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SG: The Tribe of Behn #2 "Magic: The Grovelling"

Author's Note: This story was originally supposed to be part 2 of Episode
#1, but I felt that they worked better separately. I hope that this
didn't result in any continuity errors (especially as I combined this
with elements of episode 3). If you catch any, let me know.

     It was a silent night, in the cave under Windsor. Each of the
Tauthors' was in bed, however, all but one could not sleep. Their
thoughts were full of their situation: who were they? Why did they have
strange memories that seemed incidental to them? Why did they have these
strange abilities that related to their literary names? Why do Ward 5
candidates campaign in Ward 3 during the Municipal elections?
     A dark form, tired from all this wondering (especially that last
question) got from bed, and padded to the makeshift kitchen. There had
been worries that Aphra's creation powers wouldn't be able to create
edible food, but she had come through. Strangely, though, everything
tasted like rice pudding...even the rice pudding.
     "I've really got to go shopping.", muttered Milton, as he warmed up
some hot milk/rice pudding.
     "Couldn't sleep either?", asked Gakell as she wandered into the kitchen.
     "Yeah. I dropped off for a few minutes, but I kept having these
nightmares."
     "Oh, you mean about our powers and the fact that we can't seem to
figure out who we really are?"
    "No, something about penguins and a wedding that we're missing. I
really don't get it."
     Gaskell placed her hand on Milton's arm. "Don't worry. Everything
will be fine in the morning. Want to play cards or something?"
     "Sure, but you know, I've got an urge to play some game called
'Nine-Men-Morris'?"
     Gaskell shook her head, and led Milton to the rec room.
***
     The silver cruiser slipped silently through the silky space,
momentous moments before its momentum moved it into orbit over Oortan, a
wet and warlike world which would never withstand the wily infiltration.
More entry-suited and stealthed individuals dropped from the
cruiser...and prepared Oortan's takeover. The cruiser sped off, leaving
Oortan to its fate.
***
     As the pair played 'Old Maid', the news blared on, a comforting
drone which blocked out memories, or lack thereof.
     "You know, I don't think I've got any memories of this guy, Space
Moose?", stated Milton.
     "I've got something. He's a...superguy. That's it."
     "Superguy...yeah, that rings a bell. People with abilities..."
    "...sort of like us!", yelled Gaskell.
     "Maybe we can use this as a clue! Let's tell Doyle!"
     His suggestion was interrupted by a short shriek from Gaskell. Her
form was flickering worse than an Amiga without a flicker-fixer (it may
be out of production, but it will never be out of my heart...sorry, just
getting maudlin about my favourite...no, no continue the story!). The
cards which she had held (including the Ace of Spades, which was in the
position where Milton had planned to pick from, thus landing him with the
old maid) moments before dropped through her hand, and then she began to
sink through the cave floor!
    "Hell (tm) and damnation!" shouted Milton instinctively, followed by,
"Damn...."
    There was the smell of brimstone, the dark death-knell and the black
rent in space. A horned individual stepped out of the Pseudo-Hell
(pseudo-tm), and gazed at Milton. As before, Milton felt a terrible chill
run through his body as he gazed upon his servant. Oh well, better the
devil you know...
    "Do something!", shouted Milton, pointing to Elizabeth's sinking
form. She was waste deep, and her brief periods of solidity were causing
her considerable pain.
    A deep, bass-as-you-can-get, voice boomed from the pseudo-devil "What
shall I do, Master?"
     "Can you pull her up?"
     "Simplicity itself." With that, the pseudo-devil reached down, and
seemed to partially  phase his arm out of existence. He grasped Gaskell's
own arm, and pulled her up to his eye level (3.5 meters above the floor).
At the pseudo-devil's touch, Gaskell began trembling violently.
    "Umm...is there a way that you can put her down without letting her
sink?"
    "Yes master.", stated the dark figure. He made a complex gesture with
his free arm and tail, and the floor glowed black (which is a bit of a
feat in itself) for a moment.
     The pseudo-devil continued to stand there, holding Gaskell's
struggling form.
    "Well, could you put her down now?"
    "Yes." The dark one made no move to do so.
    "Well do it!"
