Just a little bit, now freshly edited.

37: Interstitial

Tracy Island, in the mansion's lower storey-

Being hungry (and satisfied with the outcome of recent events) John sent a maintenance drone into the kitchen with orders to forage his supper. Yes, he could have gone there, himself. No, he didn't want to. After nearly three days without power, the refrigerator and freezers had likely become a set of gaseous, bulging food-coffins. And, while John could dig a latrine, clean a fish or muck out a stall without complaint, rotten food made his skin prickle. Consequently, he sent drones in to clear up the mess, another to scrounge something edible, and stayed well away in the meantime.

The dispatched maintenance drone eventually returned with two boxes of saltine crackers, canned ham and an unopened jar of grape jelly. These and a bottle of spring water made up his supper, which John consumed sitting on the fourth step of the big marble staircase, surrounded by companionable drones and repair mechs. In a general way, he was happy because:

A) The St. Martin purchase had gone well, and according to his quick, secret mineral assays, there was an awful lot of volcanic gold settling out of the water, thereabouts.

B) Progress was being made at home in the repair-and-reprogram department.

And…

C) All seemed right with his family, who would soon have hangars and a base to return to.

From John Tracy's perspective, there was no higher good than a job well done, and here he sat with three. Certainly, it was hot, the air stank, and his food tasted slightly of sulfurous ash… but a wind was breaking up the clouds and Omega Petrochemical had already called to ask about skimming the surrounding waters of all that reducible organic waste. Knock two birds from the sky with one shot, John figured, if he had the drones dump spoiled kitchen contents into the harbor for pickup and conversion. What the hell, huh? Dead fish and rotten eggs to unleaded fuel, in three simple steps. Everybody wins.

On the other hand… Jason Vann seemed likely to make trouble, soon, for International Rescue and his former cast, alike. John had kept several media windows open around him; one displaying his business interests, another the news and weather, a third Alan's RPG, and the last, WNN's entertainment network. Emergency channels ran as an overhead, streaming banner; bright green against cracked walls and ash-clouded twilight. His programming window remained active, as well, hovering before him at eye-level.

It was the entertainment channel that held most of John's attention while he ate, though. Cindy Taylor had come on-screen a number of times, appearing in brief teasers for her interview with an outraged and seething Vann. Nice. Even cleaned up and bandaged, he seemed to be a class-A bastard. Well… the astronaut decided, swallowing the last of his gritty meal… Vann's chief problem lay in the fact that he hadn't run into the right bigger fish. But that situation could change in a quick, damn hurry.

John nodded to himself. In the glow of all those open applications, he resealed the grape jelly and then fed his emptied can and flattened boxes into a nearby repair mech; all the while thinking, thoughts printing themselves out around him as lines of flaring code.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Within the RPG, after an almost disastrous battle-

Once Gawain was safely out of range, Frodle and Glud reversed their course to seek Male Elf, who'd withdrawn some way from the rest of the party. They found him crouched against a buckled section of sky road, nearly insensible. He'd been injured defending them against a flight of attacking dragons. Bad enough news, made worse by his use of dark magicks to help win the day, for Sir Gawain could not abide such, and had to avoid him. That stung, almost more than his burnt arm and slashed face.

For the most part, he didn't think about it, settling into a clear, cold well inside himself from which he could hear Frodle's spell and quiet commands, but felt very little. Other creatures were nothing but risk, his erstwhile folk would have said, and a wise person looked to himself… except that Male Elf no longer really believed that, and maybe never had.

At any rate, something within him responded to Frodle's healing words, just as it did the molten touch of that wretched white-magic potion. Either would have killed a normal Drow, but Male Elf improved enough to regain full consciousness and look around himself.

The still-busy halfling traced a sign of blessing on his forehead with the fingers of one hand (which was fairly annoying) while Glud offered him a drink (which was not). Male Elf accepted both with a mumbled "thanks", but he didn't yet trust himself to stand. Thus, the prolonged and dignified interest in his surroundings.

The sky road resembled an island chain or a trail of scattered crumbs, somehow not falling nor drifting on the wind. Dragons and weather had come close to finishing what time had begun, nearly demolishing the ancient highway. But Male Elf had other concerns. Taking a deep swig of Glud's fiery ale, he asked,

"What the hell happened to Gawain? Why did he freeze up that way? Magery? Second thoughts? Word from on high?"

The halfling shrugged morosely.

"I'm not sure, Friend Elf, beyond the obvious fact that he was ensorcelled by someone powerful enough to bind up the will of a paladin. I intend asking him about it… once we've made camp on solid ground."

A cloud drifted past as he spoke, silvering them all with droplets of clinging dew. Pretty enough, but chill as a grave mist, deadening sound and light, alike. Through it, the disjointed bits of sky road loomed like wet stones in an icy puddle. The snake tattoo had gone from his wrist, Male Elf noticed abruptly, as Frodle went on,

"But he says you're to keep out of sight until you've had a chance to wash clean three times. I recommend a spring, although the ocean will do at a pinch, if fed from above."

"Hmm…? Oh. Water, three times. Understood."

Why the odd sinking feeling, Male Elf wondered? That sudden, gut-punch sense of abandonment? Surely the magical item… a small dragon, itself… had been more trouble than use, skulking through his flesh like an inherited curse. Right?

Sure thing, outcast. Whichever delusion keeps you breathing…

Because sitting there felt helpless, Male Elf surged to his feet, accepting Glud's steadying hand when the too-swift motion and dizzying view turned him light-headed. Far below them the shadows were lengthening, purple as bruises on the landscape's soft curves. Fires were being lit, speaking of dinners and warm, woman-filled beds.

"We ought to hurry," he said to the scholar and half-orc. "Night's coming on, and I don't want to be stuck crossing this damn spider web in the dark."

Besides that, he needed running water and some kind of plan for finding a small, coppery dragon-thing. With scarce light remaining, they fetched the horses and started after Gawain and Allat, Male Elf pausing now and again in the deepening gloom to pocket dragon scales and the odd, unbroken tooth. After all, you never knew what you could trade, or with whom.