Sophistemon

Samuel nodded, though of course Warne couldn't see him do so through the phone. "Right," he responded. "I, ah, hadn't thought that they might look up my address." He looked over at his window and couldn't help imagining someone coming through it with a knife while he was in bed, asleep, defenseless. "I'll set some wards just in case they get any bright ideas and try to have our meeting a little early." He took a breath. "And, Warne, not to overstep my bounds or anything, but the people won't be very protected if the Weave is torn and the Outsiders get in. That would be bad business for everyone. Thankfully, I think that we're a long way from something like that happening."

There was a brief, mechanical whirr as Upgrade's sensory cluster swiveled to inspect Agent Warne as he delivered a verbal beating on the superheroic newcomer. "Your heart may be in the right place," offered man in the the towering battlesuit, which looked back towards Bonfire. "But your actions aren't just making important people angry, they're making regular people afraid. Things are bad enough when super-powered people like yourself go rogue and rob banks, or beat each other up in the middle of the street. But when you're causing damage to nuclear facilities... the economic repercussions alone are devastating. You're talking hundreds of millions of people without power, for one. If those plants go critical, the ecological damage would be catastrophic and the area would be uninhabitable for millions of years." An enormous metal hand pointed an equally enormous metal finger at the sensory cluster. "You've got to think things through more carefully. Sun Tzu said that all battles are won or lost before they're ever fought. If you're trying to make a difference, make sure that it's the right one. If it is, guys like Warne and I will back you up every time. You're in an entire city full of people like you -- you don't have to go it alone and put yourself in positions where something like shutting down the nuclear power grid seems like a good idea."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been expecting, at the every least, to have been chastised for his carelessness. Then, he remembered that he hadn't told Warne how they knew his name. Well. Lying by omission wasn't really lying, right? "I've done what I can from here, with the resources that I have available," he explained. "I can't find anything that matches the profile of the drug as we understand it. You've got to remember, Warne -- I just did a little powder, maybe some pot now and then to take the edge off. I was never involved in anything like this." He paused. "And I've been clean for years. Prison rehabilitation program. It was part of what got me released so early -- a expressed desire to change; you know how it is." He paused, thinking. "I'd be happy to help your guys work on figuring things out, but I'm a magician, not a scientist. The machines that they're working with might as well have the instructions written in Greek so far as I'm concerned. You're right about one thing, though: we can't let this go on for much longer. The art isn't something that you should just... be able to drink down and get better at. There are rules to it that have to be followed, or people are going to get hurt and hurt badly. And that's not even bringing into account the potential damage to the fabric of reality by a bunch of untrained amateurs screwing around with the warp and weft of the Weave."

Upgrade's sensory apparatus swiveled on a pivot, the cameras taking in the parking lot until they settled on Agent Warne, before rotating back around again to look at Bonfire. Ethan engaged communications and spoke into the receiver. "What my associate means is," he began, his voice amplified into a booming mechanical monotone. "We're interested in learning why you did what you did. Your profile doesn't suggest that you're the kind of person who would do this sort of thing without a good reason. That makes us -- and the agency -- very curious as to why it happened." Two enormous metal shoulders rose and fell in a casual, all too human shrug. The armor plating that protected the joints shifted slightly, revealing an array of missile pods and at least one rotating autocannon. "We would like to settle this as calmly as possible, but we need you to explain yourself before we can proceed."

Samuel stalled, awestruck by the sheer volume of materials that needed to be catalogued. "My God," he murmured, almost inaudibly. "This is going to take the rest of my life." His tongue snaked out a bit and wet his upper lip before a grin split his face in half. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you, both. I won't let you down, I swear." He turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. "Did he have a system? Al-Kazar, I mean? Do we know how he organized the room? I can't..." He stopped when he saw the swords and a slight chuckle escaped him before he stepped over to them like a child on their way to the Christmas tree. "My God!" he repeated, his voice cracking. "They're actually sharp! How did he..?" A hand crept up to stroke his goatee and he began to laugh. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's like being a kid in a candy store." He coughed and composed himself before turning to Gretchen. "Where do we get started?"

The magician was practically drooling. "I dare," he said, stepping forward. "Boy oh boy, do I ever dare." He took up his bag and stepped inside, taking a deep, deep breath as he did so. The room smelled like musty old books, dry ink, and knowledge. He felt the wisdom contained within the room coalesce around him like a mist, caressing his skin and tickling at the forbidden places of his mind. "Everything is so... beautiful in here," he murmured. "We're going to start with his personal effects first, I think. Notebooks, journals, diaries and things of that nature. If we start with cataloguing everything that Al-Kazar knew about his own collection, that's half of our work done for us. God above, who knows what he knew..." Not that he wanted this to go by quickly -- far from it! Apart from the money that the work would bring in, getting to spend time among one of the more complete mystical collections on Earth was a privilege that he didn't relish the idea of losing. Then, he paused and slowly turned back towards Gretchen. "You don't like Stephen King? I read Christine every year. Not that Poe isn't good -- he is; but King's great for a relaxing, slightly-spooky read."

