"I am no superman
I have no reason for you
I am no hero; oh that's for sure
But I do know one thing for sure
Is where you are, is where I belong
I do know, where you go, is where I want to be"

"Where Are You Going", by Dave Matthews Band

Sometimes I think that Granddad has it easy. He's human.

I, on the other hand, am not. I'm an elf, a product of the Sixth World. Granddad told me that when Dad was born (this was back in 2010, at the start of the Awakening), the doctors told him and Grandmom that their youngest child would grow up retarded and deformed because he had pointy ears and was long and skinny. "Put him in an institution," they said. "He'll be a burden to you." Grandmom told them all to frag themselves.

Very wise of her, I think. But then I'm what you would call "heavily biased", when you consider that if Grandmom had followed the advice of others I wouldn't be here.

The world used to be pretty simple—all humans, no magic. Then came the Awakening, the return of magic to the world. There were some harbingers in the latter part of 2010, as parents all over the world started giving birth to tall skinny kids with pointy ears (elves) and really short stumpy kids (dwarves). It was nearing the end of the current Mayan calendar. The end of the Fifth World, where magic didn't exist and elves and dwarves and orks and trolls didn't exist except in random fits and starts that produced people that bore some resemblance to the folks walking around today, and the start of the Sixth World.

Now magic is back, and so are elves and dwarves and orks and trolls. There are all kinds of fun critters, too. Old political entities have fractured, and new nations have formed. And of course there are the megacorporations, who may as well be a political unit unto themselves. At least Microsoft went down in flames.

My parents died when I was 10. Some Alamos 20,000 motherfraggers decided that it would be fun to make some stupid political statement by setting off a bomb at the Mall of America during the height of the holiday shopping season. That bomb was the worst incident of racially-motivated violence in the Twin Cities. 200 people dead, 2 of those 200 being my parents. The diatribe that they read on the news that night was the usual "we hate everyone that's not a member of our subspecies, and we hate everyone that doesn't hate the people that we hate" drek that they love to spout.

Welcome to the New Racism, folks. It's not about skin color anymore, it's about whether your ears are pointy or not and whether or not you have tusks or horns or are short and stumpy.

Perhaps it's time for me to introduce myself. My name is Neal. I play hockey, like my Granddad did.

Or rather, I used to play hockey. When I said I was a product of the Sixth World, I wasn't kidding. Not only am I an elf, but I'm Awakened too—that's a fancy term for saying that I have magical ability. I'm not a mage or a shaman, though. I follow the somatic path, as an adept of the Way of the Athlete. I use my magic to improve my body and mind, to make myself the best that I can be and to stay at the top of my game. I can dish out hits, and I can take hits—when the other guys are able to hit me, anyway. I can skate like the wind, and I've got one hell of a shot. I was the best damn defenseman in the NHL. The next Bobby Orr, they said. Rookie of the Year 2058. Norris Trophy 2059. I was proud. My family was proud.

Then I discovered that there was a problem: the NHL doesn't like us Awakened types. I don't get it, really. They have vatjobs that are so chipped that they set off metal detectors just by walking within 2 meters of them. They have players that have so much wire in them that they can moonlight as car stereos in the off-season. They even have a fraggin' cyber-zombie, for drek's sake (Toronto has him—the guy's got so much cyberware that they have to have a wiz on staff to keep the poor fragger alive, and they still can't win the Cup. Go figure). But if you're an adept, then by God that's just cheating and you can't play in the National Hockey League. So I got tossed out on my hoop and ripped in the press and treated like the worst sort of criminal by every sportswriter in North America. I would have had my trophies and everything else stripped from me on the way out if Granddad hadn't called a few people that he knows and pulled some of the proverbial strings.

I wept like a baby when they announced that I was banned from the League. I'd spent my whole life perfecting my game and perfecting myself so I could take a turn with the Stanley Cup like Granddad had, only to fall victim to the same damn thing that orphaned me—Prejudice with a capital P. Granddad says that he's still proud of me and that I don't have any reason to feel ashamed of what happened, but I still feel like I let him down. He tries to get me to play hockey with him, to talk puck like we used to when I was a kid, but I don't even last five minutes before breaking down.

So now instead of living the high life in the Ottawa-Hull Metroplex I live in a modest doss in Minneapolis (near my family—especially Granddad and my Nana (Mom's mom)) and work part-time as a bouncer at local clubs. It's relatively easy work, the pay is great, and it keeps me out of trouble most of the time. Every once in a while some drunken fool thinks that it'll be funny to hassle the disgraced ex-NHLer, but they're pretty easily dealt with (and non-lethally, thank you very much).

