07

Disclaimers still apply.

Major thanks to Kerrik Wolf for proof-reading and offering spelling and grammar abuse corrections for this chapter. All corrections are his, all mistakes are still mine.

[Chapter 7]

It had been two weeks since Ludmilla joined Micah's harem, and she wasn't still quite sure what to think.

Not that she had been bored, or idle. Training, mock combat, dealing with the incumbent population of ferals surrounding the Capella grounds that rushed in to try and take advantage of the lack of it's previous defender. But there had been the domestic element, as well -cleaning out the manor, choosing what to salvage, dealing with what couldn't be, seeing what could be fixed right away, what needed an interim fix, and what was a long-term goal. Euphemia still hadn't vetted the power systems, which meant they were using fireplaces for warmth and what Micah called 'hurricane lamps' for light. Anya had gotten Ludmilla to help in cleaning out the cellar, staking out the entire area for research purposes.

Overall, the two weeks had been spent in a warm, pleasant sort of glow that Ludmilla had been accustomed too only briefly in her long years -that of a home being built. But she was a weapon, and she couldn't help but feel at times that she was a sword left out of it's sheath -unattended too long, and the blade would corrode and rust, loosing it's keen cutting edge.

The Dire Wolf contemplated this over a glass of water, cupping it in both her hands as she and Nunnally shared a drink in-between some chores. Of course, having a roof over their heads wasn't the only reason they were staying in one spot.

Ludmilla's ears pricked even as Nunnally turned at the sound of a door being slammed open, then a second one as Jericho entered the kitchen. Gripping a wooden countertop, the catgirl's claws bit deep as she let out a piercing yowl of frustration, tail sticking straight up.

Ludmilla regarded Jericho, letting out a quiet 'woof' of irritation. "Problems?"

The brown-eyed catgirl glared at her. "That man of yours," she gritted out, "Is infuriating. Two weeks of work, and -nothing-. Not even a fucking -light- spell. A -light- spell."

Ludmilla grit her teeth, working not to lash back either verbally or physically. "And?"

"It's a fucking light spell!" Jericho blurted out, her tail looking akin to a bottle brush. "That he can't cast anything either means he hasn't awakened to his magic or that there's something seriously wrong with him!" Letting out a soft 'rrrrr' noise in the back of her throat, she began to stalk the floor, tail angrily lashing back and forth behind her, like a whip.

"I wasn't aware you had time constraints," Ludmilla growled out, even as she surreptitiously sniffed the air and frowned, thinking that perhaps most of the problem wasn't with Micah.

Jericho halted in her pacing. "I... don't. I don't," she finally ground out. "I'd just like to transfer control of the wards to him so I can stop worrying about them."

Ludmilla slowly nodded, setting her cup of water aside, flicking a glance at the silent Nunnally and wondering absently just what was going through the Armsmistress' mind. "I'll go talk to him."

And this was the other reason that kept her from complaining too much about the lack of action, Ludmilla conceded as she entered the study Micah had taken over as his personal fortress. He was currently sitting at his desk, scripting something on thick sheets of paper in black ink, reading over the Grimorum Astra as he did so. Trying to do this while mobile and capturing pokegirls would be slow, if not impossible.

She had to admit, the sight of Micah bent over and completely absorbed in the Grimorum was rather giggle-inducing. If he wore his old glasses, it would be even more funny. While she did have mental access to his brain and memories, the visceral -feel- of him coupled with his appearance made you expect to find him bent over some helpless pokegirl while he raped her, not totally absorbed in reading a magical tome.

"Have you considered taking the catgirl to bed with you?" Ludmilla inquired, hands folded behind her back as her tail wagged.

Micah glanced up, then set his pen aside as he leaned back. "No."

"She might calm down if you did."

"I didn't take the outburst personally."

"If she starts a fight with anyone in your harem..." Ludmilla let the implications hang.

"If she acts like a responsible human being, then I'll treat her with the courtesy and due that requires. If she acts like a pokegirl, then I'll have to punish her like one."

"Like you enjoyed doing with Cornelia." Despite her human-appearing looks, Ludmilla still lolled her tongue in an open-mouthed grin.

Micah regarded her for a moment. "Mmm." Carefully, he closed the Grimorum Astra and locked it. "What is your professional opinion on my current plan of tracking down S-Goths to psychically interrogate for memories?"

Ludmilla stiffened, calling back to memories three hundred years lost whenever she served in Sukebe's forces during the war. "It's simple. Direct. They won't be expecting it. They're complacent, and that makes them lazy." Her green eyes narrowed in thought. "There are too many things that could go wrong, which means we'll need to react fast when they do." When. Not if. "One S-Goth, from your description and memories, I and Cornelia should be able to handle."

