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posted December 28, 2002
 
Elliott stares at the coins for a moment and shakes his head.

"A.J. Alex. You know, the girl who was singing the last time you were in here." He pushes the coins back toward you. "She said you were a friend. I'm not so sure, but since I owe her big I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. Drinks are on the house tonight." He goes to fix your mudslide.
 
 
I hope I can take the emptiness of the bar as a good sign. Nothing weird needs to happen. I'll have one drink. If Alex isn't here by then, I'll go back to Pen's and . . . well, maybe I won't go back.

I count out about four dollars in my change and place it on the bar. "Who's A.J.?" I ask. "And I'd like a mudslide please."
 
 
Well, you walk into the Iceberg & Lettuce, and it’s about as busy as you’d expect for mid-week before happy hour—as in, not real busy at all. There are a couple of the hard-core drinkers in a corner but that’s about it. There’s no one remotely resembling Timothy, even on one of his bad days. Now that you think about it, there’s no Alex either. She could be late, though.

As you make your way to the bar, the bartender sidles over to you. He’s dressed smartly enough in his uniform, though his name embroidered on his shirt (“Elliott”) is a bit on the tacky side.

“Hey, you’re A.J.’s friend, right?”
 
 
Hmmm. Damn. That's not exactly what I had in mind, but fuck it. I need a drink. I just wasn't thinking of drinking alone.

I walk into the bar, have a look around at whoever might be there -- not that there are a whole lot a people in a bar at five on a Wednesday. I want to make sure Timothy's not there again before I make myself comfy at the bar.
 
 
Unfortunately, you don’t see one nearby and don’t remember the last one you saw in this part of town. There is the Iceberg and Lettuce, beckoning to your newfound riches from just a block away.
 
 
Where's the nearest ABC store?

I proceed to stuff my pockets. :)
 
 
You find that even though a couple people are in the vicinity, their attention is elsewhere. So, you touch the phone and the change box just happens to spring open, belching out a large handful of change. A quick inventory shows that you got $15 plus a couple of dimes out of the deal. Not great, but not bad either. At least it more than pays for your lunch.
 
 
"I'm on my way."

I hang up the phone and just kind of stand there for a minute. I wonder what I'm going to say to her when I actually see her. I wonder when things like this will get easy for me.

I look around to make sure no one is watching me then put my hand on the phone and use a little entropy to make all the change spill out.
 
 
You can almost feel Pen lighten up a bit.

“Do what you need to. I’ll still be here.”
 
 
"Do you want me to come back now? Because I will. You know you're more important to me than some girl I just met who probably thinks I'm insane anyway. I . . . "
 
 
“Sometime tonight would be good.”
 
 
"When do you want me back?"
 
 
“Yes, you do. Do you know when you’ll be back or should I even ask?” She sounds a little down, a little irritated.
 
 
"Hey, Pen. It's me. I just wanted to let you know that I'm back at the bar near the airport. I'm supposed to meet that girl again, although I really don't know why. When I get back, we should probably talk. We haven't had a chance since you got here, and I guess I got a little explaining to do."
 
 
You find that once you leave the airport, the next available payphone is only a block from the bar. Calling Pen up is no problem (as I am assuming that you got enough change from lunch to handle the charges or are trying some nifty trick to make sure that you *don’t* pay).

“Hello,” you hear Pen’s voice say on the other end of the line, a statement and not a question. She seems to have already guessed that you’d be calling. Of course, how many people have Pen’s cell number anyway?
 
 
Okay. Then I'll close it. I'll also make sure that the little plywood door is closed. I would hate for any unsuspecting sleepers to wander back here and have the same sudden allergic reaction to entropic magic I had. Or worse get their heads snatched off. Getting one head back to its original owner was enough for me, thank you.

That done, I leave the airport and head towards the bar, stopping at a payphone closer to the bar so I can call Pen on her cell phone.
 
 
Um…yes, it is…
 
 
All right fine. I can take a hint. There will be no portal openings for me today. Maybe tomorrow when I have more time.

Is that emergency door still open?
 
