The air was palpably charged with arcane energy in the Magical Research Laboratory at Texas A&M&M University as Professor Barnabas Graham finally took a breath, and stepped back to survey the room. Years. Years had been leading up to this moment: working on his hypothesis, writing out the proposal, applying for grants and getting rejection after rejection. The university didn’t have the funding to spare to tackle a project of this size, and besides, even he had to admit that his theory was based on some rather large extrapolative leaps. But then finally, here they were, set up and ready to go, thanks in no small part to the generosity of Saeder-Krupp Corporation. Even after he had had the grant money, it had been months of developing the right rituals and figuring out the intricacies of the hermetic components, dissecting spells that had aspects of the nature that he needed to call on, discerning just the right symbols to use in the complex alphabet, where to place the circles, what sorts of power foci were necessary. And now, laid before him now was a beautiful merging of esoteric hermetic magic and the most cutting edge technology. A blending – to both generate massive amounts of magical energy and the tools to observe, record, and track. Redundant devices to ensure that the findings could be credible and – most importantly – publishable. So many academic mages and scientists studying the awakened world viewed it as something that happened, not something that was happening. The world was changing, and would continue to do so, and tonight he was about to prove it. Or… at least take a step towards doing so. There would be years to come of more research and analysis after he had his findings tonight, after he would be able to first generate a surge in magic levels here in a contained laboratory setting. Once they could do this, well, they could proceed into the testing phase. But his backers – and his colleagues – needed to see some results. And this experiment alone was unprecedented. That alone would be useful – and valuable – to the right person.

He knelt down, analyzing the position of a candle inscribed with runes, adjusting it by a few millimeters and stood back up. His thoughts turned back to Ito Takeru. For just a moment, a flicker of worry crossed Barnabas’s face. It was so unlike him not to have sent any word. No results, nothing. He had been working in tandem with the professor at the University of Washington; their research areas were similar and it was their combined areas of focus that ultimately drove this project forward and got them the grant that they needed. But it had been two weeks now since Barnabas had heard anything from the man. Maybe he was getting hassled by someone about the research he was doing. But he dismissed the worry again; perhaps he was just embarrassed by a failure to generate the levels of magic he had anticipated. Or maybe Professor Ito was trying to get a jump on the analysis and beat him to the punch. Barnabas doubted that, but you never knew what some academics would do to get ahead – and get credit. There was, after all, a small part of the professor that hoped that if Ito HAD tried to get the jump on him, his experiment had fizzled for just that reason.

“Everything good on your end, Maxwell? The wards all prepared?” Professor Graham called out to his graduate student and research assistant, Tom Maxwell. He was a talented young man who seemed to have such natural aptitude to magic. Barnabas was eager to take him under his wing and get his assistance with the project, but there always was just a pang of jealousy that the professor felt towards the young mages with so much raw potential. While he had been thrilled when the tests had revealed that he had The Talent, and not so secretly pleased with himself when he was able to switch majors to Magic behind his parents’ back, with no small help from the school who was eager to get more students into the still-new program, he had had to work hard for how far he had come. It was more in thanks to the man’s intelligence and comprehension of the complex formulae than a raw magical power that he had gotten as far as he had. And that dedication and hard work over talent had ultimately made him better equipped for research and instruction. Not that Barnabas minded where he was. He liked the academic community, the dialog, the safe ivory tower of debate without risk.

"Null sweat, prof." Tom said flashing a winning smile and finished casting the last ward.  He was certainly an all around package: he was charismatic and popular.  He had a fiancé whom he'd been dating since he was an undergrad.  He had a way of making people like him that was rare, in addition to his raw magical talent.

Once he finished his thesis several Megacorps had expressed interest in the young man.  He had a very promising future ahead of him.

"Ready and set whenever you say go," he said with a nod.  His attention turned serious, back to what he was doing and ready for the go ahead from Professor Graham.

“Good, good.” Barnabas responded, shaking his hands out and trying to banish the jitters he was feeling. Everything was set. At the center of the room, surrounded by completed and activated warding circles was the amplification device, not to mention numerous rare and difficult to obtain components that had finally been brought together. Barnabas checked the recorders once more, making sure everything was set. Already, there was an ambient level of magic in the room – both from the laboratory-lodge as well as the magical components and wards themselves. It was… energizing.

Barnabas took one more stabilizing moment, savoring the anticipation and smoothed back his silken hair – one of the few elven traits that his parents couldn’t rob him of. They were embarrassed by his metahuman nature… by his interest in and talent for magic. But as much as they had wanted to whitewash him, mainstream him into the Southern society, you couldn’t completely take the water from the duck.

“All right.” Barnabas nodded and walked over to take his place on one side of the elaborate magic circle, standing precisely in one of the many smaller polygons. Once Tom had taken his place as well, he unfurled the scroll and began to read in a practiced, fluent manner, making sure that his words synched with the graduate student.

Tom began reading on cue as well. But while the graduate student lagged behind his more experienced professor's words for just a single moment, it didn't seem to make any difference as their combined power (mostly Tom) began to take the low buzz of magic in the room up to a whole new level that neither of them had ever felt before.

For a moment, the magic seemed to be contained by the wards; everything was going precisely as predicted.  The amount of information gathered would be priceless, and Tom was happy for the opportunity to be a part of it.

It was well known Professor Barnabas was an elf, and though there was some teasing from his friends about being the research assistant of an elf, it had forced Tom to reconsider some of the prejudices he had grown up with.  At the moment, though, he was impressed to be working with such a knowledgeable professor.

Barnabas’s heart was beating more quickly now as he was reaching the end of the incantation to set it all into motion. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, and he could sense the energy building at the center of the circle, even behind the wards. From his peripheral vision, Professor Graham could see that the amplifier began to take on an eerie, pulsing glow. As much as he wanted to check the readings on the sensors, he couldn’t stop reading the spell now. It was dangerous to leave a spell unfinished, not to mention it would ruin the results.

But as his lips were shaping the last words, something … felt off. Wrong. He looked up, the spell complete as the amplifier focus became almost too bright to look at directly. He shielded his eyes. The spell was acting on its own now, ramping up, and running through the amplifier recursively. His smile spread widely across his face. Why was he worried?

There…. What was that? It seemed like a small spark arced along the edge of the ward. The air seemed to shimmer all around the containment circle, growing more visible with each passing moment. Barnabas swallowed, but held his ground; disrupting what was going on could be even worse.

The light intensified at the center so that the amplifier was no longer even visible and then… an audible cracking noise split the air as Barnabas witnessed visible cracks appearing in the magical barrier. His eyes darted to one of the recorders. The levels were completely off the charts. This was beyond what Barnabas had ever imagined this ritual would produce…. And certainly beyond what the wards were capable of containing.

“Oh no…” Barnabas started to utter as the forcefield shattered.

Foci and machines all around them were sparking and cracking, as it felt like the whole room was tearing itself apart for just a moment with the unfiltered magic.

"Professor?" Tom managed to utter before the force of the spell exploded.  Both he and Barnabas were thrown back by it.  Barnabas, having dropped his guard first, was thrown further back than Tom.  

