playbyweb.com astraea bone99 From pbw@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:16 2001 Date: Fri, 27 Jul 2001 10:05:16 -0500 From: pbw@playbyweb.com Subject: 2-Veritas, Beginnings, by John Smith (OOC: To make things jump-start, John'll have a fuzzy memory right now. That way, we can have things develop as surprises to him and us in the world. Is he actually only in an inner world of someone else? Is he a multiple after all? Maybe I need coffee? *begs some from Gabe, either Astraea's or the Cat one*) The headache he woke up with could have been a hangover. If he was lucky. Swing his legs over the side of the bed before he was even half-awake-- reflex knew what it was doing, even if he did not--and then the man was on his feet, staggering for a moment against the oppression of the morning's reminder of gravity. A hand rubbed itself up and down his cheek. A shave. The bathroom of his hotel was prepared in advance for an army to invade and request a touch of the bubbly; shaving razors of all types were lined up with mechanical precision next to each other on the shelf below the toothbrushes and tiny bottles of shampoo. Only one of each had been opened. The man wasn't certain why the sight of this unsettled him and was familiar all at once, but put it down to comatose nerves. The washup performed on routine, the man moved next to drag on what he assumed were his clothes. The segmented drawers where he has stored them were curiously empty, as if waiting patiently for visitors who had decided to stay all night in their bars rather than return, perhaps the same ones who would have taken the bright-pink bubblepaste on their brushes or the no-nonsense hairgel. Had he brought back a guest with him in the middle of the evening, giggling drunkenly against his side--so much so that even he did not remember them the next day? If so, they would not mind his leaving. Breakfast beckoned. Coffee. He really needed coffee. Anything else could wait until things were back in order again. The key was in his left pocket. He left the room unlocked for the cleanup service and bore the only possessions he knew he had upon his back. Downstairs was empty, empty save of the sound of the blaring screen flipped up on one side of the checker's counter and the young woman perched on her stool and playing with a cigarette. First impulse told him to walk straight past her and return later, proverbial tail between his legs, once he felt more like himself again. As the man got closer, he could see the four-way split on the monitor screen--one corner took on a news report, while the other three were varients of entertainment. Surely it would be rude to interrupt someone who must be already distracted. But the woman caught him out of her periphrials, impossibly illogically, and swiveled her chair to face him. "Checking out, sir?" came her chirpy voice, so desperately at odds with the shredded gnarls of her haircut and untucked shirt that the man caught himself staring for a moment. She slid out the pad for his signature and key, which he fumbled for and dropped with a muffled jangle on the paper. The televison screen blared in four directions. Beside the woman's elbow, a business card display shifted the accompanying picture in the corner, dancing lights across the chips stacked there. "Checking out?" This time her cheer had faded a little. When the man tore his eyes away from the flow of images on the cards, he did so to the motion of her hand idly flicking a finger at her nametag. She was doing it in time to the business cards, he realized, cycling through the little squares of facial pictures and in doing so, also the subtitles on the badge. "I guess everyone gave you a wild night, eh?" Her voice had dropped to a rougher, swaggering drawl which seemed to fit her clothes better. The cant of her eyes matched the picture on her tag now. The largest word splashed across it spelled out an impromptu name--Frey. "Well, 'least you can sign for them and get out while they rest. No calls to affirm. Guess everyone behaved 'cept for that. Lesse... you're group've John Smith, registered under John Smith." A low whistle. "Going for the retro names, I see." He stared. "Mr. Smith?" she asked again, the finger rising automatically to flick at the corner of her tag. "Is there a problem?" "No... a party?" The man reached for his wallet now, yanking it free of his back pocket and flipping for the identification card. "Was I with a group?" "Just the one that came with you." Was it just an illusion, or did the woman-- did this Frey creature, he realized--look a little more sympathetic now? The commercials on the screens flared. "Lemme guess... new? They haven't told you yet? Or just flew in?" She shook her head, and her cropped bangs tumbled. "From Outside or Inside, eh? Never mind. Your account's cleared, John Smith. Have a nice day." He stumbled out the doors into light. Or maybe he only walked out into madness. The world was filled from sky to ground, noise and vision--bulletins scrolled their technicolor path across buildings which were streaked with different patterns entirely. Rigid skyscrapers stood next to the wild curves of architects who had thrown their straight-edges over waterfalls. It took a minute before he could understand the audio cacaphony as words; it took even longer before he could parse out one of the threads as comprehensible to him, running right alongside other dialects and at its own lazy pace. The sheer level of information was disorienting--dimly, he remembered being able to find a sort of state to navigate through before in all of this, but for now he was choking on data. The man--John Smith--shivered, faltering back a step and then another, until the cooler brick of the hotel behind him met his back and he slid down to sit on the braille-dotted pavement. From pbw@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Fri, 27 Jul 2001 20:05:39 -0500 From: pbw@playbyweb.com Subject: 2-Veritas, Bickerings and curiosity, by Dariele The noise of street chatter and the lights of billboards were a humming that settled into the background comfortably. A woman looked through the eyes of the body that was Dariele, and in response, they shifted to a shade of blue that nearly matched her hair. The computerised name label at her shoulder shimmered, replacing itself with the name of the woman who stood in the most forward position of the body. Her name was Starr, and she was distracted. Valin, she spoke mentally, where are you? A yawn answered her summons. Do you mean where am I, or where is Bredai? Starr stopped in the middle of the street, watching the crowd with their different languages and dialects swarm around her as she adjusted the knapsack more comfortably onto her back. In Keisha's name, she did truly love the city and the people within it. Even if it was somewhat overpowering at times. Starr? I mean Bredai. The craft home was supposed to arrive