Tug Glimpses

[Tug]

Tug sat in the Neidan’s expansive home, tossing a mini-basketball against the hoop on his door. It was still weird. I mean, he had imagined he would have had a place like this after a few years pro, but this was like back in college. Except no one wakes him up at 3 in the morning to take shots. And all the space. I mean, his room was pretty freakin’ huge. Tug had tried to keep plenty to fill it up with, though. There were trophies, photos, clothes, so many shoes, some of his exercise equipment, a huge bed, a loveseat facing a television on the dresser, and a few scattered plants. The ones from his own Hallow had died quickly after the Resonance changed.

Donnie’s spirits are up, though, and he’s feeling restless, so he goes for a stroll ‘round the house. He sees that the Hallow room is closed, and it sounds like one of the other Thyrsoi is in the middle of an Oblation, so he passes on by and heads downstairs. As soon as he does, the smell of food hits his nostrils, and the mystery of which mage is behind door number three. Animus doesn’t cook that good.

He walks through the kitchen, grabs a handful of bacon and stuffs it into his mouth, giving Ankh a wide, bacony grin and mumbled “T’ank oo” for her protests, and continues chewing along his merry way. His wandering leads him to the exercise room, where the rest of his equipment had found a home, and currently where West was doing Iron Crosses from those suspended metal loop thingys, he forgets what they’re called. Tug waves at the Magister, but seeing as he couldn’t return it, and what he was doing looked hard, he decides to leave him to it.

He goes back upstairs, avoiding the wrath of Ankh by using the other stairs, and finds himself confronted with a full-grown wolf. He waves at it. “There’s bacon downstairs,” he says, smiling, and Animus sniffs the air heavily to let Tug know that, duh, he is well aware of the presence of bacon. “My bad,” Tug laughs, then walks into the room as Animus trots downstairs. He’s only in there long enough to cast a single spell, one that was becoming more familiar every day. He leaves the Hallow to look for his brother.

He finds him downstairs, watching Ankh feed bacon to a wolf in a rather depressed way. Tug felt bad. Surely, there was the ghost of a Big Mac somewhere. He must find it. “Hey, bro,” he says cheerfully, and Tom returns a smile. “SportsCenter?” The apparition nods, Tug grabs a beer, and the pair of them go off into the main room to watch on the enormous screen. They didn’t say much. Brothers hardly ever need to.

This was as good as its gonna get.

[Tug]

The Circle of Creation is quiet tonight. It's empty, too, except for one big Thyrsus silently sitting cross-legged on the hard floor with his eyes closed, thinking of his brother.

He'd been at it for more than half a day now.

He couldn't tell you exactly why, either. He knew why he started. Tug had been studying maps and notes related to the the search for the Banishers for hours and was getting nowhere. He was too distracted. Every few minutes, he'd see Tom's face, distorted, caricatured, degraded in anguish at the hands of the Banishers as they cut through his flesh and bone, down to his very soul, then they had cut that, too...

He couldn't concentrate, so he tried to meditate to calm his mind, but found that when he wasn't working, Tom's face consumed his thoughts. Meditation and rage usually get on like oil and water, but this was different, unique. The two rivers flowed together to produce a mighty current deep within Tug's soul.

It was changing.

His thoughts had drifted away from Tom's pain toward that which he would inflict on the Banishers. He could see their faces in his mind. The big one. The little guy. The girl with the bow. He saw them screaming in pain as his fists crashed into them like ocean waves, unstoppable, inevitable. He saw their eyes blacken, their noses bloodied, their teeth knocked down their throats.

After eight hours, Tug wanted revenge so bad he could taste their blood in his mouth.

After twelve hours, Tug needed revenge, knew that the rest of his life would be shallow and meaningless compared to the moment when he would end theirs.

And on the sixteenth hour, as the dawn approaches...

Tug was Revenge.

[Tug]

Home, sweet home.

Tug and Falx were back at their Sanctum, their home. With the housing market the way it is, not even a C-List celebrity like Donnie could get an offer on his place within a couple months. And, of course, Falx was dead, but he was there, nonetheless.

He filled the Hallow back up with plants, even more than before.

He put pictures up, of him, Tom, and their parents, all smiling, one big happy family, all along the wall.

He got Tom to sit with him in there and play a few hours worth of cards, though, of course, Donnie had to handle Tom's for him. He cranked up the AC/DC. He had a few beers. Donnie tried to talk of silly, unimportant things, but Tom only really seemed engaged when they talked of memories, so he kept the conversation going along their Briggs' Bros Greatest Hits.

