A Rough Return to the Waking World

[Kelly MacAryn]

Kelly dreamed, drifting on a cloudy sea of disjointed recollection: memory without sequence or context, snapshots of another life. Lucidity dawned slowly, but even after the traveler became aware he was asleep he remained caught in the flow, helpless to affect the outcomes of his past. As time went by Kelly's awareness became more acute, and the memories grew less distinct, degrading from their initial cinematic clarity until all he was left with was a collection of vague impressions and emotional echoes. Finally, the sleeping psychic fell into a state of dreamless vigilance, alert but at rest in an undefined void.

'You're forgetting something important...' 

Consciousness crashed down on him like a collapsing mountain.

[Kelly MacAryn]

Kelly awoke to the smell of rubbing alcohol failing to defeat mildew, and the cool, abrasive feeling of threadbare sheets against his skin. He was in a small room with a varnished wooden floor and dark brick walls, lying prone upon a rough-hewn wooden bed-frame with a straw mattress. Dirty gray illumination filled with twinkling motes of dust streamed in through a cross-barred window somewhere behind his head.  A single oak door offered the only exit. As near as the psychic could tell his only companions were three empty beds, just like his - four in total, one in each corner. 

A hospital, maybe? 

He lay still for a moment, processing the still-vivid echoes of his dreams. Scenes of half-unexplained tragedies juxtaposed with semi-anonymous triumphs left him with a sense of emotional whiplash, but he fought it down with little effort. As always, he'd deal with it later. 

The first thing I'm going to do when I get back to Coruscant is sit down somewhere comfortable and do a LOT of thinking. About all of this. Right now though... 

Kelly sat up  and brushed his hair out of his eyes. A casual thought pulled back his blankets, confirming that his psychokinesis was in full working order and also revealing that somebody had provided him with a new pair of pants - simple trousers made of un-dyed muslin. The traveler turned and put his bare feet on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed while he checked himself over, taking stock of his body and mind. 

All limbs accounted for, including the one I'd lost. No loss of muscle-tone - if anything, my definition has improved. Minimal scarring. Vision and hearing seem unimpaired. 

He stood up with practiced ease, confirming his balance, then moved on to a more rigorous test. He triggered his vector-sketch overlay, sending his unbound brown hair swirling, and filling his lithe, athletic form with a pleasant, powerful tension. Caught in the storm of stray vector-harmonics, something small and dense, hanging from his neck, bounced against his chest.

Balance is nominal. Neural throttle is responsive... Hair is a little bit longer than I prefer it - No stubble though. Has somebody been shaving me?  Aside from being a little bit creepy it probably doesn't matter, I guess. Wristcom is present and responsive - I'll have to see how long I was out, and make sure PepsiCo hasn't been trying to get in contact...Now what is this thing on my neck? 

It was a pendant, hanging by a braided leather thong. The psychic powered down, took it off and examined it, holding it by the braid and letting it spin lazily in the lifeless gray light.   

The necklace bore the emblem of Darkshire: the snarling crest of the unconquered city, the symbol of its garrison. Apparently, for his service, the psychic was now considered one of them. 

Kelly grinned, and put it back on. His motives in coming here, and in fighting for the city, had been as much strategic as altruistic, but it still felt nice to be appreciated.  Besides, disregarding the transient emotional validation, there were other benefits to having status in Darkshire: in the event that Kelly's long-term plans for Coruscant really didn't pan out, and his alternate identities became untenable, it would be extremely useful to have a secondary emergency fall-back position. 

I'll have to see what I can do about strengthening my ties with the garrison here. 

The psychic stretched, popping both shoulders, his neck and his chest, and activated his wristcom. It was time to find out what he'd missed while he was unconscious. 

By way of explanation: Back in February - the 26th, to be exact - Alex gave the Darkshire defenders who'd survived the fight permission via Skype to write their characters receiving an Emblem of Darkshire as though they had completed the faction quest. I would have done it sooner, but Ghidorah took over my brain for a while.

[Kelly MacAryn]

The wristcom's holographic display flickered rapidly with changing information, adding a faint blue tint to the room's flat, featureless light. 

Kelly looked at the numbers and frowned. By the common reckoning, he'd been unconscious for over a month while his body healed. 

