Jason Jones, Compressed

Because I will never finish it otherwise, and I'd really like to. So: a tenth the normal verbiage!

The story so far, compressed:
PART I
Jason Jones kills people and drives from Quebec to Iowa, not in that order. Also, there's a blue bird, and an old man.

PART II
Jason Jones goes to karate, then kills centaurs. It turns out there's a herd. They came from China twenty or thirty years ago. Policemen are surprised. Then they get killed by invisible floating slicing things. So do the centaurs. Jason Jones is unharmed. He kills the slicers, talks to his dad, and goes to China. The bird shows up a lot. Watching.

PART III
Jason Jones doesn't speak Chinese. It's okay. Within six hours of landing, his taxi is hijacked by centaurs. They're bad with English. Jason Jones escapes, then finds their hangout, and persuades them to take him to their boss. They do! Turns out the boss is responsible for killing some people and stuff. Jason Jones objects, with fists, and is taken captive again. Oops.

The boss is called the Great One. He, in turn, is under the control of the Maker, who's in some really cold mountains. Of course, Jason Jones gets taken there. He gets some backstory - the Maker says that it (and the centaurs) come from "another world", transported here by an experiment that would happen in the present. It's a bit confusing. An oracle came, too - told the Maker some of this, and that Jason Jones would return them to whence they came when he completed his role in the experiment, and that he couldn't be killed by earth, fire, water or air. The Maker wants to stay on Earth, so he imprisons Jason to keep him from finishing the experiment. Then Jason Jones freezes in a meatlocker.

Also, the bird from the other parts watched for a bit, then showed up dead on the ground. The Maker has a bunch more but they're not the same. Bit of a rough deal.

PART IIII:
Jason Jones is rescued rather spectacularly by a wide assortment of strangers - some apparently human, some not. Jason Jones is rather surprised but he goes along. They flee down the mountain in trucks, pursued by the Maker's creatures. The Great One, in their path, sets up an ambush, killing some of the rescuers and forcing the rest to divert from their planned escape to a seaport. They stow away on a gigantic cargo ship, in the process gaining enough time to get a little more information to Jason.

Turns out that the rescuers are from the same event that brought the centaurs and the Maker to our world. They tell Jason that they all showed up at once, high in the mountains. There were a number of nonsentient creatures summoned as well, many of which were quite aggressive. Most of the sentient creatures banded together to fight the monsters, taking casualties in so doing. Among them were the two oracles, Wan Chu and Wan Ming - one of whom died in the battles. Another was the Maker. The centaurs weren't involved - they ran away instead. This worked out pretty well for them.

After the fighting, the oracle Wan Chu, pressed by the others, delivered a prophecy, pretty much as the Maker told it - they were summoned by a great event that would occur 33+ years later, Jason Jones did it, he couldn't be killed by fire, water, earth, air, etc. Then the Maker asked if they had to return, and finding otherwise, it took the most logical action (considering the general sentiment among those gathered) - it tried to kill everyone. The oracle died, as did about half of the other survivors of the previous battle. The rest fled. Some never re-united, but those that did formed a sort of cabal - they'd hunt for Jason Jones and watch them, trying to find the one mentioned in the prophecy.

Jason Jones stumbled into their way in Canada. The bird, a defector from the Maker's forces (and the reason that he created the Great One - to extend his range), was sent out on a hunch after Jason Jones ran into the old man on the way south. Later events supported the old man's hunch, and when Jason headed out to China, the survivors - they call themselves the Exiles - scrambled to intercept him before he fell into the Maker's hands.

They were a little late.

Anyway, they'd already managed to figure out where the experiment was - it was in the underground labs of UC-Berkeley - a prototype massively networked quantum computer. So that's where they headed as soon as they got back to America.

Other Exiles, who weren't able to move fast enough to get to China, joined them. Jason Jones spent a week in training and spying on the labs, then he goes in on the day of the prophecy. Oddly, when a guard confronts him, he finds he lacks his old bloodlust - but when the Maker's creatures show up (slicers, among other things), he's able to summon it up against them. With belated help from the Exiles, Jason makes it into the building, and is told that he has support coming his way. He manages to, through a combination of luck and... luck, find the component he needs to sabotage to cause the experiment to cascade backwards through the past. Then his support arrives and promptly shoots his leg off.

Ow.

Turns out they're traitors - Exiles who are pretty sure that when the prophecy says "return to whence they came", it means a sort of conceptual nothingness, not a full reality. This means nothing to Jason either way but for them it is the difference between life and death. They figured, correctly, that the best way to stop Jason was to accompany the Exiles right up to the last minute. Jason Jones is, once more, a captive audience.

At this point things get crazy. The 'loyal' Exiles show up, without a great deal of subtlety, and with a great deal of firepower. Civilian casualties mount. A tanker filled with Maker-spawned monstrosities beaches itself and starts spewing out nastiness, forcing the Exiles to withdraw. The National Guard arrives. Dusk approaches.

Jason Jones considers his motivation. He started out basically wanting to kill everyone until things got fixed but at this point is uncertain that this was the correct approach. Now, he decides, it is probably better to go for a minimal casualty approach. Also, he feels vaguely guilty about the bird, though he's not sure what he could have done differently there. Mustering a burst of persuasive ability, he attempts to persuade his captors, the traitor Exiles, to share his feelings. This backfires rather a bit and ends in an Exile, enraged beyond reason, lunging at him with a very sharp knife.

Jason Jones, trained in martial arts, uses this to his advantage, twisting and maneuvering such that the knife severs his bonds instead. Then he flips the switch, and within minutes (of Jason Jones being trapped in a room with very angry armed people) the experiment, automated, triggers and sends the Exiles, centaurs, and Maker alike home.

Québécois terrorist assassins show up entirely too late to do any good for anyone.

There are a number of unresolved questions. Mainly: why Jason Jones? What's he going to do now? Why can't he be killed by fire, water, earth, or air? And how does a planned second series involving an older, reformed, mostly pacifistic Jason Jones squaring off against a race of morally dubious robots factor into it all?

But, with or without the answers to those questions: that's the complete Jason Jones.

Hooray, it's finally done!

Jason Jones: A Background

Jason Jones was the second-born in his family. His older brother and two younger siblings were both born to Mr. Green, Jason's father-in-law. Jason's mother, Mrs. Green, was first married to Mr. Green, about five years before Jason was born. They divorced over a cutlery dispute (Mr. Green objected to knives being lodged in his face), and Mrs. Green married Mr. Jones, Jason's father, six months later. The relationship lasted no longer than Mrs. Green's pregnancy; just two days after Jason's delivery, Mr. Jones began divorce procedures, for health reasons. (Mrs. Green had broken his arm in a dispute over the television remote.) After Mr. Jones left, Mr. Green moved back in, to help take care of the children. Somehow, over the fourteen years since then, Mrs. Green managed to have two more children, and so Mr. Green is likely to stay for a bit longer than originally seemed likely.

Jason Jeremiah Jones grew up with three parents. Mr. Green taught him a - well, not a love, but a healthy respect for learning, showing young Jason how to do the maths and write school essays. Mr. Jones gave him pride in his body; Jason Jones entirely credits his strength and self-reliance on his natural father.

And his mother, Mrs. Green? Mrs. Green - not intentionally, but through every screaming row and violent rage she had in Jason's presence - showed Jason Jones the joy and thrill of combat. The exhilaration, the power in seeking to impress his will upon others - either with reason, or with violence. It is fair to say that without the balancing influence of the males in Jason's life - his two fathers, his martial arts instructor, and his older brother - Jason would have become a bully and a minor tyrant.

When Mr. Green took the family on a trip to Canada, it was Mrs. Green who stranded Jason in Quebec. Jason had been "sassing her", she later justified to her husband. Mr. Green was worried, but declined to take action after repeated assurances that "If Jason was in trouble, he'd call us; and as he hasn't, he must be fine." The delivery of these assurances may have enhanced their impact, as Mrs. Green held a rather large knife at the time.

-

Fact: Jason was barred from the school football team after he punched a member of the team in the solar plexus.

He never really liked being tackled.

Jason Jones In Flight

Jason Jones croaked out "Yes." His throat was sore from cold and dehydration. The old man from Canada, heavily armored and armed, began to cut away at the hardened slime encasing Jason's body with a small axe. As he cut, Jason asked, "Who are you?"

"We're rescuing you," the old man said, and continued to cut.

After half a minute of chopping, enough of the slime was gone for Jason to stand and move his limbs about more or less unencumbered. He rose to his feet, noticing sounds previously muffled by the slime over his ears: gunshots and explosions. They were coming closer. The old man gestured Jason Jones to the door, where he saw a half-dozen other people armored similarly to the old man. Each suit of armor was colored differently, and unlike the old man, they all bore a sword on their backs as well as carrying a harpoon-gun. Jason Jones, weak from captivity, walked with them through the Maker's lair. He wondered briefly if they were some trick of the Maker's, but dismissed the idea with the sounds of fighting so clearly audible.

Then the fighting came to Jason. What looked rather like a large, flying eel shot around a corner and at Jason's escort, followed by several others. Jason froze, but his companions did not fire at the eel-things, but rather settled into crouches and aimed their weapons toward the corner. A eye-creature appeared around the corner; one of the escorts fired on it, his harpoon disintegrating in mid-flight into a shower of fast moving metal shards, but the eye-creature ducked back too quickly. Then several creatures burst out from the ground all around Jason's rescuers, spitting out seven-armed monsters armed with rifles before sinking back into the earth.

The rescuers burst into action, firing their harpoon-guns before dropping them in favor of the swords on their backs. The armbeasts fought well - dodging harpoon-shot (though two of them dropped and most were injured), firing two rifles simultaneously at the rescuers as they charged and then grappling with them. (Astonishingly, most of the bullets fired at Jason's rescuers glanced off their armor.)

Jason looked about, trying to figure out what to do. He didn't feel his usual bloodlust - just confusion and an urgent need to do something. Two armbeasts fell to the ground, their cores mutilated by sword-blows, while a green-armored rescuer dropped to the ground, pinned in a seven-arm-lock by the Maker's creature. Eyebeasts scuttled all around on three legs, watching the battle. Jason picked up a fallen harpoon-gun and opened fire on the eyebeasts, hoping to blind the Maker. They ran for cover, and when Jason found the harpoon-gun clicking empty, he looked around and realized that the battle was over. The green-armored figure was dead; his neck lolled at an unnatural angle. Two of the others were carrying him, and the old man gestured for Jason to follow. He hurried to comply.

