Apocalypse: Fairy System Macronomicon (a book to read txt) 📖

teens are stupid, but the sight of Mr. Clemmins digging a sliver of glass out of his palm must have made an impression.

In this case, the trigger portion was the thin glass tail, connected to the reservoir of pre-programmed Myst, which Jeb pictured as the explosive teardrop of tensioned glass.

The tricky part was the trigger. Jeb had to make it respond only to specific actions by making it resonate with the events in question, dialing it in like a radio to a specific station. When the right song came on the radio, it would resonate and wiggle the fragile trigger until it broke and unleashed the stored energy.

This was the part that required experience and experimentation to get the feel for it, something that had faded from Jeb within moments of being bitten by the snake...book…thing.

If, in the Myst dimension, every event has its own unique resonance frequency, I should be able to figure this out, eventually. Jeb sat up, cross-legged, opening his palm and consulting his memories of the Tutorial. He had some experience setting up Myst Triggers, even if he was on autopilot during the entire thing. He’d at least been present.

Packaging the Myst and programming it was easy. Jeb understood programming, or at least understood the concept of predefined actions. Jeb followed the instructions in the book and made a tight bead of orange-gold Myst ready to blow a gentle gust of wind into his face.

Creating the trigger was the hard part, as the instructions in the book waxed somewhat metaphorical, giving instructions such as touching specific strands from the Weave of Creation like the spider, Venaxus.

Jeb interpreted it to mean quantum radio. He tried to picture himself closing his right hand as a single possibility out of the wide band of possible events on the infinite spectrum of possibilities that could happen, and he pictured the fragile trigger resonating with that single event until it burst.

The trigger fired prematurely, blowing a gentle wind into Jeb’s face before he’d even thought about closing his hand.

Well, at least it triggered on something.

Jeb glanced up, and not a single prisoner or guard was paying attention to his antics, and it didn’t look like they would anytime soon. Probably letting him stew in fear for a while before they started interrogating him.

Jeb shrugged and took a deep breath, drawing Myst in to fuel his growing Core before siphoning it out, forming it into a tight knot.

It might take a while, but Jeb was determined to be able to do this on his own.

***Zlesk Frantell***

Zlesk watched as the annoying human was dragged away, looking like a squirming rabzi pinned between two hunters, his gold-inlaid wooden foot beating out a staccato rhythm on the floor.

I could just let him get raked over hot coals. I’m fairly sure the human has done something to deserve it.

Zlesk glanced out at the human fat-monkeys running around wildly outside the kitchen window, screaming obnoxiously and pulling each other’s strange hair...

Completely free of worry that any minute their safe haven might crumble to the ground due to the machinations of evil men. He could stand to let Jeb suffer, but to allow the orphanage to collapse was not an option he cared to entertain.

The murder-savant had done something good here, even if it was in service of his hunting.

Zlesk sighed and set his chin on his palm. “What was Plan C, Mrs. Lang?”

Mrs. Lang rubbed her disgustingly obese hip and scowled at the retreating sentinel carriage with her disgustingly obese lips.

“Right this way.” Mrs. Lang guided him to Jeb’s room on the second floor, right next to the staircase and the closest room to the front door.

On the nightstand next to the bed was a human electric lamp, which Zlesk had never seen before. For a moment, he was distracted by the unflickering pure light as Mrs. Lang produced a series of envelopes from the drawer.

“Let’s see…” she said, flipping through no less than a dozen envelopes until she found the one she was looking for.

“Plan C: Corrupt government officials,” Mrs. Lang said, opening the letter and spreading it out on the desk.

She frowned as she read it. “Use deputy plate and Truthseeker to shake the tree. Hire extra manpower from Working Stiffs to catch what falls out? Deputy plate is under my pillow, Truthseeker is in the nightstand.”

“What a vague plan,” Mrs. Lang said, turning the piece of paper over to check the back for more.

“It’ll work,” Zlesk said when he saw what lay under Jeb’s pillow.

An Enforcer’s Mark. Only given to people enforcers had the highest confidence in. Often the kind of people who went on to become enforcers themselves. It allowed a non-Citizen to challenge a Citizen, and it gave an actual Citizen a substantial amount of freedom from censure.

Why anyone would give such a thing to Jebediah Trapper was beyond Zlesk.

A small part of him knew he could sell it for a small fortune, or leverage it to climb back into society’s good graces, and right a few wrongs along the way.

But it wasn’t his.

Zlesk stomped down on those quiet desires like a squirming colee as he picked up the Mark. He would behave honorably, or what right did he have to be a Citizen in the first place?

***Jeb***

“As your legal counsel, I advise you to admit your wrongdoings before I break the other arm!” The angry melas interrogator twisted Jeb’s left arm up and behind his back, applying just the right torque to make the entire thing feel like it was about to wrench out of every socket he had. Wrist, elbow, and shoulder all screamed in protest as they hovered on the verge of dislocating.

Jeb’s other arm was busted, having already been through this lovely process.

“Okay, okay!” Jeb shouted, slamming the table with his