Operaion: Phoenix: Sunless Saturday by J. FoxGlov, foxglov@ksu.edu "It's too quiet out there." J stretched upwards to the tiny oblong window and squinted. Something should have happened by now. This late in the... morning? afternoon? He shook his head, mumbling to himself. "...as if I could tell time by the sun anyway...which might as well have gone out." The sky visible from the window never seemed to change; all he could remember was the same color gray. J sat down backwards in a chair and considered his Jihadlinker again. He shook it a few times and punched a few buttons, but only managed clearer static from the viewscreen. He bared his teeth, growled, and stood up, ready to slam the worthless gizmo into the cinderblock wall. He sighed and sat down again. It was only the 29th time he'd stopped himself. "Fracking thing better start working, or it's not gonna live through 30." J had been sitting/pacing/sleeping/raving for what seemed like days in his latest hiding-out place; the basement of a gutted house on the southern edge of town. He'd been moving around Atlanta from place to place since he reached the city limits. He shuddered, remembering what had happened. Ten B'Harnii Mech' Warriors, of the sort Lord Tilden Owsen had mentioned when on a rare stroll down Nostalgia Lane that seemed halfway evocative, had blocked the road into the city as he and Hamster reached the edge. Hamster took a 'mech tail to the chest and had made like a draconic Greg Louganis who had slipped off the diving board, landing flat on his back. Bones McCoy might've stuttered. Somewhere between there and here, he had forcibly ripped open the Bimmer's midsection, exposing a humanoid brain, then ended up on the ground soaking up rainwater, where Maeve had to come and save his bacon. He began pacing again. This was all too complicated. Even he was getting lost on the miniscule contextual clues. At any rate, Owsen's best theory was that the lizard aliens he now knew as the X'hirjq had refitted the Bimmers with the reanimate brains of spounge-minions. "None of this makes any SENSE!!" J kicked the chair over, stubbing his toe. "Grrrf... and I'm about to do myself in with these damned tantrums." J sat down again, and self-doubt sat down next to him. Even though he got cut off from the rest of the Jihaddi who had come to Atlanta, following Owsen's lead, he hadn't been alone. Oh no. Not even after the 'linker stopped working, probably because of interference caused by the X'hirjq, there were still his mental roommates. And why not? After all, he had been skulking about like a coward while the rest of the Jihad was either confused, under fire, or dead. "Oh sure, and the smartass narrator has to rub it in." Gee, sorry. I just thought you'd care to engage in a little antiseptic reflection. "Like I haven't been doing that for the past 15 years of my life! If you've been following up on me at all, you'd know what a self-critic I am. I've got plenty on my mind already without you hammering it into me, fuck you very much." Right, right, that's not my job. I'm just supposed to supply nondialogue descriptions and actions without... "Very good, that's Exactly what you're supposed to do, so get on the fucking stick already." ...without voicing my own opinion, even when the main characters are acting like morons. "That tore it. No wonder Danger Mouse got rid of you. Hit the road." Well, I never... "EH-EH. Muzzle it, limey. Go bug Image [tm] and see if they'll pay you to psychoanalyze the Bone Brothers." *** THE NARRATOR IS NOW FIRED *** ... Um...hello? "Yeah, you're the replacement narrator? OK, once your notes are in order, let's get started again." ...right...um, do you do that often...can the narrators? "Guess we'll both have to hope not, since that was my first time. If you're ready, let's go." The narrator shuffled his papers nervously... "HEY! I said shove off, asshole! The narrative doesn't need narration, and I don't need your attitude, so get lost! Number Two, get settled, and ignore him." ...right... J was in fact, worried enough already. Not just about Hamster, who no one seemed to know anything about. Maeve hadn't seen him in the rain, and since nothing seemed to be working properly among the Jihad's communicators and scanning devices, there wasn't any sign of him. There was lots more to think about. Everyone else in the Jihad was scattered all over, trying to figure out what was going on. Someone was probably worried about him, too. "Yeah, sure...I'm worried that they're not worried about me. See what I have to deal with every second of every hour?" Nice angsting, sir. "I've been reading too much about Billy Corgan lately. It happens." -- Owsen found it hard to keep his concentration. He'd given up on the Jihadlinker, and was trying other means to contact J, namely by using one of several arcane scrying methods he'd picked up over his several lifetimes. It was already difficult for him with the introduction of the X'hirjq, whose psionic method of 'normal' communication was like a huge fog that stretched