Murdersphere Mosaic [ManXMan] [BoyXBoy]

Chapter 2 Part 3 Installation Complete

I stare into the mirror for nearly ten minutes, immobilized by my own emotional dissonance. I decide to grow a beard at first opportunity. I walk back into the sleeping area to find the door open, and a Lotus Entertainment employee, again in full body armor, waiting for me.

"How are you feeling?" He asks with no preamble.

"I have a mild aversion to mirrors, but I am stable and not currently distressed." I reply.

"What is your name?" He asks.

I think. "It is showtime." I answer. "Exalt, Son of Ayesha of Balobedo. It is shortened to Ayeshason for cultural convenience."

"Where are you from?" He asks.

"I was born in Balobedo." I reply. "But I was raised and educated in Atlantis and that is where I claim as my home."

"How old are you?" He asks.

I frown. "I was twenty-five when Atlantis sank twenty thousand years ago. I ran around for another five years before I was put in suspended animation by my mother. So, at least 20,030 years-old, give or take a few decades."

I wish I could see his face, get a good look at his expression. I do not try to pry into his mind though. There are no other presences in the hall, unless they are machines, or completely invisible to psi.

"What is your profession?" He asks.

"Alchemist and sorcerer." I say. "I guess in modern times that would make me an apothecary of sorts."

"Are you a sorcerer?" He asks.

"I was taught magic by my mother, oldest sister, and a master in Atlantis." I reply. "I am not a great magician, but I am adequate."

"Can you do some magic for me now?" He asks.

That question actually triggers an action. My awareness turns inward, and I feel a facility reach out and sweep the environment looking for telltale signs of "magical" activity. There was nothing here.

"I'm sorry." I say. "This is a dead magic zone. All I have access to are my knacks."

"Those are not magic?" He asks. 

"No." I say, the "old" lessons about why I should not "cheat" with the knacks when I am trying to master magic. "They have completely different metaphysical sourcing."

"Then, show me a knack." He asks.

I think about what I would want to show him, and then I think about what I want to show myself. "Alright."

I float to the kitchenette, grab a plastic spoon and fly back over.

Invisible warmth flows over the hand holding the plastic spoon and I can feel its shape, hardness, its composition and structure in my head. The plastic plasticises, and reshapes: it becomes a rude knife, a rude fork, an ugly plate. "Sorry, I never learned to make pottery."

I return it to its original shape and make it dance in the air while I return it to its place.

"Is that all you can do?" He asks. "Float silverware?"

I extend my mind, finding his curiously unshielded. I only touch him just enough to send a reply. "Nope."

He chuckles.

My mind envelopes the bed, and I test its moorings. It is bolted to the floor. The connectors spin, and unmoor I lift the metal bedframe, box spring and mattress into the air and I levitate myself, dancing a slow waltz in the cramped space.

He pulls a pistol. I can sense his intent to fire.

The world slows down. The air ripples, semi-visible as barrier deflects the torpedo of green light that erupts from the muzzle. He fires several other times, not aiming at me, but looking for the edges of the field. "Complete self enclosure, very good." He puts away the pistol.