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Roland let out a chuckle at the mention of Excel. It was Cyrus' holy grail, any man who worked with the old man for more than a couple hours knew this. Some believed more than others, but Roland wasn't sure what his thoughts on the subject were. He would certainly love to see it happen, that much was true, and magic had been helping overcome significant technological obstacles in the last year or so, but it still seemed like one of those things that were just entirely too good to be true. Roland first cupped his hand around his cigarette, then drew it back to reveal the ember on the tip giving off a tongue of flame, though admittedly burning a significant amount of his tobacco away in his demonstration. "Never know, old-timer. They've been workin' miracles these days."

Roland glanced down at the watch on his wrist, grimacing at how late in the day it had gotten already. He butted the cigarette and gave Cyrus a casual salute. "I'll see you later, gonna see if I can't catch a steak and a beer before they send me back out."

He pushed off the hull, taking only a half-second to recall which way the nearest steakhouse was. A simple name came to his mind once he was oriented, Jack's Slaughterhouse, and Roland smiled as he made off in its direction. The steak was great, but the protesters were even better.

Game Master Post

All posts that I specify are Game Master posts will include scenes of non-playable characters scattered throughout the story, and will include necessary information or promptings for certain things to happen. It is very important that you read them. Thank you.


The chair was turned ever-so-slightly in such a way that a lone arm could be seen resting with its elbow in firm contact with the plush fabric. A cigar was entrenched in those firm, meaty fingers, and every few moments it would disappear behind the high back of the chair, a ring of smoke following its return into view. "And you are quite certain?" the voice of the hidden man spoke gruffly to his bowing, black-suited subordinate.

"I am, Mr. Mayor," the thin, severe looking individual answered, his voice nasal to the extreme. "It would appear that recent inquiries into Project Mediuma and into MedTek itself have more than tripled in the past three months."

"That is not my concern," Burgio Mivancio snorted, taking another puff of the cigar. "If they were not breathing down my neck so... insistently, I would have the project trashed myself. No, let them make their inquiries, they will find nothing. What we can not deny are the reported side-effects. They did not tell me anything like this would happen."

"Perhaps, sir," the private secretary, Filcinni, smiled obscenely, "you are allowing them to walk over you like some figure-headed carpet."

"You and I are both here because of them," Mivancio returned angrily. "Or should I say, I am here because of them, you are here because of me." Filcinni's smile disappeared. "No, they will do as they wish with their concoctions. We can not interfere, and perhaps the side-effects are of... another nature. Yes, put out a press release at once telling that these purported side-effects are simply an after-effect of the Welder's Disease. Any questions should end there, and if not... I am sure you will end them yourself, eh?"

"If I may, Mr. Mayor," that snivelling face peered up at its master, "there is another matter I believe requires your attention. Inquiries have not been the only statistic increasing these days. The terrorist attacks performed by those acting on behalf of Uildernesse have grown so commonplace that we have no choice but to act. Our police force is doing its best, but apart from a few rogue pilots, the airships remain generally uninvolved."

"And what are you proposing, Filcinni?" Mivancio tapped the cigar, sending ashes drifting down into his well-placed ash tray.

"Involve them, sir. Demand that all airships under the jurisdiction of Magiscolian law aid in whatever way they can the efforts of the police. And might I suggest more concentrated efforts on identifying and collecting whatever leader Uildernesse has to offer. This might help in curbing hostilities, if he is taken into our custody and it is seen that no harm will become of him."

"Yes, yes, do as you will. Contact Commissioner Aldona and inform her of what it is you plan to do, then send another press release detailing the terrorist actions of the Uildernesse insurgents and the desire, no, the demand for all airships to comply."

"Is that all, sir?"

"For the time being," he muttered, waving his hand dismissively and watching as the sycophant left his presence. Things were getting just a little bit out of hand.

Cid glances at the pilot as he passes by, the stench of smoke wafting from him, Cid couldn't help but cough from the stench.