Micah lightly fondled his pen. "Why Cornelia?"

"Because she'll kill. Without hesitation, without thinking. And that's what I'll need, if the worst happens and I screw up," Ludmilla replied in a frank tone. "We're dealing with a telepathic, teleporting pokegirl. Split-second reaction time is what'll save us."

Micah let out a slow hiss of a sigh. "Ah. I had similar thoughts."

Ludmilla's ears perked, her tail absently wagging behind her. "What problems are you having with magic?"

"I thought you said you hadn't studied the arcane arts?"

"Just because I've spent the past three hundred years honing my skills as a psychic, doesn't mean I can't help." She gave an absent shrug. "Dire Wolves can feel magic. Smell it, kind of." She smiled. "On you, it's scent has been gradually increasing for the past week or so."

Micah gave a lazy, wing-wrapped shrug. "From Jericho's comments, she thinks I've yet to awaken to my capabilities, as of yet."

"Do you believe her?"

"Belief doesn't enter into the matter. Jericho is the only learned practitioner I have on hand to make a judgment call." He let a hand rest upon the Grimorum Astra. "From my reading, the Grimorum has remarked that properly awakening to magic is rarely a simplistic matter." Micah smiled faintly. "Some creatures come by it naturally, of course. But the Griomorum warns that such things are rarely painless. Thankfully, the tome itself is an artifact of teaching, and it states that reading it's pages assists in this process."

"It's not just that, is it?"

Micah let out a snort, wondering just how much Ludmilla picked from his brain. "No, it isn't." Magic to Jericho was words, gestures, -emotions-. Rote scripture that the human-turned catgirl didn't question, and just accepted verbatim.

Which, to Micah, made no sense whatsoever.

Why words? Why gestures? Why did apparently otherwise worthless trinkets operate so well as a spell foci? Did they actually have some function, some specific purpose that he had yet to divine? Or, as Micah privately suspected, were they simply psychosomatic crutches the brain could hang upon, acting as a buffer to what amounted to manipulation of the raw power of creation?

And if that was the case, why bother with the buffer at all?

The worst part, ironically, was the Grimorum itself. A teaching tool, certainly, and hideously valuable in more ways than Micah had initially suspected. But other mages had added to the Grimorum, and some of the information was conflicting; some stating that those rote methods were inviolate to the key of spell casting, while others referenced experienced archmages eschewing them and simply molding raw power directly when pressed; Even, in some cases, simply creating small spells on the fly.

Micah shook his horned head in irritation, discarding that line of thought. "Call Euphemia up here, please."

The redheaded G-splice teleported in, absently tying up her mass of hair with a string. "Master?"

"I'll need the two of you to co-operate on this small project. Ludmilla, I need you to research where we can feasibly procure high-yield explosives. Euphemia, I need to you research how you could feasibly produce the same."

Euphemia quietly boggled at Micah while Ludmilla's expression was of such delight he almost swore he saw her eyes glow.

"Define 'procure', Master," Ludmilla's grin was purely feral.

"By any means necessary. But don't get caught."

-[***]-

The harsh clack-on-clack of wood rang out in staccato amid the main dining hall. It's environs had been cleared of the owner's previous attempt to utilize it as some fancy throw-back to a more genteel time. Now the barren hall served a much more utilitarian purpose - that of an impromptu dojo.

Nunnally was current master of the hall, the blind Armsmistress running Micah through his paces with the blade. Her observations paid as much attention to form and focus as they did to Micah himself. And while she was loathe to voice this concern to any other of the harem, she would have been dumb not to come to the realization that Micah had changed.

Before, his sword-work had focused on precision. Surety. Control. The absolute certainty that his blade would fall where he deemed it, and nowhere else.

The control was still there. But it was a secondary concern, almost as if it was assumed; an overwhelming confidence in the fall of his blade.

In it's place was aggression. Bloodlust. To go for the most crippling, debilitating strikes -first-.

In some part, it was sensible. If the worst came to worst, and Micah had to actually face off against a pokegirl with a blade, playing the defense would be a loosing proposition. Strike first, strike hard, strike to kill, and that would give him a chance to momentarily negate his opponent so he could withdraw to safety.

The other element was currently present right now, as they exchanged practice blows. Nunnally easily deemed the pace that Micah operated at - her speed and strength could allow for no other thing. Before, he had simply accepted it as a fact of them sparring, taking it as a learning experience.

