Toot Toot

Disclaimer: This is shameless self-aggrandizement. If you're not interested in how awesome I am at my job, pass on by.

Earlier, I mentioned how I was feeling under appreciated at work. I don't anymore. As I mentioned, I got a raise.

I didn't know exactly how much a raise it was until I got my check today, and, when I did, I discovered something rather nifty.

I am now the highest paid employee at the Subway I work at.

I am the third most senior employee, having worked there six months. And I make more than a woman who has worked there for over two years. How cool is that?

It's not an unreasonable situation, when you know the details. Obviously, I work really fucking hard. Furthermore, ever since I started, I have consistently taken on additional responsibilities, to lighten the load for my managers (who also happen to be the owners).

I am learning how to take inventory and order more stock, and in late July, the owners are going on vacation and leaving me in charge.

I open the store and run the morning crew about three or four days out of the week. And the days I'm there, but the other opener is shift leader, the other crew members consistently look to me for their cues, not their actual manager. They ask me when they're unsure what side work to do, when they want a smoke or lunch break, when they want to leave early, etc.

The regulars all know me, and I know them, as well as what they typically order. My coworkers tend to leave some of the pickier regulars to me, because they don't want to deal with them.

I went on the radio the other day, to do some advertising for the store on a live remote (they gave us air time, we gave them sandwiches for their shindig).

When things aren't going well, even my bosses (the owners of the store) tend to overlook the foul mood I sometimes acquire, and do as I ask. And in case you're wondering, no matter how pissed I am, I can always muster a smile for a customer.

As a matter of fact, in the past week I've gotten like, three or four notable compliments from customers impressed with my alacrity and welcoming demeanor.

It's the end of school out here, and we've sent out over twenty six-foot sandwiches in the past week, with another ten due out in the next couple days. In general, it's been hellish busy.

Anyway, the point of all this?

Contrary to everything I feared in my youth, and six months ago when I applied...

I love this job. 
¶ 7:40 PM

  O Sweet Irony

The day I feel more under appreciated at work than I have in a long time...

Is also they day I get a raise, after some three months of my previous income.

Good cure for the blues. 
¶ 11:10 PM

  Who Loves You?

Yes, it's me.

Enjoy.


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



Jason sat up, his hand streaking to the table nearby. His saber slid noiselessly from its sheath. Subconsciously, he'd tried to draw his other sword with his left hand. But of course his left hand remained motionless at his side, and the second scabbard on his belt was empty.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped down, his bare feet light against the floorboards.

Through his shuttered window he saw a gray dawn; he'd only been asleep a few hours then, perhaps three at the most. All he needed. He felt his wellspring ripple inside him. As his muscles awoke from their torpor, he felt them loosen and then contract, limbering themselves in case of sudden need. He could sense every piece of his body, down to each throbbing vein and cord of sinew.

What had woken him? The distant scream of a dying babe? Or a foe, slipping into his quarters?

His eyes flashed with blue magic and then shone with a reflective feline tint, and he quickly surveyed the barren room. Nothing.

He took a calming breath, and closed his eyes. He tapped the tainted essence of Graymere, leeching the power into himself, supplementing his wellspring. Laboriously, he tried to sense the presence and thoughts of those nearby. Even wielding the city's potent magic, his range was pitiful, just a short distance out of his room. He had no patience for such abstract magic.

Below him, on the ground level, a man cowered in his bed. He was a trader, and he had come to Graymere on business. The Archduke's quarantine had stranded him here, and now he knew his death was imminent. His throat had been a bit scratchy.

In the room across from him, Elyse lounged, waiting for her lover, or torturer, or whatever role it was Rabith filled. The only thing Jason knew Rabith filled for certain was the whore herself.

And outside his window, a spider crawled, wanting only to get away.

His eyes snapped open, and the thoughts melted away.

Spiders were predators. Jason did not make studying arachnids a habit, but he nonetheless knew predators well enough; he was one.

A predator's primary concern was never flight. Tactical retreat, perhaps, but what he had sensed from the spider was nothing more than base terror, with some pretense of webs and eight limbs.

He moved to the window swiftly, each step touching the floor with utter silence. The sound of the shutters snapping open reverberated like breaking bone in the deathly silence, and he glanced out the window quickly.

He saw his 'spider' outside, a small, lithe figure clad in black, silks and leathers bound tightly around her body. She hung from the wall below him, scurrying horizontally across the wooden frame of the Flamedancer. She clung to the wall by her palms; Jason noted the iron climbing claws she wore.