across the local astral plane... ...but what he found even more aggravating was the strain caused by the Jihad's low morale. He could scarcely remember when it had been this bad. There had been bad times, yes...but the enemies had always been clearly marked, the targets painted with bright white and red bulls' eyes. GerryBot, who represented the first real challenge to the Jihad: a spoungin who wouldn't go away. Henry McDaniel, who wanted to steer the Jihad into committing dishonorable acts in the name of destroying B'Harnii. Ennio Phillips, who wanted to destroy the Jihad to save it. This was all very different. Now there was the X'hirjq, who weren't spoungin, they didn't have any connection to the HellWyrm that was obvious yet, but were bent on obliterating the Jihad. Now Samhain was dead, and it wasn't clear what had happened to Shardik or Windigo. He'd taken a few bruises and burns along the way, but the uncertainty and despair of nearly everyone in the Jihad hurt far worse than any physical wound. He felt it too, how could he not? Since day one he knew about the added strength a unified and resolute Jihad could give. Once the positive spirit became tangible again, after it had been discarded and ignored for so long by others in the Jihad, he recently had tapped into it again. For the good of others as well as for me, he would say to himself. Yet he knew the risk involved... it had been present since the Jihad's creation, now pronounced with the influx of new members. Full alignment with the Jihad's Spirit meant sharing in the comeraderie and the triumph of success; but it also meant being dragged down by collective negativity. Sadness and loss came with the package, and were as real as anything else. It was why he preferred to maintain a low profile, advising when needed, and appearing in the open only when absolutely necessary. If it was anything he knew from his many experiences, it was that he had limits like anyone else. He relied on his faith in those closest to him, depending on them to use their own resources to resolve their conflicts. Going back to that low profile wasn't an option now, he knew that as well. Now that he was involved, there was no going back before a certain end. [Anything yet?] Owsen's thoughts were invaded again, this time by the one known as CyberPyro, who he had come to rely more and more heavily upon. [Neh,] Owsen sent back, [and I won't Get anythin' wi' yer buggin'.] He could sense no reply that seemed like a word, only a lingering morose feeling, like a psionic sigh. He nodded grimly, and checked his thoughts. [He'll turn up, CP. I'll be sure t' tell yer first thing. We're all worried.] Owsen could tell he had managed a little reassurance, even before the [Thanks] came back. He smiled grimly, musing that despite its burden, being on the front end did have its good points. Like making one of the old guard feel useful again. He returned to scrying. -- The silence was deafening. That is, if it was possible to go deaf listening to one's own thoughts. J paced constantly, debating about whether to move along or stay put. The X'hirjq were excellent trackers, he knew that much. If he stayed, he could be found. If he moved, he could run into the X'hirjq looking for him. "Fuckinay...this isn't what I'm...I mean...I can't..." He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't *do* wartorn fight scenes. It's not in my nature..." He stopped, remembering the Bimmer he forcibly tore open. It was a vague thought, only brought about by what Maeve had told him had actually happened. Something had kicked in at that point and taken over. "How cathartic...how Ridiculous. This isn't what I'm *best* at, though! I didn't get where I am now by kicking ass, I got here by diplomacy. I'm an ADMINISTRATOR, dammit!" He sighed. "Why can't I have a normal life? What part of me has to force the rest of me to spend half the time as some kind of freak, instead of a nice uncomplicated human being?" There was a very pregnant pause. 'half the time'...he had spent much more than half the time as the parahuman fox. This was probably the longest time he ever spent. There was something else...as he realized he had run his *left* hand through his hair, yet remembered no bumps or scrapes from what was usually covering it... He slowly brought his hand into view, and stared blankly. The Glov was gone, but he didn't remember taking it off. He had thought he *couldn't* take it off unless he was in his more stable 'natural' human form. But there his left hand was...looking like, well, looking like his right hand, but with the thumb opposite. There was no trace, not even a scar visible on the skin when he pulled the fur aside. Facing the door, he continued to stare at his hand, rotating it around to see his palm, wiggling his fingers, and extending/retracting his claws. [Defend yourself, Praetor.] J stared straight forward, and lowered his hand. Two X'hirjq drones stood in the doorway, energy weapons leveled at him. To be continued... All material copyrighted by the original author.