Now, she could sense a clear emotion; he was -angry-. Not at her, specifically. Or even his own limitations. Instead, it was as if he had located some inexhaustible wellspring of emotion that he was tapping into, a driving focus that narrowed his attention into a lethal knife.

Her Master was changing. Into -what-, she wasn't certain. And she would be a fool not to be concerned.

"Stop."

The wooden blade halted in mid-swing, Micah panting softly as he regarded Nunnally. His condition was slightly gratifying; had he attempted such a workout at the beginning, by now he'd be trembling from exhaustion and utterly drenched in sweat. Now, all he felt was a pleasant burn of muscles taken to a hair beyond what he was comfortably capable of.

Micah set the practice blade aside, running a hand through hair to wipe away sweat and make the feeble attempt to center himself. "Open-handed strikes next?"

"A break, first. There is something I wish to discuss that I brought up to Ludmilla."

That caught Micah's attention. From sheer curiosity, if nothing else. He wasn't fool enough to think that his entire harem got along with showers of rainbows and puppies in their wake, but as long as they were polite and respectful of the other, he had no complaints. It was just gratifying to see that they were conversing without his prompting. "About what, specifically?"

"I needed a consultation. Ludmilla confirmed that it's possible for a skilled telepath to transfer specific memories from person to person. With your permission, I thought it prudent to transfer a copy of my memories concerning blade skill and martial skills."

Micah didn't quite stare, but it was close. "I... see." A pause. He resisted the urge to wrap his wings around himself. "Is there something I should know about?"

"No." Delicate hands that could cleave through steel if she was of a mind too gently ruffled through his sweat-soaked bangs. "I'm not going to leave you, Master. Not willingly. But if the worst should occur, it wouldn't be right for you to have no ability to further your education."

The worst. If Sanctuary should locate them and somehow and attack with intent to capture him. Even if they didn't succeed, with the resources at their disposal, victory might be... costly.

No. Best not think about it. Plan for it, yes. Ruminate over it... if he did, he'd go insane with worry. "I can't argue with your forethought. I'm surprised that Ludmilla thinks she can manage that, though."

"She is three hundred years old."

Which was something Micah could only grasp in the very loose abstract. And half-worried that he'd manage to snag one of the pick of the litters of that breed - worse, the idea that he -hadn't- snagged one of them, and that Ludmilla was just fair-to-middle regarding her capabilities.

Micah sighed. "We'll have to work out the details later. I'm curious as to how Ludmilla will manage memory access, but..." A shrug. "When you next talk to Ludmilla, have her set things up as soon as possible."

Silence.

Micah quirked a smile, wondered if Nunnally could pick up on it. "What, you didn't expect me to agree that quickly?"

"It might be better had you not."

Micah took a deep breath, let it slowly out. "You mean, the idea of someone messing with my brain, something -unnaturally- inserting memories that might or might not be my own, that a more -healthy-response would be to get a serious case of the heebie-jeebies before evening thinking to agree to the matter?"

Nunnally's expression creased into a small smile, but she nodded in a serious manner regardless. "Yes."

Micah didn't - quite - keep his voice calm as he threw his hands up in the air. "What else am I going to do, Nunnally? When it comes down to it, there's only two choices - yes or no. Yes, I potentially give myself an advantage - no, I don't take it. Everything else is -secondary-. My concerns are -secondary-. My feelings are -secondary-. What it boils down to is - will this help me win, or no?"

Nunnally regarded him with an expression that held an element of glaring. "Does that apply to your harem, as well?"

Micah blinked, startled. "What? No."

"Why not?"

Micah let out a fang-edged hiss. "Because there are things that I'm more than willing to accept for -myself- that I'm not exactly very enthusiastic to see occur in people I care about."

Nunnally silently regarded him, rocking back slightly. Then stepped forward, enfolding sweaty skin with a manifestation of brilliant white wings.

Micah stiffened, before leaning forward to bury his nose in thick silver hair. "Sorry," he murmured.

Who hurt you, Nunnally did not say, so I can kill them? The Armsmistress was calm, but she had limits. Learning that her Master seemed to view a certain level of abuse as expected and acceptable was one of them. "No, Master. I should be the one to apologize. I worry, as much as the rest of the harem does, but they cannot see what I see."

Micah made a sound in his throat as he leaned back to regard her. "Which is?"

"Instead of my eyes, I perceive chi - life-force - auras, if you will. And that allows me to witness a person's emotional state. What they feel, and the intensity. It is... useful." Nunnally paused. "Before, you were... even-tempered. Now..."