 
The spiritual portal is slightly smaller and wider than the physical portal. While it isn’t exactly a one-way portal, it will take a great deal of time and effort to even force a small window of it open. Apparently someone doesn’t want to be found.

By the way, it’s a couple of minutes shy of 5pm, and you were supposed to meet Alex at the Iceberg and Lettuce, well, about now.
 
 
I'd like to say more to Pete, remind him how long I've waited for this and how many times I've thought through every conceivable option. I'd like to remind him that the physical death I suffered that night was nothing compared to what happened to my soul. And all of that is nothing compared to what I will do to Timothy when all this is over. I plan on dying. Pete knows that. I am at peace with it. He needs to get there too because that's part of that whole destiny thing.

But I'm not going to say anything. I don't need to say anything.

Anyway, I'm still curious about this unicorn. I follow Pete back out into the corridor and start looking for the impression of that portal again. I don't quite want to open it, but what I want to do is see if I can "open" it to see where it leads, a mind/spirit kind of thing. Does that make sense?

What time is it, by the way? And when was I supposed to go meet Alex?
 
 
Pete looks at you, looks down, shakes his head, and looks at you again.

“Have I told you how crazy you are? Hoo. Alright, I’ll help. I don’t think he’ll buy it and you’ll end up dead. Again. But I’ll help. Now, can we get out of here? This place is giving *me* the willies.”

He walks through the open doorway.

“You want cold comfort? Leave some Southern in the fridge. That’ll give you cold comfort…”

(Looks like we’ve hit end of scene. Where to next?)
 
 
"it's kinda about timothy. i have a plan, which is scary enough, but i don't wanna freak you out when the time comes to actually do this.

"i know i'll run into him again before i leave chicago, and when i see him, i'm going to tell him that i learned my lesson. i'm going to tell him that the only thing i want is to have kendra back and that i don't have the power to do that and that i think he can show me where to get power like that.

"i don't know if he'll buy it, but i'm going to need all the help i can get to make him buy it so that i can get what i really want, which is revenge or justice or just cold comfort."
 
 
Pete stops at the ‘doorway.’

“What is it?” For once, he doesn’t sound flippant, condescending, or frustrated.
 
 
"No, keeping people out makes sense. If you were hiding an evil head snatcher, would you want everyone coming in and messing around down there? What doesn't make sense is why I got through and you didn't. Which one of us is the Avatar again? Or maybe there's just something about me. Because I died maybe? Dying is the ultimate entropy anyway, but I guess we don't
need to be getting into a philosophical discussion about all that. I wonder if I could . . . no, I'll leave it alone.

"Um, Pete, hang on a second. I need to tell you something."
 
 
“This place needs you. Riiiight,” Pete says, turning for the makeshift door.

“I don’t know what stopped me. It must have been something in that spell keeping people out. I dunno…it doesn’t make sense.”
 
 
"That's where the head snatcher used to live. I don't know what's down there now. The Hermetics do still have that thing, don't they? So maybe nothing's down there. But I won't know until I can find a way to remove the barriers and get down there without wanting to rip my damn eyes out. I hope head snatchers don't come in pairs.

"You worry too much. That was nothing compared to some of the shit you've put me through. And you know I have no intention of leaving you this soon. Besides, I seem to have become the patron saint of airports. This place needs me.

"So why couldn't you follow me?"
 
 
Getting back up the stairs is no problem, as all of the pain and discomfort you felt on the way down (and in) dissipated on the way back. Pete’s standing stock-still at the top of the stairs until you reach the upstairs room; then he exhales loudly. He then inhales almost as loudly, and gets real pissy.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again, do you hear me?! I couldn’t help you down there, couldn’t even cross this fucking doorway to even get to the fucking stairs. Who the fuck knows what could’ve happened to you, huh?!”

Pete takes a deep breath and relaxes.

“Okay, I feel better now. So what’d you find?”
 
 
Fuck.

Back up the steps. Or if I can't find the steps, at least away. Quickly!
 
