I promised you a blog post today based on my last post. So, let’s get down to it.
One of the things I’ve wanted to do for a while (over a year, really) is to take some time to go over the storytellers and/or stories that have helped to shape me into what I am. I don’t want to hit anything too heavy (I could probably write a book about Neuromancer at this point) so I thought I’d go with one of the lighter pieces for today. It also helps that I watched this title again with my girlfriend two days ago.
The story in question is from an anime hailing from the mid-nineties: El-Hazard.
What Is It About?
The story is a common one in Manga and Anime: a group of people from our world are transported to another world. In this case, the new world is called El-Hazard. The world has a strange mixture of high-technology and mysticism that provides what falsely appears to be a magical society. Priestesses manage El-Hazard’s advanced technologies, most of which have been lost to time. Everything has an Arabic flavor from the clothes to the environments.
The four new immigrants to El-Hazard have varying degrees of difficulty adjusting to their new world. The main character, Makoto, quickly learns that he is a dead ringer for one of the local princesses (which he finds super awkward). Nanami finds herself in the middle of a desert, having to waitress to make a living. Katsuhiko realizes he’s surrounded by bug people. And their teacher, Mr. Fujisawa… well, he adjusts pretty well at first since it seems he’s been granted great physical skills and unrivaled fighting techniques – so long as he’s sober. Which is kind of a problem for him, what with him being an alcoholic.
Like Mr. Fujisawa… they all gain strange abilities, some immediately apparent, others not. Katsuhiko can speak with the local insect monsters, the Bugrom. Nanami can see through illusions. And Makoto… nah. I won’t spoil that for you. Despite the fact that the Anime is twenty-two years old.
“Oh shit! Someone else is outta alcohol!”
Makoto, Nanami, and Mr. Fujisawa find themselves embroiled in local power struggles after Makoto is coerced by the nation of Roshtaria into posing as their secretly missing princess. Katsuhiko uses his newfound and innate ability to speak with the Bugrom to rally an giant insect army. He pushes the Bugrom and their queen, Diva, to launch an attack on Roshtaria. The reason he does this is because his ‘life long rival’ Makoto is amongst their people – well, that and because he has a massive inferiority complex. To add to the conflict, there’s also the matter of the Phantom Tribe. They’ve worked for centuries to bring the whole of El-Hazard under their rule. Soon enough, devastating ancient technologies are being deployed in a growing war and the mystical powers and long lost relics start making for fantastic fight scenes.
The whole of El-Hazard hangs in the balance, with the four newcomers providing the pivotal thrusts that will decide the fate of millions.
Why This Story?
The story itself isn’t a new one. Like I said earlier, Anime uses the misplaced stranger(s) in a strange land trope frequently, as do most other mediums and genres. El-Hazard simply plays it to the hilt. More importantly, it’s a story with multiple levels. It starts out silly and light hearted, with alcoholic hijinks, gender-bending mistaken identity, megalomaniac delusions of grandeur, and, yeah… a lot of cheesecake and sexual comedy. It also manages a fair amount of drama as well, featuring everything from young infatuation triangles to the impact of what genocide does psychologically to a living weapon that is made to wage it.
The characters all stand out as well. One of my favorite characters is one of the Priestesses of Mount Muldoon, Shayla-Shayla. She’s easily in the top ten heroes list for me when it comes to Anime. She typifies the kind of flawed hero you find in the genre: brash, hot-headed, young, a little too eager to fight because she’s badass. She has issues making connections with people (apart from using her fists) but, she’s always on the right side of the battle. She always fights with style. She’s a character that I’ve used to create RPG characters from. She made for a great Fire-aspected Genasi Ranger In Forgotten Realms.
Shayla is the kind of character that will use fire as their go to solution, just like every good player character should.
Another personal favorite character is Mr. Fujisawa. Personally, I think he could have a series all of his own, letting us all watch the life of a genial alcoholic who gets super powers when he’s sober (and even more powers if he stops smoking). He’s a great bit of flavor for the whole story. Whenever things get too heavy, he’s there to relieve some of the pressure with either a well placed FUJISAWA KICK (you must capitalize this signature move) or an inopportune bender.