She looked up at him, alerted by the sound of the opening shutters, as he'd expected. Her eyes, the only thing visible through her the silken veil she wore, were wide with fear.

Jason hopped out the window instantly, feet first, descending on her almost casually.

But the spider surprised him, letting go of the wall as readily as he had leapt out. She was easily ten feet from the roof of the first floor, and that was a steep incline with loose shingles to boot; it was entirely possible that even if she evaded him, she would tumble down and crumple onto the lawn, far below.

But, of course, she could not evade him.

Jason's only functioning arm, still clutching his saber, shot out into the wall behind him. He pushed against it sharply, speeding his descent. He rocketed towards her, and felt each of his bare feet connect with a shoulder. They both hit the roof a moment later, but she took the brunt of the impact, and Jason rolled off of her, twisting around. He came up in a fighting crouch, facing her, easily finding balance even on the steeply slanted rooftop.

The spider torqued her back and hips, launching herself to her feet in a single fluid motion as well. Obviously, the fall hadn't knocked the wind out of her as he'd hoped.

Whoever she was, this spider was no common thief. It seemed likely she knew just whose window she had crept past.

She whirled to face him, and he saw her draw a dagger into each hand from concealed sheaths.

Even as he saw her drawing the blades, however, he realized two others were already sailing through the air, their trajectory taking them straight to his throat. Time seemed to halt, as it always did for him, and he knew that he had been too slow in seeing the attack. If he dropped to a crouch the blades would catch him in the eyes, or, if he was lucky, perhaps the brow. But they were a chest-width apart, and he knew with just as much certainty that moving to either side would only evade a single dagger.

Jason fell onto his back, watching as the steel fluttered a hair's breadth away from his face.

He rolled backward for two somersaults, and on the third, he shot out his bare feet. They skidded across the rooftop, ripping apart clay shingles and lacerating his toes, but he came to a full stop a few inches from the edge. More than enough room.

The spider's fear had calmed her eyes into cold, emotionless orbs, but now she stared at this display of acrobatics in stunned shock. It would cost her.

Jason scurried back up the rooftop with inhuman speed, shingles shattering with the power of each footfall. The spider backpedaled, but a moment later she hit the wall of the second story, with nowhere left to run.

Though the time between the beginning of his charge and its end was no more than a handful of seconds, or perhaps only fractions thereof, Jason studied her calmly as he moved. He watched her left and right, blade ready no matter which way she tried to dodge.

She snapped her hands forward, sending the daggers into flight, this time for his midsection. His feet fluttered off the ground, and as he jumped he slid through a clear opening in her attack. But as soon as the blades left her grasp, the spider slapped her palms against the wall. As Jason came back to the ground, she left it, kicking off and clinging to the wall with her claws. As Jason reached where she had been, her feet swung around, aimed for the wall above her. Jason lashed out at her hands, but she released her claws from the wood as her feet connected. They struck the wall with such force that she was propelled forward, off the wall entirely.

His blade sliced through the oaken wall like butter, and the spider sailed through the air above him, rolling as she landing and coming to her feet behind him.

They stood, then, back to back, with just a few feet of distance between them. Before the spider could react, Jason spun into a whirlwind, blade outstretched. She tried to hop forward, but in this uncomplicated test of raw speed Jason was the indisputable victor.

His saber caught her on the left arm as she ran forward, opening her flesh to the bone and sending her to the rooftop in an uncontrolled spin. She hit face-first, with a thud, shingles crunching beneath her.

She rolled onto her back, body tense and ready to act despite her obvious pain. But before she could react, Jason flicked his blade out, a hasty, shallow cut across her face. He knew even if he struck her throat, the blow wouldn't sever any vital arteries, so he did not aim for her throat. Instead, the tip of his saber kissed her brow, and slid down diagonally, across the bridge of her nose. It pierced her left eyelid, it's razor edge slitting apart the eye beneath it, and continued out, cutting through her cheekbone. Crimson blood welled out of the shallow laceration, and Jason's foe let out a stifled cry of pain, and her remaining eye closed tightly reflexively.

Jason watched her taut muscles relax involuntarily, her body stunned against her will by the shock she had just endured. Now, his victim weakened and waiting at his mercy, he moved to end it, his sword striving for her heart.