And after a couple days of this, Tug finally set up his drum kit and tried to coax the Mana out of the well by means of ancient song.

The Mana came.

It still hurt.

[Tug]

Donnie sat on the docks, his feet dangling over the water as the sun set, watching the river slowly make its way to the distant sea. He didn't look like Donnie today. He had borrowed a new face from the Wilds, something he was going to have to a lot more now that he was a fugitive from the law. He hated it. Not because it was ugly; if anything, it was an improvement, though he didn't think there was a more handsome face than his own mug in all the land. No, he hated it because it wasn't his. He had it better than Rosh, though, poor bastard.

He had screwed up, he admitted to himself, eventually. Some no-account Sleeper had got the drop on him, Donnie screwed up, now his life had been turned upside-down. He couldn't go back home. He couldn't wear his own face in public without worry of arrest. That jackass Jim Rome was talking smack about him again. And Vick? Oh, he had sunk low indeed, a dog-killin', back-up quarterback calling him out for bad decision making. At least, it sounded like the police didn't find the remains of the dead guy in his backseat. Maybe they did, and were keeping quiet about it. It wasn't something he was curious enough to test.

But had he screwed up, really? Or had he finally found himself at the crossroads Fate intended all along? Donnie had tried so desperately to hold on to what he knew, what he wanted from life, ever since the day he had Awakened. His eyes had been opened to the Wilds, and he'd never been the same since, no matter how much he wanted to be, no matter how much he tried to be. Maybe it was time to admit that Fate had no more use for Donnie Briggs.

What she wanted was Tug. And he could fight against it with all his might, but he was like a fish in that river. He was goin' Her way, like it or not.

He sighed. Things weren't so bleak as they looked. He still had his brother, right? He still had Biscuit, he thought, reaching out to pet the little ball of ephemeral dough circling round him happily. He still had friends. And more...he still had Revenge.

Donnie sat down at the river, but only Tug walked away.

He walks to a 7-11 and purchases a cheap cell phone and some minutes with a couple bills he had left in his wallet. Not much left in there, so he hits an ATM up for his maximum daily withdrawal and starts running as soon as he's a block away. The police would be looking for this face, too, soon, but the greatest ally of the fugitive is cold, hard cash, and it was a risk worth taking.

He jogs his way to a cheap hotel near the docks and pays for a room for the night in cash. As he settles onto the thin, bug-infested sheets, he sends out a text to the notable Consilium officers, the Arrows, and his proto-cabal with his new number. Fugitive or not, the Sentinel still had a job to do.

[Tug]

Tug knew you found Hallows in high places. It was sheer luck that he had found one on top of the dingy motel he was staying at, which rented rooms by the hour, if one were so inclined. It was easier not to think about all of the other people's stains he was sleeping on, instead of his own Egyptian cotton sheets in his big bed back at home. Where he couldn't go.

So he put on someone else's face, and a black stocking cap, and carried his smallest bongos upstairs in a backpack, along with a battery-powered clock radio, under cover of night. No one was supposed to be up here, and Tug couldn't know if this Hallow belonged to someone else. Someone who would catch him poaching. Someone inhospitable. It was dangerous, therefore, it was exciting. He felt like a thief, not like shoplifting, or boosting a car, but the classy kind, a jewel thief maybe, the kind that breaks into museums through the glass in the rooftop.

Once he's up, he takes out the bongos, the radio, and uses the backpack to wedge the door from shutting. He could always fly down, but risking the Abyss wasn't nearly as attractive an option as simply using your brain.

He sets up shop. The bongos sit in front of his lap, the radio is tuned to some AM station that plays world music, got himself 'skyclad,' as the pagans call it, and he sets to work, singing an ancient song to an ancient tune that could be understood by anyone, anywhere, if only they'd open their hearts to what was Wild...

The Mana is hot, sweaty, ashamed of itself, like bad, dirty sex, which wasn't at all surprising, given the environs, but at least Tug was alone-

"Hey! What the hell you doin up here?"

Tug turns with a start, but its only the night manager. He looks at the Pattern, confirming it wasn't someone in disguise, but its still only the night manager. He smiles, waves, and tells him in an easy drawl, "I's aaaaaalright, man."

"Oh! Sir, I didn't realize it was...you were...you."

"Tha's not a problem, but it'd be a whole lot cooler if you left, man."

"Of course, sir, I'll leave you to...uh...your...um..."

"Alright then. You're a cool dude. Go in peace. An' don't tell no one you saw me up here. I like my privacy, tha's why I'm here in yore fine establishment."

"Of course." The manager leaves. When Tug can no longer hear the man's footsteps, he laughs. This mug ain't his, but its not too bad. Its pretty cool, actually. Reeeeeeeally cool.