Good lord, does he smoke every second or something

Cid gathers his senses and returns to what he was doing before, Cid had just started walking when be was bumped by the other person, the old guy.

"Uh, sorry..." Cid trailed off, the old man definetly not paying attention to him.

Cid exited the hanger and proceeded to the market area, he needed to stock up on food and provisions before he left city.

A day had passed, and the following morning Aden had been awoken by the violent ringing of the telephone. Reaching for his makeshift bedside table. nothing more than a stool with a board set on top, his hand knocked to the floor a glass, sending water dripping down the cracks between the floorboards, no doubt. He'd hear about that by the afternoon. The phone kept up its ringing, and he sat up suddenly. Of course the phone wasn't on the table, it hadn't been there for so long because he hadn't used it in so long.

Jumping out of bed, he scrambled through the piles of clothes and boxes around the room, getting closer and closer, judging by the slowly raising volume of the rings. At last he came to it, yanking the receiver off the cradle and putting it to his ear, sitting back onto the floor heavily. "H-Hello?" he asked, slightly out of breath.

Later that day he found himself wearing the same white shirt, grey pants and black tie as his first visit to the airship engineer's place of business, rehearsing over and over in his head what he would say when he met the man, holding a tissue to his chin. He had cut himself shaving.

The lift ride seemed longer than it had been the last time, and he gripped the bar that lined the back walls, his thumbs alone drumming back and forth to each other. The doors opened slowly, having no empathy for his own impatience, and he dashed through as soon as they were wide enough, which resulted in him slightly stumbling into the lobby. Flicking some of his hair from his forehead, he saw that the same woman was seated at her desk, eyeing him as one would be expected to eye an unwelcome rodent in some suburban kitchen. She made a mere motion with her head, not even bothering to smile, indicating for him to enter further.

He walked past her, a faint, broken smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Whatever she thought of him, he'd managed to get past her. He went to the first worker he saw, a slightly above-middle-aged man with grey tinted brown hair. He tried clearing his throat, but it did not rise above the volume of the machinery, so he slowly walked around until he deemed he was in the man's line of vision and, a bit awkwardly, half-waved.

"Um... sir... I'm here to meet a Mr. Telpyre?" He usually said his statements like questions. "Can you tell me where I can find him, please?"

"Four... Three... Two... One..."

The cramped and dimly lit cockpit of Spirit of Magiscolia, nestled deep inside the armored hull of the Airship, was almost tomblike in it's construction. It's walls were a dull Grey color, like the rest of Spirit, and the only decorative feature would have been the glowing HUD and LCD displays that ringed the cabin; If you could call them decorative, with their featureless rows of Data and myriad color coded alerts.

Silently, the three man command crew went about their jobs, maintaining the systems that kept the ship from falling out of the sky with a distinctly anti-climatic end; Not shot down by Anti-Aircraft fire, brought down because someone didn't remember to cycle the manually controlled Uranium slug loading system. Such an annoying way to die.

Owen watched as the Rightmost HUD to him, displaying the word "ATGSS" in bright letters, changed from Blue to Red, and displayed the Statistics and a Visual readout of the Dorsal GAU-8. This was the latest targeting and Automation upgrade to the spirit, the "Automated Targeting and Guidance System" as it was know; Currently, the only guns using it was the GAU-8 30mm Rotary Cannon mounted on the underside of the ship.

He moved his helmet Laser Selector onto the top-left corner with a precise jerk of his head, and let the GAU-8 transfer to manual control. Usualy, it would fire with an automated targeting system, but it could also be slaved to the joystick weapons-control system in the bridge.

Owen lined up the sights, displayed on the HUD along with Gun-Camera Footage, and held down the firing trigger for roughly twenty seconds; He slowly moved the joystick forwards, bringing the gun moving along with it. He was enjoying this, the feeling of power that was his hands, and smiled slightly as the shells ripped into the housing block he had aimed for.