"I've been subject to flashes of murderous rage?" Micah replied in a wry tone.

Nunnally canted her head in acknowledgement.

He let out a sigh. "Yes. I've been aware of them." Which was worrying. He was subject to emotional volatility as a teenager, but never to the point where he was going to kill someone. ... Most of the time. There were a few exceptions... "I'm more worried about the -follow up- than the emotions themselves."

Nunnally looked curious. "You never got into fights?"

Micah gave a disgusted snort. "Not exactly."

"...?"

Micah gave a leathery shrug, working to stifle a sudden surge of rage that worked it's way to the fore at some memories. "Let's just say that, if I had a chance to live my life over again, some orchestrated premeditated violence would have made my high school years -far- more simple."

"..."

"Hindsight is always twenty-twenty. Regardless, I refuse to be ruled by my instincts. Even if they seem to view killing as a perfectly acceptable recourse of action, now." Micah regarded Nunnally somberly. "I haven't had to kill anyone yet, but with my luck, it'll probably occur sooner or later. You could even paint me as an accessory with our lovely John Smith, and the worst part? I don't care." A slow breath. "Anyways. Open-handed strikes?"

Nunnally nodded slowly. She had a lot to think about. "Yes, Master."

-[***]-

The problem, Micah quietly admitted to himself, was that he simply didn't have enough time.

His days - the primary block between breakfast and afternoon - was his for research and development on the staggered days he wasn't out with his harem, sweeping in an arc to capture ferals. After that, it was combat exercising, stamina work, training. He refused to pull late nights working, as that would have been unfair to his harem - after dinner was the closest thing he had to free time before setting in for that night's taming.

And he thought college had been bad.

Something had to be done about it.

Further reading of the Grimorum Astra had slowly given some confirmation regarding the various types of magical users possible. Some, like Jericho, were simply naturals - if that was even the proper term for it. They utilized magic like others played with water, employing rote words, gestures, emotions and words to evoke a magical response. Which explained why Jericho was so frustrated with him; she simply couldn't conceive of someone whom couldn't utilize magic like she did.

Others, the Grimorum noted, awakened to their magic in a different way. As opposed to a quiet susurrus of emotional training, these individuals awoken to their power in a more brutal, sudden, potentially dangerous way.

Potentially deadly.

Even then, there was a possible solution, as the Grimorum included feasible spells that could be cast - even in the half-awakened state -that would bring to a full manifestation of the proto-magelings power.

He let fingers brush across the fruit of his research, multiple partially scripted magical circles traced in black ink on thick parchment. They would, in theory, when employed in the awakening ritual, act as an access invocation to manipulate his power.

Micah let out a faint sigh as he stirred his wings around him, fashioning them into some approximation of a heavy cloak. From a safety standpoint, what he was considering was dangerous. More so than a natural breakthrough. When you rushed anything, things had a chance of going cataclysmically wrong.

Yet, realistically, Micah knew why there was a kernel of sensibility in rushing things. As much as he enjoyed playing lord of the manor, realistically, he would have to be prepared to lose it all in some conflagration. Even if he was difficult to track, he wasn't going to completely rule out Sanctuary finding him by some other means. Good old-fashioned legwork, if nothing else.

Then again, that would require them to put in some honest hours and effort. And given that Sanctuary had operated from a position of superiority since it's founding, 'honest work' likely wasn't something they were used too.

Micah went over his work a final time, checking and re-checking with the Grimorum that the spell-circle would operate when coupled with the minor enhancements he'd inscribed into it's makings. Dangerous, but he was risking insanity as is. Why not go all out?

Tonight was the free evening for him and his harem. Once he ordered everyone barred from the study, he'd construct the magical invocation and cast the die.

-[***]-

Micah didn't know how long he spent inscribing the circle with it's attendant enhancements.

I should be shaking, Micah thought absently as he eyed his work. From excitement and fear, if nothing else.

But no. He had started the circle inscription over several times at the beginning; from nerves, from fear, from simple mistakes.

Then he thought distantly back to whenever he had met Jericho, and that preternatural calm and stillness he had felt, a sensation on the tip of his tongue. And let it rush to the fore once more, that sensation of 'prey' and '-hunting-' stilling nervous muscles and ceasing the nervous prickle of sweat.

And now, he was finished. All that remained was the actuation portion of the ritual, which would operate completely by his will and power.

You've flown on wings of your own, Micah thought to himself. Traveled the sundered barrier of worlds. Mastered five women. You can -do-this.