But as his blade jumped forward, the spider's right hand moved out to block, clutching a dagger in her palm. Despite her apparent blindness, she intercepted Jason's sword perfectly. A spray of sparks heralded the collision as she forced his blade to the side. It perforated the edge of her waist instead of the center of her breast, a fatal blow turned into a paltry flesh wound.

But her steel was no match for Jason's ensorcelled saber, and he smiled with grim satisfaction as he whipped his blade out of her, cutting through her dagger and the hand that held it. The dagger and climbing claw shattered, and shards of iron and flesh sprayed in every direction.

Her mangled right hand went limp at her side, and Jason watched as she struggled to use her left arm. Spurts of blood shot out of a ruptured artery when she flexed, and she quickly let that limb lie still, as well. She forced her right eye open through sheer force of will, and looked up. Jason saw dread in the single, frantic eye.

"Quick on your feet," Jason murmured. "Best assassin I've ever seen, if it's any solace." Of course, he knew it wouldn't be enough, but fortunately, he cared but a little.

He raised his saber for the kill.

"Stay your blade!" screeched an all-too familiar voice. Jason did as he was bidden, and he tilted his head slightly. Enough to see Rabith floating down to their level, out of Jason's window, held aloft on black tendrils.

"And why," Jason drawled. "Should I do that?"

Rabith's feet touched down on the rooftop, and the Pestilent's tendrils dissolved into gray mist, which in turn evaporated into the air. "Because our Father commands it, fool!" he snarled. "She is to be brought to him!"

Jason whirled on Rabith, ice in his eyes and blade ready. "I will not brook another insult, you sniveling dog. Whatever the Pestilent decrees be damned, call me that again and I won't wait seven bloody days. Your head will leave your shoulders before you've closed your mouth."

Rabith met Jason's eyes with a venomous glare, but Jason saw the fear behind it.

"I tell you only what we have been commanded, Jason. Or do we owe our Father no honor now, after all the work we have wrought together?"

Jason nearly laughed in the sorcerer's face. The words, the pleas, were empty. All that mattered was he had forgone the insults. He sounded... respectful. Because he could sense the magic coursing through Jason's body, and he knew if Jason so desired, he truly could act on his threat.

He had won.

He shrugged, though only his right shoulder moved. "Do with her as you wish; she won't wake me again in her state," he said.

Rabith nodded curtly, and his gaze left Jason's, moving to where the spider lay behind him.

The weasel's eyes widened, and he choked.

Jason glanced back towards the spider curiously, or rather, to the smears of blood that were all that showed she had ever lain there, and then he truly laughed.

Rabith looked at Jason with unadulterated rage and hatred. "You let her escape!" he screamed. "After her! Now! We must find her!"

Jason smiled thinly and began walking back towards the wall that led up to his room. "You find her," he drawled. "I'm going back to sleep. Don't worry, Rabith. She's but a small girl, and I crippled her for you. I imagine even you could manage to subdue her, so long as you give it your best." He sheathed his blade and effortlessly scaled the wall with his single hand.

Below him, in a desperate attempt to locate the spider, Rabith began searching the surrounding area with eyes both physical and metaphysical.

Jason needed no supernatural empathy to sense Rabith's frustration. He smiled, and settled back down in his bed. He let his eyes drift shut as his rival's fury lulled him back into a peaceful slumber.

* * * 
¶ 11:07 PM

  Fine, Fine, Fine

Another month with no posts. Fuck that. You guys refuse to ask my opinion on things? Fine. I'll give it anyway. Bastards.


Star Wars

I'm going to go see Episode III on Friday. I just have to say, first... to all those fans that thing the new episodes are somehow a disgrace to the wonder that was the originals... what the fuck are you smoking? Where can I get some? From my brother? Oh, uh, okay, fair enough.

The original movies had terrible acting. Oh my god! These classic lines..."Use the Force, Luke!"; "The Force is strong with this one"; "I'm not afraid!" "You will be. You will be."

THESE LINES SUCK! What's more, they're delivered badly. The directing seems poor, even in the later ones not done by Lucas. Darth Vader has about 40% mobility with his arms because of his suit, and it shows. Even half machine wearing a big suit to keep him alive, he should be able to put his hands on his head. Harrison Ford is not markedly impressive as Han Solo, either. Don;t get me wrong, Han is awesome. He pulls off an insouciance that is wonderful and makes him very charming. But his actual lines are shit. His romance with Leia is pulled out of Lucas' ass.

Speaking of Leia, what happens to the pseudo-British accent she starts out with?