hours ago. If I wanted to find you personally, I could find my way to you, and you know that. Just clarifying. I missed the first shuttle home, so I had to catch the next one. Starr's eyes narrowed as she moved forward. Male, female, or other? What are you talking about? Valin, I am not a fool. I know that when my sister's group is late for something and you're in forward position, it means that you took their body and got laid. So I'm asking out of curiosity. You are such a biznatch. Starr merely laughed out loud at the comment. Of course she was a biznatch. Everyone knew she was a biznatch. It was a point of pride that she was such a horrible biznatch. If that was an insult, Valin, she mocked, you'll have to try harder. There was only silence, or what qualified as dead air when speaking to another via telephone. Starr just shook her head and continued walking down the street. The class today had stretched Cara beyond her limits, and she was curled up in the castle somewhere. It just so happened that Starr was the closest and most available to take forward position. Just then, there was a sudden shift in the space around her and Starr was knocked out of the direct forward position and off to one side. After examining the bruises both to her behind as well as to her ego, she looked up at her brother's wife in surprise. "Ashlyn, what the--?" "Take a look." Starr peered out through the body's eyes -- Dariele's eyes -- again, and watched with surprise as a masculine form slunk down against the wall in what appeared to be despair. She turned to stare again at her briav'ai. "What's wrong with him?" "I don't know. But there is something more going on than meets the eye." "A war?" "I don't think so. This looks strange. Unfamiliar." "Shall we check it out?" "We don't have time to take it up with the Counsel. It's your call." Valin, Starr called out, if you're still there, we have business to attend to. Contact us when you and the rest of Bredai get in. There was a sense of acknowledgement before Starr was moving forward in both curiosity and paranoia. From pbw@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Sat, 28 Jul 2001 00:05:22 -0500 From: pbw@playbyweb.com Subject: 2-Veritas, impressions..., by Astraea For a while, John sat with his head in his hands, trying to sort through the jumble in his mind. Where the hell had he -been- last night? The noise wasn't making it any easier to concentrate. The air rang with thousands of announcements in thousands of languages, many preceded by bell tones in curious sequences, like radio interval signals. He ran his hands over his face and looked up, searching the street in front of him in vain for anything that might jog his memory. Before him was a wide street, not too congested with traffic. There were bicycles, automobiles, and a few vehicles he'd never seen before. Across the street was a large, well-kept expanse of green and flowers. A park. A stately black businessman in suit and tie strode by, talking gruffly on a headset cellphone, which seemed perfectly reasonable except that he was expertly flipping a brilliantly coloured yo-yo, and giggling every time he completed a new trick. Two elderly ladies dressed like preschoolers and wearing baseball caps skipped past in the opposite direction, holding hands and laughing wildly. As they approached the corner, they sobered and stood still for passing traffic, then walked across with measured steps. Immediately on arriving at the other side, they grabbed each other's hands, dashed into the park and disappeared. A tall strawberry-blonde woman swept into view. She too was carrying on a conversation, but John didn't see a headset or anything else. Her facial expression and body language varied with her voice, from square-shouldered gravelly baritone to delicate soft alto. The screech of brakes knifed through the air. A lime-green Volkswagen beetle stopped dead in the middle of the street. A young man jumped out, shouting in an unfamiliar language. Traffic gathered behind him, waiting patiently; no honking, no angry shouts. For a moment the man went still, then took a deep breath and said clearly: "Well, YOU take the keys and drive! You're crazier than ME!" He jumped back into the car, gunned it into life and drove on. The traffic resumed as if nothing had happened. John tried to make sense of it but failed miserably. The headache was starting to recede, but left a gritty residue. He wanted coffee, but was afraid to move until he knew how to navigate. Someone had noticed him. A young woman with glossy blue hair was staring at him. She murmured softly to herself and approached him... From pbw@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Sat, 28 Jul 2001 10:05:09 -0500 From: pbw@playbyweb.com Subject: 2-Veritas, Walking and talking..., by Dariele "Starr, I'll handle it." With a blurring of her surroundings, Ashlyn finds herself standing in the most forward position and catches a glimpse of Starr heading into the forests of home. 'Probably going off to give Valin a piece of her mind for making our body-twin late.' After a shake of her head, Ashlyn moves forward toward where the man was slowly rising to his feet. He looks as though he isn't sure whether to stay there or to run. She sighs, and tries to remember what the neutral tongue was in this region of the City. Ter'eng, comes a distant response. Ah, the tongue that people refer to as English. It's one of the more difficult languages, and definitely not her own. With the caution and curiosity that defines her people, Ashlyn approaches the man. "What do you want?" "You look troubled. Come. Walk with me a while. The City can be rather disorienting." "Who are you? What do you want?" "I would rather not explain that here," she speaks with a solid tone and extends a hand to assist him in standing. "I am a paranoid sort, and from your own words and actions, it would seem that you are as well." "I just want some explanations." "Of what?" "Of what's going on here?" he holds his head as they walk down the street. "I have no idea..." "Need aspirin? Swicova?" she asks, mentioning the name of the popular over-the- counter medication used for relieving headaches induced by too many changes in the forward position too quickly. "Swicova?" he gives her a puzzled expression. "Not from around here?" "I don't know. I don't know anything. Why are you doing this?" "Because I'm a Healer. All of our people are. And why are your people letting you wander around in such dazed confusion? There isn't a war going on, is there?" "I don't know what you're talking about. That's the second mention that's been made to me of that, and I don't..." Ashlyn looks at him with an intense gaze, and after a moment, tells him, "I think I understand, even if you don't. Come on, the City can be too stimulating. I know a quiet cra'veshan where we can sit and talk undisturbed." "What?" "Coffee shop," she responds. "That is all." From