    "As you command.", and he dropped the author to the blackened floor.
    "Now go back to where you came from."
    The pseudo-devil nodded wordlessly, and reopened the altiversal rent.
Moments later, the room was free of his dark presence.
     Milton rushed to Gaskell's side. "Are you all right?"
    Gaskell was shuddering uncontrollably. "I...I...I...ddddoooon't
know.  I'm..so coooldddd."
     Milton put his arms around Gaskell's barely-tangible body, and lent
her his warmth, until she had regained both her heat and solidity.
***
    "Well, now, isn't that a sweet sight? And I always assumed you to be
a puritan-type Milton. The ones who protest the loudest you know."
    Milton awakened, to see the others standing around himself and
Elizabeth. They had fallen asleep on the rec-room floor. In the
background, the Power Teens With A Mechanical Dinosaur Stolen From
Japanese Television played (now taken off of all Canadian stations except
one, yay!!!!)  The speaker was Ben Jonson, who was holding an enormous
triple-decker sandwich/rice-pudding.
     "W-what happened t-t-to the floor?", asked Spenser, "If I-I-I'm not
interrupting..."
     "Make us all happy.", sneered Ben to Spenser. "Be silent." And the
little 'author' was.
     Milton checked the woman on the floor with him. To his relief,
Gaskell was completely solid. He looked up at Aphra, avoiding Ben's gaze.
"She faded out. She was slipping through the floor."
     Aphra rubbed her sleep-deprived eyes. "How did you stop her? Is she
all right?" Her eyes opened wider "What the heck did you do to the floor?
It took me hours to get that shade perfect, and now its black!"
     "The answer to the second question: I think so. The first and last:
I made the devil do it."
     "Fine, fine.", blustered Ben. "All's well, now that our dear Milton
has saved the day once again." The angry playwright walked to the cave's
movable concrete entrance, which was currently hidden by a mailbox (with
a hole in the bottom).
     "Where are you going?", asked Dickens, who had been in the kitchen
an hour before anyone else was up, fixing a breakfast of rice-pudding,
sunny side up.
    "Out. Away from here and the rest of you. I shall exchange some of
our gold for money, and then I shall procure some food."
    "We have food!" beamed Dickens, licking the wooden spoon.
     "Some food that doesn't taste like bloody rice pudding!"
    "I don't know, I kind of like it. So, anyone for a quick jog around
the city block before breakfast?"
    Aphra turned to Dickens. "Are you a morning person?"
    Dickens beamed back. "Why of course!"
    "Then you're an idiot. I'm going back to bed."
     "Hey! I thought you only called Spencer an idiot!"
***
     Ben Jonson was in a bad mood. A very bad mood. He had no memories of
himself before the previous day, but he was certain that he was always in
a bad mood. If Ben were a truly introspective character, he would realise
that he in fact had three distinct moods: Arrogant confidant, Arrogant
angry and Hungry. But he wasn't, and so he continued to nurse his hurt
feelings.
     Ben looked around. Another feeling of melancholia swept over him, as
he looked at a world which he knew, but couldn't remember experiencing.
It was a very flat feeling for him. Adding the new self-pity to his
already blazing fire of grief for himself, Ben continued on. He was
damned if he wouldn't experience the world this time around!
     He walked for several hours, until he reached Ottawa street, where
he paused in front of a large comic/collectible/gaming store. It was
doing a very brisk business. Across the front window was plastered the
legend: NO MAGISTER CARDS BY ORDER OF THE GOVERNMENT. Ben shook his head.
What did cards have to do with anything?
    "Pssst." came a voice from a nearby alley. The alley was dark
(despite it being the middle of the afternoon), and steam hissed from
several pipes. A small individual stepped out of the shadows.
    "Lookin fer some Magister cards?"
    Ben was flustered, but also intrigued. "Well...I don't know!"
    The little...man...flashed Ben a wink. "Ahh...cool hand. I likes that
in a cust'mer. I got 'em all. Fliandru's Halitosis Breath. Raise Foam
Golem. And I got a real rare one here. Invoke Grey Lupine Gaming Company."
    "And, pray tell good fellow, what do I do with these cards?"
