Michael's Wish 2009

I didn't mean it to happen this way. But, sometimes God, fate and nature will intervene at the most surprising times.

By the time I had decided to be Michael, I had let go of any hope of being “Mommy.” A cyst happened that October and I was left feeling depressed and lonely. The silent prayer went out yet again as I curled up in a ball and felt life bleeding out of me.

In December, I found my way to a clinic and was evaluated for hormone therapy. They decided I was healthy enough physically and mentally to start injections. Money shortages meant the injections wouldn't start until March. Feeling fidgety, I was finally relieved when I could start them.

My body's initial reaction was gut-wrenching nausea. I could've sworn I lost five pounds from vomiting the first week. With help, I staggered back to the clinic three days later, where they decided to ratchet the dosage down to one-quarter the original amount. The doctor suspected I had a stomach virus and ordered me to bed. I continued feeling vertiginously ill and I was switched from injections to oral pills. I recall looking at the scrip and wondering how I was going to keep pills down. Luckily, either the illness subsided or my body's violent reaction to its hormone balance being upset was mollified, because I felt much better by the next day.

As I regained a sense of well-being, my mood brightened and my appetite returned. I managed to land a contract to sell insurance despite my gender transition. My life got hectic and March and April seemed to fly right by. I did well enough to pay off all my outstanding debts and start building a nest egg.

In May, I got a scant period. I had to use a sheet of newspaper as a makeshift pad since I was between sales calls... and in the mens room. I ate well now that I had a regular income, inviting my agita back. I had my stomach screened but no activity from my ulcer, so I was good with an over the counter remedy.

In July, I invited the first woman I ever loved to come up and live with my husband, my boyfriend and me in my newly acquired condo. I was constantly coming and going from this new base of operations. We each had our own bedroom and I had an office. Incredibly happy, I hardly noticed the changes within me. Occasionally, I would wake from a catnap feeling as if I'd just been jostled or throttled, but I could never pinpoint what it was. Despite central air conditioning and busy days with two sales contracts, I slept restlessly and sweated profusely. I figured it was the hormones and activity and simply napped when I could.

In August, I was seriously considering picking up a third sales contract, but found myself hamstrung by serious hunger followed by serious stomach discomfort. I was eating six meals a day and still felt ravenous. I was drinking so much that it felt like I was in the mens room once an hour. During a checkup, I brought up the stomach pain and was given a prescription for an acid blocker. I didn't mention how much I was eating. My weight had gone up about ten pounds, but most of it seemed to be in my legs and shoulders.

Late September brought me to a more somber mood. I'd come home to her cooking in the kitchen and the two guys puttering on World of Warcraft, but somehow the whole thing just seemed off kilter. I became aware of any faults in the others and would often find myself tidying up and cleaning even when my exhaustion told me I shouldn't. Finally, one night, bone tired, I lay back on my bed and fell asleep without even removing my shoes. I had trained the others that I would allow them into my bed if I went to bed with the door open. Needless to say, I hadn't closed the door before collapsing. My boyfriend and girlfriend crept in and proceeded to flank me in bed, each snuggling up to a shoulder, but I was turned somewhat to the right, where she was. As she pressed against me, I was startled awake as I had been for about a month. At first, I thought she had awoken me, but I soon became aware that she was looking bewilderingly at my abdomen. Now, truthfully, my abdomen had distended a little with my weight gain, but not as significantly as ten pounds would indicate for my short stature. I loosened my tie and unfastened my collar button and mumbled, “What's the matter?”

“Your belly just hit me!” she exclaimed.

“My belly?” I repeated incredulously, right before I fell asleep again.

The next morning while I was in the shower, I felt a thump around the level of my navel. I put my hand against it and I felt another one. I quickly finished my shower, shaved, and dressed before bolting out the door, just barely remembering to snag my keyring on the way out. My boyfriend, who sometimes chauffeured me around, yelled after me, but I didn't waste any breath explaining myself. I turned a corner and sprinted down the main avenue and burst into the Rite Aid. My sudden explosion of energy finally burned off once inside and pains shot through various body parts. My lungs felt like they were stuck to my ribs with cement. I could hear myself wheezing asthmatically from overexertion. As soon as the acute problems ebbed slightly, I started walking forward.

It was surreal looking for the feminine aisle again. I just stared for a moment at the panoply of products. I picked up a box and hypnotically walked to the registers. The walk home seemed interminably long and scenarios kept playing in my mind with hope, fear, love and self-loathing all competing for the floor in my mental self-debate. I dragged myself in the front door and my trio of life partners quickly flocked about me with questions. I selfishly dismissed them, desperate for solitude and space. They followed on my heels up to my bedroom. I shut the door.

I slowly opened the box and read the instructions, fully aware that I was stalling the inevitable. It wasn't that hard to use. I could hear the three of them talking outside my door. I retreated to my en suite bathroom and used the test. I felt three flutters while waiting for it to develop. I didn't look at it until the time limit was up. Ten minutes after urinating, I opened the door and looked at the three people with whom I was in love and stated as plainly as my nerves would let me, “I'm pregnant.”

At the clinic they weren't immediately sure whether they should believe me. But, when I mentioned the movements I felt in my abdomen, they decided to rule out other things first and gave me an ultrasound. No sooner had the wand been placed on my abdomen, when a distinctive 'paw...paw...paw' sound could be heard – a fetal heartbeat. My response was less than dignified; I suddenly burst into tears. Afterwards, I had to reassure my treatment team that I wasn't despondent and I was definitely keeping the child. I then had to convince them that I still saw myself as a man, just that I was now a pregnant man. I had wanted this so badly after three miscarriages, I hadn't dared to hope anymore. Masculinity wasn't something I wanted. It was merely what I was.

I was immediately taken off of hormones. An amnio was performed and I was subjected to several other tests. They estimated I was twenty-six weeks. My gynecologist sought out a trans-sensitive obstetrics team for me. When I met with them, I found out the karotype said female, the ultrasound indicated male. Great, I thought sardonically, my child is intersex. I added more guilt to the pile of emotions I was experiencing. They estimated my due date at January 6.

At home, everyone wanted to know how I could do this to them. My husband was embarrassed. My boyfriend was perplexed. My girlfriend started wondering where we'd fit the crib.

By October, my pregnancy had somehow become public knowledge. Local advocacy on behalf of transgenders had afforded a small amount of local celebrity, but it hadn't, until this point, been intrusive. I was now beseiged by various religious, women's, and political groups to change something in my self-definition. Or my condition. As diplomatically as I could manage, I told them it was none of their business.

I was just barely showing so some believed it was a publicity stunt. I refused to adjust my life to avoid being stared at and some people were outright abusive. I was assaulted a couple times by what I believed to be homophobes. It turned out one was an off-duty cop.

By November, a palpable divide was forming in the community and the city. I was medically being told to reduce my stress load while, socially, it wasn't possible. When a Roman Catholic priest taunted me on camera, my response was “The Catholic woman in me feels it would be unethical to abort this baby. And the Agnostic male in me feels her decision is none of his business.”

I still found sympathy among some of the GLBTI community and the Pink Pistols, whom I joined to prevent any future battery attempts. I also got a license to carry a concealed weapon.

Angry letters, emails, epithets, graffiti and threats got uglier as time went on. I went about work as best I could, but only the staunchest of my customers continued buying from me. Written death threats continued, but personal threats face to face had lessened as my belly had started rounding noticeably. There was a certain moral line even the most adamant weren't willing to cross.

December brought me to the point where I had to concede I needed maternity clothes. I had simply worn larger shirts up to this point and kept wearing dress pants, ties, and suit jackets. My breasts were too outsized now to go without support. And maternity pants were necessary, too. When my husband asked, I told him the child would call me its mother. The three of them were very protective of me now. She was giddily awaiting the birth. My boyfriend wasn't, but wanted to be there. Against my wishes, I got no less than three baby showers. They turned out to be some much needed cheerfulness at a point when I felt overly anxious.