pbw@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Sat, 28 Jul 2001 12:05:11 -0500 From: pbw@playbyweb.com Subject: 2-Veritas, At the Liberty Cafe..., by Laric (This is just a side space for people who might be walking elsewhere from the main action. We're pre-inclined to places to sit and have a good mocha.) And now, my fellows, let me thank you for your attention to this matter. It is well past time to enact a change of policy! Ky might be our leader in times of peace and quite capable at it too, yet as much as I do love him dearly myself, it is -for- him that we must insist on the change of leaders now. Once the executive seat has been passed to me, the strains of the last few months will be at an end. I promise you that-- "Sirs, your coffee?" That was a voice not in the boardroom. Laric opened his eyes to his surroundings, coming slowly out of the vision of a duskier land, where restless members shifted on their benches and whispered plots to one another. Already he could hear the faint voice of Kyth speaking up in defense of peace--nothing he could not counteract with a good, sharp word. -If he'd had it his way,- Laric thought sourly, touching the lines up and sending them back to his supporters as they propped heads upon hands and waited in varying tricks of patience for the spouting of compassions to end, -we'd all be doormats.- "We're sorry to break your reverie, but you looked as if you wanted this." The waitress set down the cup on the counter, sliding it towards him and adding the spoon upon a napkin as an afterthought. "Yes, thank you." Laric stifled his annoyance at being required out at such a crucial time of his speech, but everyone else had been passively listening Within and would have missed the drink altogether. He waved a hand with a faint smile attached; the frustration was not at her group, but at his. Fine and well. There wouldn't be any severe setbacks if he took a good hour or two away from Within. Laric reached for the sugar and spooned in a scoop or two, balancing the amount for the group while leaving it on the less cloying side. A break from the collective head of steam that had been built up would be good for everyone. From pbw@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Wed, 1 Aug 2001 12:05:18 -0500 From: pbw@playbyweb.com To: astraea@astraeasweb.net Subject: 2-Veritas, A Change of Scene, by John Smith John allowed himself to be steered along, untrusting of his own reactions amidst the noise of the city. A paranoid sort, she had said? Then why is she--assuming that that was the case, and he was not actually hallucinating this entire meeting--assisting him? It was as if the world was only letting him in on half the joke. Or perhaps he was blind in some manner to not see these people whom others were talking to, crippled in a way that no one had seen fit to inform him of before. The man fumbled wildly for ideas as he staggered along. Had he been victim to a stroke? Was the sinister spectre of a brain abnormality finally making itself known? Yet... he felt perfectly normal. Maybe that in itself was a sign. "You mentioned... a war?" he offered quietly aloud, right as he and Ashlyn reach one of the mismatchedly colored--but most of them were, weren't they- -buildings and take entrance. John had seen no sign of battle in the streets, unless he counted the sheer chaos. Which he was tempted to. Very much so. "Is there another nation attacking us?" He tries on the words as he speaks them, attempting to decide if they fit him. The amount of logic gone out for a quick stiff around the corner is helped not one whit as the door swings shut behind Ashlyn and John; half of the building's interior looks as if it is a traditional cafe, and the other as if it is attempting to fufill its secret ambition to be a diner. Plates abound. At a nearby table, one waiter drops off a dazzling seven plates for a single individual--yet all of them are small, and the amount on them could tally up to barely a meal. Only a few drinkers at the diner-with- cafe's counter have single glasses; one particularly ambitious soul has five different cups, sipping from each of them at turns, switching from her left to right hand as she picks from the lineup. Finding yet no stability to root himself in, John follows Ashlyn nervelessly to whichever table is chosen and attempts to find his appetite for breakfast. From pbw@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Wed, 1 Aug 2001 16:05:38 -0500 From: pbw@playbyweb.com Subject: 2-Veritas, coffee, by Astraea Within a few minutes, a small dark-haired woman approached the table, tablet in hand. She wore a pale green gauze skirt over a black ballet practice leotard, and no shoes. She had a nametag, like the girl at the hotel; "Mikki | Stevie", it read, in elegant lettering, silver on purple. John found himself staring at the tag. Tiny shifting particles danced behind the dyad legend. Almost like stars, pointing the way to... "Would you guys like coffee?" "Huh?" Startled out of his reverie, he glanced up into her heavily painted eyes. Her smile radiated calm empathy. Does she know what I was thinking? "Yes, please," Ashlyn said. He'd almost forgotten she was beside him. "I'll have mine with two sugars, and..." John realised they were waiting for him. "Oh, just black, thank you," he said. "Coming right up," the woman said with firm reassurance, and disappeared in a pale green swirl. The abrupt changes in consciousness were starting to remind John of the one acid trip he'd ever taken, at college. That had been a hilarious party with close friends, but he remembered the feeling hours later that he was getting tired of being high, and wishing the trip would end and he could just be straight for a while. He was having that feeling now. "You mentioned a war?" he said again to Ashlyn. "I have to confess, I'm a little confused. Can we start over again?" Ashlyn gave him the same understanding look. "You really are new here, aren't you? None of this is familiar to you?" "Well, that's just it, it's trying to make a connection in my mind. It's like it should all make sense, and I keep waiting for it to fall into place, and instead there are just more pieces." He buried his face in his hands. "I can't think any more." The mellow voice of the waitress answered him. "Here, have your coffee. It'll help." He looked up at her again. "Thank you," he said, his voice cracking a little. He noticed that her tag now read simply "Mikki", but the lights still danced. "Let me know if you need anything else," she said, her voice and eyes still echoing double and triple meanings. "Thank you. I will." Ashlyn sipped her coffee and watched him. "Don't know where you are?" "No." "Don't know where you're from?" "It's catching right at the back of my mind, but I simply can't remember." "Well, that coffee isn't going to do you any good if you just stare at it." It steamed in front of him in a very large