I don’t know if he’s kicking or falling here. Either way, he’s probably schmammed.
The rest of the cast aren’t small potatoes either. Nananmi, Allielle, Dr. Schtalhubal, and the other two Priestesses have their own charisma to bring. Even the bad guy, Katsuhiko, is the kind of villain you love to hate – mostly because he’s so catastrophically inept despite commanding Queen Diva, the Demon Ifurita, and the Bugrom.
And then, there’s this guy:
“Bum. Ba bum bum!”
I don’t think he (?) even has a name and he shows up for less than ten seconds. My fellow Otaku (the pejorative Japanese word for fanboy/girl – more benignly used in the US) in the area have always just called him ‘The Ba Bum Bum’ (a name rooted in onomatopoeia – it’s the only noise he makes). He waddles through a single scene. His only purpose is to make Mr. Fujisawa think he has the DT’s. God bless him. I love this… thing.
Given all of the above, I get nostalgia and an inner glow when I think about El-Hazard and the time I was first introduced to it. It’s still out there on DVD, though I’m not sure there’s a Blu Ray release of it just yet – at least not one you can find stateside. But when I find one, oh yeah. Come to papa.
Ultimately, all of the above led me to try to make stories that could have layers, be fantastical as I could make them, and present (sometimes hilariously) flawed characters that readers hopefully come to love.
Bonus Material: El-Hazard Births A True Otaku
El-Hazard wasn’t my first Anime. but it’s definitely the first I took seriously enough to collect all of it. My intake of Anime was limited since it was not as big in the States in 1994 as it is now.
My personal collection back then consisted of two feature films (Akira and Macross: Do You Remember Love?), a handful of incomplete Robotech VHS tapes that were Macek’ed to hell and back, two VHS of Macross II (ugh, my taste was poor), and several Starblazers tapes of truly horrible quality. I’d also seen a few rentals like Fist of the North Star (ugh), Appleseed (an adaptation of a great Manga to middling Anime), Black Magic 88 (another meh entry), and yeah, I’d been scarred by Urotsukidoji (why people watch that kind of shit is beyond me).
Then I met Marc.
Marc was a little older than I was and had built up a wealth of Anime viewing in those extra years. His access to early Anime hubs like Anime Crash (sadly, no longer a thing) and ties to the Otakon and New York university scenes (where fansub culture thrived) made him practically a connoisseur by comparison to me at the time. Delaware was not exactly loaded with Anime at that point.
To put it in the terms of another Anime, Haibane Renmei, he helped me through my new feather phase.
He suggested a lot of great stuff in the fall of ’96 and the year of ’97. El-Hazard was one of the two big series he got me hooked on; the other was Giant Robo, released by Manga Entertainment (arguably the biggest of the production companies back then). When he lent me his Dubbed VHS of El-Hazard… that was that. My Anime collection was on the rise. I’d save money to hit Tower Records or Suncoast Video – two of the only places in Philadelphia where I could reliably find Anime at a price I could afford. When they were in at Between Books back in Delaware, I’d get them there (tax free!). It cost a lot for me to get my own El-Hazard collection (and many other titles) – but it was worth every penny. It was probably the first Anime I bought with my own money and with any kind of regularity. I get warm fuzzies just thinking about it.
More Bonus Material: El-Hazard and the Collapsing Sub / Dub Wars
This also marked the beginning of what I like to call the ‘Pioneer Era’ (roughly between 1995 and 2000). During the eighties and nineties, Otaku were working off VHS tapes, and that had consequences. When you bought a title, you had to make a choice: original audio with subtitle tracks, or english dub and no subtitles. Debate raged hotly between Otaku over which was better – and still does, though it’s an argument that doesn’t involve opening your wallet any longer (thank god for multiple language tracks/subtitles). While I was okay with dubs, many were not – and usually for good reason. U.S. Manga Corp (one of the big producers at the time) was not one to spend a lot on dubbing Anime titles, nor were a lot of other production houses. There were some truly awful dubs out there (the original Captain Harlock comes to mind) if you didn’t want to read your Anime. If you showed up to an anime night with a group of Otaku, the groans would start when one format or the other was revealed. Subbers said the audio translations were poorly made and executed. Dubbers hated having to read an already busy medium. Ideological purity threatened friendships. I know at least one Otaku who will still leave the room at the sound of an English dubbed Anime.