Tom felt a strange stinging across his skins, like terrible pins and needles. He looked at his arm just as the flesh on it, much like other parts of his body, began to grow and twist.  It was in that moment that he experienced pure unadulterated agony the likes of which he had never felt before, as he looked pleadingly at his professor, blood streaming from his eye sockets, his hair falling out in clumps.

His speech slurred, his tongue large in his mouth, making breathing hard, "Wha issh happen' Profffessssorrrree?" he asked in his last few seconds of words.

Barnabas was just pushing himself off the floor, still on his hands and knees, wincing at the bruise that was already forming as he had been knocked back against one of the lab tables when he turned to look at Tom and immediately regretted it. The gut-wrenching image burned itself into Barnabas’s mind’s eye was pure nightmare fuel, laced with guilt.

His mouth fell open as his brows knit together. As much as the horrific visage of Tom, being torturously warped beyond recognition brought bile to Barnabas’s throat, he couldn’t make himself look away. “Oh god… Tom…” He stuttered, fear and guilt gripping him as just a handful of seconds seemed to slow into infinity.

Thankfully, and perhaps because of the lump of flesh that Barnabas could see growing in his brainpan, Tom made one final horrible, mind shattering moan of pain, and then, moments later, passed out completely.  Tom was fortunate that the unconsciousness took him, as the pressure of the flesh and organs growing inside him subsequently pushed his eyes out of his skull.  Bits of his brain followed shortly behind.

His body continued to twist and warp, blood and other worse things oozing from his pores, as he slowly became one big lump of flesh, indistinguishable to anything but a DNA test as ever having been Tom Maxwell.

Barnabas' stomach turned at the horror before his eyes, and suddenly he began to feel his own body tingling in new and strange ways.

It was something out of the worst horror trid Barnabas had ever seen. His mind wanted to disassociate, pretend it wasn’t real. But the smell, the anguished cries of his graduate student – a man for whom he was responsible made it impossible to deny. This was his fau-

And then… Barnabas felt the almost electric current of magic tingle over his skin, a strange prickle of energy, and all of the guilt turned into fear. He started to scramble backwards, as if putting a few more feet of distance between himself and the center of the spell would make a difference. Was that going to be his fate, too? Was this the end of it all? There was almost a moment of stillness in the fear and dread as Barnabas faced the very real possibility that he was about to die in a gruesome fashion… responsible for the death of a student… and ultimately, a failure in the eyes of the university, and his family.

And then….he felt it ripping through him – magic of a strength he had never felt before, then Pain as every nerve ending seemed to ignite … and Black….

*
*
*
Consciousness… slowly… very slowly began to drift back to Professor Barnabas Graham. His ears were ringing as if he had been caught in an explosion, and his mind was foggy. He felt groggy, drugged, sluggish… Where was he… what was going on…?
Slowly, his eyes slid open, and his vision swam, hazily.

A strange peace had settled over the lab.  It was almost hard to believe that it was the same place from before he passed out.  That was untill the smells of the lump of flesh that had been his graduate students caught his nose.  Clearly he had lost everything that was in his body.

All of the artifacts and machinery around him were broken; destroyed.  Foci and relics were cracked, or completely splintered and broken.  

Barnabas felt keenly aware there was no noise coming from outside, a peaceful quiet that made him immediately think of the wee hours of a night turned morning, despite the windowless room of the laboratory.

As Barnabas’s eyes settled over the lumpy mass of flesh, the memories came flooding suddenly back, and he felt his stomach churn again as the bliss of haziness suddenly turned into stark reality with the sudden sobering effect of a near-miss car collision. The broken ward, the force-blast of magic… and the horrific fate of Tom Maxwell.

A moment later, Barnabas realized that he was alive. He had been knocked out, his head throbbed and his body ached, but he was alive. But more than that, it felt like he had stuck his finger in an electrical outlet – his whole body was… buzzing… but strangely, not completely unpleasantly so.

Swallowing, he shambled over towards Tom, still not quite on even footing. Choking back a sob, he reached out to touch what had been his body, almost instinctively reaching for a healing spell before knowing it was utterly useless.

But what caught his eye as he went to touch the mass in a useless gesture of sympathy stopped him dead. His hand – was that his hand?! – it was black as ebony and tipped with thick, black claws.

“What in the hell?!” Exploded from Barnabas’s mouth as he rolled up his sleeve with a jerk, revealing paper-white skin on his arm and… arcane markings on his skin akin to the hermetic circles and alphabet that he had dedicated the last twenty years of his life to.

Nope nope nope. In a flash, Barnabas was on his feet, fumbling for his keys. He wasn’t ready, not ready for dealing with that. He had to get out of there. How long would it be until someone showed up pointing fingers. He wasn’t thinking.

He stumbled out of the room and sprinted down the darkened, empty hall, finally shoving open the heavy metal door with a creaking groan that led to the parking garage.

His car was one of the only still in the concrete structure, and he clicked it open and slid frantically into the driver’s seat. Only then did Barnabas catch sight of something in the rearview mirror. With an audible, paranoid shout, Barnabas turned quickly, scouring the back seat for the freaky, pale visage he had glimpsed. But the back seat was empty. Swallowing what felt like an orange-sized lump, Barnabas turned slowly back to the mirror and angled it towards himself…

It was him.

That… that thing… that thing that stared back at him with shining solid-black eyes from a paper-white face was his reflection. The face was the same… but he had to look for it beyond the eerily white skin and strange, visibly changing and shifting arcane symbols on his face. Not to mention those eyes – eyes that looked almost like cybereyes from trid shows – something Barnabas always was a little wigged out by in no small part thanks to his magical research on life essence– doing something like that deliberately to your body. He had even balked at surgeries to give himself a set of “fake” elf ears (on a real elf). His mouth fell open and revealed a maw full of sharpened, pointed teeth. His once silken elven hair now had grown past his shoulders and was a thick, wild, bristly mop. His h0and shaking, he reached up and felt it – the hairs were wiry and coarse.

His gaze traveled to the sides of his head, and his eyes widened to the size of saucers as he saw the ears he now sported. The thorn in his side for most of his life, the point of contention he had had with his parents since childhood and he was old enough to realize the choice they had taken from him: they had cropped his ears as an infant. Surgically “corrected” the “abnormality” to help him fit in with normal society. Those rounded ears and mainstreamed lifestyle had kept him from the Tir. But now the ears on the sides of his head were no longer small, rounded and human. But they also weren’t the finely pointed elven ears he had envied and mourned his loss of. They were long, very long, sticking out almost to the width of his shoulders.

“God… what am I?” Barnabas moaned, terrified, and yet the image, as soon as he shut his eyes in shock, that flashed before him was the twisted mass of Tom Maxwell and he shuddered. I’m alive. And I have to get out of here. Now.

Shaking his head quickly to try to snap himself out of the shock, he threw his car into gear and peeled out of the garage.

As he started to head home, his mind was worlds away, reeling in shock. Every time he glanced in his rearview mirror he nearly drove into a street sign at the strange creature that peered back at him. Once he could easily pass for human, now he couldn’t even really call himself an elf. What would his parents, his sister think if they saw him like this? Was… was this permanent?! He had been studying the effects of a surge of magic- like the Awakening… like Goblinization… what if this was something ELSE. Something NEW.

