An Unseen Flash Mob of the Unknown and Unwanted.

"I have two Mark VIs approaching the anomaly location, touching down in approximately thirty seconds, Chief."

Operator Pasternak looked pleased.  Smug.  His arms were folded over the jacket of his uniform white suit, his stance was easy, cocky.  The uplink behind his left ear pulsed blue light, in sync with the pulses from the uplink device attached to the figure restrained on the Operations table behind him and the uplink indicator on the screen attached to the same table.

The Chief Operator nodded.  It was only six months ago that she was promoted to her position, promoted out of wearing the uplink to the HIT Coordinators.  There was a pang of loneliness from time to time, but more often she felt relieved to no longer be part of that chain.  "Bushes aren't hands, Op Three - let me know when we have a signal to the other side of the anomaly."

Pasternak grinned hard, pushing his glasses up a millimeter or two.  "We will soon have the location of the secret rebel base!"

The Chief Operator grinned back and nodded enthusiastically, the uplink at the base of her spinal cord pulsing the same easy rhythm in blue.

~~~

The lights turned red, and three people entered the crosswalk.  They were wearing faded, worn, ill-fitting clothing - homeless, the drivers and other pedestrians recognize, and with that recognition the three people are gone from their thoughts.  The three step across the crosswalk, feet skipping, shuttering, bouncing in seemingly no discernible pattern - it's a dance, people would think (if they didn't cease to think about them immediately after seeing them), but a dance that had no context, no rules, no coordination.

A satellite might see differently, if the satellites could recognize them.  It might look down on the city of Portland, Oregon, and see this dance performed in crosswalks, in parks, in parking lots, and across bridges, a thin mandala of people and dance, an unseen flash mob of the unknown and unwanted.

At a wooden table outside a red train car where you can buy tea and tea accessories, the Murshid - an aging man, cord-thin underneath layers of shirts and a tweed jacket - hoarsely says, "Now we shield them."  The pronouncement is recognizably special, sacred somehow, and is answered by Murid Vincente, sitting next to the Murshid - a more fully-framed, middle-aged latinx man with a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache - "Now we blind them."  Across from them a pale, frail-looking woman in a full, lacy white dress, nods, concern clear on her face, her eyes shimmering with the barest hint of tears.  Next to her, Vera Friedman stands resolute, muttering "Fuck those fascists" with eyes closed in concentration.

And the dancers, the homeless invisibles are muttering, too.  Not in one voice, not in unison, they mutter "Now we shield them," and "now we blind them."  One, in the industrial north-west section of the city, yells out "Fuck those fascists!" and giggles as they cross the road - but no one cares.  It's ignored and soon forgotten.

~~~

Operator Pasternak nods sharply, his grin only slightly faded.  "Mercury 7843 and Mercury 7846 are down from the chopper, and...they're entering the anomaly, Chief."  He turns to the Chief Operator with a look of anticipation and triumph on his face - the look you have when your team is up 9-2 in the top of the 9th.  "We've found them.  Repeat - we've foun..." the reference falters and confusion and mild panic takes over.  The other team hit a home run and somehow scoring 11 goals, shattering his expectations and the metaphor.

"What is it, Operator?"  The Chief Operator's eyes narrow, and her questions is easily understood not as "What's happening?" but "How could this happen?"  She looks past Pasternak to the HIT Coordinator on the table, its uplink flashing red.  Almost as soon as she notices this, she recognizes something else out of the ordinary - Pasternak's uplink, too, is flashing red.  There's just a moment of hesitation, a sigh not in her breath but in her eyes before she turns to a computer wall terminal near the door and orders clearly, "Sam, call Director Daley."

Early to Rise.

The sun was down - had been for nearly two bells - when she finally climbed the last of the white stone steps to her small shop.  The sun was down, but it wasn't dark - not really.  The sky was clear - as it often is in this corner of Eorzea - and the stars and moon shone brightly, almost festively.  The sylphlamps were glowing under the two willows that framed the building, trapping their soft pink glow under their hanging branches.  Color surrounded her in Mist - not bright, really, but it was very rarely dark, here.