In private moments, I talked to my child and assured it that I loved it and very much wanted to see it. I made no gender references. I decided it would be up to my child to decide what it was. I decided on the gender-neutral name Morgan. I spent time alone putting together a small crib in the corner of my bedroom and determining how best to store the profusion of pastel gifts in my mahogany and beige bedroom.

The baby was very active now. I spent many nights lying awake just feeling it jostle around inside me. I loved the feeling. It was empowering. Not emasculating at all. It was feminine energy, but that did not cancel my masculine strength. It just imbued it with another dimension. I wanted to have this baby, to mother it, to breastfeed it, to love it. And, I felt no less a man for it. I felt more so. A man with the ability of a woman. Yes, a man-plus. That seemed a great way to put. I smiled inwardly as society seemed to crumble around me.

It was Christmas Eve and I was attending a party at a friend's apartment. The walk home was only ten blocks. I left it feeling like I had overindulged in the rich foods and felt more cramped and nauseated with each step. Suddenly, I was leaning over a trash bin emptying my stomach. As I was regaining my composure, I thought I heard a gunshot or an M-80 in the distance behind me. A second retort was followed by a piercing pain near my left kidney. I slumped to one knee while reaching for my concealed handgun. When I turned to face my attacker, I saw two figures farther up the block. I pointed the weapon and emptied it. I don't know how many hit, but at least one did. I dropped the gun and held my side. A pool of blood was forming on the sidewalk. I pressed two handkerchiefs over the opening and pulled myself upright.

The cold seeped into me as I staggered down to the PATH station. My clinic and the attached hospital were in Manhattan, an hour from where I was attacked. Under the platform lights, I saw that the bullet had gone completely through. No one else was at the station. I fumbled for my mobile phone as the train pulled up. I got on and everything went black.

I awoke hazily a short time later when a stranger shook me. He and his date seem relieved I was alive, but horrified by my condition. I told them slowly where I was trying to go. They understood me, but I suddenly convulsed as a new pain gripped me and I fainted again

When I came around the second time, my abdomen felt incredibly taut and I was fighting to breathe normally. I don't clearly recall everything that was happening. I remember being outside. That someone said I was leaking fluid. People asking if I could hear them. I tried vainly to tell them what I felt, but couldn't hold on to consciousness...

... and after that, there is nothing. I died on the way to the hospital, I guess. I never got to see the child I carried and loved. I can only hope that he or she is raised well and with love, patience and understanding. And as I find myself free of corporeal wants and needs, I hear one last thing:

“Congratulations, Michael. You're a mother.”

World Mechanics 5

Mor'ganth “Vengeful Death”

Creator Deity

Symbol: A stylized stake impaling a shattered circle

Home Plane: Material Plane

Alignment: Lawful neutral

Portfolio: vampires, redemption, order, vengeance, death, assassins

Worshipers: vampires, paladins, assassins

Cleric Alignments: must be lawful

Domains: Death, Inquisition, Law, Murder, Suffering, Redemption, Vengeance

Favored Weapon: natural weapon/soulknife/unarmed strike/racial weapon

Little is known of Mor'ganth's origins, but it is known he has defeated other deities and has absorbed ascended mortals, infernals and celestials into himself. He himself may have been a mortal once but on the subject he is silent, as is his retinue. His power is upheld and insured by the existence of fourteen holy champions that are each bound to a specific aspect of the deity.

Mor'ganth is worshipped by the Vampire Lords of Prior as their creator. All take the vow of the Codex Draconis upon their tenth year of life and many swear themselves as paladins. Mor'ganth invests a good deal of his attention to the living vampires and will always heed their prayers. His physical presence redoubts their faith. He has also stationed a six-armed avatar to stand guard over his 'children' at all times.

Mor'ganth pays little attention to the other races, charging his wards to protect them from the dark forces on Prior. It is not unheard of, though, for others to worship him and worthy individuals may find their prayers answered.

Dogma: Through clarity of thought, purity of mind, and suffering of the body, one can overcome weakness of the flesh. I offer redemption from the allure of temptation. Let my will strengthen your own. Accept destruction if you fail.

Great Balls of ...

“Fireball as a spell is a neat idea in fiction, but its practical application is tricky. Having fire as an element is a good start, but the evocative or force magic you need to make it more than a spell to roast marshmellows doesn't come naturally to fey.”

Michael sipped orange juice while lecturing. Magic consumes a lot of caloric energy and even demonstrating intuitive spells could leave one seriously depleted. “The magiir have the big booms necessary, but lack the essentia for elemental casting.”

“But that means Valerie...”

“Uncle Morgan did a blood transfusion with her to help cure her of a disease. A side effect of the transfusion is it granted her the ability to manipulate the element natural to him.”

“What if I try to make the fireball bigger?”

“It will be more voluminous, but no more dangerous.”

The youngster flexed his fingers frustratedly. “Part of being an adult,” Michael said patiently, “is accepting that everyone, including yourself, has shortcomings. I can't produce fire or electricity. And I never studied evocative magic. Your uncle may be able to teach you that, but be prepared for him to say no.”

Question Horizon

There comes a time when a non-human or demi-human is revealed for what he or she is. They catch you casting magic or they see your ears or you don't hide fast enough. And suddenly, this person is aware of a much larger world than just the physical one. So, suddenly, you're faced with a decision. Do you try to explain away what they've seen by using science fiction doublespeak? Or have you just taken on an acolyte? Sometimes you're lucky and they cobble together their own fantastic rationalization, but more likely they need an explanation, and not necessarily a rational one. Just something to keep them from thinking they're totally nuts.

Now, honestly, human minds run on emotion and logic. Most of their world runs this way, too. Magic is too chaotic to their way of thinking and violates most of their natural laws. Some of them can deal with its existence better than others. It's no big secret really that magic exists; we just don't discuss it openly because most humans would think we're crazy or worse. If someone point blank asked me if magic exists, I'd say yes. Whether they believed me is a separate question.

After the End

The world seemed dimmer than one would expect. The numbness and mental shock was understandable. Morgan had stopped counting bodies he'd left behind at around six thousand. That was early on the first day. Thirty days had now passed. Thirty days of people dropping dead or resisting, screaming and exploding at the mere sight of him. He smelled awful. The charnel smell of a fat-rendering plant would be more pleasant. His hands were so coated in blood and gore that it was cracking and flaking off in large chunks. He knelt by a stream and plunged his hands and face into the tannic waters. The wound on his hand ached and oozed. He could smell it putrifying.

Michael could not, would not, dare to think. The hollow, pale faces, carved sallower by fear and slow death haunted him, gnawed at him, crawled under his skin. The pain of the bodies racked by starvation ate his brain, gnawed on his consciousness, wormed through his innards. The horizon ceased to exist and a black ichor ran from his eyes, mingled with tears of horror. Where his hands touched the ground, the grass shriveled black and crackled into dust. The concept of millions dying slowly wrenched through him and drained away his sense of unanimity, of worldliness, of life.

Georg choked on his bile. The writhing sense of disgust within him was like acid etching away any thought of self. Pox and buboes had sprung up when he merely looked in the direction of living flesh. Sores and rashes and cracking, weeping black lesions from his breath. Where he moved, the plants went yellow and white or rusted brown. Birds spiralled out of the sky and horrible disfigurements of flesh and sinew and stalk gnawed into his eyeballs. The putrid smell of sickness and rivers of vomitus and mucus and effluvia clogged his nose and pores. Those who died quickly were lucky; many lingered on, crying to the heavens in pain and disjunction. Too many too sick and not a one could stand from infirmity.

Valerie hugged herself tightly. She was crying but had long run out of tears. The amount of bloodshed could have filled oceans. Men, women, children, animals – all fighting, all dying, without cease. She would walk near a town and suddenly fires and shouts and gunshots would ring out. Murder, mayhem, brawling, mauling. En masse and singly. With and without reason. She sat, untouched physically, but no one could walk away from the sea of carnage and be sane.