 
That aura of passive malevolence that you noticed upstairs is centered in this area. The feeling you get is the magic itself isn’t malevolent (though the stinging—almost piercing—in your eyes will attest to the fact that it is destructive), but what it’s trying to protect is.

You take a deep breath, filling your breath with sawdust, wax, ozone, dirty laundry, garbage, and something else you can’t immediately identify, as it’s a bit fainter than the other scents. One step in fixes that problem, as you bump into something wooden and clothes tumble over you. One good whiff and your sure.

It does smell like the head-snatcher.
 
 
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I put my hands out in front of me and take a few steps towards (hopefully towards) whatever shapes I thought I saw. The only senses I'm going to listen to are touch and hearing and smell. And of course whatever I can pick up magically at this point.

But I'm ready to run back up the steps at the first sign of trouble.

You mentioned before a kind of passive malevolence in the room above. Is it stronger down here? Is there a different feeling down here? Is there any smell down here? (going back to the smells I was able to pick up from Maria's memory -- I'm basically trying to pick up anything that might in any way tell me what's down here. Blood, dirt, chemicals, etc. If it smells like the head snatcher, I'm outta here.)

"Give me a minute, Pete. There's something weird down here."
 
 
With every step that you take down the stairs, your eyes seem to itch and water more, finally becoming painful at the last couple of steps before the tarmac. You can’t see your surroundings clearly from all the water in your eyes. You can see little pinpricks of…light? …and shapes, rectangular shapes…boxes? …an altar? You’re not quite sure, but the pain’s almost enough to force you to keep your eyes closed. You can just hear Pete hissing after you, seemingly an eternity away.

“Get! Back! Here!”
 
 
I knew this was a bad idea. But I'm here so what the hell?

I go down the stairs as fast as I can. I stand at the bottom for a moment, rubbing my eyes and hoping that was some sudden allergic reaction to dust.

I doubt it, though. Whatever it was, it can't be good.

"Pete, are you okay?"
 
 
You can’t see any hoof prints or crop circles in the dust. There are footprints, but not anything within the last couple of days.

You take two steps towards the door and feel strong magical energies permeating the area—different magicks than the ones apparently used to open the portal; more passive than the earlier impressions, but also more malevolent. The energies seem to collect themselves directly beneath your feet. It’s obvious that wherever the unicorn ended up, it certainly wasn’t here.

A baggage truck catches your eye as it speeds across just far enough from the door to be visible. The driver doesn’t notice you or the open door. When the truck speeds out of your field of view you realize the magical energies are Entropic in nature. It doesn’t take a Hermetic scholar to figure out what the effect does, either.

As you reach the open door, you can tell that the stairs go down to the tarmac and directly under this forgotten area.

Almost simultaneously, Pete shudders behind you and your eyes begin to itch slightly.
 
 
Any hoofprints in the dust? Or footprints or crop circles or anything else to indicate that something or someone has been here before I decided to be stupid? I know there are better things I can be doing with my time. But hey, it's not every day you see a unicorn or have one visit your dreams. Any unusual magical/spiritual energies or other things? Anything magical
about this area at all?

I head towards the open door.

(i had a very odd dream the other night that was a cross between mage and brotherhood of the wolf. i (as shiva of course) had to stop a beast from terrorizing a large airport. when i got it, i took it apart. it was totally mechanical. there were some weird scenes chasing this thing down a
series of escalators. i just wish i could write the whole thing out accurately. it was interesting.)
 
 
You push the door back, and see the back wall of the terminal building about five feet beyond. It looks like a new gate was being built here but with the amount of dust and cobwebs around, nothing seems to have been done to the area in months at least. It seems as though this portion of the airport was just simply forgotten. There is, however, a clear path between the makeshift plywood door and a door leading outside plainly marked “Emergency Exit – Alarm Will Sound When Door Is Opened”.

That door is open, and you can see a set of metal stairs leading down to the tarmac below.

And no, the alarm is not going off.
 
 
(for some reason, i'm reminded of ed's lesson from the "toys in the attic" episode of cowboy bebop. "if you see a stranger, follow him!")

"if wasn't a door, it is now."

i'm going in!
 
