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Aberrant: In the Beginning - Peter Bell


Peter Bell

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Peter stood in his studio, staring at the canvas. He couldn’t bring his mind to painting, though. It was stuck on the bad reviews he had received the night before. In all fairness, they weren’t ‘bad’ reviews. They said he had a middling talent, best suited for a portrait studio. That had been the rub. He wasn’t a failure. His paintings at the small gallery had sold, but he was a mediocre talent. Peter had wanted to either be great, or to fail utterly. Instead, he had found a limbo he couldn’t quite escape.

The worst part was he knew he could do better. His mind, his instincts, they could feel out the picture before his hand moved to canvas. He could see the ebbs and flows in the currents of ideas he was trying to capture. Yet somehow it always came out wrong. It came out like a dull rendition of a fog-enshrouded dream – and it was driving him crazy.

Peter put the brush down and picked up his Scotch. The alcohol deadened the frustration and the pain. If his mind wouldn’t let him let him capture the art that was so alive within, why couldn’t it be still? He took another drink of the Scotch and the visual din quieted down a notch. Peter took up the brush and stared at the canvas again.

His favorite white T-shirt wasn’t working for him today. Despite being covered in five dozen different patches of paint, it was his most comfortable shirt to work in. On the days he couldn’t find it, he would work shirtless, no matter what the temperature in the loft was. His jeans were one of a group of old workhorses in his wardrobe, but none had the attachment of the shirt. As always, he worked without sox or shoes. None of the external crutches he used to find his Creative Place were working. It wasn’t the shirt’s fault.

Peter seriously considered taking up meditation during times like this. He needed to focus his mind. He needed to paint. Getting the visions out onto the world’s view was like an addiction – heroin in reverse. He needed to get the art out of his veins or he feared the cacophony would kill him. Yet nothing came. It was like thunder clouds in his head, building up before a Hurricane. Peter could find no relief.

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The light in the studio slowly turned orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. There was a knock at the door, which immediately opened. Ellen Strong, art world impressario and manager extraordinaire made her usual entrance. She looked wildly around the loft studio until she spied her favorite, yet least successful, client.

"Peter!" she cried.

She rushed across the room towards him. She leaned way down, and looked into his eyes.

"I knew it. I fucking knew it! When I saw the review in the Village Voice, I knew you would be in this damned funk."

She straightened, and yanked the silk scarf off of her neck. She was in her mid-thirties, and dressed in a style she thought of as business/pleasure. Her blonde hair was cut to frame her face, making her look pixie-ish, and younger than her years.

"What do I say about the Voice?" she demanded.

"Fuck the Voice," Peter mumbled

"FUCK THE VOICE!" Ellen crowed. She raised her fists to the sky like a prizefighter.

"I hate those cock-gobblers like the fucking Black Plague," she continued, "Mothers-humping vultures, circling talent, waiting for- hey, is this new?"

She eyed the current work. She tilted her head slightly. She looked at Peter, smoothing her face quickly lest he see the puzzled expression there.

"Fuck it. I need a drink, and I KNOW you need one."

"Another one," she amended, seeing the glass of Scotch.

She wrapped the scarf back around her neck, and glared at Peter.

"Get a real shirt on, and let's go! No is not an option."

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Even at eight, the Faust wasn't too crowded. It tended to attact a trendier crowd that started later and stayed up til sunrise. A few people might expect Peter to be one of Ellen's latest boy-toy model types, but the regulars knew better.

Thanks to Ellen's magic touch, Peter soon became part of social cliche talking about politics, art, and the city. They panned the Voice for him while giving him congrats on some sails. They talked styles and strokes and a dozen differet things.

Peter was part of the crowd, though far from the center of it. His raw natural talent for working with people was idled tonight. The whirlwind in his head wouldn't stop. Seeing all the people and passions around him only fed it. It grew until Peter felt his eyes might burst forth from the pressure.

He took to drinking heavily to dull the pain. When questioned quietly by a friend, he told them the truth. He wanted to paint, but couldn't. He couldn't get it right and until he did, what was the point? They patted him on the shoulder with a certain degree of understanding.

Why does it seem the best artists have to consume part of their souls in order to create their truest works. Peter wasn't sure if that was true, or just BS. He took another drink and began to wobble. A sloppy smile came to his lips. He asked the waitress for his bill, paid with his credit card, and waited on the reciept.

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Crystal ran the credit card. She checked out her tables while she waited for the reciept to print. Everyone seemed fine. The Sunday night crowd was usually a laid back one, some artists and off-Broadway actors, mostly regulars. Tips were good. She hoped for a good tip from this guy. She made her way through the tables to where he sat with his friends.

As she approached, she heard a woman cry out. It was the woman the guy had come with, a regular. Eileen, or something. The guy was slipping off of his chair onto the floor. Jeez, she'd seen that before. Must not be much of a drinker.

The man started drumming his feet on the floor. He raised his head, then smashed it into the ground. And again.

Crystal dropped the card and reciept. What the hell?

"Jesus Christ, Peter!" the woman with him yelled. He smashed his head into the ground again. Bloody foam trailed from his mouth.

The woman looked up at Crystal. Crystal made a helpless gesture with her hands, backing away slowly.

"Call a fucking ambulance, goddammit! Shit, PETER!" The woman got down on the ground and pulled the man's head in her lap. His body jerked and twisted spasmodically.

*************************************************************

Peter awoke slowly, slowly, like returning to earth from another planet. His mouth tasted like puke, and pain stabbed his eyes even under the lids. He heard voices.

"-not the tumor that concerns me. I'ts only about the size of a pea, it's on the surface, just above the right ear. It doesn't even seem to be malignant, it's a cake walk. I can have it out in 40 minutes." A man speaking.

