Late on the first day of classes...
04-08-2013, 02:48 PM (This post was last modified: 01-04-2018, 04:56 PM by Bob Schroeck.)
04-08-2013, 02:48 PM (This post was last modified: 01-04-2018, 04:56 PM by Bob Schroeck.)
Back home, I knew of and had frequented easily a dozen suppliers
of martial arts equipment in and about London, from little shops
catering to individual artists through general sports stores to
wholesalers who dealt in bulk purchases for dojos and schools --
places like Blitz and Shogun International and UK Fitness
Supplies. In my role as a combat trainer I liked to do my own
browsing and selection when it came to the tools I used, and had
developed a collection of favorite establishments.
And wonder of wonders, most of them existed in some form or
another in this timeline -- something I had gone out of my way to
confirm during my week at 12 Grimmauld Place even though my class
planning hadn't gotten anywhere near needing them by that point.
They didn't have the *really* high-end stuff -- apparently the
"no metahumans" thing in this world included the more extreme
martial arts styles and masteries -- but what they did have was
more than adequate for my needs.
Unfortunately, the particular one I wanted to hit was a
wholesaler with annoyingly tight hours: 9 to 5 on weekdays and
9 to noon on Saturdays. While I could probably have tried to get
to London immediately after the end of classes one afternoon, it
really wouldn't have given me any time at all to really do the
shopping and bargaining I needed. So when Saturday breakfast
came, I reminded Albus that I'd be out of the castle much of the
day before speeding through my meal as quickly as I could and
still be polite.
Once back in my rooms after breakfast I tugged off my robes to
reveal the jeans and T-shirt I'd worn underneath ("Ask me about
my vow of silence!" it read today), and then pulled on both my
leather jacket and my helmet. Activated by the pressure switches
in its lining, my helmet was powered on and fully booted up by
the time I had the foam pads centered over my ears and my goggles
seated properly.
Now, as I've said elsewhere, I could cover the distance between
Hogwarts and London on my bike in less than a half-hour, if I
really wanted to and didn't mind leaving a sonic boom in my wake.
But in addition to being rather noticeable, it also took half an
hour that I didn't want to spare. (Yeah, I'm an impatient
sunovabitch. Wanna make something of it?)
So I planned on using a different mode of travel.
"System, load song 'Lucky 4 You'. Play song," I said to the
computer in my helmet.
"You always said that I have multiple personalities
I bounce around somewhere between my dreams and reality..."
I don't know why people are always surprised to find that I use
(and *like*) country-western music. Yeah, sure, a lot of my
repertoire is based on classic and contemporary rock of all
types, but I'm hardly *limited* to it -- even if that "Rolling
Stone" reporter *did* dub me "Heavy Meta" in the "Jukebox Hero"
article. Pick the right songs, and bands like SHeDAISY and
Little Big Town can be both very useful and a lot of fun. But
some people turn their noses up at country music.
"So where'd you dig up the audacity
To ask of me
How we've all been doing
Since you broke our hearts?
Well, so far..."
Case in point: according to "Playcount" field in the metadata,
I've used this song almost two hundred times, but...
"Ooof. Again country song about woman? In first person yet? To
summon *me*?" Skitz's current personality grunted from behind me.
The deep, guttural edges of the Russian accent coloring his
speech identified him immediately to me. "*Really*, Douglas.
Can you not find more appropriate way to call us up?"
I turned in place and controlled my instinctive urge to punch him
in the nose. Just my luck that his simulacrum would manifest as
the persona I liked least. "Hello, L'Reaux."
Yes, a French name for a Russian persona. I don't understand it,
either.
He was dressed in the usual outfit his personalities had agreed
to wear while on duty: a vaguely military-cut black shirt and
pants with an inordinate number of pockets. If he hadn't spoken,
I would have recognized him as L'Reaux from the antique Russian
cap and the fascia he wore (the fabric of both crumpled and
creased from decades of jamming them into pockets when *not*
L'Reaux) along with the ornate silver cross hanging from a chain
around his neck.
"Number 5 just cries a river a minute
7 wants to tie you up and drown you in it..."
Skitz didn't really shapechange to reflect each of his many
personalities, but the sometimes radical differences in posture,
body language and, well, attitude, often made it seem like he
did. This particular personality somehow made Skitz's athletic,
dark-haired form seem small and somewhat weak. Which he wasn't
by any means -- back when he had been Skitz's current incarnation,
L'Reaux had actually had a well-deserved reputation for inhuman
endurance and strength.
He had also had a reputation for thoroughly messing with people's
heads, as well. Which he kept up even after death. For example,
"L'Reaux" (obviously) wasn't his real name. Well, the name he'd
used when he was the *live* Skitz. He called himself that partly
to hide his former identity from the unaware, but also partly for
the joy of confusing and deceiving people.
Did I mention that he was also a first-class pain in the ass? (I
know, I know -- pot, kettle, apparent reflectivity indices -- but
I mean, *really*. Worse than me.)