Where should I start, now that I've gotten the pleasantries and my life story out of the way?

Actually, I know where I'll start. At the beginning of this adventure, with Hoho showed up at my flat.

Hoho's a good friend of mine. Correction: he's one of my best friends. We've known each other since we were kids. He's a Bear shaman, which when you think about it is pretty logical (since he's all big and bear-like). He and I have been through a lot together; first girlfriends, driver's education, me going off to juniors, the whole ball of wax. When I got kicked out of the League and spent the better part of a year holed up in my apartment feeling sorry for myself and living off the buyout that the Senators gave me, Hoho was the one who got me to snap out of my funk and get my life back together. I hadn't seen him much since then. Last I'd heard of him, he'd been out East somewhere.

You have no idea how happy I was to see his face when I opened the door.

"Neal Hedican, you fancy-skating elvish bastard," Hoho boomed as he grabbed me in a big bearhug. "How are you, my old friend?!" He grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks, like we used to do when we were kids, and we laughed.

He looked about like he did the last time I saw him—big and furry, with a scruffy brown beard on his ursine face and neo-tribal leathers and talismans all over the place. He smelled about the same, too—like a wet Kodiak (not that I've smelled a wet Kodiak mind you, but you get the picture).

"I'm doing pretty well, you old fuzzball." I thumbed over my shoulder. "Come on in, you're in time for dinner."

My doss is better than most, but still relatively modest. I can afford better, since I still have plenty of cred left over from the buyout, but I like what I have. It has a living room, a galley-style kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms—one for me, and one that I use as a makeshift dojo. The previous tenants (artists, obviously) painted a really nice-looking starscape on the walls, and the landlord liked it so much that he left it up as one of the selling points of the place. It certainly sold me. I have a bookshelf with my trophies and everything on it, to show to my friends. I even have family pictures up—Mom and Dad and Granddad and Grandmom and Nana and Poppa and my cousins and aunts and uncles. Most of them are gone; some to VITAS outbreaks, some to the violence that surrounded the Awakening and the Goblinization and the Night of Rage, some to various other things…like shadowrunning. Now all I have left are Granddad, Nana, and a few of my cousins. Nana's mentioned to me a couple of times that she'd like to see me find somebody nice and have some kids, but she knows not to rush it by trying to set me up with people. Granddad's a lot more sanguine about the whole thing. He figures that when it's time, it's time. I'm an elf, so I have the luxury of time.

Gah, sorry to get wrapped up in the reminiscing. Back to the story.

Hoho came jandering into my doss and sat down on the couch as I went back into the kitchen. My furniture is big enough to accommodate large folks (like trolls—I had one as a teammate back in Ottawa), but I still winced when Hoho flopped down. He's human—but he's still damn big. Almost 2 meters tall. Big enough to be a troll.

"What's for dinner?" He called into the kitchen as I popped another foodpack into the microwave.

"Nutrisoy," I shot back. "I can't afford the real stuff much anymore, remember?" I came out with two plates that had something that looked like real steak-and-potatoes on them. Yum yum, soy protein—cheap to produce, nutritious, and it even tastes like the real stuff. But it's not the real stuff, so it's cheaper. "Here."

Hoho laughed as he took his plate, a big booming laugh that I swear made my windows rattle. "That's OK, my friend. Coming from you, I'm sure that it's a five-star gourmet experience."

"Flatterer." I pulled my ottoman up to the coffee table and we started eating. "So what brings you back to the Cities?"

"Fate, dear Neal. Fate." Hoho stood up and wandered into the kitchen. "And the need for a nice drink to go with my meal. Where do you have the glasses?" I heard the sounds of cupboards opening and closing. "Never mind, found them." I heard the sounds of two drinks being poured, and Hoho came back in to set two glasses of water down on the coffee table. "I am here because of something that is very important."

"Do tell?" I raised an eyebrow as I forked a mouthful of fake-steak. The texture of Nutrisoy leaves a bit to be desired, because no matter how much they try to make it like the real thing it always feels a little rubbery. At least they have the looks down, if not the texture. "And what is so important that it brought you back from the mysterious East?"

"Newfoundland isn't all that mysterious, my friend. Very nice place, even if the people are a bit odd sometimes." He shoveled in a couple of bites of potatoes, washing it down with some water before looking at me. "I was out there working with some of my fellows to try to clean up a few man-made messes. Toxic shamans are no fun to deal with, I tell you. But that's not why I'm here. I'm here because of something that I found out on the way back."

"And what would that be?" I raised my glass to take a drink—which in hindsight might not have been the best thing to do at that moment.

"The Stanley Cup," he said slowly, "has been stolen."