Bishop Glimpses

[Samaritan]

July, 27th – Portland
6:30 a.m.

Today was the day. But of course the guy currently dialing the number to call his author was not aware of it. He was just doing his job and that included getting the pages of the Sacramento Bee filled.

Bishop heard the distinct ringing of the cell phone marked A. Preacher with a clear adhesive strip over a small, neatly cut piece of paper. He had not slept well. Rolling out of bed, he cringed a little as the sheets pulled the scarred tissue over his belly. He yanked the phone out of the pocket of his leather jacket.

„Yeah?“ He had to swallow and clear his throat. Didn't they know, that today was THE day? He should have turned the phones off. But then again...he had bills, that needed paying. And his little adventure here in Portland had also cost him a train-ticket and the hotel room.

On the other end of the line was his editor from the Bee's office. Apparently he was not happy with the core conclusion Bishop, known to the guy on the phone only as Andy Preacher, had drawn at the end of a half-interview, half-provocation piece Andy had conducted with a Desert Storm veteran from Sacramento.

„No, I am not doing a propaganda piece for you.“ he replied, rubbing sleep from his eyes and suppressing a yawn.
„No, that is not negotiable, I have merely written down, what the guy said to me. That is the reason, why they call it interview.“

Bishop started pacing the small hotel-room. The dominant colour was brown pseudo-satin on a small couch with a low table. The curtains were the colour of fresh vomit. He could not believe any one would ever hang these things in front of a window and show the world, that he was colour-blind. <Well, they were probably sold at a discount...> he thought, while the ramblings of the editor passed the space between his ears unhindered without any noticeable interference from his brain.

„Listen, I do not have time for this. You asked for a war-veteran interview. I got you one. The guy is scarred for life neither the city nor the state nor the rest of the world has agreed to pay for the renovation of his fathers house, because it is apparently inconvinient to spend money on someone, who has three years to live at best and no inheritors.“ The answer was pointed and now slightly louder.
„No, I can't come in. I am in Portland at the moment.“
He listened.
„What the hell do you think I am doing? I am meeting a girl!“ He hung up.
„Asshole!“ he yelled into the microphone. Someone hammered on the wall from the adjacent room. A muffled voice was shouting something. Bishop considered yelling on top of his lungs that he could not hear him properly, but decided against it. But SHE would not approve. She did not like him, when he was like that. She preferred him in good humors, sharp, witty and smart. Too bad he wasn't anymore. Others had seen to that.

He got dressed. While he pondered on the cufflinks for his white shirt, he briefly considered shaving, but then decided to only trim the beard neat. She like ruffling her hands through his hair. A black suit, white shirt, cufflinks made of silver with an obsidian set into them. Leather shoes with black laces completed the man. He left the hotel and walked a little through the city. He still had time. He took a cab to their usual meeting spot. On the way, he told the driver to stop in front of a florist. Women liked flowers. She was no exception. Her smile over a bouquet of roses was like the sunrise over a golden field of wheat in the summer under a clear sky. He could never forget it and always longed to see it. He arrived at the spot right on time. The air was clear and the sounds of Portlands urban areas were muffled through the trees. Bishop had stayed behind. So had Andy Preacher and also Aaron Cleric, the private Investigator. Only Alexis came here.

He reached into his collar and took the pendant out. It was small, a golden oval with a snap-lock on one side and a hinge on the other. Prying the lock open with his finger-nail he looked at her picture. Blonde hair flowed over slim shoulders and framed a beautiful face with a small scar on the right cheek. The picture was in one half of the pendant. On the other side, there was a golden ring, slim and without a stone, welded into the plate.
„It is nice to see you again, Julia.“ Alexis said.
Tears welled up in his eyes. He placed the bouquet in front of the gravestone.
„I miss you...“
Only the sound of the pines moving slowly in the breeze going over the cemetary answered him.

[Samaritan]

He remembered a saying, that he had read in one of the history books related to classical piano works. „It is required to push the right key at the right time.“ <Bach really was a genious.> Bishop mused, as his fingers flowed over the piano. His teachers had never mentioned the proverb, but then again most of his teachers were not that much into the man. His works, yes. His legacy on which the foundation for modern...ANY...music rested, yes. But his story...not so much.