Sam stood, the bag of clothes at his side, the container of coffee in his hand, and smiled. He just stood there, for a second or two, and smiled. After that moment had passed, he looked to Lance and said, "I grabbed something to eat on my way here, so I'm not too hungry, but I might be back for a bagel or something later, if that's okay?" Assuming that the barista responds in the affirmative, Sam's smile -- a real smile, it should be mentioned -- widened a bit. He leaned down, took up his bag, and followed the two women into the back room. He sipped the coffee as he walked, and it was delicious. When he arrived in the office he set down the bag and took another drink of his coffee. "This is really good!" he exclaimed. "I didn't have any the least time I was here -- I was missing out!" He knelt, reached into the bag, and pulled out a small cardboard dispenser of powder-free latex gloves. "I did some research online," he explained. "And I learned that using these is a good way to help prevent the books from degrading. I mean, we aren't going to be working in optimal conditions regardless, but everything that we can do to keep Al-Kazar's work as pristine as possible is worth it, don't you think?"

Sam quickly filled in his opposite number on all that he'd learned -- and didn't learn -- about starlight. He explained to Agent Warne that the drug's mysterious nature made it all the more fascinating. There were magical ingredients that, when combined, could create similar affects when imbibed, but not all at once and not with the side-effects described by those they'd spoken to. "It's like they took three different jigsaw puzzles," he yammered. "And managed to make a picture out of the chaos. What they've accomplished is... well, amazing. Or crazy. Probably both!" And then, of course, the moment of truth. "Anyway, that's all incidental. I called you to let you know that they called me. I wasn't expecting them to ring so soon! They've set up a meet, tomorrow at seven." He looked down at the pad of paper and began to recite what he'd written there. "In Kingston, on Sidney Avenue, at the abandoned teevee repair shop across from the Whole Foods." He swallowed the remnants of his nervousness. "There's one little hiccup. Probably not even worth mentioning, really... They, uh, know my name." He winced, imagining the look on Warne's face. "But that might not be a bad thing. I mean, with my history they might think that I'm up to something and want to boost my powers. You know: supervillain stuff. This might work out in our favor, Warne. If they think that I'm a bad guy there might be even ground."

My revenge will be swift and merciless. When the time comes, the machine will weep digital tears.

"All clear, control. Initializing approach in three... two..." He tapped a button and cut the hover mode, initializing a brief wave of nausea as the AMP began to drop and his body found itself in one position while his stomach remained in place. For a moment, maybe two, Ethan considered allowing the XO-9 to make unimpeded contact with the ground, crashing to earth and leaving an impressive crater in its wake. It would survive the impact no problem, and what better way to make an entrance? But, unfortunately, causing that much damage to the parking lot would be an egregious waste of taxpayer dollars. He flipped a toggle and stabilization thrusters coughed to life, slowing what had been a free-fall to a carefully controlled descent and a feather light landing. There was a brief period of hissing machinery as the AMP re-calibrated itself, and Ethan stared through the screen at the innocuous entrance to the building. Sunlight gleamed off of polished chrome, bright but not too bright, as the man inside the metal considered his next move. Public relations; this was part of the job. Better him than Warne, though; the older man didn't strike Stone as being the warm and fuzzy type. Then again, maybe he was totally the kind of guy who'd spend his entire weekend in sweatpants; there was just no way to know. Ethan's voice, rendered impressively mechanical by an array of digital filters, boomed out into the surrounding area. "Bonfire," he buzzed. "This is Agent Upgrade, of the American Elite Government Intervention Service. Your presence is requested in the parking lot. You are not under arrest -- I just want to talk." There. Ethan cut external communication and sighed. Hopefully that sounded equal parts official and friendly.

Samuel wrote quickly, jotting down the details as the man on the other line spoke them. He was about to respond in the affirmative when the line went dead with a climactic click, cutting him off. The former villain sighed and looked down at the pad, his mind reeling with unpleasant thoughts. "Right," he said, to no one in particular. "Right. I guess that I'd better... check in." He reached for his phone, hesitated, and then dialed Agent Warne.

Ethan nodded, though the XO-9's head-shaped sensory cluster remained stationary. "Roger that," he buzzed. "Standing by for the 'all clear' and go-ahead." He tapped his fingers on the console in front of him and waited, as patiently as possible, for the evacuation to be completed. He was nervous. The AMP wasn't, strictly speaking, finished. It was functional, of course. He'd seen it demonstrate strength and durability that had made his jaw drop, and its offensive array was already shaping up to be something special, but there had been so much that he'd been promised in the initial briefings that hadn't been delivered. Additional sensory modes, for example, not to mention further expansions of its arsenal. He sighed, and then spoke aloud to himself. "The Government -- long on budget, short on time."

