#Draw a force diagram of me lying on the floor unconscious

[soupercalifragilistic]

every action has an equal opposite reaction

woke up this morning, rolled over, and very confidently tried to blow out my alarm clock like a candle. absolutely no precedent for that.

[sablelab]

Covert Operations - Chapter 73

DISCLAIMER: This is a modern AU crossover story with Outlander and La Femme Nikita. LFN and its characters do not belong to me nor do those from Outlander.

SYNOPSIS:  The violence continues in The Triangle and Claire finds herself in dire straits as several hostiles are menacing.  Fortunately, Jamie disobeys orders and comes to her assistance when she is trapped in the nightclub. Meanwhile Jonathon Randall is furious that this carnage has occurred and ponders the cost of the firebombing.

N.B. This chapters contains some violence.  Previous chapters can be found at … https://sablelab.tumblr.com/covertoperations

My THANKS for reading, liking, reblogging and commenting on this story.  I am very grateful for your support and I hope you continue to do so.

 CHAPTER 73(V)

 Claire noticed two Chinese men in black watching what was happening on the dance floor. Turning in time she saw them pull out and draw their guns, then all of a sudden, the two men started shooting. In no time at all there was gunfire ricocheting across the crowded room in retaliation for the death of their colleague as the two men shot at the security personnel who had come to intervene in the confrontation. They indiscriminately shot at them and anyone else who moved. As a consequence, sheer pandemonium broke out. In panic people ran to avoid what was happening as a hail of bullets reverberated around the nightclub. Suddenly, Fergus’ voice echoed in her comm. unit when he saw and heard the gunfire fight on the monitor, “Claire ... What’s going on in there?” “There’s shooting ... It’s two rival triads.” She watched as one of the young men drew what appeared to be some sort of small device from his pocket and rolled it across the floor. A smoky mist arose from the mechanism then suddenly there was a loud bang and flames shot up into the air. “Beauchamp! ... report!” “They’ve just firebombed the nightclub too.” Guests lay on the floor. Claire counted about seventeen who had died. Quickly surveying what was happening; she chambered a round of ammunition in the gun hidden on her thigh. Taking aim, she took out the aggressors, but the gunfire kept on coming from other quarters within the darkened room. All hell broke loose ... and Jonathon Randall was nowhere to be seen. “You’re got incoming hostiles.” Fergus relayed as his monitor screen alerted Claire to movement in her vicinity. “Position and number?” “There's one heading right for you Claire.” “Can you back me out?” “No. You’re going to have to go through them. Do you need some back- up?” “I’m fine ... I can handle this myself.” No sooner had Section’s Techie alerted her to trouble than more appeared. “There's another one right behind him.” Suddenly Fergus was interrupted by a voice he didn’t expect. “I’ll cover her.” “Jamie?” he queried incredulously realising that James Fraser had disobeyed orders to return to Section One. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Amid all the chaos going on around her in the nightclub, Claire Beauchamp weaved to her right just as the hostile appeared followed by another close on his heels. As he approached, she clenched her fist and gave the assailant a very quick left hook to the face. Clutching his jaw, he fell to the ground knocked out by the blow. Seeing his companion fall, the second man made a lunge at her but Claire had his measure and he too met with the same fate. Quickly assessing the situation, she moved toward the direction of the entrance, but the scene there was one of sheer panic. 

Alarmed Fergus noticed hostiles appearing from all around the room. “Claire! Get out of there. They'll be on top of you any second.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I’m getting Claire.” Jamie stated with nonchalant conviction. “Jamie, what are you doing?” “You heard ...Ye’ll have to cover for me with Section,” he added in passing, knowing that Fergus Claudel had no option but to do so. “No, Jamie! Claire can handle herself.”

 But his words fell on deaf ears.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “Can you back me out by another exit point?” She asked looking around and finding the situation a little troublesome. “Yeah. Through the door to your left there are some stairs. The staircase leads to the basement and a back alley.” Glancing around Claire spotted the door and quickly made her way over to it as Fergus alerted her to the escalating situation that she faced. “Claire ... they know you're there ...” Then with concern in his voice he alerted Jamie to the situation that she faced in the nightclub. “Jamie ... Claire's trapped!”

Without hesitation he stated emphatically. “I’m going in.” “She’s at the exit door to the left near the dance floor.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Once inside, James Fraser quickly scanned the area then moved through the club. In all the pandemonium going on and semi darkness in the interior, it was easy for him to pinpoint Claire’s position as he was wearing night vision glasses. Alarmed, he could see that she was in some difficulty and swiftly made his way over to her without drawing attention to himself or her. Jamie took aim with his weapon, but was held back by hostile fire ricocheting throughout the club from several quarters and had to dodge to avoid the wayward bullets. Moving forward when he had the chance, he aimed and fired at a hostile who had his gun trained on Claire. The assailant fell to the floor lifeless, and joined the many other bodies of rival triad members who had met their bloody demise on the dance floor. Jamie’s major concern was only for his Claire’s safety. He stepped over the bodies and made his way towards where she was. As soon as she was out of line from hostile fire, she moved to descend the stairway, but before she could start, a man came up behind her and grabbed her on the shoulder. “Looking for something?” he sneered. Jamie noticed the assailant confront and grab her but realised that Claire had the situation in hand. She turned just as the hostile was about to hold a gun to her head. With quick reflexes she jabbed him with a tazer dart taken from the inside the bodice of her dress. The jolt of electricity was powerful enough to throw the assailant against the wall before he slid to the floor, unconscious. Another security guard approached from the back of the nightclub when he saw his friend fall. Seeing him draw nearer out of the corner of her eye, Claire turned to take him out but he was no longer in pursuit. Unbeknownst to her, Jamie had already taken care of the hostile. However, when she tried to leave the room, she found the door locked from the other side.