The tunnel in which Jason walked was filled with corpses. Butchered armbeasts (weapons lying at their sides), splattered eyebeasts, a dead floating eel (shot repeatedly), a four-foot-tall armored spider-thing... As they walked to what Jason hoped was the entrance (and indeed, the vines were thinning overhead - some of them apparently thinned by gunfire and explosives), Jason asked the old man, "Is this all of you?" He gestured to the party of brightly-colored warriors. The old man shook his head. "No. But the others are elsewhere, trying to cover our escape, or attacking the Maker himself." Jason guessed that he was referring to the flying eels, conspicuously absent after heading in the direction of the Maker's lair.

Then more enemies walked out of a branching tunnel - an envoy, accompanied by four spiked-ball monsters, six armbeasts (one of them armed with a harpoon gun), and a large number of eyebeasts, which spread out quickly. The envoy held his arm high, and the creatures stood motionless and unnaggressive. Looking at Jason, he asked, "Why are you following them? My enemies have nothing to offer to you but danger and pain in their suicidal cause." He looked toward the escorts. "And you. I have never understood why you spent so much effort resisting reality. Why do you wish to return me whence I came, when there is so much opportunity here?"

The armored rescuers waited politely for the envoy to finish speaking. One of them said, "You decieve," in perfect unaccented English, then opened fire. The rest followed suit. The envoy's escorting armbeasts dodged and returned fire, but the seven-foot tall spiked balls were shredded by shrapnel. The envoy collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, its purpose served.

Jason Jones picked up a fallen rifle and charged, firing as he went. (This was not very accurate.) The armbeasts paused and began firing on him; and, weakened from captivity, poor nutrition, and a few other factors, Jason Jones tripped and fell as two bullets hit him. (Also, his leg still hurt like the dickens from his last bullet wound.) The distraction helped his escorts hit a few more times - several armbeasts fell, shredded by harpoon-shrapnel. The rest retreated, and Jason gained his feet again wearily, limping as he walked.

The envoy looked up as Jason as he passed, animation returning. "Consider your actions. The choice is yours, for the next thirty days."

One of Jason's escorts drew his sword and embedded it in the envoy's chest. Bleeding, it continued: "Do not accept the superficial." Then the lights went out behind its eyes.

They were nearly at the exit when the Maker attacked again. Birds burst through the vines in a flock, flying directly through Jason's escorts. Jason felt something moist, and looked down to find worms, horribly, covering his flesh. He scraped them off frantically, their bites burning like acid. Gunfire broke out - he looked up to see more armbeasts, firing on the distracted party. Jason dove to the floor, still killing the horrible little worms. He heard little harpoon-fire, and feared for the worst.

Then someone cried out, "Duck!" and a ball of something blindingly bright shot over Jason's head. It hit the end of the corridor with explosive effect, annihlating most of the attackers and leaving a scorch mark ten feet wide. Jason got to his feet and ran, stumbling, to the end of the corridor. A man stood there, covered in very heavy clothing, dismantling a very big gun mounted on a tripod. Behind him a large force was firing into the tunnel and elsewhere, apparently fighting armbeasts and other of the Maker's creations. They were quite diverse - not so much in race as in species - but Jason had no time to examine them. Three trucks were waiting for them, engines running and steaming in the cold air. As Jason arrived, the other pulled back, making a fighting retreat into the trucks. Several fell, dead or dying, into the snow - the other jumped into the trucks, which began to move before the last of them were fully in.

Flocks of birds swept upward from the Maker's lair as the trucks fled. They were pursued briefly by arm-creatures, who exchanged fire with the rescuers before falling too far behind and disappearing from view. Snow fell on Jason's head, on his untreated wounds and the ichor and hardened slime still covering on him. Looking at the old man, in this moment of quiet, Jason Jones asked: "What do you want from me?"

"We want to go home," the old man replied.

Jason Jones and the Slicers

Jason Jones stood on the hood of the car as the invisible slicers closed in. He glanced over towards the bodies of the others, then jerked his attention back to the shorn corn. The attackers were within five feet of him. He cast his eyes toward the sky, seeing nothing but a dark speck somewhere high above, and waited for the end, utterly terrified.

He continued waiting.

When minutes had passed and he was still seemingly intact, Jason Jones looked around. The slicers or choppers or 'Ignicis Alvars' or whatever were either gone or no longer moving. Hesitantly, he took a step to one side of the hood. Instantly, he noticed the slicers chopping through corn to his left. Jason froze again - and so did the slicers. He walked right another step. The slicers followed.

Feeling somewhat more secure, now that the slicers were no longer threatening him (for whatever reason), Jason Jones slid carefully off the hood of the police car and walked over to the corpses. He looked at the faces of the people he knew - messily dead on the ground - and turned and vomited noisily for the next few minutes. Then he knelt down, carefully not on either corpses or bile, and picked up the sheriff's shotgun - still loaded from his last stand, Jason noted. He considered firing it at the slicers, decided against provoking them, and walked slowly over to the police car.

The slicers chopped through the engine block as they moved to follow him. Jason could hear the strain of metal as they pushed against it - and then heard it break with an awful snapping noise. He looked at the ignition column: empty. The key was probably still in the Sheriff's pockets. Even were the car still operable, Jason didn't think he'd be able to fetch the keys from... their likely location. He rose and started walking back the way the car came.

Thankfully, it was a cool day. The breeze blew gently, cooling Jason as he walked and the slicers trimmed corn all around him. He thought as he walked. He didn't do a lot of thinking, but he'd gotten some time, and had a lot to think about. He thought about the people he had killed, the terrorists in Canada and the 'militia' just over the border. He thought about Tina, killed by the centaurs. He thought about those centaurs (where had they come from?), and the slicers that so suddenly annihilated them.

Within hours, Jason was hungry and thirsty and tired. He saw a number of farmsteads as he walked, and repeatedly considered stopping there and asking for food and water. The sight of corn chopped as he walked stopped him every time. He'd seen them pursue the centaurs at incredible speeds. The fact that they'd seemed to stop, when only Jason was around, didn't give him any confidence that they'd treat anyone he approached differently than they treated the centaurs. He kept walking. Hours passed. He fell into a fugue of sorts, placing one foot in front of the other, following the car's trail. As the sun finally neared the horizon, he wondered about the old man at the Canadian gas station, and the bird he'd released.

As twilight fell, Jason heard an odd rustling sound. All around him, the corn was being trimmed unevenly - the slicers were shifting up and down oddly. Jason began paying attention and slowed his steps. The shifting slowly stopped - then, as full darkness approached, the slicers stopped altogether.

Jason paused in astonishment. He walked a few steps, very carefully. Nothing happened. He thought for a moment - and then, struck by inspiration, he knelt down and grabbed a pinch of dirt from the ground. He sprinkled it over the ground in front of him. For a moment, he saw the outline of a sort of zeppelin-shaped creature, lying on the ground - then it somehow absorbed the dirt, and was fully invisible again.

A plan began to form in Jason's mind. He looked at his shotgun. He looked at where the creature was. He put the shotgun down and picked up a handful of loose soil. Then, with no little trepidation, he sprinkled it over the slicer and - as it was momentarily visible - put his hand on it and began pushing it toward its shotgun. It seemed to stir for a moment, and Jason's heart jumped - then it subsided, and he breathed out again.

Jason repeated this for all the slicers he could find, pushing them from the ring they'd formed around him to a pile on top of the first one. As he moved them, he noticed more about their shape. They had two holes visible, one at each end, and a sort of thin slicing ring around the center of their bodies. There was a sort of thin triangle inscribed in the top of their bodies - seemingly purposeless. He couldn't see below the ring, and still had no idea how they hovered. They were very light. After twenty minutes of effort, all the slicers were piled in one place. Jason marked it with a circle drawn in the dirt around it, picked up the shotgun, and stepped back. He took careful aim at where he thought the slicers were and fired from four feet back. He heard a great number of pops but, to be certain, quickly fired another shot. Then he walked over to the circle of dirt and poured another handful of dirt down.

There was nothing left but scraps.

Jason Jones stood there a moment, suddenly very tired indeed. He resisted his fatigue and took his cell phone out of his pocket. While the slicers were surrounding him, there was nothing his parents could have done to help him - but now that they were gone, he knew exactly what he wanted from them. He dialed home. "Mom? I'm... I'm in a field, somewhere south of town. I need a ride home."

-

After the details were sorted out, and while his mother was en route to pick him up, Jason Jones stood there, thinking again. The centaurs and slicers might have been... dealt with, but there was still the question of where they came from, and if others might follow. The slicers in particular made Jason wonder. And there was certainly going to be some investigation of the others' deaths. Jason would have been nervous about that in any case, but his recent history was hardly spotless. He really didn't want to have the police investigating his recent actions - he'd been lucky the first time, and might not be so again.

Jason Jones considered the idea of taking a trip.

Jason Jones Finds Monsters

"Here," said the black-winged centaur to Jason Jones. "There," pointing to the distance beyond the next rise, "is Great One. Go."

Jason stopped, panting for breath. It had been a long bike ride. His water bottle was quite empty now, and had been (Jason estimated) for the last mile. Still panting, he asked the centaur, "What will happen if I just walk up to him?'

The centaur shrugged. "Don't know. Probably he prison you. Maybe not. If he wanted kill... easier ways, yes?"

Jason thought of the slicers, and nodded. "Well, then." He got back on his bike, pedaling for a few feet; then he stopped as he noticed the centaur standing still. "Aren't you coming with me?" he asked.

The centaur shook his head. "No. Great One is... dangerous. I take you to him free... he may kill me."

Jason thought about this. "Well... I'm still with you, right?" he asked. "You were just supposed to get me to this guy. Wouldn't he reward you anyway?" Looking at the harsh landscape around them - they were near the mountains now, and the cold was getting harsher - Jason said, "Besides, I think I'd like someone to come with me - just in case."