And don't even get me started on Mark Hamil. The scene where he's distressed at first hearing that Vader is his father is... laughable, only because you have to laugh, or else you'll do some irreparable harm to your TV.

In case you were wondering, yeah, I saw these movies over the weekend. And I saw Ep I, and it wasn't any worse.

I get that Star Wars broke ground in SFX and for scifi in general, and that is good. But that doesn't mean the movies are any better than they are. And they are mediocre.

Oh, and you might want to check this out (or scroll down). 
¶ 5:09 PM

  Sigh

Not that you people deserve it (some job asking for topics for me to write about. Thanks guys. And yeah this is mostly sarcastic, I'm not really pissed off). But... here you go. Enjoy, or something.

PS: I rewrote the last Ellis meeting, to include a tense moment between him and Katterine after he mentions killing Maven. Which is why she already knows in this section.

Anyway, yeah. Toodles.

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Every ounce of bone and flesh in Ellis' body throbbed. He could feel the fractures in his ribs as he breathed, a dozen searing hot knives digging into his lungs. Worse, felt as each agonizing breath struggled through his crushed throat. The blood flow from the cuts on his throat had ceased, but still the myriad small lacerations stung. Worse, the clotting blood that caked them had begun to itch.

He held his mangled left hand, tucked into his doublet, trying to keep it motionless. He tried his best to simply ignore the intense pain radiating from it.

His legs and feet were sore; one ankle twisted, but mostly, they fared better than the rest of him. Ironic, since, soaked with Connor's blood as they were, they actually looked the worst.

The sun was not yet visible over the buildings, but Ellis could see a few rays shining across the bleak gray sky, slicing through the morning fog. The streets were deserted, save corpse-bearers, and occasional men or women moving with a purpose, hurrying to their destination, wherever that might be. Ellis moved through the city like a footpad, cutting across hidden back alleys, keeping to the shadows. He had no interest in drawing attention to himself; for all he knew, the few men he had seen were in league with the Al'Naer.

The streets melded into a blur, and when he reached Simon's shop, the glowing sun was just visible above the city's buildings. A familiar yellow glow radiated from the open threshold, and Ellis stepped inside quietly.

Parry and Devon sat, opposite each other, Devon on the edge of one of Simon's cots and his mentor perched on a stool. Their eyes were closed. Katterine stood nearby, eyes closed as well. Simon was further still, and he glanced at Ellis sharply, his eyes flashing unearthly blue for an instant. He relaxed when he realized who the intruder was, but his eyes widened at Ellis' disheveled appearance.

Ellis moved up alongside him. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice hushed but urgent.

"Training, of course," Simon replied tersely. "They've not stopped since they began. All night, it seems. You look to have been busy yourself."

Ellis gave a harsh bark of laughter. "We were... found. By the one called Jason. I was wrong to assemble them... a score of my brothers could attest to that, were they not incapable of speech or thought," he said. Though anguish pierced his heart like a dagger, his voice was drained of it. Dead. He held such feelings deep inside him. "The relic was right," he murmured finally.

"An annoying habit he seems to have," Simon observed. His own voice was no more expressive. "Sorry about your mates. It may be hard to swallow, but I know exactly how it feels."

The old sorcerer was right; it was hard to swallow. Not that Ellis doubted it; he had assumed some terrible fate had befallen the other sorcerers in Simon's cabal, what had they been called? The Green Shield, he thought, or something like it.

What did not sit well was the knowledge that Ellis, should he live so long, would likely become a man like Simon. Pessimistic, suspicious, unfeeling. Dead, in nearly every way that mattered.

"I as well, Ellis," Parry said suddenly. His eyes opened a moment later, and he stood. He and Katterine turned to face the Guardsman, while Devon began taking labored breaths, his eyes fluttering open after his teachers'.

Parry looked Ellis up and down, assessing his injuries. "Sorry, I mean. For what fate your comrades faced. And... you as well. Gods, I trust none of those wounds are life-threatening, or you wouldn't be so nonchalant."

Ellis shrugged. "I'll live for now, I reckon. Makes me better off than my brothers."

Parry breathed deeply. "I have some good news to counter your ill," he said.

When he did not continue, Ellis looked at him expectantly.

"Don't you want to sit down?" Parry asked cautiously. "You could use the rest."

"Good news?" Ellis prompted, ignoring the question.

"Aye," Parry said, sighing again. "Devon is learning much quicker than I could have hoped. We've skipped about a dozen years of training and thrust him into the guts of what we require of him, and it's working," A smile came to Parry's lips, though it was meek and vanished quickly.