I was almost entirely dead, but even so - my recovery shouldn't have taken that long. Maybe it has something to do with my returning abilities? Returning powers have temporarily weakened me before...  

He sent the computer a mental command, splitting the dataverse-window into two, then three separate displays. He called up an aggregated news-feed, accessed his alternate identity's PepsiCo corporate account, and ran a search for specifically Darkshire-related stories posted within the last four weeks - then he clasped his calloused hands behind his back and began to read. 

Darkshire had indeed won the battle, and by a comfortable margin at that. It wasn't a rout by any means, but the city's defenses had repelled the assault without sustaining crippling losses, and as far as Kelly was concerned that was an acceptable outcome. Most of the current Darkshire news items which had made it to the dataverse seemed to be focused on the reconstruction and memorial efforts. 

The broader state of the Omniverse was, as always, chaotic and violent, colorful and just plain weird. There was a reported uptick in gang violence on Coruscant's lower tiers which caught the psychic's attention, and somebody had vandalized the standing stones on the Camelot side of the Kingdom's Nexus-gate, but a cursory glance didn't reveal anything else remarkable against the general background noise of mundane interversal goings-on, sensational strangeness and bizarre carnage. Dracula was quiet, the Kingdom and the Empire still hated each other, some stormtroopers had been killed in the Nexus and the weather was sunny in Costa del Sol. 

Satisfied that his new world hadn't fallen apart while he was sleeping, Kelly moved on.   

Alan Mayhew's corporate inbox contained precisely three items: the latest PepsiCo Executive Newsletter, a non-binding invitation to a gala-event that he had already missed (but would have preferred to attend), and an inquiry from outside the corporate intranet, forwarded by the junior VP of Operations for Coruscant. The subject line read simply 'Primes Needed To Combat Emergent Threat'. 

Kelly brushed a stray lock of hair out of his face and dismissed the other two windows, the holograms winking out of existence as abruptly as they'd appeared. A simple two-fingered gesture expanded the remaining window until it was a meter-and-a-half square. Satisfied, the traveler took a step back and opened the message, scanning rapidly down the page.

He grimaced. His forehead knotted, his eyes sinking deeper int their shadowy caves. 

The psychic crossed his arms and rubbed his chin thoughtfully with one hand, glaring at the two-dimensional projection which hung motionless before him in the empty room. It seemed that both his introspective retreat and the laying of his long-term strategic foundations were going to have to be delayed for just a little while longer.

[Kelly MacAryn]

The contents of the message were simple, and the details were sparse. Apparently someone named Doctor Regal had put out the word through certain channels - including contacts within Coruscant's corporate sphere -  that a situation the doctor had been monitoring involving an organization he was familiar with had reached a tipping point. Violent incidents perpetrated by denizens of the Omniverse who had fallen under the influence of this mysterious group were on the rise, and Regal was attempting to organize a response. He requested that interested Primes contact him personally, and ideally come and visit his lab in Coruscant, where he would share further information regarding the nature of the threat.

The wording was vague and the language ominous - clearly written by someone deeply paranoid, which made Kelly disinclined to trust them. However, it was forwarded to him by PepsiCo, who weren't inclined to waste Alan Mayhew's time; If it was in his inbox, he could safely assume they were taking it seriously. Besides, some of the language the doctor used was pulling levers behind the wall of fog in the murky reaches of the psychic's brain: 'Corruption'. 'Infiltration'.'Degenerative madness' 'A spreading darkness'... 

It made the mysterious compass-rose scar on his arm itch. When he got back to Coruscant, the Doctor's lab was going to be his first stop.

The traveler took ten minutes to re-summon his clothing and weapon, the brilliant prismatic glow of omnilium over-riding the little room's dull illumination and subdued earthen tones with an ever-changing technicolor aurora. When Kelly was properly attired once more in jeans and sleeveless tee, he strode towards the exit, quarterstaff in hand. He'd tied his hair back, but neglected to provide himself with new boots or a belt - he expected his old ones were still intact enough to use, and it was possible they were being kept somewhere nearby.  

The door swung open without his having to touch it - a simple-but-satisfying telekinetic trick, with the benefit of keeping his hands free for other things. Beyond lay a wide mezzanine, looking down onto the sturdy wooden furnishings and sawdust-covered floor of a tap-room. The scent of cedar-shavings and stale beer was practically overpowering. 