The other three had found each other by the time Morgan stumbled upon them. He could feel the trauma from quite a distance away. He had washed away as much of the signs of his damage as he could and walked up fairly clean. The three sat together but otherwise showed no recognition of anything outside their own painful realities. Morgan reached for his brother. Michael tried to speak, but only frantic gibberish came pouring out. Morgan understood. “I am sorry,” he whispered as he rendered him unconscious.

Morgan quickly did the same for the other two and transported everyone back to the “pre-apocolyptus.” If they continued being incapable of functioning, he would erase their memories of this. He silently ran a golden needle between his fingers and wondered at his own sanity.

Road Hazard

The mob must have mistaken him for someone else. What interest would they have in capturing him? They taped his mouth and manacled his wrists and ankles and threw him in a trunk after they'd sapped him. He awoke and felt the rough trunk liner against his cheek. Groggily, he considered calling his brother, but decided it wasn't necessary. As the car rode over a bumpy stretch of road, he painfully repositioned himself. It took several tries to get the tape off with his tongue. It wasn't completely clear, but off enough for him to start incanting. The first incant toughened his skin. The second shattered the steel handcuffs. The third rendered the car undriveable...

World OurStory

Charles habitually called both Morgan and Michael daddy. No one corrected him. It was too cute. No one disputed he would be the next baron, either. The two men jointly trained him for the role. One night, he climbed into a seat at a table where the two were discussing a diplomatic situation.

“There is no official positon and I haven't been instructed that we have one,” Michael commented. Morgan listened intently, drumming his fingers softly on the tabletop, a stylus perched between his middle and forefinger.

“In the long run, I think the accord will be useful. It the short term, it will incite riots, possibly a revolution,” Morgan responded.

“And that would be economically beneficial to foreign money?” Michael queried.

“It wouldn't look very nice, but insurrection is brewing either way. Let it happen. Let the air clear and then invest in actual progress.”

“I'd like to think there is some way to derail the revolution too.”

“Both sides are bloated self-serving ticks living off the blood of their subjects. They won't learn peace throuh any of these petty warlords.”

Charles had the enviable position in the household of being allowed to listen when the two were talking in Morgan's private study. There was no possibility of sneaking in or listening at the door as Morgan could always sense it. Charles leaned over into Michael's lap. “What are you talking about, Daddy?”

Morgan smirked as Charles's presence took Michael by surprise. “Oh! Eh...we were discussing world politics.”

“Yes, in the same way talking about bicycles is discussing renewable energy,” Morgan said snarkily.

Charles tried to read the papers in Michael's hand. “Africa?”

“There are areas of conflict in Africa. We were considering getting involved financially. The living conditions are deplorable in many areas and we think providing jobs will allow them to improve,” Michael exposited

“And, if we can covertly help create and back stable governments, they can owe us favors down the line,” Morgan added.

“Having someone owe us favors isn't as good as owing us money,” Charles theorized.

“Actually,” Michael said,” it's better than money. When someone owes us a favor, we keep track of it. We call on it when we truly need it. When money isn't enough or the proper way to deal with a situation, we have influence. There isn't a western nation that doesn't owe our family a favor or three. We've forgiven large debts in lieu of receiving favorable treatment or special conditions. And we have three hundred years worth to call on. And, if they ever change their minds about us, we can change our minds about the money they owe. Trust me that a couple hundred years of daily compounded interest can add up.”

“However,” Morgan added, “being worth several trillion on paper doesn't hurt either.”

Vengeful Death

Year 37: Georg was right. It took long weeks of bedrest in the infirmary for Morgan to recover well enough to breathe normally. He would request books from his library that Nicole and Krystie had to use a special key and password to unlock. He used his enchanted spectacles to read them. He took no notes but would chant things under his breath, sometimes passing out from reading.

After six weeks, Georg discovered him trying to pull the breathing tube out of his lungs. When he was freed of it, Georg put an oxygen feed in his nose. Hoarsely, Morgan said, “That made cantations challenging.”

“You shouldn't have needed to do them,” Georg chided.

“Maybe not, but it's natural for me to try. I'm an annoyingly hard-headed scafir, after all.”

Georg paused what he was doing. “Did you just crack a joke?”

Morgan smiled like a child just discovering something new. “Yes, I did. Is that not strange? For the first time in my life, my head is clear. No voices, no geases, no compulsions. Just me. I can think without interruption. It feels very... lonely. Too quiet.”

Georg smiled sunnily enough for Morgan to pick it up. “Let me get you some water. That gravelly voice doesn't suit you.”

Two months is a long time to nurse a grudge. It festered in Morgan's mind for three weeks, then he started plotting. He had time and quiet to plan and heal like never before. And he could triple check all his research, another luxury. Finally, he lay quiet, let the plan he etched out go dormant, and concentrated on his body healing. A peace and tranquility enveloped him as he realized that the torment and pain would be addressed and ended. Then this morning, Morgan realized he could breathe with regularity.

He fought the urge to regurgitate the first meal they brought him. Traditionally, any long period without eating angered his stomach. After muscling down the oatmeal and tea, he started to feel lively. He napped for a short while. He had been planning this long. There was no rush.

After lying awake for ten minutes to be sure he was alone, Morgan arose from the bed. He stood and found his legs rubbery. It took a few minutes before he felt steady enough to let go of the counter. He slowly reoriented himself to walking. The atrophy was minimal, but real. He took breaks as he needed them. The usual brisk pace he employed was now a tentative grope. Servants purposefully paid closer attention to their work when he came near. Finally, he found himself at the edge of the state rooms. He heard people milling about. “Help me,” he said. A maid dutifully wrapped a chintz throw around his waist while a young man took his arm and led him upstairs. Morgan thanked him and lay down. “Bring me a light meal,” he ordered. He was left alone.

~~~~~

Georg found Morgan soaking in a tub. “You're an amazing specimen,” he commented dryly.

“Healing is a luxury to me. I rarely get the time.”

“Well, now that you do, you should take all the time you need.”

Morgan sat up. “I never thought about what it would be like to just say no straight to someone's face. And now that I can, just having the choice is more liberating than actually making it.”

“Michael left you quite a gift.”

Morgan relaxed back, perfectly calm in his face, his voice was anguished. “I only wish he were here to benefit from it. I would so dearly like to talk to him now that my attention is... focused.”

~~~~~

Morgan had never learned portation magic and he'd buried his traveling cloak with his brother. But he knew deep inside he wouldn't need either. With the most humanizing factor in his life gone, there was very little humanity within him. A servant told him his brother's death mask had arrived. Morgan told him to have it placed next to his father's bust. Later, in his sitting room, he went in and ran his fingers over the new object. It was cold and inanimate and it was the last link he had to remember his brother viscerally. Michael's scent was fading from his usual seats and pillows.

He pressed the mask to his cheek and let the loneliness consume him. A sharp keening broke a profound silence. Tears carved a path down his face. When a familiar stabbing pain entered his mind, he did not ignore it. He placed the mask lovingly upon his brother's former seat and said to the ether, “I accept your summons.”

Scariel's schadenfreude was thick in the air. She was enjoying her surviving son's pain. He sensed no regret for murdering her good son. Steeling his mind, he said, “Yes, mother?”

“I told you,” she said, icily, “that you would be the death of your brother and look what has happened.”

Morgan turned his face downward, as was customary when speaking to a superior female. Respect was not his motive, though. He could feel his fangs sliding out.

“You could have saved hi-...” An incorporeal hand gripped her mind and shut off her speech.

“You,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. “You killed my brother. You killed my soul twin. You killed Michael.”

His mother was taken aback at being interrupted. Morgan had never spoken when she enforced her will over him. She still assumed a geas existed or was delusional enough to ignore that it didn't.

