Lost Twins

[Arakawa]

I've been gradually nudged towards developing an original fic idea, which happens to be an anthology about the machinations of a sorceress at the New York subway's Lost Property Office, and her naive apprentice. This is the first story, "Lost Twins", meant to test the basic concept and introduce/develop some of the main characters. After writing it, I'll have a good sense of whether developing the concept further is viable.

For now, this is a placeholder thread for posting snippets/notes for easy reference and/or discussion.

This post will eventually be updated with links to plot summary and completed chapters.



Preparatory Notes

• Characters - Simon Molloy
• Characters - Drake Powell
• Characters - Mu Forbis

• Characters - the ghost - todo
• Characters - Simon's genie - todo
• Characters - Rosa Hernández (Rose) - todo
• Supporting Characters - Guard - todo
• Supporting Characters - Mr. Desmond - todo
• Supporting Characters - Mr. Cartwright - todo
• Minor Characters - Jonathan Frost - todo
• Minor Characters - Michael Frost - todo
• Minor Characters - the 'confidence artist'
• Minor Characters - Rose's genie - todo
• Remaining Minor Characters - todo

• Worldbuilding - summoning and libations
• Worldbuilding - christmas elves
• Worldbuilding - greater Bolg - todo
• Worldbuilding - genies - todo
• Worldbuilding - ghosts - todo
• Worldbuilding - bloodline vs. non-bloodline magic users - todo
• Worldbuilding - high frequency stock trading - todo
• Worldbuilding - hidden secondary subway system - todo
• Worldbuilding - veil of ignorance regarding magic - todo
• Worldbuilding - list of schools of magic - todo

• Plot Summary - todo

Lost Twins (first draft)

• Chapter 1 - todo
• Chapter 2 - todo
• Chapter 3 - todo

[Arakawa]

Characters - Simon Molloy

The narrator of this story, Simon is a precocious and intelligent high school student who also suffers from the various failings of an isolated teenager: apathy and aimlessness, a general lack of self-knowledge, a tendency to assume problems with himself are problems with the outside world, and a sense of not having anything worth to work hard for. He is offered a mostly-frivolous internship at a high-frequency trading firm in New York (which apparently intends to evaluate the interns' intelligence and then recommend them to prestigious university financial programs, in order to ensure a long term supply of people willing to work in high finance), and accepts due to feeling a mild curiosity about how the financial world works. By the end of the story, he realizes that his curiosity about hidden corners of society is in fact his defining aspect, the only thing that can motivate him to do more than bear a situation passively. This understanding gives him a fairly sobering sense of his own lack of moral fiber.

Simon introduces himself

Spoiler: ShowHide

When I received the letter from Frost & Prentice stating that they would be interested in offering me a summer internship -- this was prior to my gig at the Lost Property Office -- I was understandably curious. What could I -- an only-mildly-remarkable high school student attending 11th Grade at a municipal Collegiate Institute in the suburban wilds of Ontario -- possibly contribute to the workings of a marvelously efficient and complex high-frequency stock trading operation in the heart of midtown Manhattan? Even as an on-the-off-chance mass mailing to any and all students who happened to rank highly in high school math and programming competitions, it seemed implausible...

To satisfy my curiosity, I answered the letter; one thing led to another and almost before I knew it, I found myself at a job interview. There, I was told not to worry about such questions; the firm would worry about helping my find my field of optimal contribution, while I should instead focus on the valuable learning experience I was about to receive. To me that sounded like a reasonable notion; but, more importantly, I had no idea how this obscure and secretive guild of traders operated, or what sort of sway they held over the hidden affairs of the world. The questions gnawed at me, and (viewing my prospects soberly) that summer would be the one and only opportunity I'd have to find out.

And so it was that I came to New York in the summer of 2012.

I had a blast, at first. So what if people on the street were always tense and wound up? So what if the subway platforms were covered in grime, and the trains never ran on schedule? So what if *everything*, right down to the sidewalks on the street and the convenience store down the road, seemed beat up and, in a word, secondhand?

The city still seemed like a fresh place in the world; the internship seemed an improbably lucky escape from the dreary monotony of passing mutely through my remaining days of high school. The immense concentration of power and authority at Manhattan exuded such a hyperactive magic that, at first, I might sleep scarce four hours a night, yet wake up ultimately refreshed and ready to attack the day before me so vigorously, it might well regain consciousness sometime in the next months still wondering what hit it.

As with an unhealthy drug, this high could only be reliably attained for about the first two weeks. Afterwards, I was forced to reacquaint myself with waking to an alarm clock, fighting every last cell in my organism that cried out for sleep and rest and idleness in some calm, cottageous region of the world, and then dragging myself with the utmost effort to work.

Things would start to get seriously sour once I'd entered the elevator and observed yet again that I was the youngest person among those going up. What is more, everyone in the elevator would be going to a different office, each dealing with its own trivial and incomprehensible slice of the grand scheme of human affairs.

