Short Story

“What? A blog post? After all this time? Complete with preamble?”

Yes it’s true; I’m back with a vengeance, or rather a I’m back because I’ve nowhere else to go.

I’m not going to be discussing the blog schedule, refer to the tagline if you must (hint: it’s inconsistent.) I’ll be plopping whatever comes to mind in a post whenever it pops up, some good old fashioned mental ejaculation. Yum.

I’m feeling dejected for multiple reasons, one of which is that my short stories keep getting rejected by lit mags. What’s worse, providing feedback is not something lit mags do anymore, at least that’s what the automated emails say. I feel like my works are being printed straight into a paper shredder.

Anyhow, here’s a short story that almost everyone who doesn’t read short stories for a living loves. It’s Urban Fantasy with Cyberpunk elements and takes place in an alternative history of Earth. If anyone is familiar with the pen and paper Role Playing Game Shadowrun, you’ll find that it’s not directly inspired by the game but still find it hauntingly familiar. In essence a more fleshed out iteration of this short.

Other Earth: A Tuesday in Salem

The Proctorship in Salem, Massachusetts buzzed with excitement. They’ve found one, a Dark Magus, an agent of the Outsiders working toward the end of the Living Prophecy that sustains the world, and they’ve successfully brought him into custody. He proved uncooperative, an expected behavior, but the disturbing nature of his vulgarity and appetite pressed on his handlers’ consciousness as a toxic cloud — a crusty man, oily and wormy, probing with sullen eyes and gaunt features.

“How’re the kids, Proctor?” the Dark Magus asked, pressing his oily forehead against the thick glass divider separating him from his handlers. He licked his chapped lips, obsessing over the thought of warm, tender flesh. Proctors and other Magi, attuned with the mana flowing in and out of each other, can intercept the thoughts and feelings of anyone they make eye contact. Dark Magi can force these feelings on another person.

“Ya know, I was planning on paying them a visit when the school let out. Especially that little girl of yours.” They turned out his pockets once they brought him into the Proctorship, searching every bodily crevasse, finding all the peculiar fetishes that would lead someone down the dark path. He had talismans and bone charms made from the remains of missing persons throughout the state of Massachusetts, Maine, and parts of New Hampshire, abstract symbols snaking and knotting along the surfaces. Little trinkets—keychains and backpack nameplates—had been stuck to various spots on his body, the skin swollen and purple.

“The names are for my private collection, a reminder of the time we spent together.” He tapped a nameplate on his chest. “My personal lo-lee-tah.”

The Grandmaster of Massachusetts, the state’s representative in the New England Circle of Magi and a wizened, steely woman, stopped by Salem to see the Dark Magus. Uriel MacArthur, gray hair tied in a tight bun, crooked hand gripping a slender ebony cane, shed her dark trench coat and folded it in her arms. The rain beat down on the metal roof of the Proctorship, for storm clouds always follow Grandmaster MacArthur, adding a chilly breeze to the humming heat from the radiator. Robert Slattery, the Master of the Salem Proctorship, rolled up his sleeves as he made his approach.

“Grandmaster MacArthur,” Master Slattery addressed her, “I advocate for the immediate termination of this … creature.” MacArthur tapped her cane on the floor, an amused smile creeping on her face.

“A good day to you too, Robert,” MacArthur began, folding her free hand over her cane hand, planting the slender cane in front of her, “can you do me a favor and remind me how long it’s been since we last captured a Dark Magus? I’ve forgotten; was it two years or three?” Master Slattery, stunned, wrung his hands behind his back and took a sudden interest in the door behind MacArthur.

“It’s, uh, been four years, Grandmaster,” he mumbled.

“My mistake, four years since we’ve last captured one. Now, please, tell me: what exactly have they’ve been doing all this time? What exactly have we been doing all this time?” MacArthur stared at the man intently, imagining the cogs in his head working overtime. “Here’s a hint, Robert: we don’t know and jack all. All the old leads in Mass have gone cold, and you want to terminate a golden opportunity.” MacArthur passed by Master Slattery, patting him on the shoulder, and traveled further into the Salem Proctorship.

The Dark Magus, kept in his clear holding cell, was lit up with intricate runes fading in and out across the glass to seal away his dark powers. He sat on the floor, picking underneath his fingernails, while a permanent grin plastered his face.

“Hello Grandmaster,” he greeted MacArthur, brows raised, “I’m flattered that you’d come all this way to see little ol’ me. How’s the fam?” His eyes traced a line down her abdomen to her crotch. “Ah, I’m sorry. I forgot that there are things that magic can’t fix.” MacArthur stood, hands behind her back, with a contemplative look. She leaned in closer to the runes and traced one with her finger.

“Mmm, Master Slattery,” She turned to look back at the Master of Salem. “Do you think you could put this one on him? We need to prepare him for some outside expertise.”

 “With all due respect, Grandmaster,” Slattery started, taking an interest in her knees, “we’ve already tried questioning him.”

