Slowly, on national television, before nearly a hundred men of the National Guard, Washington DC police department and Secret Service, Orlan walked out. His armor having been replaced with a dark colored tunic and trousers he looked like someone headed for a fair or convention, and not a person requiring such a massive response. A group of officers approached him carefully, pistols trained even as he kept his hands out to the side, palms out, so show he wasn’t armed.
“Hands on your head,” One of the officers shouted as they stopped a short distance from him.
“Once my people are out,” Orlan replied simply, seemingly concerned about the weapons pointed at him. The officer scowled, about to retort when he froze, someone speaking in his ear.
“Fine, but you don’t move,” the officer said, sounding upset but not questioning the orders from above. With a telepathic message Orlan’s knights, one of whom was carrying the still unconscious knight-in-training, filed out, quickly making their way through a corridor opened by the National Guard. Several of them seemed upset to be letting the armored women go, but they had their orders, even restraining a few police officers who seemed intent to stop them regardless.
Once they were out of sight, racing along the highway back towards where the Air Cutter had dropped them off and had now returned to pick them up, Orlan lifted his hands to the back of his head. Under the direction of the officers he knelt down and allowed himself to be cuffed. They quickly searched him for weapons, fully aware there was a dozen cameras pointed at them by various media outlets with more arriving every moment. None had a particularly good shot, the guard were keeping civilians from getting too close, and no helicopters were allowed in the airspace.
Finding nothing, two officers attempted to grab him under the arms and lift, only to grunt as he barely budged. They were forced to order him to walk into the back of the armored truck while holding him under the arms as if they could carry him. Cameras flashed as the truck drove away, flanked by a police escort.
“What’s he doing?” One of the officers in the back of the truck asked. Orlan had sat down in, crossed his legs and closed his eyes, apparently meditating even as he was taken away.
“I’m more concerned about why his hands are in front of him,” the officer replied, nodding to his hands which were folded in his lap, still cuffed, “we cuffed them behind him, right?”
“I thought we did.”
The two officers exchanged confused and worried glances, but didn’t speak any more.
\-\-\-\-\-
“What do you mean he vanished?” the head of security at the Pentagon demanded of the small team in one of the many security rooms.
“The hallway he went down, it’s a dead end with no camera coverage,” the other man replied, pointing to a couple screens, “they’re intentionally placed to give the staff somewhere to hide if the Pentagon is-.”
“I know why they’re there, my question is how did he know about it?” the head of security snapped, “and why he punched a hole in the floor there.”
“I… don’t know either of those answers sir, but one several cameras you can see one of his knights pull out a device, looks like a compass for a moment. We think it was some kind of tracking device.”
“Fine,” the man sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “then show me video of him in the sub level.”
“We don’t have that here, section three covers that layer of the underground.”
“They said you guys covered that region,” the head of security replied.
“Look sir,” the man pointed at a partial map of the Pentagon on the wall, only showing the locations covered by the cameras controlled by this room, “the hall way he went into isn’t marked on this map, but you can see where it should be if the map was fully accurate. The section of underground below that point isn’t ours.”
The head of security scowled at the map, pulling up his cell phone, an action that made the security personnel nervous, but they didn’t say anything as he scrolled through it. Eventually pulling up a picture of the map he’d taken at the other section and held it up. The two sections matched up, in theory if you had all of the maps you could combine them into a single complete map of the Pentagon, but there were intentional flaws built in such as missing dead-end hallways. The two maps, combined, bracketed the section of the underground Orlan had broken into, but neither displayed anything there. It was like an entire section of the Pentagon was simply missing.
“Fuck,” the head of security swore, cursing the division of information, and not for the first time.
“What is it sir?”
“I don’t know, but someone is going to hang for it.”
\-\-\-\-\-
Hours after his arrest Orlan was motionless in a government holding facility, it wasn’t a prison or jail as those would imply he was a criminal who might have rights. His legs were crossed beneath him, hands folded in his lap as he focused on building up his sixth sphere. He hadn’t used much mana during the raid, which had fully recovered shortly before being cuffed. With nothing else to do he turned inward, only opening his eyes when they arrived at the facility and he was walked to this cell. Even in such a trance he sensed someone approach the heavily reinforced door on the other side of the thick, reinforced glass before it opened.
“You’d think you were someone dangerous with all of this security,” the man remarked as he placed papers on the table, “rather than some cosplayer with a sense of superiority. Even your ‘magics’ couldn’t get you out of here. If it were up to me you and all of your ‘knights’ would be locked up for the rest of your lives after that stunt at the Pentagon. But, for whatever reason, the powers that be have ordered me to interrogate you. So let’s make this easy, you tell me what I want to know and we’ll see about getting a reduced sentence.”