The centaur frowned dourly. Jason waited for a full minute for him to decide, growing increasingly impatient; then, shrugging, he cycled off. Not long after, the centaur caught up to him, jogging easily beside Jason. The centaur asked, slowly, "Why you want this so bad?"

Jason answered, "Back home, you centaurs and some other creatures were killing people. It seemed to have something to do with me. And so I came here, to try to stop it. This guy seems pretty important, and involved with all this... so I'm going to deal with him."

The centaur made no comment. They were entering rocky land now, full of crevices and boulders. Trees rose crookedly upwards, devoid of foilage. Jason was forced to dismount his bike, using a tree for support as he got off. To his great surprise, it collapsed into a pile of bark and dust at his touch, sending Jason into an awkward sprawl. Recovering himself, Jason cursed and walked his bike to another tree. He tapped it lightly, and it, too, collapsed. It was completely hollow.

Jason shivered. As he walked, he monologued to the centaur, "Harsh and desolate landscape, weird hollow trees, dark crevasses that make the whole thing even spookier... I feel like I'm walking into some evil villain's lair. And look at that, that weird rock on the wall. It looks like it has three eyes on this weird stalk... it just scuttled off. What was that?" he asked the centaur.

"That was... looker," the centaur fumbled to explain. "It is first of Great One's defense. Looks, tells Great One we coming."

"So there'll be company soon?" Jason asked.

The centaur looked at him blankly.

"The Great One will send someone out to us?" Jason rephrased.

The centaur nodded, and they continued.

Soon Jason saw what he first thought were strange, blue mineral veins along the tops of the crevasses, but soon recognized for what they were: strange, alien plants, like vines with completely flat hexagonal leaves. At first they were thin veins, but as Jason walked, they thickened and multiplied. Jason finally stopped when they were so numerous as to blot out the sun. He lay his bicycle on the wall in the crevasse where he and the centaur stood, lit only by thin slits of light uncovered by vegetation; and this was when the Great One's escorts finally arrived.

Jason noticed two of them first; they were about seven feet tall, a dull brown (so far as he could see them in the darkness), round, and covered with short spikes. They seemed wet. They pulsed toward Jason, moving in a series of contractions and expansions like an ooze - Jason took an involuntary step back. It was only as they came to a stop, one on each side of him (the centaur having retreated further) did Jason notice the third of the Great One's escorts: a man.

The man walked toward Jason, advancing at a slower pace than his companions. In the darkness, Jason could see no more than his outline. In faultless English, he said, "Ah, Jason Jones. You have arrived at last. Come with me, please?"

Jason took a moment to recover his composure. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I am the emissary of the Great One," the man said. "Would you please follow me, please?"

Jason, flanked by the spiked balls, nodded and agreed. They walked a short while longer, then arrived in a large room, walled and floored in rock and roofed in the everpresent blue vines. Tendrils from them ran down to a point at the back of the room, concealed by a giant painting of some abstract symbol. Floodlights were moored to the ceiling and floor, blinding Jason - the man was still no more than an outline, though, glancing sideways, he could see that his ball-escorts were rather more reddish in hue than the brown he'd suspected before.

The man turned and bowed deeply to the painting, then turned to face Jason Jones once more. "I will be speaking on behalf of the Great One today. It is a great honor to have you with us at last, Jason Jeremiah Jones."

Jason's eyes, slowly adjusting, had noted something on the back of the envoy's neck when he turned. If he had to guess, he would say that it was a sort of triangle, or wedge pointing upwards.

He was certain he'd seen that before somewhere - but there was no more time to think. Jason had found the Great One. Now he had to deal with him.

Jason Jones Deals With the Great One

The Great One's envoy, silhouetted against the floodlights' harsh glare, spoke to Jason Jones. "Are you impressed with our creation, here?" He gestured to the stone room around them, roofed in blue vines.

Jason Jones shook his head. "It's... definitely something, but that's not what I came here to talk about."

"Yes?" inquired the envoy.

"Back in my home in Iowa, there were several attacks," said Jason Jones somewhat nervously. The two seven-foot-tall spiked guards to each side of him were somewhat intimidating. "People were killed. I followed the clues I found, and found this part of Manchuria at the end of the trail. And you're at the heart of that. So I have to ask: were you involved in the attacks?"

"The centaurs are their own creatures. We were not involved in their foolishness. But, yes, certain of our creatures were present in the time you describe," the envoy said coolly and tonelessly. "None of them harmed you. By our orders. We did not appreciate their destruction."

"They killed three people and all the centaurs!" Jason shouted. He was swiftly growing enraged by the casual callousness of the Great One's envoy. "Of course I destroyed them!"

"Wasteful," the envoy noted. "Nonetheless, you are here, and so their purpose is fulfilled. It is good that you came. The centaurs are unreliable, and we were loathe to dedicate more of our own creatures to the purpose."

Jason clenched his fists. He tried to control himself, thinking again of the old man's advice, and his own father's. If violence was ever going to get him killed, it would be here, in the heart of the Great One's base. "Why do you want me here?" Jason spat through gritted teeth.

"It is none of your concern. What is important is that you remain here for... say, the next month and a half. After that time, your use to us will pass, and you will be free to go," the envoy explained emotionlessly.

The ground trembled under Jason Jones's feet as he shook in rage. "And if I choose to go now?" he demanded of the envoy.

"That is unacceptable," responded the Great One's mouthpiece. "If you choose to go back, it will become necessary to ensure that there is no more 'back' to go to. That is, should you foolishly try to leave, your town, and any other relatives that you might wish to shelter with, will be eliminated. I hope you see that our demands, by contrast, are hardly unreasonable-"

But Jason saw no such thing. Screaming inarticulately, he charged the envoy, planning to smash past him and attack the Great One himself before his guards could respond. As he took his first step, black vines (tentacles? something else?) exploded out of the ground and entangled Jason's ankles. He was well trained, though; compensating quickly, Jason hit the ground, bounced back up, and used the momentum to accelerate in the opposite direction, breaking the loose hold the tendrils had on him. The guards were moving - one of them had just occupied the space Jason held when he tripped while the other was tensing to spring at Jason - but Jason was running, rebounding off a wall and dodging past the guards. He shot past the envoy, hoping that he'd be unable to move quickly enough to get out of the guards' way (and thus serve as a very temporary shield for Jason), and ran straight into the Great One's painting -

- and something ran straight into him. Jason was knocked through the painting and onto the ground. He was pinned; and, a moment later, he realized that there were several six-inch long spikes penetrating his body. He screamed again, in agony.

Through the red haze of pain and thwarted fury, it was difficult for Jason to see, though thankfully, this area was lit significantly better than the other. He could move his arms, still, though it shot spikes of pain up his nervous system; his left leg; his head. He turned to the right. Wall. He turned to the left. The envoy; impaled on the side of the guard that was impaling Jason. So much for that. And just ahead: Ah, thought Jason. I really didn't expect the Great One to look like that.

Directly ahead of Jason was a large and complex network of what looked like some sort of, for lack of a better term, organic machinery. Large whitish-greyish cylinders and spheres were distributed somewhat haphazardly through the zone, varying in size from that of a grapefruit to the size of a Volkswagen Bug. Curling tubes linked the parts of the 'machine', and vines twirled in from above. The whole array, probably at least a hundred square yards by Jason's estimate (from his rather poor position), gurgled and fizzed constantly. Jason was surprised that he hadn't heard it from the other side of the painting.

Unfortunately, Jason was in no mood to appreciate this. He growled at the Great One's machine, "How am I going to kill you?"

To his vast surprise, the envoy's head (the only part of him Jason could see) twitched as Jason spoke. Impossibly animated, it responded to his comments with its usual, unemotional tone. "In fact, we're in rather better position to kill you. It's a shame that it's not an option. Orders from above. Also, the small matter of a prophecy. 'He shall not be slain by earth or sky, fire or water', I was told, though of course I wasn't there when it was delivered." It seemed to be musing now; a hint of humor had crept into its voice.

Jason, who had been gathering his strength while the Great One rambled, gave a sudden push. The guard barely budged, and pain flared through Jason's body. He subsided and watched as one of the spheres cracked open. Something fell out: a sort of strange little wheeled creature, one eye but no other orifices, holding a dish on its back. It rolled over to Jason and poured the contents of the dish onto him: a transparent slime. Jason struggled, but to no avail; it solidified quickly, trapping him even further. The guard rolled off, and more slime was poured over the wounds. It burned like acid, but Jason thought, Better than bleeding to death.

Something levered him up, and the envoy turned to Jason's new position and said, "Please wait." Then the guard impaling him pulsed over to a vat, which opened at its approach, and shook the envoy into it, shredding its flesh in the process. Jason felt rather sick watching, and turned to look at other parts of the room. It was even larger than he'd guessed; perhaps two or three times his earlier guess. There was sparse movement, ill-defined creatures tugging things and lugging in creatures: birds, rodents... the centaur. Jason swore foully. He'd never thought to wonder where the centaur went after the Great One's envoy arrived - but Jason hadn't seen him since. There was a bright red slash across his neck. Jason turned away again as the creatures pushed Jason's former companion into a vat. For the first time, he wondered: What did the Great One mean by a 'prophecy'?

Then a cylinder split open nearby, and another envoy stepped out. He looked slightly different from the other one: perhaps better-shaped, or with a lighter skin tone. But the mark of the upward-pointing wedge was on his neck, just as with his predecessor. The envoy walked over to where Jason stood propped up by something unseen and looked him over appraisingly. "Right now, you're weak. You're vulnerable. We wonder what would happen if we just dumped you in one of the processing vats?" The envoy sighed. "No doubt there would be a sudden earthquake that collapsed our lair around us; or the acids would dissolve the immobilizing agent before it dissolved you, and you'd tear your way out, crippling us; or the Enemy would launch a last-minute attack and rescue you. Better not to risk it. It's time to go, Mr. Jones."

Without any sign from the envoy, Jason lurched forward, propelled by whatever was lifting him. He rocked up and down as he was pushed, moving past the many vats of the Great One to an exit on the other side of the room. As he passed, cylinders and spheres opened, spilling out strange creatures. A sphere opened to reveal more of the three-eyed stalk creatures, which scurried ahead of Jason. Three cylinders split and spilled out six (seven?) arm/legged creatures, about four feet tall, whose walk resembled a roll. They vanished into an exit and, moments later, appeared again, now brandishing rifles. They moved to surround Jason as two more spheres opened and a flock of blue birds flew out of each. Every one of them was marked with the upward-facing wedge on their heads; but not one of them had red on their wings, Jason noted. They burst through the vines, and were seen no more.