"... take your kids to work day today, or something?"

At a glance, the man who addressed me in the crowded elevator appeared to be several shades more important in his bearing than even my boss's boss (who himself cuts a pretty impressive figure). That was strange, because at the same time -- in contravention of all the invisible laws that govern the upper circles of finance -- he was holding, with his very own hands, a chihuahua on a leash, which creature was frantically sniffing every surface available at ankle level. (Who brings a chihuahua into an office building?)

After a short, awkward silence, I realized that not answering would make the inquiry sound like a heckle, in spite of the fairly friendly tone. There was just one problem, which was that my voice was not conducive to speaking. The muscles of the throat suffered from some kind of spasms, that no amount of therapy was able to fix... in any case my voice sounded like someone dying of suffocation, or perhaps someone already dead. This has always led me to prefer the company of books to that of people, and cultivate my capacity with the written word to the exclusion of all else. I'm frequently told that I've achieved a bit too much success with that last endeavor.

In any case, it's not like I could do small-talk in written form. So I opened my mouth, and the voice of the dead filled the elevator:

"No... summer intern. High frequency trading."

There were a lot of mildly disapproving looks, followed by a stony silence that signified no possibility of exchanging wisdom.

I would have added that my resume had been solicited after I'd placed third in Canada in a high school programming competition, except that this would probably just be understood the wrong way. ("A what competition? Huh? So you won some contest to get here?")

Even inside the one firm I was working with, the various affairs and errands of Frost & Prentice were siloed and isolated. I had really nothing to learn from anyone I encountered outside of the narrow circle of people I was directly concerned with. If I so much as tried to ask the details of their labours, chances were that I would find the answers just as opaque and unenlightening as the answers I myself would give if a someone were to ask me the same kinds of questions. As the silence continued, the elevator doors would open to a haze of fluorescent light and I would make my way into the office —

— where, finally and most devastatingly, was to be found idleness. This feeling may be familiar to you, or it might be difficult to understand, it merits an entire book devoted to just explaining it, perhaps, but few people would read such a dreary volume and so I will restrict myself to revisiting the notion later, when it seems relevant. (Really, once you understand _what_ high frequency trading really is, you'll immediately wonder what business they had hiring interns out of high school.) I will say that, in the end, it was not too different from the idleness I'd escaped in high school. There I'd felt myself misplaced into an environment where my purpose was not to pursue some overarching goal, but merely to avoid unwanted attention – something that could just as easily be attracted by too zealous labour as by too much procrastination.

With my internship, I once again felt misplaced, in almost exactly the same fashion. The only difference was that, as I avoided sticking out, and waited patiently for nothing to happen, money kept pouring into my bank account all the while, far beyond any amount previously conjured by the sheltered imagination of a high school student. And, most depressingly, it came in exactly the same fashion almost, but not quite, no matter what I did. I was misplaced into my job, while some hypothetical ideal intern's payroll was being misfiled to my account.

So in a very narrow and fanciful sense of the word, I was doing my utmost to imitate an item of lost property on a subway train.

Partial scene -- Simon Cross-examined by Powell (note: as a result of various circumstances - i.e. a genie - Simon now has a normal speaking voice)

Spoiler: ShowHide

"Name?"

"Simon Molloy."

"Where d'ya live? Parents around?"

{Gist of answer: I lived alone, of course, in a cramped studio apartment in Brooklyn, paid for by the company.}

"Hmm. Where are your parents?"

{Gist of answer: My parents were, in fact, back home in Toronto.}

"Ah, not from around here, I see. How are you liking New York? This your first time here?"

"It's... okay here, I guess. I went on a trip here just once. That was... also okay."

"Just okay? The Big Apple not merit any adjectives or anything?"

"Well, on the last trip here it was confusing and bewildering. Now I think I'm getting used to it. Not sure if I'll ever be able to think of it as home."

"Hm." Powell answered, looking away from me at the ceiling.

There was a brief moment of silence for my sense of wonder at the novelty of New York. I realized that I hadn't even gone up the Statue of Liberty yet.

"Okay, Simon Molloy. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to listen to you list off any and all people who could have planted that genie on you. That means anyone you've been even the least bit in contact with in the past... oh, I don't know. Since you arrived here in New York, I guess. I ask you some intensely probing personal questions about those people, take some notes. Then after I'm done stripping your New York experience to the bone, I probably stare at the notes for an hour, give up in disgust and burn the paper to ensure Forbis doesn't snoop through it, then send you on your way with some friendly advice."

She stood up and leaned over me until she was practically blowing smoke in my face. Her voice dropped to a dangerous, low tone as she gave me the advice in question.

"Namely, I wouldn't use that genie if I were you. Not for more frivolous wishes, not for less frivolous ones. Take her out once a week, give her the attention she needs, and stuff her back in the notebook double quick and be sure that no one, I mean no one, knows about her."

Sitting back down behind the table, Powell seemingly relaxed and threw her arms wide in a noncommital gesture.

