Omega

 They say I'm the most powerful because I'm the one who's counted on for the aftermath, the "most important part," as they call it, and I guess you could say I am but not the way you might think. There's power and then there's influence. One has more impact, one has more reach. Which is more useful depends on where you're standing and when.

Blondie McBoobs is talking, I can't tell which one. There's a 4 on her mic which narrows it down to one of three possibles but damned if I can remember their names. "Omega, why is it we only see you after all the fighting is over?"

"Well ma'am," when you can't remember their names, "ma'am" works fine. "I can't be everywhere at once. That's why there's an entire league and not each of us addressing issues individually. By teaming up we've been able to consolidate and coordinate communications so when there's more than one trouble spot, we can tune our responses to make the best use of our abilities." It's a canned answer and I can almost give it in my sleep. I've gotten this question before.

"Some of you have the most amazing abilities, though - completely over the top kind of stuff. Why don't you apply those powers to make the world better?"

A-ha, another old one. "Do you want the Harry Potter answer or the real answer?"

"What's the Harry Potter answer?"

"Let's see...I think it was Hagrid who said, 'everybody'd be wantin' magical solutions to all their problems,' something like that. But that's just restating your question back at you. No, it's bigger than that - literally. Earth is vast. You think it's small but that's just your corner of it. Just the United States is vast and that's just one country; there's hundreds of countries and even the little ones are more than any of us in the League could alter by sheer force. The entire world, 'fixed?' Fixed according to whom? Fixed how? No. The League is like hired security, we stop bank robbers and criminal masterminds and suchlike but organized crime? They've been hiding for generations and our equipment and scope to sniff them out is the same stuff conventional law enforcement has. We don't have magical senses," and that's a lie, "to scope out evildoers. Jet can fly and I have my abilities and Nightshade is what she is but it's not like the comic books. We're special in some ways but we still have to use our hands to pull our pants up. Sure, there's some over the top powers but think about it - Nightshade still has to eat. We're not...gods."

Lie. A little. And I dodged the question. I show up at the end because the end is the part I want to be at.

"Thank you for your time, Omega."

"My pleasure, ma'am." Donegal, that's her name. "You take care, Ms. Donegal."

Jet had already set up the screen so I could go to work without too much interference. I closed my eyes and concentrated.

Flames. Spewing water and crackling electricity. Those are easy enough, a twitch of thought like crinkling my nose at a bad smell, and the breakers clicked over. It's nice having existing controls to influence. But not before I had taken in so much of it, a vibrating sizzle of sensation. The breakers clicked over when I willed them to, but they were opening circuits that were drained of potential.

Fire feels like inhaling until you're full, and then inhaling some more. It is a glorious rush, taking all that wild energy into you. Doing it induces a strange chill in the area of effect but me? I love it. I feel it right down to my toes, an orgasm of energy that could be dangerously addictive.

There were a few wild months in college that were punctuated by what appeared to be a rash of sofa burnings around Fraternity Row and I was happy enough for them to get the blame but let's not fool ourselves. It was me and was it a little masturbatory? Maybe. Was it fantastic? Oh yes.

Do I miss it? Every damned day.

So when there's a city block with flames leaping up and people running and colorful suits flying through the air and shouting catchphrases, I'll be along to mop up afterward, to drink in all the chaos and order it, to subdue the energies and revel in the rush and you'd better believe I'm glad I'm a girl. A guy feeling like this would not be able to hide the super woody in his spangly outfit.

That's why they call me Omega: when there's wild energy loose and threatening people, I end it. I bring it to a stop.

What nobody realizes is that I am quietly inside their heads, tapping here and nudging there. Organized crime is too organized and not interested in destruction. They want influence, not chaos. So I find the more chaotically inclined and ease them into a life of villainy, to glory in fright and fret and running around in mindless terror. I steer them to seeking destruction and general nuttiness.