After a very uncomfortable few minutes, Jason saw daylight once more. Creatures swarmed around him; dozens of birds circled overhead, dispersing quickly, while eye-creatures latched onto the flatbed trucks ahead of Jason and Jason himself. He barely felt it through the slime. More of the many-armed creatures, heavily armed, positioned themselves around Jason. The envoy, last to arrive, sat down next to Jason. "We care a great deal about your safety," he quipped with the faintest hint of humor in his cold voice.

The trucks lurched into motion, and Jason spotted a dead bird by the side of the flatbed he rode in. It was blue, with red wing-feathers, and was covered in blood. Probably pecked to death. A small creature picked it up and carried it back toward the Great One's vats; and the trucks rumbled westward, toward the setting sun, toward the mountains.

Jason Jones in the Cold

Jason Jones shivered in the mountain air. He'd been travelling for hours, locked in a carapace of hardened slime. It had been loosening slowly, and Jason had strained against it repeatedly, but it was still too tough. While he waited, he watched the landscape pass. It was a hard land, little settled. Very occasionally, he saw what may have once been homesteads; all had been burned some time ago. It was unsurprising that there were so few. The land was visibly dry and devoid of vegetation; terrible for any sort of agriculture. In the absence of precious minerals, there was no reason for anyone to come here, unless they needed to hide.

Jason's escorts were clearly nervous; glancing about from side to side, and, more often, looking up. When the flatbed rocked (as it often did on the rough terrain), Jason could see up; but all he saw were specks of blue on blue; the bird-scouts of the Great One.

The Great One's emissary showed no inclination to talk to Jason further. He simply sat as the flatbeds traveled across the crevasses of the lowlands, to the rocky hills, and into the snowy peaks. It was at this point that Jason began to shiver. But now Jason saw a stray blue tendril draped across a rock; then two, with tiny hexagonal leaves. Within a minute, the flatbeds rolled to a stop under a rock overhang, brushing through a vertical tangle of vines to enter. Eye-creatures scuttled over to the overhang, presumably to keep watch. Something lifted Jason and began heaving him toward the back of the cave; then another joined the first, and Jason's movement evened out. The envoy joined him. Within moments, they were at what looked like another Great One.

This one was quite different, though. It was smaller - almost puny, if anything a hundred and fifty square feet in size could be called 'puny'. The vines draped down to it, as they had to the other, but they were fewer and thinner. Jason began to wonder how he was going to kill it; then the envoy began to speak. He looked... different, somehow.

"Be made welcome to the home of the Maker, First of the Makers, Master of the Plains-Maker and all his creations," the envoy intoned solemnly. "We must speak."

A small creature scuttled up Jason's immobilized body and poured something on his neck. He felt a sharp burning sensation for a moment. Then the slime-shell fell away. Jason breathed in a gasp of fresh, cool air with relief. Then he began coughing; the air was bitterly cold, and smelled of some unwholesome gas.

The envoy waited patiently for him to finish his fit. Then he asked, "Jason Jones, is there anything you would have of us?"

Jason tried to speak, coughed again instead, and then croaked out, "I'd like some food and water, please."

The envoy seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded slowly. More creatures scuttled up Jason's body, below his line of sight. The first poured fresh, clean snowmelt in his mouth; Jason drank it in relief. The second brought something... disgusting. Jason ate it, and felt it slime its way down.

He was no longer hungry.

"I'd like my freedom," he told the Maker's envoy somewhat hoarsely. "What can I give you for it?"

The envoy shook his head sadly. "You seem like an honest enough boy. Were it nearly anything else, we might trust you. But even were you to promise us your soul for freedom, the stakes are too high. The next thirty days are everything." He paused and looked at Jason. "You... we've seen something of you, how well you kill. You are dangerous. And we do not say this to flatter you. We will explain somewhat to you, instead, in hopes that when this is all over, you will see my position fairly, and perhaps choose to aid us."

Jason thought about the killing. He thought about the bloodlust he'd felt, and the blood on his hands. He said, "All right. Tell me why you need to keep me trapped here, and why you don't just kill me."

"It's a story," the envoy explained. "In short: over thirty years ago, we were brought here from another world. Others came as well: the centaurs came from the same event, as did an oracle. The centaurs left without explanation, seeking new lands to live on, but we stayed and asked the oracle: Why were we brought here? He answered, 'Thirty-three years and sixty-nine days from today, men in a far city will unleash a power of complexity and nature previously unknown. The sabotage of one boy will loose that power to a purpose unwanted; our summoning, thirty-three years and sixty-nine days before. Thus we must wait, until the power is loosed, the circle closed, and we are returned whence we came.'"

"We considered this," the envoy continued, "and decided that we rather preferred this land to our own. Here, there is no competition, and open space, free to take. Opportunity! So we asked the oracle: How can this be prevented? The oracle, bound to truth, told us, 'If the boy, Jason Jeremiah Jones, does not sabotage the experiment, all summoned here will be prevented from ever returning.'"

"Last I asked: What if Jason Jones is killed before then?" the envoy explained without heat. "The oracle told me, 'He cannot be slain by earth or sky, fire or water.' Thus I settled on my present plan: to find you; that accomplished, to keep you safely away from the experiment, until the time has passed."

Jason Jones stared at him. The oracle. This... destiny. This madness! The Maker had killed people half-way around the world, horribly wounded Jason and seemed ready to incarcerate him, all so that he could stay on Earth, instead of returning home. Jason burned with frustration. But he was utterly trapped. He could do nothing but tell the Maker, through chattering teeth, "In a month's time, I will kill you."

"We'll see how you feel then," the envoy told him without spite. Something began to drag Jason away once more; Jason twisted his neck trying to see, but caught only glimpses of yellow in the corner of his eyes. The envoy walked alongside, telling Jason that "you will be well-fed and watered and in no way will you die by our actions." Jason found this odd, considering his words about the prophecy. Then Jason's carriers lurched, and he found himself tumbling into a pit. His face was buried in a pile of what he hoped was frozen meat; any alternative would be worse. The envoy said one last word, but Jason's ears were ringing, and he could not hear. He lay there, in the darkness, with nothing whatsoever to do.

He tried to gnaw off the meat to form a crude weapon. A sharp pain ran up his teeth, and he stopped.

It was very cold.

Jason tried to sleep.

It was cold.

So cold.

Cold.

Cold.








Feeding time came; Jason came awake with a start to find something nasty stuffed down his throat. The water that came after was a relief. He cleared his throat to shout; but no-one answered.

So cold.

Cold.






Then he was awakened again by the sound of shouting. "You! Boy! Get up - oh, I see." The speaker had an odd accent; Jason had heard it before, but he couldn't quite place it. Then he was whirled around. In front of him stood an old man - no, the old man, the one from the Canadian gas station. He was wearing some sort of brightly-coloured armor and armed with what looked rather like a harpoon-gun, and shouted into Jason's face, "Ready to leave?"

Jason was cold, and rather surprised.

End Arc Three.

Jason Jones Westward

Jason Jones was arguing with his father. "I need to do this," he told Mr. Jones. "I'm the only one who can, maybe: there may be a reason that those slicing creatures I told you about didn't attack me, while... while they killed everyone else. If I stay here, they may come again, and things would be even worse."

Mr. Jones looked skeptical as he leaned back in the lounger. "And there's your fear of the police, too."

Jason nodded. "Well, yes, but that's not the main thing. The police may learn... some things I don't really feel comfortable about, but the real threat here is from the centaurs and the slicers and whatever else is out there, attacking people."

Jason's father answered, "I'm not certain if I really believe all this about the centaurs, and the slicers, even though I saw too much of it myself. But... you think they came from China, from one comment the chieftain made, right? China is a pretty big place. Surely you don't think you can search all of it yourself."

Here Jason was on firmer ground. "I've done some searching since I got back. When I look for stories of things like what's been happening around here, everything - well, mostly everything - points toward Manchuria, in northern China. That's still a pretty big area, but I figure that once I get there and start poking around, I can start finding out more about these creatures pretty quickly."

Mr. Jones sighed. "A lot of guesses, isn't that? No, don't answer me." He stood up and walked over to the computer. "After the deaths, and the exposure of the centaurs, there's going to be a lot of people here soon. Media, FBI, CIA, the works. And they're all going to want to know where you are." He beckoned Jason over, and turned around as he approached, scrupulously looking at a blank wall on the other side of the room. A plane-ticket buying site was on screen, with everything filled out for a one-way flight to Manchuria and ready for purchase. Jason clicked the 'buy' button and printed it. His father continued, "I didn't buy you a plane ticket, or see you get one." A wallet full of cash lay on the desk next to the computer; Jason picked it up. "I didn't give you any money, or see you get any." Jason's father turned around and gave him his cell phone, which he'd entirely forgotten about. "I called a cab to the airport, but I don't remember why. And I seem to have forgotten your cell number, funnily enough. Keep it charged, would you?"

Jason was overwhelmed. "Thanks, Dad," he said with true gratitude in his voice. They walked toward the door together.

Mr. Jones looked at Jason, seeming to appraise him for some virtue or flaw of character. With no clear verdict visible on his face, he said "I have a few last things to say to you. The others... I didn't really tell them about this. They may call you. You'll have to decide what you want to tell them." He paused a moment, organizing his thoughts. "You do realize that when your mother suggested that we send you to Manchuria, it was a joke, right?" Jason nodded, but his father didn't seem to expect an answer. "And... I know I may have given your some... bad examples in the past, but violence doesn't solve everything. It... sometimes it hurts more than it helps. I..." Not a man of great eloquence by nature, he seemed to have run out of words.

Jason, on the front porch, hugged him and said, "Maybe." Then he got in the waiting cab as his father turned his face away. The driver accelerated, and Jason Jones's home receded into the horizon.