"I don't know, I'm not exactly Sherlock J. Holmes here. But I owe you to take a good hard look at this situation, because, while having a genie you know about chasing you sounds pretty good, I know all about 'too good to be true' and I'm thinking that's exactly what I'm looking at here. You don't seem like the kind of guy I want to be involved in this mess. And, who knows, I might find some lead that'll help you out. If not, I'll wish you good luck... in any case, in the interests of good old-fashioned paranoia, let's have that list, shall we! Anyone you know in New York, anyone at all!"

{Some dithering on the part of Simon regarding invasion of his privacy, dispelled quickly when Powell quietly threatens to hand the case over to Department of Homeland Security instead. They'd certainly be interested in an unaccounted-for genie that seemingly dropped out of nowhere.}

The list, when I finally scraped the dregs of social interaction from the depths of my memory, was surprisingly and embarrasingly short. Even down to the guy at the deli counter I bought sandwiches from, the list of people I knew in New York (essentially speaking, the minimal criteria were remembering their appearance and meeting them more than once) numbered in the ballpark of fifty. However, what Powell seemed particularly irritated and bewildered by was my inability to specify salient details of interaction. There weren't many to specify. What exactly was important about most of these people and my relation to them? That co-worker so-and-so jibed me once in a while about my taste in lunch purchases?

So the masses of private, personal and sensitive information that Powell had been aiming to extract from me were simply not there. This was probably the most embarassing aspect of the whole affair so far. I didn't even have anything worth dithering about.

"Okay... this really isn't much to work with. It sounds to me like someone not on that list could've been observing you from far off without you even knowing, and picked you as a socially isolated target. I'm not sure what kind of scheme you could concoct with a socially isolated target and a cute genie, but... hmm. Interesting. Stupid and cruel, but interesting. I'm pretty sure they're not doing that, though."

"Wait, what?"

"Well, if I specifically wanted to ruin your life, I could probably concoct something with that kind of genie. Then again, I could also concoct something that didn't require me to toss away a genie. But you're a nobody; who would even want to ruin your life? No, someone has to know you, specifically, and be using you as a means to some larger end. Again, large enough to waste a genie on. Not sure there's many people in the city patient enough to apply means so small -- meaning you, not the genie of course -- to an end so big. But then you're not a target, you're specifically selected to be a cog in a precisely engineered plan. In that case, there's a small set of people to consider who would know you well enough to be sure of your suitability for their purposes..."

"Wait, I don't understand what..."

"The plan they're using you for? I honestly have no idea. Genies try to discern and grant your innermost wish, normally without you being aware of it. They are also very resilient and powerful in that tendency. Hard to mess with the genie end of the equation. So your innermost desires are either irrevocably messed up, or someone is trying to warp them."

I gave up. This paranoid notion of this strange girl had dragged me back out of Brooklyn and halfway up Manhattan, one could say from the very doorstep of my apartment where I'd been hoping to rest, extracted from me a mass of irrelevant personal detail, and ended up as a strange speculation I did not understand and did not want to believe. So, some incomprehensible forces may or may not have dropped a magical being in my lap for unknown but perhaps extremely sinister purposes. That is, if I had a good reason to believe the teenage girl sitting across from me, smoking her cigarette as though it was the most perfectly natural thing to do at that age.

Dubious. No, not dubious... next to what I'd seen, I just didn't have any point of reference to determine what was plausible truth and what was fanciful imagination.

A part of me noted vaguely that I had every right to protest at this point, saying that what I'd heard was ridiculous (but next to what? next to a genie in my pocket? next to an entire parallel subway system crammed with goblins? ridiculous next to what?) and that I would get going while the night was still young, as I had work tomorrow and needed my rest. But out of long habit, I remained silent, since I did not frequently need to take such a demonstrative stand with anyone. People either gave me what I want, or I didn't deserve what I wanted most of the time. I was also used to my few, resoundingly hoarse interruptions being unwelcome, and Powell showed no signs of slowing down such that I'd either be able to cut her off, or need to prod her into some other deliberation:

"Anyhow, that's about what I expected to come out of this in terms of insight. Not much to go on. Though, surprisingly, the list is far more narrowed down than I thought it could be." she said, clearing her throat insolently to indicate the reason why it was so narrow. "Now, the far more promising thing to do if we're trying to sniff out this 'sabotaged genie' business, is just ask the genie. C'mon."

The second one probably belongs more properly in my next post about Powell, but it happens to amply illustrate Simon's haplessness.

[Muphrid]

The scene with Powell paints her as a no-nonsense, amiable, intelligent woman.  She comes off as having good intentions and the knowledge to back those intentions up with a good course of action.  How much of that is correct based on a single scene is harder for me to discern.  Simon does seem a bit lost trying to track down any meaningful interactions with people, but given that this is my first experience with Powell, I feel like much more of my attention is on her than on him.  Her threat to rat him out to DHS if he protests too much will come off differently based on her tone.  Given the rest of the passage, I expect she won't be too nasty about it; such would be inconsistent with her tone (a tone that changes only when she warns him earnestly about the dangers of the genie, and since that seems sincere, that comes off fine).