Tug's Face

[Tug]

“Wake up, sleepyhead. Jeez.”

“Hmm? Wuzzah?”

Teegan laughs in her brash, sudden way, without a trace of hesitation, inhibition, or remorse. It was a soldier’s, one that had faced death many times and survived to laugh again. The suggestion that it was unladylike would be met with an equally unladylike punch to the temple, Tug had learned. “We’re here, you big- oh, gross, Tug.”

“Huh?”

“You’re drooling on that blanket. My nana knitted that herself,” she says reproachfully.

The slobber is quickly wiped onto a sleeve without a second thought. “Oh. Sorry.” He uses the hem of his shirt to try and clean up her blanket, which only nets him an exasperated sigh from GI Jane.

“Forget it. We’re here,” she says brightly, with a flourish of the hand, as if she were bestowing the barren landscape to him. Tug blinks from the bright light as his eyes try to acclimate themselves.

“’Here’ where? Looks like desert to me.”

“Here, there,” she points out her window at the mountains. “Sierra Nevada.”

Tug looks past her to the range in the distance, is quiet for a few seconds, however long it takes to seem thoughtful. He looks back at Teegan and tells her, “It’s pretty.”

“You gotta one track mind, Tug. Stop hitting on me and start paying attention.”

“I wasn’t,” he grins in a way that reads as guilty, because he was. “And I am. Mountains. Check.”

Teegan sighs, then hands him a bottle of water. “Here, drink this.” Tug downs it, not realizing how thirsty he was. “Good. That’s the last you’re gonna get for a while.” She reaches into her jacket pocket and produces a heavily crinkled, folded and refolded, sheet of waxy paper. She shoves it into his unprotesting hands. Tug opens it. Looks at it.

“It’s a map.”

Teegan nods. "Now get out of my truck,” she says harshly, but there’s amusement written across her face and mischief in her eyes. Tug takes the hint, and his duffel bag, and does as asked.

“Be seein’ you,” he tells her, and the next moment, the tires were kicking sand up into his eyes.

Outside of the air conditioning, the sun bore down, so hot, so bright, so close, it was like it was walking alongside you. His mouth was already getting dry, his eyes already hurting, his skin already cooking. After a few preparations of spell-craft and good ol’ fashioned survival techniques, he looks at his familiar, which was uneasy outside of the city.

“C’mon, Biscuit. Time for us to ramble on.”

***

The map was nothing like a map should be. It told no roads, no paths, no bodies of water, nothing that was actually helpful for getting from one place to another. There were marks. They reminded him of High Speech runes, but he couldn’t read what they said. They seemed to go past where he though he was going, too, on the other side of the Sierra Nevada, and it wasn’t until a blast of dry wind hit it right on the center fold that he realized the bottom half was for the flat land and the top half went up the mountains.

The first mark wasn’t easy to find, but it sure was a welcome sight. A small oasis which boasted its own Hallow. Tug wondered which had begat which, but not for long. You can survive on Life, but you still want a cool drink. It was kind of nice here, there was even a little shade. He was thinking the mapmaker wasn’t such a bad guy, after all.

The second was a tarantula nest. After a close call there, Tug had a decidedly different opinion on the mapmaker, and took greater caution when approaching the marks. The third was a loose boulder. The fourth Tug was surprised to find, but not as surprised as the mountain lion which made its home there. Mother lion. With cubs.

On his way to the fifth, which, by the look of this bloody map was all the way at the top, Tug was rehearsing what he was gonna say to the mapmaker when he found him. Y’know. After the initial scream of rage was out of the way. The warm fuzzies of malevolence helped pass the climb. Just over this ledge, and -

“Hey! Puto! What you doin’ up here, man? No fancy musicals playin’ up here, no coat check for your fancy orange jacket, no parking for your pretty truck with the spinny wheels,” says a needling, elderly Hispanic voice the big guy recognizes from Sacramento. Oh, great, Tug thought, I’m hallucinating now.

“Ain’t got a jacket. Ain’t got no truck,” he grunts, pulling himself up over the hang.

“Mmm, yeah, I heard,” the man says casually, as if they were discussing the weather on another continent.

“An’ I ain’t here to dance.” Tug rises to his feet and looks into the smiling face of a true sadist. “Humberto.”

Tug’s MMA instructor from that barrio gym looks him over, weighing him up. “No, you’re not, are you, Tug? You’re here because you want to be Perfected. Like me.” Humberto turns to walk away, beckoning Donnie to follow. “Come on, you’re livin’ off of a spell. Let’s get something to eat and we can discuss-”

“That goddamn map?” Tug offers.