Internally, Samuel kicked himself for having given away his name so easily. Truth be told, he'd thought it was Agent Warne calling and hadn't even bothered to check the incoming number before answering. A stupid mistake -- and potentially a dangerous one. A name, in the right hands, could be the deadliest weapon there is. He calmed his breathing, and kept his voice measured when he spoke. "That's right," he responded, and reached out to prepare a pen and a pad of paper. Whoever was on the other side of the line was smarter than Terry, although that wasn't saying much. At least they had the good sense to avoid mentioning a drug deal over the phone. "Any friend of Terry's is a friend of mine," he added. "Do you have a place in mind where you'd like to meet? I can be there... very quickly." And that was true, at least. It took only a few five-mile teleporting 'jumps' to reach every landmark within the city limits. He was never more than a hop, skip, and a jump away from... well, anywhere.

Samuel leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, which had begun to ache from staring into a screen for most of the afternoon. How kids these days managed to spend all day in front of their computer, tapping away and frying their brain, he'd never understand. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the buzzing phone. "Steiner here," he said. His brain buzzed with new, albeit not all entirely useful information. He was worried, a bit, that Warne would cut him loose before he was able to be of any real help and had hoped to uncover something truly groundbreaking to prevent that. Alas, it wasn't to be.

Ethan thought for a moment before responding. "I'd rather not cause any damage if I can help it," he admitted. "Why don't I swoop down, land in the parking lot, and announce myself? If he comes out with his hands up and looks like he's going to behave himself, we can have a nice quiet chat about not causing any more nuclear emergencies. If he doesn't..." He ran his fingertips over the console before him. "We discipline him until he does. Or at least until he realizes that not even my bullets can shoot smoke and you have to take over." He grumbled something. "Forget the radio; I want something that can damage immaterial stuff. Maybe an impact cannon, or a sonic weapon. I'll talk to the boys in the back room about it and see what they can do."

Agent Stone, currently encapsulated within the durable metal hide of the XO-9, was hovering above the building at a respectable altitude. To those below the enormous fighting machine might resemble nothing more than a passing plane at this distance -- albeit one that remained remarkably stationary. His voice, filtered through a program that made it sound suitably mechanical, buzzed through the communicators. "Upgrade reporting in," he droned. "I've established surveillance and I'm ready when you are." And then, after switching to Warne's personal channel: "You know, they promised me that they'd at least have the radio working by now. I've got nothing in here and it's driving me crazy." It's true -- when he wasn't speaking into the communicator he was humming to keep himself entertained. "At least this thing is climate-controlled. I'm chilling at a comfy 67 degrees."

Ethan nodded, but inside he was thinking. Sure, I'll look really impressive in my big metal suit -- until the fighting starts and I can't do anything to him. Then Agent Warne demonstrated his telekinetic mastery and Ethan stared, transfixed, as the other man made the fire dance and the smoke twist into the air. "That's... wow, enough said." he murmured. "That's incredible, Warne. At least we've got you." He snorted then when he heard how the media, both old and new, had turned on Bonfire following his most recent actions. "Oh, but aren't we a fickle people?" He shook his head and tutted. "He should have stuck to beating up muggers and spandex-wearing lunatics like a good little hero. Y'see, this is what happens when good people try to get into politics -- the whole damn system goes for your throat in the blink of an eye." He motioned towards Warne, and then to himself. "And they send people like us to make sure that it sticks." He looked at Warne, then, and grimaced. "You know the damn suit isn't even finished yet? They promised a suite of sensory modes, an Active Denial System, all sorts of stuff -- it's all stuck in the planning stages until they figure out how to fit it on the chassis. Isn't that a kick? Every egghead in Washington is working on the damn thing."

"Good morning!" the magician replied, and inclined his head in a nod. "Coffee sounds great, actually. Nothing too fancy -- just a cup, some cream, and one sugar." He paused, realizing for a moment that he was -- if not happy -- content in a way that he hadn't been for a while. Sure, there weren't any adoring fans here clinging on his every word, but there were a bunch of relatively nice people who seemed genuinely interested in ignoring his past and giving him a chance at a future. That meant more to him than all the money in all of the banks that he'd robbed. Tried to rob. Failed to rob. He forced those memories from his mind and turned to greet Gretchen. "Good morning!" he said, and grinned at her. "I don't remember my ass being part of the deal, but I'm ready to work. I can't wait, actually -- I'm really excited to see what Al-Kazar had stashed away. Think of the things that we could learn... I'm practically drooling." A moment later, Lynn made her way out of the office and Sam greeted her, as well. "Good morning!" he said, a third time. "It's easy to clean up when you have money for new clothes. Ah, speaking of which..." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a slightly worn envelope, which he held out to his new employer. "I didn't cash this one. I didn't need to. I'd... like you to have it back, Lynn. You've done enough for me already, and I think I'd like to earn my pay."

