklin were being held. It all seemed a little too convenient for Slate but Atticus managed to convince the guy that he was just being paranoid.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Water washed across the deck as the sea grew more turbulent, violently rocking the trawler. Slate fought to keep his balance while Atticus seemed to defy the laws of gravity and maintain his posture.

[slate]Shit. You might wanna be take’n the high road there Doc.[/slate] Slate suggested, chewing down hard on the cigarillo’s plastic filter.

[atticus]Doesn’t work that way.[/atticus] Atticus reminded him.

[slate]I know how in the hell it works. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been use’n since we left the coast. You’re already slipping.[/slate] Slate retorted.

Damn if Slate didn’t have a way with words but there was no arguing with him, the bastard was right, as usual. [atticus]Thanks just the same but I think I’ll stick around a little while longer.[/atticus] The taller man replied with a wry smile. As if he would abandon his… ‘friend’… in the face of a storm. Then his eyes wandered to the busted radio. Slate had done everything he could with what they had, but it was irreparable. They were completely on their own and even then Slate seemed more than content to send off the only friend he had and go it alone. ‘Were they friends?’ Honestly, Atticus couldn’t tell. Over the past year it didn’t seem much like he knew the guy any better than before.

[slate]Suit yourself.[/slate] Slate shrugged.

‘Damn, the guy could be an asshole!’

Atticus looked out the starboard window, studying the vehement bursts of lightning over the churning black waters. [atticus]This is no ordinary storm. It’s not the right time of year.[/atticus] he commented.

Atticus knew weather. He understood the complexities of wind patterns, and atmospheric pressure. One could say he had a ‘feeling’ for it, and what was sweeping down from the north simply wasn’t right.

[slate]Can you stop it?[/slate]

Atticus flicked a grim stare at Slate. He knew what he meant, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to divert such strong and malevolent elements. It would be like trying to reason with a Titan!

[atticus]Maybe.[/atticus] The Nord answered, uncertainty in his tone.

[Derrick Mason Gray]

She had been away from New York a little over three weeks now and wasn’t exactly thrilled about it.

 

The last cargo ship coming in from Europe had been hit by pirates, half the cargo lost to the ocean in the battle that had ensued. She had been baffled at why Gaspari had drug her into the conversation with Carmine over what to do about it. Issue was their ships didn’t have working radar so they never had noticed the ship approach at night. Gaspari had brokered a deal for some radar equipment out of Italy. Problem was, they needed to get a ship over there and then safely back with the precious import without any more incidents.

 

They needed a stand-in radar.

 

Now, despite her protests, she was standing on the deck of a large container tanker in the middle of a damn storm. Black jeans glued to her as the spray of waves and thick drops of rain ran down her bare cheek. Her typical sunglasses were abandoned for her contacts since the crew were unaware of her "shortcoming" and the sunglasses were impractical in the middle of gale force winds. While others pitched with the roll of the waves, the headliner's equilibrium kept thick soled boots planted firmly on the deck, arms folded tight over the leather bomber jacket as her chest growled softly at the weather. Normally she liked thunderstorms, reveled in the palpable power. She could sense them, smell them, feel them the way others could not. But this thing, it had the hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention.

 

Braided mahogany tresses hung like wet rope down her back as the shatter of drops struck her left side again, heaving over the rails of the cargo ship and flung by the unnatural winds. Red fire illuminated the edges of her silhouette every three seconds as the emergency light behind her burned on and off in rhythmic time with the static she could hear behind its plastic cap. The statue moved suddenly, head turning towards the left, listening to something over the roar of wind and waves. Hand lifted before folding across her chest again. The faint gesture bringing Chuck to her side, the short bearded sailor clearly displeased at being the fetch dog for the bosses henchman. But as he arrived he was a bit surprised that he wasn’t being told to fetch coffee or something for the drenched woman.

 

[derrick]…second container on the left lost a strapping and is starting to slide on the deck.[/derrick]

 

It was all she said before the form grew stoic again. The older man grunted and set off, barking orders to half drowned crew setting them in motion to re-secure the load. Another lost load and it would be their hides, Bakkhos had limits on its forgiveness. But more than fear of Bakkhos, the grizzled sailor had figured out to trust the woman, she had managed to avoid two pirate ships on the way over to Italy, the presence of the vessels spotted long before the naked eye could see them.

 

Chuck pitched left, then right as he came back her way. The curt nod her way admitting she was right was missed by the headliner before he glanced at his watch, voice carrying on the wind.

 

[npc]…got 'bout three hours still 'fore we make the harbor.[/npc]

 

She simply nodded, drenched form remaining stubbornly on deck as her "radar" was pushed outward, the white highlighted map in her mind fritzing often in the unnatural storm. She would be lucky to spot a ship in this mess before it was almost upon them.

[Atticus Gale]

Slate lurched forward over the wheel, struggling to maintain his footing as he hammered the throttle to full. The sturdy ship slammed through a dark crest, sea spray exploding before a blast of lightning as water engulfed the bow, washing across the windows of the bridge.

 

Atticus shook his head, spitting out sea water as he pushed himself up off the deck. Standing a stern he held on to the rigging as the trawler plunged down the side of a mountainous wave. He focused his thoughts and the physical world began to fade. The ship turned hollow, an invisible construct distorting the bright glow of the winds rushing across and through it’s solid surfaces. His eyes took on a soft blue glow and a calmness fell around him, a stillness in the eye of a storm. Atticus released his hold and raised his arms, his body floating within a growing sphere of serene air. The swirling winds, some momentarily adopting human and animal like forms, shrunk away from the bright guardian. The elemental simulacra recoiled, unconscious constructs to which the sorcerer of the winds knew to pay no heed but this storm was different.

 

The winds were so heavy, pushed aside and kept at bay by the tall Njord’s will as the ship stayed it’s course. Slate glanced back over his shoulder and marvelled at the magic. Atticus was fixed at the center of the deck, arms spread, the center of a calm enshrouding the ship. He had no idea how the guy was able to do it but suddenly he believed they were going to make it.

 

The trawler glided smoothly across the massive swells, placidly like a leaf upon a pond, unhindered by the storm’s violent winds. The experience was surreal. Slate felt as if the ship would leave the water and soar across the waves but reality of the tempest remained.

 

Atticus could not easily describe the plane of the winds. A realm in-between the physical rules of perceived reality and what he could only define as it’s magical shadow. The ‘man’ had always considered the latter secondary to what was commonly referred to as the primary material plane of existence. The ‘other’ within him, however, told a different story; of a realm that preceded what conscious creatures understood to be reality.

 

It had begun. The tug-o-war between cognizant realities, the struggle of ‘self’. How the barrier between the two had thinned, and rightly so. He had never relied so heavily upon his ‘other-worldly’ abilities before. The reason he was so anxious to return to familiar surroundings.

 

[atticus]There it is. That look again. What’s eating you?[/atticus] Atticus inquired as he handed Slate a paper cup filled with coffee.

 

His thoughts drifted back to France, securing themselves within the strong bond that had formed between he and the detective. It helped alleviate the pressure of the storm, the burden of the element upon his mind.

 

They were still at the NWDD base outside of Paris. A small military installation that would serve as the tactical command of the operation. Many members of the New World Defence Division were ex-military. Typical ‘jar-head’ types, according to Slate. To him, they were the same all over the world. Maybe he was right, Atticus didn’t know. He didn’t judge. He’d always admired soldiers. The discipline, the bravery, of course his concept was a little romanticized, mainly from the movies. His work for the NWDD had always been mainly in research, and he now had pretty much the same function with Pharos.

 

[slate]I don’t like it.[/slate] Slate grumbled.

 

He’d been observing the French NWDD officers all morning. The way they interacted with the American team, the careful choices of their words.

 

Atticus leaned against the wall of the small lounging area off the main office and sipped his coffee. It was good.

 

[atticus]You don’t seem to like much.[/atticus] Atticus commented, dismissing the man’s distrust of the military as unwarranted paranoia.

 

Slate wasn’t offended. It was a true statement, but he wasn’t just blindly following a gut feeling. There was definitely something off with this whole operation.

 

[slate]That whole briefing read like a script from a bad eighties movie.[/slate] Slate whispered, making sure his voice didn’t carry to any eavesdropping ears.

 

Considering his actual age, Atticus totally got the meaning of the comparison and had to agree that it did in fact play out a little, ‘rehearsed’. [atticus]Now that you mention it, yeah, I guess it did. What are you getting at?[/atticus]

 

Slate just shook his head. There were a lot of pieces out of alignment but as yet couldn’t definitely prove any were out of place but seeing the wheels turning he had definitely caught Atticus’ attention.

 

[atticus]The Black Rose Society.[/atticus] Atticus repeated the name of the terrorist group responsible for abducting Reinhardt and Locklin. It had rolled off the tongue like a winemaker’s label or a pretentious foundation but this was France. Everything came across as grandiloquent, only now he was beginning to reconsider his own instincts and trust those of the seasoned detective.

 

[slate]Exactly.[/slate] Slate agreed. [slate]I did a little bit of checking and learned that as of a month ago theses jokers weren’t on anyone’s radar. Suddenly, they’re nabbing high profile members of one the worlds most powerful organizations.[/slate]

 

Atticus bobbled his head at the evidence. It was a still a little a thin and Slate had to agree. [slate]Yeah, I hear ya. Maybe it’s nothing but let’s not go into this with blinders on.[/slate]

 

It was difficult to say what exactly was going on but Atticus was onboard with keeping a closer eye on their NWDD allies. The American special forces team seemed legit. A tight-knit group that simply didn’t want to have to risk their asses dealing with two new members. Atticus sympathized, which is why he opted for he and Slate to stick back and let them do their jobs to which they were thankful. It really made no difference to Slate and the French were just as appreciative of the gesture, although from their perspective it should not have made any difference. That had been the first clue, only it didn’t sink in right away. It wasn’t until they were in position did it click that Atticus and Slate were unaccounted wild cards. That it was all a set-up!

 

Corporate wars were prevalent in the new world and well concealed from the public. Even the corporations themselves were sometimes blinded to the dissension and deception underlying their own existence and the NWDD had succumbed to a simple distortion of the truth. The Black Rose Society was only a ruse, a proxy to disguise the true target. Unknown to their Western Federation and Eastern Alliance counterparts the majority of the French NWDD had secretly joined the Mediterranean Union, a corporation attempting to absorb many of the countries along the southern seaboard. France was too well financially fortified to take over, not unless one particular family could be taken down and the NWDD removed from the equation, all in one fell swoop.

 

Reinhardt and Locklin were being held on the top floor of a heavily guarded building in downtown Paris. French units had already penetrated the security so it was standard clean and sweep for the ‘American’ team. Little did they realize that the terrorists they were taking down were actually the only other faction, other than the NWDD, standing against the Mediterranean Union. Not only were they eliminating the competition but setting themselves at the assassins. The New World Defence Division would never be trusted in Europe again.

 

Slate and Atticus, the two unaccounted parts of the equation were down in the surveillance van while the team neutralized the terrorists. The Federation NWDD team found it a little odd that the French Units providing back-up were cleaning every floor but then they were trained to follow order and not to question. Precisely why Slate loved the military mind so much. Thankfully, he never subscribed to blissful ignorance granted by chain of command. He immediately questioned one of the controllers as to why the French units were pulling back and when their reasoning wasn’t satisfactory his heightened senses picked up on a communication to the Paris authorities alerting them of a hit on the wealthy faction.

 

He and Atticus made short work of the controllers but they were too late to stop their team from completing the mission. The deed had been done and Reinhardt and Locklin, the two high profile NWDD officers had been set up as the master minds of the murderous take over. The Mediterranean Union had one the battle but according to Slate, [slate]Not the war.[/slate]

 

The New York detective didn’t owe the NWDD shit, but he couldn’t abide being framed for a crime and left to take the fall. People died and blood was owed and he’d restore the balance, or die trying. Slate earned a lot of Atticus’ respect that day. He didn’t hesitate for a second and together they managed to get their people out, but not without reinforcing their guilt.

 

[slate]Atticus![/slate] Slate had called out as the gun swung up toward his head. The bullet struck nothing and before the shell struck the floor of the van the big man’s heavy fist sunk into the agent’s face.

 

[slate]Atticus![/slate] He called out again but that wasn’t how it had gone. It was that discrepancy that snapped him out of memory and brought into light the massive entity descending upon him… all too late.

 

Fell winds stirred, taking dark shapes, shadowy beasts slithering through the airy world about him. Slate saw them too, misty demons given form through their contact with Atticus’ sphere of control. He could actually see them! Whatever they were. One massive entity, the representation of an angry gale force wind reared it’s lion-like head, black mane flowing about it’s misty body as it lunged toward him. It’s non-corporeal maw tore through Atticus, the powerful gust throwing him back and over the side of the ship, all at once dispelling the sanctuary that staved off the relentless storm.