The League I have gathered around me are good people, solid people who are nevertheless a little sloppy. Jet ricochets off things and breaks buildings, Donder is destructive just being himself. Shit gets crazy. They subdue the bad guy, sloppily and with lots of upheaval and then, offhandedly and with something resembling contempt, call me in to clean up.

And I do. I soak it up, the fear and fire coursing through me in a silvery cascade of joy and sensation. A lust for the wild forces moves me to sometimes allow the building to fall and I breathe in the energy of the fall. Blocks of concrete the size of houses fall like feathers and I am weeping with ecstasy.

They call me Omega, the clean up artist. The tail end. The super maid. They cannot feel me inside their heads, steering them like little cars, pushing them around, crashing them into each other because I like the crash. They call me Omega.

I am Alpha. Earth isn't vast to me, not really. I'm just pacing myself.

Untitled

"Okay, I need you to work with me, here..." The stranger set his half-emptied mug down, strong tea sweetened with honey.

"All right?" The bard had been sharing stories all evening for coppers and drinks, and was having a good night.

"You said, 'Dragons are logical, they only hunt things that attempt to run from them.' Right?"

"Yeah."

"So that makes sense. Prey runs; if it runs, it's prey."

"Correct."

"And then you said, 'they only attack that which attacks them first.' That's kind of a mistake though, isn't it?"

"I don't think so." The bard had never changed a word in the stories and songs handed down through the Guild. That was unimaginable. One mustn't ever tamper with The Truth. Do what you want with local songs and stories and of course compose whatever the hell you like, but Guild songs were sacrosanct.

"I do. That's not attacking, that's defending. It can escalate to eliminating a proven threat, i.e. killing an enemy. But it isn't attacking when you don't start the conflict. Anything that doesn't start a fight isn't an enemy, it's just another creature."

"Okay, I can accept that clarification. But the point remains that a dragon won't initiate hostilities."

"Fine. And now it all falls apart with the last bit: 'But something that does neither terrifies them.' I don't see how or why. They won't attack unless attacked first, so the base state there is to do nothing. If the target isn't fleeing, it isn't food either, so the base state there is to also do nothing. Are you telling me that if you just walk up to a dragon and stand there, it's going to be frozen with fear?"

"Look, man, if you're going to pick the old sayings apart, we're going to be here all day..."

"It's simpler than that."

"Oh?"

"Absolutely." The stranger picked up his mug and drained it, waving to the innkeeper for another. He set it down, idly turning it 'round with one finger. "And I'm pretty sure I know why."

The bard sat back. One fingernail scratched gently up a string of the lute, producing a subtle hiss. "Say on..."

"Old saying, right? Nobody knows how far back it goes, right?"

"Right..."

"But the rule of the Bard Guild is to never change the stories, because the stories are true, right?"

The stranger knew bardic law! Oh, this might be a very interesting evening... "Right."

"If the stories are true and all the statements within the story are not in conflict with each other, then some assumptions around the statements must be mistaken. To be frozen with fear by something that is neither attacking you nor running away is not logical."

"But what about the implication?"

"What about it? Implication is only suggestion, not fact. The fact is that the reaction is illogical. And that leaves only one conclusion."

"And that is...?"

"That what we have been calling 'dragon' all this time is not, in fact, a dragon."

The bard felt her pulse quicken. This might be one of the older Seeing Songs coming to light. "If not a dragon, then what is it?"

"I think it's a man."

Dafydd

 *clunk*

*clank*

*twang* That was different. Still hurt though.

"Boy! Come here!" That's the trainer. My sparring partner looks over to him with something like gratitude. He nods at me and goes over to spar with one of the straw dummies, which unfortunately appears to be putting up a better fight for him than I did.

The trainer is a big, big man. Scars, but not bad, suggests he's put up good defenses in all his fights. Nothing missing: fingers, eyes, not even teeth.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Me Gran calls me Dafydd, sir."

"And what's your parentage? Where are you from?"

