Providential Divergence

"I suppose the question is this then; is freedom---"

"No! I will NOT allow this kind of---"

"Who are you, and who will you choose to be?"

"Just what the hell did you think you were---"

"No reality but chance.  No truth but Fate---"

"The Greek appealed to me---"

"What price truth---?"

"Who are you---"

"---He's going into psycho-cerebral sh---"

"--WHO WILL YOU CHOSE TO BE?!"

Neirin awoke with a jolt; the conglomeration of blinding images, and deafening words still rattling around in his skull.  As his vision sharpened from blurry colored blobs, to actual shapes with edges, he realized there was a face above him.

After a few more seconds, he realized that the face was in fact speaking, and he could not hear the words.  Just a high pitched whine, like the sound from a tuning fork.  The white noise brought him back to the present, and memory of the explosion flooded back into his brain.

He groggily pointed to his ears, and the white armor-clad paramedic nodded.  She reached into her kit, and withdrew a hypospray, pressing it to the side of Neirin's neck first on one side, then the other, beside his ears.

Almost instantly, the nano-serum repaired his eardrums.  The aural footprint of the world exploded back into his skull with the force of an out of control maglev.

He could distinctly pick out screams, whimpers, sirens, a blazing fire somewhere, and the shocked murmur of a crowd in the distance.

He sat up slowly, and glanced around as the paramedic ran a scanner over him, checking his vitals.  The world had been turned all to hash; most of the store was a simply gone; a spherical smooth crater of glass with rivulets of thaumatic static still sparking across its surface.

The rotunda of the mall had been cordoned off, and a military VTOL was hovering over the glass roof, shining lights down into the chamber.  The power was out, and every electrical device and junction box in the vicinity was smoking, or blazing.

On the floor near him, a newly Converted Pony, Dragon, Diamond Dog, and Zebra were laid out side by side, unconscious.  The victims of the terrorist's more accurate shots.

In a sad twist of irony, a morbidly humorous thought crossed Neirin's mind; the man was probably not, infact, PER.  They hated the other Equestrian races almost as much as they hated humans.

He glanced down at his own hands to reassure himself that they were there; ten fingers.  He then glanced down at his boots and wiggled his feet inside them; then toes.

He had escaped relatively unscathed.

The paramedic nodded, as if to confirm his thoughts, "You have a concussion and some slight brain hemorrhaging.  Nothing serious; I think you'll be fine.  I'm going to give you a small bottle of caplets; take one every two hours from now until you next sleep, and one every three hours tomorrow.  That should heal the damage, prevent any lasting side-effects, and stem the headaches."

Neirin nodded absently, and shoved the proffered bottle into his left pocket.

The woman pointed over his shoulder to the military cordon, "You have to see them before you can leave.  JRSF is taking everyone's statements."

Neirin nodded, and winced as he stood.  The Joint Reconnaissance Strike Force were a branch of the military run by all the races involved in Conversion, humans included, in tandem.  They were the modern incarnation of 'special branch.'  And he morosely resigned himself to the fact that they were likely going to grill him solidly on his experience before they let him go home.

He huffed, and made his way over to the line that was rapidly forming outside the command tent, which had been thoughtfully setup to block the mall's main exit and force everyone to pass through.

"And I thought my life couldn't get any worse..." He muttered.

"Please empty your pockets."  Neirin glanced up, removing his head from his hands, and stiffened.  He had expected a Pony interrogator; normally the JRSF preferred the Equines' disarming friendliness when dealing with civilians.

Instead, he found himself facing a large and rather awe inspiring Gryphon.  He gulped.  Neirin had never met one of the beings up close, or even paid much attention to them.  They stood nearly a head higher than most humans while on four legs, and often walked on two as well, which increased their stature to towering heights.

The Gryphon inclined his head again, "I'm Philos.  I'll be taking your statement.  Please empty your pockets Mr.---?"

"Ahh... Neirin."  He absently fished into his left pocket, and pulled out the pill bottle, sticking it firmly on the stainless steel camp table in front of him.  He then dug into his right pocket, expecting to find only his wallet.  Instead, he encountered the wallet, and an unfamiliar texture.

He pulled on the object, extricating it from the wallet as he set the former on the table.  He realized, with a jolt, that it was the leaflet he had earlier hidden from Simon.

Philos reached out single talon, and pulled the digipaper towards, him, turning it to read it.  He raised an eyebrow, or the area of feathers that was most analogous.  His golden eyes seemed to drill into Neirin's soul as he spoke, "Interesting irony."

Neirin blushed furiously.  The leaflet was an information handout on Gryphon Conversion.  He had, on a whim, snagged it from a stand outside a shop the day before.  He had promised himself it was just studying the enemy, but in the end if he was honest with himself, it was curiosity, mixed with other difficult emotions.