Barnabas was frantic, and only a fraction of his attention was on the road. He was missing turns, running red lights as he clung white-knuckled to the wheel and tried to get home.

The roads were quiet; at this time of night he was only sharing them with a few other late night drivers. There was a certain sense of peace for Barnabas if his heart could stop racing.  He felt a sensation not dissimilar from hunger even as he made his way home.  Though his thoughts were far from food, when it did stray it wasn't to anything that sounded appetizing.  

Barnabas flew through his second red light of the evening, in his own world.   He was much less lucky this time than he had been on his last red light, as a moment after realizing what he'd done he heard the painful whine of a police siren and saw the flashing lights in his review mirror.

Lone Star... Texas' very own police for hire.  Drek.

He slammed his hand in anger against the steering wheel as he swore out loud, but still found himself, law abiding citizen, pulling over to the side of the road. “Drek Drek DREK!” He shouted at himself, windows rolled up. This was the last thing he needed. The cop was probably bored and irritated at this time of night...

And he caught his reflection in the mirror a second time and his blood chilled. The South was not known for its tolerance of metahumans, and Barnabas couldn’t even be sure if he could even call himself that right now. As much as he hated himself for it sometimes, his parents had made his life easier in being able to pass for human.

But by the time he realized that maybe stopping hadn’t been the best thing to do, the cop had walked over to his window and was tapping on it.

Barnabas felt like he had been dipped into ice water as his finger numbly touched the button to roll down the power windows.

“Can… I help you… officer…?” He managed to eke out.

"Please provide you registered credstick, for identification and fees," the cop, one Officer Barnes proclaimed by his nametag, droned out almost looking bored before he got a clear look at Barnabas.  

"What the frag are you?" he said, his eyes going wide and his face a little pale.  Even as he looked over Barnabas quickly, he pulled out his weapon.

"Out of the car, down on the ground," he demanded pointing the weapon.  In all his time with Lone Star, Officer Barnes had never seen anything like this.  Maybe it was one of them gangers from up north who had gotten some body mods.  Either way, face like that, clearly up to no good.

“Please, officer-!” Barnabas spluttered, finding himself at the business end of a weapon for the first time and his heart rate – already accelerated – spiked again, “I’m complying, I’m complying!” he said, gingerly reaching for the door handle, “I have my cred stick, I’m a professor at the university… just please…” He didn’t even fully consciously realize he was doing it; he was so frantic and frightened. Like a reflex, he drew on years of training. He had never had a lot of luck with the influence spell in the past – never having had the oomph behind it to make it count when he needed it and wasn’t just doing some stupid bar tricks on drunks or showing off in some of the 101 classes. “… can’t you just leave me alone tonight? You… cannot imagine what I have already been through… I just want to go home.” His eyes were wide, his heart was racing, but there was a power behind his magic tonight that there had never been before. Barnabas had always envied the students who had such raw magical potential. Certainly, the professor had the Talent, but it was more of a foot in the door for years of hard research and exacting study, mostly aided by a sharp mind rather than pure power. But tonight, the power he reached for was an ocean of energy compared to the small tank it once was.

The officer stood there for a moment, as if his brain was processing the new information, "I suppose you can go."  He said kind of tapping on the window a bit.  He really didn't feel like typing up another ticket this late.

"But, I wouldn't advise driving like that, looking like that, again," he tapped the electronic device in front of him. "People around here don't like that kind of ganger-drek."

"Go," he said sternly, "Before I change my mind."

“Ganger drek…?” He echoed in confusion, his brows furrowed for a moment before he realized how his appearance might be coming off.

Then the rest of what the cop was saying clicked and he shook his head. Barnabas’s eyes widened for a moment as it took him a moment: he was letting him go… of course he was letting him go – the spell worked!

He forced a grin, though with the sharp teeth, the effect was probably not quite what Barnabas intended. “Of… of course. Thank you, Officer.” He said as he didn’t hesitate to start the ignition.

The moment the officer had stepped back away from the window, Barnabas threw the car in gear and stepped on the gas. That was close. Too close. He was in a cold sweat as he frenetically drove the rest of the way home.

He swatted the gate opener as he slid into the silent parking lot. It was late. Past three am, and hardly anyone that lived in this community was still awake, let alone out and about. Thank goodness for small favors. The community was well protected, cameras, security, all manner of keeping the outside world, outside.  Even somewhere as sleepy as College Station wasn't immune to the crap going on.

He only felt like he could breathe as he slid into a parking spot and shut down the car. For a moment, he just leaned back in the seat, trying to steady his breathing and shake off his nerves. But every time he closed his eyes he pictured the horrible, desperate last moments of Tom Maxwell, the slurred, confused pleading…

He pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing, and tried to compose himself.

What in the hell was he going to do? As callous as it made him feel, as terrible as what had happened to Maxwell was, his death was on his hands. That was manslaughter… criminal negligence at absolute best. His career was over. And that’s not even considering the monster that now looked back at him from the mirror.

He couldn’t deal with this. Not now, not after everything. He felt like drek warmed over, and he couldn’t just sit in his car all night. He wanted to go home. He sighed, got out of the driver’s seat and went around to the trunk where he had left his foci. He had used special ones created for the ritual, allowing him and… Maxwell… to perform better in synch. It was his most prized… at least most expensive… possession – and had cost him more than his car in exotic materials. His satchel, basilisk hide and painstakingly inscribed with powerful magic insignia, adorned with crystals, and its closing clasp was the fang of a Cerberus hound.

Clutching the satchel always managed to make him feel a little better – a little more centered.

As soon as Barnabas opened the trunk to look at it he noticed the bag was glowing with a blue fire. Odd; he didn't remember casting “detect magic”.  But he could see the magic radiating off the bag, and for the first time he felt like he understood that gnawing 'hunger' he'd been feeling this entire time.

He... NEEDED it.  Probably more than any sensation Barnabas had felt before.

Barnabas swallowed hard. Once more, confusion and fear ran down his frame as he experienced the strange… alien sensation. It didn’t make sense, he didn’t understand…. And yet… he wanted it, craved it. But it was a bag! Not something edible, and yet beyond a growling, gnawing stomach, he hungered for it.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, grabbing the satchel, feeling the familiar leathery/scaly smoothness in his hand as he slammed the trunk closed and strode defiantly towards his condo. He waved his comm link by the sensor and pushed a button near the door, and nearly kicked the now unlocked door open a he stalked into the condo living room and slammed the door closed behind him.

“Arrrrrrgh!” He screamed as he threw himself down onto the couch. “What in the hell is wrong with me?!” He exasperated, once again opening his eyes.

He had hoped that his condo would give him a sense of peace, of familiar comfort, but he just felt all the more wrong as he still tingled oddly – oddly pleasantly – and … his eyes drew back to his satchel, seeming to glow invitingly… temptingly. He felt his tongue brush his lips. His body demanded it. He couldn’t help himself.