“I have suffered enormously because of you. Michael was the only comfort I had. And you took him from me, from everyone. You killed the one person who loved me.”

The tears came. His nose ran. It didn't matter. He didn't care. His voice wavered, but the steel edge remained. “And now mother, after all that I have borne under your servitude, this is something that will not go unanswered. I want revenge. But not simple revenge. I don't care about the torture or the deaths or the abandonment. This hurts far worse. Michael did not deserve this. And I can't let it go.”

“You're not soul twins. You have to be identical to be....”

Morgans knuckles cracked against Scariel's cheek. Scariel fell back and away, she tried to scramble away on the ground. He grabbed her ankle. “I believe this was how you did it once.”

He grabbed her by her nape and smacked her across the face. He felt bone give. She screamed loudly. “Shut up!” he shouted in her face. “You wouldn't let me scream when you did it, so shut it!”

She'll come to save me, she thought. Please, save me....

“Yes, call her,” Morgan said, regaining some composure. “Call her. I want you to know what you've done. I want you to experience what I am going through. I want you to know the pain” his voice dropped to a whisper, “of having your twin taken away.”

Scariel's eyes dilated with a fear. Morgan tugged at her soul, tasting it. No, please, no.... just kill me...

“And give you the coward's way out? No. Mother, I don't want justice here. I want retribution. I want you to suffer. I want revenge.”

He ran his hands down her leg. “Call her...”

No, Sethiel, don't...

Morgan disjointed her knee. A moment letter a bullet lodged in his spine. He twisted his hand around and drove a spike through her. “Come here,” he commanded.

Sethiel looked at him, shaking. “Come here,” he repeated. She stepped forward, numbly, unable to resist his will. When she stood at arm's length, he put a hand on her shoulder. “For thirty-seven years, I have borne your abuse. I have been used and tortured and desecrated mentally, physically, and spiritually. An enlightened man, like Michael, would forgive you and offer you redemption. But, I'm not Michael. I can't be like Michael. I am full of anger and hate and pain and suffering. I have been trained to devalue life and glory in its destruction. Michael was a good man. He could love. He could even love me.”

Morgan cried uncontrollably for a couple minutes, then clamped down harder. “But I don't have Michael anymore. I will never see him again. Never know the comfort or warmth of his presence. Whatever I am, I am now so much less. Sethiel, if you see him, tell him to pray for me, because I have nothing...”

Morgan decapitated her. “... to redeem me any longer.”

Scariel screamed in agony as her soul twin's life was taken by her son. Then, he started chanting. “Nooooooo! Noooooo! Nooo...”

Morgan felt a flash of euphoria, of potency, of a satiety unkown to most mortals as he drank Sethiel's soul. “My vengeance has been satisfied. But it's not over yet.”

He manifested a knife and cut a symbol into his blood-slicked palm. He took the carved out piece of flesh and shoved it in his mother's mouth. “Swallow it,” he ordered. When she only stared back at him in horror, he rode his will over hers and made her gulp it down. “Now, send me home.”

As he disappeared, the bright sunny day on the Scafir homeworld continued on in its cheery manner.

Suicide by Execution

Year 38: “In light of all your confessions and the mitigating circumstances, you are sentenced to six consecutive life sentences with no possiblity of parole to be served at a maximum security federal penitentiary.”

The gavel smacked down and Morgan revisited thoughts of suicide. The cloying hopelessness was shrugged off as useless. Morgan focused on the minds populating the courtroom. Most were confused. He could pick out the family by their grief. There was someone in the back ... gloating? A glimmer of hope shone from that.

Later, he was ushered to an interrogation cell. He could smell cheap cologne and expensive food as someone walked into the area. “Well, sir, do you know who I am?”

“No,” Morgan stated. He sounded familiar, as if a used car commercial had walked in and struck up conversation. Not the most impressive prima facie.

“Well, son, I am Augustus Maximillian Finley. I hail from...”

“Stop it,” Morgan said pointedly. Michael might have had the patience for this game, but he couldn't bear it. And the name was familiar. “If I pretend to be impressed will you get to the point?”

“I don't like being interrupted, boy.”

No subtlety, this one. “Your name is a designator of identity, not an entitlement. Trust that I know the difference.... Yankee.” Morgan overstressed the the a to Yahnkee.

A double-barreled insult that definitely hit its mark, Morgan noted. “I don't think you want to make me angry...” Finley snarled.

“If you were someone important, you could not do more than I would be able to, anyway. My family name, correction, I have more influence than you could ever hope for, little man.”

“Oh, you think you're so important because your brother was a lord!”

Pride laden with envy, it was getting easier by the second. “My brother was a baron. You are a commoner. Dirt. Cheap. Commoner.”

If Finley had an agendum coming in, it was evaporating in the white hot rage. “Give one more reason, and I'll crucify you right now!” he bellowed.

Morgan paused for a second. “I was at the World Trade Center, Tower Two, 97th floor, on September 11th. I was carrying a briefcase.”

Finley took the bait like a trained dog. “So! It was you! You'll hang for this! The crowd will tear you to pieces.”

Listening to the politician storm out, Morgan could only smile. The guards pitied him. It didn't matter. In all likelihood, this would spiral out of control and he would be executed. Morgan hoped that any trial he faced would happen in private. They could even torture him if they liked. They couldn't be worse than Sethiel and her healing knife. Rest in peace, Sethiel, for your sister never will.

Death Will Not Part What We Have Made Whole

Year 201: From conception, we were soul mates. From the womb, we were friends. From birth, we were companions. The fourteen minutes we were separated was a world apart to us and our bond became indissoluble. When the person who gave us life tried to take yours, I protected you. When others would try to hurt me, you defended me. I shielded you from hatred. You kept me from injury. I have tolerated your heinous acts. You have forgiven me my egregious behaviour. Our lives and souls were intertwined. Then, the day beside the river happened. I gave you a kiss. You gave me life.

I saw you dancing out the ocean
Our miracle lies in the path we have chosen together
Running fast along the sand
I enter into this with you knowing the true magic of love is not to avoid changes, but to navigate them successfully.
A spirit born of earth and water
Let us commit to the miracle of making each day work together.
Fire flying from your hands
I offer you my love and my support throughout all of our lives.
In the instant that you love someone
I commit myself to years of growth and sharing as I encourage you to move in new directions.
In the second that the hammer hits
I will strive to achieve my potential as God's creature and will celebrate your progress toward the same goal.
Reality runs up your spine
I give myself as I am and as I will be,
And the pieces finally fit
and I do it for all of life.
And all I ever needed was the One
Respecting each other, we commit to live our lives together for all the days to come.
Like freedom feels where wild horses run
I ask you to share this world with me, for good and ill.
When stars collide like you and I
Be my partner, and I will be yours.
No shadows block the sun
May be our days be long,
You're all I've ever needed
and may they be seasoned with love, understanding, and respect.
Baby you're the one
Now we stand together; may it always be so.
There are caravans we follow
I offer myself to you today.
Drunken nights in dark hotels
I will always love you, respect you, and be faithful to you.
When chances breathe between the silence
Come health, happiness, and prosperity, I will stand with you;
Where sex and love no longer gel
come illness, trouble, or poverty, I will stand with you.
For each man in his time is Cain
Take this as a sign of my love and commitment.
Until he walks along the beach
Today I join my life to yours as your friend, your lover, and your confidant.
And sees his future in the water
Let me be the shoulder you lean on, the rock on which you rest, the companion of your life.
A long lost heart within in his reach
With you I will walk my path from this day forward.
And all I ever needed was the One
I came here today to join my life to yours before the Apexis and the Acendents and the heavenly host.
Like freedom feels where wild horses run
In the presence of God, I pledge to be true to you, to respect you, and to grow with you through the years.
When stars collide like you and I
Times may pass; fortune may smile, trials may come;
No shadows block the sun
no matter what we may encounter together,
Oh, you're all I've ever needed
I vow here that this love will be my only love.
Ooh, baby you're the one.
I will make my home in your heart from this day forward.