A rapid burst of gunfire came from the dorsal turret of the Spirit of Magiscolia. It's target, a row of abandoned houses, was shred by the 20 second burst; Ceramic tiles shattered under their impact, and the sheer heat of the metal set the wood ablaze. No one would miss this, and it could be chalked up to a freak fire, like the Magiscolia fire Department often did, at the "request" of the Military.

"Looks like our defense contractors didn't screw us over on the GAU-8s, thank god."

As you may know from earlier, one of the Gatling Guns had been damaged during it's test-fire, and it turns out the contractor had skimped on materials, and replaced titanium with Aluminum, making a gun that melted on the first few rounds. Owen had vowed to find his ass and kick it into next week, but would have to wait until the war was over.

The Riven was considerably more upscale than the steakhouse Roland had been at the evening before, and the food considerably less appetizing, but he had no desire to bring Christina to a restaurant where a the wearing of a shirt was a rarity.

He had been extraordinarily pleased when he had discovered, only a week before, that she had survived Welder's. The two of them had served aboard the Inferno, a ship comparable to the Nightwind, some five years ago, her in the ship's small medical bay and he in one of the ship-to-ship fighters. He couldn't really put his finger on how exactly they became such close friends, it just sort of happened. When the ship had been decommissioned, partly due to a newer model being designed, partly due to a concussion missile obliterating half the engine room, the two had gone their separate ways. They had promised to stay in touch, all the usual sentiments, but as it always seemed to, they soon drifted apart.

"So, how's life in the captain's chair?" Her question snapped him out of his moment of reflection, that smooth, slightly flirtatious voice seeming to have not changed a bit. Roland smiled, looking down into his beer for a moment before responding.

"It's... everything I dreamed of." He began, slightly awkwardly. "I've got a loyal crew, a wonderful ship, and enough rank to not get busted down every time I break regulation." The words he spoke were true enough, but he said them with no true conviction. It was no secret that he would rather be in the air than on the ground, but he was with an old friend -- a beautiful friend -- and on leave. His mind was decidedly not in the sky.

"How about you?" He asked, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, "what's life like working for MedTek?"

"Classified," she responded with a smile he had seen many times before. It was a smile that could have been seduction or malice, and he never once was able to pick between them. Roland leaned just a little closer, attempting to decide whether or not to try his luck. Yet as the universe's merciless sense of humor would have it, the instant he made to open his mouth, a beeping issued from his pocket. It wasn't a phone, or a pager, or even some kind of timer. It was...

"...Fuck." He growled, glancing at his bridge-to-personnel communicator, an alert for him to return to the Nightwind on its surface. "Looks like I gotta split, Chris. It was good seeing you. I'll--"

"--take me along? Sounds great," she grinned, gathering her purse from under the table, "MedTek is always interested in front line footage. It gives us an idea of the people we treat."

He made to refuse, but what was the point? He knew she'd end up on some ship, some where eventually, and he'd feel a hell of a lot better if that ship were the Nightwind.

A short commute later found them just inside the hanger bay, with Roland being reprimanded for not being in uniform.

"If you hadn't called me in the middle of lunch," he began, tearing his jacket and dress shirt off and throwing them to the side, revealing loose-fitting black undershirt beneath, "I wouldn't be in civilian clothes. And I expect that shit dry cleaned for all my trouble."

“Damn it! I make one mistake during the last battle and they punish me with a mission in the middle of the night. Who assigns a mission in the middle of the night anyways? HQ is full of shit sometimes.”

Piers opened the door exiting the hotel while dragging his duffle bag behind him slowly. The soldier outside salutes him as he walks into his eye sight. He reaches and opens the door to the jeep that he stood next to. It. “It’s a nice night out isn’t it, Sir? The soldier said happily. Piers took one good look at him wondering how can this soldier be so wide awake in the middle of the night. By the look of his figure and the detail in his face Piers judged the boy was new to the rebellion and it must had been his first mission. He seemed fairly young, roughly around the age of 19 by his guess.