Before he fully even realized what he was doing, he was tearing at the bag with his teeth like a wolf savaging a rabbit. His newly sharp teeth tore effortlessly through the leather, ripping away chunks of the satchel as easily as a piece of sandwich bread. And once he had started, there was no putting it down. Barnabas choked sobs along with mouthfuls of enchanted leather as he ate his focus – the most valuable item he possessed.

As he was finishing it up, the sobs began to fade to be replaced with something new, something different.  The rush, the high was indescribable to Barnabas.  In his eyes he could see the magic radiating off of his own body.  The strange fire of magic bouncing between his fingers.  He felt... good... powerful... invincible even.

Shameful perhaps for what he'd just done, but he just felt so energized.  His powers, felt stronger and easier than ever.  He looked around his condo, seeing his displays of fetishes and such in a whole new light, as if his brain was rewiring itself.

Still, Barnabas felt sated, at least for a little while, it was probably best he remove them all from his direct line of sight. 

'For later,' he wasn’t able to resist thinking, through the pleasant buzz that had become a roaring fire.

Feeling indescribable, almost high, he rummaged through his closet for a duffle bag and... he knew it was inappropriate, knew he was being frivolous, but … he couldn’t help it; no one was watching, no one was judging. He murmured, making a gesture with his hands and went to reach with a magical force towards the fetishes he had collected over the years to assist first-years with learning spells, directing them towards his bag.

The objects dropped in the bag one by one; even as he watched them fly by he began to feel a small craving, controllable, but new, exciting, and disturbing all at once.

It was so … effortless… he thought as the objects moved as he mentally directed them with ease and force. No strain, no pushing himself to grasp them. He felt alive with energy. Awake, like a fully charged battery just brimming with power.

Zipping it quickly was the best course of action. Giving him time to decide what to do, before Lone Star inevitably showed up.  It was only a matter of hours, at best, once the body was discovered in the lab.

 Though identification might take some time... considering the state of things.

He couldn’t stay here. This would be the first place they’d look. God, he felt like some kind of criminal! But he was panicked, scared, and dammit he technically was. Maybe he should just stay, face the charges, but… Barnabas was selfish, scared. It would be terrible – for himself, for his family. He wasn’t ready for his life to be over.

Ideas, considered and subsequently rejected tumbled through his mind as he went through his bureau and began tossing clothing into the duffel on top of the fetishes. Toiletries, a few hard-copy papers and files, his research notes, his tablet computer: the essentials. Even as he was considering staying, his body was going through the motions of emergency packing.

Maybe they’d think he was dead, too – but no, his car was gone. The traffic cameras would have recorded him leaving the garage, going home. He used his clicker to get into the gate.

It was an accident… but even Barnabas wasn’t naive enough to think people would care.

He tapped his fingers on his desk after he zipped up his bag, his claws making a strange tak-ing noise that caused him to wince.

First thing was first…

He picked up his commlink and browsed through the contacts. There – Ito Takeru – office… quick search… home number. He hadn’t bothered him there – not yet, but he had to try.

The line didn't even ring.

"Were sorry, this phone number is disconnected or otherwise out of service," came the monotone voice on the line that had sounded the same since the 1980s.  

Barnabas swore under his voice again as he hung up and stared in frustration at his commlink. Worry bubbled again to the surface. Maybe it was just the wrong number, he had never called the man at home before. But the coincidence didn’t seem to hold much water.

He ran a hand through his hair again, which only served as another pointed reminder of his situation when the familiar silken touch of his nervous habit was gone, replaced with a coarse, spiky pelage.

He glanced at the clock. It was late, very late, but this was an emergency. He didn’t know where else to go, who else to call. He didn’t dare call his family. He tapped out the familiar number of his friend and colleague, Eljiah, making certain that the video display was turned off.

"Signal Lost" flashed on the screen.  "No Carrier Detected."  This wasn't a problem with his point of contact.  It was his own Comm Link doing this now.  It had let him make the one call, then was giving a message as though he didn't have a Comm Link plan.

"Please insert Registered Credstick to purchase carrier service," came flashing on the screen next.  They made it easy these days, slot the stick and buy a plan, all your info was already included.

Barnabas’s brows furrowed as he looked at the error message. The hell? He shook his head, confused. The payments should have been automatic.

It didn’t matter. Scrambling, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his credstick, slotting it into the appropriate slot and tapped his foot, as he tapped the “next” button repeatedly trying to get the thing to work.

The next button was grayed out, it took a second to process before giving Barnabas a new message.

"Credstick not accepted. Not registered.  No funds." came the display on the Comm Link.

“…. WHAT?!” Barnabas shouted, fully panicked. What was going on? How… this had nothing to do with the experiment! Not directly at least. Had… had someone found the lab? Were they onto him now…? That had to be it. They must be locking him out of his accounts. “Oh god…” He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

They were onto him. No money, no comm link signal. He couldn’t dally any more; he had to leave. NOW.

It was a good thing he felt so energized – as if he had downed three pots of soycaf. Frenetically, he switched off his comm link and ganked the battery - just to be safe - and then grabbed a few more things to toss into his bag – anything that he could pawn – anything small and transportable before pausing for just a moment, looking around his condo… it had been his home for years. It represented the easy lifestyle and comfort of being a tenured professor. Respect, an important family…. Everything that he was having to turn his leave behind now to save his skin.

He winced once more before turning his back on his home forever and heading back out the front door, not even bothering to lock it, and jogged back to his car. At least it was still early. He tossed his duffel in the passenger’s seat and wasted no time getting the car started and peeling back out of the parking lot, not even entirely sure where he was headed next.

Options ran through his mind, but he didn’t like any of them. They might be tracking his car by this point, and Barnabas was about as far from a mechanic as one could get – he had no idea how one would go about disabling whatever component that was without disconnecting something truly vital. Obscuring his license plate would get him even more attention. He’d have to get rid of the car, ultimately. Nowhere would be open in College Station, or even Bryan at this hour. There was Houston, but… that was a long drive. Was it worth the risk on the highway?

Maybe… maybe they thought he was dead. Maybe that’s why his accounts were locked. That would be so preferable, but Barnabas couldn’t count on being lucky tonight.

And what about Elijah…? He felt a sentimental pang for his best friend. He was panicked, scared… he wasn’t thinking straight. Eljiah always had such a good head on his shoulders, even back when, once upon a time, they had been seeing each other. The last thing he wanted to do was get his friend into trouble, but… would the police even recognize him like this? If he left his car a distance from his house…

Ultimately, Barnabas realized he couldn’t leave town without at least speaking to him, as scared and ashamed as he was for his friend to see him like this… if anyone would understand, it would be him. He couldn’t let him hear from someone else that he was a criminal… or dead… or worse.

Driving almost too carefully, eyes darting constantly on the lookout for police cars, he headed to his friend’s home, taking back streets and residential ones wherever possible.

Finally, Barnabas breathed a sigh of relief as he made it safely to the Emerald Oaks neighborhood. He drove his car around behind one of the dumpsters several blocks from Elijah’s home, dragging a couch that someone had left out to be picked up between the road and his vehicle.