He stripped down to nothing, toe-claws flexing as he stepped into the untouched middle of the circle. Wings spread as he crouched down on one knee, Micah took a deep breath, summoning up every erg of his preternatural calm and focus to will this to -work-.

Do it.

-Do it-.

Micah raised one forearm, and with a pure instinctive flex of unsheathed claws, bit them deep into the soft flesh, splattering a bright rain of blood down upon the floor and the circle. Briefly, he looked at the sight as if the flesh wasn't his own - that it belonged to some other poor bastard. And then the pain hit, a sharp slap of reality that he wrestled with, channeled it to gain the necessary clarity to manage this.

He laid a hand upon a circled glyph where blood had dripped, bit fanged teeth down, and -focused-.

Nothing.

Come on, he almost whispered to himself, muscles straining as if they could give aid to the mental struggle. Come on.

Unseen, the hurricane lamp sitting on the study's desk guttered and died.

Come ON.

Flesh and blood and bone of wings stretched overhead like grasping, hungry claws, eyes closed tightly, Micah didn't see fire burning in the study's fireplace flicker as if struck, ugly blooms of dark color blossoming within the flames to cast dancing and seething shadows against barren shelves.

COME ON. I'm. Right. HERE.

The circle inscription flared a brilliant white and with a sound that could only be called a scream as fire crawled up his nerves, searing into his brain like a white hot brand. He didn't scream, didn't have the capacity to scream, even as a part of his brain threw itself against the consciousness-blotting strike of pain and defiantly worked to cudgel it into submission.

His wounded arm shook, splattering blood upon the floor that hissed and steamed, even as more blood leaked from tightly closed eyes and rolled down his cheeks in dark rivulets. For a brief moment, the pain increased, a terrifying surged that cut deeply, as if it would never leave, and -

The excruciating pain left him, leaving it's tepid brother in it's wake. Calm slipped from his brain like water from shaking fingers as Micah let out a ragged gasp, shaking on one knee before he painfully managed to stumble upright, unable to think. His arm hurt, his brain hurt, and the hand that had lain on the circle inscription hurt as if it had been seared bone-deep.

Gradually, slowly, logic began mastering the sensation as he flexed his hand, finding it unmarked and unharmed. So, too, did the pain in his brain dim until it was nothing more than a feathery memory that he firmly quashed.

And smiled, as he reached for it. For that power. With a flare of brilliant light, the circle inscripted itself in glowing lines above Micah's gripping hand. "Invoke protocol," he whispered, "Fiat lux." And grinned in wonder and delight as the ball of light formed in his cupped palm, dancing and moving to his will and want.

A sound by the door caught his attention, and Micah canceled the spell even as he moved to at least cloth himself in a pair of pants. When he was partly decent once more, Micah stalked over to the study's main door and pulled it open.

Ludmilla had been crouched down low, pressed up against the bottom of the door. The Dire Wolf half-fell into the study before she could catch herself, tears leaking from her green eyes as she stared up at Micah in dumbfoundment. Micah blinked, finding the rest of his harem having surrounded the study door in a loose semi-circle. Cornelia, held back by Nunnally's firm grip, tried to rush him; Anya beat her too it, the StarMystic sobbing as she tackled his chest and clung to him.

"You're bleeding," Euphemia whispered, her tone jagged and raw-edged, just shy of breaking down crying. The G-splice didn't even ask - she focused a healing spell on his arm, mending claw-rended flesh whole.

"You -cut me out-," Ludmilla exclaimed, green eyes hurt and accusatory. "You told us to stay out of the study -no matter what-and you cut my psychic access -off- and you were -screaming- and-"

Micah held up a hand in a sharp gesture, the meaning clear. Screaming? He hadn't remembered screaming, though he had been rather focused at the time. "Thank you," was his simple reply. "For following my request. I'm glad to see I could trust you all to that degree."

Anya reached up and firmly yanked on his horns, forcing him to look down at her. "-Why!?-" The accusatory question was nearly a scream.

Micah glanced sideways at the hands that kept a firm grip. Held the look, until Anya calmed down and sheepishly let go, face a bright blush. "...why?" she asked, voice soft.

"Because my studies lead me to believe that I needed to force the manifestation of my magical capabilities," Micah noted calmly. "To do this, I needed both privacy and time. Uninterrupted privacy and time. I couldn't do such having the five of you hovering around me."

"Why did you cut me off?" Ludmilla whimpered, ears held flat against her skull as she looked more like a beaten cub than a deadly pokegirl over three centuries in age.

