the magical girl is original to this story. Actually, everyone except one-sentence cameos is original to the story, though they do borrow heavily from genre tropes. Other details will be filled in as the story continues, or won't as the case may be. Our man Vincent isn't big on gratuitous description. Speaking of which...
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Dreams... dreams are wonderful things. You can do whatever you want, without hurting anyone else, and without upsetting anyone at all. I love dreams. As for telling you what my dreams are? Not a chance. They are mine. You cannot have them.
The raucous blaring of the alarm clock wrests me from blessed slumber. I hate mornings. I could go into loving detail about the degree of that hatred, but for now, I will leave it simple. I hate mornings. Apparently, however, the alarm clock is not moved by my feelings on the matter. It continues to buzz. Snarling, I crawl over far enough to turn the bloody thing off with a flailing limb and struggle out of bed. It is an accomplishment, and I am tempted to declare victory and go back to sleep, save for one thing. Breakfast. Most important meal of the day, breakfast. Best consumed within half an hour of first waking. Breakfast will save me. I pull on the uniform and stumble down toward the kitchen. Mmm... breakfast. Wait, wait, hold on a moment. There is something wrong. There is a cheerful singing in my kitchen. My kitchen does not sing. My spirits do not sing. I live alone. Who is singing in my kitchen?
The last of the cobwebs flees my mind as I drop into combat readiness. I am calm, decisive and prepared. I am, if need be, death itself. I have no fear.
"Hearth spirit."
"Yes, Domitor?"
"Who is in my kitchen?"
"It is your new waif, Domitor. She woke at sunrise."
"I see. Thank you, Hearth spirit. You may go."
I can skip breakfast today. It's not that big a deal.
I greet my vehicular spirit, get into the car and head out. I've gotten out the driveway about 15 minutes earlier than usual, from skipping the bit of my morning ritual that involves food, and it actually cuts 5 to 10 minutes off the driving time. I'll have to remember that. I spend some of those spare moments after parking in picking up a smoked salmon with the works at the local bagel shop. I'm doing pretty good. I slept well, had a nice commute, and now I'm happily digesting a truly excellent bagel as I walk in the door, past the outermost security cordon, and through the madding bloody hordes of reporters. Of course, they all fixate on me. They always do. Part of the gig. I, in turn, must treat them in a polite and controlled fashion, in spite of the seething antipathy that I bear for them and all their kind, matured slowly over my time here. Also part of the gig. Unfortunately, the working blacks make it obvious who I am, so there's no hope of escaping unrecognized. Fortunately, they also give me other options.
"I am sorry, I have not been permitted to comment at this time. Please move aside. I'm sorry, that's classified. Please make way. You are obstructing a Customs Official in the lawful pursuit of his duties. Please do not force me to react accordingly."
I'm not real good at being friendly while in uniform, but it certainly does make some things easier. I still have to deal with their noise, but they move aside, and soon enough I am through the second security cordon and past them.
I'm inside, and I head to the dispatch desk to check in. I ask Marie what sector I'm covering today, and she tells me that I need to see the Boss. It's not a happy "see the Boss" either. Right, then. I head off to face my doom.
The boss is at his desk, running paperwork, and puts it to one side so that he can see to my business immediately. That's worrisome. The Boss gives you more and more priority as the jobs get worse and worse. He starts by talking to me about the rogue.
"First of all, I thought you should know, it wasn't your fault. He came through Omega gate 5."
Omega gate 5? I've never heard of an Omega gate 5. I've never heard of an Omega gate anything. My confusion shows plainly on my face.
"It's a classified, and you've just gotten need-to-know. The Omega gates are gates that, for one reason or another, aren't connected to the Concourse. They're all classified for one reason or another, and you're not cleared for any of the others, so don't even ask. Omega 5 is our Hell-world gate. It's designed to attract the worst of the demonic incursions into kill-zones so that they don't overrun any of the friendly realms. It's also nice because we can deal with them in places that don't have any civilians."
"Sounds...pleasant."
"Worst duty in the force. That's the problem. The team we had down there was too good. They worked too well together for us to break them up. We left them down there too long, and they've started to snap under the strain. Now we have to get replacements down there stat so we can pull them out and let them get started on the psychological restructuring. Congratulations. Your danger pay just tripled."
I sat in the chair and blinked for a bit.
"No way to decline?"
"Needs of the Force. Still, it's not quite as bad as it sounds. We're trying to avoid having the same problems this time around. You'll be on a day on, day off schedule, alternating between working with them down there and light duty on the Concourse with me. Hopefully it'll help keep you sane, and if you do start to go, we'll have people around who know you well enough that we can tell."
"Uhhh... thanks. I think. Still, I guess that's a lot better than it could have been. Okay. I'm in. Tell me where to go and how to get there, and I'm gone."
He hands me an envelope, and I go.