Another man:

"Then what's the problem, Doctor?"

"It's this other thing! Look at it! It isn't a tumor, it isn't causing any pressure. It's just nestled between the two lobes of the brain. If I didn't know any better, I would say it is normal brain tissue, but I've never seen anything like it, Doctor."

"So, when you have him under, you take it out too, what's the problem?"

"I don't have any real reason to take it out, other than curiousity, dammit. It doesn't seem to be hurting him, it's obviously this tumor here causing the headaches, but look at the size of this, this nodule. It's damn near the size of a golf ball."

"Again, Doctor, I don't see the problem. Once you have your signed waiver, you can...he's awake"

"What? Oh. Mr. Bell? Mr Bell, can you hear me?"

Peter faded out again.

**************************************************************

When he again regained consciousness, he felt somewhat better. His head hurt like a bastard, but not like it was about to come off. He opened his eyes.

He was obviously in a hospital bed. Ellen, his manager, was sleeping in a chair next to the bed. He cleared his throat. She started awake.

"Oh my god, Peter!" she said, "Thank god!"

"What-" he croaked.

She shook her head. Looked at the door, then leaned over the bed and spoke in hushed tones.

"It's a tumor, Peter. They say that they can get it all, and that you'll be all right. The doctors want me to sign a release to let them operate. You know, power of attorney and all that."

She smiled at him wolfishly.

"I told them that any manager who made that kind of decision for a client deserved to get sued for everything they fucking have."

She grew serious.

"I don't know how long you'll be awake. I don't want to spring this all on you, but I have to know what you want me to do"

She waited for his response.

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‘You don’t have to do this. You have a good life. You can go back to it and never have to worry about all the pain and agony that’s coming. Just lie back on the bed and let the doctors do their work.’

‘What?’

‘If you do nothing, you will be free of this. Move and nothing will ever be the same again. You will never know peace, never be free of guilty … until you die.’

‘I don’t understand. If I lie here they will remove the tumor. The tumor will kill me, right?’

There was no response.

‘If I get up out of here … will any of it be good? For the better?’

‘You will save lives. You will know love before the end. You will make a difference.’

Groggily, Peter sat up.

“Ellen, I need to get out of here. I need to get back to the Loft.”

Peter swayed and Ellen had to rush to his side to steady him. She was saying something to him, but he couldn’t concentrate enough to figure out what she wanted. Something about an operation.

“It can wait.”

It came to him in a sudden, brilliant flash of inspiration. He knew what he had to do. He had to capture this before it went away. Dimly Peter was aware that the chaos and cacophony in his mind had ceased – frozen in time. Now there was only one vision.

He was unsure how they got back to his home, the vision was so powerful. All he knew was the two of them stumbling into his apartment. When Peter stood before the canvas, the really big empty one he kept around for show, everything came together in perfect synchronicity. He began to mix the colors together and paint. It was a massive effort, a space platform back-dropped against the earth and it was dying a fiery death. Out of its inferno, hundreds of flames flickered down toward the planet and oblivion, except the fingers really didn’t die, did they?

No, they were like blazing zephyrs touching down across the glove. Peter could see that now. They were like little sparks of infinite imagination taking shape and the world would never be the same. Peter was filling in the last tiny zephyr when he realized his fingers were bleeding. Then he noticed that blood was soaking the front of his shirt. His nose and gums were seeping blood and had been for some time. When he blinked, he now could tell that blood was congealing on his lashes.

Peter made his last stroke and turned to face Ellen. As he fell to the ground, he could hear her screaming.

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Ellen quieted as soon as she saw Peter lose consciousness. Despite her long day and night, she found the strength to drag Peter over to the sofa. His face and shoulders were covered in blood, which made her grip a little slippery, but she got her forearms under his armpits and pulled him on top of her on the couch. She used her whole body to lever him over her, so he was on the couch alone. He was still bleeding from his right ear and his right eye. His nose had stopped, thank god. The coppery smell of drying blood filled the studio.

"Ok. Ok."

She tried to get a grip on herself and think. What they needed was another ambulance. Goddamn Peter for leaving the goddamn hospital anyway. She went to his phone.

"911, what is the nature of your emergency?"

"My client, my friend, has had a seizure. He's bleeding, there's a lot of blood, from his ears, and his nose...and his eyes, I think. We need an ambulance." Ellen was proud of herself. Calm in an emergency, that was Ellen Strong.

"What is your name, ma'am?"

"What the fuck do you need my fucking name for? Send us a fucking ambulance, NOW!" Oh well, another self delusion crumbled.

,,

After a long pause...

"What is your location?" The bitch sounded cowed, good.

"99 John St, in Soho, number 13....hurry, I think he's dying."

"We have a rescue unit on route," the operator informed her.

"Thank you....and I'm sorry," Ellen said.

While she waited for the ambulance, she looked at the painting Peter had been working on. An explosion, obviously...but of what she couldn't tell. Asphalt? Space, maybe. Whatever it was, she couldn't see what was so christing important about it. Sure, it was one of Peter's best recent works. Good brush technique. Great use of color. But what about this thing was worth dying for. She didn't see it. She checked on Peter.

The blood was drying in his ears and his right eye. She guess he had, whaddayoucallit....hemorrhaged, or something. What had she been thinking, letting him leave the hospital. Hell, HELPING him. She couldn't forgive herself for that.

The sun had peeked over the horizon by the time the rescue unit came, and thankfully took over. They got Peter on a stretcher, strapped him down, and took him downstairs. Ellen followed. They got him in the back of the ambulance, and she climbed in. The siren wailed, and they were on their way.