El-Hazard was one of the first VHS dubs that I remember with an audio track that didn’t feel phoned in or waaay off the mark. Pioneer went on from titles like El-Hazard to create excellent dubs (Tenchi Universe, Serial Experiment Lain) that only got better once they turned into the Geneon studio (where they produced great dubs for Trigun, Last Exile, Hellsing). They’re still around, but after the American Anime Bubble finally burst in the late 00’s, they retreated back to Japan where they work on that side of the Pacific only. According to Wikipedia, they’re now owned by NBC/Universal.
Due to Pioneer’s early efforts and the emergence of multi-language DVD options, later production companies would get better voice talent, better translations, and generally and put more effort into their production process.
I’m told by reliable sources that humans are pattern recognizers at our core. It’s not all we are, but so much of what makes us human comes from this basic component of our nature. We find things we can recognize, sort them in our minds for later use, then look back at them critically (or not – look at how we vote/don’t vote).
I’m no different in that I crave patterns. I have daily routines. I have ways things get done. I have some actions thoroughly organized to the point where my consciousness doesn’t even need to think about them hard.
And I need my writing career to build the same kind of rhythm.
Right now, I’m going to set up some internal rules and patterns. And here’s what I want things to look like during the weekday.
- Every week day, I spend four hours minimum working on my creative endeavors (both graphic and written). I should be spending at least half of these hours a day writing Ossua’s first novel to a complete first draft.
- On Mondays, I blog. Can be about anything. Might be here, might be at HPP. If it is somewhere else, I repost it here.
- On Tuesdays, I write something brand new, ideally a short story. I should have at least a thousand to two thousand words. This may seem excessive until I realize how many words I write out on average and how many of them actually turn out to be good.
- On Wednesdays, I draw something. Might be a webcomic. Might be a character study for an Ossuan. Whetever it is, I should be at my desk for a little while just to see what falls out of my pencil, pen, or stylus.
- On Thursdays, I blog again. Same rules as Monday.
- On Friday, I go back to whatever it is I did on Tuesday and refine, extend, edit, or otherwise root out gremlins.
Weekends of course are whatever they are. I want to throw elbow grease in there, I will, but they’re free creatively. I get to do what I want with them. There’s no set hours – as many or as few as I want.
I think this schedule is ambitious. But I also think it’s necessary. I don’t want this to be my hobby. I want this to be my profession. And for that, I need a pattern of behavior and rules to follow.
Let’s see how it works out. I’ll be starting this cycle on Monday. Let’s see what I have to blog about next week.
Life is always a struggle and the fear never helps.
At first, it was a fear of everything. And that really didn’t go away until recent years. I suppose that’s the fear we’re born with. I just… held it longer than I probably should have. That original fear kept me from being more as a kid. It deterred me from asking out girls as a teen. It kept me from forming bonds with my elderly family as a young adult. It kept me from leaving situations I badly needed to escape as an adult.
As I shifted shape, as I changed courses, as I forged ahead, I got over some of the fear I carry as a creative. To be creative is to be fraught with it – at least it seems that way for me. You feel so many things waiting to erupt from you. Songs to be sung, melodies to be written, stories to tell, vistas to draw, all of the things that won’t rest until they’ve not only be visualized, thought over, adjusted, and – most importantly – shared.
I’ve gotten over the self doubt of being able to tell stories that engage. I can do that. I’m over sixty-short stories now, I have two manuscripts and a half-written third. I’m working on audio projects and contemplating getting back into motion graphics again. As I press into my forties soon, I’m realizing the thing that everyone knows but doesn’t act on: the illusion is that we have time.
Hint: we don’t.