"Because I did not need the distraction of you going through my brain at your leisure," Micah pointed out calmly, slightly gratified to see the Dire Wolf wince at his caustic words. "Secondly, there was a risk involved in the spell casting that could have resulted in injuries both mental and physical. Thankfully, I seem to have avoided that fate."

Nunnally finally judged it sane to let Cornelia go, and the Demon-Goddess was pressed up against his side, trying not to cry.

"Mental injuries?" Anya whispered, horrified. "Why? Magic doesn't... it doesn't -work- that way."

"Yours doesn't. The way I interpret magic differs from the way you do. From the way Jericho does, for that matter." Micah held up a hand, eschewing a verbal incantation for simple will of force as the inscription circle manifested, a gleaming white ideogram of magical focus that a glowing ball of light formed above. Micah smiled faintly as his entire harem regarded him with an expression of awe - which was patently ludicrous, as every last one of his ladies outclassed him in firepower to a degree that was staggering. "I'll also point out, before any of you take further issue about the risks involved, they wouldn't have been mitigated if I had allowed them to break out naturally. If anything, they could have been -worse-." He canceled the spell, a wave of fatigue dragging him downward that he arrested only with sheer, cussed stubbornness. And allowed himself a brief smile. "Granted, awakening to my power wasn't the only thing the spell ritual did."

"Please don't do something like that again. Ever." Tears leaking from her one good eye, Cornelia gazed up pleadingly at him. "Please."

Micah wrapped arm and wing around the Demon-Goddess. "I will not promise something like that, Cornelia. It was a judgment call that only I could make. If it reassures you any, I did not make it lightly." He couldn't hold back the yawn that broke through, and he slowly shook his head. "That said, I think I'm going to go sleep the sleep of the righteous bastard. Feel free to join me."

-[***]-

The remains of breakfast was spread out on the large table where Micah and his harem ate like the gutted corpse of some unholy beast. No one felt an immediate urge to begin cleanup as Micah played with a lick of fire manifested above one hand, the flame shifting in coloration until it settled upon a deep black that bled purple at the flickering edges.

Euphemia swallowed nervously. "That..."

"I'm just playing with chromatic variation," Micah replied in a distracted tone. "Nothing special beyond that."

"You said that awakening your magic wasn't the only thing you did last night," Nunnally inquired, the blind Armsmistress easily the calmest person at the table beyond Micah himself. "What else were you trying to do?"

"What else -did- I do," Micah replied calmly, even as he stopped playing and snuffed the unnatural flame out. Reached for a biscuit, using it to sop up the last dregs of yolk from his plate. "Part of the spell conveyed some minor mental enchantments, such as improved memory retention in regards to spell casting and intelligence enhancement."

Anya blinked, mouth open in surprise. "I didn't think such a thing was possible."

Micah gave a wing-rustling shrug. "Why ever not? Magic is the power of annihilation and creation. Deus ex. Nothing that states bootstrapping my mental faculties is an impossibility. Here, I doubt most non-pokegirl spell casters even bother." Micah gave a sudden chuckle. "I imagine having free and easy access to pokegirls has made some people lazy. They don't -need- to think when they can have their pokegirls take care of that particular chore."

A weak giggle spread around the table.

"So why did -you- do it," Ludmilla asked, pressing the matter.

"Because this is a war," Micah replied, sipping water. "And I need every advantage I can get. Even if I never take the front lines, would you prefer I simply go half-assed in regards to the study of magic?" He gave another wing-shrug. "If I did that, I might as well not bother at all." Finished off the biscuit, ignoring the grumble of demand from his stomach that said it was still hungry. Over-eat, and he'd be feeling the painful results later. "So. More immediate matters." He directed his gaze toward Euphemia. "Explosives?"

"Mis-directed delivery of explosives for a mining company," Euphemia replied.

"I had given some thought to 'borrowing' some supplies from a few Capital League Navy Depots, but..." Ludmilla shrugged, ears perking as she was directed to matters more pressing. "I figured the risk was too high."

"What do you want with explosives, anyways?" This, from Cornelia.

Micah shrugged. "-I- don't want anything to do with them." He nodded toward Euphemia. "-She's- the one I want learning as much about demolitions as possible."

The G-splice gave an audible whimper. "Hacking, genetic recombination, biological analysis," she whispered. "Now he wants me to learn about -blowing shit up-."

Every other pokegirl grinned. Micah didn't quite smile as he gave a calm nod. "Yes. I expect you to learn everything possible." He took a sip of water. "Because you'll be teaching everyone else." Now he couldn't help but smile as expressions fell. Only Nunnally had a measure of calm.

