Mark Winchester studied the radar print outs again, cursing the small bit of turbulence that shook his hand. After the blasted thing crossed the ocean, it slowed down. this of course made his job harder, as even the best radar technology had problems picking up such a small profile once it's anomalous speed slowed. How the damned thing had even learned to fly, he'd likely never know. There was no doubt however, that this event was the real deal;exactly What he'd trained his life for. Let's see, the last confirmed images projected a line through several major cities as well as several other highly populated areas. It was obvious he'd have his work cut out for him.

The best option was to split his team up, and comb the line he'd just drawn for... incidents. From east to west coast, if need be.

*******************************************************************************************

I was on fire, or at least the front of me was. The rest of my body was somewhat cool. I was certain I was floating, even though my arms and legs seemed to be tied. I felt no pain, just unknown periods of blistering heat followed by intense cold. sometimes I thought I could see light or hear voices. Sometimes I thought I was doing both. Sometimes they almost made sense. But mostly I just floated, a leaf on an unknown current.

*******************************************************************************************

Sergei carefully monitored the homemade I.V. that was currently pumping a nutrient soup of his own devising into the kid. The ice was of course, melting much faster as the day wore on, the heat prompting Devon to make his third trip so far since last night. It was working however; if the I.V. did not clog, and the boy's temperature stayed below 105 he should be alright. A careful dunk of the kids' head under water raised some steam, which was concerning. But too long under and he would start to drown. It was a careful sort of dance.

When he had time, he tried to figure out where the sword sheath had come from. Ancient leather covered in cloth tastefully embroidered in the most magnificent and complex celtic knots, capped on the lower end with steel and the open end with something that felt kind of like rubber, Sergei was fairly sure he hadn't seen it on the kid before he went into Devon's own apartment bath tub. Yet it was plainly here, and had to have been here. The belt was knotted around the boy and the knot seemed to have been superglued... nothing Sergei could do would untie it, or even get the cursed thing to loosen!

He really didn't have the time to give it a good try though; was the boy's face changing? Was he about to suffer GSD on top of burnout? Sergei had been out of the loop for some time, but he'd never heard of a case of burnout this slow that altered the victim in such a way... usually mutation was a much slower process or outright bursting in flames. But then again, bursting into flames was something this kid could do at any moment.

He needed more vodka.

*******************************************************************************************

Chad Simmons knew he wasn't the smartest. His mom had called him "her little Forrest Gump" as a kid... when taking him to school. So of course the other kids heard, and ran with that. The special classes he'd had to attend had not helped his image either.

He hadn't been a complete loser in the genetic lottery however (not that he understood such a concept), having always been a bit on the big side. In high school he made a truly great lineman, when he wasn't riding the bench or ejected from games. He never meant to hurt anyone, he just forgot sometimes that when the whistle sounded the play was over. That and what all the fouls were sometimes.

Who could keep all that straight?

The thing is, he hadn't stopped growing. When he was seventeen they had all said he was too big to play anymore. He had grown a foot a year and put on lots of weight since he was 14, and they said they couldn't have him on the team anymore. Then his mom got mad cause he broke her house, and kicked him out to live at some place called "Cerberus maximum security prison."

But through it all, he kept growing.

The prison wasn't a bad place, they fed him and let him work for them, though he sometimes forgot the stuff he was supposed to do, and the rules he was supposed to follow. It was all the excitement, he was sure. He was a little sad that his mom didn't come see him, but she was 'dead'; he didn't know what that meant, except that she was far away.But then came the accident, and one of the friendly men in blue had gotten hurt. Everyone was just so small now, it was hard for him to keep from hurting them! They had locked him up in a big room, and fed him through a small hole in it. And it was damp and everything smelled like old gym socks.

And still he kept growing.

Then he got sick of it, and wanted to go outside. They really should have built the room better, it gave way the moment he stood. Everyone was a dwarf now, like the wizard of oz people. He did not understand why everyone else did not grow; was there something wrong with them?

It didn't matter; he was out and they would never put him back in the sock smelling room ever. He was going to go find his mom, and not even the metal things... tanks, he knew that word! Not even those would stop him! They were too weak to, in any case. He stepped on one (an accident, it tried to knock him down!) and it flattened like a pancake made of tin foil. Pancakes were good.