So it’s come to ahead. I’m ready now. I believe in myself. It’s time to start publishing these things. Time to let them out in the world and let them take root in minds. Time to finally commit.
I have no idea how.
And again, I get that little blade of fear sliding under my creative fingertips like an old acquaintance that always comes around looking for money – or in this case emotional capital. It knows where the tenderest flesh is, how to cut juuuuust so to make me look to anything but the work. And there’s a lot to do when I let my attention flag from the goal. Creativity, though wonderful, is not the only thing I want or have to do. I have a wonderful fiancee who I want to be with, a family I love deeply. I have books and games aplenty waiting to be indulged in, stories to experience, the ever elusive want to travel beyond my limited borders and to connect with other humans on the road with me.
I don’t have enough time.
So now it feels like the bottom of the ninth. I am at home plate with a full count, and fear is pitching me the ball. Always has.
So, with the time I have, I have to swing – swing hard – and hope that fear doesn’t have as much drop on the curve as I think it does. And hope that if I lose this game, that the next one will be different.
Hi, all! This will be brief.
I’m looking for a little help.
Please take a moment to give me a little feedback here. It’s a simple, one-question poll. All I need to know is what you’d like to see out of my creative endeavors. I’m working towards a lot of goals as of late, and you telling me what you like tells me where I should be looking.
Thanks – looking forward to hearing from you!
Ossua has been around for a while now. But, what is it?
It’s had a few different guises. It’s been a message board, a WYSIWYG generated experiment, and a blog. The blog has been the longest incarnation. So, in a sense, Ossua is this domain name and it’s various servers throughout the years.
But that’s not really the answer. To explain what Ossua is, you’ll need to come back to the mid-nineties with me.
I have always been rather fond of other realities as found in books, films, and stories. I guess I’m an escapist at heart. If you have the kind of early childhood I had, I suppose it might even be inevitable. Being anywhere else starts to sound good. I don’t mean to give you the impression I had a bad family life – my parents brought me up well, and even the sibling troubles between my sister and I mended once we were about three thousand miles apart and didn’t have to share a bathroom anymore. But other kids… other kids were the worst. Add in an early and traumatic introduction to the concept of death… so… yeah. I spent a lot of time in my head and in the heads of others through reading.
In my mid teens MTV released a television show called The Maxx, created by all around amazing guy, Sam Kieth. It was based on a comic by the same name, which I also picked up issues of here and there. I loved it. For those of you unfamiliar with the premise, it’s about Maxx, a purple-suited vagrant who is trapped between two worlds. There’s the world that you and I live in (the debatably ‘real’ world), but there is another world. It’s called the Outback, and that’s where our true selves emerge for good or ill. Maxx can’t seem to control where he ends up sometimes. He slips in and out of each world unwittingly, generating a potpourri of mental illness for him. Whether or not one world is more real than the other is up for debate. Each person has their own kind of outback. Maxx and Julie (his social worker and also his Leopard Queen) share one due to a linked trauma, and they spend a lot of time in it trying to figure out their own issues, fears, and insecurities.
The Outback concept was super sticky in my mind. I could see myself running ahead of packs of Isz (one of the Outback’s many weird creatures), climbing its smoking mountains, and in general reveling in the pure weirdness of the place.
Then one night in college I finally asked myself: what does my outback look like?
And that… that is Ossua. It’s a world in my head that I’ve been building since that lightning bolt moment at my dorm room desk. I didn’t start drawing things that day. That would come later and never to my satisfaction. But, the world germinated and started to push out little tendrils into my brain until I could see it.
The clarity and scope of it wasn’t like anything else I’d dared to dream before. I saw a land that was part the ruins of our culture on Earth, part Tolkien-esque fantasy land, part Faerie Tale, and all weird. It was populated by not only humans (some even from our world), but by benign beastmen (at least twelve tribes!), Gourd Maws (good-natured yet terrifying looking demi-humans), a long lived royal line that ruled benevolently. It was a place where nothing ever dies so much as ‘moves on’ into the East to an undiscovered sub-continent that only the departed can know. Shamans grew vegetables and honored their farm animals, gently releasing their souls and honoring them before taking their flesh. From the Grand Palace Bulb in the city of Ygg, a great and egalitarian empire was formed, where justice and happiness existed for every citizen of the Empire. Nothing had to suffer. Nothing had to fear. It was a wonderful place where everything was right.