[Arakawa]

Characters - Drake Powell

"Drake Powell," she announced, indicating herself. "I'm with the Lost Property Office. You have an item to turn in?"

My first impression of her was somewhat misleading. Drake Powell was a fairly plain, clean-faced teenager, who looked to be slightly younger than myself. She was wearing a long brown skirt that reached well below her knees, and an impeccably clean short-sleeved white shirt with a collar carefully folded just so. A nondescript, oversized tan coat hung carelessly from the shoulders all the way down to knee height and, oddly enough, added another bit of professionalism to the look; though as a rule, Powell never actually wore the sleeves of it. Hair was short enough to not look out of place even on a boy, and strangely tousled to boot, but in a way which might be handwaved as being vaguely cute. (Probably, I guessed, it's hair somewhere in between wavy and curly, the kind that isn't easy to style in a coordinated fashion. She wrestles with it in the mirror for five minutes each morning, then declares the result to be good enough before turning her mind to more practical matters.)

The only things wrong with the picture were Powell's apparent claim to represent the MTA in a position of responsibility at her age, plus eyes that seemed to reflect some kind of light that wasn't there and give her expression a sardonic edge, plus the fact that she was presently breaking several laws at once by unabashedly smoking a cigarette.

Such facts do not add up to any coherent picture of a person's role in society, and so I didn't know how to properly respond to her inquiry. Instead I just stared.

"What?" Powell tilted her head and laughed quietly. "Bad habit I picked up in the fifties."

To start with, just a few notes on the character before I share any additional scenes.

Spoiler: ShowHide

Drake Powell was working at the Lost Property Office since before all the latest batch of bureaucrats were hired there, and, apparently possessing the secret of eternal youth, will likely still be working at the Lost Property Office after the latest batch of bureaucrats is gone. This incredibly dull-seeming vocation doesn't square very well with her status as the self-proclaimed 'greatest magician in North America'.

Being that self-assured, Powell does not really care for anyone's opinion. While she does not have bad intentions towards anyone in particular, she finds it very easy to treat people as means to an end (or obstacles before a goal, depending on how genuinely useful they are). In some situations, she also comes across as very cynical and paranoid by modern standards, having been around far longer than her outward age suggests and being accustomed to a mentality that was far more prevalent in the Cold War United States.

She is rarely seen actually working magic to solve problems, preferring to avoid difficult situations that need to be solved with magic in the first place. Where she can't avoid a problem, she prefers to take advantage of existing magic already in place, using a discipline such as Disputation. Where she can't turn existing magic to her needs, she prefers to pull favours with her various connections to do the job for her. Only if that fails is she generally seen to even consider doing more than a trivial cantrip of her own accord. This means that hardly anyone has a good measure on her actual level of ability, and whether or not it matches up to her lofty claim.

At the same time, her solutions to a situation are frequently highly disproportionate relative to what is actually necessary. Her preference for indirect solutions means that she often has the choice of whether or not she wants to intimidate by acting as though she has great power, or to avoid attention by distancing herself from responsibility for what is happening. By doing the latter, she can maintain the appearance of a consummate bureaucrat who has no room for personal discretion in an affair, even though the reality of things is practically the complete opposite.

Her initial impression of Simon is that he is perhaps intelligent in some respects, but certainly a hapless rube who has become entangled in a situation he can't be entrusted to handle on his own. When she revises her opinion of his potential later on and considers him as an apprentice (for reasons beyond the scope of this story), her ambiguous impression makes it slightly difficult for her to convince Simon that she is, in fact, a formidable magician worth studying under. (As she points out herself, a firsthand demonstration of magic is not really helpful in this regard. How obvious a working is has little bearing on how useful it is -- the effects that make it obvious are mere illusionism and window dressing, one step above stage magic, and completely divorced from the actual useful effect which is rarely conspicuous.)

Update: some scenes involving Powell

DHS threat

Spoiler: ShowHide

{insert Simon dithering}

"Look, let me be level with you, Molloy, you're a nice kid, I don't want you to get into any trouble. But that's my current opinion; before I took a closer look at you, I was expecting I'd just fill out the obligatory paperwork and be kicking you and your genie straight over to the Department of Homeland Security as a hazardous materials case. Because there is ample cause to suspect that the genie is being used in a malicious manner."

What? This talk of handing me to a security agency was coming out of absolutely nowhere!

"Wait, hold on a second. If you're obligated to report me to an agency like that," my now-treacherous tongue started to give voice to my question, "then why didn't you... why aren't you doing it? I mean, already?"

