Sugarloaf Mountain, Winter, 2055
It was an either or proposition when it came to land.
Either a person or a collective of people owned it or none did, which meant it was part of an encounter challenge or a spawn zone.
Furthermore, territorial boundaries weren’t determined by a person or a collective of people arbitrarily drawing it on a map. The spires set them.
Which wasn’t to say that a person or a collective of people couldn’t extend their territory. It was as easy as building some kind of structure anywhere. How far the boundary extended from a specific structure depended upon its size, complexity and the strength level of the builder or builders.
A small, simple shack with four plywood walls and a thin aluminum sheet for a roof would have a significantly smaller footprint than a house with 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms, which would in turn be dwarfed by a military complex with barracks, armory, offices and other sundry structures.
The latter was what the old American government built to extend their territorial control beyond the capital and the surrounding cities and towns into the wilderness areas where monsters lurked and roamed.
One such fort wasn’t too far away since they needed a place to draw attacks from and to launch expeditions against the wilderness encounter challenges and spawn zones.
There were a few such forts, though smaller, closer to the Potomac river to the south and west on both sides.
Too close for comfort had Cal been anyone else.
For him, it was simply a matter of making any eyes and ears, human, monster and animal, blind and deaf to their little family Christmas dinner in the winter forests northwest of the heart of the enemy’s nation.
He had left Nila, Boy and Kat in the fancy tent he had set up. Well, less a tent and more a small home complete with electricity, running water and central heating.
It was a scared group of people he led deeper into the forest.
Men, women and children.
Over 20.
His son’s doing.
People close to death or worse fates whether they had been aware or not no longer mattered.
It hadn’t taken much convincing for them to agree to emigrate to Southern California. Those that needed life-saving treatment would receive it as soon as they landed. And all would have the freedom to decide if that was their last stop. There were other places all over the world that he had secured immigration deals with. There was an application process, but in practice that was mostly a formality thanks to said deals. One didn’t need wealth, connections or valuable classes to move to another place. They just needed to agree to live by the standards set by the community.
He felt their fear grow by the passing second.
Dense forest covered many kilometers in every direction.
Fortunately, he had no need for a clearing in the woods.
“Alright, this should be good enough.” He tapped the device around his wrist as he regarded the diverse group.
An old man, Dave, leaned on his wife.
A chance meeting to save lives.
It wasn’t fair for the others in the city that missed out.
Another person, a different group could’ve been standing in front of him if his son hadn’t gone to that specific grocery store on that specific day.
He knew that there were many others like Dave that wouldn’t get the same opportunity.
A few dozen people vanishing into thin air once every few months wouldn’t be noticed since people went missing every day in the enemy’s lands. Victims of violent crime, monster attacks and darker fates in the evil underbelly of a society in which a person’s value wasn’t intrinsic.
However, rescue enough to reach a tipping point and the government would notice.
The demigod and eidolons would notice even quicker.
They would search for the problem and would eventually find his son and the Mist Spekters.
“Thank you so much for helping us, sir,” Dave said.
The old man wasn’t that much older than him.
“You’re welcome, but I’m no ‘sir’. Not to you, sir.”
“Is this where we’re being picked up?” Dearica, Dave’s wife, said as she eyed him warily. One hand was in her winter coat’s pocket, holding a rather large revolver.
Naturally, he approved of her choice in personal defense weapon.
“That’s correct, ma’am. Just one sec— it’s here!”
The shuttle’s hum was buried underneath the winds rustling through the tree tops, dropping a light dusting of powdery white on their heads.
“Okay. I know it’s been all hush-hush, but I hope you understand the need for that. And I know you don’t really have a lot of reasons to trust me.”
“You passed the tests,” Dave said.
He could fool truth spells and Skills.
Ms. Teacher had been the only one that he had struggled against.
Their testing had gone about 60-40 in his favor.
Even if he had failed their tests it would’ve been easy to mess with their perceptions and thoughts to make them think he had passed.
“That’s right. Now, you’re almost home free. I want to briefly go over what’s next, so you aren’t surprised.” He waited a beat. “We’re going to float you up to a shuttle. A flying one.”
“Duh,” a young man supporting a frail grandmother muttered from the rear of the group.
“It’s stealthy, so don’t worry about the anti-air defenses picking it up. This shuttle will fly you up to a skyship, which has no problem dealing with missiles and such.”
