Cabal of the Phoenix (7 of 8)

Damon

Lee turned around in the driver's seat and looked back at Damon through the stripped hull of the full-sized van. Damon was standing in the middle of the floor, hunched over so as not to hit his head on the ceiling. The cold night sky left little light into the interior of the vehicle and only the dimmest light cast from the street lamps across the street allowed anything to be visible.

"Ready?" Lee asked.

"See you at the rendezvous point," Damon replied.

Lee winked. "Good luck."

Damon looked at Lee and merely nodded. Turning around to stare at the back of the van, suddenly a gleaming portal of energy opened; Damon passed through it. On the other side, everything was the same but not the same. He glanced at where Lee had sat in the prime reality and saw only a glimmering representation of her Avatar: her magickal soul. Damon, however, was the same. Nothing had changed about his long, dark dreadlocks, his old, scarred and haggard face, or his lean, if average build; he even still wore the same clothes as when he had left.

Damon had passed into the Near Umbra, a spirit realm which was a near representation of the 'regular' world. Where as most people were no more than reflected shades in this realm, he had actually passed into it. Damon turned and walked out the side door, sliding it open with ease, and glanced about the city. In this spirit landscape, all the buildings reached up higher and were darker and more gothic; many cities, and especially this one, in this part, were blights upon the spirit world; only the few remaining places of nature were beautiful and pure in this realm.

Damon, as opposed to most of the techno-mages they were fighting against, was well versed with spirits and seemed to actually attract them. Even unlike many of the spirit magicians ‘on his side’, he chose to befriend them, utilizing them through mutual arrangements, rather than by manipulating or dominating them. Damon felt that that type of intercourse would lead to just returns later, when perhaps their fates might some day be reversed.

Already, the Ecstatic could sense spirits around him, not right around him, but he knew they were lurking. They would come to him, too, he knew that. He just hoped that there was at least one friendly spirit so close to this Technocratic construct.

The street was cracked and broken; Damon could feel the heat of the mist pouring out these aphotic cracks: the sallow atmosphere was almost sickening, but he expected no less from this part of the Umbra.

"Come my friends, come to Damon," he whispered, moving slowly, but boldly, through the streets. He was just around the corner from the entrance of the Technocrats' building. Damon did not have far to go, it was just that he did not know exactly what would be standing in his way.

As he moved onto the main street, he saw scattered individuals, walking up and down the street, all of them twisted versions of their mundane selves; some darkened by their own inner perversions, some brightened by who they really were—yet some were not even still resembling human, twisted into both grotesque and simply odd forms. Everyone he saw here was different; he was always caught unaware by some of their forms. The one thing they all had in common, though, was that they were all removed from actual existence in the Umbra. Only the spirit travelers and wandering spirits had the ability to be anything more than a mirror-form of their true selves there. Across the street, he could see the glowing avatars of Cortland and Sebastian; he nodded to himself, noting that they were ready. Then something else caught his eye. In the middle of the street was a large, mechanical spirit—obviously a techno-spirit—one whom had come to attack this intruder into the construct's spirit lands. Damon should not have been surprised; he should have known that this kind of protection could have been, or rather would have been, contracted.

All the Ecstatic had time to do was duck as the spirit flew over him, scraping ever so close with spinning razor blades, all of which were more symbols of its own internal anger of which it actually attacked with, than actual blades. Damon could feel the rush of the acrid air rustle his hair as the spirit flew over him. Damon knew it was not fighting prowess he needed, for that he did not possess, but mastery over spirits, and the knowledge of how to engage in Umbral battle. That he did possess.

Damon spun with a sort of calm rage as he geared for battle; the powers of Spirit magick in the Umbra acted as Life magick did in the mundane world, so Damon knew full well what he had to do. He reached out towards the mechanical spirit and grasped it with spectral hands, tearing its inherent structure apart, shredding its existence. A spirit could not die per se, but it could be destroyed. Damon held no quarter, and after his first assault, the thing lay on the ground, a mess of spirit-tech, sputtering and spilling spirit fluids, slowly dissipating into oblivion.