Until it wasn’t.
I lost a great and admired friend, Erik, in the summer of 2005. And on that day, it turned out that the Great Baron of Ossua died. His sudden death – in front of me no less – sent me into a grief spiral that essentially broke my own private Outback over a series of months, shattering it into a thousand splinters of broken mirror. Ossua’s fate paralleled my own life; it became something broken, suffering catastrophic throes of pain and loss. It became as much an autobiographical work as it was a fantasy setting. A lot of stress went into it. A lot of lessons. A lot of hard times.
It didn’t die, though. Places like the Outback and Ossua have trouble laying down, even when dealt a mortal wound. It persisted. It grew shadows. Balance went off kilter, turning the landscape of my mind into strange reflections of what they once were in my bizarre world. Slowly, a story emerged from it. I’d never been able to do anything with Ossua because in a perfect land where nothing goes sideways… there aren’t a lot of gripping stories to be told. Now that Ossua was battered and mangled, I thought I might just have a story grow out of it. If I worked at it. If I believed. And if I didn’t let the trauma of 2005 drive both Ossua and myself into the ground.
Soon after, I found myself with the opportunity to register two domain names. One of them was this one: ossua.com. It’s been with me, waiting for it’s true purpose. For about thirteen years now I’ve been refining it in my head. Populating it with all sorts of beings great and small, fair and foul. And it’s meant to be for the young and old alike.
And I’m going to write it. Finally, I am going to write it. Because my niece and nephew aren’t getting any younger. And Uncle Maurice has so many stories to tell them. Also, It’s a story Erik’s widow and his daughter deserve to hear too. HIs daughter is already twelve. I’ve wasted so much time.
I want you to see it too. You should get to travel the River Proteus, see the fantastic shores of Delphome, climb Night’s Peak, and maybe even see beyond The Drop in the East to peek into the Misted Vale where the spirits live.
So come with me. Keep an eye out. I think it’s time to start setting the history of Ossua down on paper. Because, an untold story doesn’t do anyone any favors.
As noted last week, Chuck Wendig provides good writing prompts. This week I drew an interesting result in his combination of X vs. Y. I really don’t want to spoil what’s in it, so read for yourself and find out who’s fighting who in this week’s mashup.
As a note, this contains a little bit of alternative history – particularly around the tragedy of the raid on the Branch Davidian Cult back in the nineties. If that kind of thing might make you feel uncomfortable or angry, perhaps this isn’t for you.
Personally, I think there’s a great long-format story waiting to be expanded in here. I hope you agree.
When Mitch arrived on the scene of the standoff there were already bodies piled up. The whole thing reminded him of Waco again. He’d been a young agent on that raid though. He hadn’t been toughened yet, was too green for the truth of what had been going on inside the Branch Davidian Cult.
He approached the scene and flashed his badge at one of the staties tasked to help keep the whole circus in order. The uniformed man nodded and lifted the yellow crime scene tape. It didn’t take Mitch long to find the people in charge.
One of them was a tall guy who looked like a scarecrow that had half its straw missing, leaving nothing but sticks and partially filled clothes. He was saying something about formations and casualties.
“Evening folks,” Mitch said. He approached the huddle with his typical Texas drawl and good old boy posture. “So, what have you got for me?”
The scarecrow looked up. “Excuse me, we’re kinda in the middle of something here.”
“I know, I know, and that’s great. Why don’t you just stop what you’re doing and tell me how you lost your men?”
Now the entire group looked up. Scarecrow looked to be the kind of guy that Mitch was used to dealing with: territorial, self-assured, and one hundred percent out of his depth.
“You got a badge, peckerwood?” said Scarecrow. Big words for a guy who looked like he was on the tail end of chemo, Mitch thought.