“Sure,” Humberto laughs, that dangerous, razor-edged laugh of his. “Let’s start there.”

Keep open

Please keep this thread open for another post or two to come later.

[Tug]

Tug sat in his room at the Hostel while the news of the day buzzed quietly from the television, drawing up exercise schedules for the Arrows in bright marker across a sheet of posterboard. CARDIO was written at the top of this one, and a large-celled grid filled in various other colors than the blue he was working with now, as he consulted his mundane exercise and nutrition books. Another book, about Circadian rhythms, is open and consulted frequently, and there are several other posters rolled up, tied, and laying on the floor. The big guys is talking to himself as he works, or at least, it would appear that way to anyone not initiated into the Mysteries of Death. But to those with eyes that see past the veil, Tug and his deceased brother, Falx, were arguing over whether the obstacle course he had decided to construct should go on the Cardio or Plyometric Training programs, which led to a spirited debate between them as to whom had, in fact, been dropped on their heads as an infant, and then, which had fallen furthest. No conclusion will be reached today, however, as the anchorman informs them at that moment of Donnie's untimely, and fortunately exaggerated, demise.

Tug and Falx exchange confused looks. The sharpie is dropped to the floor, hastily exchanged for the remote. "I got it, I got it," he shushes his brother's shade as they tune in.

"-a tragic end to a once promising career with the Oakland Raiders, to the downward spiral of a hometown hero we've seen this year." The television cuts away from the newscaster to playing a segment of Donnie defending himself from accusations of racism against the Irish on the Jim Rome show. "This is bullshit, they deliberately edited the interview to make me sound dumb!" he says hotly, but the news has moved on. "Shortly after that recording, Donnie assaulted a paparazzi and, for reasons that are still unclear, set his own truck on fire before fleeing the scene. His body was found this evening in an alley downtown, his face badly beaten, nearly unrecognizable. Police suspect it may be a mafia-related killing. Let's hear now from..." They move on to reactions from former coaches and teammates, which were all nice and really touching. "Aw, man," he said, feeling incredibly guilty at them all being deceived. He nearly reached for his phone, to call his parents, tell them it was a mistake, but Tom stopped him. "Think, Don," his brother told him, and Donnie got it. This was on purpose. He was supposed to be dead. And, in all the ways that really mattered, Donnie was dead. Only Tug was left. He nods.

The news had said they found a body, and for a brief moment, Tug wondered whose it was, but then he decided it was probably some low-rank Seer, or Banisher, or just some mundane scumbag who had it coming. Yeah, it had to be. They musta deserved it, he assures himself, and helpin' me out was just a clever use of some jagoff's death. Right. When the news got to reactions from people on the street, who theorized on everything from his upbringing to potential gambling and steroid addictions, he decided he'd better get some air, or risk breaking his foot off in the television's ass. "Come on, Tom," he laughs, "those Libertines could use a good haunting."

[Tug]

The light was dappled by the tall trees, falling in checkered patterns upon the perfect green grass. Everything was perfect here, perfect and still. The black suits and dresses of those in attendance were affected similarly, light and dark lazily chasing each other's tails as the wind blew the leaves, via extension the diffused sunlight upon them; one hunter, one hunted, and no way to tell the difference. Its all black in the end, isn't it? Tug watched the patterns because he couldn't bear the faces; even Falx, numbed by his time across the divide, felt the sting of their mother's anguish, their father's stifled tears. Biscuit, the spirit born of both their pain, was nearly drooling with hunger at the sight. It was obedient, but straining so, and Tug felt his stomach turn at his pet. The ephemeral manta ray turned and cast its non-eyes on its master, and the Thyrsus relented. Perhaps it had been foolish to adopt such a thing, but it can't help its nature, can it? Better for us then against us, and the Arrow would be sure that the pain-spirit would have its feast. But not here; not today. One wing of the Tug-sparrow swept up its back in apology and turned back to watch.

The space around the two holes in the earth was cramped. There were cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws. They dabbed their wet eyes with handkerchiefs; they hugged the grieving parents, or touched their arms gingerly, reassuringly. How Tug longed to do the same! To tell his parents that everything was alright, that he was still here, and so was Falx, in a way. That they were sorry, so sorry for how things had turned out. That they would make up for it, one day. But the way to keep them safe was to stay dead; the Brothers Briggs' had enemies, but their hate didn't extend past the grave...yet. There were coaches and teammates and old friends, some going back years, to youth; they smiled wanly and talked amongst each other, laughing quietly at one memory or another of his antics, just as Tom's Army buddies were doing. Some had come in dress uniform, armed, or with horns; they didn't know Tom, but these men had a duty to the dead. Donnie and Tom wanted to be among their cliques, to laugh together with their friends, to forget this awful nightmare that had separated them.