To Bishop, it meant a lot. How could anyone play his music and NOT wonder, who he was and what he had said. But then again, Bishop was certain, that he had a special connection to Johann Sebastian Bach. It was said, that he was part of a secret society. Paintings of him holding the „riddle-canon“ or the „mirror-fugue“ were certain indicators as well as his attributed love for symmetry and mathematics gave rise to the suspicion that he might have even been an awakened man. Bishop could not speak on that matter. What he was sure about, was that this composer, whose works he was playing right now, had been part of the labyrinth. A labyrinth, that was.

Bishops right hand flowed into one of the higher registers, as the left hand was constantly going through the motions of the founding baseline of the first praeludium of the well-tempered clavier. He liked improvising and here it was easy enough. As the left hand neared the organ-point on the lower G, his right hand danced over the tunes usually played in one octave now expanding them over two registers. While the front of his brain was focused on playing the piano, the rest of his mind was juggling factoids about the composer.

<Married twice, lived in nine cities, five of his many sons musicians of their own renown, died after a stroke.>

Sweat broke on Bishops brow. The praeludium was almost finished. He felt his control over the spell waning. Focusing harder, he recalled more details.

<His most famous works are the musical sacrifice, the „passions“ of St. Matthew and St. John and the art of the fugue, which he did not finish.>

He was almost through. The last three bars contained flows through the right hand, that Bishop did not expand over two registers. Instead he focused again, trying to maintain the spell as long as possible.
<The last part of the art of the fugue elaborates on the theme that is his own name B-A-C-H. It ends abruptly and to date no one has either dared or succeeded in composing it to an end.>
His right hand slowed the last bar to a ritardando and held the final ornamentation for two more strikes than the rythm demanded before finishing the piece with breaking the last chord in C-major.

The spell faded. Bishop breathed in deeply. His control of the mind-arcanum was sufficient enough for segregating two different tasks, but it needed practice and it needed focus. It did not come easy and meditation was required. He briefly considered casting it again and try his luck on the fugue, that was related to the praeludium, but he had never managed more than the first four bars. Playing the praeludium was one thing. Both hands acted on the same voice, merging the movements into a single task. The fugue was, apart from being also excrutiatingly difficult, a converging and dissolution of four different voices all singing in harmony. He did not feel like it this evening.
As he closed the lid over the keyboard of his Astin-Weight and sighed. He rested his hands on the lid and mused on one final question.
<Given that Bach was an awakened soul, what path would he have followed...?>

[Samaritan]

Torrential rain fell. It left ugly stripes on the walls of the buildings that seamed the alleyway. The dirt and dust, that had caked the walls through the summer came apart and filled pools and streams of water. The drops made little rings and kept the water moving. Not that anyone could see them. It was pitch black and the two, old lights hanging on the height roughly were also out. Fire stairs led up one of the buildings. The wall on the other side was empty without any windows. Only two ways led into the alley. It was dangerous.

Bishop sighed and shifted his weight gently. The fire stairs he was on at the moment roughly the height of the fourth floor creaked a little. Water pooled in the folds and crevices of his rain-poncho. He had been here for two hours and was beginning to wonder, if the dealer would show up at all. His potential customers were waiting outside on the alleyway on across the street in an old sedan.

<Curse this weather. Even dealers are staying home, where it is warm.> he thought glumly.

He was about to get up and call this lead a dead end, when a figure stepped out of one of the back-entraces a little further up the alley. A mag-lite flashed up twice.
Shortly after two others came in from the street. One stopped at the entrance to the alley and the other one proceeded to meet the man with the mag-lite. Bishop took out the cable and connected his earpiece to a directional microphone. Static greeted him and the splashes of the rain were now considerably louder. He adjusted his posture and aimed at the two. Faintly, he could here two voices.

"...you really ought to ...just your price fo... ...kinda crap!"
"Oh, so you want to be a crybaby now? Man up, dog... ...plenty more of that..."
"Fine. What about the...other thing?" The voice had dropped even more now.
"...lax. The bit... ...away in my basement downtown."

Bishop smiled. He kept listening for more, but apparently the deal was concluded. He gently pushed the window open and climbed into the lightless corridor inside the apartment building. He took out his cell-phone and dialled.

"Yeah, it's Cleric. Listen...search the cellar compound of that dealer you had in for questioning. Got that?... Good!" He hung up and made his way downstairs back into the rain...