Mitch flashed his fed badge again, but before he could put it back in his jacket the gangly man pulled it out of his hand.
“Federal Department of … okay, what the fuck is this? Arrest this man. Get him the fuck out of here before I -“
Scarecrow’s phone rang and his fellow agents hesitated. Mitch waited patiently for the man to answer his mobile.
“Norwood here, look I…” Scarecrow’s voice seemed to strangle itself in his throat. “No, sir, but I…” his face went pale. “Are you… alright. Okay. If you say so.”
Scarecrow’s phone went back in its pocket and he straightened. “Okay. I’ve been directed to follow your lead, Mr…?”
“What, didn’t read it the first time? Name is Whatley. Mitch Whatley. And this is now a Federal Department of Xenoarcana operation.”
–
“So we sent in a first unit with body cams attached. We’re still trying to puzzle out what exactly the guys inside did to them. It was a five man squad. Four are dead now, and the lone survivor came out screaming like a lunatic. He’s missing most of his right arm, and minus a few fingers on his left hand.”
Mitch scratched his chin. “You got footage from the team handy ?”
The analyst swiveled on his chair in the surveillance truck and brought up a series of monitors. In them, Mitch watched the team’s entry. They managed to get to the front door, ram it open, then gain entry. About ten seconds in, a man stepped into the end of the entrance hallway. From what Mitch could see the guy was unarmed. Then, there was some shouting and the man in the hall raised his hand. There was a single shot from one of the agents, then a flash of light. All the cameras went out at once.
“We’re thinking EMP,” the Analyst said. “But, the people we pulled out had all sorts of other electronics on them, all fine. Watches kept ticking, walkies were good.”
“You’re right, it’s not EMP.” Mitch said. “That gesture, see that?” he pointed to the monitor containing a grainy, green-white image of the man in the hall. “That’s a spell meant to occult the caster from sight. As for what killed those men, I’d have to say they used another incantation that causes its victim’s flesh to necrotize. Probably a standard withering spell or a variant of it.”
The analyst looked at him with a clear look of disbelief.
“You don’t have cultists, son. You’ve got Cultists. Capital C.”
Mitch pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed a number. He didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s official. Bring in SWAT.”
–
The black van arrived thirty minutes after his call. Mitch looked at the moon. It was gibbous, pregnant with its culminating phase. Thank god for small favors.
The van door slid open and five people stepped out. They were a mixed group. Short, tall, fat, thin, male, female. The only common thing between them was their attire. Their suits were form fitting black tights. All were barefoot and bare handed. Mitch walked up to one of them, a middle aged guy with a physique going to fat. Mitch reached his hand out.
“Bancroft. Goddamn, when they move you out here?”
“Two years ago. You know, after that whole Detroit heroin raid?” The man didn’t seem entirely comfortable.
“Oh yeah, that FBI loan out. Sorry that went south on you man. I heard you took a hell of a hit.”
“You have no idea.”
“I got a notion.” Mitch looked to the rest of the group. “These your folks?”
“Yeah, they’re… they’re my family now.”
“You the big dog?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Well, good, you make sure they follow your lead.”
“I know. I remember Waco.”
“I’m sure you do, Bancroft. I’ll have an agent over here in a second to brief you on the situation.”
Mitch turned from Bancroft and went to the new huddle of shot callers. Scarecrow was still there – Mitch didn’t give a flying fart what his actual name was – as well as a pair of FBI agents, an ATF woman, and a liaison from FDX.
Mitch cleared his throat and started giving orders.
“Okay, our SWAT team is here. You,” he pointed at Scarecrow, “I need you over there with SWAT to give them a basic overview of who you think is in there. How many, how they’re conventionally armed, any kind of training they have, shoe size, voting history, whatever you got.”
Scarecrow looked at the swat team with contempt. “You mean, they’re… that’s the SWAT team?”
Mitch looked at Scarecrow, irked to be interrupted. “Yeah, you got a problem, slim?”