Michael awoke and sat up in bed. The dream was unusually vivid. And the hollow ache that he didn't talk about was gone. He smiled to himself and invoked the deepest bond he ever knew.

There was still no answer.

He lay back down and a tear slowly welled at the corner of his eye. Then, when he was on the cusp of sleep again, a gentle caress in the mind warmed him. And a faint mental whisper, said over a link that crossed reality, could be heard. “...from this day forward...”

lyrics from "The One" by Taupin
vows modified from the Exchange of Rings during the Episcopal marriage ceremony

A Big Surprise

Claire sidled up to Morgan and tried to talk clearly. She was drunker than anyone else at the rehearsal dinner, Morgan thought. That took a hell of an effort considering Michael, Nicole, Nadine, and the groom were all heavy drinkers with reasons to overindulge tonight. “S'oooo, how are y'doin', 'night.”

Morgan walked on but Claire followed him. He turned around and asked, “What do you want? Is your stipend insufficient?”

She giggled inebriatedly. “No, 'm horny.”

“And you are chasing me for sex? I was not interested in you when we were married.”

“You c'd shange yr mine...”

“In that condition, no.”

“Ahkay, you dun haf to lay me. Jus' lemme blow you. 'kay?”

There was something about Claire's half-serious, half-teasing, fully inebriated state that tickled a humourous spot in Morgan's mind. His lip curled upwards. “Okay, but just that.”

He took her to a small side room where it was dark and no one was around. He sat in a chair and crossed his arms across his chest. She unfastened his bracers and unbuttoned his pants. Well, she tried to do that. She wasn't succeeding very well. Morgan held back the urge to giggle at her fumbling. “Do you need help down there?”

“Na, I got eh,” she slurred.

Morgan does not have a shred of homo sapiens in his DNA. As a result, he looks humanoid, but there are significant variances from a normal human. Most, like his magic abilities and mind reading, are not visible. Some, like his vaguely canine face, are cosmetic and also more subtle than if he had two heads or backwards arms. However, one major physical difference is that his penis is long, thin and prehensile. It resembles a flesh-colored garter snake when unaroused and a hairless monkey's tail when it is. Unlike human penii, it has muscles in it. So, he can grab things with it and manipulate objects. It isn't very big, only around two feet long when engorged, but it's definitely not normal.

When Claire finally managed to open his pants, he let it snake out and wrap around her wrist. She at first wasn't aware of it tickling her cheek but when the reality of it finally pierced the fog of insobriety, she screamed. She tried to back away. He cinched it and held her wrist. It shouldn't have taken her long to break free. It wasn't very strong but fright and alcohol kept impeding her efforts. Morgan eventually released her and she ran off banging into things as she went. He allowed himself a light chuckle as he heard her leaving.

He touched it with his hand and let it curl around his palm, stroking it with his thumb. He withdrew it into his pants and fastened them up and went to rejoin the company.

Juxtaposition

AC: Michael held his newborn son protectively in his arms. The infant was now the newest baron in the family line. “He was born on the day I was raised to a dukedom. If that isn't an auspicious sign...”

Morgan stood stiffly beside him, his voice barely audible. “Perhaps. I think our time alone will become even more precious, by my choice.”

“We're alone, Morgan. You can relax.”

“Have you decided on a name?”

“Edward Peter David Wallace, 11th Baron of East New Jersey, heir apparent to the Dukedom of New Jersey, the Earldom of Morris, and the Baronetcy of New Morris.”

“Finley is rattling sabres again. He wants to re-annex New Jersey after you claimed it for the UK.”

“Finley must enjoy being hoist by his own petard. They can always just pay back what they owe.”

“If they could do that, you would not have claimed New Jersey before freezing the debt again.”

“The timing for the president-elect could not be worse. He's coming into an office with a cold war forming. And war with England is not what he'd want.”

“Finley could argue war with the Commonwealth of New Jersey is what he wants.”

“I would not want to see any army's chances against you. By the way, I'm naming you Marquess of North Jersey and the title is honorary because you'll actually be Security Counselor or Chancellor or whatever silly name Her Majesty's Service would deem appropriate.”

“Are you going to ennoble me the Earl of Hudson, too? Her Majesty's Privy Council grants you the power to issue letters patent in the Commonwealths of the Americas, which sounds odd in its own right, but that doesn't mean you're going to issue titles inappropriately?”

“No, but it means that I can soothe feathers by handing out non-peerages and a few real peerages, too. Big, fancy titles impress people and they'll carry them around like new umbrellas on a sunny day. Corzine will probably get the Marquessate of South Jersey.”

“Well, that might save me from... Would not Torricelli be better for that or is it a life peerage?”

“I haven't decided yet. Note that earls will serve as Lords Lieutenant for me.”

“You have spent a lot of this week thinking. We told you to rest.”

“What else am I going to do while I'm laying on my back bedridden?”

Little Edward awoke and started crying. Michael felt a tingle in his nipples. He let Edward latch on. Michael looked up at Morgan who still stood in a rigid position. “Are you truly afraid of me now?”

“No,” Morgan breathed. “I never expected to be a father. And I did not think this was how I would be. And I never thought I would do it again.”

Moment of Clarity

Morgan sat in his office reading a braille book. His fingers ran over the bumps at a leisurely pace. Margaret walked past and then looked back through the door. Morgan's head was tilted and would be looking up at the wall to his right if he were sighted. She stepped in and watched him. When Morgan got to the end of a paragraph he said abruptly, “Yes?”

Margaret startled. She hadn't imagined he'd heard her walk in. “I know someone's there. I can smell perfume.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you.”

“Margaret, while lilies and freesia. I'll have to remember that. Did you wish to talk?”

“Well, I hadn't expected to see you in here. But there is something I could ask you.”

Morgan slid a marker onto the page his hand was on and closed the book. “Go on.”

“Does Michael play around a lot?”

A look of confusion crossed Morgan's face. “You will have to speak more plainly.”

“Does he enjoy sleeping around with women?” she asked slowly.

“He does enjoy it. I am not sure how often he actually engages in sex when he is not home, but I know it happens.”

“Do you think he would give up casual sex for the right woman?”

Morgan hesitated. “No, I do not think he would, even for the right woman.”

He could hear her apprehension and a nascent infatuation. Since she wasn't aware of his ability to read thoughts, she wasn't muting them. He continued, “You may be the right woman, as you put it, but sex is recreational to him, divested entirely of emotional commitment. He is capable of love but it would not be expressed through sex.”

“It would be too much to hope to keep him to myself?”

“Yes, it would. Females have been offering him sex since we were twelve or thirteen. He lost his virginity at fourteen. He had fellatio before that. Sex is just a fun pasttime to him. And women are attracted to him at a frequency that scares him when he stops to think about it.”

Father Knows Best

Francis Michael Safeton was the son of Michael Wallace's mistress. Michael officially adopted him but did not impart upon him the family name. He grew up in the barony's village and while the powerful man who claimed guardianship over him did encourage him to follow his dreams, he was mostly satisfied with being an average kid with money. His mother had ambitions for him, but he realized that he didn't need them to any degree. All the other kids around were impressed by his 'station.' Surely, that would always be enough.

When he was born, Nicole was already being groomed to run Wallace Ltd. He would be given the chance to show eagerness or aptitude to work at the company, but he lacked the drive and divine grace at numbers that defined the Wallace family. Michael was content to let him find his own way or simply be a working cog in the company when the time came.

Michael sent him, like previous children of the family, to the local public school. When the choice came to either continue in school or switch to tutoring, Karen decided her son should go to boarding school. Frank actually liked the special club atmosphere of private school and went to Yale Prep. He didn't do well enough to earn admittance to Yale itself on his own merits, but was capable enough to manage a 2.8 GPA. Frank was convinced he should be allowed to attend the university. Michael had the money and prestige to force the matter but patently refused. “If your own merits don't earn your way, then find somewhere that deems you meritorious.”

