Chief Henderson crossed her arms and focused on the suspiciously stained floor. “There’s a lot I want to ask you, but maybe it’s for the best that I don't. Trips to the wine store are already getting expensive. Some feds should be here soon. Private jet from Nevada, I hear. Don’t even know what’s in Nevada---Area 51, maybe? You an alien, Ludo?”
I considered the implications of these terms for a while. A supersonic airboat was ferrying the equivalent of first-ring paladins from a nearby community.
To Johnny Parish, Nevada meant Las Vegas: a garish den of clinking black chips, neon lights, stale smoke, and disappointment. The rest was brown desert.
Area 51 meant a secret military base hidden somewhere far from civilization; many people suspected its purpose was to experiment on aliens, bulbous green humanoids that navigated through the heavens on spaceboats.
Most amusingly, in this universe, the cosmology diverged substantially from my own. They appeared to have incontrovertible proof that their planet was a speck of dust drifting through a void so vast it may as well be infinite. All celestial objects, despite their unimaginable size from a human perspective, were in truth little more than flotsam adrift in an endless sea.
I laughed into my hand. “What deity created all of this nonsense?” Noticing the concerned look on Henderson’s face, I transformed the laugh into a cough. “Pardon, I did not intend to ignore your question. No, I did not travel to your world on a spaceboat. Spaceship, rather.”
“That’s reassuring, I guess.” Chief Henderson absently patted one of her pockets as if searching for something. “You seem like a decent enough guy, so fair warning. These feds are serious. Get on their bad side and they can make your life hell. Cooperate, nod your head, and play their game.”
“Certainly,” I said. “One small matter you brought up does raise some concerns. Why would these feds not allow your men to return to their families after their watch ends?”
Henderson frowned and tilted her head to the side. “Oh, that? I mean, they have to make sure that none of this leaks to the public. There would be chaos if everyone learned what we’re talking about. Come on. Magicians from another world possessing random people? Demons terrorizing coffee shops?”
My hands wrestled with each other. Deceiving your own people to avoid an inconvenient truth?
Such a concept was by no means beyond my comprehension, of course. Many folk in Allara would spread falsehoods at their leisure. But paladins and political representatives swore oaths toward the Noble Virtues, including transparency and proper communication. A lesson learned far too late, after corruption allowed the Goetia to erode the very foundations of our society.
I kept my voice as neutral as possible. “What possible benefit could there be in withholding the truth? If the public was aware of such matters, they could focus their intellect on remedying these issues. Billions of interconnected people working towards a common goal.”
Henderson responded with a chuckle. The sounds of wary amusement faded into an awkward silence. She coughed and patted her pocket again. “The public intellect. God, I need a cigarette. Look, we come from completely different worlds. We have our geniuses and our philanthropists and all that, but a lot of people would take advantage of the situation. You know. Frauds. Fearmongers. There would be riots. Looting. All kinds of people out there looking for any sort of excuse.”
“Oh,” I said, attempting to sound upbeat and pleasant.
“There’s rumors all over the place,” she said, speaking quickly as if desperate to justify herself. “Unexplainable events occurring throughout the world. Random mass casualty events, explosions, altered terrain. There’s a lot of conspiracy theories out there, but I don’t think mages or demons made it into the top ten.”
I applied Johnny’s most charming smile. “Do you believe this world contains more heroes, or more frauds?”
Henderson opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it. She walked over to a nearby desk, seized the top of the chair with both hands, and leaned her weight forward, lost in thought. A full twenty seconds passed, and still she remained silent.
A burst of static from her portable radio interrupted the chief’s meditations.
“9K4. Unmarked black Tahoe on site,” drawled a voice from the speaker. “Driver, two occupants.”
Henderson seemed all too happy to grip the radio and respond. “Copy. Confirm them.”
“ID 10-4.”
The chief smoothed her hair, then the front of her uniform. “Your new best friends have arrived. Maybe you can run your ideas by them.”
* * *
Three men, including the mustachioed Officer Turner, came to escort me from the iron cage.
There was a minor dispute over them attempting to secure my wrists with metal cuffs. After I twisted the thick bracelets into knots to demonstrate the absurdity of such a request, the gentlemens’ demeanor shifted with such abrupt hostility that Henderson was forced to shout for peace.
Though I assured them I felt nothing more than a steadfast refusal to be degraded any further, it proved a valuable lesson regarding any sort of overt magical display.
After receiving the chief’s blessing to proceed without any restraints, the officers led me into a dark interrogation room.
“Anything we can get you?” said Officer Turner in a begrudging tone.
The Johnny Parish Smile settled into place. “A coffee would be just splendid.”
“Coming right up,” he said through clenched teeth.
The door slammed behind them as they departed.
I settled into one of the aluminum chairs, determined to ignore the obvious friction between myself and the others. The more I considered the situation, the more optimistic I felt.