Powell grimaced, and proceeded to massage her forehead with one hand and spell out the matter for me in excruciating detail:

"Because what consistutes hazardous materials is a matter of discretion on the part of the MTA representation. That is, myself. As I said, I suspect that the genie is being employed by someone in a malicious manner that would preclude you from making use of it safely, and particularly if you don't want to deal with the DHS it is your responsibility to investigate the matter to your own satisfaction, so you can at least rest well at night without worrying for your own safety and the safety of other people. Haven't you read any of the admonitions against thoughtless dalliances with supernatural beings? Now, I need this information because I am choosing of my own free will to throw away my time and help you to do that, even though I have no possible reason to care about you. Especially because I have no possible reason to care about you, I am unlikely to care about taking advantage of you or of your petty personal details. Or, are you genuinely ready to go turn yourself in to the DHS because you have nothing to fear from them?"

The effect of this diatribe was to largely to make me shake my head and murmur something vaguely to the negative.

"Oh my, how unpatriotic," Powell noted mildly, completely ignoring the fact that I hardly had any patriotic obligations to the United States government in the first place. "I have sympathy for you, though. Becoming material evidence in a security investigation is hardly a night on the town. Anyhow, let me just start with the basics. You're working here in New York? Going to school? If you just loiter about aimlessly all day, you've gotta do that somewhere, too. Let me hear about that kind of stuff."

"I work at Frost & Prentice." I began.

This was... just great, I didn't even have much cause to fear the DHS (or so I kept telling myself), I was merely under the impression that the DHS dealt with real things, not... whatever was going on right now. So, either way, dragging them into this situation felt like it would have been counterproductive to my sanity....

"...." Powell inclined her head for me to further elaborate on my workplace.

"It's a small high-frequency trading company."

She seemed to latch onto the words and savor them for a moment.

"High frequency trading... really? You're a financier then. Congratulations," Powell stated without the least bit of sincerity, "sounds like you're a big deal already. I'm starting to imagine a few people might be out to get you, huh?"

"No, it's... much simpler than that."

"Oh."

I explained {the internship and the bit about how Simon was hired into it -- perhaps removing the corresponding part of the introduction}.

"God damn it," Powell gave one of her soundless laughs, which unexpectedly left me feeling hurt that she didn't think more of my position. "That's rich. Anyhow, so if you work you must have a boss and everything? What kind of guy is he?"

{segue into the next bit of the scene: by this kind of goading interrogation, Powell determines the full set of Simon's interactions to her own satisfaction}

the noble and high discipline of Disputation (heavy spoilers of stuff near the ending, but not of the actual resolution)

Spoiler: ShowHide

"Should've gone to the DHS..." I groaned.

The almost-completed One World Trade Center building was looming above us. Across from me stood Rose and, far more importantly, stood the angry ghost that wanted to destroy New York, making me wonder if the World Trade Center plaza had become irreconcilably cursed in the past few decades or something to suffer such incidents.

In short, I could indeed now understand what Powell meant when she said that the DHS might have been interested to know about this.

Powell was standing between us after the fashion of a referee, having obtained (of all things) a violin from somewhere. She grimaced at what I said, while the ghost merely laughed.

"You think so, boy?" said the ghost. "Let me tell you this -- if that notebook were to fall to some obscure office in that department that thirsts for its power -- if I were to thus have the chance to place some self-righteous secret agent with the full authority of the government across from young Rose the convenience store clerk here, Rose who's never had the slightest moment of power nor luck in her short life, there would be such destruction... for what else would they be able to agree on, but that the city of New York is not to their liking? Yet their desires and means to attain them would be irreconcilable."

Powell shrugged at this.

"You're very focused on these two irrelevant rubes, sir," she interjected coldly. "What am I to you, chopped liver?"

"Almost," the ghost frowned. "You are an interchangeable cog who will perform your designated role in this ritual."

"Well, no." Powell countered. "I happen to be none other than the best magician in all of North America. And, among other things, a virtuoso of the noble and high art of Disputation."

"That's immaterial. You're here in the capacity of a familiar spirit. I put out my job advertisement. You, of your own free will, were able to answer it. You are bound to perform the duties of the ad as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow. These foolish children will state their wish; I will see into their hearts and witness that what they see is true; and I conjure that you will join the two genies to enact the vision into reality."

"Yeah, old man, but who says that might have anything to do with what you wanted, or what you thought you were asking me for? Pfft, when a contract gets laid down on paper, it's still so inexact that you want to have your teams of lawyers quibbling over it back and forth. When it's a thought-impression you send into the ether, though, what's to say that your understanding of the situation and of your own demands is at all accurate to what the Court of Truth will hold it to be?"

"I saw clear enough what it is I have done and what it is that must happen."

"Oh, I get the picture. That's exactly what I'm going to take and I'm going to twist it ten ways to Sunday before I'm through, here. The results might still be messy, but that's only because I'm a bit of a hater, myself," Powell carried on in an incongruously cheerful manner, "and so I've known exactly the sorts of feelings you're being driven by, and so I have some room for creative interpretation in how I carry out your demands."