“But, Krystie got in!”

“Yes, and she did so by impressing them. Nicole didn't have grandfathering when she decided on Princeton.”

“You could have bought her way in.”

“But I didn't. And I wouldn't. Through knowledge comes wisdom. From wisdom come power.”

“You stole that from that shield behind you.”

“I did not steal it. That's the seal of the Barons Wallace. It belongs to me by birthright.”

“Does that mean Chuck gets it?”

Michael patiently said, “Yes, Charles will inherit it. But it doesn't mean it can't be applied to everyone.”

“We have power, so why not just use it.”

“No, I have power. And just using it? That's abusing power. No one should have power he hasn't earned. It means he won't handle it with any sense of responsibility.”

Michael got up and walked over to a cabinet. He unlocked it and took out a handgun and a clip. “Wielding power is like holding a gun or driving a car. It seems like a neat or fun idea when you're a kid and some play with a child's verson of it, but it's not the same as having the real thing.”

He slid the clip into the gun and made sure the safety was in place. “Now if I hand you this, what would you want to do?”

“Shoot it, of course!”

“Why?”

“It's a gun.”

“If you shoot it in here, you could break something. Or someone. You could conceivably kill someone with it. Why would you play with something so dangerous?”

Michael chambered a bullet, then ejected the clip. He put the clip in his pocket and placed the gun on the table in front of Frank. “Go ahead. Pick it up.”

As Frank eagerly reached for it, Michael asked, “How much do you actually know about guns?”

Frank shrugged. “What everyone knows, I guess.”

“That doesn't exactly fill me with confidence.”

“Well, it's a gun. How much is there to know?”

He picked it up by the trigger, like a toy gun. Michael quietly incanted his skin to a stony toughness and watched carefully to jump in its path if it did fire. “I spent several weeks with a certified instructor teaching me to handle that correctly.”

The teenager flipped it about incautiously. “It can't be that hard to figure out.”

“Remind me never to loan you my Ferrari. Just because it can do 200 mph, doesn't mean you should. Cars kill more efficiently than guns.”

Frank put the gun down. Michael picked it up and released the bullet and let it fall out. Frank's eyes widened as it bounced off the tabletop. “Power is the same way. Get careless with it and you can hurt a lot of people you had no intention of hurting. No child of mine is getting any privilege without earning it first.”

Healing the Healer

Georg's wife Anna called Morgan to attend him. Morgan shadowjumped to their subterranean home. Georg had never represented himself as human and, in truth, was not. He was a short, olive-skinned, dark haired man who could have passed for Middle Eastern, but he was a gemen. And not just any gemen, but an apexa and one of their 'blessed ones.' Those born at a specific point in a solar year or, perhaps, conceived at a specific point but that wasn't proven, are born neither male or female but a transient fusion of both. The child is always named Georg (a transliteration of gærg in the native gemeni tongue) to denote its special status.

Two to four times a year, a gærg is capable of conceiving as a female. Outside of these two week windows, they are functionally male. No one is sure why this happens, but it is quite unusual among humanoids. In fact, Georg was formally Georg Andiers Eduoard Gheunzielmein. And he was one of four siblings, three of which were born on that date. One other was a gærg, Georg Adalbrecht Heinrich and the other solely female, Katarina Esana. “Adalbert” had already produced two children by his own womb and was considered actualized by gemeni standards. Georg Andiers had tried multiple times to carry. After five miscarriages and stillbirths, Morgan flatly told him he was inhospitable for childbearing. Not that Georg shouldn't have realized that himself. He was an expert in biology. Adalbert was a specialist in physiology. Morgan was an expert in medical practices.

When his attempts continued to fail, Georg simply stopped informing his brother and his friend about his pregnancies. They kept pressuring him to stop trying. He kept losing them. So, Morgan found himself at Georg's bedside. Georg's fever was bad. So were the eclampsia-style fits he was having. Georg might have been at six months but he was puffy and distended. Morgan slowly wrung his hands, weighing the benefits of yet another lecture against the probability that he would be ignored. His hands glistened with an antibacterial gel that he was slowly coating on them. He heard someone else come into the room. By the acrid scent of after shave, he identified him as Adalbert. “So, how is Andiers this time?”

Morgan let out a slow sigh. “Stubborn to near incoherence. He refuses to let me abort. His blood pressure is far too high. His temperature is five degrees above normal. He seizes practically every twenty minutes. He will not tell me what he used to prolong his gravid state and the fetal heartbeat is dropping below seventy when he seizes.”

Adalbert spoke to his brother in gemeni. Morgan didn't know the language well enough to comprehend exactly what was said, but by intonation, he could tell it was a matter of “let us operate or you will die.”

The truth finally came out. A special fungus that is used to stabilize certain fluid levels was utilized, but Georg overused it and it rebounded badly. Morgan drained around his heart and kidneys and hoped that a neutralizer would help. Adalbert mixed the solution, but didn't hold out nearly as much hope. Gradually, his blood pressure and fluid retention eased. Katarina and Friedrich, the fourth sibling, arrived later and were quickly told that Andiers just might live through this.

Morgan returned two days later to find Georg up and about. “You should not be up,” Morgan stated coldly. “You have not recovered yet.”

“I'll be fine.”

“Self-delusion aside, where's Adalbert?”

“I'm not entirely sure. I'm not self-deluded.”

“It looks that way to me. I do not think you have the healthiest outlook about this.”

“I don't think you have the high ground to talk to me about healthy outlooks.”

“No, but I have the experience. Fetal heartrate?”

Georg's normally calm, soft-spoken demeanor was anguished and sour. He gave no reply, but Morgan could clearly hear his thoughts. They amounted to “Bite me.” Morgan frowned, but left the room.

When Adalbert returned, he started discussing certain floral solutions that might help with Andier's 'break with reality.' Morgan suggested psychotherapy. Adalbert thought this the solutions might help get him to the point where he would accept that suggestion. As the five of them discussed the situation, Morgan's ears picked up on a scurrying in the apothecary cabinets. “Does anyone here keep a familiar?” he asked.

A group of no's answered his question. He calmly stood and walked to through the tunnels to Georg's medicinal area. Andiers was busy searching for something in a near panicked state. Morgan's nose perked up. “He's not pregnant anymore,” Morgan said quietly. He grabbed Georg's shoulder and physically restrained him. He went with the gaggle back to a surgical bed and held Georg down by placing a hand on his chest.

Adalbert quickly washed his hands while Anna worked off Georg's pants. Katarina commented that he was almost completely down, which meant that he would start pushing soon. A gemen confinement lasts twelve months and Georg's infant was born almost six months early. It only took ten minutes, even with him fighting each contraction for the eight inch body to be born. The child cried weakly. Adalbert carefully placed it down on Georg's chest, placed a blanket over it, and then taped it in place to create a false womb. Morgan finally moved his hand. “Best we can do with the situation,” Adalbert commented, tapping Morgan with the side of a syringe.

Morgan took the syringe and carefully injected the cord near the navel and then through Georg's abdomen. “I might go as high as a twenty percent chance,” Morgan responded. “I am reading brain activity from the neonate. And it is responding to sensations.”

Georg could only cry. He'd denied in silence the first steps of partuition; then yelled in utter defiance the last minutes. Now, he was told there was a slight chance, despite his recklessness, that it would be all right. As long as the placenta was encouraged to stay attached, there was a fighting chance. It wasn't something that could be done for any other humanoid race, but crazily, gemen don't necessarily break the link with their neonates until the mother's body is convinced its ready. The body's definition of ready wasn't predictible, but it gave some preemies a chance at surviving.

Would You Know My Name...