Damon suspected another guardian was to follow, but he did not see one. This left him in a dead void, surrounded only by the gothic stagnancy of the spirit construct, and the aura of death behind him: all of it oppressive and foul. Damon decided to push on through the uprising steam and the constricting ambiance that made him not the least comfortable; in the Umbra, emotion was more powerful, and here, it was not his ally. He had explored the Umbra before, but rarely so close to a Technocracy outpost. While most technocrats rarely traveled to the Umbra themselves, they were not above contracting certain Conventions of technomages from harnessing spirits to do their bidding, especially when they knew that Tradition mages, being more comfortable with this aspect of reality, might try to use that advantage over them. Thus these technomages would often entrap spirit sentinels and post them as guards over the spirit realms of their constructs.

As Damon looked at where the doors to the office should have been, there was not a door, but rather an enormous gear which blocked the opening. He could see past it in the gaps of the cog, but he could not see how to move it. He pondered it carefully, holding his chin with one hand, the arm of which was resting in the nook of the other arm crossed over his chest. Damon carefully noted the time, as his abilities in the Time sphere allowed him to know both what time it was and exactly how long he had been in the spirit realm. Others depended on his actions, so this was of the utmost importance.

"You can't open the door?"

Damon turned calmly to see what had come upon him.

"Have you tried it yet?" a pale, gray shade of a man asked. He was there, but barely; he was very dim in luminescence and below his waist his form began to taper off and disappear.

"No, Mondago, I haven't," Damon replied.

"You think you'd be used to this crap by now, old man.”

Damon raised his eyebrows.

"You know, you're getting to be a really lazy shaman. You just expect me to walk up and open it for you?" the spirit said.

"My friend, I never said that. I was merely expressing patience."

"You don't have forever," the spirit, Mondago, said.

Damon took a deep breath. It could get on one’s nerves when spirits followed one around and seemed to know everything about you. Such was both the benefit and detraction from being both a natural spirit medium and a spirit magnet.

"I know,” Damon said. Now would you please open it for me? I must ready the Mad Howlers."

"Are you serious?" Mondago asked.

"Very."

"Jesus. Just let me jet first."

"Then don't dawdle," Damon said.

Mondago hovered up to the gear quickly and leaned himself up against it, as if to push it. While he did that, Damon ignored the deep rumbling, scraping noise of the moving cog, and concentrated inward. He focused on who it was he needed to call, all the time igniting his own inner anger, so as to please these mad spirits, and finally, when his anger had become rage, he poured it out in one loud howl which pierced the aphotic night, both sanguine and raspy at the same time, terrifying and pleasing—even Mondago, standing next to the now open doorway shuddered—and surely all the technospirits inside were warned.

"Thank you, my friend, now begone," Damon said to Mondago. The spirit needed no extra talking to. Moving past the fleeing spirit, Damon walked into the hallway; entering the building, he glanced at the pale, translucent, and very plain form of the night guard. Damon stared at the man’s spirit, festering hate for the enemy of his kind; whether the man knew it or not, he was the protector of the Technocracy and thus stood for stagnation, corruption, and the abuse of power. Damon and his confederates stood for the binary opposition: dynamism, purism, and the responsible use of power. He was a part of his team because he had arisen from the stagnation of the Traditions themselves and their misuse of power; he had been distraught and disillusioned by what he had seen in his own comrades and brothers and he would have no more of it. He had been one of the two founders of this team which was only now fully rising from the ashes of defeat, ready to blaze a trail of victory, ready to blaze a fiery, smoldering hole through the souls of those who had taken his best friend, their original team leader, and co-founder from him: from those who had taken his brothers and comrades, and who had taken his world and reality from him and all others, sleeper or awakened. As his bitter feelings and castrated inner hate and rage ejaculated from his spirit avatar, the Mad Howlers rushed past him: demonic tormenting spirits, those of which could materialize and infect the mortals on the other side of the Gauntlet.