Hey, real life comes first. Take care of yourself, man. Let me know if I can help.

Presto Dreamweaver I've Got a Golden Ticket One Night at Rusty's Unkindness, Conspiracy, and Murder Upgrade A Show of Force

Samuel Steiner approached Silberman's Books with a look of extreme, determined trepidation etched across his features. He was dressed simply this time, at least for him. He wore tan khaki slacks, brown loafers and a green polo shirt over a white tee -- all new, all purchased with the money provided by the overly-generous proprietor of the store that he then entered. The bell above the door rang sweetly as he stepped inside, heralding his arrival. He held a crisp paper bag in his left hand, inside of which he had placed his suit -- all neatly folded, of course -- just in case. He grinned as he entered, the scent of books washing away his fear, and made his way to the counter to meet the new boss. "Good morning!" he crowed, cheerful as all get out.

Ethan looked over at Warne and shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno, man, my daughter blogs sometimes. I mean, she mostly just posts links to cat videos but there's really no harm in it. It's like our version of yakking into a CB radio when we were kids -- they're just putting their voices out there for people to hear." He then nodded to Clarkson. "So, he doesn't tend to use lethal or even potentially lethal force. He's a man that can turn into fire and chooses to blow smoke. That's interesting. It's actually almost a little zen, don't you think?" And then: "I hope that he can't turn into smoke. If he can, and things go south, there's not much that I could do to hurt him. The AMP's got firepower out the wazoo but I can't hit something that's immaterial." He cast a sidelong glance at his associate and raised a finger to his temple. "Can your, ah, mental-whammy put the hurt on someone that isn't, strictly speaking, really there?"

Oh, sheesh, I'm sorry -- I'd completely forgotten that you'd already specified. My bad. I've assumed that you want Presto at home and don't have any other plans for him until Warne calls with further information. With that in mind I've moved Presto back to his apartment, where he can do his research in his kitchen. Knowledge: Arcane Lore: 1d20+11 14 Unbelievable. I'm going to spend a Hero Point to improve the roll. It occurs to me that I should have just taken 20, but it's too late for that now -- I've already rolled. Knowledge: Arcane Lore: 1d20+11 14 If this were happening to anyone else it'd be hysterical. The rules of the Re-Roll do dictate that because I rolled a 10 or below I get to add 10 to the result, which makes the new roll a 24. I can't believe that I rolled the same disappointing result twice.

Presto approached the taxi, provided his address, and quickly found himself returned to the curb outside of his apartment. He realized, somewhat belatedly, that he could have simply made a few teleporting 'jumps' and arrived even more quickly -- but there was no harm in having traveled as the rabble do... so long as he didn't allow himself to make it a habit. He trudged inside, side-stepped an overflowing bag of trash, and went upstairs. The elevator, being the dilapidated hunk of junk that it was, was no help in that regard. Thankfully he devoted some time to physical fitness, which reduced the climb from 'strenuous' to merely 'annoying.' When he reached his room he entered and locked the door behind him before sinking into his sagging couch with a sigh. "What on Earth have I gotten myself into?" he mused, and then looked over at his computer. If only he still had his collection of books, his notes, his library of collected facts and lore, spells, incantations and rituals... but they had all been confiscated and, he presumed, destroyed for reasons of public safety. A lifetime of work gone in a flash. "Just had to rob banks," he mused. "Couldn't have just gone into banking, instead. At least then the theft would have been legal!" He stood, stretched, and sat at his kitchen table. The laptop, though out of date, booted swiftly and he began to type. He may not have had possession of his library, but by God he could still do some research in the hidden circles of the Internet. He searched for hours, diving into everything that he could get his hands on that related to the drug and its effects.

After a moment of silence, Ethan shrugged his shoulders and ventured a thought. "I've been logging a lot of flight-time," he admitted. "The entire crew's been trying to get ready for the AMP's big debut -- and I guess that this is it. But I haven't been paying as much attention to the news as I should be. This Bonfire guy... if it comes to a fight -- and if that wasn't a concern, the two of us wouldn't be here -- what can we expect out of him? How dangerous is he?" The machine that he piloted, the XO-9 Advanced Mobility Platform, was equipped with enough armor to survive a tank round, but nevertheless he didn't relish the idea of being roasted alive inside of an enormous metal coffin.