AC: Michael let the papers stay where they'd fallen. All he wanted was to be left alone for ten minutes but alone wasn't something a hot topic public figure was going to be. The phone rang incessantly. It felt like he'd practically moved to Washington. If anyone asked him, he just wanted to go home to New Jersey and spend some quiet time in his little section of Morris County. He laughed self-derisively as his mind called up the fact the entire county was once Wallace Barony. He sat up straight as the British Consul walked in. He took the rolled up, sealed missive with interest. This attache was new. She introduced herself – Elisabeth Soames, but asked to be called Beth. He nodded in response, while standing up to shake her hand. “Has the State given any suggestion or hint that I'm to change my stance?”

“No, no indications, Lord Wal-, er....”

Michael sighed and shook his head. “Mr. Wallace will do. And I retain CMG, hopefully... still.” He'd been waiting on a response to that issue.

“The state did indicate that you were permitted to continue using the title Lord as a courtesy title.”

“Courtesy title?”

His hands broke the seal and unwound the scroll. His eyes went wide. He sat down to circumvent falling over. The scroll fell from his hands and bounced on the floor, winding itself back up.

Beth looked at him in shock. “What is it, sir?”

“It's a writ of summons to Parliament. I've been raised to a baronetage.”

“What? That's unusual.”

Michael laughed. “Baronet of New Morris.”

“You made that up. You don't get summoned to Parliament for a baronetage.”

“I wish I could say that. They made it up. I don't think I should actually be so ungrateful, though, as not to show or not to accept.”

~~~~~

The plane ride gave him a rare few hours to sleep. Margaret met him at Dulles with the family insignia, his Order's regalia, and his best suit. Fitzroy would be waiting to meet them at Heathrow.

Michael boarded and headed straight for the plane's bedroom. And his dreams merely revisited the trauma that started this bureaucratic mess...

Taking the young tenth generation baron to Washington, D.C. was meant to be an educational experience and his first taste of diplomacy. Michael exhorted ideology that was oft-forgotten in the modern milieu of political wrangling. “Here you are merely Charles Wallace, special as an individual but equal to all others by the founding manifesto. Ideally, Americans all have a right to an equal voice and equal representation in Congress.”

Charles Richard Harold Wallace was enjoying the experience and was looking forward to the evening's arts performance. Michael looked up at his daughter Elizabeth who was waving to him from further down the mall. He returned her greeting when two shots rang out. He turned around quickly as the crowd panicked and fled in myriad directions from the area. He managed to single out one figure that wasn't fleeing and looked about for an obvious target, a congressman or diplomat. Not seeing one, he called to his son. He didn't hear an answer. Michael called the ground up under him and used it to trip up the suspicious figure. He then slowly sucked the body in to waist level and held it fast.

He looked about again for his son and his eyes locked on a small body face down on the pavement. Running over, he discovered both shots were to Charles's head. When police arrive, he was kneeling over the dead body. Margaret was hugging their daughter, who was screaming, as Michael cradled his son's limp body. The gunman didn't get away, though. He'd captured the daughter of Senator Augustus Finley.

His mood at the time was the genuine grief of a father losing a child. Replayed through the lens of superconscious, Michael saw his family's work of ten generations and three hundred years bleeding out on the National Mall walkway.

Finley tried to ramrod a bill to take back the Wallace holding using eminent domain while Michael was back in New Jersey placing his son with the others who had held the title of baron in the family masoleum. Nicole, who majored in business law, immediately flew down and shoved the bill down Finley's throat. Michael followed a day later with several reams of old, historic documents and a declaration by Parliament that the barony was in abeyance. Michael, having returned to the living, could realistically produce another son and continue the 'heirs male of the body,' so it was not extinct unless Michael expired without producing male issue.

~~~~~

Michael awoke drenched in sweat. His stomach churned painfully. April was almost over, marking nearly two months of bureaucratic torment. Two months since his son died. And four months since...

Michael bolted to the lavatory and emptied his stomach violently. He rinsed his mouth out and proceeded to cough up another mouthful in the sink. Not a good sign. He grabbed a calander and counted out the days since mid-December. He tossed it aside without finishing. Probably just his nerves. God knows he was fine physically up to this point. And he hadn't dreamt about Charles until now.

Awakens the Predator

Morgan stood stock still as the blade penetrated his pancreas. The horrid screaming from onlookers and passersby was more trying than the chef knife in his gut. The incoherent ranting of the attacker about the evils of capitalism and aristocracy just made the surreal sublime. Michael lay sprawled on the pavement where Morgan had knocked him down. Morgan grabbed the attacker's arm, and threw him thirty feet into a wall. He carefully removed the blade as blood gouted down the front of his white shirt. Morgan pressed his right hand on the wound and surged towards the madman. Ruby rivulets ran between his fingers as he picked up the broken body of the antagonist and demanded an explanation from him.

A quick mental read told him that the body in his hand was unconscious. Michael peeled himself up and mentioned that the man's head was oozing fluids. Morgan dropped him in disgust. “How are you?”

“I...” Michael looked at the growing bloodmark. Morgan wasn't one to ask lightly. “I cracked my chin on the pavement. I think I need a Band-Aid. You need surgery.”

“I just need to walk it off,” Morgan said flatly. He was paling, but decided to walk away from the scene. The blood, the crowd, the excitement, the adrenaline singing in his ears was too much. Michael took a step forward and suddenly felt dizzy. Touching his chin, he discovered he was bleeding faster than he'd originally thought. A flap of skin on his chin was hanging loose. Michael sat down to prevent himself from falling over.

Morgan loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. The desire to hurt something badly thrilled through him. An odd taste collected in his mouth. Bile, perhaps? The city breathed like a thousand marks and he himself was the marksman. He subconsciously reached for the edge of a cloak he wasn't wearing.

He heard a scream in the distance. It was quickly stifled. He said something vile under his breath and the wound ceased hurting as a prurient green substance covered over it. A gentleman corpse running to the rescue of some nameless hooker. It doesn't get much more noir, Michael would have commented. But he wasn't there.

Funny how two blocks can make the difference between mega-chic and squalid back alley. Or maybe his sense of distance was off. But above the coppery tang of his own injury, he could smell predatory pheromones and fear. Four aggressive, testosterone and rage-driven thugs. One helpless female, straining but losing consciousness. A curved, transparent blade grew from Morgan's hand. Fangs unsheathed in his mouth.

When she stumbles to the main drag, clothing ripped and spattered with blood, eyes dilated by fear, the cops stop her for questioning. Her mind has snapped to gibbering. They find the pieces of several people in the alley. She says a 'wolf man' attacked them.

Michael's chin required stitches, but he went back to the cottage and heard a newsflash about a predator on the loose. Several victims had been carved apart. Several more had been bitten. An odd green substance had been found at some scenes. They were calling the perp Wolf Ninja. Michael changed into a casual suit and raced out into the night on a motorcycle.

The bloodlust ebbed finally and Morgan's higher brain function finally returned. The mindblade dissipated and a mouth full of flesh and blood spit out its contents. He was on a wooden walkway and the sharp smell of saltwater and rotted fish suggested he was on a wharf. He fell to his knees. He ran his hands over his body. Bullet holes, knife lacerations, bruises. Nothing serious. It would all heal, given time. He wondered how many died. His newly awakened abilities were fierce, consuming. His abdomen felt distended.

From the reports, it sounded like Morgan had cut quite a swath of destruction through the rougher areas of Los Angeles. The victims they could identify were mostly gang members and mobsters. The rest were suspected felons. Half the city was calling this mysterious person a superhero; the other half figured he was a crime lord that wanted to clean out the competition while masquerading as a vigilante. It was obvious where he'd been, but no one was sure where he was going. Michael had an advantage the authorities didn't.

Admittedly, being helmetless meant he might attract attention. Michael walked along the derelict docks carefully. Water loudly lapped against the concrete bulwarks below and the creaking wood covered the sounds of his footsteps, but not his heartbeat. Michael made it to the edge of the sagging quay and thrust his hand into the water. The officer came up behind him as Morgan's apparently lifeless body was pulled out of the greasy water. Michael squeezed the water from Morgan's lungs and then hugged him close to his chest. Michael detected a faint pulse. The officer was going to call for backup and a bus when Morgan looked up at him and shook his head. “Leave us,” he commanded.