The monstrous spirits descended upon the unwitting guard. Damon could feel the terror and pain from the man; before dismissing the thought completely, he wondered if perhaps the man did not deserve such a fate. As fast as they had come they were gone, only snarling at Damon briefly before leaving the scene of death; Damon marked the second feeling of vaccuousness caused by the death of a spirit, even if this spirit had had a mortal shell.

Knowing the outlay of the building, Damon decided to move forward to where Carr and Nathan would be. He did not count on seeing many spirits there, so deep inside a Technocracy holding, and he did not expect many other real people there so late at night. However, as he approached the foyer where Harvey Kinchen's office was, he saw the clustering of more Technospirits: three of them, all bustling, jittery automatons that had small cannons on their arms instead of hands: all of which Damon knew where the spiritual releases for their angst. Nathan and Carr could not be harmed by those types of spirits, unless they were able materialize in the mundane world. Damon did not know if they could, but he did not want to wait and find out.

This very eventuality was the reason Damon had accompanied his teammates, following them through the Umbra. Once again turning his Spirit magick on his own form, he grew spirit-claws out of his hands, moliating his own ethereal form with a potency capable of hurting the insubstantial spirits. Having calculated the strength of a person's swing, he knew that claws growing out of his skeletal forearm structure, approximately a foot beyond his fist, would have more of an impact than claws grown at the ends of each finger, due to the less giving resistance of a fist, versus open, individual, fingers.

Amidst the sooty hallways and sulfuric ash sifting through the air like so many dust motes, Damon trod softly, his head lowered, his hands at his side. Silently approaching the techno-spirits, he gathered his willpower and resolve. He was not a powerful warrior, but if he failed, his friends would die, and that was something his honor would not allow, especially since this aspect of the mission was his plan. As he walked, he also bolstered his spiritual epidermis to protect himself from the angst of the spirit-villains before him. Damon lastly turned his resolve into strength, filling out his spiritual form with unusual power, ripe to be shed on the souls of those lost before him.

The technospirits did not see him until Damon was upon them. The Ecstatic dove directly into the one closest to him and tackled it, snarling bestially. He drove the automaton to the floor, which shook and spewed the fallen ash around them. The other two technospirits were caught off guard, but both turned to see their attacker. Damon, taking advantage of the stunned one below him, lunged at the next closest one and slashed across his midsection; shards of metal and oils that were its own will and angst spilled outward under Damon’s swath of resolve. Undaunted, it turned its arms to strike Damon, but he was already under the appendages' aim. The automaton behind it turned just in time to see Damon dive at it, arms outstretched before him; the thing fired, but was too late. Damon came up and under it, impaling the monster on his claws at the neck, severing its head.

The malefic spirit previously knocked to the ground had recovered enough to fire from the cannons on its arms. Damon, struck in the back, was sent reeling. The techno-spirit stood up and muttered something to the injured one in a foreign, metallic tone, then turned into the office were Carr and Nathan were.

Trying to ignore the burn in his back, Damon pulled himself to his feet, one hand on his back, the other leaning on the umbral wall of the office. The injured spirit was holding its innards in with one arm, the other extended towards Damon, ready to fire. Damon reached out with his hands, the claws hanging over them, and manipulated the Spirit energy before him. The Ecstatic acted just in time, right as the foul energies of the techno-spirit lashed outward. Only, instead of being fried once again, the energy column was diverted just off to Damon's right: close enough that he could feel it singeing his skin, but far enough away to save it.

Damon feinted forward with his right arm, and then dove away to the left. The spirit went with both hands to parry the attack, but in doing so left his injured area open. Relying upon his manipulation of Spirit, Damon attacked the spirit's wound and tore out the its will and angst with a spectral hand, even as he deftly moved past it, ignoring the spirit as it sunk to its knees and fell straight on its face, slowly fading into nothingness.