 

There was a certain peacefulness beneath the churning waters. A tranquility all too quickly erupting into fear and panic as soon as that first breath sucked in salty brine. Pain constricted his throat and sunk deep into his chest, an immense weight paralyzing his muscles, dragging him down. Blackness engulfed him, icy fingers drumming down his back, coolness rushing through his body, then nothing. All was still… all was blue. He was rushing through the clouds, the sensation of air upon his skin. It was like nothing he had ever felt before, but all too brief. Atticus was torn from the blissful solace and ripped through the icy membrane to land hard upon a cool metal surface. Slate’s stone features illuminated in the strobing flashes of lightning hovered above him as foul tasting sea water was ejected from his mouth. Blurry eyes were just able to make out the the belly of their capsized ship sinking beneath the inky waves.

 

Slate gripped the side of the life boat as he averted his face to the wave hammering down upon the tiny vessel. The boat wasn’t going to stay afloat much longer. With a powerful arm he reached down and pulled the massive Nord up out of the water and into a sitting position against the opposite side and tossed him a life jacket.

 

Atticus groaned and coughed up the remains the water in his lungs while he watched Slate secure what items he could to his life jacket. Ever the fighter, the man went down swinging, but down they were going to go. He could have reminded Slate that they were probably at least a day’s swim from land; that they would most likely perish of hypothermia long before then but the man already knew all that. All Atticus could do was sit back and enjoy his last few minutes atop the water, but there was always hope. If the storm let up, there was chance he could fly, a slim one though. Extraordinary abilities required extraordinary energy and will and he was in serious depletion of both. Being immersed in water didn’t help much either, it was a counter element, generating a resistive magic to his own. At least that’s how he understood it. He was no damn Magus gifted with a natural understanding of all this crap but he was trying… or had tried.

 

[slate]Wipe that shit eating defeated grin off your face before I knock it off.[/slate] Slate growled.

 

[atticus]You’re one hell of a motivational speaker, Slate.[/atticus] Atticus spat back, pulling himself into an upright sitting position. [atticus]I’m not giving up… I’m just a realist. Do the bloody math.[/atticus]

 

[slate]Pussies preach the odds.[/slate]

 

[atticus]Shit. I gotta die with bloody, living cliché.[/atticus] Atticus curled his fingers into a fist, [atticus]Just once I oughta…[/atticus]

 

[slate]Shut-up![/slate]

 

Atticus lashed out and caught the man by the collar, fist half-cocked, but Slate wasn’t focused him at all. They staring out into the waters, peering through the shifting waves.

 

[atticus]What is it?[/atticus] Atticus asked, his anger quickly subsiding. He had learned about the man’s amazing vision, how he could see long distances and right now that unearthly violet gaze was fixed on something.

 

[slate]A light.[/slate]

 

It was small. Slate could barely make it out but just before their boat flipped he saw a ship heading their way. A massive cargo ship battling the storm. It was a slim chance, but a chance none-the-less. Grabbing a plastic case of flares before being plunged into the icy waters Slate had already calculated the ship’s lane. If it held it’s course they could just intercept it… or rather he could.

 

He would.

 

Without hesitation Slate removed his like jacket and strapped it to his friend, then before Atticus could protest he retrieved a length of rope and tethered them together.

 

[atticus]I can swim![/atticus] Atticus objected.

 

[slate]Not like me.[/slate]

 

Kicking off his boots Slate’s powerful arms tore into the water, his kicks propelling them through the churning waters. Atticus tried to keep up but ended up being dragged, all he could do to help was lighten the load by decreasing his density as much as possible.

 

Slate was the personification of determination. He ploughed through the waters like a torpedo, Atticus skimming behind. For almost half of an hour he swam until he succumbed to utter exhaustion.

 

Atticus pulled Slate in and slipped his life jacket on him. He was barely conscious, spent from the superhuman effort that had placed them in the path on the oncoming ship. It was all up to the fates now. Taking out one of the flares, Atticus cracked it and held it high, sending a red sunburst high into the storming skies. Torrential rain and wind obscured the bright beacon. Visibility from the deck of the massive ship was greatly reduced. He shot another, and another, until the pack of six was spent. He didn’t figure he needed to save any, if the ship didn’t see them there wouldn’t be anymore opportunities.

[Derrick Mason Gray]

The storm was unnatural, she "saw" things within it, ghosts of white lined living images that were as fleeting as the wind. The blur across her map coming more frequently as the violence grew. The large cargo freight that normally sat as stable as a brick in the water was being tossed like a toy boat. Shiver up her spine was the only warning before the lion roared across the deck from the left side.

 

SHIT!

 

The pitch was brutal, the massive deck tipping to a dangerous 45 degrees. The violence of the impact taking even the stoic headliner off guard enough to send her scrambling right for a foothold, grabbing the front of the loading crane to keep on her feet before snatching Chuck's collar as he went sprawling by. Setting him back on his feet her voice barked over the thunderous storm.

 

[derrick]SECURE THE CARGO![/derrick]

 

He was half tossed in front of her towards the center container as it tilted with the ship, straining the straps until one snapped, the metal box beginning to lift off the deck on the left side as it fought to tumble to the right. Heavy boots finally got traction as she sprinted across the deck, water spraying wildly with every strike of rubber on steal until she rammed her shoulder against the right side of the container trying to make it fall back onto the deck as it strained the remaining cable.

 

[npc]MASON..[/npc]

 

Head shook to whip thick drops from the laden bangs before looking in the direction of her name, lightheaded from the push on her ability as she forced the map to focus tighter on the sailor to "see" what was going on. The figure was fuzzy but clearly pointing, drawing her attention off the ship. The cringe was instant as another flare rose and exploded, her focus causing the brilliance to ripple across her map with blinding effect.

 

[derrick]SO?! .. its their own problem![/derrick]

 

Grunt was thick as the container shifted against her shoulder, boots slipping in the two inches of water now sitting on the deck as she tried to push it back flat. Growl managed to cut through the howl of the wind.

 

[derrick]…. we lose this cargo and I am throwing all of you offboard![/derrick]

 

Suddenly there were four other shoulders pushing against the tipped container, the weight finally slamming back onto the metal deck.

 

[derrick]…strap it down![/derrick]

 

Pushing away she was hit with a wave, growl lost in the roar of wind as she fought her way to the side rail, lips spitting out the mouthful of saltwater just in time to "see" another flare. This time she had caught the initial ignition and could look for the source. Brow furled as she pushed her ability harder, spotting two forms bobbing in the water. A trap? Salt air burned her lungs as she drew a deep breath and pushed even further, looking for the ship that might be trawling nearby, waiting to attack.

 

Nothing. Nothing for miles.

 

What the hell was someone doing out in this mess? Of course, the same could be said about their ship. Hand snapped under her nostrils to wipe the first signs she had been "using" too long, though the crimson trail was flushed away in the salty spray without her help. She should just ignore them, that would be the best thing, the Bakkhos thing. Problem was, as much of an ass as she could be, she wasn’t that heartless. Pushing off the rail she slid on the deck as a wave hit her left side again, growling she grabbed Chuck by the collar to draw him in close.

 

[derrick]… one pass… drop the crane… they miss it… too bad.[/derrick]

 

Chuck scrambled off to climb into the soaked cab of the loading crane while she moved along the rail watching their target. This was going to be like threading the empire state building through a ferris wheel. The crane only hung off the side 25 feet, which seemed like a good distance but in storm riddled waters with the ship rocking like a damn seesaw and visibility right around zero, they would be lucky if they didn’t run over the damn pair before they ever dropped the crane hook.

 

Vessel lifted and slammed down once more over a wave as she heard the crane protest as it was swung over torrential waters, the slow release of the cable making her frown. The crane block and hook were easily several hundred pounds and would only sway wildly in the wind if they tried to lower it slowly. Her voice barked again over the wind.

 

[derrick]… just drop it![/derrick] [npc]Might hit 'em![/npc][derrick]..then they are dead and not our problem anymore![/derrick]

 

She heard the cable give way, the massive block and hook plummeting like a rocket to the dark waters, nearly clobbering the Nord as the slack of the cable fell into the water but was quickly beginning to recoil. It was evident he was not going to be given much time to grab a hold and rescue himself.

[Atticus Gale]

The cargo ship precariously pitched to and fro as the supernatural storm raged on. It was unlike anything Atticus had ever seen before, his glowing eyes peering into the unseen world, both intrigued and horrified by what appeared to be conscious elementals within it. They ranged in size, some as small as cats, others titanic beasts dwarfing the massive vessel, smashing their windy forms against it. Atticus had never dealt with such entities but presently he was more concerned with crane being angled over the side of ship.

[slate]You gotta be shittin’ me.[/slate] Groaned Slate as they watched the large steel appendage dangerously rise and fall in the violent waters. The speed of the cable alone could cripple a man.

’This was a rescue?’ Atticus considered. [atticus]Shit! Look out![/atticus]

Without a second to spare, Atticus put his feet into Slate’s chest and drove him through the water, just pushing him clear of the heavy steel hook as it plunged toward them. As the cable sliced through the water between them both men were violently pulled along as it snagged the rope tethering them together. The crane dipped low as the ship pitched port then swinging low to the starboard Atticus and Slate flew out the water, floundering about like two fish on a hook.

His arms and legs still heavy with exhaustion Slate dangled like a rag doll, until Atticus was able to get a hold of him and secure their hazardous ascent. Before the ship began to swing to port once more the crane operator began to reel them in, else they might strike a wave and be wrenched off the hook by the raging waters.

The creaking of steel containers rose above the storm as the crane roughly deposited the two men on the deck in a soggy heap. They swung down hard, Slate’s limp mass landing atop of Atticus who was trying to break the man’s fall. Then for a while they just lay there in shock and disbelieve of their luck, awaiting the arrival of their saviours if only to confirm it’s reality.

[Derrick Mason Gray]

Again the ship pitched like a tugboat. If the half drowned rats managed to catch the crane lure, they might damn well get killed when the cargo ship tipped back and slammed them into the side of the hull.

 

[derrick]…fuck…[/derrick]

 

Soft swear was lost on the winds as she slid again on the deck. This time the approach of figures in the wind was unmistakable even to her fraying map, stampede crossing the railing to thunder over the steel deck. Arm flung upward as elementals others could not see seemed determined to run her over. Just what the HELL was this storm?! Kinetic shield blossomed in front of her, water suddenly behaving unnaturally as it struck the unseen guard, sliding in all directions. But the "ghost" of a massive animal was unfazed as it passed straight through her protective layer, deafening roar blistering the air as it did not merely strike her, but passed through her.

 

Air seemed to stand still in her lungs a split second before her knees nearly buckled. The ebony star-burst ridges of the old wound on her lower back and gut burned as if the shard that had fallen from the Nevus had speared her all over again. Hand snapped to her lower left abs, the wound felt as though it peeled back open beneath her jacket. But as quickly as the fire exploded over the tribal scar, it was gone again, leaving her heaving and scowling at the churning sky.

 

Shield dropped, clearly ineffective as she tried to get her bearings. Exhaustion was setting in, they were about to have unknown company on deck, and she still had to navigate their asses back to New York in one piece. Life was peachy.

 

Grunting softly to shake off the last lingering sensations of having been violated, feet planted firmly once more on the rolling deck. There was clearer winds left of their current heading. She needed to move them out of the unseen "army" that currently was laying siege to the cargo ship.

 

[derrick]…Chuck.. get that shit on deck already then get your ass back at the helm. I need a ten oclock heading asap![/derrick]

 

Voice had carried over the wind, confirmed by the grunt from the old sailor just as the thump of flesh hitting the deck caught her attention. The faint emergency lights cast a sheen over the contacts, flaring an unnatural iridescence over the sightless pupils as they "fixed" on the men they had drug on board. Fingers slipped inside the bomber jacket to pull the custom gray glock from its holster, the barrel leveled with dangerous accuracy at the heaving breaths on the deck of the ship. Balance was almost feline as others stumbled at the sudden heave left of the bow of the ship, rain cascading in torrential bursts, snapping sheets in the wind. Moisture beneath her nostrils smelled of iron once more, crimson evidence again washed away in the thick drops of salty water, she wouldn’t be able to "see" much longer, she didn’t have time for the catch-of-the-day to get any ideas about mutiny on the high seas.

 

[derrick]…got about thirty seconds to explain what you two drowned rats are doing all the way out here on your own.[/derrick]

[Slate Morrison]

The larger Nordic man rose sturdy as a pillar under the weight of the other draped across his shoulders. Slate’s head hung low, slick black bangs dripping across his chiseled features. He was still pretty worse for wear. He’d pushed himself to his limits and the tremendous exertion took a heavy toll.

Any articles of clothing that might have hindered them had been discarded, the bare muscular arms of each suffering the cold bite of the wind and rain. A novel sensation, each for their own ’special reasons’ rarely affected by such sensations. Atticus surmised that the strange nature of the storm was countering his natural environmental aura and Slate’s superhuman physique was simply succumbing to physical exhaustion.