Ever vigilant, her eyes scanned the perimeter as she spoke. “Fergus, I can't get out.” 

“What do you mean?” “The door is locked.” Fergus pulled up a schematic of the nightclub, which showed the adjoining room to the dance floor highlighted in red. Above the diagram however, words were blinking in yellow that was cause for alarm. SECURITY BREACH DETECTED - ALARM SYSTEM ACTIVATED “What am I going to do?” She asked when confronted with the possibility of no egress. “It’s okay Fergus ... I’ve got it,” James Fraser announced as he reached Claire’s side. Crouched behind the door, she looked up in surprise when she heard his voice. Immediately taking command Jamie gestured what he was about to do, but as he did so, another security guard rushed at the couple. Turning just in time to see the man approach, Jamie took him out with a single shot. What they didn’t know however, was that members of the Rising Dragons’ triad that Jonathon Randall had summoned, were entering the club from the other side of the door to provide reinforcements against the Black Panthers and Red Lanterns’ triads who had caused this fracas. James Fraser proceeded to kick open the door. However, he was unaware that the force of his kick had propelled a man into a nearby side wall just as Fergus’ warning echoed in their ears. “Claire! ... Jamie! ... There are hostiles on the other side,” he alerted alarmingly. Non fazed by the danger, Jamie held the door open effectively pinning a hostile’s body behind it. Shooting through the door twice, he hit another assailant with him on the other side. A third triad member heard the commotion and started to climb up the stairs, but before he could draw his gun, Claire shot him too. Looking around cautiously to make sure they were not being watched, Jamie and Claire entered through the door stepping over the unconscious and dead men lying slumped on the floor. With gun drawn, Claire stood on the other side of the door, poised on the threshold and waited to hear any approaching footsteps. All was quiet so they began to descend the stairway. That’s when Fergus announced. “Two men in the stairwell.” With gun poised ready for any other anomalies, they stopped when they saw a person approach. Claire aimed her firearm and took him out, then continued down the stairs. Halfway down Jamie saw another triad member who had just discovered the body of his collaborator at the bottom of the stairs. Taking aim, he began to shoot at the two operatives forcing them to return fire. Sensing the danger they were in, Jamie told Claire to hold her position as shots were exchanged. The hostile eventually took a hit and fell back down the stairs. Carefully James Fraser began to descend further down the stairway once more but this placed him in a precarious position as triad members were gathering reinforcements below them out of sight. “Fergus are there any more?” he asked fearing that there may indeed be unseen attackers at the bottom of the staircase. “Heat thermals indicate another three hostiles below.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* From their vantage point the assailants could see that the black clad man was vulnerable and exposed with no protection, and taking the initiative, a triad member shot back at Jamie narrowly missing him. He rolled and dived to the ground forced to take cover behind the balustrade from the raining bullets. Thinking he could entrap this man, the hostile continued up the stairs, but James Fraser was prepared. He leaned over the banister and exchanged fire. The Chinese male took aim once more, but his aim was off and the bullet missed his target. He didn’t even flinch, but returned fire with two more bullets which mortally wounded the man. Falling backward, he rolled down the stairs, coming to a halt on the next landing. Jamie then descended further down to the bottom of the stairs stepping over the body lying lifeless on the landing. Claire followed behind and saw another hostile appear out of nowhere as her partner made his way down the stairs. She fired and he fell. When another two charged at them Jamie took out one and Claire the other as the stairway’s landings were systematically littered with the dead bodies of the triad members. “Fergus?” “The stairs are clear Jamie. Proceed to egress.” Opening another door that led to some kind of cellar, he motioned to Claire. “This way.” Quickly making their way across the basement floor the two operatives soon exited through the door into an alleyway. As the door closed behind them, they anonymously disappeared into the night as if nothing had happened. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~

Jonathon Randall was seething. He was furious at the turn of events in his nightclub tonight that had ruined his birthday celebrations and killed many of his guests and staff.  

He was in damage control.

He knew he would have to do something about what had happened downstairs and fast. He needed to turn some negatives into positives. But what could he do? His nightclub had been firebombed. There were dead bodies on the dance floor, there were police swarming all over the nightclub and his security monitors were out of action. It would be difficult to identify the perpetrators of the carnage as he had no footage of what had happened after they malfunctioned. He tried to weigh up his options. If he retaliated there could very well be a bloodbath like what had occurred tonight on the Rising Dragons’ turf, but if he did nothing it would appear that the triad was weak. If he let Jiang take care of everything, he would be implicated in why The Triangle was firebombed. Reasons could arise that could incriminate him and the triad as well and it was imperative that he keep his nose clean of any criminal activities. His cover as a legitimate businessman here in Hong Kong and what had occurred tonight could ruin his business and expose his liaisons with the Rising Dragons. 

Jonathon had a nagging feeling in his gut that something was not right.

Something was very much amiss. Was someone out to kill him? Or were the perpetrators only out to cause mayhem and trouble? But who would want to do that and more importantly why? Someone had been out to discredit the triad and him in particular, and they had been successful in doing so. This was indeed a catastrophe but all his questions only raised more questions. The only thing he knew was that members of the Black Panthers and Red Lanterns’ triads had managed to infiltrate tonight’s festivities. The nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach only exacerbated. Perhaps he had a traitor on his staff. How else could the Rising Dragons’ enemies gain access to the party when it was by invitation alone? 