Orlan didn’t move a muscle even as the man sat down on the other side of the glass and relaxed. The silence stretched on for a long moment before the man spoke up again.
“If you cooperate we can even negotiate reduced sentences for your followers,” he added, “they were picked up by the secret service before making it back to that flying boat thing of yours. I know how much they mean to you, if you want to help them, then cooperate.”
“That’s a lie,” Orlan replied simply, barely moving and still not opening his eyes though he had stopped working on his next sphere, “my people made it back to the island.”
“Such confidence,” the interrogator chuckled, “did you honestly believe the government would keep a promise to a terrorist?”
“I don’t need belief,” Orlan said, his eyes opening to fix the man with a glare, “my ‘magics’ as you call them allow me to communicate with them mentally.”
“What, like telepathy?” the interrogator snorted, rolling his eyes, “whatever you want to believe I guess.”
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“How can you people still deny my power?” Orlan asked, sounding more confused than angry, “was the giant floating island not enough? The flying ships? Me teleporting around in front of congress?”
“If you have all that power, why are you in that cell, huh?”
“Because I want to avoid conflict,” the Protector Lord said, “because that was the deal to get my knights out safely. Because I don’t want to kill normal people. Because I take my vows to protect the innocent seriously. Take your pick.”
“You didn’t seem all that concerned with ‘normal people’ when you crashed through the Pentagon.”
“Was anyone injured?”
“No.”
“Seems like I was thinking about the normal people then.”
The interrogator stared through the glass at Orlan, maintaining his calm exterior through years of practice, but there was something different about this man. Even the most confident terrorist wouldn’t be this calm, in an unmarked building far from civilization. Perhaps it was just an act, but, besides opening his eyes, Orlan hadn’t even moved.
“Maybe you don’t understand your situation,” the interrogator said, leaning forward, “you aren’t a criminal, you don’t have any rights here. No lawyer, no trial, nothing. We can do whatever we want to you, torture, isolation, we could even put a bullet in your brain.”
“Has the country truly fallen this far?” Orlan asked, sounding more sad than worried for himself, “Is it this way due to the rifts? The first one appeared in the US a year ago correct? Was that the prompt for all these… draconian laws?”
“Should you really be worrying about that?” the Interrogator asked, trying to hide his growing worry, even a mention of death didn’t faze this guy.
“I suppose not, I’m duty bound to stay out of national politics where possible,” Orlan admitted, “still, it’s sad to see my home country like this.”
“I suggest you focus on yourself, rather than worry about things you have no power over,” the other man said, trying to get the conversation back on track, “are you willing to answer my questions or not?”
“I’ve been answering them since I returned, on the news, before congress, in interviews. You just haven’t been listening.”
“I don’t want to hear about that magic nonsense, if you try to pull that again things might get uncomfortable for you. Understand? Then first question, where have you been hiding for the last couple decades? According to the records you went missing, only to reappear suddenly claiming to have magic.”
“As I’ve said a number of times, I was on the other side, call it another world, a parallel Earth, whatever you want,” Orlan answered.
“See, this is what I’m talking about, you don’t expect us to believe you do you?”
“I’ll admit it’s an odd story, but is it any odder than glowing rifts opening up to allow monstrous creatures to pour forth?” Orlan asked.
“Just because something isn’t understood, doesn’t mean it’s magic,” the interrogator snorted.
“Then call it something else for all I care.”
“Are you going to tell me where you’ve been or not?”
“Are you going to believe me or not?”
“Fine, you want to play this game,” the man said, slamming his hand on the desk, “if you have magic then show me. Right here right now?”
“Very well, what would you like to see?” Orlan replied, unconcerned.
“What, are you going to pull a flower from your sleeve? Maybe grab a rabbit out of a top hat? Tell me what card I’m thinking of?”
“I’m not a summoner or mentalist, my abilities are more combat oriented,” Orland replied, “you mentioned that if I truly had magic I’d be able to escape from this cell. Would that be sufficient?”
“Sure,” the man leaned back, “lets see you get out of there.”
Orlan smoothly rose to his feet, took a step forward and vanished. Despite himself the interrogator flinched, not having expected him to actually do anything.
“Is that enough evidence?” Orlan asked from behind the man, causing him to jump again and spin around pulling out his pistol to find Orlan standing calmly behind him.
“How’d you do that?”
“Magic, you wanted to see magic, so I showed it to you,” Orlan replied calmly, even with a pistol pointed at him.
“I don’t know how you got out but we’re going to wait for security to put you back in.”