He just hoped, the police wouldn't find a corpse.

That would cost him half his pay.

[Samaritan]

It was evening. A small digital alarm clock, that was positioned on a sideboard next to a simple bed showed 20:34. The room was immaculately clean and well maintained. Bishop liked it that way and it was imperative, that this order was maintained for what he had in mind to do now. Experience has taught him, that growing old brought deterioration of the physique, vitality...and unfortunately also of the mind. And so, like a sharp knife, a good sword, a well-balanced gun, the mind had to be maintained. Order had to be restored. Much like the room Bishop was standing in.
The meeting with the Epopt, Ariadne or "A" as she wanted to be called, was now roughly half a day past.
Bishop stood in the door with a few items in his hand.
He turned right and set down a ball-point pen on the side board, where the clock was set. He placed the pen close to the edge of the board, so that it was in range, when he entered the room.

<Set up: I write the story of this day. I leave the bee, walk to the diner. Entrance: Eight tables. Four occupied. One bartender, one waitress. Two exits.> he thought.

He took one step into the room. He was now standing next to a small wooden chair, which contained his clothes for the next day of work. He placed his cufflinks down on the clothes.

<I sit down. I toy with my cufflinks. I watch the exits, note the patrons. Waitress is left-handed, southern accent. Lady A enters.>
"Preacher, I believe." mumbles Bishop with the inflection and expression of his superior that he met today.

His next step brings him to the left side of his bed, where a small cupboard with a small lamp is positioned. He places a small plate with a cookie on it on the cupboard.
<We exchange introductions. Waitress comes, takes order: Lady A takes salad and ice tea - query: Vegetarian? Proposal: Negative - Has suggested to take barbeque during initial determination for meeting.>

Bishop mumbles again. Vocalization helps when things get a little foggy. Not good. "Explain my roots in Portland. Offer contacts in Sac. Appraisal of speed of aquisition of Lady A. Relativation on my behalf. Must remain humble. Talents not that good." Almost a whisper now. The image becomes clearer again.
Bishop steps again, turning towards the bed. He places his watch on the blanket.

<I offer services and request deployment on cases. State lines of work. Request sanctum and possible cabal or trainers. Request noted, not processed. Pointer: Cooperation with Arrows. Doubt not voiced. Proposition: Contact and engage in active settings. Assets confirmed and noted. No request pending. Time passes.>

Bishop bows down over his pillow and places his one sacrament on it. The little pendant with the ring and the picture on the inside. He remains silent for a while.

<Heart of matter: Blackouts. Abductions of consilium members. Release with bad conditions. No pointers to source. Exception: Christian Mythology. Humorous reference on name Bishop. Suggest shadow play. No definite. Exodus by fellow Guardian. Note: Lady A displays hint of sadness. Hypothetical: Acting? Practical: Distance and do not disturb.>

Bishop gets up again and retraces his steps to the other side of the bed. He places one dollar in coins and one dollar as a bank note next to each other next to the alarm clock.

<Local situation: Equilibrium of power. Fluid. Reference to Arrows. Solid response.>

Bishop takes the last item. The bill from the restaurant, folded twice with the ink on the inside. He puts it next to the ball-point pen. Full circle.

<End conversation. State terms of parting. Pay bill. Tip three dollars. Shake hands with Lady A. Receive offer for next time. Confirm. Escort to door. Exit.>

Bishop moves to the door and repeats the last movements from the restaurant and walks to the living room. One hour later, he enters the bedroom again and collects all items, while repeating the whole scene again in his head. It is 21:40.

[Samaritan]

Bishop was not having a good day. But to be honest, he could not blame anyone but himself. It started with a hangover-ish headache, even though he had only two whiskeys at the Raven. The headache was accompanied by the sweet sound of silence, which was echoing in the space between his ears. In his wasted and rather unspectacular youth - may it rest in pieces - he had visisted a lot of life-acts from hard rock and heavy metal bands. He could not honestly remember, when it was the last time, that he had such a tinnitus.

He looked at his image in the mirror and sighed.
"Screw you for going out last night!" he said at no one in particular.