Euphemia shook her head, her mass of red hair swishing lightly around her shoulders. "Beyond the appropriated explosives from the mining company, I'll also be able to construct some shaped thermite charges. Maybe a few thermite grenades as necessary."

"Do so," Micah replied. "I'll want to be able to rig a remote and/or timed detonation in all cases."

Silence, broken by Ludmilla's calm question. "Do you really hate them that much?"

Micah gave a dismissive snort. "Hatred has no place in war." And sighed faintly at the looks he received in turn. The entire 'drive his harem into utter bafflement' thing was becoming very, very common.

"What is war?" Micah went on. "How do you define it? It's military action taken to achieve an objective. An end goal. -Nothing else-. Do I want Sanctuary destroyed? No. What I want is for them to -go away and leave me and mine the fuck alone-. If I can achieve this in a way that doesn't involve their complete destruction? Fine. If they pursue matters to annihilation? Fine. Hatred doesn't enter into the equation. It's a personal matter, not a tactical one." He lightly rapped the table. "And in regards to tactical? Three more days of training, then we'll begin cataloging the S-Goths in the Capital League."

Ludmilla eyed him, tail swishing behind her. "You're looking forward too it." It wasn't a question.

Micah smiled faintly. "Perhaps a little. We'll be working to bleed Sanctuary dry. And the best part? They won't know they're being struck until it's all over."

-[***]-

Micah forcibly kept himself from letting out an audible hiss of a sigh, and closed his eyes in concentration, seeking out that mental tether that temporarily connected him to Ludmilla. /Begin operation./

/Beginning operation,/ was the swift mental reply, and Micah wrapped his wings around him tightly, as he had nothing else he could do.

Euphemia had located the S-Goth masquerading as a Tamer via her pokedex, one of the 'on-ground' agents that operated primarily as wool-gatherers. Some, Euphemia had hinted at, honestly played at being a Tamer for much the same reason normal humans became one - to get away from the in-fighting of Sanctuary, to collect a pleasing harem, and a few keeping eye out for a potential 'pet' that they could take back home with them.

Once Euphemia had located them geographically, Anya, Ludmilla, and Cornelia covered the distance between them via high-altitude, sub-mach flight. Once they arrived within the operation zone, all three of them teleport-hopped until Ludmilla had moved close enough to focus on the S-Goth's encampment via foresight. Once they were hovering above the target, Anya focused on the Sleep Card, pushing as much power as feasible to keep the S-Goth along with her entire harem insensate while Ludmilla phased in, and with Cornelia covering the Dire Wolf, began to sift through and copy as many tactically valuable memories as possible.

On one hand, Ludmilla had to admit a large modicum of pride on Micah's plan; if it worked, it would crack open the network of S-Goths that operated outside Sanctuary, giving them valuable insight into their plans and movement.

A very large part severely regretted not being able to simply kill the S-Goth and be done with it. But that would have been the worse kind of short-sightedness.

Which is what kept her from crushing the S-Goth's throat as she finished, phasing out of the tent the S-Goth and her Alpha slept together in. Nodded to Cornelia, and sent to both her and Anya, /Move to extraction point./

All three teleported up several thousand feet, then made another teleport jump to a point at a similar altitude a hundred miles away. Once there, Anya employed the Erase Card to further obscure any scrying efforts, and teleported out to a final extraction point where Euphemia would be waiting to receive some of the information Ludmilla now had packed into her brain. Then, and only then, would they go home.

-[***]-

Michelle tried not to let her hands shake as prepared tea in her small, private apartment, absently thankful that she wasn't stuffed in that abyss-forsaken pokegirl dormitory. The privacy at least gave her a meager amount of solace. Better, that no one was around to ask questions that she wouldn't have been able to answer.

Fear - honest fear - was a new sensation for her, and not one that she was accustomed too. And she was terrified.

Michelle readily admitted that she wasn't a fighter, didn't take well to the internecine society that was Sanctuary that other S-Goths took too naturally, as if breathing. Nor did she want to become a Tamer, for all the potential freedom that offered her. So, she left, taking up the task to watch over some of the more liberal political elements at the University of British Columbia. It was supposed to be rote, safe, with little interaction beyond the occasional report that would likely just get passed over by some Sanctuary Spymaster.

If I had known what the outcome would have been, I never would have told them about -him-, Michelle thought bitterly.

The worse part was the fallout; The idea that someone, -anyone- had to take the blame for what was no less than a full on urban military action in the Capital League. Thera had the political clout to deflect any aspersions leveled in her direction. Jove was beyond reproach.

No. If there was any S-Goth involved in that clusterfuck that would get offered up on the chopping block, it would likely be her.