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Oh - and any sort of critique anyone might be able to come up with would be helpful. If there's something odd or wrong or whatever, I want to know, and I've been over the story enough times myself that I'm not likely to find anything under my own power.
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Dreams... dreams are wonderful things. You can do whatever you want, without hurting anyone else, and without upsetting anyone at all. I love dreams. As for telling you what my dreams are? Not a chance. They are mine. You cannot have them.
The raucous blaring of the alarm clock wrests me from blessed slumber. I hate mornings. I could go into loving detail about the degree of that hatred, but for now, I will leave it simple. I hate mornings. Apparently, however, the alarm clock is not moved by my feelings on the matter. It continues to buzz. Snarling, I crawl over far enough to turn the bloody thing off with a flailing limb and struggle out of bed. It is an accomplishment, and I am tempted to declare victory and go back to sleep, save for one thing. Breakfast. Most important meal of the day, breakfast. Best consumed within half an hour of first waking. Breakfast will save me. I pull on the uniform and stumble down toward the kitchen. Mmm... breakfast. Wait, wait, hold on a moment. There is something wrong. There is a cheerful singing in my kitchen. My kitchen does not sing. My spirits do not sing. I live alone. Who is singing in my kitchen?
The last of the cobwebs flees my mind as I drop into combat readiness. I am calm, decisive and prepared. I am, if need be, death itself. I have no fear.
"Hearth spirit."
"Yes, Domitor?"
"Who is in my kitchen?"
"It is your new waif, Domitor. She woke at sunrise."
"I see. Thank you, Hearth spirit. You may go."
I can skip breakfast today. It's not that big a deal.
I greet my vehicular spirit, get into the car and head out. I've gotten out the driveway about 15 minutes earlier than usual, from skipping the bit of my morning ritual that involves food, and it actually cuts 5 to 10 minutes off the driving time. I'll have to remember that. I spend some of those spare moments after parking in picking up a smoked salmon with the works at the local bagel shop. I'm doing pretty good. I slept well, had a nice commute, and now I'm happily digesting a truly excellent bagel as I walk in the door, past the outermost security cordon, and through the madding bloody hordes of reporters. Of course, they all fixate on me. They always do. Part of the gig. I, in turn, must treat them in a polite and controlled fashion, in spite of the seething antipathy that I bear for them and all their kind, matured slowly over my time here. Also part of the gig. Unfortunately, the working blacks make it obvious who I am, so there's no hope of escaping unrecognized. Fortunately, they also give me other options.
"I am sorry, I have not been permitted to comment at this time. Please move aside. I'm sorry, that's classified. Please make way. You are obstructing a Customs Official in the lawful pursuit of his duties. Please do not force me to react accordingly."
I'm not real good at being friendly while in uniform, but it certainly does make some things easier. I still have to deal with their noise, but they move aside, and soon enough I am through the second security cordon and past them.
I'm inside, and I head to the dispatch desk to check in. I ask Marie what sector I'm covering today, and she tells me that I need to see the Boss. It's not a happy "see the Boss" either. Right, then. I head off to face my doom.
The boss is at his desk, running paperwork, and puts it to one side so that he can see to my business immediately. That's worrisome. The Boss gives you more and more priority as the jobs get worse and worse. He starts by talking to me about the rogue.
"First of all, I thought you should know, it wasn't your fault. He came through Omega gate 5."
Omega gate 5? I've never heard of an Omega gate 5. I've never heard of an Omega gate anything. My confusion shows plainly on my face.
"It's a classified, and you've just gotten need-to-know. The Omega gates are gates that, for one reason or another, aren't connected to the Concourse. They're all classified for one reason or another, and you're not cleared for any of the others, so don't even ask. Omega 5 is our Hell-world gate. It's designed to attract the worst of the demonic incursions into kill-zones so that they don't overrun any of the friendly realms. It's also nice because we can deal with them in places that don't have any civilians."
"Sounds...pleasant."
"Worst duty in the force. That's the problem. The team we had down there was too good. They worked too well together for us to break them up. We left them down there too long, and they've started to snap under the strain. Now we have to get replacements down there stat so we can pull them out and let them get started on the psychological restructuring. Congratulations. Your danger pay just tripled."
I sat in the chair and blinked for a bit.
"No way to decline?"
"Needs of the Force. Still, it's not quite as bad as it sounds. We're trying to avoid having the same problems this time around. You'll be on a day on, day off schedule, alternating between working with them down there and light duty on the Concourse with me. Hopefully it'll help keep you sane, and if you do start to go, we'll have people around who know you well enough that we can tell."
"Uhhh... thanks. I think. Still, I guess that's a lot better than it could have been. Okay. I'm in. Tell me where to go and how to get there, and I'm gone."
He hands me an envelope, and I go.
-------------
Oh - and any sort of critique anyone might be able to come up with would be helpful. If there's something odd or wrong or whatever, I want to know, and I've been over the story enough times myself that I'm not likely to find anything under my own power.