Beyond the statuesque woman the deck was a state. Atticus was suddenly beginning to doubt their luck as he watched the seamen scrambling about, trying to secure the cargo as the ship was battered by the storm. It was fast becoming frighteningly evident that the large vessel was losing the battle. Then to make matters even worse the woman whom he assumed to be the captain, by the way she ordered everyone around, levelled a Glock at his chest.

She wanted their story. Not exactly the time and place but then pirates rarely adhered to common social protocols, like giving a person pulled out of the ocean the benefit of the doubt. Atticus wasn’t about to argue with a gun nor the kind of person willing to interrogate two men they just fished out of the sea.

[atticus]Our trawler…[/atticus] Atticus began but was cut-off by Slate’s deep derisive tones.

[slate]Half’a minute, huh?[/slate] He mocked, [slate]Ain’t you generous. Dammit Mason, what the fuck are you doing out here?[/slate]

Slate had recognized the voice right away. At first he didn’t believe it but as he glanced up and bleary eyes focused all doubt was removed. ’Derrick Mason Gray’.

 

Of course he put Atticus into a state of shock. ‘How in the hell did he know this woman? The odds were astronomical!’ He could only stand there with his jaw hanging, completely dumbfounded.

It was at that moment there was a terrible moan of stretching steel and an explosive snap! Cargo ships weren’t designed to handle such rough waters. As the long ship heaved back and forth it’s hull groaned against the tremendous weight upon it’s deck. The containers were locked together, creating solid palettes that would not easily tip in rough waters but the force of the constant rocking, flexing the steel moorings over and over had heated them until a row had inevitably broke away.

[npc]She’s gonna go![/npc] A sailor warned, his panicked voice barely audible over the roar of the winds and waves bashing against the ship’s hull.

As the ship rolled to port two of the top containers began to slide toward the captain and her captives. Suddenly the threat of the gun was secondary to being crushed. There wasn’t a lot of room on the narrow deck running between the cargo containers and the side railing. There were only two directions to go, up the side to the bow, down to the stern or over the side. Slate and Atticus weren’t too anxious to jump back in just yet so they opted to follow a group of sailors beating it to the bow. Probably not the best choice but with little time to react, Atticus still having to help Slate took the shorter path.

[Derrick Mason Gray]

The size of the man who stood caused several on the deck to step back, she could hear the intakes of air as their surprise was written on their sleeves. Not the Amazon. Normally it was her height that cowed people so she wasn’t intimidated by sheer size, the leveled weapon admitting she also wasn’t an idiot, she knew her limits.

 

[atticus]Our trawler…[/atticus] [slate] Half’a minute, huh? Ain’t you generous. Dammit Mason, what the fuck are you doing out here?[/slate]

 

Breath halted abruptly in her chest at the first note, brows lifting upward, the glock dipping slightly as her arm lost a bit of its rigidity.

 

…Slate…

 

There was a decidedly uncharacteristic moment of giddy weak knees. He had just…vanished… after the harrowing events underground and the damn encounter with fae below New York. Vanished and left her with a bad case of unrealized crushing. A state the lone musician had not been really familiar with. She had put him completely behind her, though the drenched bomber jacket she was wearing said differently, the cigs he had left in the inner pocket still tucked inside a drawer in her closet.

 

The give in her legs was quickly remedied by stubborn will, locking knees in place as a dark, unreadable expression passed over the iridescent gaze. It wasn’t like they had ever been together. Two crazy adventures, both riddled with more danger than companionship. Wasn’t like they meant anything to eachother….

 

…..did they?

 

Throat cleared as the gun was tucked away again. Besides…. he was a cop….she would be bad for his reputation. She wished that "confidence" would stop the extra reverberation in her chest.

 

[derrick]…..Jersey… you got a helluva way of making a reappearance. [/derrick]

 

Threat no longer a threat she merely accepted the presence of the second man as being neutral due to his affiliation with the cop, attention instead moving back to their precarious haul and the unnatural storm. The snap of a cable exploded over the winds sent her in motion once more. They had come too damn far to lose it now.

 

[npc]She's gonna go![/npc][derrick]..she does and I am launching you overboard with her![/derrick]

 

As the others began to scramble for the bow, she was heading for the rail, map pushed hard to try and read finer details. Soaked long lashes closed as fatigue begged for some relief from either the heavily overused ability, or the fight to appear "normal"…. appearances lost out. Hand caught a line that was dangling from the second smaller crane, three inch thick cable gliding on her palm as she followed it to where it was latched on the rail. The steel latching hook was fifteen pounds of dead weight as she pushed the latch in and freed it from the rail, the cable hauled up on her shoulder as she fought the pitch of the boat towards the sliding container.

 

This was a really bad idea.

 

The menacing block blistered like a white lined beacon in her mind, the pounding of rain causing echo rings all across its surface as she frantically looked for a point where the latch hook could be attached even as the steel cell began to slide towards her direction.

 

Bad idea…..

 

The thought echoed again as she finally just ran for the end of the container and hoped putting her hands on it would "show" her a place to latch the hook.

 

[npc]MASON!...[/npc]

 

Chuck's voice sounded concerned as she ooff'd softly at the impact of the container against her, even having adjusted for the impact the slick deck was causing it to pick up speed. Standing on the edge of the bottom lip she slid with it as hands molested the surface looking for a securing point, she found it on the seam of the two doors coming together, holes in the steel lined up allowing her to hook through both doors at the same time and hope the doors stayed on the container.

 

Hook over her shoulder was manhandled up to force through the opening, fingers not as agile due to the prolonged exposure to the wet and cold elements.

 

[npc]MASON!!![/npc]

 

This time she paid attention, the moving container was about to slam into the far rail of the deck, pinning herself between the two, metal finally rang with the release of the latch, hook in place as she launched herself upward for the top edge of the container. Fingertips barely caught as boots hit the side of the metal, pushing herself harder upward just in time to pull her legs out of the way of the impact. She managed to hang onto the edge of the roof like a monkey on a tree limb, but as the cable reached its limit, the container was snapped sideways, a motion she was not prepared for as she lost her grip, hitting a shoulder on the roof as she tumbled off the right side. She was going in.

 

Panic was a strong motivator. The normally calm and indifferent headliner had a big secret from the entire world, she couldn’t swim…. at all. The free fall off the edge of the container gave her only a moment to find the railing in her warped map, hands flailing to grab the top. Left hand missed but the right managed to make the catch, shoulder wrenched as her weight was abruptly halted by the clutch of life she had on the wet steel, body slamming on the outside of the cargo tanker.

 

[derrick]…fuck![/derrick]

 

Swear was under her breath and snarled as she spun, wrist fighting to keep the grip before she was bounced back around, left arm finally reaching up to try and make her position a bit more stable. It felt like forever, but the form was quickly hoisting back up over the rail, boots hitting the deck a second before her ass did, chest heaving.

 

[derrick]Chuck get this damn thing moving!... eleven oclock is your target…. MOVE![/derrick]

 

Map was shutting down, the clearing in the storm she was targeting might not be visible to her much longer. Hand rubbed over her soaked features as she remained sitting on the wet deck, back against the rail a few more moments before the sound of the container she had "caught" sliding made her decide it wasn’t likely the best place to rest. The box was caught, but it was still fishtailing around the deck, ready to break loose.

 

Stomping several times to wake up the muscles that were still in shock she strode towards the bow to check on the rest of the cargo. As she passed the fresh "catch of the day" she tossed at them casually a grumbled..

 

[derrick]…aren't you thrilled we rescued you…..[/derrick]

 

It was her way of saying they might still all go down in a blaze of glory.

[Atticus Gale]

Out of harm’s way the two could only watch the woman risk her life to save her precious cargo. There was no time to act and so Atticus stood idly by studying her actions, noting her resiliency.

[atticus]She one of us?[/atticus] Atticus questioned Slate.

The man nodded as he readjusted his grip on the deck railing. Atticus had already suspected as much, [atticus]You and her…?[/atticus] he then alluded, noticeably surprised by Slate’s shake of his head.

Atticus' noticeable surprised look cracked the detective’s stone-face into an eye-roll at the assumption, even though it was well warranted. Over the past year Atticus had witnessed at first hand women’s attraction to the man, especially those seeking one night stands. It boggled the mind and admittedly he was a little envious of the noncommittal world he seemed to be tapped into. Many a night we wished he could just let go like Slate, of course it wasn’t as if the emptiness didn’t take it’s toll. He had mentioned a girl named Cassidy a few times. Talked about Adria, his partner back on the force, both pale comparisons to the one that stole his heart. They all were.

Aislin had been her name. While on the run they had often slept within earshot of one another or in shifts., the stirring moniker trailing from his slumbering lips. Atticus still remembered her, the woman’s feature’s, the lilt of her Scottish tongue difficult to forget. Nearly four years had past since she vanished from Slate’s life and not a day had gone by that she didn’t cross his mind. His beloved ‘dark water-horse’ . The wild and spirited creature that had tamed the grey angel’s heart and taken it with her.

She was the first of her kind Atticus had ever met. He had felt her charm, the tether that had dragged many a man down into the dark depths of her abode. Slate alone had been immune or spared, it was never clear. All that Atticus knew was that he had experienced something with her that he had yet to ever feel again. Nor did he care to.

A blast of icy ocean water splashed down upon them as the captain strolled past as the same time hammering some feeling back into her legs.

[slate]Yeah, I’m all tingles.[/slate] Slate had responded to Mason’s passing comment while struggling to maintain his posture. His muscles felt like jello but he was more tired of being nannied by ‘Doctor Do-good’ and abruptly waved off Atticus’ assistance with a growly grunt.

‘A mean old junk yard dog’. That’s how Atticus saw Slate. Loyal to a fault but just as likely to take a nip out of your hand if it rubbed them the wrong way. Mason kind of struck him the same way only she’d probably be more likely to make him walk the plank or something. He just left ‘Mr. Sunshine’ alone and trailed after Mason. Slate was, if anything, resilient. He’d at least be able to function with the strength of a ‘normal’ person, Atticus surmised.

The storm’s strength seemed to be increasing and it didn’t take a structural engineer to realize that it would eventually snap the ship in half. There only chance to stay afloat was to lighten their load but Atticus didn’t see Mason dropping their cargo anytime soon, not after she risked her life to save a few containers.

Glancing to his left, a momentary luminance enshrouding his gaze, Atticus peered into the eerie black of the storm ‘…a black squall…’ a voice whispered, a remnant of past incarnations recounting another time, another place… perhaps even another world. He couldn’t know, he didn’t care, but it suddenly became all too clear that this ‘Elemental Storm’ would not be the first to plague the oceans and the lands. A new phenomena in their world, hopefully a rare one — a storm forged by nature and magic producing a haven for violent elementals.

’What were Elementals?’ Atticus knew well the answer to this convoluted question and understood these ‘entities’, if they could be called such. Their consciousness varied, the larger and more powerful the elemental, the less aware they were of physical reality. Violent creatures existing between worlds given a slight sense of self through, in this case, the window of a storm.

Staring into the ‘other world’ for but a brief moment, Atticus was revealed to the elementals as a being of writhing blue flame. The fleeting spark drew the attention of one great moth, a dark shadowy serpentine beast, a black eye of it’s lion-like head turning it’s attention to the tiny vessel aside it.

[atticus]Shit[/atticus] Atticus cursed lowly under his breath as the massive wind struck the side of the ship, only it’s tremendous bestial roar defining it’s invisible presence to the sailors.

One was thrown overboard by a back-lash of water, flipping over the railing, but then his sure descent was suddenly halted. Dangling over the edge the men twisted his head about to see what had caught his ankle. A steel vice of a hand stemming from the the pillar-like arm of Atticus Gale supported the full weight of the larger man and dropped him back onto the deck.

[npc]Thank you.[/npc] The sailor gasped, realizing then, like all who witnessed the act that this man probably wasn’t human.

Atticus nodded, his eyes drifting to check on Slate who was a few strides behind. He glared back, knowing all too well that Atticus’ peering into the elemental realm had attracted the violent wind or whatever the hell it was. Slate so a lot. Atticus had gotten used to it but the man’s ‘higher than thou’ attitude was still something to be desired.

Ignoring Slate, Atticus turned his attention to Mason. [atticus]So what’s the plan?[/atticus] he shouted over the storm.

His eyes shifted to one of the nearby life boats, thinking that if ever there was time to abandon ship, this was probably it but by the captain’s recent actions it definitely wasn’t an option.

[atticus]Y’know, this storm…[/atticus] he paused, struggling with terminology that didn’t make him sound like a ‘new ager’, [atticus]It isn’t normal. It’s too strong.[/atticus]

Atticus might not have known ships but he knew storms and this one was unlike anything anyone of this world had ever sailed in before.

[slate]He’s right Mason.[/slate] Slate backed him up but still reluctant as ever to back down from a fight, even this one which they couldn’t win. Right then as if to purposely punctuate his words the wind howled once more, literally. Not the violent whistle of gusts but the ominous roar of a beast!