They took John out to Water St. and went right. Cars barely slowed, none pulled all the way over. New Yorkers. Nothing stops them from getting to work in the morning. Ellen turned her attention to Peter. He was moaning, mumbling under his breath. She reached out to feel his head. Cool. Suddenly she lurched forward as the ambulance braked.

"Fuck is your problem?" she screamed. Then she saw.

The cars in front of the ambulance had all stopped, and they couldn't keep going if they had wanted to. Which wasn't possible, because the driver was staring into the sky. As was Ellen. A wave of light, of blue fire burned its way towards them between the buildings. It outshone the dawn. It was a thick band of blue, crackling energy, and it crossed as far left and right of them as she could see. It passed over the ambulance, and they couldn't see it anymore.

"What in the name of christ was that," the driver asked.

Ellen grabbed his shoulder. She pulled him around to face her, and spoke in a calm, quiet tone.

"That is not your problem. Your problem is how to get my friend to the hospital. Now, move your ass."

"El-" cough. "Ellen..."

She whirled around. Peter was awake.

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"... where am I," he began. They had cleaned up his face, but the blood on the shirt was still sticking to him. It felt like a chilled pressured on his chest.

"What happened ..."

"You fell down in your studio, Peter," she reached out to him.

"No! The- ... its dead. Someone ..."

Peter's hand instinctively reached out in a painter's pose. His eyes strained as if they were trying to make out the details of some portrait.

" ... I can't see ... him ... her ... fiery eyes ..."

Peter slumped down again, exhausted.

Ellen never let go of his hand.

"I'm losing it Ellen. It was so clear, but I can't see it clearly anymore. If I could paint it, maybe ..."

"Hush now. We'll get you to the hospital soon."

"There is nothing a hospital can do for me now."

"They've come back to earth," Peter said to no one in particular, his voice raspy. "Gods and Angels. Demons and worse. They are so elemental, yet flawed ... beautiful in so many ways. I wish I could remember it all."

This was a little disturbing to Ellen because she knew Peter wasn't a terribly religious, or mystical man. Normally, if asked she would have guessed he was an Agnostic, but now?

Peter lay back trying to gather his strength, but he felt so empty right now.

"Ellen, don't let them cut on me," he murmured. He didn't want them to open him up. A deep, unreasoning fear welled up within him that somehow they would take away his ability to ever see those visions again. Only then did he become fearful of the visions themselves. What were they? What did they mean? Why did they feel so real?

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The ambulance driver had made his way up onto the curb. Traffic was starting to move again. He cut the wheel left, saw an opening, and drove off of the curb, around a car still stopped, and down the street. The lights continued to flash, the siren continued to wail. The difference this time was the aftershock of the sky lights. Now, people believed there was maybe an emergency.

They were about back up to speed. In the back, the patient was struggling against the straps of the gurney. He was raving about Gods and Demons. One of those. The driver saw the upcoming intersection clear for a moment, and blasted the horn. Any brave souls who were going to enter it paused, and he did not.

While making the turn, a manhole almost directly under the ambulance exploded up. The cover hit the underside of the ambulance. It tilted dangerously on two wheels. The people in the back were thrown against the side, the woman pinned by the man on the gurney. For a moment, it seemed like he would right it, but then he felt the grip of the wheels give. The ambulance fell on its side.

A gout of flame shot from a gutter drain, directly in front of the windshield. He covered his eyes with his arms. Somehow, it missed them. The ambulance hit a car, and spun. Hit the curb and flipped. Finally, it came to rest.

The driver hung upside down from his belt. He looked through the windshield, and realized he could see down into the street. It looked like...

The driver's throat filled up with blood. The strap of the belt had broken his neck. His collar bone had broken, and the jagged end ruptured his carotid artery from the inside. He would die within minutes. He would never tell anyone about the giant lava monster battling He-Man in the sewers.

*************

Ellen lay on top of Peter. She found it much more comfortable than being under him a moment ago. She was surprised to find herself in one peice. She looked at Peter, and jumped back in fear.

A blue light shone from his eyes and mouth. It leaked from his nostrils and glowed in his ears. The beams struck the sides of the ambulance and bounced around the interior. He seemed to be screaming.

Oh my bleeding Christ on a lawn chair, a tumor can't do that, can it? Can it?

He wasn't strapped in anymore, she saw. His hands were moving, carving the air. She watched, fascinated. The light struck his moving hands, parted, reformed with other streams. He seemed to rechannel it blindly, by accident. Then, she saw the pattern. For just a second, the pattern of light bouncing around the interior of the ambulance formed a face. Then it didn't. She watched, fascinated.

He gestured, and she screamed. The ambulance above them peeled away from them like an opening flower. They suddenly crouched in a flat starburst of twisted metal and glass. Above them, fires had taken hold in some of the buildings. In the near distance, she heard an explosion.

Peter floated up off the ground, light streaming from his fingertips and feet now, in addition the the beams from his eyes, mouth, nose, and ears. He revolved once.

The light suddenly went out, and Peter drifted to the ground. He collapsed in a heap. Ellen rushed to him.

The blood on his face was gone, washed away by whatever power had come out of him. She felt his face, sure that he was dead. She felt a vibration in her hands. She heard a buzzing sound. She leaned down to press her ear to his chest. The buzzing sounded again, louder.

He was snoring. Ellen sprawled next to him in spent fear and mental exhaustion. Around them, the fires grew more serious.

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New Journal - Peter - Day #1

I have looked into God's Eye,

And have seen Eternity staring back

I have been driven to madness,

And somehow been cleansed sane

I know what is to come,

Or is that only what might be?

I have been touched by the Silent Fire,

How can I be a man anymore?