Worst of all was that the nightclub would need to be closed for forensic investigations. It may well be days or weeks before The Triangle could be back in business. He would need to cooperate with the authorities out of expediency, so leaving the country for any length of time to lay low was out of the question. It would raise too many suspicions and he’d had enough negative press of late. What worried him most was that his life was obviously in jeopardy. He suddenly realised that he was in a conundrum. He was dammed if he did and dammed if he didn’t … but heads would roll, he was certain of that and somebody would pay. He knew he would be looking over his shoulder for some time if the triad or police didn’t find who was responsible for the fracas. Not only that but he had his orders from Sun Yee Lok concerning Claire Beauchamp but unfortunately, he may have to rethink his dinner date with her tomorrow night. With many scenarios whizzing through his brain Jonathon Randall summoned his right-hand man Robert Ling to come up to his office immediately to plan his next strategy. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Outside the nightclub, people congregated in groups on the pavement exchanging stories as to their fate and thanking their lucky stars that they were able to flee. Many women were distressed and in shock particularly those who had witnessed the carnage inside but had managed to escape. They were the lucky ones. The party guests moved along the pavement jostling each other as they frantically looked for their friends to see if they had got out of the nightclub safely. Amid the disquiet of people’s chatter, the sound of police sirens filled the air. Their piercing wail echoed in the night as the sound came nearer and nearer. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* “Let's go Sassenach.” Jamie spoke quietly to Claire making sure that they had clear passage away from the nightclub and weren’t being followed. They soon disappeared into the night and hurried down the darkened alley. In no time they were near the exit that led to the main road. The two operatives paused before continuing on into the throng of people who were pacing up and down. Turning towards Jamie, Claire indicated than Karen and Andy were standing on the pavement some way from the main chaos happening around them and looking every which way to see if she had made it out too. James Fraser noticed the agitated way the two were acting in their quest to find Claire. His suspicions were once again heightened.  Was it out of concern for her welfare or for other reasons? His eyes scanned the crowd but he was unable to see if Jonathon Randall had left the club. More than likely, there was a secret escape route for him or he was still inside, as he was nowhere to be seen.

He cast a look Claire’s way as she smoothed her dress and hair back into some semblance of order. His eyes caressed her features and marvelled at her tenacity inside the nightclub. She had been amazing. 

Claire caught Jamie’s glance of admiration and it was hard to break away from his penetrating look. She glanced down at the pavement and spoke quietly. “I just wanted to say ... thank you. That's the kindest thing you've ever done for me. Thank you, Jamie.” 

“How are ye doing?”

“I'm okay but Operations won’t like it that you disobeyed orders.” “I can deal with it,” he answered nonchalantly. Then gesturing towards where the crowds had gathered on the pavement he said, “Shall we?” Claire’s glance cut him to the quick with a hidden meaning only Jamie could understand. She was loathed to leave him to Operations’ grilling back at Section One when he eventually returned. He had disobeyed orders and all for her and her concern for his fate was tangible. However, to Jamie, his Sassenach was so beautiful ... all woman ... and his. His eyes caressed her form from head to toe before resting his gaze on her face.

“Don’t worry,” he communicated with his eyes. “I’ll be fine.” 

But Jamie’s dismissal of what he had done tonight didn’t quite appease Claire’s concern for she knew how Operations would react. Nevertheless with one last reassuring glance his way, she emerged from the darkness of their cover and made her way in Karen and Andy’s direction. Jamie watched as she hurried over to where the couple was standing. Knowing that he had to return to Section as ordered he was still concerned for her safety. He knew Claire would need to keep her cover intact, but he was a bit worried that Karen and Andy may indeed try another kidnap attempt tonight. However, given that she was to meet with Jonathon Randall tomorrow night, he thought not but erred on the side of caution anyway and contacted Section One.

“Fergus ...” 

“Yes?” “I need ye to do something.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~ “Oh ... Claire ... there you are!” Karen exclaimed in relief rushing up to her as she saw her neighbour approach from out of the crowd on the pavement. “I’m glad you made it out safely. We were so worried about you when we got separated. Are you OK?” “Yeah I’m fine but I think I’d like to go home.” “Good idea ...” Ushering to her boyfriend, Karen requested, “Do you think you could get us a cab Andy? ... I’ve had enough excitement to last me a while.” “Sure thing babe.” Across the street James Fraser waited in the shadows watching. He saw Andy Ma hail one of the many taxi cabs that were cruising down the street. Noticing the new fare, a driver immediately pulled up beside where they were standing on the pavement.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~ 

Knowing that he had failed to do what Jamie had asked of him in the first place and nervous of his reaction, Fergus Claudel swallowed the lump in his throat. He hesitated somewhat before answering, and finally relayed the information that bothered him.

“Jamie ... Operations knows what happened tonight.”

“I see.”  

“I’m sorry but I had to tell him.” 

“Dinna fash. What’s done is done.” “Under the circumstances, Operations was uncharacteristically reasonable and has authorised any request. What do you need?” “I want around the clock surveillance on Karen Yee and her boyfriend Andy Ma tonight. Arrange it A.S.A.P.” “Already done.” 

“Who?” 

“Abernathy and Wakefield are on standby for their orders.” “Thank ye.” Whilst talking, Jamie watched closely as the three people stepped up to the curb and got into the waiting cab. Karen got in first, followed by Claire. Andy closed the door then jumped into the front seat with the driver. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~ Although they had heard the sound of gunshots and a small explosion, Karen and Andy had not really known the extent of the carnage that had taken place inside the club as she and her boyfriend had managed to get out before the explosion and all the crossfire.

As they settled back against the leathered seats, Karen looked over to Claire. “Gee! Was that some commotion in the club or what?” “Yeah ... it was.” “Without doubt it will be a birthday party Jonathon Randall won’t forget in a hurry ... that’s for sure.”