 “You don’t even know what I’m going to suggest.”

 “I’ve got a good feeling.” Slattery looked up at the Grandmaster, her face a mask of dangerous inquisitiveness. “I’ve already had the displeasure of-” MacArthur raised a hand to silence him.

“Not here, Robert,” MacArthur warned, her expression hard. She snapped her fingers, and the scene shifted, the two of them now in Master Slattery’s rather spartan office. MacArthur took a seat at Slattery’s desk, smooth and minimal, tenting her fingers in front of her.

“Proctor Hurst is a punk,” he fired off, “The most unprofessional, insubordinate waste of a Class One assignment I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with.”

 “Oh, that’s a little harsh.” MacArthur gave him a small smile.

“He walks a fine line, Grandmaster. He could go AWOL at any moment, turn over to the Outsiders and down a dark path.”

 “If you knew Roark as I know him, you’d find that quite impossible,” MacArthur laughed, sitting back in the chair, “Your concerns are noted, Master Slattery, but I don’t need your permission to take further action. Prepare the Dark Magus and call Proctor Hurst in.” Master Slattery deflated and brought his smartphone out, sending a quick text to his subordinates and hesitating before punching in a phone number. He put it on speaker phone and waited for someone to pick up.

“You’ve reached Roark Hurst,” a gruff voice came out, crystal clear, “I can’t come to the phone right now, please leave a name and number after the beep.” A giggle followed by a high-pitched beep came out through the speaker.

“Proctor, that government phone doesn’t do voice mail.” Master Slattery shot a glance at MacArthur, “Get your ass down to the Salem Proctorship in Massachusetts, we require your skillset. Grandmaster’s orders.”

 “Slattery, I’m going to remind you that I’m currently in the middle of a pre-approved vacation.” Roark’s voice turned hard, harder than it already was. “I’m also going to have to remind you to watch your language when children are present.” Slattery bored a hole through the Grandmaster’s forehead.

“What part of ‘Grandmaster’s orders’ do you not understand, Proctor?”

 “She didn’t say anything to me.” Despite him being over the phone, Roark had a shit eating grin. “And it’s the girl’s birthday. I’m sure Uriel can wait for me to finish celebrating it.” Slattery was red in the face, brow glistening with angry sweat. He opened his mouth but paused when he noticed MacArthur’s outstretched hand. He gave her the phone.

“Hello Rocky,” MacArthur began, voice betraying no emotion, “Tell Addy I say ‘Happy Birthday.’ How old is she now?” There was a long pause.

“She’s eleven, Grandmaster.” Roark’s voice was low and soft, cautious and deliberate.

“They grow up so fast.” MacArthur examined her fingernails and glanced at Slattery. “I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, Rocky, but if any Master says they speak with my authority, assume they’re telling the truth. I do trust your discretion with certain matters, but this is not one of those times, understand?”

 “Of course, Grandmaster.”

 “Good, now that that’s cleared up I need you and your team at the Salem Proctorship as soon as possible; Massachusetts, not New Hampshire. Bring the girl. It’s safer than trying the usual channels. Kisses.” MacArthur cut the call and tossed Slattery his phone. “Wow, eleven years.” She rests her head in an open palm, a wistful look in her eyes. The room shuddered as Proctor Roark Hurst materialized into the room, a child hiding behind him and clutching his hand.

The two of them wore Mickey Mouse ear hats, done up like Santa hats. Roark himself wore a yellow polo shirt, exposed arms striped with scars of all lengths and thicknesses with the left arm having a nasty looking gash running down the length of his forearm. A fanny pack hung heavy on his side, straining his khaki shorts. Addy was, in contrast to Roark’s pale skin and sandy hair, a brown-skinned Hispanic girl with luxuriously curly hair. She wore a plaid dress over overalls, having dressed herself that day, and mismatched socks. Deep, vibrant amber colored eyes scanned the room until they locked eyes with Grandmaster MacArthur.

“Granny Em!” she exclaimed, breaking away from Roark and running over to the Grandmaster. MacArthur rose out of her seat and knelt to embrace the child, raising her off her feet and spinning her around.

“How’s my little water lily?” MacArthur set her down, wiping her forehead in a mock gesture. “Oof, you’ve gotten so big, I thought I told you to stop growing.”

“I can’t help it. I drink my milk!” Addy beamed, puffing out her chest with her hands on her hips. Master Slattery stared at Roark, previous anger having evaporated in the face of the Proctor’s get up, especially his fanny pack.

“Casual Friday’s tomorrow Proctor,” Master Slattery said, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, “but I think I can make an exception.” Without another word, Roark unzipped his fanny pack and pulled out a thick black rod. He twirled it around in his fingers, a sleek black staff telescoping out to full size. A skeletal mushroom bulb unfurled out from the top, completing the staff. Roark slammed the butt of his staff on the floor and was enveloped in a white mist, emerging from the cloud fully dressed in a black three-piece suit. The fanny pack still clung to his side.