[atticus]Well…[/atticus] Atticus suddenly recanted but all too quickly reconsidered his words. Perhaps there might have been a way but there were simply no guarantees.

Slate curiously narrowed his eyes wondering what the Nord had up his sleeve. If it was what he was thinking it could either save or kill them all.

[Derrick Mason Gray]

Expression no longer flinched at the icy flush of ocean specters spraying her features, body was soaked and frozen through and through. Long fingers ran on the side of the first container she came to until she hit the cable, thumb plucking the massive woven steal string like a guitar, listening to the sound no one else discerned to determine if it was still secure before moving to the next one.

 

[slate]Yeah, I’m all tingles.[/slate]

 

[derrick]… hey… you're welcome to jump back in where I found you, you know Jersey.[/derrick]

 

Grumble was half under her breath though still loud enough to be heard. They sounded like a divorced couple that still hung out….which annoyed her. It wasn’t like she ever would have had the nerve to act on the strange familiarity he bred in her. The headliner had been a loner all her life, she didn’t know how to live any other way.

 

But all that didn’t change the fact that she had profoundly missed his presence.

 

Thumb strummed the next cable, frowning as she flicked it a second time. Chin lifted, aware the stranger with the cop was tagging along behind her as she grunted softly at the nearest sailor.

 

[derrick]… this one is loose… winch it again.[/derrick]

 

The man scrambled to the other side of the container to crank the winch tighter as her fading map drew her attention once more out to open waters, the scowl of concentration tight on her brow as creatures seemed to collide and combine, making something bigger once more. It was then she also caught a radiation off the brute, an energy permeation that vibrated the air around him as he too stood transfixed by the storm.

 

It shifted.

 

She could have sworn it…."noticed" the man.

 

Lips parted to say something to the Nord only to have the entire ship pitch as if it had struck a damn iceberg on one side. Feet planted as knees bent, keeping her place on the deck while the man that had just finished winching the cable lost his.

 

Even as the Nord caught the sailor as he went overboard she was already striding his way with a staccato step that tended to send the crew cowering. The soft "Thank you" almost cut off as she grabbed the man's shoulder and pushed him aside to get to the brute. The back of her right hand smacked the over corded bicep with enough force to betray she could strike with damaging results if she wanted to. The glare of iridescent contacts up close betrayed something unnatural hiding behind their facade, unlike the crew she nearly stood eye to eye with the man as the growl in her chest reverberated.

 

[derrick]Hey!... quit antagonizing the damn things![/derrick]

 

The quizzical expressions from the crew seemed to doubt her sanity, drawing shrugs from eachother. They clearly didn’t see what she and the Nord saw in the storm. Glance over her shoulder shut them up quick.

 

[derrick]…cables…winches…. get 'em tightened now![/derrick]

 

Feet immediately were scrambling on the deck, more to get out of her line of fire than to "obey". At least the winches were getting ratcheted again.

 

[atticus]So what's the plan?[/atticus] [derrick]…for you to quit pushing our damn luck...[/derrick]

 

The snarl was more bark than bite, behind the sightless eyes she was left wondering what he was for the first time. The aura she had picked up was not some "mystical" read of his emotions, she only saw "real" things in her map.

 

[atticus]Y'know, this storm…. It isn't normal. Its too strong. [/atticus][slate] He’s right Mason.[/slate] [derrick]… like I hadn't noticed.[/derrick]

 

Hand unconsciously slid inside the oversized leather to "protect" the old wound before snatching her hand away again.

 

[derrick]… why you think I'm pointin' this rust bucket towards the closest break in the storm.[/derrick]

 

It hadn't occurred to her that the others likely didn’t "see" the break in the storm she was steering for. But as she was pointing out what she felt was obvious, even her spine shivered at the howl that broke the sheets of rain, attention once more lost to the ebony canvas beyond the ships rails.

 

Scowl held something more than annoyance behind it. She wouldn’t be able to "see" it much longer. Turning from the devil eyes that seemed to stare right back at her from the squall she leveled her gaze once more at the Nord.

 

[derrick]… but if you got a better idea, I am all ears.[/derrick]

[Slate Morrison]

Atticus gripped onto a tightly tethered cable to steady himself upon the seesawing deck, the bare bulging bicep marked with the imprint of Mason’s off-handed cuff. Her strength was surprising, even more so, the fact that she was aware of the ethereal ‘stalkers in the storm’.

 

‘How could she know?’ Atticus was able to peer through the veils of reality. A foggy glimpse of ‘other worlds’ in close proximity to our own, such as the ‘elemental realm’. These creatures, however, crossed into the material plane as well and so one with a particular sensitivity could perhaps be aware of them.

 

As the two locked stares they were both bathed in the bright white flash of lightening. Atticus squinted from the glare but Mason’s fine angular features bore no reaction to the blinding light. The false pupils of her contacts remained fixed.

 

‘Incredible!’ He was immediately intrigued at how she navigated so perfectly, her movements fluid and completely in control. She could see without the conventional use of her eyes! ‘That’s how she was able to detect the elementals. That’s how she was able to detect the calm in the storm.’

 

Atticus didn’t know the extent of her ‘perception’ but if there was one thing he knew, it was atmospheric pressure. [atticus]It’s the eye.[/atticus] he clarified, more so for Slate’s benefit. [atticus]Look, I’m not going to pretend I know a damn thing about piloting a ship but I do know that the eye of this storm is moving east.[/atticus] Which meant that it was moving away from their destination and further out into the ocean.

 

[atticus]It’ll give us a few minutes of relief but then we’re going to get slammed hard.[/atticus] Atticus informed the captain, [atticus]So, as a matter of fact I do have an idea. Better?[/atticus] he questioned himself shrugging his large shoulders, [atticus]It’s better than nothing.[/atticus]

 

During their time in Europe, Atticus and Slate had a learned a thing or two about magic, specifically it’s nature. They had been fortunate enough to encounter some people who were in the know of such things. They learned about ‘ritualistic magic’. Real magic. These particular practitioners who were knowledgeable in the arcane arts before the Resonance had discovered that the potency of ancient incantations had indeed returned. The spells of these rare tomes now possessed new meaning. It was a revelation really. As it turned out, Slate being able to read and write Enochian had been able to apply this knowledge to preparing and casting complex incantations. It invariably saved their lives and now as a result, Atticus possessed a few more tricks up his sleeve when it came to manipulating his particular element.

 

____ ____

 

Dark black locks whipped in the wind as Slate completed burning the last symbol of a larger ornate design into the port-side bow of the ship.

 

An acetylene tank strapped to his back to fuel the torch, Slate completed burning the last symbol of a larger ornate design into the port-side bow of the ship. Dark black locks whipped in the wind as he hung precariously from a harness, high over the dark rolling waters.

 

While Mason had continued to direct her crew in the securement of their precious cargo he and Atticus relayed their plan. The idea was to employ the use of magical wards to countermand the ‘elemental’ nature of the storm. A combination of Slate’s particular talents with Atticus’ ancient memories of an era when such things were more common-place.

 

[slate]Of course there’s no guarantees.[/slate] Slate had mentioned being the realist that he was, but he had to agree that if the wards worked they would significantly reduce the strength of the storm in their immediate vicinity. At least that was the desired effect.

 

[slate]Pull me up.[/slate] Slate relayed into a walkie-talkie, the receiver one of three crewmen above manning the winch.

 

Manually cranking the small crane they hauled him up. No sooner had Slate touched deck he was running over to the starboard side of the bow. The seas were considerably calmer in the eye of the storm. Stars sparkled and the bright aura of the nevus clawed across the night sky while to the west lightening raged. They were almost out of time.

 

Slate changed the channel of his communicator and shouted into it. [slate]Atticus![/slate]

 

Dangling over the side in a similar harness Atticus winced from the magnified tone of Slate’s deep voice resonating through his ear-piece.

 

[slate]Atticus. Times almost up.[/slate]

 

Atticus glanced over his shoulder, surveying the fast approaching elemental armada as he plucked the small hand-held radio out of his pocket. [atticus]Yeah, I see it. Got a few more sigils.[/atticus]

 

[slate]You ain’t painting the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo. Move yer ass![/slate]

 

[atticus]Aye, aye, Ahab.[/atticus] Atticus replied in his best pirate voice.

 

[slate]Asshole. Look, I’m headin’ to the stern to check on the other one.[/slate] Slate relayed, shifting his course down the side of the ship in a flat run to the other side of the massive ship.

 

‘Damn, he hoped this worked.’ Technically the wards, when stimulated by whatever the hell Atticus was able to do, would repel the elementals. It was that was simple, but if there was anything off in the sigils and symbols that made up the large circular wards they were seriously up a creek without a paddle.

[Derrick Mason Gray]

Something in the hitch of his breath made her eyes narrow. He knew something? Saw something? She didn’t have time to figure it out now but something about it felt ominous, like her secrets were laid bare.

 

Scowling at him as he declared the break merely the "eye", she left it alone. His announcement was far more problematic at the moment. She wasn’t a sailor, not even a little, but she knew that the eye of a storm was not salvation, merely a temporary respite. And East…. East was even worse news. They were heading West, but if they wanted to stay in the clear skies they would need to turn around and move with it.

 

This whole trip was a clusterfuck.

 

[atticus]….It's better than nothing.[/atticus]

 

Scowl persisted before she huffed softly, water spraying off nostrils as fingers pushed an annoying strand of mahogany that had torn loose from her braid to cling around the front of her throat.

 

[derrick]…don’t make me regret fishing your asses out of the ocean.[/derrick]

 

 

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

She hated this plan. She hated things she couldn’t touch and feel… couldn’t control, and magic fell square into that category. It was one of the reasons she hated her own abilities, while the last year of training had garnered her some control over the telekinesis she had manifested under New York, it often still had a mind of its own, particularly when she was tired and angry, two things she was rapidly approaching.

 

Sensitive ears took advantage of the decreased volume in the eye, listening to Slate hang off the side of the vessel, the burning etch of metal unmistakable, comforting herself that he had not fallen back in yet. Their last adventure, it had been her falling, down a near vertical rock slide. It had been his fault, he had said come down, "I'll get ya on the other side". It had led to an over fifty yard drop. Of course he had done the courtesy of catching her………

 

Frown darkened her brow as the memories digressed to a time and place she had thought she had finally put behind her. Grunting softly to clear her head she instead paid a mild courtesy to the second male, listening a moment to ensure he was still dangling from his own cable before pivoting on her heel to check on her crew.

 

While the boys played Pictionary on the ship, she had the crew adding new cables to every cargo crate, she still wasn’t ready to declare it lost.

 

[slate]Pull me up.[/slate]

 

Her pace quickened slightly to ensure she was away from his rescue point, as if he might catch onto the fact that the drowned rat above was pining for something that didn’t exist. Raw fingers, sliced by metal cables, pinched the bridge of her nose. After the boys had gone "overboard" she had shut down the map, the flood of crimson taking several minutes to assuage, the rain coming down even in the eye ensuring the evidence above her lip was thoroughly washed away. Didn’t manage to wash away the headache though.

 

[npc]…just got the last one re-strapped Mason.[/npc]

 

Hand fell away as she nodded to Chuck. He was lingering, the very air seeming to hum with his unspoken question. The frown was faint as the heavy gaze fell to him.

 

[derrick]…what's on your mind Chuck…spit out…[/derrick]

 

[npc]…. you think…. you know… this thing they doin'… you think its gonna work?[/npc]

 

The shrug of leather clad shoulders did little to calm the man.

 

[derrick]… it's as good a shot as anythin' else we got.[/derrick]

 

Corners of costumed eyes cringed as the cop bellowed for his companion on the other side. With her map having been abused far longer than it should have been, sounds were magnified well beyond the margin of comfort. Though in the banter between the men she couldn’t help the faint tick upward of her lips. Ahab, she would have to remember that one. Seemed she wasn’t the only one that had nicknamed the cop.

 

Leaning against the front of the cabin, her arms folded over her chest, water squeezing out of the soaked leather arms as the cop came sprinting by to check the previous spot they had engraved.

 

[derrick]…. so what exactly are the odds that what we are attempting will rip the ship in half?[/derrick]

 

Most people would ask the odds of the success. Where was the fun in that?

 

But before he could answer, chin lifted into the wind, she could feel the shift in weather almost intimately, but it was the noise hidden on the air currents that truly caught her attention. Wolves. Chomping at a chain that kept them just out of reach of their prey. Frenzied. Whatever was in the storm, was waiting for them…. and hungry.

 

[derrick]….get the other guy up….[/derrick][npc]…I don’t think he is finis[/npc][derrick]Get him up![/derrick]

 

Shoulders had snapped her off the wall as she pivoted to face the cop.

 

[derrick]Jersey…. we're out of time and it knows it.[/derrick]

 

She wasn’t sure he would know what she meant, but there sure as hell was no time to explain it.

