| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Destruction |
| Date: | Mon, 22 Jun 1998 18:15:54 +0100 |
This is a meeting in a back room at "Zinger's", a bar that specialises
in hosting discreet little talks. The owner's very embarrased that his
"private meetings" were being taped... and that Lone Star found out
about it...
+++++begin trideo
Half-a-dozen people sit around the table, drinks to hand, in the spartan
room.
"Look, we're going in circles." one says (a skinny Amerind ork). "These
guys are racking up score across the city, everyone's thinking magic
equals murderous rapist thieves, and we're getting some really sick
bastards stirred up to 'stop the horror'. What are we going to do about
it?"
"Do the police want any help?" a middle-aged woman asks, "We could offer
to help the DPI..."
"I told you, I tried, they aren't deputising mages off the street. Even
though someone snuffed one of their cops." the Ork replies. "That's why
we're meeting here. Maybe we need to turn vigilante."
The woman scoffs. "Vigilantes? Us? Teenagers in training, a couple of
university researchers, and a corpsec wagemage? We're going to play
Wyatt Earp and clean up the city?"
"Well, someone's got to do it and the cops are getting nowhere." The ork
swallows, clears his throat. "And it's not like we're going to go around
waving guns. We see what we can do, and then we turn what we find over
to Lone Star."
Another of the group breaks in. "Just what are we going to do, though?"
The girl blows her nose. "I mean, we don't have a spell signature, we
don't know who or what we're looking for."
The oldest of the group, a grey-haired man, says "I know a guy on the
force. We might get a spell signature."
"What about -" the middle-aged woman pauses, swallows, speaks slightly
thickly "What about DNA samples? They're rapists, aren't they?"
"Sterilise spells." Grey Hair replies. He sniffs loudly. "Is it dark in
here?"
"Only because of my headache." the woman says, massaging her temples. "I
feel sick."
"Me too. This place is so stuffy, haven't they heard of air
conditioning? If I don't get some fresh air I'm going to throw up."
another of the group says, rising to his feet and heading for the door:
slipping and falling on the way. "Oh, God. I'm gonna..." He doubles up
and vomits on the cheap carpet tile.
"Is he all right?" the Ork asks.
"No, he's not." Grey Hair replies through a mouthful of saliva. "Help
him up, Sally." The middle-aged woman leans forward to assist, tries to
pull him to his feet, but the sick man is shuddering and twitching and
seems to have no interest in being helped. Another of the group falls
from his chair.
"What the hell's wrong?" Sally cries, clutching her chest. "What's
happening?" She tries to stand but her legs misbehave, pitching her to
the carpet.
The Ork sits and watches with a beneficient expression as the other five
twist, jerk and spasm: though as first one, then another fouls himself,
he pinches his nose and makes a face of disgust. An alarm sounds and he
hastily takes a pen-sized object from his pocket, presses it to his
thigh and winces.
The five magicians on the floor lie still now, faces blue and twisted
into masks of fear and pain. The Ork fades into invisibility, before the
door opens and closes by itself.
+++++end video
Any idea what the _hell_ happened there? Since it was five magicians, I
guess it wasn't a spell, but what _was_ it?]<<<<<
-- Bungle <18:15:32/06-22-59>