traditional white china cafe mug. That, at least, was real. He picked it up and took an experimental sip. It was hot, rich, silk-smooth and bittersweet. It was a caress, a revelation, a fragrant herald of clarity. Never in his life.. "Is that better?" Ashlyn said gently. "Yes," he replied, hushed and awed. "It's just that... I've never had coffee like this before. It's wonderful!" "How are you feeling?" "Better. I mean.." John looked around him. He still couldn't make sense of his surroundings, but it didn't seem to matter as much. He felt a growing sense of confidence. He would find out. He'd figure out the questions, and get some answers. And he would have a lot more of that coffee. From nobody@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Thu, 2 Aug 2001 14:05:25 -0500 From: nobody@playbyweb.com Subject: 2-Veritas, Everyone Loves Liberty, by Frey And coffee was on everyone's mind. Or at least, everyone who bothered to toss in a pebble into the collective jar of thought--what do we do *now*, what has anyone had planned for after work? So coffee it was, and Frey dropped herself off her stool, catching up her business cards with an easy scoop of the hand so that the next physical shift could leave theirs. She slid her paper under her arm and set the tag- -cycling through names at the pressure from her finger--to "R. Cowen : (all)." The brilliant gold and red wings of the Phoenix marking flared behind the floating colors. Easier this way. The weariness of Silence, bright and chipper cheer faded from the day of greeting guests, stepped back gratefully into rest. Yasha took over fully for her, the general post-work crowd shifting into readiness for a dose of downtime. As they trotted out the rotating door--of the hotel--they caught the tail end of one of the news announcements broadcast locally. "So..." There's going to be another talk show about singlicity soon. Yasha muttered half of it aloud and half in thought, reaching for the dog-end of a forgotten cigarette in their pocket. She lit it as they walked. "Huh. Dunno why they're so active about it these days. It just seems to draw more people claiming strange things about it... and a lot of people who pick up the labels just to get quick excuses." Imitative behavior by groups searching for a label, a place to fit in, or pure attention, Alexandria thought cooly in her direction, punctuating the words with a mixed vision of past experiences with scandal- seekers wrapped up into a tight ball of frustrations. Her mind tasted like Stella. Many of their experiences are valid, but many may still be attracted to the sheer novelty of the idea. I'm surprised though--most of their groups -should- have voted for them not to. And weren't you supposed to stop smoking? "Yeah... later." She puffed. "Reminds me... what're the Malarkys--" -Malachim.- "Yeah, them, what're they up to?" I'm not entirely certain. A pause. Let's catch them for a drink and see what they think about this. And then they were at the cafe, and then inside. From nobody@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Sun, 5 Aug 2001 20:05:28 -0500 From: nobody@playbyweb.com To: astraea@astraeasweb.net Subject: 2-Veritas, mrrrow..., by The Rufi ** EDITED August 5, 2001, 6:53 pm ** Very few people noticed the small orange tabby cat slip into the cafe at Frey's heels. Those who did notice didn't remark on it. The Rufi were regular visitors. Padding silently over to the table where John Smith sat worshipping his coffee, they sat down near John's feet and held a quick debate. The end result was agreement that the poor singlet needed a gentle introduction to living with multiples. And they were just the cats to do it. "Mrrrrrowww!" said the Rufi, leaping neatly up on to the table. They startled John so badly that he slopped coffee over the rim of his mug. Sparing the singlet a brief apologetic look (which didn't seem to register with him), they quickly lapped up the coffee puddle before moving to the far end of the table and curling up. Tucking all four paws carefully and completely out of sight, they let Tuck take over. He yawned and blinked wisely at John, who still looked like his brain was boggling. "Rrrrr," purred Tuck reassuringly. After a long moment, John reached out and carefully rubbed behind Tuck's ear. He purred louder, but didn't move... From nobody@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Wed, 8 Aug 2001 00:05:23 -0500 From: nobody@playbyweb.com Subject: 2-Veritas, Called away..., by Dariele Ashlyn smiled as she watched John appear to be totally enraptured by the Rufi. She and the rest of Dariele system had had a few encounters, but not well enough to get to know them well. She finished stirring the sugar into the cup, and took a sip of the coffee. "I think the Healers get ahold of this stuff somehow. It is somehow almost as though they feel the need to make some sort of soothing ambrosia so they can safely take over the worlds without anyone suspecting." "What's that?" John looked up at her. "Well, what else am I supposed to think?" she asked laughingly. "With the coffee being as good as it is, they could easily take over all the civilised worlds while the people were wrapped in the spell of..." "Ambrosia coffee?" he asked, and Ashlyn noticed with a smile that he seemed more stable, at least, than when she'd seen him on the street and been compelled to nudge Starr out of the way so that she could help. You're too much of a helper, lover... Shannon's voice seeped into her consciousness. I seldom see others helping or noticing as much as you do. It'll do me good later, Ashlyn reassured him. It'll do us all good later, for that we're in healing school, if you'll recall. She watched John for a while, during which time she sipped at the coffee and tried to wind down after a busy day. The mental stimulation that school provided was something that she had craved for a long time, and finally, she and the rest of Dariele had managed the status needed to attend the healing school. Oh, I recall. I'm just saying that you do a bit much. And you're going to have to relinquish the position of watcher shortly. Melin got back to us on when their ship is due in. Within the hour, love. Back to the illusion of Tana McCormick? Going to be the dutiful sister of the wild child, Terrenda McCormick. Goddess, isn't that the truth? Ashlyn shook her head, and cleared her throat softly to get John's attention. "Hmm?" "I'm afraid that I'm going to have to leave you in the trusted... paws of your new companion," Ashlyn said with a smile. "I've just gotten a call from my sister. I need to pick her up at the spaceport." He just looked confused again. "She's my twin. We have this communication thing," Ashlyn told him, borrowing the language syntax of a few of the younger people who took the forward position. "Oh." "Anything making sense yet?" "Not really." "Give it time..." Ashlyn said, sipping at her coffee. "How