He grabbed his duffle bag, rooted out the closest thing he had to a “hoodie” – a hooded rain coat, slipped it on, fighting with it for a few moments as he tried to get it over his head, cramming his inconveniently large ears into it, and swiftly walked/jogged the familiar few blocks to Elijah Stone’s home. It was in the wee hours of the morning, around 4am when Barnabas arrived at his door and physically tried to shake off the anxiety again before he finally closed his eyes, took a breath, and rang the doorbell, keeping his head down.

The light was already on inside.

The door was opened quickly, but just a little, held by a bolt to only allow it to be opened a little.  Elijah looked surprisingly alert, though his eyes told a different tale, "Hello..." he said cautiously.

It was clear that he had not just woken up.  He looked at the man in the hood for a moment, as he kept his hand near his firearm.  These days everyone had one, everyone needed one.  Especially if your community didn't have hired security.

“Eli…?” Barnabas was so relieved to see his face. But worry squirmed in his stomach when he realized he was already awake. Had someone called him? He kept his head down, posture hunched, so that even the tall elf came up to below Elijah’s chin. Appropriately, it seemed as if the tall, thin man was cringing.

“It… it’s Barnabas. I… god… please… can I come in? If I can’t.. I mean… I don’t know what you’ve heard… if you heard anything… god… I… this night…” Barnabas was speaking quickly, obvious panic in his voice, and it was evident to his old friend that the man was on the verge of a breakdown.

"Barnabas?" Elijah said incredulously.  "No, no, no... you shouldn't be here."

Elijah's eyes showed real concern, but they also showed real fear, "You need to go Barnabas, and the less I know... the better," he said in hushed tones.

Elijah's glance looked past Barnabas, to the street behind him.  His hand slipped out, quickly to slip a business card into Barnabas' coat pocket, "Please, my friend... run." he said softly, as tears were starting to form in his eyes.

“Elijah… please… what did you hear? What are they saying? Whatever they’re saying… it… it’s not my fault!” Whether he wasn’t thinking or he didn’t care, he couldn’t not meet the man’s eyes – his friend, despite everything that was happening as that night his entirely life had been – and still was – being turned inside out. Watching his grad student’s death, leading into the death of his career, his entire body being reshaped…. His friend still cared.

Barnabas looked up, eyes shining, moist, in Elijah’s porchlight, his unsettling demeanor accented all the more under the barely-covering hood of the rainjacket.

"My god, Barnabas," Elijah said getting only a brief glance.  It took him a second but his hand reached out from the door to grasp his friend's.  It was obviously paining him to do this, and to not let him in.

"I love you, you know that," Elijah said, his voice as kind as possible.  "I'm telling you, as your friend, you need to disappear."

Behind him, Barnabas heard some car doors shut.

Barnabas’s blackened, clawed hand darted out, squeezing Elijah’s hand. He desperately wanted to just hold onto it – like a lifeline… but he couldn’t. He stuffed regret down to the pit of his stomach. He would have to deal with that later.

“Thank you, Eli,” he whispered insistently. “…don’t tell my family what happened. I don’t know… I doubt they’ll contact you. But if they do, you… can tell them I’m safe… and I’m sorry…. I’ll leave. Just… you stay safe, OK?” He gave the hand one last squeeze and then stepped back off the porch, adjusting the hood with a paranoid glance around the street before dashing off again into the pre-dawn morning.

Elijah nodded, hoping Barnabas noticed the business card he had slipped his friend.  He closed the door, stifling back some tears.  He walked back towards the bedroom.  He'd be calling in, that much he knew for certain.

He had no idea what he'd seen when he looked at Barnabas.  He was afraid to look too much into it.

Barnabas forced himself not to sprint to the car, as terrified and alone as he felt. That would just draw more attention. But while forking himself to keep his head down, his eyes were constantly darting, looking for any suspicious behavior or movements.

A second scene burned itself into Barnabas’s mind. The earnest honesty of his friend… a man he’d probably never see again… still cared for him, no, still loved him after all those years. A part of Barnabas had known how Elijah felt about him, but he had always ignored the elephant in the room. Their friendship was invaluable; Barnabas loved spending time with him, and it was a miracle that that friendship had survived after the break up once upon a time. It had been rocky for some time afterwards, but it ended up being the strongest friendship in Barnabas’ life. Eljiah was his rock. And now he felt lost at sea amidst a torrential storm.

When he rounded the last block and the dumpster was in sight, Barnabas couldn’t relax his nerves any more. The car was safely in sight, no one was chasing him.  At the moment the streets were as quiet as they'd ever been, except for slowly rising commuters.  He sprinted the last few meters to where he had left the car, shoved the couch out of the way again, and virtually dove into the driver’s seat.

He had to get out of here, out of town, out of the whole damn state if he could. And he needed money to do it. Risking a few brief moments, his hand went to where Elijah had tucked something into his coat and retrieved the business card, seeing what message his friend had given him.

The business card was for the restaurant they'd been to on their first date.  The paper showed a bit of age; it was clear this had been kept.  On the back, however, was what was clearly a Matrix username: shiningknight10

That's all that was there.

Emotions and memories rolled over Barnabas as his fingers traced over the aged card. He couldn’t believe Eli had kept it all those years. If there had been any doubt that Elijah had quietly been holding onto feelings for Barnabas over their friendship, this was the evidence thereof. He felt a pang of guilt for keeping him ‘on the hook’ all those years… and for a moment, it was mirrored with regret for not giving it another try. He had gotten together with Elijah, a fellow grad student back in the day, sharing study sessions and comparing notes and helping each other out with their thesis spells. It was near the end of Barnabas’s “experimental” stage. A stage in retrospect, and after late night discussions around his breakup with Elijah over a lot of alcohol, Barnabas knew was primarily done as another assault on his parents’ conservative values and a middle finger to their attempting to normalize their household for the benefit of his father’s political career. An act of rebellion when his attempt to run away to the Tir had failed. And it wasn’t that he didn’t… enjoy his time with Eli, or a few other partners before him, but it had become evident to both of them that he missed the company of women.

Now… Barnabas had had a number of frivolous relationships, most of which hadn’t lasted more than a few months. He didn’t like complications, drama was tiring, and nothing seemed to be as easy or natural as he wanted thing to be. He was never in a real hurry to commit, either. Maybe that was the real truth about what had scared him away from giving things with Eli another try.

And now it was too late. But, the matrix name… at least it meant they could speak again, even if over distance.

Provided, Barnabas forced an interruption of the nostalgic and regretful line of thought and stirring himself to necessary action, I can make it to safety first.

He punched the ignition and pulled out of the makeshift parking spot.

Houston. It had to be Houston. He couldn’t hang around town; the longer he lingered the more dangerous it was. And there was nowhere open at this early hour to get the necessary resources to run further.

He turned out onto the highway, eyes checking his mirrors every few seconds for any suspicious activity, policecars, or any other vehicle that might seem to be following him. Maybe he had seen too many movies, but from everything that had happened that night, paranoia didn’t seem unfounded. Who the hell had woken Elijah up and spoken to him? What had they said? He would need to ask him... Later… after he was safe.