An inn... I suppose that makes sense. They would have needed all the hospital beds they could get after the battle, and an injured Prime would be one patient they could be absolutely certain was going to recover without help. They must have settled for cleaning me up and sticking me somewhere comfortable.

There didn't seem to be anybody around, which the psychic guessed was to be expected; Mid-morning in a place that rented rooms and (presumably) served meals was bound to be slow. He located the staircase - a wooden affair tucked away in the back corner beside the hearth - and descended to the ground floor, proceeding directly to the bar. The sawdust crunched beneath his bare feet, splinters failing to penetrate a thick layer of callous.

Like the rest of the establishment, the bar was fairly basic. There were glasses behind the counter, kegs on tap, and a variety of cloudy glass bottles on a shelf. The front door was a scant few meters to the right -  a heavy brass-bound oaken slab in a timber frame. Beside it was a small picture-window secured with iron bars, looking out upon the mildewed cobbles of a damp Darkshire avenue.  On the left end of the bar was another, similar door, propped open by a rock the size of a man's head. Beyond it was a corridor, its terminus hidden by a sharp right turn.  

The faint sound of footsteps, the clatter of pans, and the murmur of voices drifted from the open door. Kelly thought for a moment, then called out:

“Hello? Pardon the interruption, but if there's anybody back there who could spare me a moment of their time it would be appreciated.”

The traveler waited. There was a lull in the back-room bustle, and after a few seconds a man appeared from around the corner...

...And kept on appearing.

It was like watching a very large dog emerge from a very small dog-house. First came the face, a severe, olive-colored countenance boasting an angular black beard that looked like it was varnished onto his chin. A neck like a tree-trunk led down to a pair of shoulders that barely fit through the corridor. His body, hunched over as he made his way through the hall, was build like a refrigerator - a huge, square chest over a pair of huge, square legs. The mans clothes were simple – a stained apron over a shirt and pants that were themselves mostly just gathering spots for yet more stains.

The giant unfolded into the tap-room and straightened up, nine feet tall if he was an inch. He stood behind the bar and looked down at Kelly.

“Ah,” he said, with the calm, reasonable tones of a man one-third his size, “I see you woke up, then. That's good – we were beginning to think there was something wrong with you. Did you find the room to your liking?”

Kelly was nonplussed, but didn't let it show.

“It was quite satisfactory, yes – and thank you for the shave, as well. How much do I owe you?” 

The enormous man waved one shovel-sized hand dismissively. “Consider it complimentary. You stood with the city – it's the least we can do. I'm Bran, by the way. Short for Brannigan. I'm the landlord, hereabouts.”

The psychic held out a hand. Bran took it, engulfing Kelly's arm nearly to the elbow, and they shook. “Kelly. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bran. I don't suppose you have my boots and my belt back there?”

The giant reached under the bar, deftly plucked the traveler's possessions from their hiding place, placing on top of the bar with thumb and fore-finger. Both belt and boots had clearly been thoroughly cleaned, though the leather was a little bit more textured than it had been previously – an inevitable result of hard wear and harder maintenance.

“There you go,” said Bran. “My daughter spent an entire afternoon on 'em, getting them wearable.”

Is she as big as he is?

Kelly put aside his staff and pushed down the thought. He smiled his appreciation and slid his belt into place, buckling it with practiced ease, before settling into a stool to lace up his boots. “Tell her she did an excellent job,” he said, pulling the strings tight and double-knotting them around his ankles. 

“I'll do that,” said Bran, and placed his serving-plate palms on the countertop, leaning against the bar. It groaned beneath his weight. “But, uh... Now that you're up - I'm guessing you're not going to be sticking around? There were some people who were hoping to speak with you.”

The traveler stood, and shook his head, retrieving his weapon.  “I've got places to be, and urgent business that needs seeing too. I'll probably be back though. Darkshire is growing on me.”

[Kelly MacAryn]

The last time Kelly walked through Darkshire it was evening, and the townsfolk had been preparing for a siege. The only people on the foreboding, rain-sodden streets had been groups of nervous soldiers hurrying from one urgent task to another, and a few mismatched, daring Primes. 