L'Reaux tilted his head and studied me with his usual intense
stare. "I suppose you *want* something. You would not call
otherwise," he growled. He tilted his head and twitched a lip in
a subtle little self-satisfied smirk. "Of course, there was time
you summoned up Margaret for little romantic..."
"L'Reaux!" I snarled.
He scowled in annoyance at me. "Oh, *be* that way."
"Yeah, 14 just wants to say 'so long, bygones'.
32 wants to do things to you that'll make you blush..."
"I need a gate to London, L'Reaux," I ground out between gritted
teeth. "Woolwich. As close as you can get me to Duke of
Wellington Avenue, in the Royal Arsenal area."
"What's in it for me?" he scowled.
"What's in it for you is freedom from pain." I looked down on
him -- even though we really were about the same height he
*seemed* shorter -- clenched my fists, and did my best to be
intimidating. "If you *don't* open a gate for me, I will beat
you to a pulp, and keep doing so until the song ends and you
vanish. The entire remainder of your virtual life will consist
of the most exquisite agony."
Not that it would really work -- the threat of actual violence
would prompt L'Reaux to abandon control of the body, allowing
another of Skitz's personalities to swap in. (L'Reaux had an
almost completely overwhelming aversion to physical harm -- "Try
gettink shlowly killt by incompetent asshassins," he had
confessed to us one drunken evening at the Red Lion when I had
teased him about his fear of injury. "Buildsh character, da?
Next time idiot ashks you 'what worsht can happen?', you
*know!*") Then again, I got along well with most of Skitz's
other selves; whoever took control would almost certainly be
willing to open a gate for me.
I wonder what it says about me that my subconscious mind's
simulation of Skitz defaulted to the persona I liked least.
He seemed to shrink down even further at the threat. "Okay,
tovarishch, if you're going to be like *that* about it." He
waved his hand palm up. A square hole in space-time three meters
tall by three wide opened, revealing an alley with a sun-bathed
city street beyond. "Behold."
"10 would key the El Camino that you love so much
And there ain't nobody wants to mess with 23."
I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. "Thank you,
L'Reaux," I growled before I stepped through to London. I don't
care that he's part of some kind of eternal champion. He's an
asshole, and he gets on my nerves.
*I let Hexe bully me about, soplyak. She has nobility you lack.
Next time ask like comrade. Be grateful I don't send dozen tons
of mud from bottom of Thames to follow you.* The telepathic
message came in quickly. Of course, L'Reaux *had* to get in the
last word.
As the gate snapped shut behind me and vanished with a little
"pop", I looked around me.
"That son of a bitch... this is Battersea!" I yelled.
"Oh, lucky 4 you, tonight I'm just me..."
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.
of martial arts equipment in and about London, from little shops
catering to individual artists through general sports stores to
wholesalers who dealt in bulk purchases for dojos and schools --
places like Blitz and Shogun International and UK Fitness
Supplies. In my role as a combat trainer I liked to do my own
browsing and selection when it came to the tools I used, and had
developed a collection of favorite establishments.
And wonder of wonders, most of them existed in some form or
another in this timeline -- something I had gone out of my way to
confirm during my week at 12 Grimmauld Place even though my class
planning hadn't gotten anywhere near needing them by that point.
They didn't have the *really* high-end stuff -- apparently the
"no metahumans" thing in this world included the more extreme
martial arts styles and masteries -- but what they did have was
more than adequate for my needs.
Unfortunately, the particular one I wanted to hit was a
wholesaler with annoyingly tight hours: 9 to 5 on weekdays and
9 to noon on Saturdays. While I could probably have tried to get
to London immediately after the end of classes one afternoon, it
really wouldn't have given me any time at all to really do the
shopping and bargaining I needed. So when Saturday breakfast
came, I reminded Albus that I'd be out of the castle much of the
day before speeding through my meal as quickly as I could and
still be polite.
Once back in my rooms after breakfast I tugged off my robes to
reveal the jeans and T-shirt I'd worn underneath ("Ask me about
my vow of silence!" it read today), and then pulled on both my
leather jacket and my helmet. Activated by the pressure switches
in its lining, my helmet was powered on and fully booted up by
the time I had the foam pads centered over my ears and my goggles
seated properly.
Now, as I've said elsewhere, I could cover the distance between
Hogwarts and London on my bike in less than a half-hour, if I
really wanted to and didn't mind leaving a sonic boom in my wake.
But in addition to being rather noticeable, it also took half an
hour that I didn't want to spare. (Yeah, I'm an impatient
sunovabitch. Wanna make something of it?)
So I planned on using a different mode of travel.
"System, load song 'Lucky 4 You'. Play song," I said to the
computer in my helmet.
"You always said that I have multiple personalities
I bounce around somewhere between my dreams and reality..."
I don't know why people are always surprised to find that I use
(and *like*) country-western music. Yeah, sure, a lot of my
repertoire is based on classic and contemporary rock of all
types, but I'm hardly *limited* to it -- even if that "Rolling
Stone" reporter *did* dub me "Heavy Meta" in the "Jukebox Hero"
article. Pick the right songs, and bands like SHeDAISY and
Little Big Town can be both very useful and a lot of fun. But
some people turn their noses up at country music.