Nodding in agreement, Claire replied, “It was certainly memorable.” “I guess the nightclub will be shut for a few days because of it ... so I’ll have time to spend with you babe,” Andy added candidly turning in his seat to look towards Karen. “Well at least something good will come out of it,” she responded happily. The couple exchanged a satisfied look that Claire caught them giving each other. “Hmm ... I wonder if dinner is still on tomorrow or if Jonathon Randall will cancel?” Claire asked. “Depends ... Probably not, but you just never know. There will be a lot of inquiries about this from the police so he may postpone rather than cancel. I’m sure he’ll ring either way.” “Yes ... I’m sure you’re right Karen.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~ As the door closed and the cab left, James Fraser quietly slid into the night as he discreetly followed the taxi back to Claire’s apartment.  He watched as the lights eventually came on.  He saw her silhouette in the window and watched as Claire moved about in her apartment preparing for the night. Not happy with leaving his Sassenach alone, he’d made plans for the close shadowing and observation of her two friends whilst he was gone.  Jamie didn’t trust Karen or her boyfriend, and he wanted to make sure that she was safe. However, once the lights went off as she readied for bed, he finally left to return to Section One as ordered, safe in the knowledge that those who may cause his Claire harm were under surveillance until he could return later tonight or in the morning.

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ to be continued

 N.B. As I have a few chapters under my belt, I will try and post twice each week on WEDNESDAY and SATURDAY and we’ll see how things go. My thanks again for reading, liking, reblogging and commenting on this story.  I really do appreciate you doing so.

[cosmicteadust]

[LOGH fic] Guys Like Me

Fandom: Legend of the Galactic Heroes

Pairing: Oskar von Reuenthal/Yang Wen-li

Wordcount: 2600+

Summary: The opening scenes of an artist!Reuenthal and history professor!Yang modern AU for @beingevil. It’s incomplete for the time being and I don’t know when I’ll be able to pick it up again, but I wouldn’t consider it abandoned. Title from this song by Aimee Mann. 

i.

The human form is intimately familiar to Oskar von Reuenthal. He’s been studying it for as long as he’s allowed his past to stretch out; beginning in his adolescent days—devouring anatomy books and committing the various muscle groups to memory, back when he thought he might want to become a physician. The time he’d spent meticulously copying diagrams from those books soon gave way to an interest in drawing for drawing’s sake. Eventually, he found himself in an art college, his eye for detail insatiable despite the twice-weekly figure drawing classes he attended.

He’s been making a living as an artist for close to ten years now, still popping in to live drawing sessions whenever he can. He thought he’d mastered the various ways in which it was possible to draw the human body, clothed or unclothed. Thought he’d been confident in his ability to capture any posture, any curve of musculature, any drape of fabric or lock of hair. Until he met the stranger who would change that.

The human form was intimately familiar to Oskar von Reunthal, before he saw the man perched cross-legged on the top step of his front door, taking shelter under the awning.

Reuenthal’s breath catches in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger murmurs, glancing up before Reuenthal can speak. He has sorrowful eyes, a smile like a peace offering. Hair that looks like he’s threaded his fingers through it countless times before the rain plastered it to his face. Plain dark sweater vest over a cream-coloured shirt.

The man shakes his head, sending beads of water gracelessly flying in an arc around him. Doesn’t help the state of his hair. He twitches from a sharp inhalation before raising his arm to his face, muffling a violent sneeze.

Reuenthal is staring. He’s thinking about the wetness on the stranger’s cheeks and how the late afternoon light catches it. For the first time in a long while, he’s so captivated by detail that he can’t appraise the figure as a whole. The subject is eluding him. Reuenthal clears his throat. “You’re in my way,” he says firmly. To emphasise the point, he marches up the steps and plants a foot within millimetres of the stranger’s knee. If he made to kneel, it’s likely that he would end up straddling him. Reuenthal is tall, but his imposing silhouette is mostly accounted for by his oversized black umbrella. Raindrops slide off the waterproof coating, landing obnoxiously on the stranger’s face.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” the stranger says unhappily, head bowed. He shifts, revealing a crumpled sheaf of paper stuffed under his cardigan. “Just let me get these in order and I’ll go. It took me the better half of the morning to photocopy this lot, not that the fact is of any relevance to you.”

“It could be.” The words slip out before Reuenthal can stop himself. He moves back, then steps under the awning into what little space has been left for him, closing the umbrella as he turns to face the front door. The sheaf of paper is added context. With every new detail he notices, his curiosity about the stranger heightens. His dispassionate facade is starting to crack, and it won’t be long before he loses his resolve to send the stranger on his way.

He can almost hear Mittermeyer’s voice in his head. Every great artist needs a muse, idiot. You can’t keep drawing anonymous people forever. Reuenthal grudgingly admits to himself that Mittermeyer may be right. An intimate knowledge of the human body isn’t intimacy. But Reuenthal always thinks he knows better.

**

Yang hears the sound of a key turning in a lock somewhere above his head. He angles his body to peer up at the owner of the house, waiting for a cue. The door swings open behind him. A slow wall of heater-warmed air nudges invitingly against his back. A gesture from the owner as though to direct him inside—a single, decisive flourish, index finger extended to indicate that this is indeed a command to enter.

Yang levers himself off the step with an arm while attempting to stand on legs that have fallen asleep. The sheets of paper start to slide out from under his cardigan. Turns out, the world doesn’t tilt in slow-motion the way it does in films; it’s an artless backward tumble against a carpet that only marginally cushions the bump to his tailbone. “Ah...” Thousands of years of written history are now sprawled across the floor and his thighs. “Sorry. Thank you. Sorry,” he says. “In that order.” Added after a brief moment of thought. He rearranges himself, starts to shuffle the fallen sheets back into some semblance of a pile.