Philos pushed the items on the table back towards Neirin and sat down on his haunches across from him, "Can you describe what happened?"

As Neirin did his best to give the account, the avian stared at him unblinkingly; never even so much as looking away once.  His golden eyes served to fiercely compliment his razor sharp beak, maroon and sandy feathers, and wickedly sharp silver talons.  Neirin found it hard to concentrate under the scrutiny, and the proximity of the awe inspiring leo-avinid, but he finally managed to finish his tale.

In a moment of gut-wrenching fear, he left out the confusing words and images that had haunted his unconscious mind.  He reasoned that they were likely simply a result of his concussion.

Philos nodded slowly, "You may wish to come in for further examination.  So far, you're the only survivor who reports having actual contact with the thaumatic explosion.  Everyone else was affected by the airburst only."

Neirin nodded absently, pocketed his effects, and stood, "Am I free to go?"

The Gryphon inclined his head towards the exit, "Yes.  And... Don't forget the leaflet."

Neirin realized, with a start, that he had left the object on the table.  He sheepishly reached out and pocketed it, before indulging his curiosity, "Philos?  Isn't that Greek or something?  I thought--"

Philos blinked, "I'm a convert.  The greek appealed to me.  It means 'friend.' "

Neirin had no response to the statement, so he shrugged, and awkwardly made for the door.  Philos spoke once more as he exited, "In the spirit of my name; if you find you need someone to talk to about what's on that flyer... Or about your experience... Just call the JRSF central node, and ask for my personal extension.  Zero-seven one-five alpha-alpha gamma."

Neirin winced, and hurried through the flap of the tent.  The offer unsettled him deeply.  As he leaned into the evening wind and set off for the tube station, a small voice in the back of his head nagged him and forced him to wonder if the emotion was a result of fear, revulsion, or an insane desire to actually take the Gryphon up on his offer.

It was only after he boarded the tube, and leaned back to breathe and pop his first pill, that he realized the Gryphon's description of his name evoked an intense sense of deja vu.

"What the *hell* Neirin?!  You were gone for almost three hours!"

Neirin collapsed into a chair in the apartment's small living room, and groaned.  Simon cocked his head, and growled "Did you get into a fight?"

"Does it *look* like I got into a fight?!"

Simon crossed his arms and glowered, "Yes actually.  And don't you get smart with me.  Where were you.  Answer me now."

Neirin glared back, squinting into the ceiling lights, "Incase you had your head buried up to the neck in those bloody circuits of yours; there was a *terror* attack in Leicester Square."

His roommate raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.  Neirin sighed, "That's where I go to shop."

Simon unfolded his arms, and his face softened slightly, "Oh.  Groceries were a loss then?"

Neirin slammed his fist into the arm of the chair, his emotions finally boiling over, "Well NO SHIT SHERLOCK HOLMES!  If you'd like to go back to the five by five glassed CRATER that was nearly ME and a dozen other PEOPLE, and search for the GIBLETS of our shopping?  You be my GUEST!"

Simon's face turned fifty shades of red, but Neirin averted his gaze and sighed.  He hated having shouting matches with the man, and he hated losing his temper even more.  He was on the verge of apologizing, when he glanced up and realized that Simon was no longer there.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled, trying to bite back tears caused as much by a sudden pang in his head, as emotions.  Simon poked his head around the door, "Where the hell have you been Neirin?  It's been three hours... Were you in a *fight?*"

Simon stepped into the room, and glared, crossing his arms.  Neirin's mouth opened, and closed, without making any sound.  Once, then twice.

He finally stammered out an explanation, "The.. ah... the terror attack... I was there Simon... I was caught in it..."

Simon unfolded his arms, and shrugged, "Oh.  So I suppose the groceries were in it too?"

Neirin squinted and groaned.  Simon nodded, "I suppose so then.  Noodles tonight.  Again.  You'd better get started I guess if we're gonna eat at a sane hour.  I have to go finish this last circuit bridge...  I suppose laundry at least will have to wait to tomorrow.  You look like hell."

Neirin groaned once more, and seriously considered checking himself into a hospital, before deciding that the reaction from Simon would be more than it was worth, in spades.

"We lost the device.  And Michaelson."

"We lost nothing.  Fate decreed that this would come to pass, and so it did."

"Fate is truth indeed then.  There is... one other item."

"Oh?"

"One of the unconverted survivors was exposed directly to the thaumatics of the blast."

"Mmm! Indeed?  Then perhaps it would be to our benefit to acquire him for study.  We may not soon get another chance like this."