“If you want me back in, I can do that too,” Orlan sighed, taking another step and vanishing. The interrogator spun again to find Orlan sitting back down within the cell.
“There’s no way out of there, the doors have multiple locks,” the interrogator said slowly, lowering his weapon but not holstering it yet, “and it would take you at least a few seconds to walk from the hallway into this side of the room.”
“Starting to believe?” Orlan asked with a smirk, “or should I show off some more? What are these cuffs made of?”
“Hardened steel with a Kevlar covering,” the man said slowly, “the chain can take almost a thousand pounds of weight without breaking.”
Orlan raised his cuffed arms and, with minor effort, ripped the chain into two. He then tore each of the cuffs off his wrists with the same level of casual disregard, pausing to rub where he’d been bound before folding his hands back into his lap. Outside his cell door he could hear a group stacking up, clearly his actions had triggered a silent alarm, but they didn’t move to break in.
“I might need to talk with my superiors,” the interrogator said after a minute of silence, Orlan simply nodded and closed his eyes once more.
\-\-\-\-\-
“Did you feel anything?” Instructor White asked as Amy finished off a breakfast of eggs and toast, “and don’t hide anything, if you had even a minor reaction to the mana the training will kill you.”
“I slept fine,” Amy shook her head.
“Then we can start training you today,” the older knight nodded after a moment of searching Amy’s eyes.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” White nodded, “having second thoughts?”
“No,” Amy said quickly, continuing in a softer voice, “I’m still afraid of those monsters. I can still hear the sounds of them killing my father and brother. I don’t want to be weak.”
“Good, then let’s get started,” said White, leading Amy from the mess hall, “there are a few things you should know before we get started. First off, Orlan has decided to train many others to first sphere as part of his plan to raise mages on this side. If all you want is magic you can wait for that and join the first group. That way you can have enough power to raise yourself up while returning to your country.”
“Will that be enough to kill those monsters?”
“By yourself? No, those monsters were third sphere equivalent.” White replied, “to reliably kill one on their own a normal mage is expected to be at least fourth sphere. Military mages and knights, trained in combat can regularly kill one of the same tier with minor injuries. Protector Knights, however, are expected to be able to fight monsters a tier above us and win.”
“So I’d have to be level two to kill that monster if I train under you?”
“If you throw yourself into the training, and forge a bond with Lord Orlan, then by the time you’re second sphere you should be able to kill one of those on your own,” White corrected, “In reality you likely won’t form a bond until you hit tier three or four.”
“Why is that?” Amy asked.
“Every Protector Lord is different; they get their power from the island we’re on. These islands were near miraculous creations made by a grand mage thousands of years ago, they form a bond with the island much like I have a bond with him,” explained the older knight, “but each island is different, from who may form a bond with it, to who may become his bonded knights. In addition, Orlan has a limit to how many bonded knights he can have at once. Going beyond that limit will strain the island and weaken all of us.
“Ideally, Orlan would keep his number of knights maxed out, only replacing one when they fall. But reality is rarely so kind, so he always has a few openings. That said he isn’t going to just bond anyone. Partly because the bond is such an… personal process requiring great trust and partly because he doesn’t want to risk taking those too weak into the heat of battle.”
“So… what does this bond actually do?” Amy asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” White smiled, “it’s not wise to get too far ahead of yourself. For now let’s focus on awakening you.”
The two walked out of the castle and into one of the training yards where a dozen other knights were already training. A few looked up and nodded their greetings, but most ignored them. White led Amy over to a side of the yard where a small stone structure stood. Inside was a single stool on a bare stone floor, with bare stone walls.
“This is our low tier breakthrough room,” White explained, motioning for Amy to sit in the stool, “breakthroughs can be volatile, so we have places like this scattered about that are easy to replace. You’ll be spending most of your time here until you awaken. The first sphere can come on suddenly so if you find yourself thinking on the nature of your mana, come here.”
Amy struggled to understand what she was being told as she sat. White moved behind her and placed a strong, yet soft hand on her back.
“I’m going to push a bit of mana into you, more than the pill I gave you yesterday,” White explained, “close your eyes and try to feel it moving within you.”
“How will I know-,” Amy started only to cut off as she felt energy rushing into her. It felt like a cool breeze flowing through her chest, blowing away cobwebs and dust that had settled without her realizing it. But despite the rejuvenating effect of the gentle wind, there was a hard edge to it, like it was but the herald for an oncoming storm.
“Was that-.”
“My mana,” White interrupted, “what you’re feeling is what my mana feels like, keep focused on the sensation, it will pass shortly and you should be able to feel your mana.”
Amy nodded, closing her eyes and keeping focused.