Darkshire at mid-morning, several weeks after an important victory, was a very different place. 

It was drizzling, but that was to be expected. The city's massed architecture of brick and masonry, and the occasional wooden home, which clustered so tightly and loomed so brooding in the dead of night, looked merely weathered in the light of day. The stones were worn, the bricks chipped and the plaster grayed, but the sheer enduring solidity of Darkshire's construction lent the city a quiet, reassuring dignity which even the subdued hustle of its people couldn't break - a gothic study in pre-industrial urbanism.    

As the traveler headed for the city gates, he passed through loose crowds of citizens going about their lives. Some carried parcels of goods, some carried ledgers, some were soldiers, others drove carriages. Their clothing varied from the commonly plain pants-and-doublet or ruffled dress to the rarely extravagant waistcoat or ballgown, but all of it was well-worn and hand-made, and banker or baker, the people all had one thing in common. It was a quality Kelly valued in himself, but rarely saw in others; The people of Darkshire were all keenly, obviously aware of their surroundings. They peered into shadows, watched the rooftops, avoided walking too close to sewer-grates or alleyways with the natural ease of long practice.

Interesting - but not a mystery. Even when the city isn't under siege, for all practical purposes they live in a war zone. 

While he walked, and watched the people, the psychic kept a playing-card-sized dataverse window open, transparent and hovering at a fixed distance in front of his left eye while he drafted a message to PepsiCo. In it, Kelly notified the Board that Alan Mayhew had finished his latest freelance contract (which he couldn't discuss as per the standard non-disclosure agreement) and was now free to pursue Doctor Regal's case (as forwarded by the junior VP of Operations for Coruscant). He also asked if they had any additional points of concern to the Company which he should be aware of during this undertaking.

I might be able to use this to further establish Alan Mayhew and Kelly MacAryn as separate people.... we'll see how it goes. 

By the time the message was finished and sent, Kelly was in sight of the fortified gates through which he'd first come to this city so many weeks ago. Here, signs of the bygone assault still lingered - cracked, blackened streets and damaged buildings ringed by wooden scaffolding and busy workmen. Even the gatehouse where he'd spent the night when he first arrived was ruined, the tower smashed to pieces. The construction of a replacement was already more than halfway complete, the newer, less weathered stone contrasting with the older masonry of the wall proper. 

The psychic strategist was just beginning to compose a second message, this one to Doctor Regal, when he heard the click and zip of hard-soled shoes running and slipping across the rain-slick cobblestones behind him. A voice called out, gasping from unaccustomed exertion: 

"You there... Wait!" 

Well. That was un-ambiguous. 

Just shy of the city gates Kelly stopped and turned, shifting his grip on his quarterstaff very slightly as he closed the dataverse window, just in case. Hurrying towards him, dodging awkwardly among the denizens of Darkshire was a blond, fresh-faced young man in a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, dockers and slacks. The clothes were travel-stained, and he had a lab-coat tied around his waist, flapping behind him as he ran. 

There was a metal gauntlet on his left arm, similar in some ways to the traveler's wristcom, but larger, with a keypad and a more practical screen.  


The man stumbled to a halt in front of Kelly, doubling over and gasping for breath while his quarry waited patiently, studying him. 

Young, tallish, reasonably healthy. Skinny. Doesn't seem to be a Prime, and probably doesn't exercise much.  The lab-coat is interesting. Combined with his physique, that probably makes him a medical doctor or a research scientist. 

"Can I help you?" asked the psychic. 

The runner straightened up, still breathing hard. "Kelly MacAryn?" 

Kelly nodded, his face carefully impassive. "Yes. Again - can I help you? I'm positive we haven't met."

"You're right... but even so, yes. And not just me...the whole Omniverse is in danger... dangit, I'm messing this up... just a second..."  The khaki-clad man finished gasping, took a deep breath, straightened up and adjusted his collar. The sounds of feet and carriage-wheels on cobblestones, and chisels and hammers at work continued unabated around them. People paid the two men only passing curiosity. 

The traveler had a sneaking suspicion he knew what was coming next. "Take your time, " he said. 