"Yes sir.  No reality but chance..."

"No truth but fate."

As he stared into the last of his noodles, Neirin realized that he was going to have to reheat Simon's.  His roommate had ignored his first five calls to dinner, so Neirin had finally started without him.

As he moved his empty bowl to the sink, he debated leaving the dishes.  Or even telling Simon to do them.  The idea quickly fell from his mind; the last time he had asked Simon to do a chore, the resulting shouting match had ended with a restriction of his banking privileges for a month, and him feeling like the villain all along.

The task was short, but tedious.  Neirin wished he could sleep, but the pair shared a bedroom since Simon's work took up the entire spare quarters.  Simon was not the quietest or subtlest of types when he set about preparing to sleep; Neirin had to wait until he was soundly snoring before making the attempt himself, or he risked being woken after only a short bout of unconsciousness.

He sighed and collapsed back onto his stool.  His pocket crinkled, and he simultaneously remembered his pills, and the leaflet.

He extracted both, and as he gulped down a pill, he glanced at the digipaper once more.

"Gryphons: We are a proud race of warriors.  We value family above all.  We live by honor, and faith.  We welcome any who can pass the entry requirements; these exist to protect you from being forced into a life you would not easily accept, or desire.  We are not a solution for those of you seeking to be able to maintain violent capacity for selfish or immoral reasons.  We are an Option only for those who would raise their swords with honor."

Neirin read further, forcing his way past a brief pang of head pain.  The act almost felt like a forbidden indulgence; he gleefully chewed through the portions of the pamphlet on Gryphon culture, and biology, his fingers swiping across the paper every so often to page to the next segment.

He was rousted from his revelry only by the icy touch of two fingers on his shoulder, followed by an atonal voice, "What the hell is that?"

Neirin froze.  The image on the page was a Gryphon, beside a cylinder of Gryphonization potion.  Simon could not possibly mistake the nature of the item.

His roommate calmly pulled the digipage from under his fingers, and silently read the open pages.  He then stared down at Neirin, face impassive, "Just what the hell did you think you were doing with this?"

The crippling sense of deja vu Neirin experienced was not enough to entirely distract him from the gut wrenching fear.  He shook his head slowly, "Just reading Simon.  That's still legal right?"

The attempt at levity did not elicit a smile.  Simon calmly crumpled the paper, and flicked it into the waste disposal chute.  He continued to stare at Neirin, before pointing to his noodles.

As Neirin dutifully moved to microwave them, Simon perched on his stool, and spoke with an unusually calm tone, "Neirin.  You need to stop with this crap.  It's called Rehumanism for a damn good reason; unless you want to become your mother?  You'd do well to remember that.  Gryphons are just Ponies with feathers, who don't have any compunctions about straight up killing those who get in their way.  Steer.  Clear.  Understood?"

Neirin nodded meekly, "Understood."

Simon took the bowl of noodles as it was proffered to him, and dug in.  After swallowing his first bite, he glanced up and scowled, "You get pissy when you listen to that crap you know.  I think you still owe me an apology for that outburst earlier."

Neirin, more confused than anything, mumbled, "Sorry," as he excused himself.  He began to privately wonder, as he switched on the holovision, if his concussion was causing him to hallucinate, and loose time.

Neirin jolted awake to the sound of his watch alarm.  He realized, with a groan, that he had fallen asleep on the living room chair.  His last memory was downing a concussion pill, and turning on the news at low volume.

He shook himself, and moved to the kitchen groggily.  He needed to be out the door by six to make it to work on time, and morning preparations usually took at least two hours.

As he finished pouring the second bowl of synthereal, Simon entered, yawning.  Nerin winced, expecting to receive the cold shoulder.  Instead, Simon smiled and picked up his imitation-cereal, "Morning.  Sleep on the chair again?"

Neirin nodded, a combination of meek fear, and abject confusion robbing him of words.

Simon shrugged, "Well.  You shouldn't do that.  Bad for your back.  And isn't sleeping vertical bad after you've had a head trauma?  Anyways.  I'm going to go finish this project up before I hit the office.  Don't forget; laundry after you get home."

Neirin stood in shock.  A slow, creeping suspicion wormed its way into his skull.  He reached carefully into his right pocket, and froze.  His fingers met digipaper.  Fearfully, and with an almost reverent caution, he extracted the Gryphonization leaflet.  He gaped at it for several seconds, before stiffening and stuffing it securely back into his pocket.

Either he was hallucinating, and vividly, or something beyond his comprehension was at work.

On an impulse, as if the hounds of hell itself were chasing him, he dropped his bowl in the sink, dashed into the entry hall, nabbed his coat, and slipped out of the apartment in one smooth motion.