[Slate Morrison]

The inky black tendrils of the unnatural storm sprawled across the starry sky, choking the soft pale purple of the Nevus. It was upon them, Atticus knew it better than any and apparently so did Mason as her men wasted little time hauling him up despite his protests.

 

[atticus]Not yet![/atticus] Atticus roared while struggling to complete the corner of the final sigil of eight elaborate symbols within a ten foot diameter circle. [atticus]Godammit! Wait![/atticus] All he had needed was a few more minutes, time unfortunately, they didn’t have.

 

Square jaw grinding, Atticus remained sullen while they winched him up. Struggling was futile, as were his outcries. The sailors were loyal to their captain and her orders were followed without contestation. He was powerless to resist. Even if he had wanted to use his abilities he dared not risk attracting the elemental monstrosities that somehow seemed to key in on his particular from of ‘magic’.

 

[atticus]Slate![/atticus] Atticus grumbled into his hand’s free head set, [atticus]They’re pulling me up. It’s not finished.[/atticus]

 

Slate was nearly mid-ship when he got the news. It stopped him in his tracks. [slate]Shit![/slate] Every detail of the ward had to be in place! Turning back, he stared grimly into the maw of the approaching churning black beast. There was no time.

 

[slate]I’ll handle it just get yer ass to the stern as fast as possible. You reading me?[/slate]

 

Atticus knew what that meant. [atticus]Understood.[/atticus] he complied.

 

Slate cast one more look to the stern of the ship, minute details racing to the immediate foreground of his vision but there was no way to see. He’d have to trust that the sailor’s put to the task of burning the ‘control’ circle into the deck had followed the instructions to the letter. Tearing his eyes away he forced himself back to the bow, bare feet carrying him quickly along the side of the ship.

 

[atticus]You assholes![/atticus] Atticus cursed as the men pulled him onto the deck.

 

[npc]Captain’s orders.[/npc] One sternly maintained, his eyes focused on the tempest, violent waves already beginning to assualt the hull. [npc]Yer brains would have been battered in, boy.[/npc]

 

’Shit!’ Atticus knew it. It was going to work. It had to work. The storm was even stronger now. Unprotected, it would snap this ship in two like a hunk of foam.

 

Sea water rained down upon them as Atticus placed his acetylene tank and torch on the deck and tossed his harness aside. The seamen having done their duty abandoned the big man, seeking refuge in the ship’s interior. They figured he’d do the same but he had other plans.

 

With one powerful push he strode into the air, his body floating, rising steadily. He touched down upon the top of the containers and sprang higher, flying over the bridge, the high winds quickly carrying him to the stern. Effortlessly he glided to his destination while Slate drove hard against the increasing winds. Rain and sea water pelleted his flesh as his bare feet struggled to grip the cool, slick deck. The horizon of the bow rhythmically rose and fell before him. When it broke, the ship wouldn’t be too far behind. The symbol had to be completed, the smallest break in a line was like a crack in the hull of a ship.

 

[slate]Atticus. Are ya there yet? How’s it look?[/slate] Slate inquired into his hand held radio while strapping on Atticus’ harness.

 

Atticus fell out of the sky, landing lightly upon the deck amidst a few remaining dumbstruck sailors. [npc]Jeezus! Where in the hell d’you come from?[/npc] one had exclaimed. He had no time to explain, his eyes were focused on the details of the ten foot diameter sigil burnt into the small deck area behind the cargo.

 

He gazed upon the men with eyes burning blue. [atticus]You’re not safe here.[/atticus] he told them. He didn’t have to say it twice. Staring into that eerie inhuman glare the sailors scrambled for safety.

 

[atticus]It looks accurate.[/atticus] Atticus communicated to Slate.

 

The storm was upon them now. Atticus no longer tried to hide what he was, it wouldn’t matter anyway. The airy beasts lurking in the clouds had set their sights upon the cargo ship and they were hungry.

 

Tank and torch strapped to his back Slate winched out enough cable to scale down to the sigil and threw it over the side of the deck. [slate]Then let’s get this show on the road.[/slate] he answered back, then tucked the radio in his pocket.

 

[atticus]Alright. On with the show.[/atticus] Atticus whispered to himself as he stepped into the triangle at the center of the symbol. It was not a tone that would have inspired confidence. He’d never done anything like this before, not on such a grand scale. The ship was massive!

 

[atticus]Okay.[/atticus] He coxed himself, trying to find some inspiration in the minor forms of ritualistic incantations he and Slate had performed in the past. This was different though. The weather wards alone offered little protection to the vessel, they were the primary components for a spell that would enhance Atticus’ control over the winds.

 

Dark shadows circled the ships, the wolves were closing in. A vaporous behemoth lunged, a wolfin semblance tearing through the ship. It broke upon the tightly moored cargo dissipating into smaller canine and feline forms sifting through the tight crevasses. They honed in on the circle of power and the man standing within it. Swiftly drifting across the deck, pouncing. All moths to a flame. As Atticus’ arms rose the circle ignited in flaming blue-white brilliance, shattering the attacking shades. His body rose into the air, hovering over the enchanted circle an impenetrable dome to the elements forming around him.

 

The slippery metal rope slid through Slate’s hands as he repelled down the side of the ship to rest midway in the support of the harness. While the port-side sigil began to burn bright, the one before him faltered, the blue flames sputtering and sparking like a shorting bulb. Just round the edge of the bow he could see ferocious elemental faces battering the port-side, their non-corporeal forms destroyed by the infused ward.

 

It was working! Wind and water alike succumbed to it’s power, allowing the ship to literally slice through the demon-storm like a holy sword. But it wouldn’t last. Slate needed to complete the starboard sigil or the elements would batter the starboard side. Easier said than done. Each dip of the massive bow was a descent of roughly four to five stories. As the huge ship swayed in the raging sea Slate was thrown to and fro but he had been prepared for the turbulence. A crow-bar he had found on the deck hung from his belt. Hefting it up he drove it hard into the side of the ship where two seams of metal met. Sparks flashed in the night as metal struck metal. The wedge shaped tip of the bar glanced off the heavy steel and again Slate stabbed into the seam. His strength depleted he could barely make a scratch. He struck again and again. Nothing. There was no time, he’d have to try and complete the ‘eastern sigil’ of the circle while dangling precariously from the steel cable.

 

The bow dipped low and the ship heaved as it was broad-sided by a colossal wave bursting below Slate, throwing him high into the air. He felt the harness go taught, the momentum of the ship pulling him hard and with all his remaining strength he twisted his body toward the hull. He hit flush. Hands and feet absorbing the brunt of the impact as he struck the side. More importantly, he had prevented the acetylene tank on his back from hitting hard and potentially exploding.

 

The violent elementals had all at once waged war against the unprotected starboard side of the ship. More or less following the path of least resistance, hammering the unprotected side of the ship with vehement blasts of wind, water and lightning strikes.

[Derrick Mason Gray]

She could hear the big guy roar his protest. He clearly wasn’t paying attention. They were about to be hit by a tidal wave of angry elements, intent on their obliteration.

 

[atticus]….They're pulling me up. It's not finished.[/atticus]

 

Scowl covered her brow. This might not work, he had needed more time, but there was no more time to be had.

 

[atticus]You assholes![/atticus][derrick]…you're welcome………again.[/derrick]

 

Her comment was tossed over her shoulder at him as she half jogged by, left hand a bit far from her body, fingertips extended to ensure she didn’t run into the cargo while her map was shut down. Brow scowled as she heard herself referred to as "Captain" by the crew…. Chuck was the captain of the ship, but because she had been placed in "charge" by Carmine they deferred to her.

 

While the sailors sought shelter, Chuck was at her side, he knew what she was doing as she reached the large crane. They hadn't locked it back down, the top swaying dangerously.

 

[derrick]…get inside…[/derrick][npc]..you can't do it alone.[/npc]

 

His growl back at her was just as stubborn as her own. He was the only one of the crew that knew her secrets and he had strict orders that she came back in one piece to Bakkhos. He was also the only one that knew under all that piss and vinegar was a woman that actually cared and protected the people of Bakkhos and that made him loyal.

 

[npc]….what the fuck..?[/npc]

 

Chuck was standing mouth agape at the "flying" Nord. Her "huh?" answered with a stuttered explanation that the big guy had just "flown" to the other side of the ship. Frown creased the wet brow as she pushed into the wind to get to the crane, the metal cable snapping against the deck and railing. Just who the hell had Jersey brought with him on her ship?

 

The thought was short lived as her name never made it out of Chuck's mouth, the snake of the cable flailing in the storm had whipped around behind her and clipped her feet out from under her. Flipped end over end the lanky form twisted in the air, spine contorting like a cat to get her hands under her before she hit hard. She could hear his frantic scramble towards her, head snapping up as the growl halted him in his tracks.

 

[derrick]…get in that cab and pull the jib in![/derrick]

 

She was already pushing up off the flooded deck. She had been trying to avoid engaging her map once more, she had long since passed her limits, but her echo location was becoming confusing in the cacophony of noise, made worse by the animal wails that distracted at every turn. Cable was snatched as it snaked again along the deck, the sound of metal slamming into metal above told her the jib was being retracted, shortening the boom that might tear off the ship in the gale force winds.

 

Half frozen fingers fought the weight of the cable as she drug it to the massive pipe that was welded to the deck. As she tried to wrangle the cable once around the pipe before opening the heavy latch of the cable hook, she could feel the first bite at her left side. Breath gasped from her lips as she felt the teeth sink into the old wound before pulling free and clamping down again, this time tearing a faint cry from her lips before she stubbornly clenched her lips shut.

 

[npc]Mason?![/npc]

 

Fingers finally succeeded in securing the latching hook over the pipe, cable snapping taut and no longer threatening to behead a crew member. Body snapped around to grab her attacker only to have mist passed over her palms. Hand clamored for her side, tank saturated but she couldn’t tell if it was blood or water, the fabric frantically pulled from her waistband to run bare fingers over the wound, frown puzzling downward as she traced the braille starburst scar that a piece of the nevus had left her with, it seemed… larger, but no new punctures were there. What the hell?

 

Hand braced against the body of the crane as Chuck climbed out of the cab.

 

[derrick]…. you're inside now..[/derrick][npc]..like hell Mason..[/npc][derrick]..I am not asking.[/derrick]

 

There was a growl in her voice he knew meant she was losing her patience. She could hear him snort his objection but in the end, Chuck was merely human.

 

Boat pitched up and down once more, thick soled boots stumbling before she caught her balance, fingers sliding off the old scar as she heard what she thought was the winch going over the side again. She needed to "see".

 

Breath stuttered with the first inhale but smoothed and drew deep the second time, map flushing to life in her mind in time to "see" the cop go over the side.

 

[derrick]..Jersey?![/derrick]

 

Too far away, her voice was lost on the howl of unnatural winds. He had lost his ever loving mind! Attention was drawn to the front of the ship, a change in the way the ship pushed forward betraying that something was working. Sprinting to where the cop had gone over the rail she was there in time to see him violently swung by the cable's length. Hands snatched the steel cord, trying to stabilize it as the metal tore at pruned fingers. There was no way she could hold him stable this way and there was a barrage of tendrils slamming the vulnerable side of the ship

 

There was another option…….

 

[derrick]…I can control this….[/derrick]

 

Growl was soft under her breath as she stood above the cop, long fingers releasing the cable to instead form a death grip on the railing as the soft mantra repeated again and again. She had always engaged the shield to protect herself and another, she had never tossed it up away from herself.

 

As the stampede approached again, hellbent on erasing the cop from the world, anger flooded under her skin, an inferno boiling the edges of her fatigue into something dangerous that she still didn’t have full control of. Heat blistered in her chest as she struggled to focus the release, targeting the back of the cop, if she could cup the shield against him, he would be able to finish the sigil etchings. If she pushed too hard, she could crush him.

 

Teeth clenched as the force was released, erupting in the battering rain several feet behind the man. Too far. Nostrils flared as she "pushed" on the telekinetic shield the force snapping closer rather than moving gently, hitting the tank on Slate's back causing her to cringe as she tried to hold it there. He was pinned a bit close to the hull but at least he wasn’t swinging wildly.

 

Problem was, he would get a minute….. at most.

[Slate Morrison]

Futilely Slate clung to a slightly raised strip of steel as the bow of the ship was thrown high. Even with all his strength there was simply nothing to hold onto. He could only prepare himself for inertia to toss him into the air but then he felt a strange sensation. As his fingers slipped and the force the rising vessel pulled him away from the side of the ship a mysterious force pressed against his back.

’What the hell?’ Slate didn’t know what was happening but he wasted little time in taking advantage of it. He reached for the torch dangling from his waist belt, it was like moving underwater, an intense pressure acting upon his muscles. A brawny arm flexed as Slate actually had to exert himself in order to push his body away from the hull. Water dribbled from his dark locks, pulled to the side of ship where it adhered to the steel in bobbling blobs.