While the local police seemed like a standard non-magical unit, unencumbered by the oaths and etiquette of the Order, the feds were this world’s first-ring paladins. Though few of my peers could be considered perfect, they always conducted themselves with utmost dignity within the public sphere. And, most importantly, they acknowledged good rhetoric.
After five minutes, Officer Turner brought me a styrofoam cup of black coffee, refusing to speak or make eye contact. He tossed a few packets of powdered creamer and sugar onto the table beside it before slipping back out.
With deliberate care I eviscerated the packets and deposited their contents into the cold black liquid. The powdered creamer refused to absorb properly. Since my mustachioed friend had forgotten any sort of stirring utensil, I sat there with my hands folded on the table in front of me, confident that this could be proceeding far worse.
For a long while I stared at the floating clumps of creamer, sifting through Johnny’s memories in an attempt to understand what had gone wrong here. No such answer to be found. From what I gathered, this body’s proper inhabitant mostly relied on others to handle menial tasks. His participation in any sort of dining experience required little more than pouring himself sparkling water from a decanter and selecting appropriate utensils for the course. At least he seemed proficient with forks of various sizes.
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The door opened once again. I opened my mouth to assure Officer Turner there was no need to apologize over a forgotten stirrer, but of course, I would be most grateful to accept one.
A pair of gentlemen in suits entered the room instead. I closed my mouth.
Johnny Parish’s judgmental assessment:
The prettyboy with long hair wore a navy Attolini with an outdated cut and, most offensive of all, his dress shirt looked like some shitty polyester blend. The pink pocket square and Grand Seiko SBGA4813 identified him as the sort who takes fashion advice from the internet. Faintly pleasant hints of an Amouage cologne---Jubilation XXV, or was that Reflection Man? And, of course, tan Ferragamo loafers, well-known for their name and little else.
At least he made an effort, unlike his companion, an older black man who had managed to squeeze his prodigious bulk into the largest tan suit available off-the-rack. A blocky red tie completed his look, apparently modeled after your standard low-level politician fumbling his way through a fundraiser event.
Shoving those unpleasant thoughts aside, I reached out and shook the younger one’s outstretched hand. Solid grip.
He nodded. “Special Agent Biehl.”
“Ludo Edkeis, third-ring paladin of the Shining Goddess, dual high-affinity lightning and metal mage, at your pleasure.”
“Davis.” The older gentleman’s grip was soft and clammy in contrast to his baritone voice. His handshake lasted longer than expected---a tactic to throw me off balance, perhaps.
“Ludo Edkeis, third-ring paladin of the Shining Goddess, dual high-affinity lightning and metal mage, at your pleasure.”
“As you say,” said Biehl in a cheery voice. He adjusted his cufflinks and undid the bottom button of his jacket before slipping into one of the opposite seats.
Cheap metal legs squealed against the floor as Agent Davis dragged his chair closer to the table. Once satisfied with its position, he settled in with considerably less grace than his companion.
Though the younger man drew the eye with his classic good looks and feigned elegance, Davis remained my primary focus. He had a neck like a bull and could likely grasp my entire head in one hand. His appearance felt manufactured to divert attention from his sharp eyes and intimidating bulk.
“So. Ludo,” said Special Agent Biehl, crossing his legs at the knee. He snapped the fingers of his left hand a couple times. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“Parcheesi.” Davis spat the word out as if it was a curse.
“Hm?”
“It’s a board game,” said Davis, leaning forward onto his elbows as if this were some grand accusation against me. “Ludo. We call it Parcheesi in America. Roll a die, get your token to the finish line first.”
Special Agent Biehl slipped a cellphone from his pocket, fiddled with the screen for several seconds, and blinked a few times before putting it away. “Right you are, Davis. Your parents didn’t actually name you after a board game, did they?”
I smiled, hoping the expression reached my eyes. “Mere happenstance. The name Ludo has been passed down my family for centuries, since the time we were minor nobility in Arai. Not to make much of a silly pedigree---many Allarans could likewise trace their roots back to some impressive-sounding ancestor.”
“Edkeis. Arai. Allarans.” Agent Biehl tapped a finger onto the lip of the table after each name for emphasis. “Honestly, it sounds like all of these words are made up.”
“Hm,” I acknowledged, nodding slowly as if he had a point. “Well, surely all words were made up by someone at some point.”
“Hm,” Biehl speculated.
“Hm,” Davis agreed.
Biehl glanced over at his fellow special agent. “Well, Ludo, my partner here does have a ph.D in neurolinguistics from Cornell, so if he’s not going to argue with you, I won’t either.”
“Neurolinguistics means brain words,” said Davis.
I crossed my own legs at the knee and leaned back. “That does seem etymologically sound.”
Davis mimicked my posture until all three of us were in a casual, cross-legged recline. A tombstone grin spread across the older man’s face. The fabric of his trousers strained heroically against tree trunk legs.