"Thank you. Let me start over - My name is Palmer Mason. I'm a cybernetic engineer, and I represent a great man - Doctor Regal, of Coruscant. A situation the Doctor has been monitoring from his laboratory has been rapidly deteriorating.  It affects every part of the Omniverse, so in order to organize a response team, he's been gathering information on potentially helpful Primes. After the assault on Darkshire, your name came up as a potential candidate."


Kelly nodded and made an interested noise, propping his staff across one shoulder. It wasn't surprising that people knew he'd been involved- he'd given his name at the gate, and to several other Primes, and he'd probably appeared on a casualty list somewhere. What was interesting was the fact that Doctor Regal had contacts and resources so far-reaching that the 'great man' was able to collect detailed personnel-data from all the 'verses simultaneously. 


That was something the psychic wanted for himself.

"What's the nature of the threat?" he asked, recalling the information already gleaned from Alan Mayhew's inbox.

Palmer cleared his throat, glancing around until he found a likely-looking alleyway nestled between two damaged, shuttered storefronts, then hurried over and ducked inside, gesturing for Kelly to follow. When the scientist wasn't immediately snatched into the shadows by something awful, he did. 

He doesn't want us to be seen talking about this. Whatever the organization Regal and his people are worried about is, it must have similar overwatch capabilities to Regal's own...

After the traveler had joined him, Palmer started to retrieve something from his shirt-pocket with his gauntleted hand, realized it was too big, and quickly switched, producing a small, sleek hand-held fob. 

"The Doctor would have preferred to brief you himself," he said, "but time has gotten a little short." The scientist clicked a button, and a tiny holographic projection appeared between the two men. Kelly's eyes narrowed, glaring surgical sapphire fascination.
 
It was a computer chip - large, as such things went, and according to something deep in the psychic's brain which thought that computers should be made of monoatomic superconducting filaments and strange math running raw on quantum foam, a quaint technological artifact... but there was something about it. The colors were strange - a seemingly incomplete deep-purple casing allowed glimpses of a fibrous black interior. It was adorned with a row of brassy gold electrical contacts on one end, like a digital memory-card or circuit-board, and a sort of amber jewel was embedded deeply in its strata which suggested its workings had very little to do with anything as simple as transistor-based logic.

The steady, low-burning purple flame that danced and flickered around it was also highly suggestive. 

Kelly frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. That dark-flame effect was giving him a headache, and his arm was itching again. Beyond the alleyway, the murmur of the street suddenly seemed unbearably loud. Unbidden, the image of the grinning harpy he'd seen while caught within the cascade of his fractured memories leapt into his mind. 
 
"This," said Palmer, "is a Dark Chip."

[Kelly MacAryn]

Kelly rubbed the back of his neck and cycled his breathing, forcing himself to relax.

I don't really know that much yet – there's no reason to get bent out of shape... but just the feeling surrounding this situation, the aesthetic, it's so damn familiar I can almost hang a name on it.

Water trickled down the limestone-brick wall of the alley. In his mind, it was the harpy laughing at him, sable plumage shuddering as she wrapped herself in her silken wings and cackled.

“They're at the the center of the problem,” Palmer continued, gaining momentum. “An organization called Nebula, which Doctor Regal knows from his native continuum, has been producing and distributing them throughout the Omniverse. When used by a creature with the proper cybernetic interface, these devices are an overwhelming-but-volatile source of power. They offer a temporary, significant increase in strength as well as access to whatever weapons, tools, or combat data are stored on the chip. There is, however, a very serious catch.”

He clicked the fob again, deactivating the hologram, and stuck the little device back in his pocket. “They're pathologically addictive. Each use makes the craving worse, until eventually the withdrawal symptoms become life-threatening if the user doesn't get their regular fix. Even worse than that, continued use will cause progressively more severe per-”

Kelly cut Palmer off, surprising himself as well. “Personality changes. Loss of conscience, maybe? Exaggeration of previously suppressed negative personality traits? A tendency towards sadism compounded by violent and destructive behavior?” 

The scientist frowned, momentarily taken aback. “Well... yes, actually. The symptoms vary wildly from one individual to the next. Some users practically degrade into animals, fueled by dark power, while others retain their faculties but lose their morals. Each case is unique, but the result is never pleasant. Have, uh, if you don't mind my asking, have you encountered Dark Chip users before?”