“Yes, it’s a nice day out but wouldn’t you prefer being in bed at this time soldier?” He stepped into the backseat of the car. He noticed the young lad had toned down his excitement a bit. “Sorry if that came off as a jerk with that last remark”

“No worries Sir!” he closed the door and sat himself in the driver’s seat. “How are you doing sir!” said another man in the passenger side. Piers jumped up a bit as he was caught off guard by the other soldier. This one was of middle age and seemed very experience. His eyes caught the attention of Piers. It seemed as if these eyes have seen numerous deaths either by his hand or the hand of the enemy. “Sir….sir these are for you”

“Oh I’m sorry. Its late and well…I’m tired”. He grabbed the folder the middle aged man was dangling in front of him. The car started up and began to be on its way. He took the time to read up on classified paperwork and the mission at hand. “What is this!? Not only does HQ assign me to a recon mission in the city, but they want me to scout out a ‘repair bay/hanger’..AND they assign me to a mission with a partner. What the hell is HQ thinking!? What a waste of time! I can’t believe they are punishing me because I miscalculated the power of that big ship and its crew. Somehow it avoided taking any damage or even being hit…” He angrily slammed his fist down on the suitcase next to him remembering all the lives lost at that last battle.

“Sir…it wasn’t your fault. You did your best” said the young man as he pulled up to a building. “We’re here sir”. He stepped out and opened the door to the vehicle and saluted.

Piers slowly stepped out of the car; he took one look at the building to realize it was a gym. He looked at the soldier completely lost at the current situation. “This guy must be a meat head if we are picking him up here”. He walked into the gym the two other soldiers following him closely. He looked around searching for a guy lifting weights. To his surprise the only person in the building besides the workers was a cute girl punching a punching bag.

“…You can’t be fucking serious!!”

A warm trickle of seat streamed down the edges of her face as she kept her eyes focused on the dark mass before her. Her breath was heavy but years of continuous breathing exercises allowed her to keep her endurance up and her heart rate down.

You must always remain calm. A defensive stance is always wise. You must also never let your adrenaline control you – you must control your adrenaline.

She slid her left foot back, keeping her feet shoulder width apart as she shifted her weight on her back foot. Her right arm hovered just below her chin on guard as her other arm was fisted with her fingers facing up along her midsection. In an instant her eyes narrowed as she pivoted her slender athletic figure, sending her fist in front of her. No longer had she pulled her fist back, her other fist followed with speed and great accuracy. Had it been living and breathing, the punching bag would have done something along the lines of groaning in pain and collapsing. Without so much as a glance back, she lifted her left knee up and extended her foot out behind her – making the heavy punching bag behind her swing in the opposite direction on impact.

Balance is key. Keep your leg parallel to the ground before you extend your foot onto your opponent.

Her sweat-drenched white wife-beater clung to her curves as she rolled her shoulders back, closing her eyes. She inhaled deeply from her nose as her straight long dark teal hair swayed a bit from the ceiling fan in a pulled back ponytail. Skin-tight black shorts latched onto her thighs as she exhaled through her lips.

It is my time now. Do not let vengeance feed upon your soul, Demi. Please remember child, the true measure of a man is what he does when he knows he will not be caught.

With a final punch to her left, the bag swung violently as her towel fell from her shoulders. The low humming of the fan above continued its metronomic beating, calming her a bit. It had only been two years since Demi lost her grandmaster. She could only watch him from behind a thick glass window as his words were transmitted through the walls via speaker. It pained her to watch him wither away. At least her parents were out of sight and gone before she could watch them die. Her grandmaster’s words constantly echo within the core of her heart as she uneasily ponders. Her grandmaster knew that the Welding virus was not just a regular plague. Something this deadly, besides herself of course, could not be the work of mother nature. Demi became even more skeptical when the government released Mediuma as quick as they did, but not before the fatal virus took away everything that was dear to her.