He didn’t add that said anti-air defenses were practically nonexistent, particularly the ones that could threaten one of the skyships.
They inevitably blew up shortly after being set up.
As for the mobile ones?
A lot had also been destroyed.
He and his brother allowed a few to remain ‘hidden’ to lull the old Americans into a false sense of security.
Although, the smarter amongst the enemy had long ago woken up to the reality of their strategic and tactical position regarding the state of the war.
They left them anti-air cannons and guns and short-ranged missiles.
It wouldn’t do to leave the enemy completely defenseless against monsters and mutated animals.
“The skyship will take you to your destination. Southern California as agreed. From that point on everything promised will be provided and then you’re free to do… whatever. Oh, there’ll be meet and greet type stuff with the council. A few interviews— not interrogations— if that becomes an issue ask for a ‘Rayna’. If you don’t want to deal with the dog and pony stuff also ask for ‘Rayna’.”
“Mom!” a young girl hissed as she tugged on said mom’s coat, “I want a dog and a pony!”
He grinned at the girl. “Those are doable, but you’ll have to take lessons on proper care.”
She sidled behind her mom, who smiled nervously at him.
“Anyways!” he clapped. “Any last second concerns?”
Negatives and silent shakes of their heads.
“Alright! Time to get out of the cold! We’re floating you in three, two, one…”
He sent them skyward through the branches, past the pines.
He opted for a more full body hold, minus all physical sensation because the whole situation had been scary enough for them.
It’d take days, even weeks before they’d truly realized that it wasn’t all some kind of trick.
Cal kept a psychic eye on them all they way to the Dawn’s Rayna’s hangar bay.
The threat to them was minimal because neither the enemy nor monsters had any idea what was going on, but it didn’t hurt to be vigilant.
Once the skyship reached maximum altitude he felt comfortable letting it go from his sight.
He was back at the tent in a split-second, dispersing the wind generated by his passing into nothing so completely that he didn’t disturb the squirrels and chipmunks curled up in their hollows, surrounded with acorns, nuts and other treasures like tiny, furry dragons in their hoards.
Laughter trickled out from the tent, bringing a smile to his face.
Nila was handing out the wrapped presents from the families of the Mist Spekters while Boy and Kat stuffed them into bags of holding.
His wife pulled out a wrapped novel, flipping it over several times with a frown on her face. “There are no names.”
He sent a psychic eye past the reindeer-themed wrapping paper.
“That’s for Chrome. From her sister.” He remembered from when he had collected them the other day.
His wife produced a pen and wrote that down before handing it over to Kat, who put it together with the rest of Chrome’s gifts.
He had been forced to limit it to immediate family due to space concerns.
The chair near the wood stove beckoned.
It wasn’t a fire place, but it was close enough.
Wood floated from underneath the stove, splintering with a thought as he opened the door and fed the fire with more thought.
He hadn’t felt cold, but the warmth was nice and would never get hot enough to make him uncomfortable.
Content to listen and watch, he forced outside concerns into the depths of his mind.
The moment deserved his full attention.
He took everything in and etched it into his memory.
The crackling sound of the fire.
The way his wife’s brow crinkled when trying to remember which present went to which person.
The mirror image on his son’s brow as he did the same.
The scratching of pen to paper as Kat noted which presents were in which bag of holding.
Time flew despite his effort to slow his perceptions.
He supposed the more he wanted to savor the moment the quicker it slipped from his grasp.
Gift distribution ended.
Dinner followed.
Food emerged from bags of holding to be reheated in the oven, on top of the stove or the microwave.
He started to do it all from the comfort of his chair with a lazy wiggling of the fingers until his wife flicked a piece of lumpia at the back of his head.
Naturally, the missile merely completed half an orbit straight into his crunching maw.
“Thanks, Love,” he mumbled.
“Stop it! We’re doing this properly. No powers. Get up and start setting the table.”
“What can I help with!” Kat jumped up from the floor.
“Yeah, Mom. What do you want me to do?”
“No. You’re guests! Just sit and relax! Your dad and I will take care of this.”
Cal ambled over and started putting plates and utensils on the table with his two physical hands.
Though, only one was technically real.
“Hey, Love, uh, you said no powers.” He held up his left hand. Without his telekinesis to animate like a real hand it stood stiffly, a sculpture of metal, plastic and other composite materials in shades of gray.