“It’s the fanny pack of power,” he said, equal parts defeated and irritated. Addy pumped her fist in solidarity, mumbling “fanny pack of power” to herself.

“Robert,” the Grandmaster called out to Master Slattery, “Roark and his team are going to have their hands full for the next while, find someone to look after the girl.” MacArthur placed a hand on Addy’s shoulder and walked her over to the Master of Lowell and Proctor Hurst. Roark unbuckled the fanny pack and dangled it in front of Slattery by the straps.

“She takes a multivitamin at six,” Roark started, tapping the fanny pack, “and there’s an inhaler to treat asthma flare-ups. She’s severely allergic to nuts, shellfish, and nickel. The pack has EpiPens, but they better not be used or so help me gods-“

 “Her well being is very important to the Circle, Robert,” MacArthur interjected, seeing the vein ready to burst in the Master’s forehead, “It never hurts to be over-cautious, but there is a time and a place for everything.” MacArthur gave Roark a pointed look, draining the color from his face. Slattery glanced down at Addy and clapped the child on the back, walking her out of the room. Addy looked back at Roark, waving their goodbyes.

“Be on your best behavior, Sweet Pea, I’ll see you in a little bit.” Roark continued watching a little bit after the door closed. MacArthur tapped him on the shoulder, giving him an arched brow.

“Sweet Pea?” she asked, a playful smile on her lips.

“Laugh it up, ‘Granny’ I’ve protected her for ten years. I have that right to call her that.” Roark shoved his hands in his pockets with his staff caught in his elbow. MacArthur continued grinning at him, watching him squirm.

“What?”  “Nothing, Rocky,” MacArthur shook her head, “You’ve come a long way, is all. It doesn’t seem so long ago when we were like that.” She reached up and pinched his cheek. Roark glanced at her and returned a smile, smoothing out his jacket and rubbing his forearms.

“Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

Lee Michaels and Kennedy Lang, a Son of Earth and Fire and a Daughter of Mars, the sole two members of Roark’s team who had served alongside him in the Gobi Desert during the One Year War. Lee, the first to arrive, rumpled his Mickey Mouse hat with large, spidery hands.

“Alright, Rock, let’s get this over with,” Lee said, voice like melting chocolate, “The wife still expects us back at the castle for dinner.”

 “As soon as Ken gets here we can get the show on the road.” Roark unholstered his Spellslinger from its shoulder holster. Spellslingers look like guns designed by someone who has never held a firearm in their life: pistol grip and slide, break action with a revolving six-shot cylinder, and an exposed four-inch fluted barrel with iron sights. Horrendous construction aside, the gun-metal blue finish gleamed beautifully in the light as Roark inserted glowing cartridges into the cylinder. A Proctor’s Spellslinger slings pre-designed spells, the Proctor’s favorites that would take too long to draw out in a combat situation. A Proctor’s staff is used to focus mana inward, keeping the any prepared spells fueled and at the ready, the mushroomed tip acting as a siphon for incoming hostile spells. Roark snapped his Spellslinger closed and pulled the slide back with a chunky click.

“Gods, Rock, I’m not going to let you kill the bastard.” Lee crossed his arms, eyeing the firearm.

“I only ever use less than lethal tactics, Lee, you know this.” Roark holstered his weapon, ignoring his partner’s rolling eyes. The walked over toward an elevator, hands shoved in their pockets, silently looking around the all-but-abandoned Proctorship. Desk jockeys wheeled across the floor, shuffling old fashioned manilla folders from one desk to another while the active detectives stared blankly into their wafer-thin monitors.

“Ken needs to fill out her clearance papers,” Lee said, leaning against the wall beside the elevator door.

“She needs to do a lot of things.” Roark crossed his arms and stared at the door, willing it to open. With a soft ding, they slid open to reveal a slender Asian woman in a dark pantsuit, holding a black leather briefcase and a permanent scowl.

“You’re a real asshole; you do know that, right?” Kennedy blew a frazzled lock of hair away from her face, hands on her hips and leaning her scowl into Roark.

“Nice seeing you too.”

 “You know I don’t have clearance to teleport here, and yet you still drag me back to work.”

 “I can’t exactly say no the Grandmaster, now can I?” Roark turned away from her, hands in his jacket pockets, and started walking down the hall. Kennedy chased after him, still huffing and pouting, Lee following at her side.

“So how are things between you and, uh, your ‘roommate’ going?” Lee asked in an attempt to steer the conversation. Kennedy glared at him and threw a pointed look in Roark’s direction.

“We were actually in the middle of something very time sensitive.”

 “You don’t have to play straight with us, Ken, you can just say you were trying to knock up your wife.” Roark threw up his hand in a dismissive gesture as Kennedy, red-faced and scrambling, shushed him while throwing a fist in his direction.

“Not so loud! Ass.” She glanced around, making sure that no one else was listening in on them. The Proctors remained glued to their screens, but a detective’s ear is always on alert.