The owner of the house has moved past him and is already making his way up to the second floor. His overcoat has been hung on the coat stand, the umbrella deposited into a tasteful steel mesh holder beside it. His furniture seems purposeful, like his stride. Every movement he makes. “Wait in the living room. And close the door when you’re done,” he calls to Yang without even turning back to look. Yang feels his cheeks burn, but he’s too exhausted to be humiliated. He gets to his feet, groaning at the prickling sensation of pins and needles in his calves. Shoves the door shut with his free hand, defiantly using more force than necessary. Slowly, he hobbles further inside.

The house is sparsely furnished, the decor a blend of minimalist aesthetics and accents inspired by brutalism? Baroque architecture? Yang isn’t sure. Wooden floorboards, concrete feature walls, a large mirror with an embellished frame. A curious yet coherent mixture of the angular and the ornate. He can identify some of the design elements present thanks to the elective art history module he took as an undergraduate. An incongruous splash of colour by the far window catches his attention. Two generously stuffed cushions resting on a window seat—one red, the other royal blue.

A window seat! He heads toward it eagerly before remembering that his clothes are still damp from the rain. Comes to a stop by the table and rests his precious sheets of paper down on it, lets out a soft, wistful sigh in the general direction of the window.

Still standing, Yang starts on the arduous task of sorting through his notes. They’ve gotten hopelessly jumbled, many pages sporting dog ears and splotches of moisture that threaten to smudge the printed text beyond legibility. He’s made copies of chapters from at least fifteen ‘Reference Only’ books and had left a mess in the library’s photocopying room. Ms. Greenhill hadn’t been pleased, but she’d slipped him a cling-wrapped home-made sandwich which served as his lunch later on in the staff lounge.

**

Reuenthal pauses on the way down, leans casually against the banister to watch the stranger in his home. The other man is too absorbed in his task to notice. He’s a strange sight in his mismatched outfit. The top is alright, but the slacks simply don’t match. On the whole, they produce the effect of a student in an ill-considered public school uniform. He’s of average height and build, has an admittedly plain face. What, then, makes him so compelling?

“Here.”

The stranger nearly jumps when Reuenthal appears beside him and offers him the change of clothes. Reuenthal doesn’t apologise, waits patiently for him to take the clothes off his hands before pointing him round a corner. “There’s a bathroom on the left. Light switch is behind the door.”

“You’re really too kind.”

Reuenthal waits until the man is out of earshot before scoffing.

**

The clothes smell faintly of mothballs. For no reason in particular, Yang buries his face into them and breathes in. They remind him of his childhood. His father was always moving for work. They lived like nomads, on the move so often that his clothes spent more time in boxes than out of them. He didn’t mind. The only thing he cared about was his father’s mouldering collection of old history books.

Yang has been given a plain black shirt with long sleeves and a pair of dark grey sweatpants. He wouldn’t have guessed that his host had these lying around. Not with the way he was dressed: fitted black jeans and a black turtleneck shirt which made his arms and torso seem endless. Though the broad shoulders did not escape Yang’s notice. Their recent interaction was the first time he’d been able to get a good look at his host since the kerfuffle in the doorway. Up close, the shimmer of blue in his left eye seemed almost supernatural.

Genetic quirk or vanity lens? He wonders as he struggles out of his own clothes. Lost in thought, navigating his vague first impressions of the man, it takes him longer than usual to get dressed. He puts the shirt on inside-out on his first attempt, wears it back-to-front on the second. It’s a little too large for him, but comfortable.

When Yang finally leaves the bathroom, damp clothes tucked under his arm, his host is seated at the table, leafing through his notes. “Would you like a comb?” He is asked, in a tone that seems to imply that hair tousled dry with a shirt is not a good look on him.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Unconsciously running his hand through the offending unruly hair, a reflex he found impossible to rid himself of. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay till the rain stops.” Yang slides into a chair, leaving an empty seat between himself and his host.  

“As you like.” His host gives him a lopsided smile, eyes crinkling into an approximation of genuine contentment. “I never did introduce myself. Rude of me.” He leans back to ease a leather cardholder from the pocket of his jeans, offers a name card elegantly poised between index and middle finger, like one would ash a cigarette over an ashtray. It’s printed on high quality card stock; Yang satisfies his tactile nature by enjoying the marvellous texture, stroking his thumb over it appreciatively.

Oskar von Reuenthal. Portrait Artist.

“It’s pronounced Reuenthal,” the man says. His deep voice wraps around the name possessively, as though daring Yang to speak it aloud himself. “You can call me that. I’ve been told I don’t look like an Oskar.”

“Honestly, you look like less like an artist than you do an Oskar.” The comment bubbles to the surface before Yang can stop himself. He’d been expecting something else. Real estate mogul. Surgeon. Lawyer. “That was uncalled for. My apologies.” Hand in hair again, fussing. “Uh... I don’t know much about artists. My father was an art collector who never directly liaised with anyone who made art. He didn’t think it was necessary. Turned out, he’d been purchasing forgeries.”

A piercing stare from Reuenthal. “As an artist, I find it difficult to extend my sympathies.”

Yang laughs in spite of himself. “There’s no need for that. He died before anyone found out what his collection was really worth, or if they even knew he’d been duped. Who knows what he was thinking? He was always so earnest about that particular interest of his. I never understood. Never understood his actual work as a stock trader either. Business. Money.” He shakes his head.