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Nila rolled her eyes. “You know that doesn’t count.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, Dad?”
“Yeah, Boy?”
“Were you able to get the lechon?”
“Three of them. Like I promised. One for tonight and two for you guys to take back for your Christmas party. Although, you’ll have to disguise how you got them.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Kat said. “We’re keeping them for the Mist Spekters only Christmas Eve party. We’re not actually going to bring anything to the congresswoman’s huge Christmas Day party since most of us are doing security anyways.”
“It’s better that you guys eat them all anyways. Oh, and don’t worry about reheating. The guys that I got them from leveled up recently. They each got a Skill to preserve freshness. As long as you don’t open the container the pigs will be like they had just been pulled from the spit for up to 5 days.”
“Whoa! That’s a good Skill!” His son nodded appreciatively.
Higher levels in all classes, no matter how lowly or seemingly mundane, could make a mockery of the older laws of physics and causality.
Humanity was finally learning what other worlds had learned before.
That no class was truly a waste if one simply leveled it enough.
It was a shame that the spires had kept that information from being shared even if outworlders had been willing in the first place.
Cal remembered many occasions when discussing such matters with allied outworlders, like the Bat People and the Herd mothers.
Mouths moved without words.
At least words that could reach his ears.
Reading their thoughts with consent had yielded nothing beyond blankness or static concerning information that the spires deemed forbidden.
Such restrictions had remained even with the advent of the Bountiful Decade and the Terminus Decree.
It was like a goal post continually shifted five yards back whenever they moved five yards closer.
Troubled thoughts.
Ones he had resolved to avoid for the night.
Focus and calm.
He let them go again.
Couldn’t change them, so he had to accept them… for the moment.
“If you’re done setting the table, I need help,” his wife said.
“Yes, Love.”
----------------------------------------
Home food!
Glorious home food!
One didn’t know what they would miss until experiencing it’s absence.
Alin ate!
Spoon and fork to plate, to mouth and back.
A remorseless machine akin to an excavator.
Filipino food and Chinese food.
The ignorant would call it a weird mix for a pre-Christmas dinner.
Alin would call them ignorant.
He had studied the history of his genetic and technical homeland.
The former because he had his father’s genes and latter because he had been born or created, depending on perspective, in Manila.
Filipino food had influences from all over Southeast Asia, as far away as China and even India going back beyond Philippine recorded history.
Furthermore, it just tasted good.
The moist, tender pork meat roasted over coals. The thin, crispy skin.
The moist, tender pork belly deep fried in oil. The puffy, crispy, crunchy skin.
The moist, tender pork belly rotisseried on a grill—
There were more pork-based goodness on the table and the counter.
Stewed, fried, sauteed, grilled.
Other animals hadn’t been ignored.
Beef, chicken, even some goat.
Oh… there were also vegetable stuff.
A benefit to a non-standard human metabolism meant he could eat like a glutton, but not technically be one on account of the fact that the food going into his belly was being processed by more than just stomach acid.
His digestive system extracted its fill of nutrients.
The excess was taken by the gray.
No one had managed to explain how that worked.
The best they had been able to say was that even cooked food still contained traces of the animal’s life force, both in the form of physical nutrients and what could be called its metaphysical soul.
He was just glad that it wasn’t at all like draining a living animal to death.
It made sense since he wasn’t the one doing the killing.
Thus, no guilt about his, frankly, appalling display of not-technically gluttony.
Kat gave him side eyes.
His mom narrowed hers.
His dad nodded proudly.
He took a long pull of his beer.
A light lager, a special edition winter brew by The Gutierrez Family Home Brewery
Mr. and Mrs. Gutierrez had received some of the gift kegs and barrels he had brought back from Gruntlerionadras. They had taken it as a challenge to up their brewing game so that when they sent a return gift it would be the Prince of Trolls and master brewer who would fall weeping to his blue-skinned knees as they had done on their brown-skinned ones.
“It’s good, refreshing, but his eyes are gonna stay dry,” he mused.
Kat’s eyes narrowed. “Did eating 10 pounds of food in 5 minutes make you delirious?”
“He is a little sweaty,” his dad chuckled.
“That’s not sweat.” His mom clearly didn’t approve of his current table manners.
He touch his forehead instinctively.
Dry.
He held up his empty glass like a mirror.
Faint streams of gray leaked like steam from a simmering pot of water.