The psychic shook his head, his mouth set in a thin line. With his mind queuing wildly off mist-shrouded shadows of memory and the ghosts of associated strategies, it took him a moment to respond.

“... No. No, I don't think so - but I may have dealt with something very similar. What else can you tell me?”

Palmer shrugged, contriving to look apologetic. “Not very much, unfortunately. The Doctor doesn't know what Nebula's endgame is, only that whatever it is they're up to, it's far from benign. There's already been an increase in violent incidents that can be traced directly to their influence. The energy spectra that corresponds to the Dark Chips, and Nebula activity in general, has been detected in every 'verse, in some cases at quite alarming levels.”

Kelly nodded, speaking slowly. “So you're saying that they have potentially entrenched positions all over the Omniverse, their numbers and the true extent of their influence are unknown, they have control of an addictive, destructive, potent power-source and their activities have been getting more overt. Yet somehow, nobody in a position of authority has done anything.”

It was the scientists turn to nod. “Yes. They have to be stopped, while they still can be stopped.”
He held up his gloved hand, and removed the high-tech gauntlet, holding it out. “This is for you, if you agree to help. It's something Doctor Regal invented. He calls it a 'liberator aide'. It's capable of tracking Nebula's energy signature, and can detect their forces and strongholds, though the range is a little limited. It offers a number of other benefits as well. The wearer is partially shielded from the ambient destructive influence Nebula's power, and when worn by a Prime it increases their natural healing and durability significantly.”

The traveler leaned forward very slightly, examining the device in the dim light of the alleyway. He moved to put it on, paused, and when his haunt remained silent, donned the gauntlet. “Of course I'm going to help. If your information is even half-way accurate this could turn into a global catastrophe. Just off the top of my head, if something like this were to take hold in the lower tiers of Coruscant it has the potential to start a full-blown civil war.” he said, flexing his fingers. “And don't even get me started on Camelot.” The device fit snugly, and didn't seem to hamper movement, though the psychic could feel it interacting with his Omnilium reserve in some subtle way. He fiddled with the keypad.

That's a weird sensation...it doesn't appear to be harmful, though, and the interface seems intuitive enough.

“I have a lot of questions, though. You said the Doctor has been gathering information on potentially helpful Primes. How is he organizing them? How many have been contacted? Are teams already in place? I'd assume that priority has been given to the verses with the highest detected level of Nebula activity – is that accurate? Do we have any idea how many strongholds they have in each 'verse? How complete is our coverage? ”

And of course, how much of what you've told me is actually true? I'd wager most of it is– but I'll need to be careful not to let my preconceptions cloud my judgment.

Palmer took an involuntary step back, nearly tripping on a piece of fallen masonry. He looked momentarily panicked, overwhelmed by the psychic's probing inquiries. He clearly hadn't been expecting such immediate interest. “I... uh... I don't know. Most of that, actually. I was told to tell you that the Green and the Steppes don't have any Liberators at all, but you'll have to speak to the doctor if you want to know more. I can give you his contact info.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Kelly said. “Also – what is this slot on the liberator aide for?” He pointed at a data-port on the side of the device.

The blond-haired messenger's face darkened, and he suddenly didn't look quite so young. “Oh. Right... That. That's an interface port for Dark Chips. It'll let you use them if you find them – allow you to access their power. The gauntlet will protect you from the worst of the effects, so if you don't use them often you should be fine.” The scientist bit his lip. “In theory.”

“I wasn't planning on it,” said the psychic. “But I suppose it's good to know I have an emergency fallback available.”

Privately, Kelly wasn't thrilled at the idea – in fact, just contemplating it made him feel sick, echoes of an old, awful association clawing at the walls in his head. But the basic life-rule of not sticking any addictive things he found lying around directly into his arm would seem to mitigate the problem, so he tentatively decided to let the issue lie.

Palmer handed Kelly a business card with the Doctor's information on it. Kelly memorized it, thanked him, and stuck it in his belt.

The traveler, now a Liberator as well, which was good branding if nothing else (which made him somewhat suspicious), quickly reviewed the facts. The data was far from complete, but he had enough to make a preliminary decision.

“I'm going to head for the Tangled Green,” he said. “It seems like the 'verse with the least vulnerability to something with such a strong technological basis, and if I were running an organization like Nebula, that would look to me like a strong incentive to make it a primary staging-ground for my operations.”