“Ken I was your maid of honor and your best man. Hell, I even walked you down the aisle. I just want what’s best for you.”

 “Just because you’re out of the closet doesn’t mean I have to be,” she hissed in his ear, grinding a knuckle in his back. Roark shrugged her off and continued on his path.

“Changing the subject …” Lee stepped between the two. “What exactly is our assignment?” Roark unfurled a sleeve of hard candies and popped a green one in his mouth.

“Dark Magus, a child killer, and possible cannibal. Those were the only two things these Massholes got out of him.” Roark crunched on the candy and popped a purple one in his mouth, handing the red one that came before it to Kennedy. She accepted the peace offering without hesitation and the three Proctors filed through a security door separating the offices from the interrogation cells.

A smooth metal hallway, lined with security cameras, hummed with lingering energy and spiritual presence. Lesser liminal deities concealed the doorways, only revealing the door the Proctors need to them. Salem Proctors milled about in the room adjoining the observation and the interrogation room, a last line of defense in case things went south, Spellslingers holstered at the hip and jackets slung over chair backs. They nodded to Roark and his team as they passed through to observation.

One-way glass dominated the dark lit observation room, security monitors humming along the walls. Grandmaster MacArthur and Master Slattery gazed at the Dark Magus, having transferred him there earlier and cuffed his hands to the tabletop. A dozen more Proctors crowded the inside, clutching tablets and furiously typing away while observing Roark.

“I didn’t know you were throwing a party, Master Slattery.” Roark weaved his way through the crowd, careful not to touch anyone. Slattery scowled at him.

“It was the Grandmaster’s idea, Proctor.”

 “It’s not every day we get to observe the interrogation of a Dark Magus, Proctor Hurst.” MacArthur folded her hands behind her back. “We need to record every moment, and many of us here could learn a thing or two from your methodology.” She glanced at Slattery, who chewed on his tongue to keep himself from speaking out.

“Has anyone read him his rights?” Roark folded his arms and stared at the Dark Magus.

“He is well aware that he no longer has any rights.”

Roark nodded to Kennedy, and she took a seat at the monitors, opening her briefcase to reveal a chunky laptop, pulling out a cord and plugging it into the computer terminal. There was a brief moment of static across the monitors before the feed came back.

“What was that?” All eyes were on Kennedy, who paid no mind to the monitors, furiously typing away at a dialog box on her screen.

“It is just Proctor Lang doing her thing.” Roark clapped Lee on the shoulder, and the two of them left for the adjoining room. They fiddled with two-way radio earpieces that hissed to life in their ears.

“Ken, can you hear me?” Roark adjusted the volume as Kennedy replied.

“Solid copy, Rock. Are we using standard lingo? Over.”

 “Casual lingo and standard protocol. ‘Ken’ is ‘off the record’ and radio silence for the duration unless necessary.” He glanced at Lee, receiving a curt nod in acknowledgment, and entered the interrogation room alone.

The Dark Magus, hands bound together and magnetically glued to the steel table beamed at the Proctor, crooked smile full of crooked teeth.

“Proctor, I’ve been expecting you,” the Dark Magus said, flapping his hands the only gesture he can give. Roark took his seat across from the man, hands folded on his lap.

“Have you been read the forfeiture of your rights?” Roark’s steely gaze flicked over to the one-way mirror, betraying no motion from his body.

“I am aware that I’m just an animal to you people.” The Dark Magus shrugged. “Aren’t we all animals though?” Roark looked him straight in the eye and leaned in a little closer.

“Have you been read the forfeiture of your rights?”

 “Yes, I have.” The Dark Magus grinned, bloodshot eyes straining in their sockets.

“As a Proctor First Class based in New Hampshire, any room I’m in is under New Hampshire jurisdiction unless a Proctor of greater class or at least two Proctors of an equal class are present. Do you understand?”

 “Yes, I do.” The Dark Magus’s eyes continued straining, boring into Roark’s skull.

The Proctor’s head began to buzz, but he pushed the thought from his mind, the scars on his arms aching with memory.

“The State of New Hampshire follows the Donahue Clause, and I’m going to read this to you now.” Roark fished out a business card from a pocket inside his jacket. “Possession of dark magic fetishes and/or paraphernalia is not indicative of the status of Dark Magus. The Person or Persons in question must give their name and self-identify as a Dark Magus or give a probable cause of the status as a Dark Magus for aforementioned fetishes and/or paraphernalia to be used as evidence against them. Do you understand?”

 “Proctor, do we really have the time to go over the nitty-gritty?” The Dark Magus offered his hands up, searching for an opening to strike.

“Do you understand?” Roark lowered the card and met the Dark Magus’s gaze head-on. Their perpetual grin faltered, if only a little.

“Proctor, this is hardly necessary.”

 “Possession of-“

 “Yes! Yes, I understand, can we get the show on the road now? Please?”

 “Now that there is no question about your legal status, we can start now.”