But where? Where the hell was he going to go? If people were after him, Houston would be a logical place they’d check next. He was from Houston, and his parents still lived there. It was still in Texas, still in the CAS. Besides, what the hell was he going to do if he went to Houston. Hide out? He needed answers.

Ito. Ito was working on the same project when he disappeared. More and more, it was sounding to Barnabas like that disappearance might be more nefarious than some selfish move of his fellow academic. Seattle was outside of the CAS, and while he had never been (which probably would benefit him hiding out), he had heard a lot about the multi-cultural city. Things were available there than you couldn’t get just about anywhere else. Information, for one. It was the logical choice.

No… it was really the only choice. The only destination that promised at least a hope of finding answers, of moving forward rather than just letting the world swallow him whole.

He’d go to Houston, sell everything he could – it was a sprawling city, there would be places he could, then he’d get plane tickets, and get to Seattle as fast as he could. From there… he’d try to find Ito and answers.

Barnabas drove on into the early morning headed South, this time careful to obey the traffic laws.

As he drove, and the minutes peeled away agonizingly slowly as he kept looking behind him, expecting sirens to flash at any minute. For once, he wished for the tunnel-vision of highway hypnosis, but his mind would not shut down. Not after everything he had already been through the night, and the … magical high… for lack of a better term, he was still buzzing on. His fingers drummed and tapped restlessly on the steering wheel, and he found his tongue starting to run compulsively over his changed teeth. It was like a new filling – a strange, alien texture in your mouth, but infinitely worse. And a prevalent reminder of how different – how inhuman – he had become.

He had refused to let himself dwell on it until now – there was too much going on – it was too difficult to deal with. And a part of him felt bad for feeling sorry for himself after what had happened to Tom. But … what if this wasn’t some wild magical temporary effect. In fact, all the research Barnabas had done, all of the study on the rising magical levels of the earth and the changes it had brought to the world, the new species and races, in fact, the ultimate goal of his research as a whole… seemed to imply the opposite. It was less a wild effect and more… like a goblinization. His eyes flashed hesitantly to his reflection in the rearview mirror, angling it to make himself meet his own black eyes once more. It… he… was like nothing he had ever seen before, or even studied when he had researched other paranormal animals brought about by the awakening. The magic levels were higher in that room than perhaps they had been anywhere else. It… made sense… Barnabas hated that it made sense. But if he was right – if his research was right – then that face in the mirror was going to be his for the rest of his life. White skin, black eyes, bristley hair, those strange shifting runic symbols, and those almost sharklike teeth. Was this what those poor people who had goblinzined into orks and trolls had felt like thirty years ago? That the face in the mirror wasn’t truly them? That it was some strange monster that didn’t reflect their hopes, their personality, and their intentions?

God… my parents would be horrified. Barnabas thought ruefully as he… almost smiled.

*
*
*

Eventually, the skyline of the Houston metroplex emerged on the predawn horizon and Barnabas felt a bit of preliminary relief that he had made it this far without running into any trouble on the empty highways. But now there was a new challenge – he had to figure out where he could sell his things – fast- and at this hour. Certainly no reputable business would be open until at least mid-morning. Not to mention, the … new complications not only of his potentially wanted status, but his alien appearance. Many shops in the CAS were reluctant to deal with metahumans at all; Texas was rife with new racism and outright segregation.

The answer was obvious.

The old “Third Ward” of Southeast Houston had transitioned from merely a bad neighborhood to being a district with the highest concentration of metahumans in the city. It was one of the few places that the SINless and ostracized people could find a place to rent. It was a slum, if not an outright ghetto. Dirty, high crime rate, and not coincidentally, typically ignored by Lone Star. Barnabas had always been absolutely forbidden to go there by his parents – not that he ever had a reason to go. As curious as he had been about metahumans and other awakened species, Barnabas had never been sheltered from the news of what happened all too frequently to them. His parents had wanted to drive home the point of how lucky he was to have such understanding parents, and how much they cared about him to help make him more human looking and be socially accepted. And… admittedly, Barnabas had never felt like pushing his luck too far. While he knew of the district, he had never been before. But it was probably his best chance to sell his things quickly, and without too many questions.

He exited the Beltway and began weaving his way down the progressively narrower, and less maintained streets, operating from memory and knowledge of the town; unwilling to risk the built-in-GPS of the car in case someone was watching, even down here where he was much less familiar with the ley of the land. Strip Malls and Soycaff cafes were replaced with mechanics and off-brand convenience stores, fast food restaurants with only a few neon letters still glowing. Blown out tires and trash littered the sides of the streets, and as the sky was lightening to a pale violet as morning was dawning, skulking figures of robust builds meandered by on the sidewalk, several casting suspicious looks at the clean, well maintained sedan that crawled around blocks slowly, obviously lost, as Barnabas scoured the buildings for something useful.

Then, down the road, he spied what he needed – a flickering fluorescent sign stating simply “24 Hour Pawn” looming above a dilapidated building with crumbling plaster and spray painted graffiti on the side.

Roadweary and thankful he had managed to find what he was looking for and not drive into a problem with either the law or an irritable denizen of the Third Ward who perhaps didn’t take kindly to a suburbanite vehicle in their “Territory”, he pulled into the nearly empty parking lot. Barnabas took the spot immediately in front of the barred front doors, wanting to be able to keep an eye on the vehicle. Cynically, Barnabas didn’t want his car ripped off before he could sell it.

Finally, he killed the engine and leaned back in the seat, rubbing between his eyes. The stress was wearing on him, coming in waves of focused determination and paranoid, frenetic fear. He wasn’t tired. He should have been tired, but even if he were to lie down in a bed he knew he would never be able to sleep. Not without being safe yet, not with the images that flashed in his mind every time he closed his eyes. But… he could take… just a few minutes to breathe.

But after just a short few minutes Barnabas began to feel… unsettled… uncomfortable… his skin began to feel warm, itchy. He slid his eyes back open and immediately brought a hand up to shield them with a start. Bright! So bright! He squinted, peering out again, but saw nothing but the bright light of the rising sun… And it felt like a stone dropped into the pit of his stomach. Panic sizzled through his body as – for a brief moment – Barnabas feared that maybe what had happened to him had something to do with an unknown strain of HMHVV – the vampiric virus. He flustered to grab his duffle and eject himself from the car, wincing as he stepped out into the dawn-light. He threw the hood of his rainjacket back up and staggered to the door and yanked on the handle… to find it didn’t budge. Panic again seized him for a moment a he banged a fist on the door. It said 24 hours! He needed inside! Already it felt like a migraine was building at the base of his skull. He jerked once, twice more and then… a buzz… and the door suddenly flew open at his yank. Barnabas half stumbled into the shop, breath coming in gasps. He looked back over his shoulder at the parking lot, cast in the warm colors of morning. But as his mind – and logic – began to process once more, Barnabas realized that if it had been the deadly virus… the pain of the sunlight would have been a lot worse. His skin was so white – whiter than an albino. His eyes solid black, it was impossible to determine how much of the solid orbs were comprised by his light-sensitive pupils. He was no vampire, this just appeared to be another lovely complication to his new condition that he was still learning about. “Drek,” he whispered under his breath before turning to face the shopkeeper behind the counter.