much?" "Unknown," she chuckled at the look John gave her in response. "I know. Not helpful. But listen, here's our phone number--" she slid a card across the table "--so don't hesitate to call if you need to. Just ask for Ashlyn." With that, Ashlyn slipped out of the booth and on her way out the door. After all, Bredai as a whole were known to be rather impatient if they were kept waiting too long. From auto@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Wed, 22 Aug 2001 12:05:25 -0500 From: Frey To: astraea@astraeasweb.net Subject: 2-Veritas, Catching Up (OOC: Whew... sorry about the delay everyone. Things have been up, they've been down, but we'll try to be more consistant.) Frey ducked around the blue-haired body of Ashlyn, not noticing the cat too much in her distraction on levels stretched across here, there, and wherever Reb happened to hide her pack of menthol cigs. She wouldn't have blinked if she had- -the Rufi were routine sights, after all. More time and they'd go ordering milk for them, but doubtless the cat pack had it all under control. They usually did. Frey grinned as she peeled away what she could recognize as her thoughts from others, and slid into the seat across from a scowling Laric. Poor John Smith wasn't re-registered in her field of vision, but the newspaper under her arm was. "Anything in particular you're up to now with that face?" came her laugh, and then her fingers were searching for an ashtray. "More politics." Laric's brow shifted from a furrow to the skip and jump of emotions laying themselves across flesh. No longer were they knitted but smooth; Kyth, having sensed company, had hastily wrapped up his words and slid a half- step of thought closer up to the surface. But it was only for the briefest flash of his eyes and a smile, and then Laric's firmer vote told him to go away in so many words. "Passive ones," the blond snorted by way of semi-explanation and semi- apology. Laric signaled for another cup for the table. Liberty's coffee was an experience and a half. Frey grinned and opened her paper with a snap. After a moment, the Malachim continued. "Did you hear what the last rumors were?" A thin finger tapped the back of the newspaper. "Researchers have been exploring the idea of those on this side for whom this world is actually connected to, or who are linked to it in such a personal way." "Inner Wing scientists again," Frey mumbled around her dog-end, shifting back a step to let Reb enjoy the smoke. "This's why I'm Outer party. But that's just me." "Yes, it's always just someone," Laric laughed, the amusement scrolling past the milder Bard's voice at the ongoing and eternal worldwide joke that doubled as an excuse. Ah. The world. Not one thing ever was just one thing at all. "But to continue," the Malachim cleared his throat, "there have been rumors to the contrary that the growing number of singlets isn't due to sensationalism or to to a societal standard... but that they actually might rework this world if there are enough of them, you see." He reached for his cup and sipped. "Or something to that extent, at least. If you remove or change the roots of this world, or if you do so somehow to the Others..." Reb laughed, lacking humor in the sound. "You all love these theories, Mal. Broadcasting them and causing mass panic. Speaking of which, have they found a new group to broadcast the Eastern Tower yet?" The Malachim mock-winced at the jab to his occupation. "Not yet. I still have the Southern, and the Northern's been covered... was it by who again?" He frowned as he rummaged internally for information that -should- have been his, but was lacking as someone stole the mental space to sit upon while listening to the internal debates continue. "Anyway, there's no need for worrying. The news broadcasts have covered the space so far. Hopefully a few groups will volunteer to take up the job." Information. Data. They were the life's blood of the city as much as the people were, and, like them, they were immensely varied in their natures. The compass points of the city were prime locations for the radio and television stations, the towers of which would rise high against the night, studded with the blinkings of lights like gateways into different realms. Perhaps they were--but regardless, they were manned by groups who would cater to the ranges of each sector, with much overlap inbetween. The Southern point--nicknamed the Malachim Net after the internal communication system of the group that headed it--tended to the esoteric and caustic at times, gossiping and analytic by degrees. And the Malachim loved it. The more news or hints or theories, the better. The city always needed more broadcasts. From nobody@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Sun, 5 Aug 2001 20:05:28 -0500 From: nobody@playbyweb.com To: astraea@astraeasweb.net Subject: 2-Veritas, mrrrow..., by The Rufi ** EDITED August 5, 2001, 6:53 pm ** Very few people noticed the small orange tabby cat slip into the cafe at Frey's heels. Those who did notice didn't remark on it. The Rufi were regular visitors. Padding silently over to the table where John Smith sat worshipping his coffee, they sat down near John's feet and held a quick debate. The end result was agreement that the poor singlet needed a gentle introduction to living with multiples. And they were just the cats to do it. "Mrrrrrowww!" said the Rufi, leaping neatly up on to the table. They startled John so badly that he slopped coffee over the rim of his mug. Sparing the singlet a brief apologetic look (which didn't seem to register with him), they quickly lapped up the coffee puddle before moving to the far end of the table and curling up. Tucking all four paws carefully and completely out of sight, they let Tuck take over. He yawned and blinked wisely at John, who still looked like his brain was boggling. "Rrrrr," purred Tuck reassuringly. From auto@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Sun, 26 Aug 2001 02:05:15 -0500 From: Naomi Subject: 2-Veritas, Meanwhile.... About two blocks east of the cafe, an brick-paved alley led to Kenny(s)' Place, a favourite after hours hangout for construction and park maintenance workers. A large group of same were there, slurping beer and playing pool and pinball. The TV set above the bar was tuned to Channel 4, where "Lamar" was just coming on. "Welcome back, everybody," Lamar called out in his trademark fatuous voice. "Today, we're going to look at a bizarre and fascinating mental disorder that haunts perhaps one percent of the population. I'm talking of course about SINGLE PERSONALITY..." "Aw, not THAT again," half the clientele groaned. A tall, muscular fellow in the coveralls of a Park Service worker waved them silent. "Shut up, you slobs! I want to hear this." The park worker's companion, apparently a smaller Asian woman in bluejeans and a flannel shirt, turned around with a puzzled expression. "Naomi, you're