    "Oh. I can give you'ze a starter pack. Its got the rules and about a
hunnerd Static Electricity Touch cards."
    "How much?"
    "Oh, maybe fifteen. Sound good? Sounds good ta me!"
    Ben reached into his pocket, and pulled out the smallest lump of gold
he had. "Will this be sufficient."
    "Holy spit!" The little...I'm pretty sure its a man...grabbed the
nugget and bit it. When the soft yellow metal yielded to his hard yellow
teeth, and failed to release a pyrite stench, he shoved it into his
pocket. "Ya, this is worth da starter pack, 'n a couple a 'rare cards'.
Pleasure doin' business wit' ya."
   The man turned around, and dashed down the alley. All that was visible
was his "Liberal Party Job Creation" business card, and a few boxes
intended for Ben.
    The stout writer reached down to pick up the cards. He felt a strange
thrill run through his body as his hand brushed the top card. He took the
rules booklet and began to look through it. Slowly at first. Then faster,
and faster. Soon he had read...and memorised...it.
***
    "And in other news,", continued the news reader on the cave's
television, "news has been found to cause cancer, brining the total
number of things that cause cancer to...everything on the planet, and
most things off of it. And now for our final 'sucker' story, when we
bring you a heart warming tale to make you forget just how tragic
everything else was...here's a man who gave a vital part to a little
girl, who needed a spleen transplant..."
    "Oh switch it off.", growled Aphra. "I think we need to go above
ground more."
    "I can understand your impatience.", admonished Doyle, "But we must
continue to recall facts about our existence before we venture out!"
     "It seems like if we need to know something, and we know it, then
we'll know it when we need to know it.", added Dickens from the bean bag
chair.
    "Thank you for that oh-so-helpful interjection, Chuck.", said Behn,
as she rolled her eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be working on that novel?"
    "Oh yes. Its going to be a masterpiece. See, its about this boy."
    "They're all about boys! Or little girls! Or Christmas! Can't you
write about murder or death or sex like a normal person?", said Milton
from the corner nearest the fireplace.
    "I've got an idea.", lilted Gaskell, from the chair next to Milton.
She got up, and placed a video-cassette in the VCR.
    "You-u figured th-that thing o-out?", asked Spencer. "I-I've fooled
with it a-a-all morning, a-an-d I-I-I-I I just couldn't make it w-work."
     "It was very simple. I just followed the directions."
     "D-d-d-irections?"
     "Hey.", said Aphra, "I created directions so they could be used.
What do you want to show us, Liz?"
     "Well, its something I taped off the twelve o'clock news." She
pressed 'Play', and a picture shimmered into focus. A strange, antlered,
being flew through the sky.
     "What was that?", asked Aphra.
     "Space Mouse or something."
     "Do mice have antlers?"
     "I guess some of them must. Well, deer mice anyway. But do any of
you remember the word Superguy?"
     Every 'author' nodded assent.
     "There are a lot of these superguys running around. Some woman even
claims that she's the original Superguy's mother. But  Canada doesn't
seem to have many. What if we used our abilities to make a difference?
Then we could learn about the world, and give something back to it. Also,
it would get us outside a little more."
     "Hmmm...", hmmmed Aphra, as she stared at the flickering screen.
"Maybe your idea has something to it. But we should spend a little while
thinking about it. I don't want to rush into anything."
     "I like the idea.", stated Milton. "Besides, it seems what sets
Superguys apart from Normalguys is the abilities that we all have."
     "W-w-w-well. I-I-I t-think t-that I-I-I c-c-could gi-give it a try.
Its got to be better than sitting around v-v-v-isiting Arc-arcadia all day."
     "Just as long as its not too dangerous.", mentioned Dickens.
    Doyle laughed. "What could happen? We'll start small! Besides, is a
demon from another universe going to attack us our first day out?"
***
    The demon from another universe awoke suddenly. Something was calling
it from its slumber. Slowly Gggthxtsth the Hyperbolic began to gather his
long forgotten powers to his supine form, draining magical energy from
the entire universe in which he resided. He noticed Several of his horned
minions had been summoned recently. Who would dare such a thing..the
nerve required to do this task was literally unthinkable. Soon,
Gggthxtsth of the No Vowels would have his revenge upon the foolish moral
who performed such summonings.