Ellis nodded. "How much longer?" he asked bluntly. "I sent the Guard back to get some rest; hopefully the priests of the Three will tend to the worst of their wounds, as well. But those that can still walk'll be ready by nightfall, at the latest," he said.

Parry fell silent. Ellis knew the sorcerer felt the weight of time harder than anyone. He, more than all of them, knew how much the Pestilent grew each hour, each moment. Knew how many died because of every delay. Ellis could only guess.

Parry looked around, at the other members of his motley cabal. "Then we shall be ready by nightfall, or shortly thereafter," he said softly.

The promise obviously upset his companions. Katterine gulped, and took a deep breath, but showed no other reaction. The others were not so subtle.

Simon looked ready to throttle the relic. "Tonight!?" he hissed under his breath.

Devon, in the meanwhile, shot out a hand and tightly grasped Parry's wrist. "You know I trust you, love..." he began.

"Good," Parry interjected, cutting off whatever Devon was about to say. He took Devon's hand firmly into his own. "Then trust my belief in your strength."

Devon sighed, and nodded.

Ellis smiled grimly at these, the saviors of his city. He relaxed, and as he did he felt the wounds of his body begin to throb, slowly blotting out all else. "I could use that seat, now," he muttered, his legs turning to jelly.

He was vaguely aware of Simon moving behind him, and when his legs crumpled beneath him, he landed in a hard wooden chair. He collapsed into it, his head lolling back on the sturdy frame. It bore no cushions, yet for his purposes it might have been a kingly throne.

"Gods," Parry murmured. "I'll tend to the bulk of his wounds later, after he's rested. I only ask that one of you find out for certain that his life's in no danger, and put him to bed."

Ellis' eyes were half-closed, but through the blur of his eyelashes he saw Katterine's expression turn to resolute refusal. "If you command it as my captain, the man that will slay the Pestilent, then I will of course do as you will. But if you ask as a companion, I would sooner spit on him and call it mercy," she said coldly.

"I call what the Prelate received much the same, priest," Ellis growled back. He would brook no sorrow for the loss of a monster, not even wounded and near-unconscious as he was.

Katterine flinched as if struck, and Ellis heard Simon sigh. "I'll do it," the old man said. "It's my bloody place, anyway. Aye, and my beds."

"Thank you," Parry said softly.

"I need no thanks from you," Simon grumbled. Ellis felt a hand grab him, and lift him up. His right arm was tossed across Simon's shoulders, and he did little more than shuffle his legs as the sorcerer began leading him to a cot farther removed from the rest of the room.

"My thanks," Ellis murmured, looking up at the sorcerer through heavy-lidded eyes.

Simon shrugged. "You're no more human than the rest of them," he said harshly. "But at least you don't flaunt it as they do." He reached down to Ellis' body, and the Guardsman felt heat in his throat, where the sorcerer touched him.

"Not human?" he murmured.

The heat intensified. "Aye, that's what I said," muttered Simon.

"I wasn't asking for confirmation," Ellis said, annoyed. "But for explanation."

"Oh?" said Simon, as the heat began to grow uncomfortable.

"How am I inhuman, old man? You're the sorcerer."

Simon laughed mirthlessly. "Nothing a simple peasant couldn't acquire, if he'd spent as long struggling for it as I have. But what peasant could survive the Breath of the East?" The heat was burning, now. Ellis felt as though his throat was aflame. He coughed. "Or look upon the Mother's priestess and see nothing but an old crone?"

This went over Ellis' head completely, but he was beyond caring. He tried to sit up, he tried to cough, he tried to scream. He was burning, dying, and the damned sorcerer was casually talking with him while it happened!

"Or..." Simon began. Suddenly, the heat evaporated to nothing. Ellis took a great, rasping breath, and found his throat drew the air in effortlessly. Aside from the ache in his ribs, breathing was almost pleasant.

"... Heal so bloody fast," Simon finished.

Ellis took another precious breath, reveling in the hazy air around him. Smoke from tallow candles had never tasted so sweet.

It was not the first time he had heard one of the sorcerers allude to his incredible ability to survive, nor was it the first time he chose to ignore their ramblings.

He was a Guardsman of Graymere. A protector, and, aye, a survivor. He was no supernatural being, despite whatever the wizards chose to believe. He was simply Ellis, a Guardsman.

And he was very, very tired.

* * * 
¶ 4:59 PM