Lone

Lone hacks away halfheartedly with his knife at the thick tendril creeping out of the rosebush and twining around the sculpture in the fountain. He’s been at it for a while. Before his eyes the plant matter scabs over with leprous bark then smooths again, good as new.

He quits in disgust, down four shotgun shells, boots smeared with reeking brown sap that sticks like flypaper every time he takes a step.

Maybe fire? But, Jesus, remember the debacle with the fuel drums. No, a singed man thinks good and hard before he gases up the flamethrower a second time.

Basile the Heron

“It is my understanding that you abandoned all luminous facility far in anticipation of the cave entrance. Explain yourself.”

“It was an obvious stratagem.”

“Of dubious efficacy.”

“Quite the opposite! The hobthrush lies slain.”

“A fact not in dispute.” The mayor grins wickedly. “However, the absence of any credible witness nullifies completely the possibility of unquestioned attribution. You’ll have to go again.”

“I repeat myself,” Basile says. “The hobthrush is slain.”

“So you apprehend our difficulty, very good. Worry not. Only this morning I have received intelligence regarding a pair of troublesome boggards.”

Basile frowns.

“Venomous boggards,” the mayor says.

Agia

Agia slinks through the back of the store where the ancient flourescent tubes have gone at last to their reward after carrying on wearily for decades. She runs her hand along the shelf. It’s close. She can feel it like a quivering needle in her soul pointing due north. To glory.

“My god,” the old clerk says when she brings it forth, himself flickering slowly like the mice have been chewing at his wires, “I haven’t seen one of these in ages. You know they only made—”

“Yes.” Agia opens her wallet. “And I’ll find the others in due time.”

Dancer

Debriefing is a long process of unspooling his actions into a smart little chain of events to be scooped up by the stenographer in the corner.

“Fine. That’s fine,” the man across the table, the man himself, says. “Now, start over. With context.”

Dancer lives it all again. This because of that in order to accomplish other based on such and such intelligence.

The snowman’s hat sits right there the whole time. He glances over, sees felt and black satin and wishes like hell he’d burned it when he had the chance. This feeling, prudently, he omits from the report.

Edouard

He spends all day at the museum hoping someone will notice. He stands there so long the guard suspects he has an angle on something and wanders over to check.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Edouard the irresponsible time traveler says, nodding meaningfully toward the edge of the fresco. “An astonishing likeness. How mysterious.”

“Sure, it’s art.”

“Does it remind you of anyone?”

“Not especially. Look, just don’t touch anything.”

The year 1510 of the common era. A door slams open in Rome.

“Raphael, you swine,” Edouard rages. “Paint it bigger! Better! No one can even tell it’s supposed to be me.”

Ridley

Ridley clamps the tiny, singed ribbon of paper gently between the tweezer-prongs and slides it under the microscope lens.

“Ink. Some grime, likely soot. Water stains. Those will be from the fire brigade.”

“Uh huh. Legibility?”

“Nil.” Ridley twists the paper. “No, wait. That’s part of an S.”

“Very good.” A pencil scratches against clipboard. “What’s the verdict?”

“This came off the altar?”

“More or less.”

“Not much to go on. Is it hyperdimensional cult scripture? Tome shit? Could be. Could be junk.”

“But is it actionable?”

“If it isn’t,” Ridley says, “why did we blow up the damn house?”