"So where'd you dig up the audacity
To ask of me
How we've all been doing
Since you broke our hearts?
Well, so far..."
Case in point: according to "Playcount" field in the metadata,
I've used this song almost two hundred times, but...
"Ooof. Again country song about woman? In first person yet? To
summon *me*?" Skitz's current personality grunted from behind me.
The deep, guttural edges of the Russian accent coloring his
speech identified him immediately to me. "*Really*, Douglas.
Can you not find more appropriate way to call us up?"
I turned in place and controlled my instinctive urge to punch him
in the nose. Just my luck that his simulacrum would manifest as
the persona I liked least. "Hello, L'Reaux."
Yes, a French name for a Russian persona. I don't understand it,
either.
He was dressed in the usual outfit his personalities had agreed
to wear while on duty: a vaguely military-cut black shirt and
pants with an inordinate number of pockets. If he hadn't spoken,
I would have recognized him as L'Reaux from the antique Russian
cap and the fascia he wore (the fabric of both crumpled and
creased from decades of jamming them into pockets when *not*
L'Reaux) along with the ornate silver cross hanging from a chain
around his neck.
"Number 5 just cries a river a minute
7 wants to tie you up and drown you in it..."
Skitz didn't really shapechange to reflect each of his many
personalities, but the sometimes radical differences in posture,
body language and, well, attitude, often made it seem like he
did. This particular personality somehow made Skitz's athletic,
dark-haired form seem small and somewhat weak. Which he wasn't
by any means -- back when he had been Skitz's current incarnation,
L'Reaux had actually had a well-deserved reputation for inhuman
endurance and strength.
He had also had a reputation for thoroughly messing with people's
heads, as well. Which he kept up even after death. For example,
"L'Reaux" (obviously) wasn't his real name. Well, the name he'd
used when he was the *live* Skitz. He called himself that partly
to hide his former identity from the unaware, but also partly for
the joy of confusing and deceiving people.
Did I mention that he was also a first-class pain in the ass? (I
know, I know -- pot, kettle, apparent reflectivity indices -- but
I mean, *really*. Worse than me.)
L'Reaux tilted his head and studied me with his usual intense
stare. "I suppose you *want* something. You would not call
otherwise," he growled. He tilted his head and twitched a lip in
a subtle little self-satisfied smirk. "Of course, there was time
you summoned up Margaret for little romantic..."
"L'Reaux!" I snarled.
He scowled in annoyance at me. "Oh, *be* that way."
"Yeah, 14 just wants to say 'so long, bygones'.
32 wants to do things to you that'll make you blush..."
"I need a gate to London, L'Reaux," I ground out between gritted
teeth. "Woolwich. As close as you can get me to Duke of
Wellington Avenue, in the Royal Arsenal area."
"What's in it for me?" he scowled.
"What's in it for you is freedom from pain." I looked down on
him -- even though we really were about the same height he
*seemed* shorter -- clenched my fists, and did my best to be
intimidating. "If you *don't* open a gate for me, I will beat
you to a pulp, and keep doing so until the song ends and you
vanish. The entire remainder of your virtual life will consist
of the most exquisite agony."
Not that it would really work -- the threat of actual violence
would prompt L'Reaux to abandon control of the body, allowing
another of Skitz's personalities to swap in. (L'Reaux had an
almost completely overwhelming aversion to physical harm -- "Try
gettink shlowly killt by incompetent asshassins," he had
confessed to us one drunken evening at the Red Lion when I had
teased him about his fear of injury. "Buildsh character, da?
Next time idiot ashks you 'what worsht can happen?', you
*know!*") Then again, I got along well with most of Skitz's
other selves; whoever took control would almost certainly be
willing to open a gate for me.
I wonder what it says about me that my subconscious mind's
simulation of Skitz defaulted to the persona I liked least.
He seemed to shrink down even further at the threat. "Okay,
tovarishch, if you're going to be like *that* about it." He
waved his hand palm up. A square hole in space-time three meters
tall by three wide opened, revealing an alley with a sun-bathed
city street beyond. "Behold."
"10 would key the El Camino that you love so much
And there ain't nobody wants to mess with 23."
I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. "Thank you,
L'Reaux," I growled before I stepped through to London. I don't
care that he's part of some kind of eternal champion. He's an
asshole, and he gets on my nerves.
*I let Hexe bully me about, soplyak. She has nobility you lack.
Next time ask like comrade. Be grateful I don't send dozen tons
of mud from bottom of Thames to follow you.* The telepathic
message came in quickly. Of course, L'Reaux *had* to get in the
last word.
As the gate snapped shut behind me and vanished with a little
"pop", I looked around me.
"That son of a bitch... this is Battersea!" I yelled.
"Oh, lucky 4 you, tonight I'm just me..."
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.