Roark lowered the business card and placed it face up on the table. It was blank.

“You just pulled the ‘Donahue Clause’ out of your ass didn’t you?”

 “No.” Roark unfurled his sleeve of hard candies and popped an orange one into his mouth. “What is your name?” The radio in his ear hissed to life.

“I’ve got a name, Rock,” Kennedy said in his ear, “John Martin, age thirty-four from Saugus, Massachusetts. He was born April twenty-eighth, twenty-one-twenty, at Nine PM.

“Freddie Fitzgerald.” The Dark Magus shrugged again, eyes still straining and smile shrinking a little more.

“I already know your name, Mister Martin. I only need it to fulfill the Donahue Clause.” Roark folded his hands in front of him on the table. John stopped smiling.

“My name is John Martin, but you already know that.” John grinned again. “We are going to have fun, aren’t we?” The buzzing crept back into the back of Roark’s mind, but he pushed it away, arms aching and face betraying no emotion.

“Mister Martin, do you self-identify as a Dark Magus?”

 “What do you think, Proctor?”

 “Mister Martin, do you self-identify as a Dark Magus?”

 “Proctor, it should be clearly obvious to anyone-“

 “Mister Martin, do you self-identify as a Dark Magus?” Roark unfolded his hands and planted the palms on the table surface.

“Proctor-” The smile ran away from John’s face, twisting into a frown as the Proctor continued to interrupt him.

“It is clear to me that you do not understand the forfeiture of your rights and the Donahue Clause.” Roark fished out another business card from within his suit jacket. “I’ll start from the beginning and read them to you.”

 “Look, I identify as a Dark Magus.” John grinned his crooked smile. “Can we continue now?” Roark met his gaze and furrowed his brow.

“I’ll start from the beginning and read them to you.” Roark began reading from the card as the Dark Magus slumped back in his chair, magnetic cuffs sliding across the table.

Back in the observation room, Master Slattery took his chin in his hand, stroking his stubble in thought.

“He’s playing aggressively by the book,” Slattery grunted, “He only does that when it inconveniences everyone else, I take it.”

 “He’s his own ‘Good-Cop-Bad-Cop,’ it’s part of his charm.” MacArthur smiled. “He gets results, Master Slattery, that’s why I like him so much.”

 “It’s refreshing to see him not being a loose cannon for once.” Slattery leaned closer to the glass. “But now I wish he’d get a move on. He’s literally wasting everyone’s time.” MacArthur shook her head and chuckled. John Martin looked deflated, oily head pressed against the table top.

“Yes, yes, and again yes. My name is John Martin, and I forfeit my rights both civil and human, and, per the Donahue Clause, I self-identify as a Dark Magus. Can we please move forward, Proctor?” Roark put down the final business card face up on the table, blank like all the others.

“I’m satisfied,” he said, biting down on the candy in his mouth, “I’m going to ask you a few questions.” John shot up, face unsmiling, fingernails dragging across the steel table as he slid back into his seat.

“Yes, I took those children; yes, I killed them; no, I didn’t eat them. Well, I ate one, but I only had sex with the others, I swear!” John offered up his open hands, cuffs vibrating against the table. “That’s not why either of us is here though, now is it Rock?” Roark popped a yellow candy in his mouth, flicking the red one that came before it across the table and hitting John in the forehead. It stuck to his forehead, and the Dark Magus frowned.

“I don’t like the red ones,” Roark said, “Never have. It’s the taste; everyone says it’s cherry flavor, but they don’t taste like cherries. They never have. I think it’s the dye. I’m sensitive to certain chemicals you see. I can’t eat cilantro either because it makes everything taste like soap.” The Proctor flicked another red candy across the table, sending it skittering over the edge and onto the floor.

“Proctor Hurst, don’t you care why I sought you out?” John frowned hard, bloodshot eyes straining in his skull as he bored into Roark’s head.

“I can’t say that I do.” Roark rolled the candy in his jaw back and forth. “To be honest, I’m more than a little pissed off that you pulled from my Christmas vacation.”

 “Celebrating a birthday?” John grinned. Roark flashed his eyes, the smallest bit of hatred leaking out through his composure for the briefest second. John flinched, color draining from his face, but the smile persisted.

“The birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” Roark bit down on his candy, grinding the shattered chunks into a sticky paste.

“You are an interesting one, Rock,” John said, straightening himself and dragging the cuffs to the edge of the table. “I typically have Proctors squirming with my thoughts using a single glance, but you’ve resisted every attempt so far. Meanwhile, your thoughts are coming in loud and clear. You must have some divine parentage. Let me guess … Vafthrudnir?”

 “My father is Atlas. I just hate you.” Roark shed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing the scars that ravage his arms from the wrists past the elbow.

“Did my masters do that?” John asked a broad grin on his face, and head cocked to the side.

