Match of the Millennium

[Soundtrack for this scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pb4SYzkY8Kc] Viewed from behind, it almost seems like the opening of this laptop in a darkened room is straight out of an 80s horror film; the rectangle of the screen, intensely bright in the gloom, feels like a portal to another world, as if hands were going to erupt from the LCD screen and yank the user in. The figure at the keyboard is as shadowed as the room, fidgeting with a piece of paper that was kept lying in the closed laptop. An app opens on screen, a username and password typed in, a handful of the other necessary security measures being online requires in 2023 floating by as minor annoyances, until at last, all that ceremony produces a simple chat window. Cosgrove_Hall (22:44): I believe we have established 'end-to-end encryption.' Nimue (22:44): Good. I know these tools aren't familiar to you, but they are a sad necessity in this modern mortal world. Cosgrove_Hall (22:45): The instructions are simple enough; it is no bother. Nimue (22:45): I don't have much time. Break it down for me simply: how is she doing? Cosgrove_Hall (22:46): It is... difficult to say. You may need to be more specific. Do you mean her mastery of the magics, or her mental state and resolve? Or perhaps some other third quality I cannot guess. Cosgrove_Hall (22:48): Mistress? Nimue (22:48): Apologies. You asked a reasonable question; I needed to gather my thoughts. I suppose I do wonder about her mental state, yes. One needs only to watch the videos to know the answer to the former question, after all, particularly after this 'Rumble'. I truly can't tell if she's an idiot or a genius. Perhaps both. Cosgrove_Hall (22:49): My disdain for this play-fighting entertainment for the mortal masses remains high, my lady, but as I have observed, I must admit that I did not anticipate how many of the skills a sorcerer must cultivate - thinking quickly on one's feet primary among them - are tied up in this enterprise. Her... magical 'mistakes' aside, I would credit her with hidden depths. Nimue (22:50): I see. And her mental state? Cosgrove_Hall (22:51): In my estimation, it wears on her. Her nature is carefree, yet even the most blithe individual would recriminate themselves in some of the situations she has been in. The question that remains, is if she can withstand that pressure. Nimue (22:52): And if she can't? Cosgrove_Hall (22:52): Then I expect nobody will ever hear from her again. Nimue (22:52): I see. Nimue (22:55): Our plans do not care if she can do it. They will happen heedless of that; that is an inescapable truth. So I ask one final question: will she be of use to us? Or should she be discarded with the other failed attempts? Cosgrove_Hall (22:57): Only time will tell, my lady. Nimue (23:00): I suppose we shall simply have to see how it plays out. Return to me for now; I have need of you here. Either she'll weather this supposed trial, or she won't. [ Nimue has terminated the connection ] With a soft sound, the laptop closes, leaving only uncertain darkness behind.

THE DAY BEFORE IRIS'S FIGHT WITH HAWKSLEY: The glass of the hired car's rear window is cold against Iris's cheek as she leans against it, looking with a sort of glassy-eyed sullenness at the rolling expanse of the British countryside outside her home city of Cambridge. Green hills, farmland, and adorable little cottages, or tiny villages that are a post house, a tavern, and nothing else. She hasn't seen any of this in years, not since she left home for good. Now, if it weren't for the primarily silent driver in the seat ahead of her, the misty rain and endless sheets of grey clouds above make it feel like there's not a single person left in the world anymore. It feels like an hour, but the actual drive to their location -- an iron-gated driveway leading up a short hill to a manor house in the distance -- is maybe 15 minutes at best. The car silently pulls up next to the gate; they're far enough in the country now that there's no real traffic for miles in either direction. The driver looks expectantly back at Iris, cocking an eyebrow for instructions. After all, they weren't hailed at the gate, and there doesn't appear to be any sort of buzzer. "Here's fine," Iris says, pulling out her phone and paying for the trip with as generous a tip as she can manage. "Are you sure, miss?" the driver asks, genuinely curious. "Weather's right miserable out right now. No trouble taking you up the drive." The wizard looks back at the driver with a faint smile. "Nice of you to offer, but I'll be alright. Cheers for coming all this way." He nods, and Iris steps out into the rain; as he looks in the rear view mirror to back up and turn back the way he came, the driver blinks a moment, seeing his passenger put up a black umbrella she certainly wasn't carrying when she got out of the car. Maybe one of those collapsible ones? It's not until the driver has sped away and Iris is alone with the gate that she extends a finger and traces an invisible shape on the lock in the center; the gates, groaning on their hinges, swing open. A careful observer might note that this gate is isolated, with no fences or other things preventing someone from walking around it and up the hill. Of course, walking into the ancestral manor of a clan of wizards is rarely so uncomplicated. The walk to the house itself is shorter than she remembers... or maybe she's subconsciously in a hurry to do what she came to do and be gone. It's been far too long since she's been 'home', after all... but with Celica gone, this is technically her house, now. A house full of metaphorical ghosts she has been avoiding. But if she really wants to do what she's hoping to do... Footsteps, breathing; all of it echoes in the achingly empty space. Furniture, lamps, everything appears in order, but the air feels stale and cold; abandoned, somewhat. Even when her parents were alive, this house had always been far too large for them all, despite adding Nanny and Oglesby to the mix. Now it's just... She'd prefer not to think about it. As one might expect from the library of a family of wizards, it's extensive... but it's *hers*, and she knows where the things she's looking for are. Which is why she's a little concerned when she finds that the spot on the shelf in question is empty. The lack of the book is one thing; the implication that someone is *in the manor* is another thing entirely. It's not as if anyone's here to... That's when she sees the book, lying on one of the comfortable chairs her father had loved when he had been alive. Her father, the non-wizard parent. The one who read ancient spellbooks and tomes of lore and didn't understand a damned word of any of it. For fun, because he could. Her steps are slow as Iris walks across the room and picks it up, looking at the leather binding, the spidery embossed text on the cover, reading the title aloud: "Fadenmann's 'Metallurgicum Mysticus', the original edition." The knowledge here isn't likely to be of help to her directly. But in the right hands... On her way out of the manor, book tucked safely in a bag on her shoulder, umbrella overhead, Iris looks back at the manor through the chilly drizzling rain, trying to find the library window. Is there something there? At this distance it could be a shadow, a curtain flapping in place, a trick of the light. It COULD be anything. Turning to leave, she walks through the gate and settles in to wait, listening to it shut definitively behind her.