Cid had spent the night aboard the airship, the ship now fully stocked and fueled for the next journey, however Cid hadn't discovered why he came here in the first place, the message played through his head while he lay awoke in his bunk.

That voice sounds familiar but who the hell is it, gah give me a sign

The message continued to play through the recorder, "Cid...come...Magiscolia" right at the end there was a bit of static which Cid thought was curious, sitting up he slowed the recording down and boosted the volume, "Magiscolia...The virus will take you." The message was clear as a bell now, it was a warning, he decided to play the whole recording slowly.

"Cid, don't come to Magiscolia, the virus will take you."

Cid knew exactly now, Welder's disease, the mysterious disease that plagued Magiscolia, had he caught it? Was he infected?

A small burst of fire from that GAU-8 had been nothing, using less than a 20th of it's own gargantuan supply. And Cheap metal shells, totally worthless, not fearsome Armor Piercing shells that could have punched through tanks, not even burning incendiary shells that could sear flesh in instant, had been used... Yet a roaring, raging fire washed over the black of tenant house; Their wooden frames and oil based paints, relics of an older age, were kindling, dry and from before the age of fire retardant construction.

Owen smiled; The line of light -shells- arcing through the night and impacting with the insignificant houses sitting there, it was something entirely warm and fuzzy to him. His hand was still gripped in a half-hearted embrace on the firing yoke, his thumb floating idly over the trigger. Wow... He had gotten more than the contractor had said they would from this upgrade.

"Bloody Hell..."

Owen shook himself, he had just drifted off in the middle of a damn live fire testing. He mental scolded himself from this, noting that his ass could have been on the line, and that in the middle of combat, he and his airship were doomed if he did. He took his hand off the firing trigger, and quickly disengaged the slaved GAU-8 from manual control.

"Boys, we've got something bigger to test now. The M.A.B said to drop it here, and stay high up while were at it. Got it?"

The two Co-Pilots nodded, as they knew Owen had a small obsession with this kind of thing. Hastily, they began the procedures to bring the ship out of hovering position. You could hear the roar of the Nuclear Turbine Engines as they roaring to life, proving more than enough thrust to bring the ship upwards. And you were standing under them, you would have noticed the slight radioactive glow emitted in a short stream from the gas outtake; But no one did, and the weight saving practices of the MAB would continue on.

"Five... Four... Three... Two... One..."

Owen flipped a single switch. This triggered the bomb bay to release it's payload in a very dramatic manner, and it so should be noted, the Command Crew went through the actual process of opening and engaging the bay doors and bomb rack.

There was a rumble, and then a shock, and then the entire ship gave a massive rock! The shockwave must have hit it, even 2000 feet in the air! Owen braced himself against the seat, straining against his impact webbing. Looking over one of the eternal cameras, he looked at the leveled urban, and smiled.

The entire block have been level, and yet nothing was burning; Apparently the MAB sent something with more force than fireball. Owen cracked another smile... He was liking this.

====================================================================================

Having gone through enough ammunition to level three city blocks, and still not missing a large amount by any means, the Spirit was returned to base.

This is the MAS "Spirit" Requesting Permission to dock. Transmitting ID Now.

Callan Mentadaxes had hit a dead end. Or maybe not. Maybe there wasn't anything to really investigate in the first place. Every major newspaper lay on the desk before him. All of them agreed - despite the success of Mediuma in defeating the Welder's Disease, new reports identified some continued abnormalities long after the person was cured.

That must be why I still don't feel the same. It must be the disease.

Callan sighed. Maybe I should see a doctor. To think, I got all worked up, suspecting plots or something crazy. I should have known better. Even so, his gut felt unsettled.