“So, what do you do?” Reuenthal waves a hand over Yang’s notes for emphasis. “You seem unusually preoccupied with events and warfare of ages past. Or is this just a hobby?”

Nervous laughter. “I’m an adjunct professor. Working towards a second Ph.D. in Military History.” He reaches out across the table, fervently hoping that Reuenthal recognises that a handshake is being initiated. He does. “I’m Yang, by the way. Yang Wen Li.” The language of his childhood rarely sees use these days, but it lives on in every self-introduction; he’s careful to enunciate well, employing the tonal lilt of the Mandarin tongue. People in this country tend to iron out the intonation of his full name. While they  aren’t to blame, he resists in his own way.

“Yang.” Reuenthal repeats. And Yang never thought he’d want to hear another person speak his name over and over again, but he does. Reuenthal says it like an incantation that would seek his soul out if it were lost and anchor it to his corporeal form.

They sit in silence, allowing the hum of the radiator to fill the room. Without a word, Reuenthal continues to sort Yang’s notes. Most of them are easily discernible as belonging to disparate sources. His attention to detail comes in useful, picking out minor differences in typeface, line spacing, margin width. Yang puts each smaller pile in order by page number. Sometime during the afternoon, a pot of unsweetened black tea is brewed, the contents duly contemplated and consumed. Reuenthal mentions nothing of his preference for coffee, nor does Yang drop the slightest hint that his choice of beverage contains a warmed shot of brandy.

ii.

Yang returns home just past twilight, moments before Julian would have hit the dial button on his phone to check up on him. “There you are!” The adolescent exclaims. “If you’ll tolerate my saying of something completely disrespectful, I’ve been thinking about getting you a collar with my number on it for easier retrieval.”

“You could have called, if you were worried.” Yang mumbles, his tone tinged with guilt. He tosses his notes onto the couch (neatly organised and filed in the thickest ring binder Reuenthal could spare him). As discreetly as he can manage, he slides his hand behind the cushions in search of his own misplaced phone. There it is, wedged beside the remote. He suspects that the crafty Admiral had noticed it and taken it upon himself to paw it out of sight for Julian’s sake.

“I’ll start on dinner!” Julian calls from the kitchen. “You’re getting the Yang Household Special: Quick and Creatively Re-purposed Leftovers for Adult Students and Child-Like Educators.”

“If it’s edible, it’s good enough for me,” Yang answers. He privately resolves to bribe Walter and Alex with decent whiskey so that they will, in future, refrain from being openly sarcastic around his impressionable young housemate.

Later, over creatively re-purposed ratatouille with a side of pasta:

“I met a man,” Yang confesses.

“Good. So you’re finally ready to settle down?” Julian teases, with shades of Caselnes.

Yang frowns. “Settle down...? Oh, you meant a relationship. Aren’t those the very opposite of settling down? I’m too tired for that sort of thing. Upend my comfortable way of life? Not a chance.” Hastily, he shovels a forkful of pasta into his mouth so as not to segue into an unintended monologue. He’s reminded uncomfortably of the talk he and Ms. Greenhill had about a month ago, after she’d confessed her attraction to him in a quiet corner of the cafe two blocks down from the administrative building exit. In short, it seemed clear to Yang that he did not feel as strongly for her as she did for him, nor could he even promise that he had the capacity to identify and reciprocate expressions of affection. “My heart’s more like a part of my mind,” he’d mumbled into the beret he’d nervously pressed to his mouth, wishing that he could shrink and crawl under it to hibernate. “And my mind is near constantly on my work these days, and will continue to be for the foreseeable future.”

Julian butts into his reverie with a statement that comes out of nowhere. “Things always happen to you,” the youth observes.

“Don’t things happen to people as a general rule of life?”

“No, not like that.” A serious look that makes him appear well beyond his years. “I mean, you don’t steer yourself very much. Or navigate currents. You’re like a leaf drifting along a river.”

Yang is surprised, but not offended. “So you think that I lack direction?”

Julian winces. “Not that either. You’re just... you.”

Yang blinks at him.  

[grimoiresontape]

Circling Ways in Geomancy

In the relatively early days of my magical practice, I gathered and used a lot of things I found in the course of going on walks - bits of interestingly-shaped sticks, torn pages of books and newspapers, playing cards, scraps of fabric, that sort of thing. This seems a common enough phase for many magicians, learning to navigate their landscape and sense the subtle tides and shifts around them in those interactions. Walks around my neighbourhood, building my relationship with the spirits of place, or drifting through unfamiliar parts of town on extended augury expeditions; these rambles would lead me to find objects that seemed significant and magically useful. There was something so satisfying about finding meaning and use in things picked up off the ground; those discarded omens and overlooked materials of inner-city sorcery. For years I kept a stray white cue ball which I had found when on an extended Lunary wandering. Chalk-marked ivory globe uncannily out of place, plucked from the gutter of night, a delicate egg of veiled promise. One of my most used magical tools found in this manner was a simple set of brown seed beads strung as a necklace. I came across it while ambling along meditating on geomancy, the earth, and delineations of sacred space. Mulling over old pantheism-and/or-animism distinctions and where divining with spirits in space fit in, I found the beads lying on the floor: they were spread like a square. This demarcation of space, this establishment of a matrix of divinatory coherence, this cauldron from which new answers could be cooked up, made a lot of sense. The shape of the idea itself looped me in. I began using the strung seeds as a field upon which to throw my coins, dice, or whatever other means I was using to generate my geomantic figures. This is not to suggest I invented anything - this is simply how something was shown to me. As we shall see shortly, such a technique is far from unique to my practice. In the years since, that found cord has had a lot of play. A lot. Enough that, a month or so ago, I pulled it from its bag and saw it was - in exactly the way time’s shadow sneaks up on you - suddenly looking all too raggedy. I resolved to build some new gear. In fact I had already made short beaded “loops” - too short to be considered necklaces - dedicated to particular senior spirits in my practice, and generally adorning their statuary and icons. I would occasionally employ these to charge the divining space with their authority, especially at auspicious hours and days at which the power of these Chiefly spirits waxed crowned. I would set them out, squaring the circle - forming the four sides of the natural ‘elementated’ world from the celestial circle. These beaded circlets empowered the clarity and focus of my readings. I even found them useful for cohering the virtues of the figures I set for more sorcerous ends; combining the natural potencies of their gemstones with the operative spellcraft of displaying a figure inside them, as in the manner of image magic employing, say, Tarot cards. Rough chips of sanguine coral, the very blood of Medusa, as soldiers of scarlets and incarnadines surrounding a marked Puer in the eighth hour of Tuesday.