“No, I did.” The scars ached with memory, and Roark rubbed them idly. “I was once a Child of Prophecy, Martin, one that survived the worst the Dark Magi had to offer. I needed a more constructive outlet for my emotions, and thus I became a Proctor.” Roark could feel MacArthur looking at him through the glass.

“You kill Dark Magi.”

 “No, I just hurt them.” Roark stared down John from across the table, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. “Now you understand; I’m not here to get information from you, I’m here to break you. As long as you cooperate, I won’t lay a finger on you.” The room fell silent, and then the silence was broken by John’s hoarse laughter. He shook from laughter and fell out of his chair, dangling by his wrists still stuck to the table.

“Oh, that is rich!” John stood up and leaned in to wipe the tears from his eyes. “You play the game well, Rock, you really do. I have a message from my Master for the Circle of Magi, but first I have a message for you.” John wrenched his hands from the table, pulling the cuffs free from their magnetic lock and holding his arms apart and at his sides. He stifled more laughter, almost doubling over.

“I’m not locked in here with you, your locked in-“

Roark Hurst, Proctor First Class, Son of Atlas, tapped his foot on the floor. The floor was tiled in linoleum, mostly plastic and rubber, almost entirely useless to him. He tapped his fingers on the steel table; iron, carbon, not a hint of chromium, but most importantly the steel contained silicate impurities, little specks of Earth. Atlas had been imprisoned by Zeus and forced to keep the sky from the Earth, this punishment became control, and his children were given mastery over the two elements. This mastery had been Roark’s first spell and became second nature to him: Footwork, a spell that slides him across the Earth and through the air instantaneously. The moment he tapped the table with his fingers, Roark whipped around the edge of the table and stood behind the Dark Magus. He gripped the Dark Magus by the back of his head and slammed his face into the table. Keeping John’s head pinned to the table, Roark reattached the cuffs to the table, one on either edge of the table. He cast Footwork again and leaped through the air, snatching John by his ankles and smashing his back on the table top. With a sharp tug and a loud pop! Roark dislocated John’s arms at the shoulders. The Dark Magus’s mouth gaped open in a silent scream.

Roark untied his tie and used it as a gag, tying John’s head back against the table in the process. The Proctor faced the one-way mirror, untucking his shirt and popping another hard candy in his mouth.

“Ken,” he said, tapping his earpiece. Static filled the observation room, the camera feed scrubbed out, and the microphones grew cold. Kennedy tapped away at her laptop, chewing her lower lip. Slattery looked over her shoulder as she furiously edited the still shot and churning out false timestamps.

“What are you doing, Proctor?”

 “My job, Master Slattery,” Kennedy said without tearing her eyes from the screen, “Leave me to my work, you’ll spoil my focus.”

 “Grandmaster-“

 “Let her work, Robert, Rocky has called for the next few moments to be off-the-record.” MacArthur gnawed on her knuckles. “He may be a Dark Magus’s, and he may have forfeited his rights, but if the public ever saw what’s about to happen there’d be Hell to pay, believe you me.”

Roark walked over to John and tugged the tie tighter into his crooked maw.

“Dark Magi like you are total amateurs; you know that right?” Roark walked over to a hidden panel in the wall and rooted around through the items contained within. He threw a pair of vice grips behind him, and they landed on the table with a crash and clatter, John flinching at the impact.

“I’ve seen war, Mister Martin, and war is Hell.” Roark flipped an acetylene torch on and off before ultimately putting it back. “I’ve seen Hell too, and Hell is war. I was an unlucky draft pick during the One Year War, it conflicted with my job as a Proctor, but they needed my magic and pulled strings to send me to the frontline. First, it was Alaska and the Aleutian Islands, a beautiful place with beautiful whales everywhere, even touched one and looked it in the eye. Have you ever seen a Son of Neptune rip an aircraft carrier in half, Mister Martin? Scary stuff.” The Proctor pulled out a plastic jerry can sloshing with fluid, and set it on the floor beside him. He unwound a hose connected to the wall and dumped the nozzle next to the jerry can.

“We worked our way to Japan and entered Asia through Korea. The Democratic People’s Republic of China didn’t like that one bit and entered the war, too bad for them the Russian Union is full of opportunists and backstabbers. Next thing you know, China was sandwiched between Russia and the good ol’ Confraternity of North America. They shoot indiscriminately, but Aztlán snipers are some of the best in the world. Children of Huitzilopochtli burned down Nanking,  you know. God, I butchered the pronunciation, didn’t I?” Roark slapped the wall with a strip of leather. He paced back and forth, looking at what he’s collected so far and returned to the wall.

“Technically, with the Chinese government in exile the nation was out of the war, but the resistance was fierce. They moved me to an outpost in the Gobi Desert for the rest of the war, quiet place except for Day Two-Hundred.” Roark paused and looked up, tapping his foot on the floor. “Russia signed a treaty out of the war with the CNA, so China was fighting a war on two fronts. Radio silence in the area made sure the Russians stationed near the Gobi Desert never received the message. They overran us in a matter of hours.” A pair of pliers, a car battery and jumper cables, sewing needles, all found their way onto the table. John gnawed on his gag, eyes flitting back on forth, first from Roark and then to the one-way mirror, face drenched in a clammy sweat.

