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.

Driving Occupied.

There's been an important development to my life since I updated this blog regularly that I haven't really talked about yet.

I actually drive, now.

Yeah, I have a car and everything.  I'd been an avowed pedestrian for a very long time.  You can get away with that, living in a college town in the Midwest.  Living in southern California...good luck.  Places where you can afford to live aren't always close to places that can employ you.  The bus and train systems seem fine, but just not dense enough to really work for me.

Now, I get sleepy as hell when I'm in a car for any length of time.  Actually, mornings seem fine - it's that afternoon/evening drive, after the workday, that drains my consciousness.  Music, for the most part, doesn't help, and that seems really odd.  It doesn't matter how much nostalgia I feel for a song, or how funny or catchy or how much it incites the feels, music can't seem to compete with the hypnosis of the slow crawl home.

I found a solution to both this problem and the fact that I don't read books as much as I used to.  Audiobooks and serial podcasts.

I seem to subscribe to a lot more things, these days, and one of those things is Audible.com.  This was my initial solution, and I could not stop gushing about how good it was.  I checked out a couple of Stephen King novels I hadn't read before - Mr. Mercedes, then Doctor Sleep (after The Shining, because before I had only seen the movie).  I finally finished The Baroque Cycle novels by Neal Stephenson, and just recently revisited an old favorite, Good Omens by Terry Pratchet and Neil Gaiman.  And since each of these books are fairly lengthy, they managed to keep me awake for weeks of commuting.

It's weird to me that I can be perfectly aware of what I'm doing while driving at the same time as I'm giving a ton of attention to someone with an interesting voice read a good book to me.  How does this actually work?  I feel like I should have gotten into several small accidents or I should be missing huge gaps in the stories, but for some reason, brains seem to keep everything tidy.

From the intro for the first episode.  Hooked right there.

Meanwhile, my sisters had been hyping some podcasts for a while, and some of my nerdier friends had been hyping other podcasts.  I'm not (yet) into news or talk show podcasts - maybe I haven't found personalities that really interest me, but stories - stories hook me.  So I started checking some of those out.

My first, and favorite, has to be Welcome to Night Vale.  It's the ongoing story of a strange little city in the American Southwest, told by a local radio personality via his radio show.  Most episodes are, well, episodic, but that only helps highlight all the characters, all the stories going on there, and there is enough continuity to help me wonder what happens next.  It's not easy to sit on the edge of the driver's seat.

Other favorites I've found include Serial (thanks to my sister for that one), a much more serious, sobering, and less fictional story, and The Thrilling Adventure Hour, which is less serious, sobering, and...nah, probably equally fictional.  The Thrilling Adventure Hour is actually a number of more-and-less episodic stories, from space westerns to WWII-era adventures, all done in the style of, as they say, "old-time radio."

So, that's how I use my travel time wisely.  I ask you, theoretical reader - what totally legals means do you use to stay awake for your commute?  Do you have a favorite audiobook or podcast?  Do you just read normal novels while in traffic instead?


Disclaimer 1:  This post is not sponsored by Audible.  I just use it, because it is a thing I know exists.

Disclaimer 2:  Look for Welcome to Night Vale art on the internet, but be warned - none of it will leave you with less questions than you had before you searched.

The New 52 or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the New Superman

Image via Wikipedia

If you dress like this, you necessarily have no fear of heights.

DC's renumbering/reboot of the DCU hits stores tomorrow.

I like the old characters--I like the sheer history of the DCU.  It's why I can catch up to some of my favorite characters in "Justice Society of America."  History and legacy are a couple of big hits for me--"Legacy" is actually the subtitle of my 3+ year Nobilis GWB game (probably ending tonight!).  Being mindful of where you come from, who your heroes, mentors, role-models are, and what you may be leaving behind is powerful stuff.

So, when I heard the news this summer that DC would be doing a reboot, my first reaction was great disappointment.  I didn't want new takes on familiar characters and themes, I wanted the history to continue.  I thoroughly enjoyed the Crises and the big crossover events.  I love the big, cosmic stories because I think the writers and editors of DC do them so well--the universe can change seven ways from Sunday, people hurt, and people make it through, and it works for me.