Bracing himself on an elbow Slate struck the flint before the torch and ignited the gas. Blasts of wind and water threatened to extinguish it but the force compressing him to the ship seemed to guard from the elements. Bright flame was concentrated to hot blue and Slate put it to the steel. Sparks dripped into the wind as the torch cut into the metal, completing the sigil. He was almost done when the force weakened. There was suddenly a significant reduction in the pressure and Slate could feel himself slipping.

[slate]Com’on, just a little more.[/slate] Slate growled. He was almost done. Just a few more seconds! That’s all he needed but already he could feel himself succumbing to the elements; the violent rise and fall of the ship.

Holding the cable firm he he all but willed the torch to melt the steel faster as he stretched his arm. He was so close and then… a massive gust caught him. Slate flapped like a flag, spinning uncontrollably but the job was done. The large sigil began to glow intensely, channeling Atticus’ power through it, driving back the unnatural winds.

It was a battle of wills. Atticus pit his power against the unnatural storm, an amazing sight even for the naked ‘human’ eye. Beastial shadows gathered, a swirling vortex of darkness around him. His body was suddenly engulfed by the bright semblance of a winged man. A titanic Zephyr of ghostly light towered high, his powerful arms sweeping aside the black elementals, waving them away like wisps of smoke.

The result was near instantaneous. The winds quickly subsided and the waves about the vessel began to calm while beyond, the storm continued to rage away.

Slate’s bare feet landed on the side of the ship, his intense violet gaze drifting up to find Mason above him. ‘Had it been her?’ Strange phenomena surrounded his life, unnatural forces always seemed to intervene in it and so it could be difficult to know what was real. Either way, he rarely talked about it.

[slate]How ya doin’?[/slate] Slate cooly asked of Mason as he unclipped his harness and discarded the acetylene tank on the deck.

The winds still continued to blow but the seas were much tamer now despite the intensity of the storming skies around them. It was as if they were traveling in a calm bubble, which might have very well been the truth. Slate didn’t pretend to know how it all worked. All he knew was that the magical wards were somehow protecting the ship from the ‘unnatural menaces’ that were intensifying the power of the cyclone.

At the stern, Atticus lay motionless in the center of the magical circle. It glowed intensely, the three empowered wards continuing to protect the vessel after the catalyst was spent. Completely exhausted after his battle he collapsed and laid blissfully still, content to slumber while his body recuperated.

[Derrick Mason Gray]

Muscle through her cheek began to quiver as she fought for control. Had she been rested this might have actually been an easy success, it had just never occurred to her to practice using the shield away from herself. But as it stood, she had been playing living radar hours at a time for several days and had done the same on the voyage to Europe. She was on empty and her body was letting her know it as the fragile map began rupturing making it hard to "see" the cop below.

 

As the torch fired up there was almost relief, he didn’t waste time with "how" and had just gotten to work. That was Jersey… that was both of them. They just did what needed to be done.

 

Hurry…

 

The thought whispered behind closed eyes as she began to lose it. His plea for a little more caused teeth to grit as she tried to refocus her map and solidify the shield. She couldn’t. There was simply nothing left.

 

The shield evaporated first, map lingering long enough to catch the form at the front of the ship hovering like a giant white phoenix in her site before the darkness swallowed everything to leave her standing alone in the dark, rush of air changing against her soaked cheeks. The violent snapping of the braid down her back subsiding as the wet cord hung limp down her spine once more.

 

It was working.

 

She just kept breathing. Concentrating on the air flowing in and out of her lungs to keep from falling into the vortex that spun in her head. Drops of water flicked violently from her parted lips with each expulsion of air. Eternity passing her by as the world refused to speak to ears that only heard the warbled rush of her own blood. Bile and iron were thick on her tongue as she willed the vortex back in its proverbial box. She was NOT passing out on this ship…in front of this crew… in front of….

 

His feet were heard on the deck and suddenly there was awareness again. The drop of the tank causing a faint flinch through her jaw, her attention suddenly towards the bow of the ship.

 

[slate]How ya doin'?[/slate]

 

She saw nothing, but continued to "watch" the bow of the ship where his companion had been. Not out of any concern for the man, but to give herself time to compose before "facing" the cop. Knuckles were white as she continued to grip the rail, the crimson tide beneath her nostrils diluting in the misting sprays that still came over the ship. They felt almost…cleansing.

 

[derrick]….just peachy….[/derrick]

 

His leather jacket hid the violent tremors beneath that betrayed she was fighting to remain upright. Thick unpainted lashes remained closed, any semblance of being sighted sacrificed for the hope to stay conscious.

 

[derrick]… always aspired to become a living transoceanic radar….[/derrick]

 

Even in the exhausted tones, her characteristic dry wit was there. He might be one of the very few that would understand the implications of the statement. Unlike most of Bakkhos who had yet to see her push past her limits, he knew what hours of use could do to her. She still had trouble with her swallowed pride after having slipped into an unconscious stupor when they fought the werewolf. This had been far longer, but then again, she was a year older, and been training like a dog ever since. She was better at it than she had been…. much better.

 

[derrick]…and keep your ass out of the ocean…. and play tag with wind animals.[/derrick]

 

The bite still lay disconcertingly on her thoughts. As the nausea finally passed, the left hand released its vice grip on the rail, back of her hand wiping above her lip to speed along the mists efforts to remove any evidence of weakness. Lips parted only to stop as her throbbing ears picked up the heavy steps of the real captain running their way. Fingers of the left hand lifted faintly and waved to the side for him to back off.

 

[derrick]…using the wards pulled us left. Get us corrected on course and into the damn harbor.[/derrick]

 

Even in the midst of hell, her sensitivity to motion had told her they had skewed off course a bit, if they sailed the last three to four hours slightly off they would end up somewhere down by former North Carolina. She waited to hear the steps fade back towards the cabin before speaking again.

 

[derrick]….Jersey….just what the hell were you doing out here bobbing in the damn ocean with Mighty Mouse there.[/derrick]

[Slate Morrison]

The answer to Mason’s question would take some time and not being one for long winded conversations Slate racked his brain for the shortest response. He leaned back against the guard rail, habitually rummaging through the soggy breast pocket of his shirt and drew out a crushed and water-logged package of cigarillos. Disappointedly he tossed them over the side of ship, hand slipping across his face as he recalled the past year.

He could have let the story sink with their trawler but he figured he owed her a little more of an explanation. Where to begin? Surviving, planning, killing. It all blurred together, the finer details lost or forgotten out of necessity, he really wasn’t sure anymore. They’d gotten out and that’s all that mattered. To hell with everything else they left behind.

[slate]You never struck me as one who gave a damn about fish stories.[/slate] He cracked but quickly his tone turned serious, the events of the past reflecting cold in his radiant gaze.[slate] You and yer own ain’t at risk. Best to leave it at that.[/slate] he bluntly explained it and that was that.

Slate barely felt the cold but a shudder ran down his spine. The things he and Atticus had seen were difficult to comprehend, even for him. All he wanted to do was end the chapter and put it all behind him.

[slate]I don’t know ‘bout you, but I can use a cup of crappy American coffee. Got any?[/slate]

The smile was subtle, the subject change not much so. It was the best the curmudgeonly cop could do, even in the face of the person who’d saved his ass more than once. Well, the ‘saving’ part was subjective, at least to him. Slate believed all things happened for a reason, that there was significance in the most trivial of actions — that for some reason Mason was meant to fish them out of the sea. Whatever that reason was he wasn’t beholden to it but the act itself gave him a sense of purpose. Perhaps a form of guidance.

The sound of static followed by a muffled voice resonating from his back pocket caught Slate’s attention. He quickly retrieved the hand-held radio and pressed the transmission button, [slate] Atticus? Say again? You okay?[/slate]

[atticus]Was wondering the same about you.[/atticus] Atticus responded as a seaman draped a blanket over his shoulders. [atticus]They’re taking good care of me.[/atticus]

[slate]Glad to hear it. See ya in a bit then.[/slate]

[atticus]Sure thing.[/atticus]

 

Tucking the radio away, he returned his attention back to Mason.

[slate]I’ve known the guy for some time.[/slate] Slate clarified, sensing that Mason had some curiosity where Atticus was concerned, [slate]Believe it or not, we ran into each other in Vegas some years ago now. Stayed in touch ever since. About a year ago, something came up. He needed my help, and here we are.[/slate]

[Derrick Mason Gray]

The scent of wet cigarillos managed to penetrate her throbbing head, faint quirk to her lips as he tossed the ruined pack over the side of the ship. The leather jacket for the longest time smelled of them. Now it was a mix of those and her own spice. Right hand still clinging to the railing, the left rummaged in the inside pocket for the small bottle she kept there. Thumb popped the top off as she listened to the rattle inside, last three. Frown crossed her brow as she slid the white migraine tablets onto her tongue and flicked the bottle out into the ocean. Chalk coating her tongue as she chewed them. It was her only shot at trying to quell the rampaging throb in her head.

 

[slate] You never struck me as one who gave a damn about fish stories. You and yer own ain’t at risk. Best to leave it at that.[/slate]

 

Brow lifted a bit over closed eyes. No, she was in no danger from him. The greater threat in truth was her own "family". If it was ever known she fraternized with a cop…………

 

[slate] I don’t know ‘bout you, but I can use a cup of crappy American coffee. Got any?[/slate]

 

Nostrils faintly snorted as the smirk crossed her lips. Last time they had shared a cup of coffee he was making breakfast for her.

 

[derrick]…ya… think I can manage us a cup.[/derrick]

 

The exchange with Mighty Mouse was half listened to as she tested the strength of her legs, death grip on the rail softened to ensure she would remain upright on her own. The pounding in her head prevented even basic echo location from assisting her but she had been on the ship long enough now to know where everything was so she started the trek back to the main cabin at the back of the cargo ship. A hand left on the rail…just in case.

 

[slate] I’ve known the guy for some time. Believe it or not, we ran into each other in Vegas some years ago now. Stayed in touch ever since. About a year ago, something came up. He needed my help, and here we are.[/slate]

 

Feet had paused. There it was. The reason he had vanished and been gone so long. Someone had needed his help. Nod of her chin simply accepted this explanation as enough as they made their way to the back of the ship. A crew member running past was caught by the scruff and told to get a fresh pot of coffee and the big guy to her cabin before being released again.

 

The stairs made her legs quiver but she managed to get down the narrow metal case and main corridor in the belly of the noisy beast. She almost forgot to step over the metal casing of the oval door as she passed into the captain's quarters, hand planting on the wall inside to stop her stumble. The room clearly belonged on the old ship. The metal walls were rusted in places, three portal windows showing signs they were fused shut. The rusted metal bed in the far corner was neatly covered in an army fatigue blanket and appeared to not have been slept in for some time . A second metal door was on the side opposite the bed, it led to the smallest bathroom in history, the mini sink was actually in the metal shower which didn’t have warm running water. The toilet suffering from a good case of rust down the sides was tucked in the corner. When they entered there was a leather couch along one wall that looked like it had come right out of a frat house, balloon style cushions slouched with duct tape in several places. The single matching recliner on the left wasn’t in much better shape as she walked around the "vintage" coffee table to the metal cabinet on the wall, door yanked open to reveal a stash of liquor, fingers trailing over the shapes before pulling out the fat, squat bottle of grand marnier. Other hand slid over cups to pull out three of the least chipped before turning back to the worn out living room. Above her head a small room heater was hanging from a hook, its cord precariously dangling down to the plug beside the cabinet, the soft whir inside the unit spoke of its age as did the mild heat it was managing to put off.

 

She left the recliner and sofa to the "boys", opting instead for the wood parson's chair across the coffee table from the recliner, boot hitting its leg to ensure she knew where it was before sinking heavily onto its thin leather cushion, the bottle set on the low table, two cups slid to the center as she kept the third, putting a healthy shot of the liquor at its bottom before she began to shrug the heavy wet leather off her shoulders.

 

The mouse was escorted in a moment before Chuck entered with the container of bad but fresh coffee just as the leather dropped off her arms, a sloshed thunk as a sleeve hit the floor before she draped it on the wooden back of the chair. The tank top beneath was no dryer, clinging a bit rumpled over the catastrophic scar on her left side. Elbows rested on wet knees, the muscles that corded down from her shoulders showing their strength, far more articulated than a year ago. The towel that flopped on her shoulder drew a faint frown, she had missed Chuck getting close. As she pulled it down and began to wipe her face and neck she heard him drop a couple more for the guys.

 

He was lingering….

 

[npc]…in the push through the storm…….. our crankshaft cracked.[/npc]

 

Voice muffled in the towel as she made sure her face was not only dry but scrubbed of the evidence that no longer flowed from her nostrils.

 

[derrick]….which means……?[/derrick]

 

She was entirely too spent to even pretend she knew anything about ships. She could sense Chuck's hesitation before he finally just blurted it out.