The nausea had subsided at noon, when he decided to do something productive. He should have known better. First thing he wanted to do, was checking, if his photographs from the Tower Bridge were any good. After a - in a sense - sobering hour with his PC and flinging any photoshop tool he had at the images, he gave up. Calling the images crap would elevate them at least three tiers.
While he was trying to find any kind of positive result from yesterday, he had rummaged through some of the still unpacked boxes in his cellar compartment. His apartment did not offer enough space for everything and so he had still three half-filled boxes with things he did not need anyways. He was a little surprised, when he found a little tin-box with well-worn and used pencils, coals and graphite-sticks. He had sat down in the cellar and toyed with them for a while. They should have been upstairs, in the drawer with the socks, where the bag with his memorabilia was hidden.
She had loved to sketch, draw and doodle with this set of artisan tools. He had taken the set upstairs and sat down at his desk, which was still immaculately ordered and celan, despite the frustration he had developed over his photographies.
Another idea at being useful and productive - at least in a sense - had formed then and there. He wanted to reference a certain individual with a sharp knife and some blood on it to police records of the russian mob. He could still see the creeps face, when he closed his eyes. Even though after a few seconds, his eyes started to hurt and he wanted to lie down badly.

  Remember the faces of Mrs. Pantsuit and Mr. Knife from the Raven - 1 success

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2013-11-10 03:34:44		Bishop rolls 7 to remember Mr. Knife and Mrs. Pantsuit from the Raven (Wits 2 + Int 3 Hung over -1 Willpower +3)) (10 Again)		8, 7, 3, 2, 4, 6, 7		1 success

He had been at it for the rest of the day. Mainly because he had never done such a thing.

  Sketch the faces of Mrs. Pantsuit and Mr. Knife from the Raven - 1 success

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2013-11-10 03:39:22		Bishop rolls 3 to sketch the faces of Mr. Knife and Mrs. Pantsuit (Dex 3 + Crafts 0 -3 + Willpower) (10 Again, WillPower)		9, 1, 3		1 success

But in the end, the images were at least recognisable. Now the only thing Bishop needed to do, was to show them someone in the precinct. Which had brought him here, in front of his bathroom mirror. He still looked at his unshaven and generally messy face.

"Well... he sighed "...you will leave this apartment first light tomorrow. When you are rested. He sniffed. "And had a shower. A long one."

His inflection and tone of voice was not his usual one. He had mimicked the tone and pitch of her...
<Funny, how the past still come unbidden and bites you...> he thought.

[Samaritan]

The lobby hall was damp, mostly due to the rain outside, but also because no one had cleaned or ventilated the rugs and hallway in two days. Bishop stood in the hallway, a lonely figure in an empty room. A pile of needles was still in one corner, leftovers from the christmas party. The last day, he had actually seen the guy running this establishments.
The only remainders Bishop had of him now was the unmarked letter, which contained the keys to the Hostel. No words. No explanations. Just the keys.
No words or explanations were needed. Bishop knew enough. People came and went. Friends came and went.
Enemies gathered.
It was now quite some time since he had said those exact words in a very noisy bar to two other people. Now both were gone. Where? When?
He did not know. He did not need to know.
What remained, was here.

A look around revealed, that the Hostels lobby was in good working order, even though it could use a little cleaning. Bishop briefly thought about the people he had acquainted himself with, both awakened and the customers in his other line of work. The list was still quite short.
<Maybe Charlie wants to help out for some money. If she is bored of pushing juice at Club Raven, anyways.> he thought.
Taking a few looks around, Bishop found a plug for a LAN and telephone cable in a seperate room adjacent to the reception.

He took a few steps into the office of the housekeeper. Dust had gathered in the corners. Two keys at the board of rooms were missing. Bishop found a registry on the counter. Two persons were checked in. None of the names mattered to Bishop. They were customers. And that made them part of his tiny part of the Labyrinth, which he would run for the time to come.
With a sigh, he threw down his backpack and took a look around. The room with the counter had a door to a 2-room office, one of the rooms showing signs of someone having worked here. The other one was stacked with boxes of damp linens and blankets. A coffee-machine stood on a small table in the corner. It showed signs of age and the can had brown stains on it. An empty box of filters and a tin can with some coffee dust in it stood next to the machine. A circular stain on the table indicated, where a cup had been placed. A rusty spoon had fallen on the floor.