 
(…vacation good…stressful work situation after getting back from vacation? Bad…)

The crack extends up from the floor in a straight line up to about your eye line, cuts across at a right angle for maybe three feet, then dives back to the floor. You’re not able to get your fingers into the crack, but you find that you won’t need to—with a minimum of pressure you should be able to push the plywood back away from the rest of the wall.

Ever the keen observationalist (if that’s even a word), Pete pipes up behind you.

“Is that a door?”
 
 
well, it's not like i care if anyone knows i killed timothy's mentor. it's just that no one should know expect penelope and the guy who asked me to do it. and me and pete, of course.
that's what i would have expected as far as contact goes. not that i'll share anything about timothy when i find out. :)

okay. let's take a closer look at this crack. how wide? how long? can i see what's on the other side of it? if i can, what do i see? would i be able to get my hands in the crack (that sounds really bad) and pry it further open if i wanted to get to the other side?
 
 
Answering your questions first:

1. There is no indication that they knew anything about you killing Timothy’s, or even the identity of said dead mentor. So, everything is still in the dark there.

2. There is a phone number tucked out of the way on a sticky note. Along with the number is a note saying, “If it doesn’t have anything to do with Lancaster, don’t bother.”

Your perception slips into the spiritual easily enough (in-game: it’s a Level-1 effect, so I’m not going to charge you… ;) ). You can tell that some sort of portal was opened up in front of you recently—meshing with Pete’s story—but hasn’t been opened since. You also notice a physical crack in the wood at one edge of where the portal used to be.
 
 
i want to look spiritually/magically for any doors, gates, portals, tears or holes in "reality," anything that might be a passage into wherever the unicorn went. but i'm going to be very careful not to go through it yet. i need to know what it is before i do that.

only two things between the bench and the airport. questions about the folder donovan gave really. first, is there any indication that they know i killed timothy's mentor? would there be any indication that timothy knows i killed his mentor or that he even knows the man is dead?
second, is there some way for me to contact donovan? a phone number, a location, something like that? or should i assume it's a "don't call us, we'll call you" kind of relationship?
 
 
Pete will just have to retort behind the scenes, cause we’re switching immediately back to the airport. (If there was anything that you wanted to take place between scenes, let me know. BTW, thank goodness that the game is set before the WTC attacks—it would be impossible to simulate the relative lack of security otherwise.)

The trip back to—and into—O’Hare is easy enough. And soon you’re back in the corridor where you found Maria. Pete leads you back into the opposite corridor. It’s a makeshift construction hallway connecting to the main terminal hallway; you seem to be enveloped in plywood. Pete stops you at a right-angle bend in the hallway. The wood here looks unblemished and fits right into the rest of the wall.

“He went through there.”
 
 
"Sorry. Pete. I guess if you were visible to anyone other than me, you'd be all over these papers. Maybe if you cover yourself with baby powder or something. And you'd smell fresh and clean all day!"

I guess I oughta hang onto the folder, though I don't know why. I doubt I'll show it to anyone, and I think I know my life story, at least the parts I allow myself to remember. I fold it in half, longways, or roll it up or something so I can stick it in my back pocket. I didn't bring my backpack with me. Just my wallet. I stand up and look around, trying to remember how to get back to the airport.

"Okay, Pete. It's unicorn hunting time. Show me exactly where it was when it disappeared."
 
 
You open the folder, and it’s certainly not a travel brochure—it’s not even glossy. It does, however contain your life story, albeit from an outsider’s point of view—all of the important points are there, though there aren’t any references to Pete (you can feel his disappointment over your shoulder) or to your own death. However, it does put two and two together about Lancaster’s role in Kendra’s death. It also has a list of photographs and sightings of Lancaster over the past several months. It’s a meandering line eastward hitting a number of major cities: Dallas, Kansas City, St. Louis, Minneapolis. It doesn’t say what he was doing there, but you can tell that from Kansas City onward he was said to be dealing with known Nephandi sects. The report goes on to conclude that he is likely to have become Barrabi himself, and is likely to hook up with sects in this area. Unfortunately, they haven’t been identified.

