An Urban Fantasy in Three Acts

The following is a work of fiction. It would be pretty stupid to say any resemblance to real people is coincidental, but any resemblance to real events, personalities and, yes, even sexuality of those involved most certainly is not based on fact.
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"Well, that was silly."

Throwing the tabloid into the trashcan next to the bus stop he was sitting at, Michael picked up the last one he'd bought. There was a funny, nagging feeling in the back of his mind that someone was going to take his picture here, while he was reading the local bathroom trash, wearing a brown duster and looking generally like a sleazy child molester, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Well, he wasn't really desperate yet, it was just that he had no idea where to look for anything, and the local magi news seemed like a good place to start. Like most of his level, the local lord made a business for himself publishing tabloids, and killed two birds with one stone, using them to keep the magically inclined locals informed of things they wouldn't see in the 'real' newspapers.

Unfortunately, there hadn't been all that much to go on. A single page torn out of one was the only thing that might've been related to his current situation. And the last one he was looking through now proved just as fruitless, unless the latest charity donation from Lord Howell really mattered. It was cleverly written as a conspiracy story; Michael had to give them props for it.

He tossed that one in the trash, too. Resigned to waiting for the bus for a few more minutes, Michael pulled the folded page he'd kept out of his pocket and skimmed through the story again. It was about the local hangout for people like him, a place he'd never actually been. What with school, and swimming, and being on probation, and more swimming, he barely had time to practice Lenny's lessons on occasion, and his lack of a social life extended into the secret part of his life.

So, he hadn't really been clubbing in a long time, let alone to the local club owned by magi. It was a place called "The Conclave," and according to the story, the owners had problems with a mage or two getting a little violent in the place. Of course, it was written in a completely sensationalist light, hiding the truth in plain sight. Who would take an article headlined "Brawls at Local Club Purported to be Supernatural Occurrence" seriously?

What struck Michael about it was that the story had a purpose. It was written to sound ridiculous and give information to anyone who knew how to interpret it, and not once, in the entire thing, did it suggest the recent troubles at the club were caused by too much drinking.

And when people who shared his ability, or at least his training, to manipulate the elements started hitting each other for reasons other than alcohol, there was probably something going on. Maybe.

But there was a long time before Michael could look into it, the club wouldn't be open until sunset or so, and here he was, waiting for the bus that would bring him around campus so he could grab a shower in the gym. While he was reasonably sure no one would try anything at his house again, he was treating the place as another spot to check out for caution's sake. He planned on going back before hitting the club later in the day.

More than once, Michael was tempted to just call a cab, but he felt oddly self-conscious doing that unless absolutely necessary...having the money to blow on it just reminded him of why he needed to do it in the first place.

And so, the bus it was. It got him where he needed to go, and it wasn't like he had anything better to do since his leads were pretty minimal.

This particular bus was going in the vague direction of the diner he and Cal had eaten at the day before. The one thought he had was that someone had put the water that had tried to drown him into the water he'd been drinking, and the only person that close would've been the waitress.

He was rather disappointed to find that she wasn't there. Maybe it was a more deep-rooted conspiracy...for all he knew, she didn't even really work here.

Michael let himself be seated and got breakfast again. Sure, it was a little risky, eating at a place he thought someone tried to kill him at, but he felt like he was going to pass out otherwise. He just didn't order anything to drink.

He supposed that on some level, he almost hoped someone attacked him again, here, anywhere...it would make his little personal investigation go so much faster.

In any case, Michael had an hour to kill before the next bus anyway, so he ate slowly, deliberately, his eyes scanning the entire place on a regular basis, looking for something or someone out of place he may not have noticed last time.

And he left with nothing. "Man, I'm getting paranoid..."

But paranoia was going to keep him alive for awhile.

Once on campus, Michael felt a little better. Summer classes would pick up in the near future, so the place was still relatively well traveled and public. No one in their right mind would attack him in public, in broad daylight.

Heading towards the gym, Michael said to himself, "Christ, I hope whoever has it in for me is in their right mind."

Plodding across the pool area, Michael waved to Cal as he was diving in to swim a few laps with the team captain and headed for the locker room, almost startling him into falling off the starting block.

Michael couldn't help but think it would've been funny; he would've nagged Cal about pulling a Thorpe for weeks if he ever fell off from there. As it was, he nodded to Bob as he walked by him, and Bob returned the gesture, nothing more. True to his word, Bob left him alone, and Michael was glad that he held himself to the same standards he held others. When he said he would do something, he did it.

A simple check around the lockers to make sure no one was sneaking up on him to satisfy his current state of mind was all he really needed.

Of course, his sword was a problem. Once he'd taken his spare change of clothes out of his locker, there was enough room to fold his coat and put it inside, but it wasn't big enough for the blade. Michael laid the sword on the bench and laid the duster over it, instead. "Close enough for government work."

There were a few other guys using the showers, and Michael found himself taking a spot as far away from them as possible, taking as long as possible himself so they were finished first and leaving before he was. Funny, he'd never had a problem resisting the urge to look over his shoulder in the showers to get a free peep show, and now he couldn't stop doing it just in case someone was planning on jumping him with a pointy object.

Cal and his captain were coming in as Michael was getting dressed. While he didn't know the latter at all, Michael was happy to make conversation with Cal while the other went right to the showers. "How's life?"

"Can't complain, got a good night's sleep," Cal bounced on his toes a couple of times, stretching his arms out in turn. "How, uh, was your night?"