“Russians are old school, Mister Martin.” Roark stuck a sewing needle into the Dark Magus’s arm, drawing out a pained moan. “They’ve done things to me you can’t possibly imagine; Chinese water torture, waterboarding, you name it, they’ve done it. Unless you’ve had your best friend put a loaded revolver to your head, nerves shot, and have broken down to hysterics when you heard the click of an empty chamber, you’ve never experienced terror. That’s why you’re an amateur Mister Martin.” Roark stood up and walked back to the compartment. “They had me for eighty days, but there’s only so much Russian Roulette a man can take before he snaps. The CNA swept the whole affair under the rug, those eighty days never happened, but neither did my retaliation.”

 “Rock, the container contains oxygen-rich perfluorocarbons,” Kennedy hissed in his ear. The Proctor touched his earpiece and bobbed his head.

“I’m on a bit of a time crunch, Mister Martin, so no Chinese water torture.” Roark whipped out a towel and folded it over his arm. “I’ll show you a little of what I learned though.” He knelt to pick up the jerry can and returned to the Dark Magus’s side, draping the towel over his face. The speaker in the interrogation room crackled to life.

“Do not kill my prisoner Proctor,” Master Slattery said from the observation room. Roark sighed and set the jerry can down on the table.

“I don’t kill, Slattery, and I don’t maim. I just hurt people; that’s my job.” Roark opened the can and dumped the contents over John’s toweled face, letting the Dark Magus cough and sputter while he picked up the nozzle of the hose. He squeezed the trigger and doused the Dark Magus with the clear liquid, whistling all the while.

“I can’t watch this,” Master Slattery muttered and spoke into the intercom again, “That’s enough, Proctor, he’s had enough. Wrap it up.” Roark looked at the one-way mirror, still holding the hose with his finger on the trigger.

“Rocky,” MacArthur said through the speaker, her pet name for the Proctor the only thing he needed to hear. Roark nodded his head and cleaned up his mess. Once everything was put away, and the Dark Magus uncovered but still tied to the table, Roark faced the mirror again and tapped his earpiece.

“Ken,” he said.

“Solid copy.” Kennedy finished her editing and strung together the doctored frames and timestamps, masking the whole affair as Roark monologuing about his service, as static cleared from the monitors and the microphones crackled to life. Roark walked back to the Dark Magus and removed the gag in his mouth.

“You understand now, don’t you? You’re dealing with Roark Hurst, Proctor First Class. You lost control of the situation the moment they put those cuffs on you.” John Martin stretched a grin from ear to ear, crooked teeth gleaming in the light.

“You are a fun one, aren’t you?” John chuckled. “Well, here’s my message for the Circle of Magi: the Outsiders are coming. They’re coming for the Child of Prophecy and move right through you to get to her. She’s here now isn’t she?” John looked around with a quizzical expression on his face. “Yes, I can feel her presence. A Child of Salt and Sea, one of the Perseids if I’m not mistaken.” John headbutted Roark, sending him reeling into the wall. He twisted and contorted his body, popping his arms back into place, and wrenched his hands free from the steel table. Roark righted himself, but his feet sank into the floor.

“Looks like you’re sticking around for a little while longer. Don’t worry; I’ll take good care of the girl.” John licked his teeth, but before he could turn Roark whipped out his Spellslinger. He fired a single shot, a concussive blast of high-pressure air, and hit the Dark Magus square in the chest. John flew backward and crashed into the wall behind him, shaking loose the ceiling tiles overhead and shaking the light fixture. Winded, he rose shakily to his feet.

“Oh, did I touch a nerve?” he asked, a grin plastered on his face. Roark unloaded the remaining five shots, each one a concussive blast of air, each one colliding with the Dark Magus’s chest. John Martin, glassy-eyed, slumped over and slid down the wall, his heart trembling in his breast as his blood began pooling into his feet. Lee crashed into the room and lay the Dark Magus out on his back, rubbing his hands together and muttering a soft chant into his palms. As Lee tended to John, alternating between prayers to every god of medicine he could think of and classical chest compressions, Roark loaded more cartridges into his Spellslinger.

“I’m getting him out of there,” Master Slattery said and reached for the intercom. MacArthur snatched his hand away and held it back.

“Grandmaster-“

 “Shush!” MacArthur brought a crooked finger to her lips. Slattery shook in a mixture of anger and fear.

“Grandmaster, he killed my prisoner.”

 “I thought you wanted to terminate the Dark Magus, Robert.” MacArthur tightened her grip on his wrist and returned her attention.

“Not like this,” he muttered, wrenching his wrist free. He dared not try the intercom again. John sat up, sucking in a sharp gasp and clutching his chest. Lee backed away from him and looked at Roark.

