should call the cops .
His job existed because people disliked being told their Mercedes wasn’t covered for frog-related weather accidents. They tended to sue, claiming mundanity. Samaritan Mutual’s legal shark tank had found you could pay amphibian experts and meteorologists to argue exactly how unlikely an event this had been…
…or they could send Paul out to tip the cops toward a ’mancer bust. Which gave Samaritan massive good will with local judges to boot.
That was what Paul was supposed to do: get the location, point the local authorities there, oversee the capture.
But following orders would not get Aliyah’s face fixed.
So, instead, he looked at the house and saw it not as a structure of wooden beams and plaster but a piece of property – purchased from a bank, subject to a thousand regulatory codes. The house generated bills from electrical companies, water companies, sewage companies, mortgages, every expenditure dutifully recorded…
… Paul felt the Beast shift back at his office. It felt like flexing a muscle in another city.
Paul envisioned filling out the forms. In dusty rooms, the forms materialized, words appearing on them as though via invisible typewriters. Then he took out a small pad of paper and signed it, activating the magic.
Complete house blueprints materialized in Paul’s mind – both the original plans and the attic addition authorized in 1974. Based on that layout, the basement would be the best place to make Flex.
Could he sneak into the basement?
His prosthetic foot’s motorized whir broke the silence as he opened the front door. The living room revealed a stained carpet with a couple of old Burger King cups toppled over in the corner, a scattering of pennies where a couch used to be.
He had to verify this ’mancer’s skills first. No sense learning from a man who knew less than he did.
Paul slipped through a grimy kitchen and down the narrow stairwell to the basement. The only noise was his stupid foot, whirring as it repositioned his ankle joints on each step. It seemed louder than ever, as if trying to speak: Hey, remember what happened the last time you went head-to-head with a ’mancer? That’s right; you got me!
It didn’t matter. He needed to see the magic. Partially to verify, and partially because… well, he’d been lured to the magic’s beauty ever since meeting the illustromancer, a moth to the fire–
–Aliyah’s face melting in a caul of flame–
The basement had once been a 1970s-style man-cave, complete with faux wood paneling and a tiki bar. The liquor bottles had been removed from the glass shelves, replaced by neat stacks of plastic boxes.
It was a wall of videogames: gray Nintendo cartridges, white Sega Dreamcast games, green Xbox games…
It had the jumbled love of a child’s bedroom, each game battered from being shoved into its console a thousand times. This wasn’t just a game collection; it was an altar to gaming itself.
The murky basement windows turned sunlight into shadow. Paul used his cell phone as an impromptu flashlight.
A sixty-inch flatscreen had been mounted on the wall. Several consoles were wired into a connection box, ready to switch channel input from the GameCube to the PlayStation 4 at the touch of a button. A comfortable leather chair rested before this altar, the leather cracked with the indentation of a meaty ass. Crumpled Red Bull cans lay scattered around the chair.
Paul felt the echoes of his own obsession in this place. The entire room revolved around this one interaction: a man, in a seat, and the game before him.
And the Flex-making equipment in the corner.
Paul had seen it all before… but now he could potentially make Flex, that equipment was laden with uncomfortable possibilities. There were sacks of crushed industrial-grade hematite, spilling their glittery brown treasure into the shag – illicit merchandise worth thousands.
Did this ’mancer know what he was doing? The Flex tools laid in
His job existed because people disliked being told their Mercedes wasn’t covered for frog-related weather accidents. They tended to sue, claiming mundanity. Samaritan Mutual’s legal shark tank had found you could pay amphibian experts and meteorologists to argue exactly how unlikely an event this had been…
…or they could send Paul out to tip the cops toward a ’mancer bust. Which gave Samaritan massive good will with local judges to boot.
That was what Paul was supposed to do: get the location, point the local authorities there, oversee the capture.
But following orders would not get Aliyah’s face fixed.
So, instead, he looked at the house and saw it not as a structure of wooden beams and plaster but a piece of property – purchased from a bank, subject to a thousand regulatory codes. The house generated bills from electrical companies, water companies, sewage companies, mortgages, every expenditure dutifully recorded…
… Paul felt the Beast shift back at his office. It felt like flexing a muscle in another city.
Paul envisioned filling out the forms. In dusty rooms, the forms materialized, words appearing on them as though via invisible typewriters. Then he took out a small pad of paper and signed it, activating the magic.
Complete house blueprints materialized in Paul’s mind – both the original plans and the attic addition authorized in 1974. Based on that layout, the basement would be the best place to make Flex.
Could he sneak into the basement?
His prosthetic foot’s motorized whir broke the silence as he opened the front door. The living room revealed a stained carpet with a couple of old Burger King cups toppled over in the corner, a scattering of pennies where a couch used to be.
He had to verify this ’mancer’s skills first. No sense learning from a man who knew less than he did.
Paul slipped through a grimy kitchen and down the narrow stairwell to the basement. The only noise was his stupid foot, whirring as it repositioned his ankle joints on each step. It seemed louder than ever, as if trying to speak: Hey, remember what happened the last time you went head-to-head with a ’mancer? That’s right; you got me!
It didn’t matter. He needed to see the magic. Partially to verify, and partially because… well, he’d been lured to the magic’s beauty ever since meeting the illustromancer, a moth to the fire–
–Aliyah’s face melting in a caul of flame–
The basement had once been a 1970s-style man-cave, complete with faux wood paneling and a tiki bar. The liquor bottles had been removed from the glass shelves, replaced by neat stacks of plastic boxes.
It was a wall of videogames: gray Nintendo cartridges, white Sega Dreamcast games, green Xbox games…
It had the jumbled love of a child’s bedroom, each game battered from being shoved into its console a thousand times. This wasn’t just a game collection; it was an altar to gaming itself.
The murky basement windows turned sunlight into shadow. Paul used his cell phone as an impromptu flashlight.
A sixty-inch flatscreen had been mounted on the wall. Several consoles were wired into a connection box, ready to switch channel input from the GameCube to the PlayStation 4 at the touch of a button. A comfortable leather chair rested before this altar, the leather cracked with the indentation of a meaty ass. Crumpled Red Bull cans lay scattered around the chair.
Paul felt the echoes of his own obsession in this place. The entire room revolved around this one interaction: a man, in a seat, and the game before him.
And the Flex-making equipment in the corner.
Paul had seen it all before… but now he could potentially make Flex, that equipment was laden with uncomfortable possibilities. There were sacks of crushed industrial-grade hematite, spilling their glittery brown treasure into the shag – illicit merchandise worth thousands.
Did this ’mancer know what he was doing? The Flex tools laid in
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