not gonna get anything out of this junk that's gonna help your brother," she said. "It's just desperate enough." Naomi slid onto a stool beside her friend. "There's nobody but him in there. He doesn't have a world or even a little space of his own. He can never get away to think things over. If they even give the name of a decent therapist..." People started waving at them and going "shhh." Naomi hunched over her beer and squinted at the screen. Lamar hadn't changed in years. Suave bastard. Looked like a circus ringmaster. Naomi didn't know how the rest of his system put up with him. "There are far fewer people on the stage here with me than it might appear," Lamar intoned. "From left to right, you see Renee, age thirty- four, a mother of two; Jack, who is nineteen, and with him is his mother Paulette; Jonathan, who is eighty-nine, a stockbroker who has never married; and Audrey, twenty-one, who has just graduated from Nash University and plans to become a psychologist. "These five people are just that; five people. There is no one else. They have no systems, no guilds, no clans, no households. Some of them don't even have a connection to any other world or subjective space. These are people suffering from Single Personality Disorder." Jim made a "tsch" noise and rolled his eyes. Naomi looked grim. "Doesn't have to get so goddam theatrical about it," she grunted. "But then he wouldn't be Lamar. He'd be someone else in his system." "Mmmm..." There was a brief break for commercials that advertised the new kind of medication for headaches that was popular these days. Seeing the commercial only raised Naomi's concerns, for her brother could not take any kind of medication without ending up in the hands of the Healers with a severe case of overdose. It seemed that Lionel had far fewer joys than pains, considering that and the other problems she had mentioned. She sighed again. There had to be some solution. The show resumed, pulling Naomi out of her reverie. A member of the audience had risen and scathingly directed a question at Renee, the mother of two: "Aren't you afraid that this condition is contagious and will somehow infect your children?" The audience both on the television as well as in the bar reacted predictably; there was a combination of heckling, laughter, and various other comments being thrown in response. Naomi felt a flood of anger from someone near her at front - - quite possibly Hannah -- and tried to tune out the crowd. It wasn't a good idea to lose control of the temper like this. There was a matching anger along with embarrassment in the woman onscreen, from the look on her face. Naomi listened to her protest that there was nothing wrong with her children, and even Lamar pointed out in a silky smooth voice that according to all the experts, there was nothing contagious about this disorder. In response to that, there were a few doubtful claims among those listening about whether the disorder actually existed. At that, Naomi rose from her seat and walked off to regain control of the collective temper. It wasn't helping, but then, very little was. . . From auto@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Sun, 26 Aug 2001 02:05:15 -0500 From: House of Xing Yun To: astraea@astraeasweb.net Subject: 2-Veritas, Love and only love...   

Stopping just outside, she leaned against the open doorframe and took a few deep breaths. After a moment, Jim joined her, and she turned to ask, "Why is it made into such a spectacle?! They need understanding, possibly help, but not this ridicule!" Jim shrugged philosophically. "That would imply that there's understanding to be given, wouldn't it?" She sighed, and her shoulders sagged slightly at about the same time another burst of commentary was received from those still watching. "The program's still on. Do you want to finish watching?" "I don't know. There have to be answers somewhere..." "Even in one of Lamar's shows?" "I guess not." Naomi sighed. "He just goes over the same old ground. He's just like all the rest of them. Mabel had Rosalind Green on last week and all she did was snark at her about putting on a big show just to advance her career." She fought back tears. "Why the HELL is there no serious news coverage about this except it's some big crime story?" Jim took Naomi's hand gently and listened. "And this has been on my mind for a while and I haven't said anything, because I hoped I was wrong, but you know what your folks are going to say if I don't get some kind of serious help for Lionel." Her voice shook badly. "Every time I go to you guys' place your mom sits there and gives me these LOOKS all night. I know what she's thinking, and it's not about race." Jim looked steadily at Naomi. Even in the earth world, they could see each other clearly: an Amazonian young woman with smoky dark blue eyes and a curly ginger mane, and a quiet black man with short beaded dredlocks. "I don't care," Jim said. "I don't care what Mom thinks. She'll deal. I love you, Naomi. Our Houses get on like magic. That's what counts. And I care about Lionel too. I can't understand what it is for him, but I can see he's hurting. He doesn't need Lamar. He needs friends. We are going to find him the help he needs." He touched her face softly. "It'll be all right. He's got us now as well as you guys. We'll be good luck for him." Naomi smiled a little. "C'mon, let's go back inside. Let's get some more beer. We'll work this out together..." From auto@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Wed, 29 Aug 2001 12:06:16 -0500 From: Laric Subject: 2-Veritas, Back at the Cafe... While events turned onwards on one world and others, the Cafe continued to bustle with its tight knot of energies. One flavor for these was the wavering back and forth of the Malachim; their collective distress on a number of different levels shone in Bard's studying of his hands, Laric's periodic snatches for his coffee, Kyth's glaring lack of presence. Finally Frey's group broke the silence. "What was it *this* time?" "Another of our infamously -bad- encounters with singlicity--my pardons," Laric narrowed his eyes and wrapped his hand around the cup. "Linear Identity Disorder, is -that- the new hip phrase?" "We still use SPD," Reb answered, startlingly mild even for herself in response to the waves of knotted discontent rolling off the Malachim. She checked her own cup, nodding to the waitress who swung by for a refill. "Let me guess... you had another breakup." Laric made a sound deep in his throat that was a cross between a grunt and a cough. "I can't keep track of it all these days. Who can?" The group fell silent again, and then erupted in a sudden hiss. "How did they--or she, or whichever-- get -off- on demanding that we should be as single as they wanted to be? Wanting only one of us and insisting that the others didn't have to exist in order to have a 'good relationship.'" Again came the sound, repeated