Mentor Assault

ear 31: When Morgan got him back, Michael dazedly sat up. Morgan knelt down and put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you lucid?”

Michael's breathing and heart rate finally slowed. “Yeah. Yes, my head has cleared. I have to wonder why.”

“It provides a great excuse to keep her isolated. It means she also is terminally bored.”

“The charm must have been done pretty sloppily for her to lose her judgment that badly.”

Morgan grunted assent. “But you did try to countercharm?”

Michael mildly slapped himself to clear the remaining haze. “Yes, absolutely. I flat out said no, too.”

Morgan hesitated a moment. “That is ... mildly disturbing.”

“I know, but I don't think she was fully aware of what she was doing.”

Morgan an empathetic noise. “I often feel that way with you.”

Michael arched a brow. “Really?”

“I have to do what you want me to do. Ofttimes, you are not aware that you are telling me what to do.”

“The geas?”

“Yes.”

“Does it work over our emotive link?”

“Yes, and you don't have to verbally express your desires either. At least, you mean no harm. The worst part about a geas is that no matter how much I know I can't stop myself from following it, I still feel responsible for the actions it makes me take.”

Morgan went and grabbed a dressing robe and handed it to Michael. “Are you going to continue instructing her?”

Michael softly swallowed. “Yes, I am. You broke the charm and she probably does need some distraction. I think I'll also practice fighting blind.”

: -D

TVtropes.org is a fun, educational (in the same way potato chips are nutritious), and wonderful place to learn about pop culture... and other stuff. ;-)

Confession

AC: Michael sat propped up in bed, his face white from shock. He looked weak, nearly bloodless. His body was still recovering from physical trauma, but it was mental shock that had drained his life away. The normally robust, vivacious, princely man seemed to be reduced to a quivering paper doll. Morgan's accusations still rolled about in his head in soft, leaden thuds. He mumbled tremulously, “He didn't mean it hurtfully... he didn't...”

Georg meticulously checked Michael's wound. It was healing but showed strain from Michael's disregard of Georg's directive to stay in bed. Georg gently pinched the suture. Michael flinched and finally made eye contact with his caretaker. “It's irritated and swelling. I wanted to be sure that it didn't require lancing.”

Michael stared at Georg disaffectedly. He blinked a few times then dropped his eyes downwards again. Tears streamed down, but no sobs emanated from him. Georg palpated Michael's abdomen. A stragulated grunt was the repsonse. Georg replaced the bedclothes over Michael's body and spoke plainly, “You should confide in someone. A therapist, perhaps. He was not wrong in that assessment.”

Michael's voice sounded like a distant echo. “I don't think I can confide what he told me...” Suddenly, he snapped back to his usual tone, “I used to confide in him. I thought he confided in me. That's how it's supposed to work. That's how I thought it always was. Why didn't he tell...”

Georg kept his tone neutral. “Remain calm. Your hectic attitude will aggravate the hemorrhaging.”

Michael paled to the white of the sheets. “I have more than I ever wanted but I feel so empty without him.”

Georg pulled a chair up to the bedside. “He said something akin to the latter when you died. I believe he said, 'Half of me is gone and it is the better half.' You never recovered your emotive link, did you?”

“No, we didn't. Is that.... uhn...”

“Any cramps or aching?” Georg asked clinincally.

Michael nodded, wincing.

“Would you be willing to discuss with me what he said?”

Michael's eyes slowly focused on Georg. Dark circles were starting to show underneath them. “I don't want to discuss that specifically, but he did wonder what my original intentions with the gemen ritual were.”

“They weren't what you told me? You said you wanted an heir.”

“Yes, I did. That didn't change. I did not expect to.. Well, I didn't mean to... “ Michael's voice became increasingly faint as he spoke. He pressed his hands to his face. Tears overran them. “May god forgive me.”

“As I recall,” Georg said in his soft accent, “absolution is only granted if you can admit to what you did.”

Georg could barely make out the words Michael spoke, “I raped him...”

Odds-on Favorite

Michael quickly taped up the wound on his arm and gulped down a cup of grog to ease the pain. It didn't hurt badly, but the shock had jarred him when it happened. He gently flexed the muscle and found it only superficially damaged. An arena slave brought him a meal and he tossed a silver coin to the boy out of habit. The child smiled widely as he tucked it somewhere safe. He ate with his bare hands in the sloppy manner most gladiators do. A manager came around and said, “There's a weird guy looking for you by name.”

Michael wiped his mouth with his wrist. “Weird guy? Did he say what he wants?”

“No, but he didn't seem the kind to like questions.”

Michael swore softly to himself in Italian. The manager looked at him oddly, but since he only knew rough Magiir and Gnomish, he might have taken it as merely a native language. He drank down another swallow of grog and tossed aside the cup. He walked to the exit and found Morgan standing there in his assassin garb.

“I didn't think you'd find me here, Andrew.”

“I did not think you would ever use the name Thusias.”

“So, what brings you here?”

“I heard the arena hosts deathmatches.”

The consternation in Michael's voice was more noticeable than the actual words. “Yes, it does. I don't participate in those.”

Morgan's head bobbed in thought. “That's all I needed to know. Try to find a hobby that doesn't cause my nerves to shriek out like glass through my face.”

Morgan walked away at that moment. Michael's reply died on his lips.