The white-haired viera didn't seem to notice this festivity tonight - she had a focused look on her face, her mouth in a proto-scowl as she shook a ring of thick, complex-looking keys from her satchel, singling one out almost automatically and fitting it into the lock in the black door.  She slipped in, closing the door behind her with perhaps a bit more force than was strictly needed.  She stood in what she thought of the as the showroom - in the actual dark - for almost a minute, breathing, reaching out, sending aether through the floor and into her workshop, finding the small, tumbled and polished lump of black tourmaline.  Aetherial pressure built sharply - and released suddenly, as her carbuncle launched itself toward the stairs to greet her.  She squatted there at the door, anxiety and concern on her face washing and expanding to a smile as she caught the heavy bundle that flung itself at her by way of a hello.

~~~

It was Rising again.  Sindri found the relatively new festival jarring, hopeful, and all too comfortable.  Heroes they couldn't remember had saved them from a terrible calamity - but the empire still marshaled it's forces, still held entire cultures hostage, threatening to stamp out everything that made these peoples different, special.  She'd watched it happen for over one hundred years, and didn't see an end to it.  Rising was good for a bit of coin, if you pandered to the revelers with a bit of blue crystal ornamentation, but the sheer hope and thankfulness of the festival wore thin in her - it felt like only a respite, a few beats before the other boot dropped.

She channeled a bit of aether to the lamps - illumination modules, as the old manuals called them - and headed downstairs.  She stripped her light, summer robes, strapped a thick leather apron over her smallclothes and began stoking the forge.

She missed her people - she had wandered farther and farther from the forests over the years, but that hadn't helped.  Every year around this time she began to think again about her decision to leave, to try to help those that didn't have the protection that she had growing up.  Every year she wondered if she had made a difference, wondered if the empire would decide to conquer the viera next, wondered if anyone there remembered her.  The only solution she found was to put her head down and work.  To fashion things - deadly things, powerful things, beautiful things.  If she had never left, these items would still be unformed - so if to no one else, it was worth it to them.

The black tourmaline carbuncle was sitting there when she turned, a hammer in its mouth, waiting.

Rather Mauled, I Think.

"What attack pattern is that, anyway?  It looks like it's...what?  Alpha, Beta?  Those are two words I just learned, though."  Tiok babbled, the Sullustan already adjusting the Unchained Kiros' deflector fields in anticipation of the TIE/ln wing's attack.

Niobe glanced up from the point defense cannon controls, almost silently cursing the luck that put her in the bridge of the cruiser, rather than their more nimble, battle ready transport, the Swift Grifter.  They really needed to find her a new name, but at least she could dodge the TIE's aim in the smuggler ship.  It did not feel natural  or wise to her to accept ship blasters slamming into your shields.  A quick glance at the formation of the two incoming wings told her they were using the far more offensive tactics of Gamma pattern - a gusty move for just TIE/lns.  Her eyes narrowed.  Why would they...

"Gamma, obviously," sighed Athorn, standing next to Tiok at the tactical display.  It was, perhaps, more shaming than she would be to the Sullustan, but she figured Chiss had to over-emote with their voices to get certain ideas across.  They, as a culture, probably never picked up on rolling their eyes to express exasperation - because no one would pick up on that sort of movement from their softly glowing red orbs.

She nodded curtly to Athorn, in agreement with his assessment, though he was already angling around the display, so she doubted he saw it.  She went back to her previous though - Gamma was a very forwardly offensive pattern for just two wings, even supported by an ISD out of the nebulae clouds.  For that matter, why hadn't they launched the remainder of their fighter compliment?