-

Hours later, as the plane readied for takeoff, a large blue parrot landed on the wing of the jet, right next to Jason's window. He looked at it. Quietly, he told it, "Hello there, little bird. You're a long way from home - but then I think you've been away for a while, haven't you?" The bird seemed to nod. On its head, Jason saw a thin wedge of red feathers, pointing upwards. Jason looked at it for several seconds more, trying to see anything else odd - but then it seemed to have enough as the jet started its engines and took wing. For a moment, it was tossed about in the backwash of the engine; then it recovered and soared upwards, flying to the west. Jason watched it until it vanished into the blue.

End Arc Two.

Jason Jones in the Centaur Herd

The sheriff, the deputy, the martial-arts instructor and Jason Jones, fourteen-year-old boy, sat down with the centaur chieftain, Killforth "the Magnificent". The sheriff, as was his right, began the discussion. "Three centaurs attacked our town without apparent provocation. Do you know why they might have done that?"

The chieftain nodded solemnly. "Those were... reckless, young men. They wanted to go on a blood-hunt, to prove their manhood. It is a foolish custom, from the old country. We do not practice it, in these days. I told them that they should not do this thing; but their blood was high, and they would not heed me." Jason's instructor looked at him significantly; Jason ignored him.
Continuing, the chieftain asked with a sudden note of hope in his voice: "I don't suppose that you captured and - jailed them? It's better that they're jailed than roamin' the countryside or..."

His voice trailed off as the sheriff shook his head. "I'm very sorry. They're dead, all three of them."

Killforth sighed, then looked again to the sheriff. "In any case, you can see that we have nothing to do with their actions."

Again the sheriff shook his head. "We'll see. You'll understand that I'm reluctant to just take your word on something like this. I'm going to have to ask you a few questions about taxes, trespassing, that sort of thing. But first, tell me: where did you come from? You understand that I've never seen anyone... quite like you before."

The centaur chieftain considered how to phrase his answer for a full minute. Jason fidgeted; a bird circled high overhead. Finally, Killforth began: "We lived in the far east - I believe you call it China? - for over two-hundred and fifty moon's turnings. Ten years ago, the land became too heavily populated for us, too polluted. We had less food by the month. So we left. We traveled by cargo ship westward, to the port of Baton Rouge. From there, we slipped into the countryside - there were fewer of us then - and lived off the fat of the land. This is a vast country of yours! There is so much space, so much room. We learned English from hermits and misanthropes and hunters. Perhaps some of them spoke of us. Certainly the gov'ment never heard, or never believed." Jason heard a buzzing in his ears, as of mosquitoes. He looked around, but saw nothing.

After absorbing this, Sheriff Brown asked, "You lived in the far east for... however long. Where did you live before that?"

Killforth the Magnificent again began his lengthly consideration. It was interrupted by a scream. The entire party looked up, and saw a commotion at one end of the herd. Another scream rang out, lower-pitched than that which would issue from a human throat, and the centaurs began to scatter. Jason Jones got to his feet with the rest, and finally saw the cause of the panic. Half a centaur stood upright in the center of a patch of headless corn, dripping blood unpleasantly. As Jason watched, horrified, it slowly toppled over. And then it struck him - the patch was growing. Heads were toppling from corn seemingly without cause, all at the same height. The patch - or whatever was trimming it - caught up to a centaur and sliced through him (no - her) just as easily as it had the corn.

Jason Jones, trying to avert his eyes from the gore, looked around him. Killforth the Magnificent, victor of a hundred combats, master of a thousand warriors, was on his knees, seemingly praying. He mumbled, "Ignicis Alvars, Ignicis Alvars, the terror, the day-killer... why is it here? How are there so many of them?" Jason Jones looked away - and realized that there was more than one of the creatures.

The centaurs fled, moving incredibly fast, blasting themselves forward with their leg-wings. It did them no good. They all died, caught from front or rear and... sliced. The sheriff, terrified as anyone, nonetheless went to the car to fetch his shotgun. He asked Killforth, "Can you kill these things?"

Killforth, barely able form coherent sentences, nonetheless responded, "Yes, yes, hit them with a stone, an arrow, a bullet, they will fall - but so many of them. So many. Why here? Why here?" Jason Jones went to the car, hoping to make himself useful either by getting out of the line of fire or finding another handgun.

Sheriff Brown took aim and fired at the nearest slicer-creature. Corn was shredded, and the slicing stopped. Deputy Smith and Mr. Worthy (Jason's instructor) cheered from where they stood near Killforth, still trembling. Brown aimed again and fired on another creature. Again, he hit. He stopped to reload as Jason continued searching the car for a gun. He'd checked the glove compartment and was finishing with the seats.

Jason turned, having given up on his search, to see a trail of chopped corn heads rapidly approaching Sheriff Brown from behind. Panicking, he shouted, "Sheriff! Behind you!"

Sheriff Brown turned, raising his shotgun in preparation for firing. The creature caught him in the chest and sliced him in two. Killforth the Magnificent, Deputy Smith and Mr. Worthy shortly suffered the same fate.

Jason stood, all alone, in a shrinking circle of shorn corn.

Jason Jones About Town

"Jason Jeremiah Jones, I am going to give you a whipping like you won't believe!" Jason leaned back under the onslaught of abuse as his mother continued, berating him for faults real and percieved. "Clod! Daredevil! Fool! First you disrespect your poor, hardworking mother, then you sully her good name with reckless adventures?"

Jason would take her less seriously if she was not bearing down on him with a knife. As it was, he presented no defense and backed slowly away. When she lunged, he ducked and ran for it. Mr. Jones, emerging from the kitchen, winked at fleeing Jason. A hallway away, Jason heard his father say, "Now, Ethel, were are you going? I do believe it's your turn to do the dishes..."

Saved for a time, Jason took a moment to catch his breath. His leg hurt, but he could ignore it. Limping slightly, Jason walked to his room.

It had been looted. Everything remotely valuable, all his prized collectables and posters and even his bedspread - gone. Junk was scattered across the floor.

Jason was aghast. Then, as he realized who had done this, he was furious. He turned and walked across the hallway. His sister turned as he entered. "Hey! You're supposed to knock!"

Jason stared at her.

"What? You are! You know that!"

Jason stared more pointedly at her.

"...is it about the stuff? Mom said you were gone forever, and no-one seemed to mind..."

After a moment more, she began to halfheartedly move Jason's belongings back to his room. Jason stayed with her for a while, helping with some things that he thought she was too small or too careless to move, and then headed outside. He had some friends to visit.

On the way to the front door, Mr. Green greeted him. "You're back. I'm glad - really I am. I was very worried about you."

Jason looked down, feeling awkward. He tried to find a path around his father-in-law. Mr. Green moved to block him.

"Look, I just wanted to say... I know I'm not your biological father, but I do what I can. And I really do think of you as my son, in the ways that count. Once I heard what your mother had done, I wasn't happy. I did what I could. You can talk to me."

Jason fled.

-

The first friend he tried to visit wasn't home. His mother answered the door. "Oh, Jason! Fred's out at Richie's place. There's a party or a get-together or something - Fred told me about two minutes before he was out the door, so I'm not really sure."

Jason found that she was quite right, ten minutes later. Most of the people there were known to Jason, from school or elsewhere, though he didn't know some of the girls. He hung out with them, telling tall tales of his absence (as opposed to the real, bloody, illegal ones) and drinking large amounts of soda. Then Fred walked up to him. "Yo, Jase!" They high-fived, and Fred continued: "Jase, you still taking martial arts?"

Jason nodded. "Yes..."

Fred looked at his watch. "Well, I hate to take you from the party, but the lesson starts in five minutes."

-

Twenty-five minutes later, Jason faced his third sparring partner of the day. Sensei moved through the room, correcting stance and techinque, but he'd been especially harsh on Jason. Just now, for instance, he shouted at Jason, "Mr. Jones! Left knee! Too low!" Despite the pain it caused his thigh, Jason pulled his knee up. He knew his opponent - pretty good, but not as good as Jason. If he thought Jason's wound was going to slow him down, he had another thought coming. Jason readied himself for the sensei's signal.

He spun about as the front doors crashed open. Through them, he could see what looked phenomenally like a centaur holding a very large spear.

Jason decided to postpone the bout for the moment.

Jason Jones against the Centaurs

The centaurs charged into the dojo. They had the heads of men and the torsoes of horses, and, to complement it, the lower bodies of... something that Jason couldn't really identify. Each of them held in their half-equine arms a weapon; a spear, an axe, and a shorter spear with curving spikes. Jason and the others of his class that he could see stood poised, ready to fight or talk. Jason held himself back by an act of will. He reminded himself of the old man's warning; if fighting at the wrong time were ever to cause his death, it would be in attacking foes as dangerous as the centaurs appeared.

Then strange scooping wings unfurled from the centaurs and shot them forward and one impaled Tina and Jason Jones charged the centaurs with a toothy grin.

Jason observed, as he closed on the closest centaur, that the centaurs did not share the weak points which he was accustomed to in his, hitherto human, opponents. Seeking to exploit similarities, Jason ducked under the centaur's spear as it jabbed towards him and bounced up with a fist aimed for the centaur's face. It recoiled with a shout of pain as Jason broke its nose, covering his arm with slightly oily red blood. The attack was designed to do psychological, not physical, damage; and while this succeeded, the centaur was not deterred in its attack, and Jason was forced to retreat in an undignified manner as the spear came down for another blow.

Taking a breath, Jason looked at what the rest of his class was doing. About half of the class was staying away from the fighting; worthless. Some were attacking, but Fred was bleeding in several places, and another boy, who Jason didn't recall the name of, was down on the floor; still breathing, but not fighting. The instructor was fighting well, but the centaur he was fighting seemed to be holding its own. Then Jason jumped to the side as the centaur he'd punched resumed the attack and there was no more time to watch the others.

Jason ducked and dodged as the centaur with the long spear harried him, watching its movements, repressing his bloodlust. Then he saw an opening, and with a shout he again smashed his fist against the centaur's nose; and this time, as the centaur reeled in pain, he grabbed its hands, broke them, and wrested its weapon away from it. It looked at its hands, shocked, and Jason turned the spear around and thrust it into the centaur's belly.

There was surprisingly little resistance.

The centaur fell limply to the ground, and Jason yanked the gory spear loose; not without the least bit of revulsion. His bloodlust overpowered it, though; and as he turned to see the other centaurs charging him (perhaps furious at the death of their comrade, or fearing the only armed opponent in the room), Jason felt a perfect joy.