I don't want to die, Michelle thought, a whimper near escaping from her throat. I don't want to die or get turned into a Doll.

She looked down forlornly at her tea, suddenly realizing that she likely needed something much, much stronger to make her sleep. With a sigh, went to go pour the attempted drink into the sink.

And froze at the presence of another pokegirl in her apartment. Worse, one she recognized.

Anya smiled. "Hello, Michelle."

Michelle lurched up from her bed, a scream escaping her throat, her front covered in a fine sheen of sweat from the nightmare. Her head jerked spastically as she whipped around, surveying her bedroom.

Nothing. No pokegirl coming to exact vengeance in likely the worst way possible.

Just nightmares.

Quietly, Michelle curled up on herself and began to weep.

-[***]-

"So," Micah queried, his harem loosely assembled around the table, a war council in all but name. "What do we know now that we didn't a week ago?"

Cornelia snorted. "That Vince McMahon is an idealistic idiot?"

"Besides that," Micah replied.

"No dedicated command and control network," Ludmilla noted. The S-Goth's they'd been able to locate in the Capital league, along with all the information she'd divined from their brains, made that rather clear. "Arrogant. Confident. They operate from a position of superiority because no one up until this point has been able to really challenge them. Hit them hard, give them some sort of crushing defeat, and they'll likely be forced into a corner. Make mistakes."

"A cornered beast is at it's most desperate, and hence, most deadly," Nunnally pointed out.

"True, but this is a group of pokegirls." Ludmilla chuffed down a link of sausage. "Yes, they could come back from a large defeat, but it would require both time and strong military leadership."

"Which, barring the pokegirl equivalent of Ulysses S. Grant, they don't have," Micah replied. "None with cold, hard experience, at least."

"Pokegirls are social creatures, so we might want to take advantage of that," Euphemia pointed out.

Anya glanced over curiously. "How do you mean?"

"Well, look how quickly news of your marriage proposal swept the college gossip channels," Euphemia replied, grinning. "It's like that everywhere. Pokegirls like to gossip, but gossip isn't exactly very informative or strict on facts. So if we want to take out the S-Goths in Capital, if we do so in a single, surgical strike without leaving any evidence as to what occurred, then all Sanctuary is going to be aware of is that an entire group of S-Goths have disappeared. What that translates too is fear. What's to say this can't occur elsewhere? Suddenly, S-Goths outside Sanctuary no longer have the assured protection they had previously."

"Which means the majority might flock back to Sanctuary, but they'll act as a stark reminder to everyone there that the outside world is no longer safe. That something has happened," Micah mused thoughtfully. "Which might translate to pressures to the leadership to do something about this." He laughed softly. "There's nothing worse than a person complaining about something that was taken for granted that got taken away."

"How will they react, though?" Anya asked.

"If they have nothing to fight, they can't," Ludmilla replied.

"Unless they play the political game, do something big and flashy to shut people up," Micah noted. "Which is the likely outcome."

"Which will leave them vulnerable," Cornelia pointed out.

Micah smiled. "Just so. Next. Teleportation points?"

That had been the most terrifying element of the entire exercise. Even if it had the potential to be the most valuable.

"We've secured five separate teleport points inside Sanctuary," Ludmilla nodded. "Anya's vetted them for safety, Euphemia's confirmed their location. None of them are in the major cities - one is in the middle of the wilderness." Ludmilla's smile was pure carnivore. "But we can get to them."

Micah nodded. He wasn't certain how, or if, or even when they'd be utilized. He wasn't certain he'd want to conceive of a situation where the only course of action was to effectively hide in Sanctuary itself...

But the option was there.

Micah took a deep breath. "So-"

Euphemia raised a hand. "One more thing."

Micah blinked. "Yes?"

Euphemia smiled. "You may have forgotten something."

"...that is?"

"Sadie Poken's Week is four days from now, in Juneau." Euphemia grinned. "Which you are, by law, required to attend. Don't worry, I already have reservations for us all at a local hotel."

Micah stared at the G-Splice. And slowly, with an audible groan, let his head fall to the table.

Anya giggled, even as she reached over and ruffled with Micah's hair. "Don't worry. We'll protect you from all the scary Demonesses."

This didn't reassure Micah at all.

-[***]-

Authors Notes: The idea of awakening to magic being potentially dangerous or lethal is an idea I don't see much off in fantasy, though I admit what sources I have to draw from are sparse.

For the curious, I'm not drawing from any one specific magic system. I'm instead working from an unholy amalgamation that should hopefully keep things interesting for me.