I see my Godhead stripped from me,

And weep at the violation

I know what power awaits me,

And I know that I am changed

I have been cruelly slain,

And a Stranger has taken my Place

Forever.

Not my best work. Poetry isn't nearly my best form of expression, but now I let my hands dictate the art for me because I am not yet strong enough to guide it with my mind. This isn't what should have been, but what I now remember of what I felt at that moment. It is only a desperate memory now. I take comfort in knowing I will have this dream again.

... ... ... ... ...

(previously that day)

You have to wake. You have to wake up now, said the scream reduced to a whisper. Peter wasn't ready yet for the mantle that was to come for him, but his mind was receptive to the power. It was a narcotic for him.

Peter stirred. First he noticed the heat. He noticed Ellen to him next, followed by the flames. Finally he noticed the sounds. To any average person, it was the sound of two wrecking balls colliding. To Peter, it was the siren call of the power. He had to see ... he had to save Ellen ... he couldn't walk away.

He reached down and shook Ellen.

"You've got to run back down the street," he told her calmly in the same way one would recommend white wine with the duck at a fashionalbe restuarant.

"There is something up ahead I have to see. I can't explain it, but its important."

While he waited for her to respond, and he was surprised how slowly things were happening now that he was taking in everything, he contemplated how the flames were going to play out with the vision he was about to experience.

Someone was fighting and he hand to see. He had to know he wasn't alone ... even though he didn't really know what that meant.

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Peter reached the edge of the break in the street, and looked down into insanity. 200 feet down a battle raged.

A 30-foot creature made entirely of lava shot rivers of molten flame out of its hands. Dodging then leaping, a huge figure of rippling muscle smashed a massive fist into the monster's face. The creature fell backwards, then further down into the bowels of the sewers. The man immediately leaped after it.

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The heat is a physical force all on its own. It buffets Peter back away from the precipice.

Why isn't that man dead?

Because he is one of you.

One of us, or me? Like me?

Like you, but not you. Turn away.

Huh?

A huge slab of near-molten rock zomes past Peter's head to fall somewhere down the street.

I need to get people out of here. This is really happening!

Yes it is. You are not were you need to be.

Peter risks another look into the inferno. He studies the chiselled man for a long second.

He is not the one ... the one I'm looking for.

No. That isn't for some time, but keep looking.

Peter backs away from the gaping hole in the ground. He stumbles over the the ambulance, but the driver appears dead. Walking around to the rear of the vechile he returns to Ellen.

"We've got to get out of here," he tells her. "They're tearing the underground apart. "We've got to get these people out of here. This is something unique ... brand new."

Peter seems more ecstatic than frightened.

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Ellen and Peter ran holding hands. She was seriously worried about herself for the first time in 48 hours. For almost the entire time she had been awake, since she had read the review in the Village Voice, she worried for Peter. Now, she was pretty sure Peter could take care of himself. She, on the other hand, was liable to get roasted any moment.

Once they were out of the street, Peter pulled her into an archway.

She tried to get some control of the situation.

"Peter, we have to get you to the hospital. There is something seriously wrong with you. The rest of this notwithstanding, you need medical attention."

He paid her no mind, but stared into the display window of the hobby store they were in front of. The window had broken, and Peter suddenly lunged through the hole in the window and snagged a thick sketch pad and box of charcoal. Ellen sighed.

"What is it with you!?! We don't have time for this!"

*******************************

Peter barely heard her. He could see things so very clear now, it made his earlier fumbling seem like a child building sand castles. He withdrew a stick of charcoal from the box, and flipped open the sketchbook. He allowed the vision to take him, and sketched what he saw.

*******************************

Ellen nearly screamed in frustration. She had always been aware of artistic self absorption. Hell, she loved it! But this set a new bar for her. Fires raging all around, their lives in jeapordy, and he was drawing! She shook her head incredulously. It was time for some action.

She snatched the sketchbook out of his hand, barely glancing at what he was drawing.

"Peter, we-"

She looked back at the drawing. It was exquisite. The elegance of the lines, the perfection of shading, pulled her in. It showed a man, about mid-thirties, with a thin moustache. He lay looking up at a group of people who surrounded him. All the picture showed of them, however was the backs of their heads. A simple picture, but every fleck of charcoal on the page added to the emotion there. The man was afraid, confused. Though frozen in time, as drawings inevitably were, he seemed to be looking wildly around him, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time.

Seconds. He drew this in seconds. Impossible. And he's never shown such command of technique.

Aloud, she asked, "Peter, what is this?" She meant all of it, the whole weird mess.

Distracted, he replied, "Oh, that's Max. I expect we'll meet him soon enough. My book, please, Ellen?"

Dully, she handed the sketchbook back.

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Only when she handed him the pad ... only when her hand was passing it to him, did he recognize her for who and what she was. Only then did he come to question her significance hit home for him.

She was something beyond his arts and his visions which was important to him. Well, she had been, but was she still? Had he, Peter, changed that much?

He knew he had. He was was something else now. He didn't know what yet, but he knew he would find out. He was something new.

"Ellen, stick close to me and not just right now. New things are going to happen to this world, but it isn't hopeless. Not all of us will forget and others have been ... looking forward to this day for some time. I won't always be able to be with you, but don't give up on me."

He began walking Ellen out of the chaos and toward the sound of sirens. Humanity was knocked back on its heals, but Order was fighting back against the chaos. Peter looked over his shoulder. The Man with the Halo of Flame was all but a will-o-wisp now, but Peter wouldn't forget him.

They stepped over broken rubble and ... well ... worse.