Damon could not waylay himself with any semblance of sentimentality; instead, he took the aura of death and brought it with him, surrounding his swinging arms with it and launched himself into the doorway, landing his claws in the third and final spirit's back: right through where its heart would have been. Although, it had no heart per se, spirit's timid connection to the living often supplied them with unconscious internal power groupings; Damon knew that and took advantage of it. The spirit fell under the force of Damon's weight; even as it hit the ground, it squirmed and bucked to pull himself off of Damon's spirit claws, but Damon persisted. The Ecstatic re-positioned himself to best utilize his weight to hold the spirit down and drove his claws into the into it even further. Damon did not stop until the spirit stopped moving and his own Spirit sense told him that it would move no more. Damon threw the decomposing thing behind him and watched with satisfaction as his friends performed their part of the mission unmolested and unaware. He quickly scanned the surrounding area for more spirits and was satisfied that there were none.

Wait.

Just as a person in the regular world might catch something out of the corner of their eye, Damon sensed the most flitting, ephemeral presence in the periphery of his spirit sense. Nathan and Carr were his primary wards, so he carefully inspected the spirit-space around them. He might not have seen it had he not seen one of the drawers behind his teammates open slowly. Astounded, he watched a .22 automatic pistol rise out of it and level itself at the back of Carr's skull.

Damon's heart skipped. What spirit was there that he couldn't sense from the Umbra? What could he do and how soon could he manage it? Nearly damned by his own indecision, he finally broke his ponderous reverie and leapt forward through the Umbra again, a glimmering portal barely opening before he leapt through it and into another spirit realm, one known as the Dark Umbra: the land of the dead. There, Damon could see a man in a suit—a torn and dirty suit, but a suit nonetheless—raising the gun and preparing to fire. Damon slammed into the man, simultaneously knocking him into the cabinets of the small office, while pulling the pistol out of the Mundane world and into the Dark Umbra with the two of them. The pistol fired into the air, having been ushered away just in time.

"Who are you?" Damon rasped as the two grappled.

"A friend of Mr. Kinchen," the spirit spat back.

Damon laughed in the thing's face as he held himself only inches away. "Then your eyes are in the wrong place, spirit. Mr. Kinchen is dead."

Immediately the spirit tensed, its eyes going wide and its grip tightening. The repose was enough for Damon to formulate a plan; he knew the thing was a wraith, a tortured soul who had been thrown into a limbo state, one which was an afterlife of neither heaven nor hell, but beyond earth. Only Damon’s slim knowledge of their kind had enabled him to know where to look or to be able to pierce the Dark Umbra to reach him. If this wraith had the power to influence the real world and was indeed a friend of the late Technocracer, then it had to be put out of commission.

Hate began to burn in the wraith's empty eyes and his body tensed for action, but his impetus was arrested by Damon who lashed out first, combining his Prime and Spirit (Prime being the sphere which governed pure magickal energy) and warping the wraith's internal power structure: what to mages would be quintessence, or for wraiths, pathos. Via the path of his Spirit magick, Damon bathed the dead spirit in waves of pain, completely incapacitating him. The wraith's torment unsettled him, but he knew he had little or no choice. Once again using his Spirit scalpel, Damon intruded upon the pathos wave, which was already being warped, and tore it asunder. The wraith screamed. A dark hole of energy crawled up in tentacles from below and swallowed him entirely, dragging him down through the floor and to whatever harrowing fate awaited him thereafter.

Only then did the action catch up with Damon. Although he was not physically strong or skilled, he was hardy and could take quite a pounding before ceding; even so, he was more exhausted than hurt. It was probably his tired state that allowed him to be shocked when he turned around to check on his friends. The walls were cracked and broken, as if worn by time, his friends' bodies were decomposing, and all the furniture was worn away, broken, or gone. His heart skipped a beat before remembering that he was in the Dark Umbra—a place that was also called the Deadlands: both for its inhabitants and how they viewed the real world. It was somewhere Damon had no inclination to linger. The Dark Umbra was simply a disagreeable place for mortal eyes to glance upon and more than that, the Deadlands were not safe for intruders; wraiths tended to be very protective of their turf, jealous as they were that they could do little to influence the world of the living.

Stepping sideways through the Umbra once more, Damon returned to the Near Umbra, tired and harried, but determined to watch over his two allies until they were safe.