“I don’t know if I’d be able to bring him back again, Rock,” Lee said, shaking his head, “He’s rotten to the core, the world doesn’t want him here.”

 “You won’t have to. I’ll take it from here.” Roark closed the distance as Lee left, pulling the Dark Magus to his feet and slamming his back against the wall.

“You killed me,” John said, voice quavering but grin still plastered to his face, “You killed me in anger, doesn’t that make you a Dark Magus now?” Roark shoved the barrel of his Spellslinger into the Dark Magus’s mouth, eyes hard and steely.

“You really are an amateur,” Roark replied, voice low and cold, “I am Roark Hurst, Proctor First Class, guardian of a Child of Prophecy. I was well within my right shooting you dead for her sake. I’m well within my right to paint the wall with the back of your head, even though they can’t bring you back from that. I’ll find a way to bring you back, as I always do, even if it means I have to drag you up from the pits of Hell, kicking and screaming.” Roark tightened his grip on his Spellslinger, pushing it further into the Dark Magus’s maw. “I’m the kind of man that when my feet touch the ground in the morning, Satan pisses his pants, believe you me. So go ahead, play your game. Make my day.” Urine stained John’s pants and trickled down his leg, pooling on the floor at his feet.

* * *

Master Slattery took over the interrogation after that point, freeing Roark and his team to return to their vacation. Lee looked at his phone and whistled, giving Roark a wide-eyed glance.

“It’s going to be a close one, but I think I’ll be able to make it to dinner at Disney Castle. I’ll try to stall the misses while you wrap up things here Rock.”

 “Go ahead without me. I’ll be fashionably late as usual.” They clapped each other on the back and, with a shudder in the air and burst of mist, Lee teleported out of the Salem Proctorship. Roark walked Kennedy to the elevator leading up and out of the building. He unfurled a check for fifteen-hundred dollars and flourished it at the Proctor.

“What’s this for?” she asked, taking the check.

“Christmas present slash apologies for dragging you into this.” Roark shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “Whatever time sensitive activity you and your ‘roommate’ were going to do has probably expired already, so that’s money for a new dosage.” Kennedy looked around the empty offices, not another soul around.

“That’s very sweet of you, Rock.” Kennedy smiled and stashed the check in her briefcase. “You know, Alice and I were thinking about naming the baby after you.”

 “I know.”

 “Never mind, we’re not going to anymore.” She frowned at him. “Jackass.” They scowled at each other for a moment before breaking out into laughter. With a parting hug, Kennedy stepped into the elevator and gave a salute.

“See you around, Ken,” Roark said, returning the salute. Alone, the Proctor wandered back to Master Slattery’s office, sucking on the last of his candies. He opened the door to find Addy scribbling in a spiral bound notebook on Slattery’s desk, sitting in Grandmaster MacArthur’s lap. She perked up once she noticed his arrival and leaped from her seat, running over to the Proctor.

“Roark!” She flung herself into his open arms and clambered onto his shoulders.

“Hey Sweet Pea, I’m sorry it took so long. What did you do today?” Roark held her steady as she bounced on his shoulders.

“Oh, oh, oh! I got to see the Living Prophecy and all the illegal foci seized from Magi, and I had a cinnamon roll, but I’m not supposed to tell you about that and …” As Addy rattled on about her day, Roark gave MacArthur a sidelong glance.

“I was with you the entire time, Rocky, I’m not sure what you want from me.” MacArthur pinched Addy’s cheek.

“It was great seeing you again, my little water lily.”

 “Addy …” Roark rocked her on his shoulder’s.

“Thank you for having me, Granny Em.” Addy nodded, rubbing her cheek.

“Was it better than Disney World?”

 “No way!”

 “Ugh, how can I compete with Cinderella?” MacArthur shrugged as the girl giggled. “I’ll be seeing you two! Don’t be strangers!” She waved her goodbyes as Roark, and his ward vanished in a cloud of mist. Alone with her thoughts, MacArthur flipped through the information Master Slattery extracted from John Martin. She pursed her lips, swiping up and down on her phone, shoes clacking against the floor.

“Gods, Rocky, you certainly have your work cut out for you.” With a sigh, she pocketed her phone and put on her trench coat. Outside it was raining, for rain always follows the Grandmaster of Massachusetts, a chill breeze flowing into the heated building. The moment she stepped left, MacArthur’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

“Uriel MacArthur, Grandmaster of Massachusetts,” she answered, less as a greeting and more as a statement to inform the caller they really shouldn’t be calling her.

“Uri, we need to talk. It’s about the girl.” The voice spoke heavily accented English, belonging to the Aztlán people of the Confraternity of North America.

“I’m not speaking to you Perseid types regarding the girl. I said it once, and I’ve said it a thousand times: if her father wants to know about her, he has to talk to me.” MacArthur waited for the other end respond, only hear the click of them hanging up. With a sigh, she pocketed the phone and walked out into the rain.

END