***
     "I'm home.", stated Ben, flatly. In his hands he clutched a box. His
eyes were only for it.
     The others looked up from their dinner of
steak&potatoes/rice-pudding. "Did you get any food?"
    In a bit of a monotone, Ben stated, "I got something better than
that. Who's up for a game?"
    "Don't you want any dinner? I made steak!", yelled Dickens.
    "I'm not hungry.", stated Ben.
    "Is he sick?", whispered Gaskell to Milton.
    "W-w-well I could play.", said Spencer.
    "Oh no you don't!", jumped in Aphra. "You promised to help me do the
dishes."
    Dickens stood, as did Doyle. They both volunteered to play this new game.
    "Its called 'Magister', by Grey Lupine Gaming Companies. Each card
represents a magical spell..."
    Aphra and Spencer walked into the kitchen, while Milton and Gaskell
entered the gym to go swimming. None of them noticed the glazed look that
came over Doyle and Dickens' eyes as they touched the cards.
***
     It was the middle of the night. Sleep was coming a little bit easier
this evening. Still, it eluded one of the authors.
    "Psst..Milton...are you up?"
    "Hmm...Liz! What're you doing here?"
    "Can't you hear, listen!"
    Milton strained to listen, bleary as he was with interrupted sleep.
The sounds came through the wall: "Well...Enchant Fire Extinguisher
negates your Flaming Chili card." "Not if I play a Beer Golem card onto
your stack." "Yeah, but I can take control of it with my Kegger 'o Plenty
card."
     Milton jumped out of bed. "Are they playing again?"
     "No.", mouthed Gaskell, motioning for Milton to be quiet. "They
never stopped."
     "What?", hissed Milton.
     "No, they've been at it since seven."
    "This is crazy..."
     "That's what I'm worried about."
     "What?"
     "That they're crazy."
     "Crazy?", stated the bewildered Milton. "They're not crazy. Well,
one or two are eccentric. Actually, all three are eccentric. Now that you
mention it...okay, you're right, they're crazy."
     "No, I mean...well, Spencer tried to take them out a snack."
     "That was nice of him."
     "You'd think that, wouldn't you? You know what they did?"
     "What?"
     "He set it down on top of a card. They throttled him. He had to move
into faerie-land or else they could have really hurt him!"
     "So, what do you think?"
     "I don't know. Do you think we should wake Aphra and Spencer?"
     "Well...what if they've all just had a little too much caffeine?
We'd look pretty stupid. And I really don't want to give Ben any more
ammunition against us."
     "Point taken. Why don't we keep our eyes peeled tonight?"
     "Sure Liz!"
     "Oh, and Milton?"
     "Yes?"
      "Could you put a top on? You're a little distracting like that."
      Milton flushed red, and   grabbed his dressing gown.
***
     "My Hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin'-meteor-shower card bests your Potato Famine."
     "Well, I still have my Aura of Spam card in play."
     That was suggestive of the conversation that Gaskell heard
throughout the night. She had pressed herself through the wall, until she
was able to find an air pipe big enough to house her. "Either Aphra's
powers work through the subconscious", thought Gaskell, "Or she's a
really great architect!"
     There was a tiny hole through which Gaskell could peer. She watched
the events of the game through it. And the game was frightening.
      The three players played methodically. A constant
rhythm...play...counter-play...counter-counter-play...discard...draw...
and it had no breaks in it. Once one hand was finished, the next hand
would begin. The only conversation involved the game and cards played. No
emotions were shown, except studious concentration.
     "At dawn I'm going up to buy more cards."
     "How many?"
     "As many as I can afford."
      "Me too."
     "I'll join you."
     Gaskell shuddered. She looked at the pseudo-angel which hovered at
her side. It was exactly 1/18th the size of a pinhead, and was therefore
nearly unnoticeable. (Do not draw the erroneous conclusion that 18
pseuod-angels can dance on the head of a pin. Keep in mind that room for
manoeuvre is required). She knew that Milton was hearing everything said.
"Milton....", whispered Gaskell.