~~~

The captain of the Imperial Star Destroyer Torment brought the comms to life over the sounds of the ion engine screams with a quick, throat-clearing cough.  "The cruiser is limping, its fighters spent in the last engagement.  Inferno, go in flying Imperial Attack Pattern Gamma.  We shall make it lesson to the other rebel scum.  Melt. It. Down."

"Fire One to command," a voice rasped over the comms,"Acknowledged.  Assuming Imperial Attack Pattern Gamma.  Check in, Inferno."  A number of somewhat muffled voices replied in turn, acknowledging the order.  "Fury One, yuuuuup!" DX-77-4 - cut in quickly to prevent the attack leader from calling her wingleader's...sense of humor. "Fury Two, ack," her jaw tightened with an effort not to laugh.  Miraculously, the check-in continued without any discipline threats.

"All wings, begin attack run."  After three quick passes from the TIE/INs, the shields of the oddly shaped, alien-built cruiser weakened, given no time to regenerate - but no rebel fighters launched to challenge theirs.  The bombers of Tuk'ata wing joined them on the fourth pass, and shields and hull crumpled and exploded, throwing wreckage that Fire Three wasn't quick enough to dodge.  DX-77-4's mouth tightened, and she rolled her eyes underneath her mask.  The cruiser had a skeleton crew aboard, enough to draw them in to kill it when it's remaining fighters and transports must have snuck out between jumps, before it got here and the Torment had been alerted.  They'd missed the bulk of the surviving rebels, and had no idea until the attack had been underway.  It had been the third time they'd just missed the enemy - but at least the scruffy anarchists had yet again had to sacrifice firepower in order to save themselves.

"A ration of Bonadan in honor of Fire Three, when we get back," she nearly spat across the comms.  Fury One responded soberly, quietly, "A drink, in honor of our loss today.  Sure."

~~~

Their attack pattern hadn't executed as tightly as she expected from the sort of diehards that would still be with the Imperial remnants these days.  Niobe muttered, "something's not right," even as she tore into the damaged wingman from the first group, sending panels spinning away from each other at a sharp angle.  They called for the Kiros' surrender, and looked like they were going to attempt to board.  When they sprang the trap, she guessed that the Destroyer had set a trap for any Alliance forces attempting to reach Hapan space - the way was dangerous, so the Hapans might not be in on the ambush.  The lack of fighters, and the attempt to capture them did not add up.  She shook her head - there was no way to explain this change in Imperial strategy.

Gyrinim called up the the bridge on the comms.  "I'm going to shout 'knock, knock.'  They'll pause cutting the door, and say, 'who's there,' then I'll say 'Nexu.' 'Nexu who?' 'Nexu one through this blast door is going to get rather mauled, I think.'"

She ignored the librarian and his distractions.  Her eyes widened, and she breathed in sharply in surprise.  They weren't Imperial remnant.  They were common pirates.

Accepting Violence.

The glowing, light blue form of the Saber Master leaned back, folded his arms, and began at a mild pace.

"One!  Not so wide a stance, padawan.  Two!  Not straddling a tuk'ata, here.  Three!  Better...Jung!"


~~~


Gyrinim reached out with his senses to the small crystal device sitting on the crate across the room.  The holocron's glow shifted, the deep red radiance brightened to a soft, light blue as he thought of his lightsaber, and his ideas for how to modify the weapon.  An instant after he mouthed the name of the saber master imprinted within, Xieran Halcyon's image appeared in the center of the room.

The imprint greeted Gyr as he always did.  "How can I help?"

The archivist responded as he always did - by clearing his throat.  "Saber Master, thank you.  I was wondering if you could help me apply the Ways of the Sarlacc and Ysalamiri to a...different weapon."

The imprint glanced down at the saber clipped to Gyrinim's belt, then at the metal staff lying across his legs.  It raised an eyebrow.  "This isn't about those regrets you had before, is it, padawan?  We can continue to work on your control with the saber.  And, I'd rather not be remembered by history as a Jedi stick master."