"Don't know parentage much, sir. Me da up an' buggered off not long after I was born, Gran says. Me mum keelt over with the consumption about five winters ago an' now it's just me an' Gran, sir. Me, Gran and a passel o' sheeps."

"Hm. Shepherd kid, hey?"

"That's right, sir. They're not our sheeps though, sir, they're the landlord's flock an' we've got a little hut in return for watching the sheeps."

"Got it."

So he's sizing me up, the trainer is. I'm not big, never was. Some winters have been pretty tough, Gran can't do much for money but some knitting and spinning, good work but it doesn't pay well and if the hut's too cold her fingers just can't go fast. I try to help out but keeping the sheep keeps a roof over our head and that's pretty important. So sometimes dinners can be on the thin side...just like me. Just like Gran.

Soldiering, though. Soldiering pays, pays better than shepherding and spinning combined. Gran could be a bit more comfortable in her old age maybe. A lad's got to think of these kinds of things. We could maybe live a bit closer to town even.

"I'm not sure I can use you, kid. You've got courage enough, I can see that. You get knocked down and damn if you don't get right back up again."

"The wolves and dogs keep coming, sir. If you go down and stay down, you get eaten. They're a lot more respectful when you stand firm."

"Ha. Yeah. But courage only goes so far in a fight against men, boy. You need an edge of some kind, and the edges I have to offer you seem a bit out of your league." He unwraps a small bundle and shows its contents to me. "Legend has it that this kind of wand had some magic in it, centuries ago. With it, you could take on foes at a distance." He wrapped it back up again, looking around as if afraid he were being observed. "Study on it and see if you can make anything of it." He handed it to me, still furtive. "I can use courageous fighters, and if it means you don't mix it up hand to hand, even better.

"Go on now. Don't show it to people."

I carried it away and in the relative privacy of a privy, unwrapped the item and looked at it again.

It appeared to be a stick. Not a proper stick like for walking, or a useful stick like for fishing. Just a stick. It had an odd notch on one end though, a notch with a distinct worked quality that told me it wasn't natural.

So we ask ourselves: why put a notch in a stick? Or wand. Whatever you call it. It's the kind of notch you'd put  on so your fishing string can't slip off, but the whole thing is maybe only a third the length of a usual fishing stick.

Okay, I've got some cord Gran made for keeping my packs tied up, loop that around...Yes, it's perfect. Now I have a stick with a cord on it. That's useless.

"Oi! Some of the rest of us might like a go!" Ah, time to leave the privy then.

"What the bloody - anything you catch down there, I don't want." He's mistaken the wand-and-cord for a fishing stick, understandably. "The hell you doin' in there? Drop your lunch before you got to eat it?" He laughs uproariously and thumps me on the back to send me on my way. That's fine. The boss said don't show the wand around and if it's being mistaken for something else entirely, I think that counts.

Thus excused from formal hand-to-hand training, I took the stick home to the sheep, who were unimpressed. Whipping the stick around made the cord pop a little like an actual whip, but it wasn't shaped right so it never did more than a faint pop.

Gran wondered over the stick but didn't have anything to offer besides agreeing that the notch was definitely unnatural, that someone made it. And she agreed that it was shaped exactly right for holding a cord.

"Not only that but look at the curve, Daf. It's to hold a cord under strain. Not just strain, but moving too. See how everything has been so carefully smoothed? The cord can swing back along the stick to straight out and never encounter an obstacle. See this grain here - this was a stub but it's been carefully shaved off and smoothed out. Why, do you suppose?"

"No idea, Gran." And I went out to watch the sheep for the night.

All evening long, as shadows stretched out longer and longer, I messed about with the stick. The whipping was almost interesting, but not quite.

Holding the cord behind a finger until the stick was moving its fastest was something else. The cord made a loop that zinged around until I let the cord go. That was very interesting and I wondered how that could be useful. What could I make of making something go faster than I might do just with my hands?