"Ellen," he said, "we need to find this Max person. We need to scan the picture in and see what the world wide web can come up with, fast. Our future, the future of all life on this planet ... the first lines of a canvas are being created now. I need to see it as it happens."

Peter looks at her,

"I want you there with me as it happens."

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They made their way to relative safety, and hailed a cab. The cabby asked them about what was happening in the inferno. Ellen filled him in with what they knew, absent Peters paranormal behavior, and he was suitably awed. She told him Peter's address, and the cab driver took off. She looked at Peter, to find him finishing another sketch.

He looks so tired., She thought

She looked over his shoulder, and shuddered. The charcoal drawing was of the London skyline, obvious with Big Ben in the foreground. A long, sinuous Dragon breathed fire down on the city. The devastation was near-complete.

"What does it mean? A Dragon will destroy London?" She seemed skeptical.

Peter paused before answering. This had been a hard one to see. He wasn't sure this was a drawing of a literal future.

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"It means I need to go to London. I need to fly to London today and find someone I can warn about this."

Looking at her with a moment of clarity,

"The closer I get to the danger, the clearer it will be."

Peter shook his head, realizing now how crazy that sounded. He wasn't a cop, or a fireman, rushing into danger to save lives. He was an artist for God's sake ... yet here he was.

Somehow he could see the danger ... before ... before anyone else did and he couldn't just do nothing about it.

The cab arrived at Peter's place. He asked it to wait. Dragging Ellen with him, he raced up stairs.

"Make the reservations, please," he pleaded. "I'll pack up what I need."

Knowing somehow just how crazy she felt this was, Peter forged ahead. He threw some clothes together haphazardly, but then remembered to pull out some formal wear. His bathroom kit was easy, though he contemplated his stubble for deciding to leave shaving for later. Walking back out to the studio and Ellen, he looked like an overgrown kid heading off to summer camp.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," he declared with a good deal of false bravado.

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On the flight to London, Peter saw a woman disappear. He wasn't sure at first, so he watched her seat for a long time, until she reappeared. Then he was positive. He thought he was the only one on the plane who had noticed.

Ellen had stayed in NY, reluctantly. She had other responsibilities, other clients. She wished him good luck, and hugged him as he got on the plane.

He flipped open his sketchbook. He drew. On the page, a London skyline again appeared. Above the city hung a black cloud, swollen with rain. A single bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating Buckingham Palace and reflected in the Thames.

He sighed. Still nothing he could make sense of.

Just tell me what to do... Show me what to do...

*****************

When he arrived in London, he saw that the disappearing woman was greeted by a man who escorted her to a limousine. He looked down at a page he had torn from his sketchbook. It showed himself, climbing into a taxi. In the picture, he was pointing at a limo, speaking earnestly to the driver.

He raised a hand, to hail a cab.

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  • 3 weeks later...

Continued from the 'Fiat Lux!' thread...

Originally Posted By: Peter Bell
Back at his room, Peter packed up the last of his kit. He called the taxi cab that would take him to the airport. There a flight would be winging him back home - New York City.

The plane landed at JFK in heavy rain. No lightning, thank God, but scary nonetheless. The passengers grinned nervously at each other as they gathered their carry ons and disembarked. None of them were prepared for what awaited them at the gate.

A sea of reporters and cameras filled every inch of the concourse. As Peter came out of the breezeway, they erupted into a frenzy of activity. Flashbulbs popped incessantly, film crews jostled for the shot, a cacophany of questions shouted at Peter. The other passengers quickly distanced themselves from him.

Ellen detached herself from the throng, and opened her arms for an huge embrace. As she hugged him, she shouted in his ear:

"You believe this shit? Play it up, get the publicity, then let's get the fuck out of here before these cannibals eat us alive!" She grinned, took Peter's hand, turned and raised their joined hands into the air like announcing the winner of a prizefight.

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"Believe it?," he grins. "You can learn to expect it. My minds on fire and I'm ready to paint."

Turning to face the crowd with a practiced ease he really shouldn't have, Peter poised stylishly for the cameras. His perfect looks married to his easy going manner earned him some front page shots. When a microphone was place before him, Peter stopped to say a few words.

It was an expert performance. Peter Bell looked like what people wanted artists to look like. He had the air of wild creativity about him. His eyes were bright with a piercing light. He clothing looked expensive, but rumpled like a rebel's should be. At least for the moment, Peter Bell was The Artist.

"It's good to be home, New York. London was fun, but nothing beats the Big Apple. I only have time for a few questions, because I have a Zen for my art."

He plucks several questions out of the crowd.

"Test's mostly," he answered. "Mostly I used the time to meet other people like me. That was the best part of it."

"Powers? Isn't being a painter enough?"

"I plan to paing portraits of the people I've sketched, the novus and have a showing at one of the galleries in the City."

"No. Those won't be for sale. I'll keep the sketches and give the paintings to the person who it represents."

"Now, that's all the time I have for now. Thank you all for the wonderful welcome and I will see you soon. I don't plan to go into hiding," he finishes with a stellar grin to the crowd of reporters and photographers assembled around him.

Ellen and Peter made their way through the crowd and to the waiting limo. Once inside the cool confines of the vechile, Peter turned to Ellen.

"I just want you to know that I want you along for the ride for as long as you want. I'm not going to act like nothing new hasn't happened to me. I'm different. I'm different on a fundemental level, Ellen."

"I am not human. I'm not inhuman," he reassures, "but something more than human. I can feel the changes in my brain. It effects how I see the world. I can't go back and I can't think I'm old Peter Bell with some nifty powers. I've been changed."

"I hope you can live with me being like this," he finishes.

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Ellen laughed.