The officer blinked a moment. Michael, more softly, repeated the order to him. As his mind told him that he shouldn't, his body walked back to the patrol car and drove off. Michael walked into the night, holding his injured and crippled brother in his arms.

Tradition

Margaret's first words were, “The upkeep on this place must be enormous.”

'Well, Mrs. Wallace, you are correct. It is. But, understand, that my income, too, is enormous.”

“Is it open to the public?”

“Generally, no. Occasionally, we allow private functions, but specifically on a case-by-case basis.”

“The staff?”

“House staff numbers currently ninety. Villagers, two hundred fifty two and I keep a mistress on site.”

Margaret turned and looked at him in disbelief. “Villagers?”

“It's a traditional barony, complete with retainers. It even started on the backs of indentures.”

“So, our marriage was arranged because...”

“Because I needed a wife who was capable of managing a barony.” He cleared his throat before adding, “And bearing a son.”

Author Note 5

Castle Wallace's administrative office was a little room at the head of the stairs to the main kitchen. The large rolltop desk and oak chair took up far too much space in the little cubicle. Michael found the only way to have the wastepaper basket in a usable position and not entirely in the way was to have it between his feet. He occasionally questioned how Morgan fit in the area at all. Morgan's answer was to not use it. For some unknown reason, the ceiling wasn't even seven feet and Morgan couldn't stand straight. There was a bare light fixture with no dome or bulb after Michael had broken both with the top of his head. There was no electrical outlet or window, so the only light source was a small candelabra Michael kept on the corner of the desk. Previous seneschals' disdain for the room had led to them scribbling notes and sums on the wall. Michael occasionally found himself testing fountain pens the same way.

The cramped, little room however was like the captain's quarters on a ship. From it, orders to the household were given. Tabulations and household expenses were tracked. Servants were interviewed, hired, promoted and dismissed. The door was not closeable due to the desk's aggressive size, but no one dared eavesdrop on any conversation the master had within its walls.

When Margaret took over the role as head of household affairs from her husband, she moved operations to a barely utilized, windowed pass-through room. It was far less intimate, but much lighter, had air circulation and a twelve-foot ceiling common to most of the rooms in the building.

It Takes a Wedding to Make Us Say...

“You seem nervous,” Morgan said softly, swirling his glass so the ice cubes clinked amid the scotch.

Nicole sat fidgeting and worrying like the bride-to-be she was. The rehearsal dinner had been a quiet, formal, intimate prelude to tomorrow's activities. Dessert was given over to informal socializing. “I wish I could be calm like Dad. He seems like he'd fall asleep if he was any more relaxed.”

Morgan smiled. “Trust me. He was not so relaxed the hours previous to his wedding.”

“Really?” she said incredulously. “I don't remember him being a bundle of nerves. I always thought he took everything in stride.”

“He generally does, but he almost fainted a couple times that morning. On the other hand, your father is also very good at making everything look easy.”

“I can't believe my carefree days are over.”

“Marriage does not necessarily end them. I do not think Michael will ever completely grow up.”

“Well, that just makes me wish I was him.”

Morgan laughed. “I think one of him is plenty enough for me to handle. However, I see a lot of him in you. You are self-determined, intelligent, charming and dynamic. You are unmistakably his daughter.”

~~~~~

Margaret sat over her own wedding album, marveling that her husband's daughter was being married off a mere seven years into their own marriage. Michael sat next to her, nursing a coffee and cognac. “When did she grow up?” he asked the ceiling.

“Do you feel old?” she asked, chiding gently.

Michael shrugged. “Wasn't it just last week she was jumping on my bed in the morning? When she was running barefoot in the gardens, ripping her dress on the roses? When she outgrew girl's shoes? I'm going to miss my little angel.”

Margaret smiled knowingly. Michael reached for his wallet and pulled out an old photograph wrapped in tissue paper. The color had faded, but it showed Michael sitting on a threadbare couch bottlefeeding a toddler in his arms while a spry little girl climbed on his back and shoulder. His suit had been bought off the rack and his face, though smiling and amused, looked tired and drawn. It was a very precious picture to him.

“My goodness, you look so common in that picture!”

“I was. I gave up my entire life and moved into an apartment with Nicole, Krystie and their mother. Worked a part-time desk job. Lived hand-to-mouth for two years. The rent was eight hundred dollars a month and we could barely afford to eat. It was one of the stupidest and most educational things I ever did. I have many reasons to regret it, but I can't.”

~~~~~

Nadine felt overwhelmed by the grandeur and lost amid the crowd of important and influential people. Krystie was the only one there that had approached her so far. She felt the only reason Krystie was sociable was because her father had tasked her with buying her mother outfits for the events. Michael had spent the evening with his wife by his side. When he wasn't with her, he was flirting with his mistress. When his mistress outclassed her, Nadine wondered why she was even invited.

He eventually meandered her way. She tugged at his sleeve...

~~~~~

Morgan flipped open the jewel on his watch and ran his fingers over the watch's face. Michael had seemed oddly distracted this evening. Perhaps, he was worrying overmuch, but Michael also seemed to be avoiding him as well. Morgan snapped the jewel shut and picked up his ever full glass of scotch and walked carefully toward the back hall. With any luck, no one would notice him missing for a short while. His luck didn't hold out. Claire called out to him as he stepped away.

~~~~~

The Right Honourable Lord & Lady Michael Wallace

request the honour of your presence

at the marriage of his daughter

Nicole

to

Mr. Charles Arnault ...

“Why wasn't I included on the invitation?” Nadine asked.

“Because you weren't involved in planning the wedding,” Michael said. A mild drawl suggested he was drunk. He put aside the empty coffee cup and walked away in a deliberately slow pace. He knew he was drunk but was taking pains not to show it, Nadine realized. She followed him.

“You and Nicole have grown up so much. I wish I could say the same.”

Michael turned to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I know you want to talk, but if you'll be patient, please. I have to go do something.”

He walked away to the grand staircase and found his way into the servant's tunnel underneath and relieved himself in a tiny stall that was rarely used anymore. He emerged and found Nadine standing outside the hidden door. “I can talk now,” he said, the consonents softly rounded by alcohol.

She commented on how Nicole had grown into a beautiful young woman. Michael nodded in agreement. He was uncharacteristically quiet. Suddenly, his head dipped down. He placed a hand over face. Nadine pressed close to him. He uncovered one eye to look at her. It was wet with tears. “Mike, is something wrong?”

Michael choked lightly on his emotions. “Yes, something's wrong. I'm not ready for my little girl to leave me.”

Nadine smiled then. So, he was human. She hugged him and wished she could have the days back when they were struggling together as a cohabiting couple. “Ah, Mikey, she'll be all right. You raised her.”

He pulled her into a bear hug. “You're the only person who's ever gotten away with calling me Mikey,” he giggled.

~~~~~

Krystie carefully removed the coffee and crème de menthe from Nicole's hand and steered her toward the grand staircase. “I think you've had enough for tonight. You need to be sober tomorrow morning,” she mused.

They were halfway up the first flight when Morgan started ascending on the bottom. “Where have you been?” Nicole yelled, voice quavering.

Morgan sped up to steady her, answering, “Freaking your ex-stepaunt out.” He seemed oddly gratified.

Krystie didn't want to know. “Have you noticed Dad around?”

“No, but I can sense he's close, down the guest wing.”

Michael lay insensate on a guest bed, mostly dressed. Nadine looked up at them and quickly pulled down the hem of her dress and tried to zip up the back. Morgan, who could smell that sex had occurred, even though there was no real physical evidence to be seen, merely commented to himself that this happens on the eve of every wedding they'd attended.