Palmer Mason, cybernetic engineer, peered at Kelly, studying him as though he were seeing him for the first time. The rain picked up, falling harder out of the thin, gutter-framed slit of gray sky that gazed down upon their clandestine meeting.

“You have a very counter-intuitive way of thinking," he said. "Just who are you?" 

“I'm a problem-solver,” the strategist said, deliberately evasive. “If we get the chance, someday I might tell you about it. Now, is there anything else you can tell me that I'll need to know? Anything at all?”

Palmer frowned, unrolling his sleeves and untying his lab-coat from around his waist. slipping it on in order to gain a little protection from the weather. “Just one thing,” He said. “I was getting to it. Nebula's power has reality-warping effects. They're powerful, and can persist after exposure. Don't be surprised if the rules you've gotten used to since coming to the Omniverse don't necessarily apply in the same ways if you're attacking one of their strongholds.”

Kelly was curious, but unperturbed. “What do you mean?”

The increasingly-soggy scientist shrugged, and huddled closer to the alley wall. “I've never studied that particular aspect of the problem. You'll have to ask the Doctor.”

“Then I think we're done here. Thank you for being persistent enough to find me. It was the right decision. “

The two men shook hands. “Good luck,” said Palmer. 

Kelly thanked him, and left him in the alley. Marching towards the gates of Darkshire and the Moors beyond, the psychic immediately recalled his dataverse window. He had e-mails to send.

[Kelly MacAryn]

The intensity of the rainfall increased again, raising a dense cloud of ankle-high mist as the fast, fat droplets exploded on the weather-beaten cobblestones. As far as the traveler could tell though, few people were going indoors. 

They don't seem bothered by the rain. But then, I suppose if they were then they wouldn't live in a place that was named for its gloomy weather.  

Inclement weather aside, the first order of business was to contact Doctor Regal. In order to determine how best to execute his mission to the tangled Green - and indeed, to evaluate whether going there was the best decision - Kelly needed more detailed information; he needed tactical and strategic background. Hopefully, the Doctor would be able to provide it. 

Drafting a message to the mysterious scientist didn't take long. It was completed and sent by the time Kelly's intimidatingly shod feet had carried him the remaining, dismal distance to the Darkshire city gates. PepsiCo headquarters hadn't responded to Alan Mayhew's request for instructions yet, so the psychic set both of his inboxes to forward a notification to his wristcom if he got any new messages, then closed the dataverse window and bid the city farewell.

Getting the attention of a guard was a simple matter, and in short order the massive, iron-bound wooden doors groaned open, rumbling and splashing. With just a few brief strides beneath their looming limestone frame, Kelly was back on the Moors. 

***

The journey back to the Nexus gate wasn't nearly as arduous as the vicious, blood-soaked midnight trek that had first brought Kelly to Darkshire. 

There were several reasons for the change. The traveler had grown stronger for one - the return of his telekinesis made many formerly challenging enemies seem trivial, and his overall potency, both mentally and physically, seemed to have increased since he'd awakened from his recent coma. For another the Pale Moors, while still very dangerous, were far less threatening during the day, raining or not. He was actually able to go more than two hundred yards without having to fight for his life. 

Probably the largest contributing factor, however, was that this time Kelly had summoned himself a ride. It was true that he'd proven woefully incompetent at piloting a hover-cycle, but the psychic figured that while you could theoretically crash such a vehicle in thousands of different ways, there must be a limit to how badly a person could drive something with actual wheels. 

Fortunately, despite the similarities to his last, disastrous attempt at transportation, Kelly actually proved to be pretty good at handling a mountain-bike. The mud made the going slippery, but he'd put chains on the tires, so traction was only a minor issue. With his staff floating along behind him, held in a telekinetic grasp, the psychic made good time.

Even sparing the time to deal with three ogres, a wandering skeleton-warrior, and a small horde of zombies, it only took an hour for the traveler to reach the shimmering, mist-shrouded portal to the Nexus. He was soaked to the bone, shirt stuck to his chest and ponytail drooping, but in spite of the weather and the stress of his exertions, the psychic's spirits were high.   

He brought the bicycle with him. He got the feeling it was going to come in handy.