"Peter, you have no idea what the last two weeks have been like for me. Can I live with it? I saw it before anyone, remember? As soon as your flight took off, I got to work. I pushed all my other clients off onto my partners, and rearranged my schedule. I'm sure that your new stuff will sell like crazy, if the big one in your loft is any indication of your new... style. Your old stuff though, is flying off the wall too."

She pours herself a drink, and continues.

"We've sold all 42 of the paintings that I have your written authorization to sell. The average selling price was $21,000. Lowest price was $11,000," she blushed furiously, "I sold a dozen at that price before I realized what exactly was going on. Collecters were coming out of the woodwork, Peter, and I should have realized it. I expected buzz, but... Anyway, the last one sold for $79,500. After my commission, and thank you very much, we've added just over $700,000 to your bank account."

She looks at Peter expectantly.

"And that's the old stuff."

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"Well, I've been planning to split my time between the portraits and the stuff I want to be sold, so that's not a problem."

"Oh, if a girl named Sascha tries to get in touch with me, let her. She's a disturbed young German woman who is in need of a friend."

Peter's attitude was deadly serious.

"As for my work, I will get to it. I want to get these images out there. There are styles I want to explore. There are visions I want to express."

They were making their way into the city. Traffic was light due to the time of day and the driver knew what he was doing.

Peter and Ellen went over some of the information she would need for promotional purposes. She had the keen instincts to make Peter's various artistic visions into commercial reality. What she like about Peter was that he acknowledged how Artistic Principles and the Art World interacted. He was willing to create commercial works and could be trusted to make them some of his best.

When they arrived, Ellen was still thumbing through the book of sketches he had put together on the plane ride across the Atlantic. She was impressed to the degree that she filed away all of her regrets about having just one client. Hell, she was going to become one of the most famous agents in the city just by representing Peter. She was still grinning. It didn't hurt her situation any that Peter had developed into quite the handsome individual, with a gift for dealing with the public. She could rely on Peter to not sabotage accidently his own career.

She also noticed how easily he handled his own luggae once they got out of the limo. He had gotten much stronger. She studied him as they went up the stairs. Peter had become more graceful, and steadier of purpose. She wondered what else had changed about him.

Peter was glad to get back home to his artist's loft. Ellen and he put his clothes up, which was uncharacteristically diligent for him, and then went into the main studio. He gently touched some of the blank canvas he had about. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Ellen then looked back at the canvas. Inwardly he hoped the desire to look forward ... or backwards ... would never diminish.

He openedhis Inner Eye, his creative center, and felt his node pulse from the effort. He pushed his Sight, his Center, into the Future and began to paint.

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When he came back to himself, Peter saw first the canvas. He glanced over his shoulder to find Ellen at the dining table with her laptop open, typing furiously. He looked back at the canvas. he saw:

A man strapped to a bed, and from his fingertips dangled strings. From the strings dangled more people, all with bloody hands. A bearded man with two faces shoved money into his pockets, not seeing that they had no bottoms and the money just poured out again, nor the shadow creatures that surrounded him. Slashed across the canvas, thousands of wasps were flying. When Peter looked closely, he could see many of the people in the painting being stung by individual wasps. In the bottom, a war. Above the battle, swinging on the moon, a woman laughed. And at the top of the painting, and splitting it into two sides, a being of light screamed to the heavens.

Ellen had approached behind him as he studied the painting.

"Nice, very nice. God, look at the detail, you can see the web in that wasp's wing. But, not to sound too bourgeois, what does it mean?"

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"I ... I haven't a clue," Peter began. "The Angel could be Michael Peters. I have no idea who the Puppeteer is, or why he is pinned between Heaven and War. I can't tell you who the Woman on the Moon is either, but it's chaos."

Peter paced back and forth.

"The Wasp's are poisoning the people, I'm pretty sure. This has to be important."

He goes over to his phone and punches up Michael's number out of the memory, dials it then shuts the phone.

"The man strapped down, trapped ... the Puppeteer."

"Maybe I should call Fang first. She might have some insight into this ... if she has the time for me."

Peter calls the number he has for Fang and waits for an answer.

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After he hung up the phone, he realized that he knew no more than he did before. He had described the painting for Fang, and she had 'hmmmm'd' and 'oh really'd' in all the right places, but she said she had to think on it, that she would call back if she came up with anything.

Ellen was on the phone, too.

"Yes...yes, of course...well, I'll sure tell him...thank you, sir." She hung up, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"That was the agent who bought the last of your old paintings. He wants to meet you. He said that his client might want to comission a future work." She became aware that Peter was watching her. "Oh! Did you find out anything?"

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Peter is distacted too ... and disappointed.

"Huh? A meeting? Sure. Set it up."

Disappointed in his inability to make the picture make sense. To take the edge off his frustration, Peter went to his sketchpad notebook and opened it to the first picture ... first portrait that is, and set it up for him to reference as he made ready to do his first Novus portrait. It was the first Other he had seen, though he didn't know the guys name, he knew the Hero's title - Titan Omega. There would be no Magma Monster in this one though, just the man. Scratch that, just the hero. They weren't merely men anymore.

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As the awesome figure of Titan Omega took shape on the canvas, Peter distantly heard Ellen on the phone. When she hung up, he paused for a moment. She came and looked over his shoulder.

"Goddamn. Looks just like him, only... more so."

She stood examining the canvas for a long moment. Then, she shook herself.

"Hey, we've been invited to dinner. At Bouley. In an hour and a half. I have to run, run, run. Please look presentable, he's bringing the client."

She rushes to the door, blowing a kiss over her shoulder.

"See you there. It's at 120 W Broadway, there's a yellow sticky on your fridge. Bye!"