Everything in here screamed "Abandoned!".

For Bishop, it simply yelled "Use me!"

He smiled.

[Samaritan]

Everything was dark. And this was no ordinary darkness. It was not merely the absence of light, which had settled in when the sun went down and it was a new moon. This darkness was tangible. It fell like a blanket and covered everything like obsidian snowflakes that had assembled to form an avalanche of pitch black. He was standing in the alleyway again. Everything was damp, muffled and the only real speck of light came from the metal glean of the barrel, which was pointed at the man once called Alexis.

Smoke trailed from the gaping hole, that was gaping like an abyssal cave, and formed an endlessly fading snake coiling into the nothingness, that was totalling everything around him. On a subconcious level, the man once called Alexis remembered this. He had been here. The dragon had thrown fire at him twice from his cave. The barrel smoked and disappeared. There was a memory of pain. The smoke lingered and sank to the ground, where it formed a roiling, teeming mass of haze, that looked like a nest full of serpents, that filled a river. The pain increased. It swelled in his gut, like the river swelled full of smoke and became a stream. His vision blurred. The darkness rose and embraced him.

It felt soft to the touch, but the pain was almost unbearable. The man once called Alexis died screaming...


Bishop screamed and awoke in his bed with a hot lance of pain stabbing into his gut. The blinds of the rooms window were open, but it was pitch black, like his dream. Faint traces of a digital alarm clock revealed, that it was 8 a.m. and it should be a bright winters morning. But the room was drenched in shadows, that moved around like water, dripping of furniture and forming puddles on the floor. The air was thick with supernal energies.

<This is NOT good!> Something said in Bishops head. He forced himself to exhale and drop the spell, that he had cast unconsciously. The pain dulled down and the darkness withered away like steam from a hot bath, that dissipates through an open window. Within moments, the darkness subsided into shadows, that were actually natural in origin. Bishop tried to move himself into an upright position, when he discovered, that his nose was constantly dripping blood onto the sheets.

<Great. I should not even be able to generate shadows and control them. Looks like the leaden tower sends a blessing and I cherish it by causing a paradox while casting in my dreams...>

Light shone in from the window. Bishop stuffed a tissue into his nose and granted himself a sigh of relief. He carefully put some strain on his belly, but the hot sting of pain did not come. It only felt like a heavy muscle fever.

Bishop hit the showers, before he checked, if anyone had noticed, what the hell was going on his apartment.
Only one certainty remained.
<I need to move.>

[Samaritan]

Bishop sighed and pushed the book away. It had been months now, that he had met the now deceased Moros at the tower bridge.
<Rossi. The Question. Educated, italian man. Scientist.>

He looked down at the book. Of the roughly 1000 pages, he had managed to work himself through only ten percent at best. And that was saying something. Usually he did not have to read things twice. He might be old, but his memory was in good shape. He remembered anything and everything.

<Except this load of bullshit is confusing me. Rossi, if you had not gotten yourself killed, you could have explained this to me. Now this is biting me square in the ass.>

All matter is composed of atoms. <Yes, thank you very much.>
While all elements and compounds will strive to maintain neutrality, it is possible to ionize atoms. This process takes place during acid-base pairings. <So far, so well.>

There are three basic definitions for acids and bases, depending upon the atomic particle which is observed.
<To quote young people nowadays: Da fuck?>

He had tried to wrap his head around the concepts of acid-base pairings through the last three hours and he was now pretty much inclined to dedicate a considerable portion of his supernal studies to learn more about the arcanum of time in order to take a trip and collect those sorry individuals Mr. Lewis, Mr. Brönsted and the duo infernale Mr. Lux and Mr. Flood just so he could lock them in a room <...right after smashing their heads together for good measure, mind you...> until they got something along the lines of "unified acid and base theory".

Bishop was not even sure, why he wanted to learn chemistry or anything related to natural sciences for that matter. He hoped, it would further deepen his understanding of the matter arcanum. Until so far, most of his willworkings were flowing instinctively. But he had the feeling, that understanding the natural ways of things would give him the opportunity to impose his will on reality without actually breaking the fabric and strengthen the abyss.

<At a distinctly far developed point, any kind of science would be indistinguishable from magic by the untrained observer.> he thought, silently quoting the guy who said it to him during a lunch break at the office. To Bishop, it sounded like the holy grail of the Guardians of the Veil. Magic in accord with reality. No paradox, no abbyssal widening. Just the power.