One finger of the balding ork rested on the buzzer, having unlocked the door and let in the customer when he pounded on the door. He had seen the fancy car pull up, and the ork was already suspicious. The other hand rested on the handle of a shotgun underneath the counter. But for a pawn shop in the Third Ward, that was standard operating procedure. That grip, however tightened as he saw the face of the … man… that turned towards him. He was about to shout, yell at him to get the hell out of his store, but then his shrewd eyes caught the glimmer of something that made him stop: desperation. And where there was desperation, there was opportunity. Not taking one hand off the wooden stock of the gun he plastered a tusked smile on his face, “Morning, Chummer. What can I do you for?”

Barnabas anxiously eyed the ork, dressed in a stained, plaid shirt with hardly a handful of strands of hair over his domed head. He knew in the fluorescent lights of the store, the raincoat was likely not providing much cover for his strange visage. Abandoning the pretense, he pulled the hood back and saw a brief widening of the ork’s eyes, the smile frozen in place for a moment in an strained façade before the ork shook his head, “Pretty early in the morning for a mug like that.”

“I have some things I need to sell…” Barnabas started, hefting his bag up onto the counter, too ragged to deal with questions.

“Hold on a minute, there’s a way we do things here, and you don’t want me to get jumpy.” The ork’s friendly pretense took on a sharper edge, and Barnabas hung back, obviously shaken.
The ork nodded to himself, feeling a tad more comfortable dealing with the man seeing how easily he backed down. “Now set yer things down on that table there an’ I’ll have a look. Leave yer stuff and ya can browse the store while I put together an offer.”

Barnabas sighed, beginning to pull out the miscellany he had been able to grab from his condo: a simsense trode, his trid box, and a few other portrable electronics, his good watch that he got for his graduation, and a couple pieces of simple, masculine jewelry. Then, as the ork then instructed, he took a step back, glancing around the store. In addition to miscellaneous outdated trids and other electronics, there was a surprising array of firearms behind the counter. His eyes lingered as one object – a grizzly looking totem behind glass that radiated with a weak, but obvious in his eyes, bluish glow. Barnabas groaned as he felt that gnawing feeling again, but balled his hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets and forced himself to look at the Ork as he was pawing over his things.

“You think I don’t know that these things are hot?” the ork finally spoke up as he moved the pile aside.

“They’re not stolen!” Barnabas objected, looking obviously insulted. “They’re mine. I just… I need the cred.”

The ork eyed him carefully. “I… might be able to give you a bit. But ya know it’s against the law for pawn owners to buy stolen goods…”

“They’re not stolen” Barnabas repeated with a frustrated growl to his voice.

“An’ I’m assuming that you’re looking for unregistered cred…”

Barnabas opened and closed his mouth, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

“How much are you looking to get?”

Barnabas weighed the question. “I… need cab fare to the airport… and a flight out of there... and… then some money for once I’m there,” he said hollowly. “The car out front, that’s on the table, too.” He added as he tossed his keys onto the pile.

“This ain’t Carmax, chummer.” The ork countered. But as Barnabas opened his mouth to protest, the ork held up a hand, “I… might be able to find a guy who’ll take it, but I can’t offer you a lot. But what are ya going to do with cred in your pocket at the airport, huh?” He asked with a laugh, “Something tells me you don’t have a certified credstick or a SIN. How do you think you’re going to get a flight outta here?”

Barnabas eyes widened as suddenly this haphazard plan began to fall apart, “I… well…” he stuttered.

“Look, I’ll offer ya 5 G’s for the lot o’ it… includin’ yer car. But for the low cost of 500 o’ that, I’m gonna give you some information to help get your freaky ass out of H-town.”

Barnabas sighed, knowing he was getting screwed. The car alone was worth three times that. But five grand would certainly be enough to get him to Seattle, and into a hotel. And if he couldn’t get past the airport then that money was useless. He eyed the counter that had wallets, jewelry, and a few pairs of sunglasses. “He tapped on the glass with a claw above a rather slick looking pair of shades. Throw those in and it’s a deal.” He groaned.

The ork smiled. “Glad to do business with ya.” He picked up the pile that Barnabas brought in and took it into the back, coming back out with a nondescript credstick. There were no papers to sign, no ID asked for. He unlocked the case and pulled out the shades, sliding it and the credstick – that displayed a balance of 4500 nuyen - over to Barnabas. “I’ll call yer cab, and he’s gonna take you to Terminal E. Go to the Renraku airlines counter an’ ask for Luciano. He’ll get you fixed up.”

Barnabas slid on the glasses, a hint of a self-conscious smile and tucked the credstick into his pocket, reshouldering the bag.

“By the way, chummer, that raincoat looks ridiculous.” He snorted as he typed out a message to the cab service. “It hasn’t rained here for weeks.”

Barnabas frowned, “It was the only thing I had with a hood,” he said defensively with a note of defeat.

The clerk eyed him for a moment, summing him up, and mentally piecing together the odd puzzle pieces that comprised the strange early-morning customer before finally, “You can wait for yer cab in the store.”

Barnabas smiled, genuinely appreciative and more than a little surprised by this small act of charity from the strange ork. “Thanks.” He said simply, and slid down to a seated position against the wall as he watched the parking lot for his ride.

The minutes ticked by, but Barnabas wasn’t bothered by the wait. For the moment, he felt safe. Eventually, a yellow and black striped cab pulled up into the parking lot and tapped the horn twice. Barnabas gathered his things and went to the door.

“Hey Chummer?” The ork called out to him as Barnabas went to leave, “For tha record, do what I say and you shouldn’t be hassled too much at the airport. The CAS doesn’t complain too much or look too closely about sellin’ one-way tickets out to us metas. Now, you want to try an’ come back without a SIN or a lotta cred, that’s a different story.” There was another buzz as he unlocked the door.

Barnabas snorted and smiled a thin-lipped smile with a nod back to the man. ‘Us metas’. That was the first he’d heard that. Most metahumans distanced themselves between themselves and Barnabas before today – he looked too human, and besides, elves got the easiest end of the deal compared to everyone else on top of that. Not that he encountered many at all in his line of work – very few metahumans got into the university. He’d had a small handful of dwarves or elves in classes over the years, but only rarely spied an ork or troll on campus.
“Why does that not surprise me…” he said ruefully. “Thank you, though. And good luck to you.” He pulled up his hood again, adjusted his new sunglasses, and headed out to the cab and, ultimately, the Houston airport.

*
*
*
The ride to the airport was relatively uneventful. The cabbie didn’t even give the hooded, shaded customer a second glance as he pulled out and started driving, already knowing where he was going. The backseat of the cab was smelly and stained, but Barnabas wasn’t complaining. He was encouraged that, after the initial shock of the irritation of the sunlight, it didn’t seem so bad with the hooded coat and dark glasses, but a migraine was still silently pulsing behind his eyes. Still, right now, that was the least of his concerns.

Eventually, the silent cab ride ended when it pulled up into the drop-offs outside terminal E. Barnabas winced as he exited, rubbing his temples and keeping his head down as he stepped out into the sun, slug his duffel over his shoulder, and stalked through the sliding doors into the cold air of the terminal.