Sometimes you could scare off dogs and wolves with a thrown stone, and of course the faster a stone is thrown, the farther it goes and the harder it hits. Little me by my lonesome can fend off a wolf big enough to eat me all by his lonesome, with a sharply flung rock stinging him in the hindquarters. Could I somehow use this thing to throw a rock?

The first try went badly. So did the next two hundred twenty-eight tries because the rock just wouldn't stay on the cord.

In the morning, I shared my thoughts with Gran and she looked at the cord.

"Well, it's a little chafed from the rocks but not too bad. But if we added something..." Gran's hands moved fast with her tools, and when she handed it back she had knitted or woven a portion of the center of the cord into a kind of basket. "Now the rocks won't be on the cord. They'll be in it. Try that, and see how you get on."

I tried it. Taking the wand and cord into the field - close to the flock, of course, because it's good for the landlord, if he should just happen by at random, to see his shepherd boy tending his charges - I dropped a rock the size of a quail egg into the little cord basket and, letting it dangle, give it a good swing.

The rock in its basket went whiz and as my arm came to the end of its arc and slowed down the end of the cord with the rock seemed to go even faster and came back toward me and in shock I let the cord end go and the rock flew out of its basket and screamed past my ear, I swear it actually screamed. I know I nearly did too, it was so fast.

This needed thinking about.

More tries got it sorted. I didn't even need to swing very hard, not like for throwing a stone but I soon learned I could do that too. The trick of it was to let go of the cord at the right time. It takes practice.

And I practiced. One thing a shepherd boy can do, watching over his flock of an evening, is practice something that doesn't take much in the way of light or tools. A stick, cord and rocks being all the tools I needed, I could practice until my arms ached.

A couple of weeks later, a trio of wolves came slinking around the low hills at the far edge of the field. Under the moonlight they were easy to pick out, even though they were a good hundred paces away or longer.

Wolves around here have learned to stay more than fifty paces away from me. I'm a decent shot at that range and some boys throw farther, though none more accurately than me. I might not be especially strong but as far as targets go if I can only reach it with a stone, I can hit it with a stone. But at a hundred paces or more, wolves don't worry about people.

Tonight I dropped a stone a bit larger than a quail egg into the cord basket, gave it the twirl around my head that I had learned was most effective, sped up the swing and released...

whizzzzdock

With a sound like an axe hitting wood, my stone flew perfectly, almost in a flat line, and connected with the second wolf. It went down without a sound. Startled, the other two leapt up and vanished back into the trees.

It took me a couple of minutes to get to it but when I finally did, I found the wolf exactly where it had fallen. It was dead, a big bloody hole in its head just above one eye. Wolf skulls are hard, I know - but my rock was harder.

It took a fair portion of the night to drag it back to the hut, it was so heavy. I think it weighed nearly as much as me.

Shortly after dawn as I could hear Gran up and moving around, I called her out to come look at it.

"Oh, my! And you killed it?"

"Yes, Gran! With this!" And I showed her the stick and cord. "I hit him with a rock farther away than I've ever thrown anything. It was like magic, swish-and-flick! You swish the stick and flick the cord and down he went!"

"Don't exult over the death of another creature, boy, you know better." But Gran's admonishment was effaced a bit by her clear appreciation. "We need to skin this poor thing. I don't know if wolf is good eating but I'm not wasting him. And certainly not his hide, either, that'll be good when winter comes." And she immediately set about the messy business of taking an animal to bits.

Later, after a breakfast of fresh wolf steak and a nap, I went back to the training ground, and to find the training boss.

"Sir, I've puzzled it out."

His eyebrows climbed right up into his hair. "Really? The, um...what have you done, lad?"

I showed him the stick and cord. He didn't seem to recognize it at first. "You gave me this and told me to try to work out the magic of it."

"Oh, right! That! Er, yes, well...how did you get on, then?"