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Peter stepped back. The picture breathed. It was a living thing that he had created. A glimmer of pride slipped arcoss his face in the form of a winning smile. He spotted the time and said "Oh Shit".

The shower was hot but invigorating. It brought feeling back to every pore in his body. Time was not on his side, though. He had to get out and a dinner to meet.

Peter remembered to call for a taxi before dressing so he wouldn't have to fight the early evening rush in order to get up to Broadway. His tie was dark blue, shirt white, and slacks and jacket a blue sharkskin-ish something. He was on the street only a few seconds before his cab appeared. The guy didn't even have to park.

"120 West Broadway," he told the black man at the wheel.

"You got it," said the cabbie hitting the meter. After a few turns, he asked,

"Hey. Aren't you someone famous. Your face is ... I know you."

"I was on the Tellie this morning. I'm a artist."

I'm more than human, a new race of beings.

"Art must pay good."

"I'm on my way to a commission right now," Peter offered.

"Me, I can't draw a lick. Can't sing either and I don't have your model looks."

"Nothing wrong with being a cabbie. You guys are always needed."

"That's the truth," the cabbie laughed.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, but pleasant. Peter tipped the guy a twenty and went inside, looking for Ellen.

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Inside Bouley, lights were dim. The well-appointed restaurant was empty, save for one table in the center of the large dining room. At this table, Ellen sat with a man.

When Peter approached the table, the man rose smoothly from his chair. Ellen did the same, with a quick 'why the fuck are you late' glare at Peter. She gestured to the gentleman. He was tall, in his mid-fifties. He was fit, and deeply tanned. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed and generously flecked with gray. His suit was very high quality, his watch was a Vacheron Constantin. His blue eyes examined Peter interestedly.

"Peter, may I introduce Matthew Morgan? Mr. Morgan, my client, Peter Bell."

Peter immediately recognizes the name. Matthew Morgan, British telecommunications billionaire, owner of Chaste Mobile, BritCom Multimedia Group, and majority shareholder of PygmySoft. To name a few.

Morgan extended a hand. "Peter, a real pleasure."

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Is Morgan the Puppeteer?

"Hello, Mr. Morgan. I apologize for keeping you waiting. One of my latest works has me in a quandry and it was tough tearing myself away. I hope you understand."

Peter came up and shook Matthews hand. He then went and stood by the Ellen's chair. When Ellen sat, he tucked her chair in gently. Once he sat down, he paused to examine further Mr. Morgan. His eye took in every line and detail of his subject. He subconciously absorbed the man's attitude and posture. He could have painted him on the spot.

Peter played with the idea of inviting Morgan over to see the Puppeteer, but then put it away for a maybe later. Puppeteer's rarely like being exposed, especially in that light, and Peter had so few answers of his own.

Instead he concentrated on the immediate. The empty restuarant was a nice touch. It was an expression of some real power and money. The clothing was stylish, but dominant. Morgan wanted to be a memorable man. He was also a man of the Old World and maybe he was one of the first outside of the Aeon Society to realize a New World was dawning ... or maybe that was just hubris on Peter's part.

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Morgan flashed a charming smile.

"Of course, Peter. The Artist must follow his muse. We haven't been waiting long, in any case." He sat, and motioned for Peter to do the same.

"Would you like a glass? It is an amusing Coteaux d'Aix en Provence, 1990, I believe. A bit woody, but quite good."

Ellen murmurs approval, and sips her own wine.

"Ms. Strong and I have just been discussing a proposition," Morgan begins.

"I have been following you, and all the novus, very closely. Many, if not most, people seem to believe that you are all going to put on tights and begin fighting crime." His sardonic smile suggested that he and Peter were men of the world, who knew better.

"There will, no doubt, be some who do just that. Most of the Novus, though, will use their new positions in society to leverage fame and fortune. If there is one thing I know, it is leverage."

The waiters began bringing out the appetizers, naming each as they were placed on the table:

"The braised Japanese Yellowtail with Cavaillon melon, Hon-Shimeji mushrooms and a ginger aromatic sauce, is yours, sir."

"Ma'am, your fresh steamed Jasmine rice with trout caviar, Santa Barbara sea urchin and ginger soy Dashi."

"And we have the grilled Eggplant Terrine with red bell pepper and an Italian parsley sauce, for you, sir. Please enjoy."

The waiters leave the diners with a practiced effeciency of movement. The food looks and smells heavenly. Morgan dips his fork into the yellowtail, and savors the bite. He continues:

"What I have in mind will, at first, be a straight commission for a mural in the lobby of the global headquarters of Morgan Investments, here in New York. After that, if we like each other, and it seems mutually beneficial, perhaps we could discuss a more formal, and lucrative, arrangement." He bites into a Hon-Shimeji mushroom, and seems ready to let Peter respond.

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Peter plays with his food more than he devours it. The proposal, the real proposal, was a safe bet. It was the man with the vision to put the money before cart. He didn't know (did he?) what Peter could do. He was making an educated guess as to just what Peter could provide him ... and Peter was betting he had guessed well.

"Let's start with the mural," Peter began then took a bite of eggplant. He chewed quickly and deliberately.

"After that, let's see how my loyalty meshes with the Morgan name, because what we are really talking about is more than just business, isn't it?"

Best not to go too far, but still,

"Mr. Morgan, what is it exactly that you think I do?"

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Morgan washed down another bit of yellowtail with a sip of his wine. He peered over the rim of his wineglass at Peter. He set the glass on the table, and leaned back in his chair.

"You paint the future, Peter. It's hardly a secret. You told several people at Æon, not press of course, but there are people who know, which means that it is information that can be discovered."

He reached for a roll, broke it open, and began buttering it.