More broadly, this kind of altar-top circling has long been part of my practice, casting an orbit of materia magica around foci of influence and effect. The sprinkled rosemary around the purifying candle spell, the chalk around the spirit’s seal to trap or stabilise. Such circlets belt up firm foundation, spin loops to run perpetually, wind and bind. New cord and even knot magic utilities continue to reveal themselves. Even a rosary is but a garland of the threaded blooms of Love and Mystery, stirring in turns and spirals. Considering the Puck’s girdle about the world, however, I am especially interested in how spiritwork permeates these kinds of tools and techniques. So it was I decided to construct seven circlets, dedicated to the seven planetary Rulers so important to geomantic sorcery. 

In more modern geomancies, diviners are often encouraged or instructed to invoke the Spirit of the planet most suitable for the question - matters of romance and sensuality on Friday, the day of Venus, for example - as part of the formal protocol of divining. Along with directing practitioners to begin their geomancy by tracing an Invoking Pentagram of Earth, Israel Regardie’s A Practical Guide to Geomantic Divination suggests the following:

‘To every planetary force in geomancy, there is attributed a Genius presiding over all matters covered by the definitions of that force… [Each genius has a] sigil, a traditional word that merely means a signature. This sigil should be very deliberately and carefully drawn in the centre of the Pentagram which has been traced. It should be visualized as clearly as possible, while vibrating his [sic] name several times, either vocally or mentally. This places the whole divinatory process under divine guidance, and opens up specific pathways to the Unconscious area which can act to provide an answer to the question.’ [Regardie, 45.]

It seems an uncontroversial consensus these days that the formal shaping of pentagrams and spirit seals of the Golden Dawn’s protocols for geomancy can be traced to John Heydon and his Theomagia. In this Temple of Wisdom (as it is not-so-humbly subtitled), when he is not quoting Agrippa whole-sale, Heydon expounds of his self-identified “Rosiecrucian way” that operators ‘first used holy Deprications, Incantations with other Rites and observations provoking and alluring Idea’s of this nature hereunto...’  [Heydon, Theomagia (London, 1668), 2-3] Here are hints of geomancy’s “high ceremonial” dimensions. Crucially however we should also note that Owen Davies has remarked that early modern village cunning-folk and local wizards, traditionally represented as the magic-users least interested in complex Neoplatonic orders and arrangements of angels, ‘would certainly appreciate the detailed practical guide to astromantic and geomantic divination, and the diagrams showing the various signs and characters of the planets and their angels’. [Davies, Popular Magic (), 124] 

The senior planetary Spirits of geomancy, contrasted by Agrippa with the more angelic planetary Intelligences, are referred to by Heydon et al as the ‘seven Rulers of the Earth’. Without diving too deep into Heydon’s idiosyncratic cosmology, it is worth reiterating that Heydon hardly ever refers to the straight astrological grammar of geomancy, preferring to use the names of the spirits of those astrological principles: he does not talk about Saturn, but rather Zazel; he speaks of Malchidael not Aries. It is in his lists of correspondences attributed to these Rulers that we come across colour schemes for these spirits:

Zazel, Spirit of Saturn: ‘He ruleth over the Lead, the Load-stone, the dross of all Mettals, as also the Dust and Rubbish of every thing... He Ruleth the Saphire stone, Lapis Lazul, all black ugly sheet stones, not polishable and of a sad ashy or black colour…’

Hismael, Spirit of Jupiter: ‘that which is most pleasant and delightful without extream Colours; he signifyeth Seagreen or blew, purple, Ash colours’

Barzabel, Spirit of Mars: ‘He delighteth in Red colour, or yellow, fiery and shining like Saffron…'

Sorath, Spirit of the Sun: ‘he ruleth the Yellow, the colour of Gold, the Scarlet or the clear Red, and all reddish colours’

Kedemel, Spirit of Venus: ‘she signifieth white, or milky colour, mixed with brown or a little green’

Taphthartharath, Spirit of Mercury: ‘Mixed and new colours, the gray mixed with Sky colour, such as is on the neck of the Dove, and Pidgeon, Stock-Dove, and such fine Colours; also Lincy-Wooly colours, or… of many colours, mixed…’

Chasmodai, Spirit of the Moon: ‘Of Colours, the White, or pale Yellow, White, pale Green, or a little of the Silver colour’

Rather than simply tracing the sigils of these Spirits to centre and focus my readings, I was inspired to bead my own circlets in versions of these dedicated corresponding colours, including in the designs gemstones with virtues relevant to their planetary governances. Specifically, four stones for squaring that circle, for bringing to bear the four classical forces of the ‘elementated’ natural world with which geomancy so deeply engages. These would be a tool for further drawing on the strength, force and authority of the Rulers to provide accurate information in my readings and precise affect in my rituals. 