She trailed off into a brief and significant moment in which the old man's ghost (while physically unable to turn pale) visibly lost composure.

"How?" he snarled.

"I'm not about to give a long lecture on contempt and pride and the desire to drag everyone down to your level. But, suffice it to say, I'll find a way to reconcile that against the childish notion that everything should go up in a huge fireball. To start with, I can combine the genies in any number of relations. The resulting perspective and jurisdiction will be vastly different. Why, in one sense, New York -- the idea that built this metropolis -- might be thoroughly destroyed already, there's hardly anything left to do but for ignorant mortals to properly appreciate this fact and abandon the city to its own inevitable ruin! An enhanced clarity of perception, you know, wouldn't that be a really terrible thing to visit on a place like Manhattan? See, if you'd settled for choosing some mediocre mumbler of incantations, you might have gotten what you want, but no, you had to have the best of the best...."

"That will not give what either of us demands! If people are not swallowed by the flames, if they just up and move, the pestilence will move with them. But you will not be rid of me either, I have no lack of time now, I will follow that pestilence to the ends of the Earth and I will get what I want..."

"... but you're not getting it right now anyways. See? This is exactly what I warned Simon here about. You don't thoughtlessly consort with beings and powers you do not understand. And, old man, here's a shocker for you, that doesn't stop being a rule after you're dead. Now, I'm losing my patience with the conversation. Rose, was it?" She adressed herself to the clerk standing unblinkingly across from me. "Let's hear what it is you want these genies to do."

{NOTE: now, the ritual commences. Probably in the actual scene, the banter
would come interspersed in the ritual, so that the ghost doesn't know upfront that he's been thwarted.}

OMAKE: good old-fashioned paranoia

Spoiler: ShowHide

After she had finished crossing the street, the first thing Powell looked at was the paper cup holding my latte. She was staring at it as though it was an amusingly stuffed dead animal.

"You paying good clean American money for that stuff, Molloy?"

"Yes. Yes I am. Why?"

"You could save a lot of cash just carrying a thermos," she pointed out, rummaging in her coat for one. "Forbis was just brewing some kind of fennel tea thing. Want some?"

"No, I... already have this to drink. Shouldn't let it go to waste."

She took hold of the cup and lifted up the lid unceremoniously to determine that what I had was a sugary latte.

"'Wasting' that stuff? Feh! Throw that away and have some of mine! I'm fairly sure Forbis has nothing to gain from poisoning my tea, if that's what you're worried about."

"...."

[Muphrid]

What, if I may ask, is the reasoning for the name Drake?

Finding out just how young Powell is meant to appear required me to correct my image of her somewhat, but it does make for a curious character.  I think I'll have to see more scenes with her to judge her manner and methods when attacking a task, though.

[Arakawa]

What, if I may ask, is the reasoning for the name Drake?

Complicated to explain without ruining the backstory. I'll say she's named after Sir Francis Drake, whynot, and I won't go into the family history behind that naming right now. It's not as interesting as the story behind 'Mu Forbis', in any case.

If there are any specific ways that name is odd (besides it just being not a girl's name), it might be good to have the issue lampshaded in-story, though. Thoughts?

EDIT: given the reaction to the unexpected remaining details, it occurs to me that starting with visual descriptions for the characters described from now on would be a good policy. Simon can be the exception, being the closest thing to an everyman in this story...

[Muphrid]

The name just seemed like something that might have a story behind it.  It's definitely unique.

Starting with a visual description does seem like a helpful thing to do, both here and in-story.  I can't speak for anyone else, but I definitely try to visualize what's happening, and while I've never been fond of writing out every detail of a character's clothing or anything like that, a few visual cues to give something to build on can't hurt.  I think you strike a good balance here.  Hair, face, a little bit about the clothes, and the coat is a nice touch.  That's plenty and doesn't feel overdone.

[Arakawa]

Added a couple of Powell scenes to the character post above.

[Muphrid]

All the italics in Powell's big paragraph of the DHS scene makes it sound like she cares more about this situation than her otherwise snarky attitude and tone might indicate.  I'm not sure if that's what you intended.  The same could be said of the coffee scene.  It's interesting that she chooses to replace Simon's drink rather than just laugh at him for his foolishness.  Is this a level of depth you're trying to get at specifically, or does it run contrary to what you have in mind for the character's attitude and ideas?

I admit, I'm not entirely happy with my personal mental image of Powell yet.  It seems difficult for me to bring together the right voice, look, and body language that match what I think her words should get across.  I try to picture her with an abjectly indifferent attitude, but she seems to care too much (or at least find this too interesting) for that to fit.  That may have nothing to do with what you've written, though.

[Arakawa]

All the italics in Powell's big paragraph of the DHS scene makes it sound like she cares more about this situation than her otherwise snarky attitude and tone might indicate.  I'm not sure if that's what you intended.