"Oh, peachy," Michael chuckled, pulling his clean shirt on over his head. It occurred to him that he really needed to shave. Then again, if Ian Thorpe could sport the stubble look and make it work, why couldn't he? Hell, even Thorpie would be good company right now, and Michael supposed he should've been thankful for having a fellow swimmer to talk to. "My place got busted into last night."

"Really," Cal blinked, like he was so shocked he couldn't be anything but bland about it. "That's...well, uh, that sucks. Man, are you alright? Were you there when it happened, I mean?"

"Oh, I was there," Michael fell against the lockers, satisfied at the metal making noise under his back as he crossed his arms. "I was there, alright. Little bastard ran off...choked, I guess." That was a lie, of course. But he wasn't going to admit that the reason was a water-imbued Japanese sword.

"Choked?" Cal blinked. "For like...no reason?"

"No reason," Michael repeated. He hoped he sounded as clueless as he was trying to. "I guess I shouldn't complain, huh?"

"Guess not," Cal nodded. He turned off, "Well, I'm going to wash the chlorine off, we were going over practice routines, crap like that...hey, I didn't figure you for the trench coat type."

Uh oh. Michael hadn't been paying attention to his coat covering his sword on the bench. But for better or for worse, he had a good excuse. "Oh, right, I usually don't...I'm just trying to bundle up so my fever burns itself out faster...I was right yesterday, I was getting sick."

"Oh, well...hey, call me if you need anything. You can crash at my place if you're like, worried about yours or something."

With that, Cal found his own locker, did the stripping thing and joined the team captain in the shower. He really was pretty friendly all the time like that, and pretty easy on the eyes; Michael thought he might just work up the courage to hit on him sometime if he ever really did get over Ian.

That thought gave Michael pause. He hadn't let himself think about Ian since the early morning, and he was starting to wonder if he had not taken the best course of action. Surely, he would've had time to sit down and mail the guy a letter labeled "do not open unless you see my death in the news." What did he have to look forward to now that he'd fessed up?

Then again, hindsight was always twenty/twenty, and being scared for one's life could make one do funny things. No sense in having regrets, Michael figured.

Sitting down to tie his shoes, he changed his mind on that. If Ian really did go blabbing to everyone about what he'd said, well, he supposed he would've regretted it then. He could hear Cal and the team captain talking over the noise of running water, so happy with their lives being slightly more normal than his was.

Cal, in particular, at least thought something of him. "Got lucky, says the guy just ran out."

"Just ran out? I don't buy that. Why would...I wonder if he's got some old gun or some crap like that that'd land him behind bars."

"I doubt he'd risk that, I give him rides, remember? He has to behave after he lost his license."

"That's why I'm saying the dude 'just ran out.' Since when does that guy wear a trench coat out of a wild west film?"

"Well, I told you about yesterday when I went to lunch with him? Says he's coming down with something."

Michael would've been mad about being thought of as a doer of (any more) illegal things, but they actually weren't far off. It worried him, actually, he wasn't sure what kind of reaction he'd get from a judge if he was caught during questionable, borderline vigilante behavior while carrying a sword around. It was under his duster, after all...didn't that make it a concealed weapon?

It also worried him that his behavior was enough to tip Cal off that he was hiding something, but ultimately, he didn't think it was worth sweating over. He would sort the mess out, and then he would go back to not being attacked by magical water, so he'd look quite normal again and the events of this week would be quite forgettable.

Carefully putting the coat back on so as not to accidentally unhook the sword, Michael left the gym, wondering once more what he should do before heading to the club later in the evening.

At the very least, waiting for the public transportation and sitting through the bus' crazy routes killed a lot of time.

Not for the first time, Michael wondered if he was just being silly. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to think his little experience in the diner had been a freak accident. Sure, it didn't seem likely that enchanted water might accidentally fall into his specific drink, but hey, anything was possible. He'd certainly done silly things when Lenny was teaching him; an incident involving a washing machine when Michael had been trying to redirect the water from the nearby sink's faucet came to mind.

Michael wanted to believe that really badly, but he was nothing if not a man of common sense.

And he remembered how the last time he'd ignored common sense it made his life worse, when he was already in the worst slump he thought possible.

Ultimately, Michael decided, he would have to go home eventually, so once again, he hopped on the next bus off campus and made that trek. If someone was there waiting, he'd have to take care of it, and it would be an opportunity to learn more about what was going on. If not, he might consider the place safe at least during the daytime and just hang around until later when The Conclave opened.

Never one to ignore the small things in life (unless they were portents of something horrible, like back pain) Michael appreciated the fact that the bus route included his street.

He did not appreciate the man sitting on his doorstep with a newspaper over his face. He stopped walking up the path to the door as soon as he saw him. The neighbors weren't high on Michael's list of associates so none of them would wait for him at the door for any good reason.

The optimistic outlook, Michael thought, was that this was one of his roommates, come back out of boredom or some such silly reason. However, none of his roommates were flip-flop wearing jocks, and from what Michael could see, this guy fit that description pretty well so far.

There was an unfamiliar car parked on the street, too, and that clinched it. Someone was waiting for him after all...

He resumed walking, trying to look casual, his left hand tucked inside his coat, wrapped around the scabbard of his sword, ready to yank it free from the small buckle holding it.

He held his keys in the other hand, something that could easily double for a backup weapon, and as soon as he was on the doorstep, before he went to unlock the door, he said, "Can I help you?"

"Dude, where've you been...I've been sitting here for an hour." And the man folded his newspaper down, more than enough to show his face.

Michael almost choked on his spit; it was Ian Crocker.