Looking over your shoulder (and past Pete, who’s whistling his “innocence”), you see that the name of the Chinese place is Take-Out Palace.
 
 
that's interesting. and they call people like me reality deviants. at least i don't go around making magic bubbles. and the way he was dressed was pretty deviant too. i have no fashion sense either, but i was married to a black woman. she taught me enough not to look like that. okay. i'm rambling now. i guess there are two ways i could take what don told me. it's either bait -- ooh look, here's where timothy is, go kill him for us -- or he really thinks he can trust me. i don't want to think about that too much.

i guess i oughta look through the folder now. i'm sure it's chock full of useful information. kinda like the stuff you get when you call the travel bureau of a city and they send you the pretty glossy brouchures and shit. :)

what's the name of the chinese place where i ate?
 
 
“Yes, we’re done. You don’t need to bother yourself about why I’m giving you this extra information,” Donovan nods once again to the manila folder in your hand, “but there are certain things that are more important than our so-called war.”

He gets up, nodding and smiling as he does.

“Good afternoon, and thank you for making this a pleasant conversation. For once.”

He turns to leave, and by the time he’s five paces from the bench, he’s melted into the afternoon rush of people. At about the same time, there’s an audible pop and the normal city noises flood your ears. You hadn’t noticed the noise had gone anywhere.

You’re still holding the folder he gave you.
 
 
"No, no questions really. I'm just not sure I understand why you're telling me all this. I mean, I know I have the reputation of being something of a deviant myself, but I came here for one thing and only one thing. Well, maybe two, but that won't happen until after the first one. I have no intention of getting involved with any of your business. I don't care. This little war thing we got going doesn't really concern me. You know, we might be able to help each other at some point, especially if you have any interest in taking out whatever group Lancaster's involved with. And I don't know what happened to your agent. I didn't see it, and I'm really glad I didn't see it. And by the way, when I said I'd be here for the rest of my life, I didn't mean that as long term.

"Are we done?"
 
 
Donovan settles back a bit, his easy grin flashing to life once again.

“Good. Now, on to my normal shtick, so listen up. Our policy with quote-deviants-unquote here in the Chicagoland area is you don’t mess in our affairs and we don’t mess with yours—with a city as big as this we generally have bigger fish to fry than to smack down every last deviant to wander in. We’re even willing to forgive the little—incident the other night at the airport, as the threat we both happened to be going after has been neutralized. Besides,” and he looks around as if to make sure nobody is listening in, “between you, me and the sidewalk, our missing agent was a grade-A prick, and even the higher-ups were happy to see him go. How did he go? Wait. Don’t answer that—I wasn’t in the pool, so I don’t really care, so long as he’s gone.

“So, do you have any questions?”
 
 
"Lancaster went to the 'Dark Side' a long time ago. I could tell you why but you probably already all about it. And at this point, it doesn't matter who or what i have to go through to get to him. I will get to him. And anyone who gets in my way better watch his step." I hold his gaze as long as possible, as intensely as possible so that he knows I mean business too.
 
 
Donovan gives you a I-can’t-believe-you’re-trying-to-shit-me-like-that look. Pete is trying his hardest not to laugh his ass off. It’s not working.

“I…see. I’ll call that long-term, then. I take it that you’re after that Lancaster guy that arrived a few days before you showed up.” A statement, not a question. “Because if you are, you had better watch your step.” He lowers his voice to just above a whisper and locks his eyes with yours. “I’m not supposed to giving this out, but I’ve read the dossier,” he points at the manila folder now in your hands, “and I’m pretty sure I can trust you with this. The word from our investigators has it that he’s been seduced by the Dark Side, if you catch my meaning. Getting to him would mean going through groups we haven’t been able to locate, much less lock down. I’ve heard that this particular sect has certain…alliances…with some of the other groups in town—but officially, we’re considering that a fanciful rumor. Unofficially, I doubt it as well, but who knows?

“Are you with me so far?”
 
 
"For the rest of my life."
 