It didn't outlast his noticing the other spear-centaur dropping its weapon in favour of a rifle drawn from its back. As Jason's mind yammered why didn't it use it from the first? he thought and acted and charged, running as fast as he could toward the centaur who was even now aiming the rifle. The axe-wielding centaur, bloodied from its fight with the other students, unfurled its wings and with one beat flew directly onto Jason. Its axe, swung with deadly force, flew wide as the centaur's grip loosened. Jason's spear had punched all the way through its body. The rifle-wielder held its fire until too late; the instructor knocked its rifle away even as the centaur's fingers closed on the trigger. Fred and the other three students surrounded it.

The fight was over.

Jason took the axe, lifted it up, ran towards the centaur and buried it deep within the centaur's breast. The students gave way as it fell. "It killed Tina," Jason explained.

He heard no objections as he walked outside. Looking around, he could see no more enemies, though other people were coming to investigate the fight and the gunshot. Jason looked into the bright blue sky. A bright blue bird circled slowly overhead.

Jason Jones turned to go back inside, to wash the blood from his hands.

Jason Jones on the Hunt

Jason Jones sat in front of the television set, watching sports. Mr. Green sat next to him, occasionally casting worried glances Jason's way. When Jason got home, covered in blood, Mr. Green had made it very clear that he wasn't pleased with the danger Jason had put himself in. Jason didn't see what choice he had; and his mother had expressed no such qualms, so he was content.

Then came a knock at the door. Mr. Green got up to open it. Before him stood the county sheriff. "We'd like to talk to your son," he said.

Jason panicked - but, as he learned over the next five minutes, the long arm of the law had not yet reached out its hand for Jason. Rather, the police were there to talk to him about the centaurs he had so brutally slain yesterday. The police had found their tracks at the edge of town, and before finding out where they came from, they wanted to have the experience of someone who'd fought the centaurs. That meant bringing Jason's instructor; who, for whatever reason, had suggested that they bring Jason.

Jason picked up a few things before he went with them; the cell phone his father had gotten him after his return, a pocket-knife, $50 and a flashlight. He didn't know how long this hunt would take.

They took the sheriff's car - sheriff and deputy in front, Jason and his instructor in back. Jason asked his instructor why he asked Jason to come. "It will be a learning experience for you," the instructor replied.

Jason asked, "Really?"

The instructor thought about it, then answered: "If there's not a fight, then you'll be fine. If there is... you're the nastiest fighter I've seen. If there are more of those centaurs, I think that you could either kill them, or force them to talk."

Jason smiled.

-

After two hours of driving through fields, a herd of centaurs appeared on the horizon, traveling east. The sheriff stopped the car and gestured everyone out. Minutes later, a small group of centaurs broke off from the herd and jogged toward the car. They loomed over the sheriff, who seemed intimidated; seeing one dead on the floor was not quite the same as seeing one in the flesh. Nonetheless, he gathered himself and told the centaurs, "We want to see your leader."

One of the centaurs, armed with a rifle and pistol, strange gray leg-wings half-spread, seven feet tall, looked the sheriff up and down several times. He hefted his weapons. Then he said, "All right," in a thick Southern accent.

The leader of the centaurs was large and grizzle-maned, with a beard that fell down past his breast. He carried no weapon. His expression was contemptuous as he examined the small human party. "I do not care what you weaklin' humans have to say," he intoned before the sheriff could say a word. "If you want to speak to me, you will have to defeat my champion: Threshnar the Invincible." Beside him stood a nine-foot tall centaur, monstrously muscled and armed with an axe the size of Jason. He hefted it as his chieftain spoke, then roared dramatically to punctuate his point.

Jason stepped forward eagerly, cracking his knuckles loudly. He faced off with Threshnar; then he stopped as a shotgun blast rang out. The sheriff stepped forward, confronting the chieftan. "I don't know what games you're trying to play, but I am a duly appointed representative of the law in the United States of America, and you are attempted to obstruct a criminal investigation. You will stop this posturing right now because I don't give a damn what you are, if you interfere with a homicide investigation I will have you up on charges faster than you can blink. Do you hear me?"

The centaur chieftain stared at the sheriff. The sheriff stared right back. The centaur chieftain blinked first. With a sigh, he waved Threshnar back, and Jason Jones regretfully lowered his knuckles. Leaning forward, the chieftain asked, "Before we begin, what's your name?"

The sheriff responded, "I'm Sheriff Al Brown. This is my deputy, Mr. Hiram Smith, and two witnesses, Mr. Worthy and Mr. Jones. And you are...?"

The centaur chieftain lowered himself slowly to the ground. "All right then, y'all. I am known as Killforth the Magnificent, victor of a hundred combats, master of a thousand warriors."

"Let's talk."

Jason Jones and the Frigid North

Jason Jones braked sharply as a flock of ducks shot over a rise, completely blocking his vision. After surviving his drive through the streets of Quebec City, having only dinged two parked cars and a mailbox, he'd gotten about two hours of driving on the route south, counting a half-hour's break in a parking lot. (He was a little stressed.) As he braked for the ducks, the car went into a skid, throwing itself off the side of the road and into an elm. Jason survived, securely seat-belted and airbag-cushioned, with only a few bruises. The car's engine block took it rather worse.

Jason pushed the passenger-side door open and clambered up, jumping out of the tilted, ruined, smoking car. Looking it over, he thought to himself, I would have had to get rid of it soon anyway - that cop probably got the license - but this isn't really the method I would have preferred. Shrugging, he threw the car keys on top of it and stepped back to scan the skyline. I could hitch a ride if I have to, but... Ah! That looks like a barn, just barely visible. Hopefully I can find better transportation there.

-

A half-hour's walk and a quick climb later, Jason Jones crouched in the raft of the old barn, trying to be a stealthy as he could manage. (It wasn't really something he'd practiced.) Moments later, five men and two women walked into the barn, foretold by their heavy footsteps. Their idle chit-chat stopped as a man with a trenchcoat called them to order: "Arrêt. Il est temps de commencer." They gathered in a rough circle, with the man in the trenchcoat standing somewhat outside the circle, towards Jason; probably the leader of the group, Jason surmised. He'd entered the barn looking for transportation, but had heard the group's approach as he looked around, giving him just enough time to climb to his current hiding place.

"Cette réunion de front de libération du Québec viendra pour passer commande. Est-ce que les pistolets sont en place?" Jason, though unable to follow most of the sentence, noticed two key things: de front de libération du Québec, which sounded like a terrorist group, and the word pistolets. His suspicions on the latter were confirmed when one of the women went over to the far corner of the barn and, after rustling about in several burlap sacks, produced an armful of semiautomatic weapons. "Oui, ils sont ici," she said to the group.

At the sight of the guns, though, Jason started - not enough to fall off the barn loft, but enough to knock a clod of dirt falling, falling, falling directly onto the leader's head.

The leader turned. "Y a-t-il quelqu'un là? Is someone there?" Behind him, the other of the women laughed. "Vous êtes paranoïde. Il n'y a personne là." Jason held stock still as the leader cursed at the woman and then, as he began to climb the ladder, Jason crept slowly back. Carefully he posed, adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins; then, as the trenchcoat-wearing man reached the top and began to exclaim in surprise, Jason lashed out with a foot and kicked him off the ladder. Moments later, there was an unpleasant crack, as he hit the ground from rather too high, rather too fast.

The group below immediately began shouting at each-other rapidly; impossible to follow what they were saying. Jason crept to the back of the barn and looked out the window; it was a high fall, but there were some rather old-looking hay bales lined up along the wall. Jason took a breath and shoved himself out the window; the sound of his fall was drowned out by bursts of gunfire, shredding the loft that Jason had just left.

Footsteps could be heard from within, moving in all directions. When another man came out, Jason had barely enough time to react, swinging two quick blows in. The first hit; the man grabbed Jason's wrist before the second could connect and shouted "Ici!" Jason looked at him for a tense moment, then kneed him in the crotch, head-butted him, and pressed a nerve in his right arm in quick succession. Jason's opponent crumpled to the ground, and Jason joined him a moment later as more gunfire ripped out from the barn, cutting through the rear barn wall at torso-height. Jason rolled to one end of the barn and got to his feet as one of the women rounded the corner. Jason tried a quick kick, pulling it back as she reached out and swinging a right hook which she neatly deflected with a side-step and interposed arm. Jason took a moment to catch his breath, watching his opponent warily; when the second woman hit him from behind, knocking him to the ground with a heavy tackle, he barely retained the presence of mind to roll with the blow, throwing his assailant into the first woman. They both went down in a heap, and as Jason's first opponent attempted to rise, Jason stepped on her hand, pressed, and twisted. Jason had never felt more alive then he did in the heart of combat.

The two women stopped moving; Jason thought that they probably could, but didn't like their chances while he was still standing. Jason bent down to grab the women's guns; an act which most likely saved his life, as the bullets from the two gunmen behind him wounded his shoulder, not his vitals. Accelerated by the bullet, Jason fell backwards behind the barn wall, snagging one of the women's guns as he did so. Aiming carefully with the unfamiliar weapon, (Jason having never used a firearm before) he fired through the thin barn wall to where he expected the gunmen would be. The recoil startled him, and he fired no more than a short burst; but, to his surprise, heard no response.

Looking at the women he'd thrown down (who were staying carefully still), Jason peeked quickly around the corner; and found the two gunmen lying on the ground, shot in the legs and raising their hands in surrender. The fight had gone out of the group. Jason had defeated an entire terrorist cell. He was exultant; victory pumped through his veins. Then a sudden worry cooled his ardor: he'd defeated six of the Québécois. Where was the seventh?

Jason collected weapons from each of his fallen foes, then walked into the barn, blinking as his eyes readjusted to the dimness. Once he'd gotten his sight back, he saw the remains of the trench-coat wearing leader; and another, the last of the terrorists, apparently fallen beneath the ladder. When the terrorists had searched for him after Jason dove out the loft window, this man had climbed the ladder to see if he was still in the loft; and the ladder had broken away under his weight, pinning him to the ground.