Perhaps, there were limits to how much food his insides could handle after all?
His dad caught his eye.
“How are you feeling?”
He turned an inward gaze as his mom and Kat resumed eating at a normal human pace and their chat about women stuff.
“I feel energized. Like I can crush a workout right now. But, I can feel it fading.”
“So, no change from the last time.”
He thought back to last Christmas’ gluttonous display.
“Seems like it. Do you want to take a closer look?”
His mom cleared her throat.
His dad nodded.
“Nope. This is family time. No business stuff, at least until after din—”
“After dessert and presents!” His mom gave them a deadly smile.
“Yeah, what your mom said.”
“Boy,” his mom took the blade out of her smile, “at least try to enjoy the taste. We don’t have to finish everything. You can bring the leftovers to your friends for your party.”
“Mom, you guys brought like multiple feasts.” He pointed at the bags of holding set aside next to the tent’s southern wall. “We’re not even going to touch those. Besides, the chefs, cooks and what not are getting levels from my eating.”
Up to a point.
Something to do with genuinely fulfilling a powerful individual in a physical and spiritual sense gave cooking-type classes a boost in their leveling progress.
It was akin to a fighter-type killing a really strong monster.
Hypothetically, bring his dad to tears with an impossibly perfect state… slay a dragon… same difference.
Past experience meant that whomever made the food he had just shoveled into his gullet was picking up levels as he ate.
Under Level 10 would be gaining up to 5 levels.
Level 20 to 30 would be looking at 2 to 3.
Over 30 would get 1, maybe 2 depending on where they were.
Over 40 were masters of their culinary arts, which meant that he wasn’t powerful enough to truly move their needles much.
The fact that he hadn’t cried or heard doves crying suggested that most of the food had been made by people under that level.
Knowing his dad, he would’ve asked the places he bought the food from to have their lower leveled people do most of the cooking.
There was no reason not to level people up when one had the chance.
Desert came and went faster than he had anticipated.
The clock in his head and on the wall ticked down to the end.
Funny how time flew or crawled depending on the situation.
Time with his parents after not seeing them in person since almost the beginning of the year.
Communicating through just spires messages had been lacking more than he had anticipated.
He grew silent.
Not morose exactly, perhaps a bit melancholic as he sat content to listen to his mom and Kat carry most of the conversation.
Naturally, he answered whatever his mom and dad tossed his way, but truthfully his time in the enemy’s capital had been focused mostly on his Quest to track down the source of the ritual barrier.
Kat was the one that had been more able to experience the local culture close to how it existed for the locals.
In a way it was closer to those ancient vacations his parents had taken to different parts of the world before the spires.
He only had their stories to go by it since his own youthful travels with them had been to places irrevocably altered or completely emptied of human life compared to the peak of their pre-spires existences.
“Experiences like that are experiences,” his dad said sagely, “whether good, bad or somewhere in the middle depends on your perception. On what you take from it. Sure, you’re in enemy territory, but you’re learning that not everyone is an enemy, right?”
“That’s true.” Kat nodded. “I know they teach us that, but it’s different when I see it in person or talk to the people. I kinda feel even worse for most of them. They have to, like, work mindless jobs for no good reason! And they don’t even get rewarded for their work. I mean, the TV news people are always going on and on about how cleaning the streets or serving food are vital to the health of the nation or whatever and how they should be proud and happy to be of service, but then, I’m, like, shouldn’t they be getting more points than the randos that have their names in the ownership boxes?”
“Capitalism in practice,” his dad said.
“It’s so bad,” Kat nodded. “No one’s leveling the class they actually want. And it’s all spread out so much that there’s no way they’ll ever be able to focus on a primary to get to at least Level 30. Forget about trying to figure out a consolidation. They don’t have the time or opportunity with how busy they are all the time.”
They had all learned about the old world’s socioeconomic systems and such back in school, but there was something to be said for practical experience on top of theoretical knowledge.
It was just like combat techniques.
One could study them all they wanted through various methods, from reading texts or watching videos all the way up to live practice, but none of that compared to actual life or death fights.
“It’s intentional,” his dad said. “The ruling elite is essentially trying to create three classes to their society, not classes,” he clarified. “Themselves, soldiers and everyone else, which essentially means people to serve their needs, whatever that might be.”
“That’s not very smart,” Kat said.
Alin agreed wholeheartedly.