I know Superman is getting a full reboot, but there seem to be series that are getting renumbered but keeping at least some history around--in the GL-related titles, for instance, where the events of "Blackest Night" intact.  But how does this affect continuity and cross-over potential?  Are there two versions of Superman (again)?  How many bat-mantles are out there, now?  I loved the story of the Robins and how Jason Todd and then Tim Drake took on the mantle of Red Robin, originally a character in "Kingdom Come."  It looks like Captain Atom is back...I try not to be confused with that guy, but Grant Morrison hurts my head sometimes...

I need to finish reading "Brightest Day" and "Flashpoint."  I'm going to do some major web-research about The New 52 today.  I need to get prepared for this stuff, because, as DC points out, this could be a great time to start buying comics again.  Same-day digital copies are a huge bonus for me, a guy who games, chats, reads and writes digitally, these days.

Related articles

• Grant Morrison Reinvents Superman, Can He Rescue DC Comics? (fastcompany.com)
• Off Topic: Red Robin (Tim Drake) from The Rhetorical Gamer (morrisonmp.wordpress.com)

[Exalted] Bard's Tongue.

"And Darkness, royal and sad, will come to the cliffs.

Sparks that have become beams will stand in the darkness,

Against it, they will burn.

And the beams may only shine through if, in their radiance,

The Darkness sees itself, and knows.

And then, the Darkness, royal and unfeeling, will come to the cliffs.

In the night, only the beams will shine

Holding til the seventh light breaks on the dawn."

--Shian Petep, prostitute and fortune-teller of the Wine-and-Song brothel in Port Calin

"...what does that mean for long-term investments?"

--customer

Seek.

That's when everything went bad.

There's a tremendous roaring overhead, and all of a sudden, all the print in the room spells it out. S-E-E-K. There's a tremor, and a book falls from a shelf, the pages begin to flip from one cover rapidly to the other, and all the words are "SEEK." Only, all of a sudden, they aren't just that. Now, as the pages continue to flip, you can barely read, "SEEK the FACE of the LORD." And you get a glimpse outside, through a window, and see what's making the crashing, roaring sound above.

The Atlantic Ocean is caving in on Atlantis.

The Angel Suriel climbs as you watch, one fist cocked back for a blow to beat back the ocean, but all over Atlantis, chaos reigns. The Fountain that leads to the Angel Anada's Cityback bursts open with a dazzling display of glorious light of all colors, and is then cut off. You feel the Suriel's Realm, Atlantis, steel itself as a wave ripples out from his ruined temple to the edges where the waters arc upwards, back to the ocean--the Realm has been closed. The ocean is no longer collapsing--but all along the walls of water, shockwaves ripple up and down with the impact of someone trying to break their way in.

"Roger Comstock, Marquis of Discovery, this is the Angel Gabriel," a dark, rich voice, obviously used to talking to mortals enters your mind. "You should leave your Chancel, if you can. Meet me in...Iowa...City."

Roger bows in reverence automatically as he replies, "If I can, I will meet you there, Lord Gabriel." In another, slightly more familiar tone of reverence, he prays, "My Lord Suriel, Gabriel has asked that I meet him outside the Realm, if I can."

The Angel above Atlantis yells, "WHAT!?" and dives to Roger's mansion, into Roger's mansion, making another Angel-sized hole. "What about Gabriel?"

As the Noble and his Imperator discuss the causes of the curent catastrophe, the folk of Atlantis hurry about, preparing for assault. They scurry, but in a somewhat resigned fashion--as if to say "I knew this would happen again." Palace Guards are fanning out into the city, seeing to the safety of the populace. One guard notices an older gentleman attempting to herd crabs into an open area--the guard shouts, stopping a wall of water from smashing and scattering the flock and it's master.

In front of Comus, Lord of Misrule and power of Masks, the scones fall to the tremors, scattering. They seem to spell out "SEEK the FACE of the LORD."

The Angel Suriel turns in exasperation from Roger, and focuses, spreading his hands out over Atlantis--and suddenly, everything is different. The island/continent/city now circles an expanse of dark, violet water--a path into the human subconcious--which itself surrounds the old ruined temple that serves as the Angel's home.

"Oh, crap," the Angel Suriel sighs.

The ruins promtply explode, to reveal radiant, silvery light streaming from the face of another Angel. His presence brings to mind a Heavenly choir of voices in sixteen-part harmony. His wings are shelter in the middle of the turmoil, the sword in his hand is sleek and sturdy, obviously meticulously made from the best alloys known to Heaven, science turned deadly.

"Phanuel."

((Excerpt, with corrections and liberties, from tonight's Nobilis session. Enjoy. ~j))