Later, Morgan found him inside as he was oiling and sharpening his sabre. Michael looked up and considered him. “To what did you agree?” he asked in English.

Morgan's face went blank. “A deathmatch.”

Michael continued running a stone along his blade's edge. “You have a job and this is the only way you can get close to your target?”

“Yes.”

“You do understand that this is blood sport? A straight, clean kill is not very entertaining.”

Morgan said nothing.

“Irrelevant?” Michael signed.

“Irrelevant,” Morgan confirmed.

Michael slid his sword into its scabbard and asked, “When is your match?”

“Tomorrow,” Morgan answered.

Michael got up to leave. He and Morgan did not acknowledge their relationship in this city. On the way out, he asked the arena herald about the fresh meat. Morgan had challenged the half-ogre champion on a 'matter of honor.' “That match is not going to be pretty,” he murmured to himself, “or sanitary.”

Secrets to be Kept

Morgan seemed to be talking to himself. The behavior was common in Michael, but Morgan wasn't known for being very verbal. Michael came around to find Morgan talking into a small device in his hand. Morgan finished his conversation and put it down. Michael cleared his throat. Morgan quickly palmed the device.

“What was that?”

“It's a new gadget. It's called a cellular phone.”

Michael vocally nodded. “I've heard of them. Why do you have one?”

“Think about my profession.”

Michael nodded again. “I can hardly believe you actually went out and bought one.”

“I didn't.”

Michael voiced confusion.

“I know someone who understands electronics. A half-elf by lineage and cybermancer by trade.”

“Cybermancer?”

“He understands electronics at a very deep level. Computers are like life waiting to be awakened into a collective consciousness, he says.”

Michael blinked uncomprehendingly. Morgan asked, “Are you speechless?”

Michael nodded. “I don't... can't fathom a machine with consciousness of any kind.”

“He says it has already begun. He referred to something called arpanet.”

“What's his primary?”

“Electricity as enhancement. He has very fine-tuned control. He uses it to talk to the machines. He calls it interfacing.”

“Why do you know him?”

“I use him to get information that would be hard to get through normal means. What he does is similar to wiretapping, but with electronic information.”

“That can't be legal.”

“I imagine not, but I know of no laws against it. Yet.”

“So, who is this cybermancer?”

“Well, his offworld name is Andras. I'm not revealing any more.”

PSA

Year 6: John Wallace found his two young sons worrisome. One was excitedly active, mischievious, and rabidly inquisitive. The other was painfully introverted, oft times mute, and mentally detached. This was mollified by the fact they were both obedient.

As aristocratic children, they were exposed early on to high culture. They attended operas, ballets, symphonic concerts, and plays. They were taught music and dances. Both could recite poetry and plays. They could read by the age of four. By six, Lord Wallace decided they were old enough to appreciate museums. Their first attendance was a regular visit. Michael loved the experience. Morgan, however, remained between his father and his valet and made no attempt to engage at all even during demonstrations and lectures. In a gift shop, Morgan quietly asked if there were any braille books. There weren't.

The next trip, Michael, Holmes and Lord Wallace took turns explaining the exhibits to Morgan. It kept him engaged but sparked no interest. Michael wanted very much to share the wonderful experience he was having, but, in 1972, most museums were visual.

At home, Morgan was allowed to touch almost anything. The family's art collection was open to him. He could run his hands over sculptures, get close enough to distinguish different paints by scent, and different methods of painting by gingerly touching the brush strokes. He ran his hands on tapestries to feel the weave. He could even handle the weaponry and armor displays. He was also provided shelves of braille books.

Hopeful that he could improve his son's experience, Lord Wallace started contacting individual museums, hoping some would be willing to schedule private sessions that allowed his son better access to their contents. The Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum of Art were willing to allow him to physically touch some of the sculptures. The private tours finally did prompt Morgan's interest and he spent many years after searching out hands-on tours from which to learn.

(Both museums actually do provide said private tours.)

Known Languages >= 30

Morgan fanned the cards down in front of him. “Gin.”

Michael chided, “That's it. I'm not playing with you anymore.”

“Well, we can play chess.”

“Chess? You can map out twenty moves in advance. No.”

“How can someone who can permutate market drift to the hour for three months have a problem seeing six moves ahead in chess?”

Michael emphatically shrugged “I don't know. Something in my head can't do that for little wooden pieces on the board. I can't abstract them.”

Morgan's head bobbled slightly as he thought. “Backgammon?”

“No, Othello?”

“I can think twenty moves in advance in almost anything. It's how I was trained to think. I can't shut it off. Checkers?”

“Well, I do advanced planning at work but it is just work. Improvisational music?”

“Maybe if you knew Bartok.”

“It's improvisational.”

“But your phrasing is...”

“Jazz-oriented.”

“Monopoly?”

“Are you going to make origami out of the money again?”

“Well the braille stamper rips the bills.”

“Diplomacy?”

“Isn't that a misnomer for a game that is random world war?”

“You're thinking of Risk, which also doesn't seem accurately named, come to think of it. Diplomacy is backstabbing in attempts to avert the random world war.”

“Why are these activities not fun anymore?”

Michael sighed. He knew why, but decided feigning ignorance would be better then pointing out the truth. Then his face lit up. “Aaaah... Scrabble, with no language restrictions.”

Morgan looked quizzical for half a second, before smiling wickedly. “Game on.”