Jason's triumph returned in full measure. He sauntered over to the corner, put most of his weapons into the burlap sack which had held them before (surprisingly heavy - there was something else inside), and wandered in the direction from which the terrorists came. Several cars were parked in a close area; one of them still had the keys in the ignition. Jason flung the sack in the back and shot off, driving a car stolen from terrorists (while, it should be noted, he still hardly knew how to drive) with a sack of illegal weapons and far too much confidence. Jason had just killed a man, and he'd never been happier.

Jason Jones in: Borderline

Jason Jones was feeling comfortably full as he drove south towards the border in the evening twilight. He'd just stopped at a cheap diner, and was now was feeling sleepy and satiated as he neared the border. He'd seen signs for hotels ahead, so he planned to check into one for the night, and deal with his lack of a passport (and cargo of illegal arms) in the morning.

So when his tires popped with a series of sharp cracks and sent Jason skidding across a lane of traffic and off the road entirely, Jason was caught entirely by surprise. As Jason hurriedly unstrapped himself and made to exit (two crashes in one day! he lamented to himself), a flash in the night darkness unleashed another set of cracks on the car's door and engine. Jason cursed, realizing that he was under attack, and dove out the passenger-side door. He'd made it no more than thirty feet before an unfriendly face greeted him. The man, head covered in a black ski mask, held an pistol in his hands, leveled directly at Jason Jones.

Jason Jones jumped towards the terrorist, who sidestepped while firing three shots; one of which hit Jason squarely in the side. Jason lay on the ground, momentarily incapacitated by the pain of the landing and the gunshot wound. The terrorist stood over him and seemed about to fire when a thought came on him; quickly, he asked, "Où sont les pistolets?"

Jason looked at him; terrified by the thought of his imminent death, but still retaining enough control to ask calmly, "What?"

The terrorist repeated, "Where are the guns?"

Then the van, hit by a stray shot and slowly smoldering for the entire conversation, burst into flame; shortly followed by a second, much larger explosion, as the weapons (and explosives) in the back of the car ignited. The terrorist was knocked down by the pressure and heat of the blast; Jason, already prone, took the opportunity, wresting the pistol from the man's hands and turning it on him.

Then he remembered the old man's warning. The terrorist, now unarmed, showed no willingness to continue the fight; especially with the arms destroyed and police doubtless inbound. Jason backed away slowly, training the gun on the terrorist, then whirled and ran for the border once he'd reached a safe distance. Behind him, the terrorist ran in the opposite direction. Sirens wailed in the distance. Jason was hard up for breath, with a bullet (wound) in his side.

At least now he didn't have to worry about how he'd smuggle all those guns.

Jason Jones Versus China

Jason Jones landed in Manchuria around 2:00 AM, local time; still alert and energetic from the sleep he'd gotten on the flight. The airport was, to his eyes, cramped and dirty - he knew that the one he'd set out from back in Iowa was hardly a paragon of the form, but it was angelic in comparison. The halls were perpetually crowded. Twice Jason's small satchel, holding money, travel books, cell phone, and a half-empty bottle of water - all his possessions on this side of the Pacific - was nearly stolen before he even got to the street. Only constant vigilance prevented the thieves' sharp tugs from wrenching the bag from Jason's grasp.

Jason entered China proper in a fit of coughing. The air was nearly visible that day; everything looked a little gray. (Though that might just be the natural state of the rarely-cleaned buildings.) Vendors filled the street, haggling with pedestrians on every side. Both vendor and pedestrian were cursed by the many bicyclists moving slowly through the press, and all were slandered (from what Jason could tell from the tone of their voices) by the taxi-drivers jerking spasmodically through the crowds.

Jason was utterly overwhelmed. He walked through the crowds for half an hour before the press began to lift. Sitting in an unoccupied doorway, he consulted his travel books and English-Chinese phrasebook (all dog-eared heavily), then walked another ten minutes to find a taxi. "多少美元前往空文?", he slowly said to the driver - mangling it in the process, Jason knew. (How many dollars to Kongwen?")

The taxi driver held up three fingers. "三！", he said. Jason carefully reached into his satchel and peeled off three ones without revealing the size of his tiny hoard. He handed them to the driver, who beckoned him impatiently to get in. "走！" he yelled impatiently. Jason opened the passenger side door and sat down.

Even before the door closed, the driver leaned on the accelerator, nearly hitting a woman laden with plastic bags. The taxi was small and dirty and smelled of cigarette smoke. There was no meter. The driver seemed to cheat death at least once every five seconds; careening around corners, shooting through incoming traffic. Jason Jones found it easier, helpless as he was, to close his eyes; and then, as the driver finally escaped the city's bounds and began simply speeding along the long road to Kongwen, Jason fell asleep.

He woke with a start, as a sharp crack echoed in his ears. His first thought was that the driver had somehow managed to pop a tire - hardly shocking, considering the way he'd been driving. As Jason lifted himself from sleep, his second thought was that the crack had been a rifle shot.

His second thought was right. But it was the least of his problems, he quickly realized as the cab came to a halt. Three 'centaurs' surrounded the cab; all looking much the same as the ones he'd seen in Iowa, perhaps a little shorter in the black, wing-sheathed legs, perhaps a little thinner in their equine midriff, but much the same in their human heads and hands. The main differences he noticed were the fluent Chinese one of them spouted at the taxi driver, handing him a bill of some denomination, and the automatic rifles held in the others' hands. As they manhandled Jason out of the taxi and the driver shot away at, if anything, an even higher speed, the centaur doing the talking pulled another rifle off his own back. As the centaurs began to push Jason along, one keeping a safe distance while another jabbed Jason in the back, the third asked Jason "You. You know who are?"

Jason was still somewhat dazed; his rude awakening had left him poorly prepared for centaur ambush. He'd expected to have to hunt down the centaurs; not have them find him! So he did nothing more than shake his head in response to the unexpected question.

The centaur continued in broken, heavily accented English. "You marked. Everyone want you. The Great One (Jason couldn't tell whether there was sarcasm or awe in his voice) want you. The Enemy want you. They offer dollar. Much dollar for you."

Jason cleared his voice as the centaur paused momentarily. "I'm a little surprised. I didn't know that I was so valuable."

The centaur leader responded, "You very value. We poor. Few dollar. Maybe he want you dead. Maybe tor-ture. Maybe tea! We don't care."

Jason was finally waking up now. He had multiple automatic rifles pointed at him; but he didn't care. He was getting angry. He hardly listened as the leader continued, "We not bad. If we not poor, maybe you free. We not tool. A little dollar, and we - forget - you here. OK?" he asked, gesturing with his gun for emphasis.

Jason was already moving. Blood pounded in his ears as he twisted, knocking the barrel behind him upwards as he simultaneously elbowed the centaur in what he hoped would be the solar plexus. A loud whoomph of outrushing breath informed him that he was right, and Jason grabbed the gun as he fell to the ground. A deafening crack meant that someone had fired, but Jason felt no pain. He rolled, bringing his stolen gun up to smash the rearmost centaur in the knees. He couldn't see what the other centaurs were doing, and his blow seemed to have little effect, so he rolled to his feet behind the centaur (who turned too slowly to keep up) and shot him with a three-round burst to the back.

Blood sprayed. Jason grabbed the corpse for a moment, propping it up to serve as cover while he came to his feet. The leader had finally sighted his gun, firing on automatic, but Jason was unharmed for precious seconds. He steadied his own gun and fired, knocking the leader back with a shot to the torso, then turned to fire on the centaur he'd incapacitated with the sternum-targeted elbow.

He was already yards away, and moving incredibly quickly, propelled by his black leg-wings. Jason cursed as foully as he could (for an Iowa farmboy) and fired several shots in his general direction. He missed. Repeatedly. He cursed again and turned to the leader.

The leader was bleeding his life out onto the dirt. He'd somehow found the strength to prop his gun on his chest, but he couldn't quite aim it at Jason. As Jason approached, kicking the corpse out of the way, the leader gasped out, "How you... killer? Just boy! Three! We not killing you! Just talk! Just dollar!"

Jason waited patiently until the leader finished, and then shot him in the head. He felt a fierce thrill of exhilaration at the murder. His bloodlust raged within him; then, seeing the lack of further enemies, subsided.

Jason began the walk back to the road; there to consider his options further. There was centaur blood on his hands again; perhaps for the third time. He wondered for the first time if this was a bad thing.

Jason Jones Samples Cuisine

Jason Jones gave a sigh of relief as he entered Kongwen - by his guidebooks' report, the center of supernatural activity in Manchuria. He had gotten really, really sick of walking over the last few days. He walked a little distance further, looking around, but not forgetting to hold his shoulder bag carefully, though theft seemed less common in this smaller city. After a minute of travel past shouting hurrying pedestrians and street vendors - one of the latter shoving what looked like an adult magazine in his face. Somewhat discomfited, Jason looked elsewhere, a moment later seeing what he'd been looking for - a bicycle vendor!

Jason pulled out his phrase dictionary as he walked over to the vendor. "多少价是否成本?" he stuttered out, pointing at a bike that looked around his size. (How much for that?) The vendor smiled broadly, pointing to a sign next to him. In thick block type, it reads "150元 20$". Jason put the dictionary away and paid up, receiving a bright yellow bicycle for his money. He walked it through the thicker crowds, buying potstickers on the way (he was hungry!), and then began bicycling back to where he'd seen the centaurs.

When he'd gotten near the site of the fight, he stopped to eat his potstickers. Fortune did not favor him. The wind turned just as he was about to take a bite, and a wave of foul-smelling industrial odors from the north filled Jason's nose. In surprise and revulsion, he dropped his potsticker on the ground. "Dang you, ammonia!" he shouted to the unheeding sky, and biked onward.

He learned that it's harder to track centaurs than he'd realized - and harder if you're bicycling on a Chinese forgery while you're trying to do so.

Twilight had fell by the time Jason reached his destination. The centaur he was following seemed to have realized that Jason, or someone else, might follow him. Jason came very close to falling off a small cliff that the centaur had circled around for seemingly just that purpose, and several times had to hunt around near rocky ground (that didn't hold tracks) before he could continue following the trail. But the potstickers that he managed to eat kept his mood up (they were delicious! - though he wasn't quite certain what meat was in them), and he arrived at the centaur campfire in a good mood.