internally by dozens. "Singlicity. Why does it have to - exist-? All it does is hurt other people and you can't ever understand them--they don't even understand themselves!" "Was she really a singlet?" Reb grabbed for the sugar before one of Laric's sharp gestures knocked it over; she turned the motion into pouring some into her mug in a lazy estimation of amount and then stirring. "Your experiences... your dislike. They influence the Southern's broadcasts, you know." This from the meeker Silence, who stirred at last to wake up again from her rest after work. The girl looked around hastily to see if anyone else in the cafe was taking umbrage from overhearing the discussion--a largely polite gesture only. With the security of a plural civilization came the knowledge that people would more often safely let off steam far earlier than actually inciting violence or other physical harm. For every offensive statement made, there nearly always was another person already in place to apologize for it. For every threat of anger, there were so many safeguards of others. "I know." Expressions warred as the front space for the Malachim was quarreled over, and finally relented into another flood of dark bitterness. "But... what else is there to do about it? That Heather girl... insisting that she only wanted one person from us because her group was so solidified that it barely was even there. That it was -our- fault for not giving her the one she wanted. That Kyth must have been lying to her as a result when all he did was try to give up to her as much as he could--but he wasn't around all the time, and the rest of us didn't like her as much so we were all being bastards together..." That flickered on lights to Frey's group, letting Reb shift back to relax in her chair. "Ah." That's all that she had to say. Protecting people who couldn't do it themselves--she could understand that all right. "But you can't blame that girl's problems on the entire group she belongs to or wants to belong to, y'know? C'mon boy. Don't paint them all as poison just because of a few." "I know." The face across from her shifted again, and finally reached submissively for his cup. "But it's hard, sometimes. When all you see just looks like more examples of it. It's hard. I'm sorry." Discomfort at the group's emotions moved again like a shadow through the eyes, and Kyth reappeared for another whisper and a smile before vanishing again. "You can't blame the world for what it is..." From auto@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Wed, 29 Aug 2001 14:06:30 -0500 From: Laric Subject: 2-Veritas, Middle Spaces, Inbetween... It was becoming too rough to try and fight through the rush of people around the front. With a sigh and a last look at Frey, Kyth stepped back and let himself fall back and away. It wasn't only the pains of the knotted relationship that really hadn't even been one--unspoken to any Outside yet were the other fears for the rumors generated by those who tracked the Inner wing scientists. Though the political fields of Veritas these days strongly favored the Inner parties-- hence why singlicity might be taking a lesser view in the public eye--the compass might swing back to the Outer side. For good or for ill, who knew... But with all the media's frolicking with singlicity, it was best to not present too high of a target. Despite what others might expect of them, the collective world of the Seraphs was nothing more than the landscape of Veritas, no matter how they searched or wished for otherwise. Oh, there were fancier touches here and there; the metal wings which adorned the Southern radio tower and functioned as an informal dish and occasional accidental lightning rod were living feathers in the mental scape. The weather was influenced by mood. But there were no fantastical creatures roaming free or glorious magics every day, and somehow they all felt as if they were lesser for that lack... Kyth stood up from the cafe table. On this side, it was only filled with those of his group who were listening to the conversation. At times he could swear he saw fuzzier patches around the tables, but if that was superstition or not was uncertain. As far as he could remember while up front or back talking with the others, the only ones in the city were themselves and the other pieces of things they picked up or discarded daily... And the seraphim locked in the boiler room. Sinking further into a half-dreaming state in which he was more free to walk, Kyth stepped around the tables and went outside, mentally envisioning a scratch to the Rufi's ears as he passed where they would have been. Had they been there on this side. Maybe they were. He swore he could feel fur, but who really knew? Who knew... From auto@playbyweb.com Mon Nov 5 22:35:17 2001 Date: Mon, 15 Oct 2001 14:06:07 -0500 From: Courts Subject: Veritas, Back on Track John Smith shoved his chair back a minute later, sighing as he tried to consider what precisely was going on. To look at his surroundings, one would think that he simply didn't belong. Could that be so possible? For a person to just wake up one day and realize that not only were they not meant to be here, but that they never had been... That was the height of unfairness, even to his cloudy mind. If he existed, then he should be allowed -to- exist--right? Unless he was meant to go through the world and have it never care about his confusion, it giving him only a customary nod before moving onwards and letting him fall behind with a cry unheard over the rest of the busy, prosperous population. No. Not fair at all. But there was only so much one could ask the world itself to change before finally relenting and trying to -understand- it. With a sigh, John finally turns back to the cat, asking rhetorically, "Do - you- know what's going on with all these people?" 8-26-02 John Smith was on his fourth cup of coffee, absently stroking the Rufi's head. Did the cat know what was going on? He seemed to be quite calm about it all. John began to observe the cafe patrons, particularly those who sat close by. The girl from the hotel was a few seats away, alternately reading a newspaper, smoking cigarettes and exchanging banter with a tall golden- haired young man who had the air of a prosperous attorney, or perhaps a city councilman. The badge she wore said simply "R. Cowen : (all)" with a flaming bird design. As her actions changed, so did her expression, and some of her body language. The young man seemed to have much the same ... John could only call it richness, of expression and gesture. One moment he wore a forbidding scowl, but for a few seconds that expression faded, replaced by warm eyes and an open smile, gone as soon as it appeared. John couldn't see a badge but supposed he was wearing one. Everyone else seemed to be. Music from the cafe's sound system seeped slowly into his consciousness. He heard the familiar voice of Madonna, and