I demonstrated the swish-and-flick that kills wolves when done right, when done on a moonlit early morning when you're by yourself and no-one to help you. I showed it to him, but without the stone because when you add the stone, it becomes dangerous.

"And you killed a wolf?" He looked incredulous. "With that?"

"I'll tell you what: let me show you." And we went out to the training pitch where older boys and younger men were battling each other with blunt weapons and heavy shields, stabbing straw dummies to death and running, running, running because all the weapons are swords and the best way not to get stabbed or slashed is to run away from it. Stab, slash, run. Run, stab, slash. Over and over. "Oi!" I shouted at the fighters attacking straw dummies. "Clear off!"

They looked at me from well over a hundred yards away, comfortably farther away than I had killed this morning's breakfast and even at that distance, the look on their faces was clear: and for what good reason should we, they were obviously thinking.

The boss trainer waved them to move away, and they did.

Stone. Cord. Twirl, twirl again for good measure, swish, flick.

The stone made a new sound, not the whiz but the scream, eeeeepaf somehow coming to our ears a moment or two after we saw the dummy's head burst in a puff of chaff. Faint shouts of shock erupted from the people close to the dummies, and one fell over trying to get away. Those dummies are tough, regardless of them being stuffed with straw. They're tough so bashing and stabbing them will feel like the real thing, even tougher than that because they get bashed and stabbed by an awful lot of soldiers in training, and the head popped like a pumpkin dropped from a height. My stone flew true. If I can reach it with a stone, I can hit it.

The boss' hand came down on my shoulder.

"My God." He said nothing else the entire time we were walking to the dummies. When we got there, it was a mess from the neck up. An exploded, obliterated mess.

"Can you do that again? Can you do that against a man?"

A wolf is one thing. A man is quite another. "I don't know, sir. I reckon I can, if needed."

"The enemy have been gathering their army for some time at the valley plain but have promised they'll just go away if we send someone out to fight their champion. He's unbeatable, as near as we can tell, and no one wants to go near him. He's huge, has a tremendous reach and swings a sword twice the size of anything our biggest man can lift. We're going to have to fight this war the hard way..." which was why I had been training in the first place, "...unless someone can take him down."

I looked down at my simple little device, a foreshortened fishing stick, a shepherd's tool for killing when necessary.  Was it necessary?

Fool.  An entire invading army will simply leave if its champion is killed?  And no losses to my countrymen?  Of course it's necessary.  No honorable man could forfeit such a chance.  Take one life to save hundreds, maybe thousands?  Of course it's necessary.

"I think I could do that. Kill just one, to make the rest go away? I could do that." I picked up a handful of smooth stones to drop into my pocket. "Take me to the war."

As we walked toward the the road that led to the valley that led to the river that led to the war, the training boss said, "You know, boy...I gave you that thing to get you away from this. You're too small to fight a man's fight. You'll get killed."

Possibilities were opening up before me that had never been open before. "So?" A man’s fight, indeed. It’s a fight that needs fighting, be it men or women or children or even shepherds who do the fighting.

"It's not a magic stick, boy."

"No, sir. Of course not. There's no such thing as magic. It isn't a wand. It's just a stick, an extension of my arm. It's my skill and practice that make it work, nothing to do with magic."

"Aye, but...well, what do you even call it?"

I hadn't worked that out yet. I coiled up the cord to sling it over my shoulder. "I don't call it anything. It works because of me, and I call myself Dafydd." And that got me to thinking. "This big champion the enemy has brought us, what do they call him?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"It just seems right, if I'm going to kill someone. Gran would have me at least give him the respect of knowing his name."

The river plain came into view and with it the army and its champion standing tall before them. Our own army stood on this side, both shouting and receiving abuse to and from the enemy just a hundred paces away. I felt the stones in my pockets, stones picked from the soil of my homeland, smooth and round, slightly larger than quail's eggs.  Among the enemy's army one stood head and shoulders above the others, a beast of a man.

Five smooth stones.  My homeland versus the invaders.

"They call him Goliath."