A society where the vast majority of its people weren’t functioning at their best was a weak one for many reasons.
For one, the elite had to spend so much energy and effort to keep their own people low, which left less to focus on the real threats from monsters and imperialistic outworld invaders.
Current America exemplified that.
They had sold themselves to so-called gods from beyond the spires just to maintain a societal system that should’ve died with the spires appearance.
One only had to compare the metrics from his home.
Individually and collectively, people back home were happier and higher leveled in classes of their choosing.
The data was irrefutable because his dad had been the one to collect it periodically.
People could lie to each other and even themselves, but their subconscious couldn’t to his dad.
All his dad had to do was let the walls down a bit and allow the wave of dissatisfaction emanating from the majority of people in American-held territory wash over carrying the truth in their hearts and minds.
His mom cleared her throat.
“Ah! Sorry guys, that was business talk,” his dad said. “So? Time for presents? Unless you’re still hungry? I know you are, Boy, but how about you, Kat?”
“No, no! I’m good! I haven’t been this full in… I don’t remember how long. I’m not going to want to eat tomorrow.”
“Okay! Great!” his mom clapped. “Let’s move to the living room for presents!”
It was a tent. With a living room.
He supposed if anyone earned the right to occasionally indulge in decadence, it was his parents.
A small couch and a few chairs had been arrayed around the wood-burning stove.
“Love, can you clean up,” his mom said absently as she scrounged through the pile of bags.
“What happened to no powers?” his dad said.
“No one likes cleaning up.”
“Yes, yes, Love.” His dad rolled his eyes, but telekinetically began to clear the table and wash the dishes in the sink while splitting more wood to feed into the fire as he ambled over to plop down into one of the chairs. “Cleaning in progress,” he winked. “There are present from all the family for both of you, but we decided it was probably better to leave most back home for when you get back.”
“Obviously,” he agreed.
“Except, your mom was so excited she couldn’t—”
“Quiet you! That’s for last. Other presents first.” His mom started doling out wrapped presents to both him and Kat. “We got useful stuff that also wouldn’t blow your cover.”
A pile of torn wrapping paper and his mom’s detailed explanations later saw them with a handful of enchanted gear.
Small items of both offensive and defensive natures.
Upgrades on what they currently had, but not too good as to draw excess attention for being beyond what members of a mercenary company of the Mist Spekters perceived stature could reasonably obtain.
“Wow! Thanks!”
Kat was more appreciative.
Not that he failed to show the proper appreciation, which he truly felt.
It was just hard to be reminded of his precious, precious power armor and multi-weapon gathering dust back home. It had been so long that he was starting to wonder if he would ever wear and wield them again.
“And now the real reason we’re all here!”
His mom punched his dad’s arm.
“Stop it!”
They both laughed despite the hit sounding like a gunshot in the spacious tent house.
“Anyways, Boy, my gift to you!” She pulled out a large, flat rectangle from a bag of holding.
Come to think of it, he remembered her most recent messages hinting that she had been making strides in her newest hobby.
He steeled his expression ready to show nothing less than said appreciation as he carefully tore the brown wrapping paper from what had to be a painting.
And what a painting—
“This is actually good— I mean—” He flushed, but his mom just looked on with a smile. “You’ve improved a ton, Mom. Look at this— wait… this looks familiar.”
“Chickens and a little boy,” Kat mused. “It is really good. He looks like your kid pictures.” She nudged him in the ribs.
Long ago memories returned of a large farmhouse in a Philippine countryside.
“This is great grandma’s and great grandpa’s place.”
Which meant.
Chickens.
Terrifying chickens.
An especially mean one with black feathers that his uncle had solemnly sworn was not a chicken at all, but evil incarnate.
See, adults had to be careful when saying things like that to an impressionable little boy that had already had a few negative interactions with said chickens.
Naturally, the story had to be retold in excruciating, for him, detail.
Sometimes it truly sucked when one had a father that could, so he desired, review his memories perfectly.
“— he chases them around the corner of the coop thing and face plants into some thick mud, cause it had rained that morning—”
“Yeah, yeah, then the worm got in my mouth and I accidentally ate it.”
“How come this is the first time I’ve heard this story?” Kat leered at him like a cat that had just sighted an injured bird futilely tweeting about with a broken wing.
Even more embarrassing stories followed along with smores and hot chocolate.
The clock ticked faster and faster.