He knew from the talk of the friendly blue men some time earlier that his mom had lived in 'Detroit' before she had died, and he lived with her. He also knew from the same talk that 'Detroit' was west... towards the sun when it set. Since the sun was setting now, that was the way he would go. He wanted his mom. His mom made the best pancakes ever.

**********************************

There was some sort of change occuring, after all, and Sergei dutifully wrote it down in his new journal under 'day 2'. Thinning over all, (though that could be a result of not eating and only having an IV to sustain the mutation), altered bones in the face and hips, full blown changes in how the muscles were attached to bone in multiple locations, as well as differences in how they moved and their efficiency; the human race was more variable than most gave it credit for, but this was pushing the boundaries quite far. If this kid was a boy, that is.

Sergei no longer had many doubts about what was happening to the poor kid; What he had mistaken her for at first glance was becoming truth. It was easy to see where he'd made such a mistake before; He only hoped the poor thing could still pass as human by the end of it. He'd seen what happened to the more... exotic looking mutants. The funny shaded hair was bad enough; at least that could be passed off as hair dye.

The fever had cooled to a mere 103 degrees now, and Devon's trips to the local grocery for ice had slowed. He still had to make a few a day (the empty bags were piling up in the corner) but he could teach today, confident that the kid was in good hands. After all, as Sergei knew, as much as he'd close the place down for the kid, money was tight all over.

The real mystery was the sheath. Devon had backtracked the kid's route as best he could, and there was no sword to match it. The knots just slid from their hands, resisting all attempts to untie them. They had tried to cut the cord with surgical scissors, which could easily cut through denim. The cord had resisted; had in fact dulled the scissors, then a knife, then a scalpel, without a single thread of the cord parting.

Sergei knew magic when he saw it, and the very cloth of the thing reeked of it. What he couldn't figure out was why it was there; had the kid found it, belted it on, then it just wouldn't come off? Had they missed it the first time around, as they were manhandling the roasting form into the bath? He didn't think so. Devon might have missed such a detail; he would not have. The only potential good news from it was that it might be the magic causing the kid's mutation. What magic could do, magic could undo... at least he thought so. If you looked hard enough.

The clumping up the stairs and slamming of the heavy steel door announced Devon.

"Ahh, done for the day, finally. Mr. Crawford paid his bill today; the shipping trade must be picking up. Any of that vodka left?"

"Da, a bit."

Sergei was almost certain the only shipping Mr. Crawford did involved drugs, though Sergei didn't have the heart to tell Devon that. His friend needed the money after all. A swig of vodka from the bottle later, and Devon was doing his best to loom. At least it was over the room in general, and not sergei. Sergei hated it when the meatheads, even his friends, tried to loom.

"How is he?"

Sergei managed to keep his wince internal.

"Better. The worst is passed, and by tomorrow all should be over. But Devon, there is something you should know...."

"Ahh, kid looks like a stick in there. I think I'll just go get some ice before the local grocer closes. Maybe some food too; he looks to need it."

Sergei heaved a loud sigh as Devon all but ran from the room. He guessed there would be time to tell him when he got back. Devon had taken one look last night and realized something was wrong, but he immediately thought the worst. Sergei might very well have to drug him to get him to sit still long enough for the reasonably good news. Provided a tail or horns didn't pop up in the mean time, that was.

For some reason, he did not think that would ever happen to this one. A delicate wisp of a thing she was, but something about her inspired confidence, somehow. He could not see that form warping into something unpleasant. Perhaps it was the sheath.

***************************************

Agatha had finally tracked it down... the route that foolish kid used to escape her last time. After one of her precious off hours spent navigating the maze in the library basement, she found a window with a broken lock. The portal was small, but looked just large enough to accomodate a crazy malnourished street kid. It was also the likely way he got past her when coming into the library. Luckily, it opened inward, so she could brace it.

she looked around, flashlight straining to pierce the fetid dark, and spotted an old iron pipe. A dusty piece of trash left behind during the renovations in '52, no doubt. Probably turn of the century trash from the days when places still used steam to heat homes and public buildings. A bit ragged on one end, but it would suffice.