“This is un-fucking-believable.” Scarecrow looked at his feet and shook his head. “Okay, so you’re some kind of special fed division, I get that. I don’t like it, but I get it. But we have four dead agents. One that probably isn’t going to make it through mentally, even if his body does. We’ve got cameras here now, watching,” Scarecrow pointed to the flashing blue and red lights that kept a small but growing number of media staff a good two hundred meters away. “And you’re going to send in a bunch of… I don’t know who the fuck in, unarmed?”
Mitch looked over his shoulder to the SWAT team. Bancroft was talking to a six-foot five woman with a neutral expression who was barely contained in her skin tight uniform. The other three were scratching themselves almost uncontrollably and looking at the moon.
“Trust me, they’re specialists. And they can hear you too. Sharp as bloodhounds those folks are, so you mind your fucking P’s and Q’s, you read me, good buddy? I wouldn’t piss those fellas off.”
One of the SWAT team members stopped itching long enough to shoot a salute at Scarecrow as Mitch stopped speaking.
“So, go on, git,” Mitch said, fighting the urge to kick Scarecrow in the ass on his way out. “The rest of the adults got work to do.”
He turned to the others as Scarecrow sulked away.
“I’m gonna need a secondary squad to follow up on the primary SWAT team to handle anyone who surrenders or to retrieve hostages. Just hang by the entrance and remember: no matter how weird things get, just stay clear of the primary squad…”
–
Mitch saw the whole operation play out from the exterior surveillance footage routed into the van. It was all over within three minutes. It tended to go this way once FDX’s SWAT teams were deployed in Mitch’s experience. The only questions were how many bodies ended up on the books and from which side.
Within twenty seconds of SWAT’s insertion, the gunshots started. This disconcerted some of the usual FBI and ATF guys – they lived in an age of body cameras and thermal imaging. Hot shit toys and by the book tactics fed them intel they’d learned to use as a crutch. Mitch had waved all of that aside. “Don’t need ‘em,” he’d said. Some of it might have helped provided the Cultists didn’t cast any more wards, but magic was costly. Mitch knew that. But, he’d take the SWAT team as they were over another whole van full of high-tech gear.
At thirty seconds in, there was even more gunfire, and then an uncanny noise. It was low at first, but raised in intensity over the next few seconds. Then, the howls became clear. Mitch saw the panic ripple through the folks working in the other agencies. Fed, ATF, fucking Navy SEAL, it doesn’t matter, he thought. You hear that noise, you know someone’s gonna die. Mitch put his hand on the surveillance analyst’s shoulder. The kid almost jumped out of his skin.
“S’okay, kid. Almost over.”
Sixty seconds in, one of the walls from the compound’s main building buckled. From the camer’s view, it seemed as if a wrecking ball got a shot from inside the structure somehow. Dust puffed out and several cinderblocks fell, but the wall held. There was a brief spat of panic fire from agents at the perimeter but it was quickly halted by a squad commander somewhere.
Ninety seconds in, the glow started. The main room of the compound had high windows all around it’s bulk, and green, searing light came pouring out of them. A few folks wearing light amplifying goggles were forced to turn away, and a wave of pure chaos seemed to overtake everyone in sight. Some agents fell to their knees and wept, others shouted, and another touched herself. At least one agent turned his gun on the agent next to him and shot him.
Mitch hated that part the most – Cult magic just made people standing around batshit crazy. It was usually the buttoned-up, upstanding, really with-it types that buckled too. The more strange or open-minded you were, the less the magic could hurt you, but even a little magic went a long way. It ate order and shit madness.
The inter departmental shooting caused a ripple of panic along the line as the madness took hold. Before things could get any more out of hand, Mitch saw the FDX liaison make a kind of strange gesture and the riotous units went slack jawed and complacent. Mitch hadn’t figured the agency had hired on Deep Ones yet, but… he hadn’t seen anyone else command that kind of power. He’d have words about that back at headquarters after all of this was over.
At two minutes, the wall that had buckled earlier burst out and two forms could be seen.
The first was a Cultist, crackling with eldritch flux. His skin was emitting a baleful green glow, and his flesh was starting to burn and crackle. His eyes glowed even brighter, and his mouth was releasing torrents of malign energy toward his assailant.