"I am also good at discovering things I want to know. I hope that's not a problem, Peter."

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"It's not a problem, Matthew. I wanted to understand were we stood."

He finishes off his appetizer before adding,

"One thing I want you to understand is that I can't see myself working exculsively for any one Man or Organization. I feel that my gifts can help the world and I intend to share them when lives can be saved."

"Not that I'm adverse to making money, nor ignorant what money and influence can gain me. I like the idea of being rich. Really, I do. I hope you can work with me under these conditions. I like the fact that you are the first - outsider - to come to me. That is a sense of vision I can respect."

Peter looked to Ellen to make sure his speech was not too pushy.

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Ellen seems surprised, but pleased, by Peter's firm stance. She interjects.

"I don't think, though, that Peter would be averse to a standard consultation contract, fee to be negotiated on a per-job basis."

Matthew Morgan smiled indulgently.

"As I said, the first job is just a get-to-know-you event. I can understand your wish for autonomy, so long as we have a strong non-compete clause. But these are details. For now, let's talk about the mural for my HQ. Do you have any ideas?"

As Peter is gathering his thoughts for a reply, the wait staff comes to clear away the appetizers and deliver the main courses.

"Ma'am, the tea-smoked organic breast of Long Island duckling with vanilla glazed baby burnips, Oregon porcini mushrooms, lima beans, and Quince purée for you..."

"The boneless veal chop with saffron-vanilla glazed endive, blue foot mushrooms, carrot purée and chestnut purée for you, Mr. Morgan..."

"And for you sir, we have the Maine day boat lobster with fresh porcini mushrooms, black trumpet mushrooms, pencil asparagus, parsley root purée and burgundy wine sauce. Please enjoy."

Mr. Morgan smells his veal chop with genuine pleasure. He opens his eyes and regards Peter levelly.

"So, my mural, Peter. Do you have any ideas?"

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Ellen seems surprised, but pleased, by Peter's firm stance. She interjects.

"I don't think, though, that Peter would be averse to a standard consultation contract, fee to be negotiated on a per-job basis."

Matthew Morgan smiled indulgently.

"As I said, the first job is just a get-to-know-you event. I can understand your wish for autonomy, so long as we have a strong non-compete clause. But these are details. For now, let's talk about the mural for my HQ. Do you have any ideas?"

As Peter is gathering his thoughts for a reply, the wait staff comes to clear away the appetizers and deliver the main courses.

"Ma'am, the tea-smoked organic breast of Long Island duckling with vanilla glazed baby burnips, Oregon porcini mushrooms, lima beans, and Quince purée for you..."

"The boneless veal chop with saffron-vanilla glazed endive, blue foot mushrooms, carrot purée and chestnut purée for you, Mr. Morgan..."

"And for you sir, we have the Maine day boat lobster with fresh porcini mushrooms, black trumpet mushrooms, pencil asparagus, parsley root purée and burgundy wine sauce. Please enjoy."

Mr. Morgan smells his veal chop with genuine pleasure. He opens his eyes and regards Peter levelly.

"So, my mural, Peter. Do you have any ideas?"

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Peter looks at Morgan for about two seconds, levelly, in the eyes. He then looks down at his food followed by a gaze out the window. When he turns back to Ellen and Morgan he is smiling.

"Matthew, my mind processes information at a much higher rate, so don't think of my decision as rash."

He studies the man a second, judging wether he will like the idea before stepping forward, metaphorically.

"I will need to talk to forty-five people. Fifteen employees from various offices within your domain, fifteen customers, either regular or corporate, and fifteen investors, or stockholders. Each interview shouldn't take more than thirty minutes, but no more that five a day."

"I will take the sum total of these people and what I can pick up from them for your mural. People interact at all kinds of levels. This mural will portray that interconnectivity."

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Peter looks at Morgan for about two seconds, levelly, in the eyes. He then looks down at his food followed by a gaze out the window. When he turns back to Ellen and Morgan he is smiling.

"Matthew, my mind processes information at a much higher rate, so don't think of my decision as rash."

He studies the man a second, judging wether he will like the idea before stepping forward, metaphorically.

"I will need to talk to forty-five people. Fifteen employees from various offices within your domain, fifteen customers, either regular or corporate, and fifteen investors, or stockholders. Each interview shouldn't take more than thirty minutes, but no more that five a day."

"I will take the sum total of these people and what I can pick up from them for your mural. People interact at all kinds of levels. This mural will portray that interconnectivity."

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Morgan places a slice of veal in between his teeth, and drinks some wine to complement the flavor.

"That shouldn't present a problem," he says, "Although I imagine you'll want to talk to forty-six people. If you include myself." He smiles and brushes at his mouth with a napkin.

"I'll work the details out with Ellen, of course, but I was thinking around half a million for this mural. Two hundred fifty thousand now, and two hundred fifty on completion. Does that meet with your approval, and if so... when can you start?"

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Morgan places a slice of veal in between his teeth, and drinks some wine to complement the flavor.

"That shouldn't present a problem," he says, "Although I imagine you'll want to talk to forty-six people. If you include myself." He smiles and brushes at his mouth with a napkin.

"I'll work the details out with Ellen, of course, but I was thinking around half a million for this mural. Two hundred fifty thousand now, and two hundred fifty on completion. Does that meet with your approval, and if so... when can you start?"

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"With Ellen's okay, I can start in three days," Peter says after a moments hesitation. It was actually longer than that, but Peter actually felt the need to prioritize his projects before responding. Some of the portraits could not wait - not for him in this moment in time.

"And of course, as much as you carve your presence into your corporation, I couldn't do it without out. Without you, my effort would be ... hallow."

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