It was in speaking about these plans to my dear friend and Tatá Quimbanda that I discovered this was in fact not a novel approach! Practitioners of Candomble and of Quimbanda have both long utilized the beaded necklaces of their traditions - ritual objects with deep significances - to mark a space for divining with shells. Elekes of Candomble, like those of Regla de Ocha and the guia de contas of Umbanda, represent a holy bond between devotee and the Orisha. Washed in sacred omiero, these beads are a sign of blessing as well as a mantle of commitment. The beads are normally worn around the throat, either diagonally or pendulously, and must encompass the heart and ideally down to the navel. This necklace connects the speaking voice and the core at the heart of us. A connection between what is ordinarily worn now on a table creates a necessary link between the Orisha’s mouths (the cowries) and your own. To divine is after all to give voice to the divine from the heart.

Similarly, the guias of Quimbanda de Raiz are washed in sorcerous amaçi and worn to foreground pacts and commitments made and to offer protection. Along with beads worn in devotion, they are also used to ensure Orisha and Exu and Pomba Gira can communicate efficiently. The guia imperial of Quimbanda is in fact required for reading shells when reading away from one’s assentamentos. My godfather describes this in terms of how it keeps the link to the spirits one has seated and works with: a temporary field of settlement allowing all Kingdoms to come through. A further innovation of these Afro-Diasporic techniques of demarcating ritual space for divination with sacred beads includes not only various different necklaces for different gods or spirits, but of constructing one large loop containing sections for each power, force, Orisha or Kingdom, such as the guia imperial pictured below. 

Candomble and Umbanda-influenced practices also hold important lessons to bear in mind when comparing such so-called New World practices with the specifically planetary aspects of geomantic divination and sorcery. Earlier African significances of sevenfold divisions and heptarchies - for seven is a potent crossroads number - were later glossed through Theosophic lenses as chiefly concerning the seven classical planets. As highlighted by articles such as this, on the ‘Fundamentos de Jogo de Búzios’, this gloss can be seen in the approach to things like days of the week in such practices.

I am far from the first geomancer to cast into a corded or even beaded circlet. It is a shared technological response to the operation of geomancy, a co-impulse of many different craftsfolk of the divinatory art. Such living full-blooded traditional practices are unique instantiations of resonant approaches to patterning the geomantic crafts of ritual and truth-telling. Noting the use of circlets in this manner should not be taken as any attempt to flatline different traditions and cultures but celebrate their songs and harmonies in sharper context.

Conducting geomantic divination using these talismans dedicated to the Seven Rulers of the Earth, emblazoned in their heraldic colours and bearing stones of empowering virtue, has already focused my readings, has brought planetary virtues of both stability and dynamism to bear. They have begun to assist my understanding of the unique natures of these Spirits as more than cookie-cutter planetary entities. These geomantic circlets have also certainly improved the scope and precision of various operations of geomantic sorcery. I share these thoughts, accounts, and experiences at a somewhat nascent stage of working the tools: I am excited to share them and their techniques to encourage and compare experiments and extrapolations. 

Working these planetary talismans of the Seven Rulers has certainly furthered my interest in exploring use of circling ways beyond the classic 9-ft magic circles of protection and conjuration. It has also given me valuable perspectives on broader historical instances of circling in the European grimoire traditions of magic. Evidence from one of the earliest manuscripts of the Grimorium Verum grimoire-family, the Clavicula Salomonis De Secretis, details several sorcerous operations involving encircling tools of magical operation: ‘Ut Pluat' (To Make It Rain) one must place a glass of sea water and a heliotrope stone in a circle inscribed; ‘Ut Fulguret’ (To Make Lightning) a lamp is placed at the centre of a specially scribed circle; and an operation to ‘Concubitu Potiendum’ (‘For Love Making/Coupling’) features a diagram of the circle, to be inscribed in a red ochre chalk, on top of an altar.

Another operation of the Grimorium Verum with strong circling implications, To Open Anything that is Shut or Locked, demonstrates some pertinent squaring dimensions as well as avenues for potential spiritwork. The experiment instructs the operator to make a circle around a lodestone then ‘within the circle make a square and at all the angles put the sigil of Sergutha’. If we take this to be Surgat, recent developments in joined-up thinking about grimoire devils inform us that this spirit is also identified with Annobath… who just happens to ‘teacheth the knowledge of necromancy, geomancy, and chiromancy’, amongst other things. We come full squared circle. 

The use of a bloodstone to mark the earth in the Grand Grimoire offers inspiration for experimenting with lapidary lore for our geomantic tools, both in terms of beading or these more direct gemstone styli. Nor should we be hidebound to strict repetition: bloodstone is a powerful ally, but it is not our only poison. When constructing the geomantic circlet for work with Hismael and Jupiterian currents, virtues and spirits (and, thus, for Thursdays especially), for instance, I divined that the inclusion of four amethyst beads for the circlet’s “corners” would inform and galvanise my work with the grand Spirit of the Greater Benefic. 

I have already signaled from social media accounts the availability of these planetary talismans for purchase. Feel free to email me at consultantsorcerer@gmail.com if you are interested in working with these tools; I am happy to work with clients to tailor bespoke consecratory treatments. They are currently priced at $44 apiece, or $231 for the full set of seven. I am currently experimenting with various forms of additional consecration - involving homebrew planetary oils, asperging waters and fumigation blends - so that price may climb as I develop these talismans further and the process of construction and empowerment becomes more complex and potent.

Inquiries, commissions and any other questions or comments can be directed to consultantsorcerer@gmail.com