    "Yes?", asked Milton through his pseudo-angel.
     "Can your angels analyse the cards? They seem very fixated on them,
and every time I look at one...I feel it beckoning me. Does that sound
weird?"
     "Yes it does. But I understand anyway. I'll ask...yes, its looking
at the cards....I can't get too much of a reading from the distance
you're at, but there's something evil about the cards. Can you get to them?"
     "I think so...but I don't want to touch them! They just look...evil!"
     "Okay, I'll send down Mike."
     "Mike?"
     "Well I can't just go around calling them pseudo-angles all the
time, can I?"
     The tiny winged white form flew down to the  table. Unnoticed, it
reached for a card, hoping to enlarge and snatch them all. As its fingers
made contact with the card, it began to shriek!
     "Arrrrrghgghghghghgh!", yelled Dickens, Doyle and Ben!
     "Arrrrrhghghghghghgh!", yelled the Angel!
     "Whoooooooooooooo....", moaned the captive spirits bound within the
cards. As Good touched Evil, the two began to negate one another. The
angel disappeared in a puff of trumpet music, while the mystical bindings
on the cards released their occupants. Trapped souls, lost to the game of
Magister, flew free from the cards, to their final rewards (wherever they
were supposed to go...), long delayed.
    Gaskell pushed herself through the ceiling, and jumped to the floor.
The three authors were moaning on the floor, suffering from something
similar to delirium tremaines. Milton came running, followed by a hastily
awakened Aphra and Spencer.  "Why do these things always happen just when
I wake up?", she asked herself.
***
     "Well, I'm glad that a few days in Arcadia c-c-cleared you
g-g-g-g-guys up!", said Spencer, as the trio emerged from his white portal.
     "Why can't we stay?", moaned the three.
     Aphra rolled her eyes. "You three are just getting over
one spiritual addiction. You don't need a physical one. Everyone, I'd
like to take a vote on something."
     The curious authors gathered around Aphra.
     "Liz had a good idea about becoming Superguys. We've seen that there
are things Canada needs protection from. There are also still Magister
cards out there. And finally, I'd like to do things, rather than have the
author inflict them on us!"
    The others mumbled their assent.
    "W-W-What will we call ourselves?", queried Spencer.
     "I know!", bellowed Ben. "In my olden days, I had quite a retinue of
admirers and followers. They named themselves, quite appropriately I
might add, the Tribe of Ben, for their leader. Now I suggest..."
    But the author was interrupted.
    "That's perfect!", yelled Milton. "The Tribe of Behn! Aphra, do you
think you're up to the responsibility?"
     "Well, I'm flattered!", said Aphra. "And I'll certainly try to
server my 'tribe' well."
     "Harrumph!", thundered Ben, as he stormed out.
     Spencer leaned over to Gaskell. "Pretty contrived way to fit the
title to our group, eh?"
     "Oh, its probably been planned. Why else would he add Ben to our
group? Now that he's used Ben to name us, he'll probably kill off Jonson
within the next few chapters."
     "Oh. R-r-right."
***
     In a dark room, the business suit-clad man clutched his chest.
Somewhere, his precious children were being dispelled! Pulling out a
mystical artifact (the Sales Map), he spoke a word of power. Sure enough,
a small band of Superguys had disbonded his beloved Magister cards! By
the Profits! This called for direct intervention! He briefly considered
making them all Vice-Presidents, then shoving them out the window without
Golden Parachutes...but no. Subtly was called for.
     The man reached out a perfectly manicured hand, stretching past a
rules book reading "Superguy RPG Axioms" to a darkly, navy blue book with
the picture of a Magister Card on it. It read: "Magister: The Climbing up
of the Magical and Social Ladder". Carefully, he opened the
rules-book/grimoire and perused the pages, cackling in the dim lighting.
    And behind the tall, gaunt man, on the wall, was a mystical sygil
known to all Magister-addicts: the symbol of a Grey, Indistinguishable
Lupine figure...
********
As usual, this story is trademarked, all rights reserved 1994 to Chris
Angelini (email:cangelin@uoguelph.ca). Everything alluded to is intended
as satire, and no trademark infringement is intended nor implied.