Designated Hit

Year 33: The family had gathered for dinner, but Morgan, for the third straight evening, did not join them. Nearly a week unassigned to duty had let the medications build up in his blood until he half-lay in his sitting room in a drugged stupor, barely cognizant of the warm porridge being spooned into his mouth by Holmes. Holmes dutifully wiped the excess from his charge's chin and chased the porridge with warm water for digestion, adjusted the pillows and blankets and then left him alone. As he lay there drooling, Michael and Nicole came in and spoke to him. His eyes fluttered in response. Michael asked a few questions, but the responses were all incoherent. Michael gently forced another dose of meds down his throat, then they left him in peace. Morgan returned to Morpheus's embrace.

As he dreamt of fording a river while holding a child, the dream seemed to dissonate. Morgan tried to remain asleep but reality intercepted and a strong mental jab awakened him. Morgan sat up and tried to respond but his numb mind couldn't keep his end of the connection working. He stumbled for a washbasin on nearby table and forcibly emptied his stomach into it. His mind still dazed, he proceeded to dislocate a finger to pull himself closer to the surface of full consciousness. He fingered a faceless clock and realized he had precious minutes with which to work. It was still early and someone would come to check on him. He walked to his bedroom as quietly and carefully as he could manage. He sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, pressing his injured finger against a bedpost to sharpen his mind a bit more.

The pain afforded him a little more focus and he shut the door. He opened an armoire and pulled out a dark, folded cloth. He retreated into a secret passage, his mind still fading in and out. He took a circular stone stairway down to an old hallway. The rank smell of mildew gave his mind another piece of reality to grasp and he desperately fought to stay upright. His hands touching the slick stone walls lead him down to a wooden doorway. He grasped the door and swung it open in a very deliberate stance to prevent it from making any noise. Once inside, he allowed himself to breathe as normally as he could manage in the cramped, dusty, cold cell. He felt in the dark for a box and flipped open its hinged lid. He pulled out a syringe, uncapped it and shoved it roughly into his neck. Within seconds, the magical stimulant hit his brain and started working elsewhere. He pulled out another and sank the needle into his arm this time. Finally, a third one he sank straight into his heart.

He shrugs on his cloak and emerges from shadow on a mountain precipice. The cold air bites into his face, aiding the stimulants and medicinal counteragents. Now able to concentrate and center himself, he picks up the connection. His Order has contracted a hit. As an outside contract, he can choose to refuse it at any time. He was requested specifically for this. He acknowledges and commits the details to memory.

The target's land is a rocky, dry and reminiscent of Arizona. The air is dry and oppressive, but Morgan does not sense any direct sunlight. Something about the place reverberates in his head. Perhaps the chemicals ingested and injected into his blood are affecting him, making his brain scintillate. He takes a coin from his pocket and chants, infusing the object with a locator spell. He places it in his mouth and performs a tactile incant to enhance it.

A tribal leader was the closest English translation to what he was told eliminate. Morgan gets to his knees and smells the air and ground. He can sense small animals, but nothing suggesting larger prey. This hunt could take days. Something akin to eagerness rushes through him. He spends the better part of the day walking slowly, using a dead branch as a sweeping cane. He eventually comes upon a large stone. He sits, resting against it. As he plants his had down to lower himself, he feels dried bones. The bones are stripped bare and unnaturally narrowed, as if by knifeblade. He sniffs them. They still have a faint scent, so the meat was recently removed.

His hands roam over the area and he discovers the leavings of a campsite. As he considers some shaped stones, a noise catches his attention. He faintly senses other minds, but they are not near enough for him to recognize any thought patterns. He pulls back against the rock. He pulls his spectacles from his front pocket, flicks them open, and slides them on. His brain suddenly feels like its buzzing disorientingly. He clamps his teeth down on his tongue and forces his brain to focus. The buzzing dampens as he reasserts his will over his own mind. As he regains his equilibrium, he manifests a sphere around himself. Several thuds tell him his instinct was correct. As he looks about, he sees no thought patterns or emotions. They can shield their minds, he thinks. He considers that they might be able to read his.

He can hear them poking, tapping and hitting the edge of his barrier. He can feel them doing similar probing to his head. He thinks of math equations and matrices and graphing vectors. They suddenly register confusion. With set targets now available, he blasts the sphere outwards as targeted shrapnel. Surprised yowls follow, his rifle appears and he starts rapidly firing at them. He sacrifices precision for a wider spread of damage, but they fall away, giving him more room and time to fire again. As he relaxes his stance, and goes to manifest again, something three feet across strikes him directly in the chest. Morgan doesn't have time to wonder how someone manage to sunder his mindcrafted rifle. He quickly fuses the two halves together again while sliding to the ground. The sharp pain from breathing suggests a cracked rib. He places a small shield in front of him and a sleeve around his torso. He expends a large amount of energy and makes the rifle permanent. A sensation seizes him like his brain being squeezed like a sponge. Blood spurts from his nose. Panic grips him. Reeling, he crawls on his belly. Finally, he presses his own throat until he goes woozy.

Reality rushes back into his head like a shot in his ear. Dried blood is caked on his mouth. His hands are bound underneath him and his ankles are tied to a frame. Water trickles onto his face. Some words are spoken to him. He does not understand them. He says as much, in English, then Scafir. The voice responds in Scafiir, “You are not weak.”

Morgan spits out a blood clot that formed on his tongue. “No, I am not,” he whispers in Magiir.

“So, you speak with many tongues. Who are you?” (And what are you?)

He licks his lips and spits out more old blood. “Morgan Andrew Charles Wallace, 9th Baron Wallace of East New Jersey, son of John Hunter Fitzgerald Wallace, a human noble, and Scariel, former principal of the Scafir. I am brother and guardian of the dragon summoner.”

He feels the being stop pacing. “I asked who you were and you answer with a magelong title.”

“You wanted to know what I was, moreso than who I am.”

“I did not say that.”

“But you thought it very loudly.”

Morgan can sense a sneer on the stranger's face. The stranger kneels by his head, twists it to one side. “Well, then, hello... my son.”