 

[npc]….cant run 'er full speed or she crack and then we're dead in the water….means we prolly not gonna make the harbor for another ten hours…….maybe more…..[/npc]

 

Great…couple hours with them was one thing, this sort of time………

 

[derrick]…see if you can find our drowned rats somethin' to wear that’s dry.[/derrick]

 

Towel fell to drape over a wet thigh as her chin jutted faintly towards the door to dismiss him since he was lingering like a protective father at the opening. As the steel cabin door finally clanked shut, her left hand came up to rub over tired features pinching the bridge of her nose as the right hand slid along the coffee table until the index touched the bottle once more. The glass captured, she slid it towards herself until it clinked softly with her coffee mug, an innocent move of one that was "tired" but in truth she was fighting to know where things were at the moment. Additional liquor slid into the cup, filling it nearly halfway before she put the bottle down and slid it towards the other men, inviting them to do the same if they were so inclined. The coffee pot was managed similarly though when she poured her left hand dropped to grab the mug, thumb innocently on the rim slightly inside the ceramic to ensure she felt when it was full before she overflowed the container. Pot was set by the liquor for the guys to serve themselves as she cupped the brew in her hands, letting the heat bleed through the ceramic into her half frozen fingers.

 

[derrick]… looks like you two get to stay on our little luxury liner bit longer than expected.[/derrick]

 

Cup to her lips she savored the heat washing over her tongue and sliding into her chest. The coffee was bitter but cut half/half with the grand marnier it was drinkable. Hips sunk forward as she leaned back, elbows laying heavily on the wooden arms.

 

[derrick]….so…. that storm something you two pissed off? Or just something leaking out of the sky?[/derrick]

 

It was an odd way to put it but she understood better than most that the rip in their sky was never done with them. She wore the gnarled scar as a constant reminder.

[Atticus Gale]

Slate wandered to the back of the cabin, his back against the wall near to one of the rusted port-holes. As resilient to the cold as his large friend, perhaps even more so, the discomfort of wet clothing was all the same. Atticus followed suit as he ducked into the room, the massive man filling the small doorway, crossing the room in a few strides. The two exchanged a nod, as Slate listened intently to the exchange between Mason and the actual ‘captain’ of the boat.

Atticus threw a questioning glance to Slate whose subtle gesture verified the seriousness of a cracked drive-shaft. The sea wasn’t done with them just yet but neither of them cared. Two hours or ten it didn’t make much of a difference so long as the end was in sight.

[npc]Try these.[/npc] Chuck announced, tossing a garment toward the men. The captain had barely put a foot over the threshold when one of the crewmen appeared in the corridor carrying an arm-full of clothes. He had already gone to the trouble of requesting of the men to give up whatever spare clothes they had lying around.

[slate]Thanks.[/slate] Slate mentioned as he snatched a black t-shirt out of the air. A decent jacket, jeans, a scuffed up pair of boots. He’d faired a little better than Atticus. Squeezing out of the broom closet that was a bathroom the big man sported a New York Ranger’s jersey, tattered sweat pants and an old pair of red coloured sneakers.

Atticus could only join Slate in a laugh over his attire, but he couldn’t complain. He was dry and when one was as big as him it could always be worse. He was just lucky there happened to be a few guys on board with size thirteen feet.

Slate’s damp coal locks dripped across his face as he fell into the recliner, towel draped round his neck. It felt good to be dry. Stretching out like a great cat across the sofa Atticus uttered a delighted groan, followed by a gaping yawn as he stretched out. The man was beat, the strain of pushing the limits of his abilities taking a heavy toll on his strength and stamina. Slate was still recovering from over-taxing his ‘gift’ as well. Nestled in a wool coat, he wearily leaned back into the soft chair, hot brew flowing down his throat.

[slate]Shit, far better than the trawler.[/slate] Slate responded to Mason’s wry comment.

[atticus]No kidding.[/atticus] Atticus seconded, seemingly lacking the inclination to sit up and pour himself a cup of coffee. His eyelids were heavy.

When she commented on the storm Slate honestly didn’t know what to make of it. His eyes peered through the port-hole behind the woman, into the blackness of night, then fell to the soggy leather jacket hanging from her chair. His jacket. The harshness of the person who used to wear it all those months ago etched into the features of it’s new owner.

[atticus]It’s the Nevus.[/atticus] Atticus assuredly answered. He was certain of it. [atticus]Not saying, though, that I didn’t piss those things off a little on top of it all.[/atticus] he honestly admitted. [atticus]Never seen anything like that before and it probably won’t be the last time either. Unfortunately. How about you?[/atticus] he posed to Mason, [atticus]Ever see, or hear, anything like that before?[/atticus]

[Derrick Mason Gray]

She barely noticed the guys taking turns in the miniature bathroom. She was fairly sure her brain was leaking out of her ears, pain behind her eyes playing havoc on her equilibrium and limiting the attention she could pay to the outside world.

 

As the coffee and liquor sank into her gut the edge of the mind numbing pain began to wear a bit thinner; her dry wit emerging once more.

 

[slate]Shit, far better than the trawler.[/slate]

 

The ship they had lost most likely. Lost to what was the question. Hands fell limp off the arms as she let her head fall back onto the wet leather on the back of her seat.

 

[atticus]It’s the Nevus. Not saying, though, that I didn’t piss those things off a little on top of it all.[/atticus][derrick]…ya…. thanks for that…[/derrick][atticus] Never seen anything like that before and it probably won't be the last time either. Unfortunately. How about you? Ever see, or hear, anything like that before?[/atticus]

 

Head remained dropped back on the collar of the jacket, "staring" at the ceiling before the head shook and she pushed forward, sliding a hand along the edge of the table for the cup. That she couldn’t automatically reach for it from memory spoke volumes about her exhaustion.

 

[derrick]…no….[/derrick]

 

The remainder of the spiked coffee was downed, free hand moving for the bottle once more to refill her mug, "forgetting" to add the coffee this time.

 

[derrick]…wasn’t a storm so much as a frenzied stampede.[/derrick]

 

Long fingers that were finally losing their blue hue pinched the bridge of her nose before she set the cup down and pushed out of the chair, arms crossing to grab the sides of the dripping tank, gray fabric pulled off as she moved to the cabinet, nothing but bare skin beneath. The headliner had an abysmal lack of understanding of visual modesty. The only reason the guys were not getting a rated R show was she was facing the cabinet and rummaging for a new shirt. Every movement rippled the cut of muscles through her shoulders and lower back, marred by the catastrophic scar on the left side. Her lower back had the larger entry wound, the raised sunburst where she had been clearly impaled by something large tinted on the ridges like a tribal war-painting, the stain left behind by the chunk of the Nevus that had skewered her. Arms slid into the soft black t-shirt, wet rope of mahogany pulled out of the neck as she continued, rummaging for a pair of pants.

 

[derrick]…last time I heard anything remotely close to that was the monster influx in New York little over a year ago.[/derrick]

 

It had been the last time she had seen the cop too. But right now it was the memory of the caterwauling she had heard that night, far in the distance that had her frowning as right toes stepped on the heel of the left boot to pull it off, the left following suit. Fingers were unsnapping the button on her saturated jeans as she continued.

 

[derrick]… there was this horrible sound on the winds, like hundreds of animals wailing. Then came the monster in the harbor, the flying creature people called a dragon and the three headed dog in the club district…. it was a sound that seemed to hail their arrival.[/derrick]

 

Wet jeans slopped to the floor, the pale gray boy shorts dry enough having been protected by the leather jacket and the jeans that she didn’t bother to discard them before pulling on a dry pair of jeans, wriggling them up over damp long legs before turning around while zipping them shut. Knee hit the chair as she came back, faint growl murmuring in her tired chest before a hand snapped onto the back of the chair and shifted it before falling into its arms once more. Leaning forward to grab her cup of straight Marnier she rested her elbows on dry knees, frowning into the cup, lashes barely open.

 

[derrick]The sound was distant, for all I know… it came from out here….[/derrick]

 

This train of thought was heading somewhere dangerous. Cup came to her lips, the deep amber vanishing over her lips before she reached for the bottle again, pain killers and liquor finally beginning to dim the anquish in her head.

 

[derrick]… could be… something big is coming again.[/derrick]

[Atticus Gale]

Sparkling eyes concealing all those years behind them languidly followed the woman as she casually disrobed. Momentarily they flicked to Slate to find him lost in the depths of his coffee cup before returning to their distraction. The vicious marring running across her back had caught the doctor’s attention. It would have taken a tremendous impact to cause such a scar, the spiral shape of the entry and what he assumed to be the exit site painting a gruesome picture. He wondered if his partner-in-crime was aware of it, the man was at best indifferent to it all, those unnatural eyes staring out across some distant plane.

Atticus admired her physique. He had always preferred the firmness of brawn to sharp boney angles but now his eyes were beginning to linger. As objectivity began to fade he politely averted his gaze and focused all thought on her words.

[atticus]Hailed their arrival?[/atticus] Atticus pondered. Like the trumpets of Angels in Revelation, he considered. In the ‘Christian World’ it was a natural parallel. Though he himself wasn’t one to defer to religion for answers he still believed there to be some form of truth to the myths. Perhaps therein was the answer.

Atticus looked to the creature whose very existence provided credibility to the biblical metaphor. [atticus]Could this be some kind of ‘reappearance’?[/atticus] he posed to Slate.

Drawing his violet gaze from the inky black of the cup, Slate cast his friend a curious look and shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea. Atticus was always trying to tap into that ‘grey plane’ lodged in the back of his mind. A desolate place, a reality he wanted no part of but people like him only saw a conduit to another realm, to esoteric knowledge. He’d gladly give him the key if he could, then he’d see… and he’d hate it.

[atticus]Could be a harbinger of things to come.[/atticus] Atticus speculated. He’d gotten used to one sided conversations, Slate was, if anything, notoriously brooding.

[slate]Just one more anomaly in this fucked up world.[/slate] Slate grumbled, discontentedly leaning his head against the chair.

And he was cantankerous… but not always wrong. Slate had a way about him of cutting through the bullshit which Atticus more often than not, appreciated. The ‘not’ times, however, were never easy and had on one occasion ended with a fist to that perfectly cut jaw. Not that it had knocked much sense into the man.

Atticus’ expressive features had become a barometer of sorts for Slate’s more abrasive moments. That annoying look of concern was like a warning bell, helping him keep his behaviour in check. For some reason he was on edge. The stress of recent events no doubt, coupled with seeing Mason again and all the history that went along with it. It was a bitter-sweet homecoming.

[slate]Or maybe it’s the precursor to something. What the hell are we going to do about it anyway? Wasn’t like there was much we could have done the first time.[/slate]

Slate struggled to recall the event, it was patchy, like viewing a scene through a fog. He couldn’t recall the details of the past like others, the memories became disjointed. It was a struggle to hold onto them. Some he gripped tight, others slipped through his fingers, lost forever upon those grey wastelands.

[Derrick Mason Gray]

[atticus]Could be a harbinger of things to come.[/atticus]

 

Mighty Mouse seemed to start following the train she was already on.

 

[slate]Just one more anomaly in this fucked up world.[/slate]

 

Frown tightened over her expression at the cop's words. What had happened to him in the last year? He sounded….crushed.. as though he no longer cared about anything. The man that made her chest flutter then, now made her angry at him….for him. The urge to deck him and knock some sense back into him was powerful.

 

[slate]…..what the hell are we going to do about it anyway? Wasn't like…[/slate][derrick]…we kill it. Just like we did last time.[/derrick]

 

There was a faint growl in the quiet reprimanding interruption. There was something defeatist in his words and it grated at her nerves. The two of them had taken down a transformed werewolf together and he had not hesitated to leap on a three headed Cerberus to take it down; why now did it sound like he felt it was all a lost cause?

 

…and why did she care so much how he felt?

 

The soft growl was almost inhuman as it continued to rumble low in her chest, the woman unaware she was even doing it as she poured another Marnier for herself. Leaning back in the chair she sat up again sharply, saturated jacket threatening to soak through her new tee. Collar was caught, thumb rubbing the saturated leather with an obvious affection before she leaned over the arm of the chair to drape the heavy soaked coat over the trunk at the foot of the bed. Threat removed, she let her weight sink back in the chair again, left hand idly draped over her lower abs, slow scratch over the exit wound beneath the tee that was still tingling from the "bite" it had received.

 

[derrick]…might be they come through the Nevus before more…tangible.. things do… help break it open perhaps.[/derrick]

 

If that was true, it could be that the world could "prepare" for attacks. Fingers slowed their itch over the wound as the frown deepened, another possibility occurring to her.

 

[derrick]… or the things that come through originate as phantoms before they become tangible…..[/derrick]

 

It was a disturbing thought. Perhaps the bite was felt because the phantom was in the process of gaining its physicality. If that was the case, there were far more than three creatures churning in this storm. Heel of her hand pressed hard against the old wound as the scowl etched over heavy lashes. If that many monsters materialized at once in New York, no amount of scrappy fighting was going to save the city.