Piers looks at the girl as he is completely filled with rage. "How can they assign me to a mission with a girl...". He turns around to face the two soldiers that brought him here. "Is this some kind of sick joke!?". He turns around to face Demi as he wonders how he will approach her.

Her deep blue-purple eyes shot open as she heard footsteps entering the gym area. She swiftly twirled around with her foot extended, forcing a punching bag to swing out of her line of vision. Three men appeared in the distance as the bag swung like a pendulum in between them. She recognized two of them as they were a part of the Uildernesse resistance, who typically served as messengers. The third she had never seen before. Demi knew they weren’t here to work out. No one ever does at this hour. She usually has the gym to herself during after hours. She then leaned down to pick her towel up, tossing it over her shoulders while wondering what Uildernesse wanted of her at this time of night.

Piers walks over to the girl as he mumbles underneath his breath "this mission can't get any worse". Piers closed his eyes as he got ever closer to her. Coming to a halt he raised his hand in a salute as it was customary to do so. He pulled out the folder from his duffle bag and handed them to her cautiously noting she had to have been here for quite a while now for she was drenched in sweat. "Piers reporting in for mission X102. According to these papers and these two...well messengers of bad news, you are to join me on this mission". He looked off to the side where the wall stood, ashamed he was on such a childish mission. He threw his duffle bag down in anger.

With half a smirk to her lips, Demi turned her back to the unfamiliar man. “You wouldn’t mind reading that back to me now would you?” she asked while pulling her white shirt up over her head revealing a black sports bra. She tossed her wet shirt along with her towel at her black bag on the wooden bench by the water fountain as she took the moment to refresh herself.

Piers looks at her, his blue eyes widening as rage took over his actions. He threw the folder on the floor. Papers were heard spreading out everywhere around them. "Excuse me!!" He ducked under the punching bag and walked in front of her to cut off her path. He stood in front of her; only a couple inches separated them from making contact. "Do NOT turn your back to me!!! I will not be treated as if I was some low ranking officer!!".

Without so much as a flinch Demi raised a brow as she crossed her arms out in front of her, taking a good look at the man before her. The man certainly liked the color blue. The emblem on his necklace sparked her curiosity a bit as her eyes finally met his own. They were, as she inferred, also blue. “I beg your pardon sir, but had the water fountain been behind you, I would not have turned my back to you,” as she spoke she roughly pushed past his shoulder with her own, making her way to the water fountain once again. Here she was at the gym in the dark of night, and a stranger comes before her interruptingly thrusting a mission onto her without so much as a proper introduction. Pulling the front of her hair that escaped from her ponytail back, she leaned forward hovering over the water fountain as she used her free hand to release the water.

Piers takes a deep breath in anger. He raises his left hand slowly in the direction of the water fountain and Demi. He closes his eyes to begin focusing on the water being released from the fountain. Feeling the water as if it was his own blood, he speeds it up to the point of where he can no longer control it. The water drenches her even more with added force as it comes shooting out of the fountain. Piers raises his right arm and pushes outward slowly with difficulty as exploding pipes are heard. The fountain completely falling apart, exposing pieces of pipe and chunks of ice all over the floor. He opens his eyes with a smirk now seen across his face.

After taking a decent drink and then some, Demi stumbled back with her arms crossed in front of her face to block the on-coming water. As the fountain, along with its connecting pipes hailed in ice blocks across the gym floor, Demi noticed that the documents were now as drenched as she was. A fire began to burn within her as she wiped the water from her eyes, giving him a fatal look. Completely soaked in her sports bra and shorts she sped towards him, using the water to her advantage to slide in his direction. Before colliding with him she grasped onto his sleeve, her feet meeting his own in a sweep. Moving quickly without a second to lose, Demi moved with ease as she based herself on top of him pinning him down with one hand to his shoulder and the other grasping onto his shirt collar. Her purple-blue eyes locked onto his own blue eyes as she roughly tugged at his shirt collar. The other two insurgents in the corner of the gym stood, staring in awe at the two on the ground. “They wouldn’t make a bad team if they weren’t trying to kill each other,” one whispered to the other.