 
“It’s easy once you’ve learned how, really. All right, since we seem to be on a one-name basis, you can call me Donovan. I’m pretty sure you know who I represent. What I do is arrange meetings with newcomers to, um, ascertain a few, non-confidential things about their presence here, and to lay down a few…ground rules.”

Donovan hands you the manila folder he was holding. “This is to help you understand that we do mean business.

“Now that the preliminaries are over with, let’s get started. How long do you plan on staying in Chicago?”
 
 
this can only be bad . . .
i go over to the bench and sit down. "it must have been hard to type on such a little piece of paper. i hope you didn't hurt yourself."
 
 
Maybe tomorrow.

You exit the shop (the girl at the counter cheerily waves goodbye as you walk out) and turn left. There does happen to be a bench not fifteen feet in front of you. And sitting on that bench is a man who seemed to have stepped out of the Gap, if everyone at the store were color blind: khaki and plaid in color combinations even you couldn’t imagine. You need to make an effort to stifle a grimace. He looks up from the manila folder he was half-heartedly looking at and smiles at you. The smile is equal parts cheerful, easygoing and predatory.

“Well, hello…Shiva, I believe that’s what you’re going by these days? I was hoping that you’d honor the invite,” he waves his hand toward an empty part of the bench, “and so prompt, too! I like that. Please, sit down. As I said before, I only wish to talk.”
 
 
why me? can't i have just one day where NOTHING happens? you know, i've never been to Chicago. maybe i wanna do a little sight seeing. or maybe i wanna go home now. ever think of that? (sigh)

here goes nothing.

if there is a tip jar on the counter, i'll leave a couple bucks and take another set of chopsticks. just in case. you never know when you'll run into a bowl of rice or something. i go outside, take a deep breath, take a left, look for a bench.
 
 
The fortune was typed, not hand-written. The font is businesslike and impersonal; there’s no chance to get any sort of analysis.

“Hmm,” Pete shrugs, “looks Tech-y to me. Maybe they want to talk about their missing agent from the other night?”
 
 
(you bastard! didn't i tell you no weird fortune cookies? i wish i could go to dragon con. now that they've pushed the system conversion back to october, i guess i could, but i lack the funds and have no car to sell. anyway . . . )

Questions: is the fortune hand written? if it is, is is a handwriting i recognize? anything interesting about it spirtitually, mentally whatever? i guess i'm thinking that if it is handwritten, there might be some emotional/spiritual impression. i'm not trying to analzye the handwriting
or anything. but if i can, i want to know the person's emotional state. nervous, angry, frightened, whatever.

"what do you make of this, pete?"
 
 
The food isn’t the best Chinese food you’ve ever had, but it’s far from the worst. It goes down a bit easier than you’re used to as well. All in all, a good meal. Even the fortune cookie didn’t taste as stale as normal. You are now comfortably full.

Oh yes, the fortune. It reads: “When you’re done, turn left and meet me at the bench outside the shop next door. Don’t worry, I only wish to talk.” Thank goodness you can read small type.
 
 
(of course i brought money. i cetainly didn't plan to jedi mind trick my way to a free meal. although that probably wouldn't be too hard.)

I grab some chopsticks and napkins and go sit down to consume, preferably in a corner table where I can see the door or at least the counter.
 
 
“Okay!” She yells out an order to the back in a dialect you’re unfamiliar with and quickly rings you up (You did remember to take some money with you, right? I’m assuming so.). Before long you get a tray holding a cup of tea (it’s a Dixie cup, no less), a plate overflowing with lo mein and innumerable different types of vegetables, and a fortune cookie. Plastic utensils, wooden chopsticks and assorted condiments sit next to the register.
 
 
"You really wanna makes things hard on me, don't you?" I say, smirking back.

"I think I'll go for the vegetable lo mein with some green tea."
 
 
The restaurant is a hole in the wall in the midst of a quiet strip of stores. The décor here is more pool-room-in-the-basement that anything else, with its wall-to-wall wood siding and collection of framed drawings—some good, some atrocious. The place has maybe five or six tables; they’re built well enough to set food on, but you wouldn’t want to sit on them. You get the feeling the owners are trying their honest best to make the place more homey. Perhaps they’re trying a little too hard. There’s certainly nothing spiritually out of place—it’s simply a mom-and-pop operation.