Hmm, that's probably appropriate relative to the fact that there's a narrator and that's the portion of Powell's attitude that he happens to perceive (or the part that Powell wants him to perceive). That works because, if that's your impression, it means the diatribe doesn't come across as just a crude mobster-like "I wouldn't want to see something bad happen to you" threat. What makes it not just a threat should be that Powell's sympathy comes across as genuine.

As to what Powell is really thinking behind the words, it's complicated.

Spoiler: ShowHide

On some level Powell means exactly what she says. She knows Simon (based on her current impression) is in a situation he can't handle, and in the cosmic scheme of things doesn't deserve to be entangled in.

But on a more fundamental level Powell is almost always maintaining an inventory of powerful magical resources that exist out there. (An improbably large percentage of artifacts with unknown natures or obscure properties pass through the Lost Property system.) Where they are, who nominally controls them, what and how she can make use of them for if she feels the need. The genie is definitely on that list -- they would've talked to her (informally, preceding Powell's formal interrogation) in the preceding scene, and Powell privately saw a few clues that this might be a particularly powerful specimen. Seeing it end up with the DHS is a suboptimal outcome for her, since that limits what she knows about its further destiny, and it limits the ways she can make use of that knowledge. (a.k.a. "Yeah, it's safe in some Warehouse 13 somewhere, along with a bunch of other artifacts of doom.") Not to mention, she also doesn't know who planted the genie, and why, and that could be important to know -- it's good to be aware of which people are trying secret ploys for power in the city. She also does't really trust the DHS to handle the genie in optimal fashion -- it's a powerful resource, and would most likely cause bureaucratic infighting over which government agency gets to control it once it's 'clean'. (No, Simon wouldn't get to keep it under any circumstances. Imagine if he'd picked up a fleet of fighter planes.) So Powell wants to take control of the situation herself, do her own investigation of things, and wind up the most informed person around on the matter. This is her path to becoming and remaining the most powerful magician around -- always knowing something that the other person doesn't know. This is not just a matter of knowing more spells than the other person, it's a matter of knowing things that make the hassle and moral hazard of weaving new spells unnecessary.

The fact that she sincerely suspects that the genie being found by Simon just lying there on a subway train is part of some malicious setup, and the fact that she can bring herself to sincerely want to help Simon, happens to be a significant advantage in that regard. If it was a disadvantage, then she'd be pushing those feelings aside and playing up her stiff professionalism. (UPDATE: well, relatively stiff. It's something we'll see her using on other people.) But it isn't, and it incidentally makes it possible for Simon to contemplate becoming her apprentice (once she starts to consider him for that role).

I'm not certain that it'll take just one story to drive home this point narratively.

The same could be said of the coffee scene.  It's interesting that she chooses to replace Simon's drink rather than just laugh at him for his foolishness.  Is this a level of depth you're trying to get at specifically, or does it run contrary to what you have in mind for the character's attitude and ideas?

Primarily, by that point he's an apprentice. Powell has a somewhat proprietary attitude towards him, and thus will tend to ridicule and seek to adjust any habits he has that she thinks are counterproductive and/or strike her as downright stupid for trivial reasons. (Being GI Generation, she's seen a lot of cultural change and historical unpleasantness in a short period of time. Being Powell, she paid attention to it and decided that much of the cultural progress of the 20th century wasn't an improvement on what came before.) Given that she thinks Simon can become a top-tier magician, this means that any aspect of his life that might hinder his attainment of that level, no matter how trivial, is under examination.

You can read all sorts of alternate interpretations into the way they interact, and to some extent the characters are designed to have that tension. But it's by no means the foremost aspect to their relations.

That scene was written mostly to indicate that Powell thinks someone poisoning her tea is a natural notion to consider. Whereas Simon (at least at that point) just doesn't expect anyone to even think in those terms. To even ask the question is kind of weird, of course.

I admit, I'm not entirely happy with my personal mental image of Powell yet.  It seems difficult for me to bring together the right voice, look, and body language that match what I think her words should get across.  I try to picture her with an abjectly indifferent attitude, but she seems to care too much (or at least find this too interesting) for that to fit.  That may have nothing to do with what you've written, though.

Hmm. That points to some things I could play up in the scenes I'll be writing from now on. Not going to say what I'll be playing up, so as not to bias your mental image -- we'll see if I succeed in conveying the image I have of her. (The exact mental image is not something you'd get out of the reasoning I've posted so far. In some ways it's the most difficult to convey because the image came first, and the reasoning about how Powell thinks and behaves proceeds from it...)

[Muphrid]

Primarily, by that point he's an apprentice. Powell has a somewhat proprietary attitude towards him, and thus will tend to ridicule and seek to adjust any habits he has that she thinks are counterproductive and/or strike her as downright stupid for trivial reasons. (Being GI Generation, she's seen a lot of cultural change and historical unpleasantness in a short period of time. Being Powell, she paid attention to it and decided that much of the cultural progress of the 20th century wasn't an improvement on what came before.) Given that she thinks Simon can become a top-tier magician, this means that any aspect of his life that might hinder his attainment of that level, no matter how trivial, is under examination.