there was the compelling baritone of Patti Smith -- he recognized her from college days -- followed by Neil Young's distinctive alto warble in a dreamy ballad. But it was all new material -- or he'd never heard it before. And it was all intermixed with stuff that just didn't belong on the same show. The Madonna track had segued into an Arabic folk song, and then came a brief burst of noisy sound collage, and what sounded like a '40s swing classic -- again, one he'd never heard. And right after the Neil Young piece there was a children's chorale, something that might have been Schubert, and a '20s blues tune. As the cat purred and John sat there drinking coffee, it occurred to him that the one consistency he'd noticed was the lack of consistency. People near him spoke Russian one minute and God-knows-what the next, often in strikingly different voices. People sitting completely alone, but carrying on both -- or several -- sides of a conversation, in contrasting voices and accents. Mature adults playing with toys. Young children -- a few had trailed in over the last hour -- who behaved like middle-aged diplomats. And curiously enough -- they all seemed so normal. Partly it was the way they were treated by those around them. Nobody gave anybody a second look. This kind of behavior was crazy -- but it wasn't. It was merely more ... The waitress (her tag now reading "Stevie | Josette") floated by and refilled his cup, the cat snuggled and purred away, and a thirtyish Native American- looking fellow stepped into the cafe, stood silent for a moment, and then looked straight at him.... Ruka and Tam... When the girl from the other world was close by to the edges of his thought- space, he was wont to feel more melancholic and self-conscious, in accordance with the inclinations of her temperament; he cursed his own hands and their fooleries more often, and rued every imprecise word which slipped from his tongue, and stumbled more often in doubt at the prudency of his own whims. Perhaps it was a recent choice of music or of literature which had drawn her so near to him now, but every so often would there come a thought so strongly imbued with the flavour of her own mind that he could not accurately judge it to have sprung from his own source, or from hers. Ruka drew a towel around himself tightly, besotten with a sudden modesty which he dimly guessed the other mind to have imbued to him, though the occasion of his solitude in the room did not seem to, and ordinarily ought not for him, justify such bashfulness; and patted away the water droplets from the bath which clung still to his neck and shoulders. Wrapped in Nicola's pink towel, his own likeness in the mirror before him conjured a fleeting, and silly, image of a pastel burial-shroud. (But wouldn't the ninja just go crazy like everyone else, when he saw Cthulhu?) With purposeful indifference cast to the foreign thought which had trespassed upon his own, and being by now sufficiently accustomed to dismiss the regular occurrence, Ruka began combing out a wet length of his own dark hair, carrying out the action with such a purposeful vanity as would have impressed itself upon any outside observer as being rather artificial. (No, the ninja wouldn't go crazy. He'd just flip out and kill everyone, and Cthulhu would see that, and he'd be like, 'hmmm, this could be really useful.' And then he'd go up to him and ask the ninja to join him taking over the world.) Ruka put down the hairbrush, and sighed, with a certain affect of bemusement. (Tamsin, is that you?) (Do you think Cthulhu could defeat a ninja? I'm taking a vote.) (I think they would certainly come to some kind of mutual understanding and agree to have lunch together.) He closed his eyes, and dabbed water from the dark locks. (Well, after that the ninja would probably try to kill Cthulhu too, because he's still flipping out and all, but Cthulhu, since he's a Great Old One and all, would just be like, 'uh, no, I don't think so.' And then the ninja would come to his senses and they would start talking together.) (Do you have nothing better to do right now than this, or is there a chance of you stopping to pick up food on your way home from work?) The cat lifted its head, gave a joyous squeak, bounced off the table and headed straight for the newcomer, who bent and scooped it up off the floor and hugged it close, murmuring something John couldn't catch. He came over to John's table with the cat on his shoulder, and took a seat, depositing the cat back on the table, where it sprawled happily. "I see you've met our Rufi," he said in a startlingly melodious voice with a strong Irish accent. John, somewhat at a loss, merely nodded. He noticed that this man wore no badge. "I'm Andy Temple." John managed to introduce himself, and received a warm double handshake. "I'm -- why are you here?" Andy laughed softly. "I was hoping you'd tell me then. I'd word to come down here, that it was somethin' about a singlet, but I'd no details." His soft voice and slightly slurring accent made it difficult for John to understand him at first. "Sing... what?" "Singlet. Ashlyn phoned me. She seems to think you are alone in y'r body. I've had some interviews with singlets on Radio West, and I work for an attorney who's defended a number of same in court. It's not a good defense, but some people insist on usin' it... " Andy sighed and looked rueful for an instant. "Is that coffee?" He turned in his seat and caught Mikki's attention. Mikki obviously knew Andy: she nodded cheerfully and Andy turned his attention back to John. John was mystified, but encouraged by Andy's forthright attitude, said: "Alone in my body? I've been watching people all morning as they come in. It seems almost as if each of them is.." "Talkin' to others? Sure ..." Andy looked puzzled. "Didn't you.." His shoulders straightened a bit and his eyes narrowed. "Are they... are you.." John trailed off, not sure what he wanted to ask. He had the oddest impression that he was being watched by two pairs of eyes -- that Andy was regarding him with warm compassion, but that someone else looked at him as well, someone who stared straight into him without blinking, someone who was concerned, but measuring as well... judging. Deciding. And another voice spoke. "Not alone," it said in a soft Midwestern drawl a world away from Andy's Irish lilt, a deep voice full of strength and sweetness. "Not alone at all." A slight frown, and the eyes seemed to see his entire morning. "You didn't know." Mikki arrived (now Mikki | Rose) with Andy's coffee. He sipped it slowly and waited for John to speak. John looked again at Mikki's badge, at Frey and Reb, at the two young men sitting across from him... two, in a single body. And everything fell into place. "You're not alone. Nobody is. These people are .. each several people. None of them are just themselves. They're..." It was a revelation as powerful as the coffee.