Hoards of people and the sudden cacophony of a busy airport greeted Barnabas. Hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait. The tension was palpable as businessmen and vacationers alike alternately milled about in lines or rushed to try to catch a tram or flight. Security metal detectors buzzed and whirred, jarbled announcements were made over the loudspeakers, and TSA agents occasionally pulled people out of line for ‘random security checks’.

On the bright side, no one was paying attention to one tall, skinny man in a raincoat who was keeping his head down. He glanced around and eventually spied the desk for Renraku airlines and took his place in line.

Barnabas was jittery, but did his best to keep his head down and not make eye contact until he got to the front of the line. He did as the pawn store clerk told him to do: when he got to the ticket agent he asked for Luciano. But after a few hushed whispers back and forth between the agents, a Hispanic man wearing a sharper cut of suit came to the front and waved Barnabas over to the side, between two luggage scales that weren’t in use at the moment.

“Yeah, you’re here for the ‘metahuman special?’” Luciano said with a smirk.

“Y… yes…” Barnabas said hesitantly. “I need a ticket to Seattle, and I-“

“Seattle, yeah, of course you are. Nice rainjacket.” He laughed. “Yeah, I can get you a ticket to Seattle. One way ticket’s all we got, I’m afraid… cash discount.” He said as he looked over with a wink. “We got a fight leaving in an hour we can squeeze you onto. I’m afraid no checked luggage is allowed for… ah… the seats we got left.”

Barnabas expected as much, he nodded. “All I have is my bag, I can carry that on. And…. One way is fine.”

“Good good. Now, I can get you there for two grand, last minute, you know?”

Barnabas choked back some harsh words. Two grand was ridiculous for a one-way ticket, even last minute. If it was for a flight leaving in an hour and it wasn’t already full, then tickets were generally discounted if you were on stand-by, not the other way around. He’d been screwed at the pawn shop and he was getting screwed at the airport. But if they weren’t asking for ID… and he could leave now, he couldn’t risk making a scene. “… fine…” Barnabas virtually growled through clenched teeth.

The man gestured, “Just slot yer credstick in here.”

Barnabas did as instructed, and watched the balance on his stick drop by almost half. It took him a moment to realize that was it. That credstick and the bag on his shoulder was all he had to his name.

And a ticket to Seattle.

The airport was a blur as Barnabas went through the three security checkpoints. Lucky for him, without any cyberwear or metal to speak of aside from the credsticks, the x-rays and metal detectors made things easy. By the time he made it across the terminal to the flight, they were already boarding.

He jogged to the gate and checked in, then started to make his way to his seat.

He frowned as he kept pushing back further, further. Until finally he pushed past a curtain and found himself in the absolute back end of the plane, and into dirty chaos.

He stopped, blinking, processing the scene before him: it was a tiny section of the plane, and yet it seemed like there were more people than could possibly have seats back here. Or maybe it was just thanks to the large builds of many of the people back here – for orks and trolls made up the vast majority. Not a single person back here looked human. One particularly large troll was trying to squeeze into a middle seat, past a frazzled looking female ork bouncing a screaming baby. Two small ork children were running down the aisles, shouting shrilly. A few oxygen masks hung down from broken panels above the seats; the floor was stained where it wasn’t stripped bare from so much foot traffic and poor neglect. Many of the seats were missing arm rests or tray tables or didn’t seem to recline properly.

Barnabas sighed as he stowed his duffle overhead and followed the numbers back to his seat: 56F. It was a window seat… at least… but he had to push and pardon his way past a sleeping dwarf, and apologize to a woman sitting in the middle as he worked his way across her to his seat. For a troll, she was surprisingly small, but even still, the plane was likely from the previous century, and not designed for metahumans. As he slid into the seat in the corner, he was thankful for his slight build. Even though she was a small troll, her broad shoulders spilled past the corners of her seat, her arms folded awkwardly in her lap. Barnabas couldn’t help but stare a bit as he was in such close proximity; he’d never been that close to a troll before. She looked older – at least in her fifties, and as he looked closer at her bare arms he could see her nursing one of them that sported a large bruise despite the thick skin and dermal plating that characterized her kind. She barely registered him at first, even as he slipped past her and took his seat, her eyes staring forward at the back of the seat in front of her. Only when Barnabas obviously hadn’t taken his eyes off of her for a few minutes did she seem to snap out of it and look over at him. More than anger, though, there was pain in her eyes. But those eyes widened as she caught a good look at him; hard to avoid in such close proximity.

Barnabas quickly turned his head, embarrassed for having been caught staring. “I’m sorry-“ He flustered; something told him that he was going to have to get used to that himself he thought irritated as he fumbled, frustrated, with the seatbelt that didn’t seem to be working. Or maybe it was his shaking hands… or long claws getting in the way. He was just tossing them down in frustration as the woman reached across his lap and with a quick push of her strong hands, the belt snapped into place.

He looked up into a sheepish, but soft smile on the woman’s face. “No one on this plane is here because things have been goin’ well for them.” She said with a note of sympathy.

Of course… they were all there on a one-way ticket, weren’t they? “Thank you… I… didn’t mean to stare.” Barnabas said barely above a whisper, “I… I’m not used to this… any of this. It… it has been a hell of a night.” He shook his head, not meaning to dump on this strange woman, but sitting still, feeling the plane start to move… knowing that in a matter of minutes he was going to be untouchable by the CAS, his almost perpetual panic since the night began started to transition into shock.

He clasped his hands together, fidgeting with the new claws.

The troll woman’s eyes lingered on him before she finally shifted in her seat, wrapping her arms closer to herself, “I suppose it’s my turn to apologize for staring. I’m Leslie.”

A bitter smile crossed his face. “Barnabas.”

“This new to you?” She said with a nod to his hands.

He looked up quickly, surprised at the old woman’s shrewdness. His expression said it all.

“Goblinization is never easy, honey.” She said softly. “Whether it was a lifetime ago… or still aching from it.”

“Does it get easier?” He asked quietly, directing his glance out the porthole window as the plane began to pick up speed, lifting into the air.

She held her breath for a moment until the aircraft was off the ground, climbing into the sky. “I lost my son last night.” She said quietly. “I had thought things were getting better. He kept saying we should leave, but I’ve lived in Houston all my life. Then last night he ran into the wrong group of men. Humanis Policlub, I think. They followed him home and…” She stopped talking, shaking her head.

Silently, Barnabas reached over and laid a comforting hand on her arm. Glancing down at the ugly looking bruise, he concentrated for a moment and the magic responded with enthusiasm; her skin returning to a healthy, ruddy color.

She tensed for a moment, startled, but then blinked down at her arm and ran her other hand down it in appreciation and wonder. Most people knew of magic, but practitioners were rare; few ever actually saw it performed. She nodded to him, holding his eyes for a moment. There was a lifetime of pain behind them. What was she like, once upon a time, Barnabas wondered. How had goblinization changed her life, who was she before then?

The plane set off into the skies, headed Northwest for Seattle and the great unknown: and a new chapter – hell, a new book in Barnabas’s life.