“Well,” she winds up.
As she goes through roughly half the menu—she seems to like the lo mein dishes the best but goes out of her way to highlight the good points of all the dishes she names—you steal a quick glance at her sketch. It’s a nature scene of sorts: a grassy meadow where a number of dragonflies are playfully tormenting an Oriental dragon. You’re no art critic, but you can tell that she has talent. You can also tell that she drew all of the pictures that are hanging here.

“So. What’ll it be?” She singsongs, giving you an almost conspiratorial smirk.
 
 
"i'll eat in," i tell her. "what's good here? that doesn't have meat in it." and i'll take a quick glance at her sketch.

(what's the general atmosphere of this place? dark and cozy, bright and cheery? can i get any kind of spiritual sense about the place? i need some good karma here! not to mention food.)
 
 
(Not five months? How about six? No? Okay… ;) )

Well it’s not a bad day for a walk, anyhow. There’s a nice autumnal chill in the air (it is early October) which helps clear whatever remaining cobwebs lingered from that unintended catnap. And it’s not even hard to find a Chinese restaurant. They are everywhere, after all. The place you find is empty (there isn’t much of a rush until about 6 or 7, you’d guess) and does both sit-down and take-out. A Chinese girl looks up from the counter, leaving a sketch she was apparently working on.

“Would you like dine-in or carry-out today, sir?” she chirps with a smoothed out accent.

(No, I’m not taking anything for granted. Why do you ask? ;) )
 
 
(my god -- is it real? it's kinda like the canes in the cup finals. dreamy. pinch me. ouch. okay, fine. funny, i was just thinking this morning as i was trying to make myself get out of bed that i ought to send you an email giving you a little nudge. the attachment is the original email, in case you were curious.)

pete, you are no help, but then again, that's about what i expected. i guess i'll just have to ask the unicorn then.

i'm guessing it's been a while since i've eaten. last i remember was the early morning meal at the chantry after taking that walk through maria's mind but long before finally getting her head reattached. so i guess i'm going out to find something edible. chinese. and i hope the fortune cookie doesn't say anything about the unicorn or the football game or anything else that would seem too much like coincidence. and after eating, i want pete to show me the exact spot where he saw the unicorn disappear. oh, and i guess i'll leave a note for pen so she won't worry too much. just something to the effect that i've gone to take a walk and get something to eat.

(whaddya say we not wait five months this time? :) )
 
 
WTF???

Yep. The planets are aligned, the ducks are all in a nice, neat little row, and all other cliched crap like that, only without the accent marks. So, let's recap, shall we?

The day has been saved. Well, maybe not the day, but certainly a head. You may have come here seeking vengeance but you ended up helping a complete stranger. And what could be stranger than a woman with no head? Anyway, Maria's head was found and reattached and she is safely in the hands of the local Hermetic chantry, none the worse for wear, or so the saying goes.

So you head back to Pen's new place and crash. Instead of meditating as usual, you end up taking a nap--I guess you could blame it on jet lag, if anything--during which you are visited by the unicorn. Oddly, you don't remember too much (aside: slight rewriting here, as I don't remember myself what the unicorn did in Shiva's head and can't find my original email), but you remember the unicorn's eyes. Sad, pleading, hoping for your help--but for what, you don't know. And at that you wake up.

To answer your questions from the original note:

>What time is it?
It's about 4pm (weren't you supposed to meet with Alex at 5 or so at the I&L?)

>Where is Pen?
You're not sure. She doesn't seem to be in.

>What's in the refrigerator?
Alas, it's empty. Maybe that's where Pen was off to.

>What day is it?
It's Wednesday. Welcome to Hump Day...

>ask Pete about unicorns
"What, the one in your head? He's good European stock...I'd place money on 'im if he ever ran. And before you ask, no, I don't know what he was doing there *or* how he found you."