As he drew the book back towards him and tried to wrap his head around the concepts of basic inorganic chemistry, he came to realize, why simply imposing your will upon reality was so much more appealing than actually learning how to do things the hard way.

[Samaritan]

In a room buzzing with the noise of the day-to-day workings of a medium sized newspaper company, a phone rang. There was nothing extraordinary about this phone ringing. Neither was there anything extraordinary with the conversation that was about to follow.

"SysOp, Folsom."

"Yeah, hi, this is Preacher from downstairs."

"Mr. Preacher, what can I do for you."

"Strictly speaking you can do something for someone else. Unfortunately he is currently doing something in the UK, and has asked me to relay a request."

"O...K? And what would that be?"

"Well, Mr. Gerald Fitch is currently doing a six-pager cover story about Alan Turing, since the Royals in Old England issued a formal pardon for his rather miserable treatment. He is bringing some hardware back state-side and needs to store it. Store it safely."

Fingers danced over a keyboard. The speed of the keystrokes suggested someone intimately familiar with a keyboard.

"I see. What would the nature of the hardware be?"

"Four harddrives and a server mainframe. Zoning and logistics suggested you have a storage room next to the main hub in the basement. And he will also be bringing in some security equipment."

A pause.

"Well, someone in logistics clearly has too much spare time on their hands. I mean, they are right, the room is available. But I am using it."

"That's fine. Keep using it. From what I was told, he merely wants to store this crap and do some late-nighters analysing the drives. That would involve a desk and a workstation. Plus a chair maybe."

Another pause and someone exhaled audibly.

"Is your companion one of those immaculately clean and orderly guy?"

"You kiddin'? He is a journalist."

"Well, in that case, we can arrange for an accomodation. Only one very strict rule."

"What's that?"

"Don't touch my stuff, clear? And I have to run this by Mrs. Kruger, since we share the room. And Preacher?"

"Yeah?"

"If anything happens to my hardware, you better pray all your electronic equipment keeps working, because in that case you will be dropped to the bottom of the resupply chain."

"Technically, that's unfair, but I get you."

"Splendid. Have a nice day."

The phone was hung up. Nothing ordinary. Nothing special. And of course, none of it actually true.

[Samaritan]

6:42
Utter darkness. With the absence of light, anyone that would be in the room would have to rely on other senses. One would smell hot dust, static smog, burned wiring and a touch of ozone.

6:43
No one was here. As was the plan. A keypad on the door saw to that. On the inside only darkness remained. The room was filled with electronic equipment. Old and new. Most of it already used and stored for scraps. The storage room of a system-technician, who had very early realized, that his company was making cuts and thus saved any bit he needed in order to keep things running.

6:44
In the midst of all the dusted racks and empty towers filled with half-operational hardware, a single functional server mainframe was sitting. No-one could have told just by looking at it. It was as dusty as all the other stuff in the room. Only two cables were plugged into it. A state-of-the-art LAN-cable and a power cord, both of which were running through stacks of other cables, so it did not look as if the thing was actually operational. The power cord was running through a breaker connected to the keypad at the door and anyone actually punching in a code...even the right one...would inadvertedly switch off the power.

6:45
The power was off. It was actually never on. The mainframe was dead. And it would remain so. Except for a time period specified...somewhere else. This was the trial in the darkness. A command came through the LAN.

6:46
A ventilated cooling system went operational. A small lamp signalled, that a hard drive was engaging in data transfer. Within a minute, a server went online. It randomly assigned four different setups their respective tasks. Master. Slave. Mirror 0 and Mirror 1.

6:47
Zero.net awoke. This time at a time specified by someone outside the room sitting comfortably in his chair in front of a laptop.

6:48
A ping-attack was sent by the laptop. Zero.net, the inmate walking free for fifteen minutes, registered.
And responded. Another signal was sent.

6:49
Zero.net went dead again. The trial in darkness was over. The inmate was back in his cell. He would remain there until his next fifteen minutes, whenever those were coming.

In a room some distance away, a hand closed a laptop and a man leaned back, running a hand through his graying hair and giving one of his rare honest smiles.

"It is working. Good!"