Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

Britton propped himself up on his elbows, hesitating.

“Learning to take a hit is the first step to being able to deliver one, Novice. Now get the hell up, or I’ll just pound you while you’re down.”

Britton jumped to his feet, and Fitzy snapped a jab at his face. Britton dodged, trying to remember what little MAC he’d had before. As an aviator, it had hardly been stressed, and he regretted his refusal to “roll” with the rest of his team when they practiced between sorties. He hooked Fitzy’s arm in his own, whipping his elbow toward the chief warrant officer’s face. Fitzy jerked his head back and out of the way, flexing his hooked arm. The man was impossibly strong. Despite being half his size, he yanked Britton toward him, using his own momentum against him. Fitzy’s fist pounded Britton’s gut so hard that he lost his dinner, forcing the Master Suppressor to leap backward to avoid being spattered.

Britton collapsed in his own vomit, gasping.

“Jesus, Keystone,” Fitzy said. “That’s disgusting. Now, get up, and let’s give this another round.”

MAC? Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Mixed martial arts, more Brazilian Jiujitsu than anything. SOC operators put all their eggs in that basket. In any magical school, there’s little need to carry more than a sidearm, but if someone gets the drop on you, or you’re off the Dampener and can’t get your mojo going — sometimes a good old-fashioned can of ass-whoopin’ is called for. My bootheel on your spine is every bit as effective as a fireball in your face.

— Lieutenant “Sunspot” (call sign), SOC Liaison Officer (LNO)/

Pyromantic Assault Team Leader, 101st Airborne Division

Despite the drubbing Fitzy had given him, Britton was in a celebratory mood. He played with the Dampener as he sat in the OC, chatting with the rest of Shadow Coven, calling the current, then shunting it back, thrilled to feel some semblance of control, no matter how slight.

Downer’s enthusiasm was infectious. Britton’s early irritation at her flip-flopping allegiance was replaced by genuine joy at seeing someone so happy. Richards shook his mug of beer, and Downer animated the foam across the top. Sudsy elementals lined the bartop, boxing with a weird, multitailed rat that Richards had Whispered to his command. She giggled as the rat made short work of one elemental, rolling in the foam, then licking the suds off its fur while the remaining creature flailed at it ineffectually.

Truelove and Marty cheered uproariously, the little Goblin wiggling its fingertips and making deep-throated barking noises that Britton assumed were supportive.

“Outstanding.” Britton chuckled, patting Downer on the back. A piece of him rebelled against the comfort. Don’t get settled. You can’t stay here. You have to find a way to escape. But you’re not Swift. You don’t have to rebel for rebellion’s sake. Why not stay here? What better life is waiting for you if you break free?

Britton pushed the thought away as Downer turned at his patting. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he responded.

Britton looked at her. Truelove paused in midsentence.

“A gate, silly,” she said. “Open one.”

Britton looked around the empty room. “…I don’t think I’m supposed to. What about your precious regs? You’re not even supposed to be making those beer monsters.”

Downer looked down at her lap and shrugged, suddenly looking very young. Truelove said nothing, but his eyes lit up. Marty set his cup of sugar water down on the counter and blinked.

“Okay,” Britton said, thinking of places he’d visited. “It only works for places I’ve been before. What do you want? Statue of Liberty? Grand Canyon?”

Downer said nothing, cheeks still burning over Britton’s rebuke. “Ever been to Mount Rushmore?” Truelove asked. “I’ve been telling Marty about it.”

Britton had, once, on a road trip with his father as a high-school freshman. The forced attempt at bonding had been a cold, drawn-out week that Britton couldn’t wait to end.

“Not sure if this’ll work,” he said, concentrating. “It was a long time ago.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the wonder he’d felt as the massive stone faces had appeared over the guardrail along the side of the road, eclipsing Stanley Britton’s brooding presence with a sense of posterity, permanence, and majesty.

The gate sliced through the middle of the guardrail. Four stone presidents fixed stately gazes from the distant mountain. There was a squeal of tires as a passing car swerved away from the gate. Britton saw it slew right and left, nearly careening into the far guardrail before righting itself and speeding away. He closed the gate.

“Christ,” he said. “Don’t tell anybody about that.”

He rubbed his head. Calling the current had exacerbated his headache, still hurting from the pummeling Fitzy had given him.

“You okay?” Richards asked.

“Yeah, the MAC practice is a little rough,” Britton responded as Marty clucked in his throat and began rooting through his leather bag.

“You need a Healer,” Downer said. “Fix you right up.”

Britton thought briefly of Therese, the warmth of her hand on his face. He stopped, momentarily stunned. A Physiomancer put this bomb in your chest. A Physiomancer could get it out.

The next morning continued along the same lines. Britton woke himself just in time to bolt down breakfast and make his way back to the SASS.

Downer had beaten him there. She stood with Therese, Swift, and the rest of the enrollees gathering outside the schoolhouse as he passed through the gate. The enrollees stood stiffly, staring at something, cigarettes held forgotten in their hands. He made his way toward Therese as the guards dragged the barriers back into place but stopped short.

The door to the pillbox stood open, its interior shrouded with shadow. Goblin contractors worked inside it with brooms and hoses.

Britton followed the gazes of the enrollees and saw two Suppressor guards following a few paces behind a woman. Her skin had the unhealthy pallor of one denied sunlight, the blue tracery of veins clearly visible. Her jet-black hair was cut in a severe bob, the points almost sharp where they passed the line of her jaw. She was thin, tall, and clad in a one-piece orange jumpsuit similar to the one Britton had worn when he was first captured. Her hands were cuffed before her.

She made her way slowly around the compound, stretching her legs and working kinks out of her neck. The Suppressors gave her a wide berth, their fingers braced along the trigger guards of their guns, eyes never leaving her rolling shoulders.

She turned a face dominated by large eyes with jet-black pupils and smiled at the No-No Crew. Many of them genuflected at her, save Swift, who only nodded briefly. Her grin was all teeth, huge and vulpine. And yet there was no denying her beauty, an older, experienced brand, sensual and wise. Britton felt his pulse quicken at the sight of her.

“That’s her,” Pyre said. “That’s the queen of Selfers right there. One of these days, she’s going to bust out of there and make these fuckers in the SOC pay for what they’ve done to us. One of these days, she’s going to set us free.”

Britton only nodded. For a man talking about his savior, Pyre sounded terrified.

The woman rounded the corner of one of the Quonset huts and met his gaze evenly, the smile never faltering. “Oscar Britton,” she said as she approached. “You’re even prettier in the sunlight.”

“Ma’am,” he said instinctively, responding to the authority she projected.

“Oh, there’s no need for that. You can call me Scylla.”

“That’s not your real name.”