Piers feels a sharp pain surge from his back as he is taken down. He looks from side to side as his hands are pinned on each of their respective side. Piers tried to quickly analyze what would be the best strategic move for him right now. His blue eyes were locked completely on his "partner" trying to spot her weakness. She was rather surprise by his actions so she must not have had many encounters with somebody similar to him. He tries to break free but fails in doing so. She had won this fight. At that sudden moment a drop of water from her hair had hit his forehead. His eyes widened as a smirk came across his face as he observes that her body is completely wet. "You seem kind of...angry". He slowly clenches his fist as a layer of ice begins to form all around her skin. Breathing deeply he finishes his sentence "why don't you cool off."

Having already anticipated his next move, she decided to lean into him, either for body warmth or she figured if she was going to freeze he was going to freeze with her. For a brief moment, Demi wondered if this would be the end of her. She pressed her forehead onto the stranger’s own forehead beneath her and continued to look straight into his eyes. The other two Uildernesse units behind them faced each other, one of them asking, “Should we leave them alone?” The fire continued to burn inside of her, the desire to live embraced her as she silently vowed to fight until the very end. In a final attempt before the ice could consume her, she got to her feet as her hand on his collar tightened its grasp. Hurling him off to the side she shoves the both of them into the sauna, feeling the ice melt as she kicks the door shut behind her.

"I've got a question for you, before you say anything more," the aging man, Cyrus Telpyre, said. As his arm brushed against him in a motion to gather his shoulders, Aden quickened his pace to escape it, not out of disgust but almost surprise. It occurred to him at that moment that he had not felt another living person's touch for some time, almost as though he had been avoiding it. Moving in the direction his potential employer would have guided him and hoping he was not offended, Aden paused before the grand mural of the ship, but his eyes were not focused there.

Across the service bay, a large door was opening, an airship preparing to disembark. Those quiet grey eyes looked past it, at the glowing blue, cloud speckled heavens. His gaze pondered its depths, his mind silently imagining the millions of other places from which that same scene could be viewed, and the amazing fact that through that seemingly endless void those places could be reached. For a moment his heartbeat slowed and he closed his eyes, the hum of the departing airship that had no doubt seen a thousand times what he could only dream about mesmerizing him like soothing vibrations.

But the airship was gone in half a minute, his ears returning to the relative silence, Telpyre having temporarily switched off the shop's louder machines. The innumerable questions, fears, regrets and urges assaulted his conscience once again.

"What do you think of the sky?" the old man asked him. All of the emotions and thoughts that had passed through his mind only moments before, all of the flowery and poetic words he could possibly have said, he found were lost for the time being.

"It's... big," he muttered vaguely, turning his eyes from the closing doors to the ground. "And the clouds... quiet." His body had, once more, betrayed him, he felt. And that was always the problem. All of his deepest thoughts, his most profound realizations, meant nothing to the world because of his inability to articulate them to anyone but himself. And he had done it again.

It had been another busy day as Vice Director of Operations for Howell Techno-Industries. I never intended to come back to work here. Callan thought. But they needed skilled workers, after the Welder's Disease, when everyone realized how hard it would be to get Magiscolia back on its feet. Too many jobs, too few people. And it had been personal.

Callan was looking out at the blast furnaces, back lit in orange outside his office window. But in his mind, it was that day, almost two and a half years ago, when Mr. Matthew Howell himself had visited him.

The Howell family hadn't run the plant for two generations now, but it was the family business, they owned the controlling stock, and they made certain to keep and eye on the management. Which was for the best.

Callan had opened his apartment door to find the Patriarch of the family himself. "Mr. Mentadaxes? I am Mr. Matthew Howell, and I have come to ask you to reconsider your resignation from my company. May I come in?"