She couldn't quite reach from the floor, but someone (likely the same delinquint she was trying to bar entry to) had stacked some old wooden crates up under the window, so she climbed on those. And not having the feather weight of a street kid, but a rather well fed older woman, she promptly fell through the first crate, the rotted wood giving way.

She came through all right, only a ripped skirt and long scratch down her shin, oozing blood lazily. She frowned at the bigger mess she'd made, and at the window, once again out of comfortable reach. Then her flashlight hit the one thing she could see in
the ruins of the crate; at least, aside from the tiny white insects which she hoped were not termites (those could ruin a library, after all).

It was a book. A very old book. Unless Agatha missed her guess, it was a pre-Gutenburg book. Being very much a librarian of the old school, Agatha had both gone to school and trained herself to read many languages, and recognize still more. What she saw of the cover was Aramaic, but the illustration featuring cavorting people looked Roman. Perhaps it was a copy of an earlier illustration? The cover appeared to be wood, with some sort of glaze or varnish over it, dying it an unusual sort of rust brown. It was large-she picked it up-and heavy, a good twenty five pounds or so. It had many pages. she had never, in all her years,
seen it's like. But what was it doing down here, crated up and forgotten?

Window forgotten (she honestly could not care if a brass band had snuck through in this moment, and taken all the cash in the place) she hugged the book to her chest and hurried back to the stairs. This was quite the mystery, and there was nothing she loved more than a good mystery.

****************************************

It was calling me; something was calling me. A presence without speech, conveying devotion, dedication, love, protection... and mind blowing levels of self confidence or pride. I'm coming, it seemed to say, I'm almost there, and I could feel it getting closer by the second.

Was I dreaming?

I swam back to consciousness literally, finding myself immersed in cold water. My clothes were hopelessly waterlogged. A quick inspection of my hands revealed them to be a bit smaller than normal, and quite pruny. I recognized this bathroom! It belonged to Mr. Williams! I had made it. Furthermore, I didn't feel beaten half to death. Instead I felt a strange lassitude and a faint tingling all over, kind of like an itch, but pleasant. But for some reason I was in the tub with cold water; there were many bags of ice in the corner of the room, and one of those old fashioned IV stands in the opposite corner, with more than a few empty bags hanging from it. There was an empty chair next to the tub.

Great, I'd caused trouble again somehow. I'd have to work for Mr. Williams for at least a week to pay for all of those. I could feel the frown stretch my face as I snagged a towel to dry off. I could also feel something else... my hair? Since When was my hair pink? I pulled a bit and winced. Yep, it was my hair all right. And it was a dark pink, almost red but not quite, like I saw on those carnations in the park last year.

The mirror tempted me, but so did the door, beyond which I could smell something that made me realize my stomach was trying to digest my spine. I wrapped myself in the towel to prevent dripping and shot through the door, and there it was - an entire table full of food, just sitting there. Ham, bread, sandwiches, pancakes, chocolate, in candy and cake form... the wooden table creaked as my fingers dug into it.

Something must have happened, because my normal control was slipping. Food it was, but it wasn't my food. I hadn't worked for it, hadn't earned it, and was already in debt to it's owner enough as it was. Before it could lapse completetly I turned away and looked for my pack. As I spotted it I felt a strange sort of muted thrum, as if I were standing too close to a power transformer (something I had done once and only once) and the lassitude came back. I also felt something else, from that other presence... approval.

I should be terrified that I'm feeling what I'd classify as an outside presence in my head, but I'm not. It feels comforting. There should still be a few hold outs in my pack... oh wait, it had been ransacked before I'd come here. No holdout food in there. I caught sight of a note on the table and realized I was looking at it again and drooling. The note stated clearly from across the room, in dubious penmanship:

"You owe me a week for this. Eat it or it goes to waste - we'll negotiate afterwards. Devon."

Argh, darn it! What to do now? Mr. Williams was threatening to throw the food out if I didn't eat it - I knew he was, he had done it before. And I owed him a week just for the ice alone! The IV meant he had had a doctor see me; I knew the bath trick was to help with high fevers, I read it somewhere. So that meant even more work... and finally the food. It looked like more than I ate in a week.

I was saved any further rumination and recrimination by the explosion.

(tbc)