Gyr grinned at that.  "No, Saber Master.  Instead, I was thinking of modifying my saber..."

"Oh, now that could be interesting."  Halcyon's imprint tilted his head, as he cut Gyr off.  "A saberstaff?  And you, a padawan who didn't even complete his training in Form I with a Master supervising you?"

Gyr stood up, a challenging look in his eyes.  According to records, Master Halcyon had been quite proud of his accomplishments with the Ways, and would have a hard time passing by an opportunity to test himself.  "There is Knowledge, Saber Master.  You yourself have graded me proficient in both Forms I and II."

"Yes, but you are not what I would call a natural, consular.  We'll be working twice as hard."  The image looked Gyr up and down, frowning.  "Maybe three times.  Are you sure you don't want practice lifting rocks, instead?"

"If I am correct, Saber Master, I should adjust for the added length and change in grip by...." he held the staff horizontally in front of himself, but gripped it off-center, closer to the right hand side.

"No, padawan, unless you feel certain you prefer to be just a torso."  The image sighed, and Gyr breathed deeply to repress a grin of triumph.  "Three times."


~~~


The imprint counted off more quickly, calling out marks and maneuvers.

"One!  Two!  Three!  Jung!  Two and sai!"

Gyrinim breathed deeply and let the memory of the marks he had been practicing take over for his hands and feet.  He felt that he would start to trip and stumble if he tried to force his body to keep up normally, and the imprint would call out if his memory got something wrong.  For now, there was no rush, no fatigue, just his mind, and the Force.  His mouth formed the words "There is Knowledge," and began to anticipate what the imprint was about to call.


~~~


The holocron's glow was a deeper blue as it sat on the edge of the workbench.  Gyrinim hunched over the center of the table, and another imprint stood over them both.  The figure's pointed ears peeked out from it's long, white hair, and it's arms were folded, hidden somewhere in it's heavily-mantled robes.  The imprint's lack of motion, and it's expressionless, pupil-less eyes, gave the impression of a statue.  Gyr had read a few accounts that Jedi Master Arca Jeth gave that impression when he had been alive, too.

"The cystal shards seem to have responded well to our previous work, archivist.  By all accounts, you only need to weave the strands into the zeyd cloth and attach the thermoplast plates."

Gyr reached out his claws behind him to another worktable, and one of the jumble of tools he had gathered from around the base snapped into his hand.  He pulled down a heat-visor - working this close to some of the tools and the heated crystal strands put a strain on his vision, and would have left him blind after just a few minutes.

The imprint of Arca Jeth had used the right word - the crystals hadn't simply been worked, but had responded to the heat, the pressure, and being shaped by Gyr through the Force.  It was as if they knew the form the archivist wanted for them, and helped. He only needed the help of a legendary Jedi sage to figure it out.

"Armor, even more than weaponry, suggests a casual relationship with violence, archivist.  A lightsaber must be drawn and ignited.  Armor is clothing for battle, worn as an acceptance of combat."

Gyr nodded, and flipped up the visor to look at the imprint.  "Yes.  And as soon as i can, I'll take it off, and put it up on display.  I feel like I need to wear it, for now, though"