Four centaurs squatted around the campfire, roasting some sort of meat. Two were - definitely female - the other two were male. All of them looked up as Jason approached, then looked down again. "Go away," one said in a thick accent.

This was not what Jason had anticipated. He'd expected a fight, or at least anger - not this apathy. He said, "I want to find the monsters."

This provoked a reaction. The centaur who'd spoken before - who, Jason suspected, was the one who fled him after the first fight - laughed sharply. "You want find - monsters? You kill Zhang. You kill Won. Now we starve." Staring unbelievingly at Jason, the centaur said, "They take you to monsters!"

Jason looked around the campfire with new eyes. The centaurs were dreadfully thin in comparison to the ones he'd seen in America, and the meat they were cooking was pitifully small if it was to be split between them. A twinge of remorse wakened in his heart, but he pushed it aside. The centaur who had spoken was jabbering to the others in fast-paced Chinese, and in the moment of inattention, Jason looked to the sky. A speck of blue moved slowly across the white clouds. He laughed - bringing the centaurs angry gazes back to him. Jason gulped. He needed a plan.

Thinking quickly, he opened his satchel bag and took out his remaining potstickers, wrapped in a waxed paper bag. "You get this, and - some dollars - if you lead me to the monsters. Not prisoner. Not captive. OK?"

The talking centaur raised himself wearily to his feet. "OK. You give us food now," he dictated.

Jason hesitated, then handed over the bag. Each centaur took a potsticker, gulping it down greedily. One of them ripped a chunk off the roasting meat, handing it to Jason. "You guest now. No kill. Eat."

Jason looked at the meat with a great deal of uncertainty. Then, slowly, he bit down and ripped off a chunk.

It could have been worse.

-

Jason Jones slept uneasily that night. The ground was rough beneath him. The chill of the night was unfamiliar to him. And he worried that the centaurs would betray him after all, and take him bound to their "Great One."

The next day, he set out with his centaur guide, riding his bright yellow bicycle. He was off to find the monsters.

Jason Jones in Quebec City

Two punks walked toward Jason, smirking at the sight of the lone, 14-year-old American. The older of them, wearing a red beret, shouted "Ton argent ou ta vie!" From the tone of it, probably "Your money or your life", Jason guessed. Both of them carried knives openly. Jason glanced over his shoulder; sure enough, there was another thug waiting behind him, blocking off the other end of this dark little alley. Jason tried the door next to him; locked, as he expected. Then he grinned. This would be his first chance for a real fight.

Jason grabbed a metal pole lying on the side of the alley, in a pile of debris likely left by the owners of the locked door, and charged the lone punk. Startled, the punk drew a shiv, and Jason could hear shouts behind him as the other two ran after Jason; he paid them no heed. Swinging the pole up in front of him, Jason threw it into the punk's stomach; then, as he doubled over, Jason closed the remaining distance, kicked him in the crotch, and gave him an open-handed punch to the face.

The punk fell over.

Jason might have taken a few more moments to make sure that he stayed down, but he could hear the other two closing behind him. As he turned to face them, Jason scooped the metal pole up with one foot, throwing it up into his hand, just as the older of the two angrily shouted "Tu as blessé Javier!" as he attacked. The younger one swung his shiv at Jason's stomach as the older charged straight for Jason's head. Jason jumped backward, simultaneously swinging his pole about in a crushing arc. The older punk's shoulder emitted a horrible crunching noise as the pole crashed into it, and he fell back as the younger one stepped forward and grabbed Jason's pole.

Jason looked at him in consternation, then released the pole and stepped back again, in time to avoid anything worse than a graze from the younger punk's second slash. As Jason's opponent stepped forward and drew his knife back for a third slash, Jason brought his leg up in a snap kick, crushing the teenager's kneecap. The younger punk collapsed onto the ground as his companion got up from where he'd fallen after Jason crushed his soldier, now only trying to escape. Jason grabbed the pole from the young punk's hand and smashed it down, knocking the fleeing thug to the ground.

Jason laughed as the last of his opponents fell before him. His first fight, won so very thoroughly! He was flushed with adrenaline; like a very God! "Anyone else wanna try me?" he inquired. No-one answered.

Just to be careful, Jason gathered up all three knives and threw them behind himself, disarming his fallen assailants. Then he started searching their clothes. He found two wallets, containing between them $145 (Canadian) and a set of car keys. Jason looked at the keys in surprise, then walked to the end of the alley from which the punks had come. There, he saw a Toyota Corolla, parked by the curb. Jason tried the keys. They worked. "Didn't think they'd own a car," he mused to himself.

Jason strapped himself in and turned the ignition. He looked at the wheel. He was only fourteen, and didn't technically know how to drive a car... but hey, it looked simple enough. From over the noise of the engine, Jason heard someone shouting "Vous! Arrêt!" Looking to his left, he saw a cop, shouting at him from the alley. "You! Stop!"

Jason gunned the engine, and sped off, nearly hitting two parked cars and one that swerved to miss him. "Homeward bound!" he exclaimed to the car. Then he set about learning to drive.

Jason Jones in: A Gas Station

Jason Jones pulled off the road with a sigh of relief. He'd been driving for hours, and whoever owned the van he'd stolen hadn't filled up in a while. Pulling into gas station, Jason swiped the credit card he'd stolen from the Quebec punks and inserted the pump into the tank. Then he heard a voice from behind him: "Aren't you a little young to be driving?"

Jason spun about, raising his fists; then lowering them as he saw the old man inside the doorway of the concessions shack, raising his hands in the air. "Quick to fight, aren't you?" the man commented. "Don't worry, I'm not going to call the Mounties down on you. Here, why don't you come inside, and we can talk while your tank fills."

With some hesitation, Jason locked the van and walked inside the building. Along with the usual paraphernalia, the old man had set up a large brown recliner near the heater, which he sat as Jason entered. Beside him was a large bird cage, holding a blue bird with red feathers along the edges of its wings - a parrot, perhaps, Jason thought. The old man offered Jason a folding chair, but Jason remained standing. The old man sighed. "How long have you been driving?"

Jason replied, "Six hours," omitting half an hour from the tally, to disguise his origin. The old man nodded. "All right. If you haven't hit anyone in that time, you'll probably do all right from here. Another thing. Have you gotten into any fights on the drive?"

Jason hesitated, then nodded, "Yes." The blue-feathered bird was looking at him with its head cocked sideways.

The old man frowned. "You need to be careful, young man. I recognized that look in your eyes, when you heard me outside. You've got a blood lust - a hunger for fighting. And that's going to get you in trouble, if you don't learn to control it."

Jason, feeling rather awkward, agreed "All right," and went outside to check on the van. The tank was full. Jason withdrew the hose, got in the van and started the engine. From the concessions building, the old man shouted to him, "If you don't change... you're going to die alone, far from your home, entirely due to your own choices."

Jason accelerated away from the station, heading southward. In the side mirrors, he thought he saw the blue bird, a speck of distant color, rising into the sunset.

Jason Jones and the Problems with Woods

Jason stumbled into the diner with a very empty stomach. He'd been out in the woods for two days, walking south across the border with a bullet wound in his side. He'd eaten nothing but berries, and drank only on the second day, when he found a stream flowing south. Jason had come fairly close to death; and though he didn't know it, he did know that he was quite hungry.

The Canadian money he'd stolen was worthless here, but luck was with Jason; even after three days, his credit card still hadn't been frozen. Jason ate two and a half burgers, luxuriating over the food, then got up to leave. He was promptly knocked back down again as a woman flew through the window and knocked him to the ground.

Through the now-broken glass, Jason could hear a rough voice shouting: "Is that all? Good. Now, we are the law here, no matter what the stinkin' guv'ment has to say about that, and today's tax day. Start paying up, or things start getting bloody!"

Cautiously, Jason peered over the windowsill, cutting his knee in the process. (Broken glass was strewn across the floor.) He saw four men in a Jeep; all heavily armed, with pistols, assault rifles, and some very large hunting knives. The man in the passenger seat was doing the talking; he was grizzled and unshaven. All of them wore camoflauge; probably army surplus. Jason was quite certain, from appearances alone, that they were back-country militia - apparently, running a protection scam of some sort on the town. And, from the stacks being handed over to them, they weren't doing too badly with it.

Jason was angry. He knew injustice when he saw it; and, after defeating seven terrorists in Canada, he was very confident of his skills. (The time starving in the northern woods hadn't done anything for his mood, either.) When a militiaman got out of the jeep and started walking towards the diner, Jason readied to fight. His heart beat loudly. The militiaman walked in the door, assault rifle across his back, pistol pointing toward the floor - clearly not expecting trouble from the cowed proprietor - and Jason knocked him to the ground with a quick one-two combo, grabbing the pistol from the floor and smashing it into the bandit's head as he attempted to rise.

Blood began to trickle, and the militiaman lay very still as Jason quickly disarmed him. Luckily, none of the militia were looking towards the diner when Jason attacked; but within moments, one of them noticed their comrade's absence and raised the alarm, shouting "Someone's killed Greg!" Instantly, their assault rifles came out, and they began looking for enemies. One of them, feeling cautious, unleashed a short burst of gunfire low across the facade of the diner; leading Jason to curse his choice of cover, just beside the door, as a bullet pierced his lower thigh. Hearing no reaction, the militiamen charged in, each turning towards Jason; not reacting quickly enough to fire before he opened up with his stolen rifle. One of them died, shot in the lungs. The other, wounded in the arm, managed to throw himself back outside. Jason followed, shouting triumphantly, filled with adrenaline. The militiaman who'd done the talking, still on the Jeep, was talking on a hand-held radio; the other didn't expect Jason to follow. Both of them dropped as Jason perforated their torsoes.

Jason was injured, but his adrenaline rush allowed him to ignore the pain for the moment. He posed a moment, triumphant, then walked over to the Jeep. He tested the engine, drove a few paces; a different feel than the van and car he'd driven, but still usable. He got out, about to loot the bodies before he left town (for he thought the police might frown on his activities); then the sound of an engine froze him in place. The militia leader had been on the radio - probably with other militiamen! It'd be a pretty poor militant group that only had four members, after all. Jason threw himself back into the driver's seat and gunned the engine, shooting off and caroming off a light-post as he went. He was bleeding in several places, pursued by angry militia, and just a bit thirsty, but the fight left him feeling good.