So it's kind of a "everything you do reflects on me and how I've taught you, even your choice of coffee" sort of thing?  That's reasonable.

Minor note: I notice you mostly refer to it as the DHS.  I think, unlike the FBI or the CIA, it's mostly referred to popularly as just DHS, for whatever reason. (I checked the wiki article on DHS just to see if I wasn't crazy on this point, and the usage is predominantly as I describe, it seems.)  Powell could deviate from this practice reasonably given her background, though.

[Arakawa]

So it's kind of a "everything you do reflects on me and how I've taught you, even your choice of coffee" sort of thing?  That's reasonable.

Well, 'reasonable' isn't exactly the word I'd use. But it's not too far from what she thinks. Mostly she feels the coffee is a stupid waste of money. And she has no qualms about seeming impolite pointing such things out. Imagine if you saw someone regularly buying $50 processed cheese sandwiches.

Minor note: I notice you mostly refer to it as the DHS.  I think, unlike the FBI or the CIA, it's mostly referred to popularly as just DHS, for whatever reason. (I checked the wiki article on DHS just to see if I wasn't crazy on this point, and the usage is predominantly as I describe, it seems.)  Powell could deviate from this practice reasonably given her background, though.

Hmm, so either Simon or Powell should stick to the standard usage. Not sure. Simon would be less likely to know it. But Powell has more room for such eccentricities. I'll decide later.

[Arakawa]

Posted another Powell scene character post above (under 'discipline of Disputation'). Not entirely satisfied with it, yet.

There's a whole pile of issues with the ghost's voice (and how its pompous style of speaking affects the way *everyone else* talks to it) that I'll worry about when covering that character. For now, I'm more concerned about Powell's proposed resolution to the situation.

Spoiler: ShowHide

It has to be a competent way to 'save' New York and much preferable to the ghost's desire for everything to be consumed Sodom and Gomorrah-style, but also very morbid in its own way. Also I'm not clear on what Powell's own attitude should be towards poetic justice and to what extent she'd be sincere in the notion that New York should simply be allowed to deteriorate into a mockery of itself after the manner of Detroit, or even worse.

I think I'll at least need to rewrite to emphasize what exactly the clarity of realization that Powell's modification of the wish produces should be: "New York is a basket case. The most prudent thing to do isn't to stay in the rat race here, but get the hell out. All of the pretty dreams telling us otherwise are delusions."

Besides the fact that Powell is severely fed up regarding the direction the city (and America in general) is going and would think its ignoble destruction a richly deserved consequence of its failings, she also has ambitions *somewhere* of making it a better place. But it's probably difficult to hold on to the notion of it being worth the effort when you're mostly contending with things like a wronged and angry ghost clamoring for its destruction -- in itself evidence that you're facing an insurmountable problem.

Edit: oh, and of course there's the whole question discussed earlier on IRC on the extent to which it's safe and tasteful to reference the World Trade Center... this issue should be more clear with this bit of context visible. Opinions?

[Arakawa]

Also, I might get a few odd looks when Powell says that the idea that built New York (having to do with such things as, say, the American Dream as it was understood, say, in the 1920s and 1930s) is pretty much destroyed. This is at odds with many stories where you would hear the villain being confronted by defiant assertions such as "you might destroy New York, but you can't destroy an idea!"

To give one example of what I mean, the Romans worshipped various weird gods and said hackneyed-sounding things such as "if you wish to have peace, prepare for war." (Contrast Einstein: "one cannot simultaneously prepare for and prevent a war.") Whether or not the Romans' ideas had merit, they're pretty much dead in many circles of society nowadays, to the extent that it's difficult to imagine restoring them to life. To take another sense of the word that might be relevant, many incredibly wishful alchemical ideas of the past have been obliterated in real life by a more complete understanding of chemistry and of the limits and conditions on what it can accomplish.

This is probably something I ought to think about working into the actual fic, but because it's a fairly involved bit of commentary I'm not sure at this stage where or if it'll fit in. So I'll address it here, but I'm not going to worry too much about shoehorning it into the actual narrative.

[Muphrid]

Regarding the new disputation scene:

It seems that Powell must be quite confident--cocky even--to announce that she can twist the ghost's demands in any number of ways.  Is it smarter for her to announce it so plainly rather than keep that little tidbit to herself?

(This may be more about cluing the audience in to her plans, but the question, and the impression it gives of Powell, remains.)

Powell seems to be very good at rules lawyering.


Is your vision of Powell's resolution her idea to have everyone realize what New York's become and feel inclined to abandon it?  Or is it something much more radical than that?  If it's the former, that in itself could be pretty significant, given it touches on the idea of magic touching everyone's mind.


I think the WTC reference is fine.


I think Powell's feelings that whatever built this city is long gone is appropriate.  She has the added perspective of decades to bring to her point of view, and it's not unexpected that she might have a very different viewpoint than a contemporary person.