Callan laughed to see it now, how he had tripped over himself, rushing to welcome the man he had worked for. A good family; if you worked hard or proved you had promise, the family saw to it you go somewhere. As it had happened, Callan did both.

I have an opening in corporate, and I need a skilled man. I don't want just anyone; I want you. I will not accept no for an answer. Callan felt the swell of pride at that thought. The company was not a large concern, but it employed at least 1500 at full capacity. To be noticed had real meaning.

He had started work the next day, and he had never taken even a sick day off since. And it paid off. He had risen. Someday, he would hopefully replace Trevor Larston as CEO. Not anytime soon, though.

Callan was done for the day. It is time to go home.

"An aftereffect of the Welder's disease?!!"

The bedside table flew across the room, propelled by Hillel's rage at the blatant lie. "Goddamnit, who would be stupid enough to believe that?! Who was stupid enough to think the people would believe that?!" He grunted in rage as he slammed his fist into the wall ineffectually; his feeble body couldn't do much damage to the concrete walls. The hairline cracks that traced the walls of the cheap room were not the result of any human tirade, but rather the ravages of time and neglect. The table lay split in two pieces at his feet, the lamp broken and the phone knocked off the hook. The scene was atypical of the man. He dimly wondered through his rage if this was closer to his natural state than the cold disinterest that normally shrouded him.

He shook his head. Again with these...thoughts. How useless. How mundane. Action was what had gotten him this far, and action would solve this mystery in the end. And with that, he put his anger aside and turned his attention back to the newspaper. The story sited an official press release by the mayor himself. He flopped down on the bed, tossing the paper in the trash, and leaned over the side, grabbing the briefcase from underneath the single bed. He spun the numbers on the lock...2...0...0..0...click. He carefully lifted the laptop computer out of the revealed compartment, the third of three, and flipped it open, typing a meaningless string of characters into the computer. He'd set the login so that, rather than type a password, one simply had to enter exactly 98 random characters and press return.

He quickly accessed the wireless network he normally leeched from, and brought up the press release. "Just as I suspected, no cited sources. This is just a ploy." He shut the computer, placed it carefully back in the briefcase. He shut it, locked it, spun the dials back to their "decoy" setting, and opened it, taking out the folder he'd pilfered from the Department of Information.

He was lucky the file had caught his eye, because it had brought another piece of the puzzle together in the search for the link. He'd already been making targets out of government officials who'd been known to be paid off by MedTek. The objective of this was two-fold: Create general chaos, and create fear of associating with MedTek. Eventually, nobody would be willing to take the payoffs, and hopefully, that would force the hand of MedTek.

But it wasn't until he saw this that he realized there was more to it than that. He didn't know why MedTek had been having talks with Howell Techno-Industries, but it couldn't be a good thing for him, he was sure. Perhaps they were just looking to expand vertically, get in on several markets of business. Maybe they wanted to convert their factories to Mediuma production. Or, worst case scenario, they wanted to use the company for conventional weapons development. He knew for sure, though, that such a merger might set the stage for other companies to follow suit. If he made an example of Mr. Trevor Larsten, CEO of HTI, he could probably discourage any further mergers. Smiling at the ingeniousness of the plan, he laid his head back. Without sleep, he might actually miss a shot one of these days. Tomorrow, he would stake out the building and determine when would be the best time to strike down Larsten.

Cid had spoken to a few of the engineers in the hanger and everytime he asked them about ship construction the name that kept creeping up was 'Cyrus Telpyre.'

He was directed to Cyrus's workshop, a light knock on the workshop door and a press of the bell and he waited.

Cids mind wandered to the message, he gripped his heart lightly as a slight pain flooded it

Welder's Disease, do I really have it

The pain in his heart dispersed, a young man opened the workshop door but only to exit, he didn't take notice of Cid, peering his head in he called in "Mr Telpyre..."