“Let’s be honest with each other, Ludo,” said Special Agent Biehl. “I’m already somewhat familiar with what’s happening. We have to be careful not to be misled by impostors, but given the circumstances surrounding your particular reveal, there’s not much point in mincing words. You’re not the first individual we’ve interrogated who’s mentioned the word Allara.”
“Hm,” I said, though the sound came out as more of a pained grunt than the manly interest I intended. The implications of his words had stimulated my mind down various paths.
Biehl broke our symmetrically pleasing arrangement by uncrossing his legs and rapping his knuckles onto the table. “Davis and I are members of a highly confidential agency known as PED, or the Paranormal Encounter Division.”
“PED,” I repeated, testing the feel of the word.
“Exactly,” said Biehl. “We were just formed recently, so the name isn’t set in stone yet. Anyways, the first paranormal encounter was on March 4th, around four months ago. An unknown entity walked into a Kansas City restaurant and slaughtered seventeen people. Tore them apart. The whole scene was a nightmare. Made no sense. But the craziest part was all this water everywhere. Burst pipes. Every glass and pitcher empty. Like someone had manipulated all the water in the area.”
I rubbed my jaw. The similarity to my own introduction to this world made the situation obvious. A paladin had manifested in that restaurant, but water proved a poor element for fighting in most situations. It was unmatched on the ocean and in arctic climates, and integral to the function of big cities, army logistics, desert caravans, and countless other support roles. However, even a master water mage would fare poorly if they were dropped into an unknown world minutes before one of the Errata stopped in for a cup of coffee.
Special Agent Biehl held up a second finger. “March 18th, an unknown entity walked into the Aji Ichiban HQ in Hong Kong and slaughtered fifty-seven people. Absolute bloodbath. Highly suppressed but far too significant not to make a few waves. Confirmed photographs from the scene show sudden adjustments to the surrounding land. Massive dirt pillars, cracks in the ground, stone spikes. Like someone had manipulated the earth.”
I closed my eyes, murmuring a quick prayer to the Goddess to guide all of these lost souls. For the paladins, but also for the innocent victims left in their wake.
“April 1st, an unknown entity walked into the Museo Nacional de Antropología in Mexico City and…”
“I understand,” I said. “How many total incidents?”
Biehl offered a sympathetic look. “Six that we know of. Cursory analysis shows they occur in two week intervals, though for all we know it could be every week. Shit, there could be paranormal encounters every hour at the bottom of the ocean. Maybe some of you Allarans are being reincarnated as lobsters or bacteria living in some puddle of nuclear waste. We just don’t know.”
Fists clenched, I stared at a point on the table, attempting to restrain a flood of emotions. “What do you know?”
“The unknown entities appear to be winning.” Biehl frowned, glancing at my shaking fists. “Your event is the first time we have discovered any physical evidence of these entities ---besides the destruction they leave behind, of course. Based on circumstantial evidence and magical distortions, we were able to identify which corpses seemed to belong to paladins. Some people were speculating that they were causing these scenes, though that theory quickly fell out of favor.”
My fingernails dug into my palms.
“We don’t know the specifics of why this is occurring,” continued Biehl. “There are two main theories. One, you paladins are being sent to these locations to intercept and defeat the unknown entities. Two, the UEs are going to these locations because they know paladins will be arriving there. I tend to favor the second theory. As far as we can tell the only reason for them to target these specific areas is to kill paladins. And as far as tactics go, sending your men into a fight they can’t win seems suboptimal. So, in short, they are hunting you.”
My divine eye slid open of its own accord, suffusing every bit of metal with radiance. Gold and silver energy surged through the walls, glowed in the special agents’ pockets, revealed the location of multiple small cameras scattered about the room.
Shaking my head, I visualized my divine eye squeezing shut. The world returned to normal.
Both of the special agents were on their feet, handguns drawn and pointed my way. No hint of metal throughout the weapons despite their conventional appearance. Some form of durable plastic, perhaps.
I remained very still, keeping my voice soft. “My apologies. Are you gentlemen able to detect magic? I take great pride in my control, but perhaps one deceives themselves after decades of being alone. A little adversity and it seems my iron will was an illusion all this time.”
Davis lowered his firearm, the intensity in his face reverting back to its usual slackjawed facade. “You shook the entire building. Doesn’t take a magometer to detect that.”
I bowed my head over joined hands. “My deepest apologies. A few days of secluded meditation should remedy my lack of control. The thought of so many of my friends being forced to endure such a cruel fate…”
After a few moments, Biehl holstered his own weapon. “I did say that we’ve talked with other people who mentioned the word ‘Allara’. Not every paranormal event has been a hopeless massacre.”
He glanced at his partner. Davis nodded.
Special Agent Biehl took a deep breath. “Have you, by any chance, heard of the name Darius Brand?”