The assailant was easily eight-and-a-half feet tall. Clad in all black, its clothes beginning to tatter, was profuse with hair and fang and claw. It’s wolf-like head used powerful jaws to snap of the Cultist’s arm. A gout of ooze and green fire erupted from it, scalding the wolf thing’s muzzle. The beast spat out the limb and bit again, this time seizing the Cultist by the torso, then shook him until there was a crack that could be heard audibly even above the howling and the chanting booming from inside the main building. The Cultist went limp and his inner glow died. The wolfen figure released it’s bite and batted away the corpse, howling in triumph.
Agents who still had their wits about them on the line fled. Mitch kept his hand on the analyst’s shoulder. The poor guy was weeping and gibbering now. Par for the course. Mitch was made of sterner stuff.
At minute two, second forty-two, there was a single howl of triumph and then Cultists and hostages poured out from inside. The liaison made another hand gesture and suddenly the enrapt units came to, and their training took hold. They had the fleeing men and women on the ground and started to make their arrests and rescues.
In all of the confusion, the five semi-naked swat team members came out, not a scratch on them, and went to Mitch for debriefing.
–
Scarecrow was not doing well. Last Mitch saw him, he was being carted off in an ambulance, catatonic and drooling. Mitch had that figured that would happen from the get go. He had little remorse for him or guys like him: too straightlaced for the true nature of the world.
The rest of the agents on the line had some fuzzy recall of the entire event.
The man who’d been shot didn’t even remember who had done it to him; it was easy in the post-op to write it off as cultist panic fire (cultist of course being written with a small ‘c’ in the ‘official’ paperwork). The guy who shot him didn’t even remember doing it. A fortunate side effect of the kinds of chaos Cultist magic wrought was that it almost always was forgotten. Those who didn’t forget could be made to, or turned out to be great FDX recruits.
The folks running the show on state and federal levels, they had some questions though. They always did. But, with a little magic ‘push’ and some help from the almost full moon, Mitch had taken care of it with as much grace and care as he could. He didn’t like using magic himself, but sometimes, he had to. It was the only way to keep the gears moving and humanity alive.
And the press? Shit, the press was easy. FDX had infiltrated them years ago. Most of the folks running the media knew what side their bread was buttered on. Anyone reporting the truth got lumped in with conspiracy theorists and Fox News.
As the whole scene began to deconstruct, Mitch made it a point to go to the van and talk to the team.
“I gotta hand it to you, Bancroft, you’re doing a hell of a job in Scrying, Werewolves, and Thaumaturgy.”
“It ain’t easy,” Bancroft said. He wiped a prodigious amount of sweat from his forehead. “I don’t think I ever handled a pack this big. Three was my upper limit before but these guys are good.”
“I knew you had it in you,” Mitch said. “And besides, there’s nothing you can’t do with the moon behind you.”
“Yeah, the moon gave just enough kick to negate the worst of the Cultist mojo. Coulda stood for a full one though. Hard to alpha that one.” Bancroft pointed to the giant SWAT woman who no longer had a shirt or any apparent trace of modesty as she tried to smear blood off her chest. “She’s a toughie. I’ll recommend her for special training for pack ops. She rates her own pack after taking out their Magus.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Mitch put out his hand. Bancroft took it with some hesitation and shook it.
“We’re seeing more of this, you know,” Bancroft said. “It used to be I’d get a raid like this once every two or three years. But now… I’m getting them every three or four months. It’s happening isn’t it? That’s what Koresh said back at Waco. ‘The stars are right.’ You heard anything?”
“No. That kinda thing is probably beyond both of our clearances and pay grades. Best to not ask.”
“Yeah,” Bancroft said. “Maybe so.”
“You watch yourself, alright?”
“Sure,” Bancroft said and walked back to the van. The pack followed him in, and they drove away.
Mitch spat in the grass as the op began to shut down. He looked at the stars.
No matter how hard he looked, they didn’t seem right to him yet.
For curious readers, the assignment was ‘Cultists Vs. Werewolves.’