 

Features shifted to a murky expression as her attention seemed to turn to Mighty Mouse. There was something about the man. He had caught their attention and then there was that split second before her world went dark that she had seen him floating in the air.

 

[derrick]… what exactly did you see in the storm? And why do you think they seemed to focus on you?[/derrick]

 

She neglected to point out that she too seemed to be a source of their focus, or more specifically, her wound had been.

[Slate Morrison]

Slate’s eyes fell to the floor and stared blankly, struggling to recall the details. ‘They killed it the last time?’, she said. Absently a hand reached into the phantom pocket at his breast. His coat was gone, his device and the journal with it, not that either would have endured the salt water anyway. He tried to remember, closed his eyes, trying to focus as he delved deep into the chasms of his mind but all he found was that desolate greyness. He could recall the werewolves, the ghostly green lights of the Vanguard scouring the neighbourhoods, then, nothing. It was all fragmented, scattered to the wind, only shadows remaining. Eyes that could see to the edge of the heaven lost in shade… his curse.

Atticus’ mouth stretched into a gaping, eye-watering, yawn as he tucked a massive arm behind his head. Slate knew right away he could tell, he never should have confided in the guy. The concerned look just made him feel exposed. Fortunately, the doctor was a better ear than mouth when it came to his mental issues. Atticus was actually the one who had helped him develop an efficient and effective way to journal the details of his life. Before a year ago, the memory slips were negligible, trivial things that Slate didn’t pay any mind. It wasn’t until he tried to recall some details about his father that the condition became apparent. He still wanted to run some tests, but during their time in Europe, the consistent factor of Slate’s ‘other-worldly’ component seemed the common denominator. The details of his existence were now floating around in ‘the Cloud’. It had become his passion, his obsession, to document the details of his life before they were lost. The idea was to jump-start the memories with a reminder, but every so often the words were alien. They might as well have been someone else’s story for all the familiarity they stirred. Maybe Mason’s story was there… hollow words void of the man who lived them.

[atticus]Like you I see the world differently.[/atticus] Atticus replied, making the implication of his words obvious to the sonar-sighted woman. He’d figured it out, well, sort of. The exact details were sketchy, but one thing he was fairly sure of was that she was blind before the Resonance.

[atticus]Well, some of the time.[/atticus], he admitted. The signs were there, the strain, the exhaustion. The use of the ability was taxing but not for everyday, mundane uses. No. She had alluded to detecting weather patterns well beyond the ship. Impressive range and sensitivity. He surmised as well that her brain might be able to process the information in a 360 degree range as well, but all that was academic. The topic at hand was the storm.

[atticus]After the Resonance I was more in tune with atmospheric pressure.[/atticus] That seemed as good as explanation as any without getting into the whole existential side of things. [atticus]I think those things were elementals. Manifestations of what we perceive as natural processes but… [/atticus] he shook his head, still astounded by just how much the entire world, perhaps the entire universe, had changed. Even after all this time it was still mind boggling. [atticus]… when you throw magic into the mix, everything changes at fundamental level. Physics, biology, it breaks down, becomes something else.[/atticus]

Another yawn ensued. [atticus]Excuse me.[/atticus]

Atticus wasn’t about to let exhaustion cheat him out of a chance to discuss the ‘metaphysics’ of the world. That’s essentially what everything, according to his theories, had been broken down into.

[atticus]The only common ground upon which science and the mystical can meet is metaphysics. It is within those theories that we will find our answers.[/atticus] Atticus began, a long finger conducting finger waving in the air above his chest.

[slate]Oh, shit. Here we go.[/slate] Slate groaned, head back, eyes still closed.

[atticus]Pay no attention to the ‘pot’ over there.[/atticus]

[slate]Yeah, and not the good kind.[/slate]

Atticus just rolled his eyes. [atticus]So we can’t dismiss your theory, because by all rights it’s very plausible, [/atticus] he stroked his smooth chin, [atticus]although in this case I would venture to say that the events of the storm were too unequivocal to support a manifestation. Those glyphs we put on your ship were ‘storm wards’. Talisman designed to do one thing and that’s drive away malevolent spirits or entities of the elemental nature of air or wind. Those things could see me for what I am and they didn’t like me much because I represented an opposition. You see these things don’t think like us, they’re really not alive in the sense of the word, rather they simply exist to follow a basic set of rules. My presence broke those rules but I don’t think I put your ship in any more danger than it would have been. These creatures thrive upon destruction, it’s their meal. The storm itself was either a manifestation of their rage, or if we consider the Nevus in this equation, it was probably the catalyst. And to answer your first question, I saw a lot more than those few that were physically manifesting into the natural world. Elementals teeter between two realms, the closer they get to ours, the more they began to take on the semblance of animalistic or even demonic representations of the physical. When they become strong enough, they can even become physical and strike as a flesh and blood creature might.[/atticus]

[slate]Shit. Ya, just had to ask. And is the word of the day 'manifestation'?[/slate] Slate groused, followed by a grin that sparked a smile on Atticus’ face, probably from some private joke. He’d heard it all before and for the most part agreed with the lot of what Atticus said. Going toe-to-toe with a cult of ‘wizards and witches’ had, if anything, been an educational. It was partially that experience that made him aware of Mason’s ‘tangibility’ to the creatures.

[slate]Doc there forgot to mention that there are some people who, for some reason or another, exist more in their realm, as he puts it. Makes them more prone but also more dangerous to them as well. Kinda a puts a target on their back.[/slate] he added.

He’d seen the scar. If ever he knew how she got it the memories were lost, but he wondered if there was some kind of connection between it and those thing’s interest in her. They’d both witnessed it, Slate’s ability to see through the veil allowing him to see it first hand.

[Derrick Mason Gray]

[atticus]Like you I see the world differently.[/atticus]

 

Frown was unreadable. As she had suspected, Mighty Mouse had figured it out. It had been an inevitable risk of bringing them on board in the first place. By the time they had fished the jokers out of the ocean, she had already been exhausted beyond caring about false pretenses. But she was also the bodyguard of one of the most powerful men in New York, if too many people knew her "secret" she might be mistaken for a weak link in the chain. If they came for her, it put him at risk.

 

Time would tell.

 

[atticus]…..elementals. Manifestations of what we perceive as natural processes but… when you throw magic into the mix, everything changes at fundamental level. Physics, biology, it breaks down, becomes something else.[/atticus]

 

….like when a mortal wound was… not.

 

As she worked on her third cup of Marnier, she was vaguely aware of the big man's fatigue, shrugging at his "Excuse me" yawn. What the hell was "metaphysics"? The headliner was very intelligent but lacked "book" learning. College had been forfeited for a life on the road, playing with some of the greats.

 

[slate]Oh, shit. Here we go.[/slate]

 

Features moved to the cop before going back to the "preacher", brow lifting quizzically as Atticus retorted about the "pot". They were close, she found herself a bit jealous of Mighty Mouse and perhaps a bit fascinated on how he managed to get close with the one that held everything at arm's length. It was like trying to get close to her, it just didn’t happen.

 

[atticus]……...because by all rights it's very plausible.[/atticus]

 

Attention came back to the here and now. Storm wards? Talismans? Why couldn’t life just be normal anymore? She listened as he explained why he was targeted, uncertain if she totally agreed with some of his assessment. Particularly in the not alive part, or that they fed simply on destruction. Brow puzzled downward lost in thought as the teaching lesson finally came to a halt.

 

[slate]Shit. Ya just had to ask. And is the word of the day 'manifestation'?[/slate]

 

There was something light in the atmosphere between the two that told her she was missing something. Brow puzzled downward as she listened to the cop explain what Mighty Mouse had missed regarding people that exist more in their realm, attracting more attention than others. That explained Mighty Mouse, did it also explain herself?

 

Thick lashes hovered near closed as she "looked" into her mug, thoughtful before the last of her mug was dropped back.

 

[derrick]Ya well… one of your 'elemental manifestations of rage' bit me… so I would say they're more in our realm than out at the moment.[/derrick]

 

It was said very matter of fact. Bare feet planted on the floor as she pushed out of the chair, opening the rusty metal cabinet to expose the stash of liquor once more. The labels betrayed some high end and very difficult to find bottles. This was not the captain's stash, it was hers. She had refused to spend a month away being abused as a human radar without being well supplied. Fingers slid over glass until they paused on the bubbled out engravings on the single malt Bunnahabhain. Sliding the bottle out of the cabinet she left the entire thing open, inviting them to her private stock as she sank back into the chair.

 

[derrick]….that thing ever came over the city…. be pretty damn devastating.[/derrick]

 

Cap twisted off she filled her empty mug and sunk once more back into the chair. Bakkhos was still recovering from the terrorist attacks that had nearly leveled the casino, an event like that storm coming over could really be catastrophic.

 

The thought drew a deeper frown as she stood again, walking to the metal door of the cabin, hand sliding the wall for the cb receiver, button clicked as she spoke into it.

 

[derrick]Chuck, we getting distance between us and that storm?[/derrick]

 

Silence lingered as she waited for his response, chin over her shoulder at the guys as the concern was given voice.

 

[derrick]..it was heading west... but you think we could have... taunted..it enough to make it turn east?[/derrick]

[Slate Morrison]

[atticus]Yeah, noticed that.[/atticus] Atticus commented, offering a small sympathetic nod in regards to the woman’s ‘elemental wound’. Slate rather regarded her drinking habits. His eyes slid to the well stocked cabinet then back to her. Maybe she was just alleviating some stress, perhaps numbing the pain, but it all just seemed kind of… habitual. The cop knew how it went. A couple of drinks to steady the hands, next a bottle, then pretty soon a drink was needed just to stop the shakes. He’d seen before, so had Atticus, but unlike Slate he didn’t judge. He didn’t know her and frankly, he was more concerned with the ‘bite’ than her alcohol consumption. It definitely proved that the entities were able to temporarily break into their plane and inflict physical damage, remaining for the most part non-corporeal. It was all so very ‘demonic’ and Mason’s assessment of their present situation forming over a populated sent chills down his spine. Realistically it was only a matter of time. Hell, for all they knew it might have already happened in some obscure part of the world.

Storms were a part of nature. Unfortunate incidents had always befell those caught in their path but ‘human-kind’ had learned to protect themselves with wood, stone and steel. For thousands of years this fortification had been the equalizer but now, against these things, Atticus wasn’t so sure. While employing magical wards had served them well it was a double-edged sword of a solution. Using magic always came with a price. What would it cost a society that became reliant on such forms of protection? Would the ‘warded’ only become stronger?

The two guests could hear the conversation. [npc]She looks to be moving off.[/npc] Chuck had responded to Mason’s question and upon hearing the news Atticus began to settle in for a long restful trip. Then the captain corrected his statement, [npc]No wait. There’s something… [/npc]

Releasing his finger off of the transmitter the captain brought the strange anomalous ‘cloud’ to the attention of the coppery haired navigator. [npc]Smitty. What the hell is that?[/npc] He asked if only to verify his sanity.

The crewman turned and stood transfixed, wide eyes watching the black form as it steadily gained on the ship. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It looked like a cloud, but the closer it got the more animated it became, a familiar dark shape swimming through the air!

During the pensive pause Atticus pondered Mason’s question and the fact that he was even considering the possibility made Slate utter a frustrated groan. He knew it! He had a feeling they were getting off easy.

Chuck, the young navigator and the rest of the crew on the bridge stood paralyzed with apprehension as the enormous shadowy shark circled the ship. It glided through the air as if through water, it’s orbit shrinking, then without warning, it struck! The massive shade bore down on the ship, it’s blackness engulfing the deck!

Chuck hit the floor as a powerful gust of wind blew out the windows of the bridge. Shards of shattered glass sprayed across the seamen and the captain was the first one up to witness the remnants of the smoky shark breaking up into smaller entities like before. The creatures of the wind ebbed and flowed as if underwater, darker, more sinister than the ones before, their shadowy semblances taking on the hideous forms of shark, squid and octopus. The captain watched in horror as the ghostly things sought out those few crewman on deck, weaving this way and that. The men fought back, striking at them with whatever weapons they could find at hand. They passed right through them while the creatures in turn enveloped them with wispy tendrils, sinking their phantasmic maws into their flesh.

[atticus]What the hell was that?[/atticus] Atticus exclaimed, sluggishly springing up into a sitting position. He first looked to Slate for answers, if only out of habit. The man’s enhanced sense had forewarned them of danger on more than one occasion. He then turned to Mason whose awareness went even further beyond.

[npc]They’re everywhere! Stay below deck.[/npc] Warned Chuck, followed by the eerie sound of static over the radio.

Slate smoothly stood, alert and ready. [slate]The wards?[/slate], he posed to the rising Nord.

Atticus shook his head and Slate nodded, figuring as much. Both of them knew the glyphs weren’t wards in the standard sense of the word but rather components of a warding spell. An incantation reliant on the elemental power of Atticus. The man spent, they would do little good. Not that the spell would offer much protection anyway, if what he suspected were true.