The imprint nodded, and they both though of other Jedi who felt like they needed to accept violence for a time.  Gyr went back to work.


~~~


"Onetwosaitwoonethreejung!"

The staff and Gyr both blurred through the marks as the Saber Master called them.

Resolute.

Zero.

Zero posts in 2017.  How can I defend that?

I can't really defend it, but I can try to explain it to myself and my readership (which is a nice word, because it can include just one reader if it needs too).  This last year, I have been a titch more emotionally involved in politics here in the U.S., and actually did a bit of decent writing at the start of the year - mostly on that blue social media website.  That's not what I want to create here, so I picked a platform and expressed dismay, anger, disappointment, and a bit of hope over there.  When I was done, I didn't have the energy to create here, so I put it off.

"When I have energy."  I promised.

Happy New Year!

I don't know what all that emotional investment accomplished over there last year.  I can't measure it.  I certainly can't see any evidence that I changed minds, made any sort of impact aside from making like-minded people nod their heads.  My actions last year didn't work, or help, that I can tell.  The dismay, anger, and disappointment are all still here, so I'm taking a different approach.

Let's talk about stories again.  Maybe even tell some.

I'm in a Star Wars RPG (not that system, sorry!) campaign run by an old friend, and played by a few new ones.  I'll be posting character character stories here.  My Nobilis campaign is moving along with some big changes for some of the characters. I'll be reading and listening to audiobooks as I did all last year, but I intend to gush about all there here, too.  I have a bit of Welcome to Night Vale to catch up on, and I feel like I should talk about that.

At the very least, I should manage a haiku when I don't have anything else ready.

Until next time...

Speedster Haiku

scarlet and yellow
sudden, faint scent of ozone
fastest man alive


~~~

Character Sheet will resume next week!  Sometimes, when I'm stumped for a thing I want to write about, or I want to write better, I buy some time with a nerdy haiku - although, I actually quite like this one.  Enhance today's offering with Blake Neely's theme for The Flash, and hey...

Run.

Filthy Casuals.

Mobile games, I've played a bit
But actually, too much to mention
I played what I thought looked cool
And dropped most games - little retention

Sorry, I had a weird urge to parody just a little bit of Sinatra.  I'm over it now.

A running theme on this blog right now seems to be "Things that have happened since last regularly wrote on this thing."  I will now continue this theme.

I have had a few of smartphones, and - as a gamer - I have played games on them.  Sims, role-playing games, strategy, clickers - I'm all over the place.  Do you know that many of the classic Final Fantasy games are now available on mobile devices?  I know, because I have most of them.

A few notables:

Monument Valley is a perspective puzzle game with simple yet haunting artwork and story.  There's even a set of expansion levels you can play - good for a few hours.  Not free, but really impressive.

The Simpson's: Tapped Out let's you (re)build Springfield and make your favorite characters do chuckleworthy little tasks.  Micro-transactions allow you to get special characters (who all have their own list of tasks) and buildings.  I feel like I'd enjoy this game much more if I were more of a fan of the show - but I also come back to it often.

If you prefer Marvel superheroes to Simpsons, Marvel Avengers' Academy is...a remarkably similar game where you collect heroes and villains, and build buildings they can interact with.  Most of the heroes are portrayed as if they are in their late-teens/early twenties - think cartoonish CW Marvel.  It's still compelling enough to get me to spend far too much in micro-transactions, trying to keep up with special in-game events.

Alphabear is a word puzzle game in which you can unlock cute teddy bears for being clever with spelling out words on a grid.  After each game, it uses one or two words you spelled in a sentence, and the game makes it easy to share that screen - so you can compete for weirdest bearly English phrases on the social network of your choice.

Slimes - you spend around 2 hours fighting them before starting the real game. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And I mentioned Final Fantasy above, but...Square Enix has also ported all of the classic Dragon Warrior games under their original Dragon Quest titles!  It's admittedly tougher to play them on a
phone, but a big enough tablet is great, and hopefully I can get them to work on Android TV, too.  Graphics are upgraded slightly, but not too much - they still take me back to my first grindy, turn-based roleplaying obsession.  Both the DQ and FF titles all cost way more than your typical $.99 cent game, though.

Here's the thing, though - with my focus back on WoW's new expansion, I don't spend a lot of time on any of these or the dozen other games I've tried.  The ones that I do spend some time with are all games that I can play for 15 minutes and then drop for the rest of the day.  Mobile games are like snacks of gaming - if I'm really hungry, I'm looking for something else.

Theoretical readers, talk to me about your favorites.  I feel lucky I've found games like Monument Valley - I hope more of those surprises are around the app store.