Trumpets blared; gunshots rang out. "In my Father's house there are many rooms," started the warm, bittersweet voice of the minister presiding over the ceremony, and Tug stopped listening. A local news van was just pulling in to the cemetery. He was angered; this invasion of privacy would not be allowed. The bird cawed loudly, bringing attention to itself, and to the vehicle with the satellite dish on the roof past him. Several mourners from each camp excused themselves to turn the cameras away from the solemn occasion. Tug excused himself from his own funeral to relieve his bird-bowels on the van's windshield. The contingent laughed at the media's misfortune and congratulated the bird on its keen insight and impeccable timing. For a brief moment, it was like old times.

Hours later and the party had left. There were two caskets in the ground, piled with fresh dirt; one empty, another containing who-knows-who besides Henry. Tug didn't want to know. He left the undertaker to his work, flew away, and became a man once more. His clothes were where he had left them, as were Falx's dogtags. They talked quietly of the service and their loved ones as they made their way from the cemetery.

"Donnie, when do we finish this?" Tom asked flatly.

"Soon. Henry said to lay low for a while. And, hell," Donnie says exasperatedly, pointing toward their graves, "we're due for a break."

Tom looks at him seriously, but says nothing.

"Soon. I promise, Tom. On my soul, brother."

Tom nods.

"So...strip club?" Tug asks out of the blue, grinning incorrigibly.

The specter's face becomes animated at the suggestion. "Can I borrow some singles?"

Tug laughs. Life could be worse than this.

[Tug]

"You missed a spot," Falx points out to his brother.

"Hmmm?" Tug replies good-naturedly, and Falx dutifully points out the corner of unswept dust in their shared quarters at the Circle. "Oh, thanks, dude." That was the last of it. The Circle's floors were clean enough to eat off of, if one were so inclined. With the number of Shaman shapeshifters that had occupied this place, that wasn't just a figure of speech. Tug puts the broom away in the well-stocked supply closet. There was a great deal of blood shed here, nevermind the personal habits of the militaristic Order, and it was just common sense to buy their bleach by the carton at the local Costco.

At any rate, the Oblation of Service was complete. It had taken hours to get the place clean, but after a silent few minutes of contemplation, Tug's spirit receives its reward.

"You been quiet," Tom remarks afterward.

"Yup," Donnie agrees, standing up.

"What's happened?" Ghosts. Always expecting the worst.

"Nothin'. Well. Uh." Tug sighs. Now's a good a time as ever. "Well. While I was gone..." Falx crosses his spectral arms and looks at his brother with concern. "Thing is- the guys that...you know...the Banishers..."

"Donnie, I'm dead." Tug tensed at this flat statement. He hated having it pointed out to him. "I know that. What are you getting at?"

"They're dead, too," the Thyrsus blurts out. "Animus told me. We got 'em. Just not, uh, me." He gives Tom an apologetic look. Tom was quiet for a couple minutes, unnervingly so. No one does quiet like the dead.

"Ok, good."

"Good?"

"Yeah, good. All I care about is that they can't hurt anyone else." The shade attempted a smile.

"Uh...you sure? I thought it was, y'know...important...that I do it."

"It was, to you, bro. I don't care. I'm already-" Tug put a hand up to stop the end of that sentence. "Its fine, with me, anyway. So...how are you doing?"

"I dunno," Tug said honestly. "Kinda'...uh...dulled? Kinda mad, kinda relieved. I dunno, man." Tug laughs. "What is this, The View?"

Falx laughs, too, but fixes his dead eyes on his brother for long minute. "You made a big deal about it. Wrapped your soul around it. Right?" Tug nods- close enough. "Ok. So wrap it around somethin' else."

Tug was about to reply, to tell Tom it was easy for him to say, but stopped, because Tom was right. "Yeah," he said slowly, "I could do that." Falx nodded and slunk off to the other room. Tug shut the door and began to think...

His mind turns to his responsibilities- to the Arrows, to the Consilium, to the Pentacle...to this godforsaken stretch of rock and water called Sacramento...thought becomes concentration, sharpening the edge of his mind, and when it would become dull, it instead gives way to meditation, reaching down another level, to the soul. From those depths comes a mantra, a core koan...I AM SENTINEL. Those words repeat, and repeat, and reach a fevered pitch...they burn in Tug's mind and re-brand his soul.