There’s a strange place where theory and rule don’t seem to meet.  For example, I know everyone has their own personal rules.  They might not think of them as anything more as idiosyncratic guidelines that work for them, but they’ve got them.  Having a little obsessive-compulsion is like having a few rules too many so that they get in the way, but us regular folks with our low-level neuroses have rules, too.  I think having too few rules is also a sign of illness, so playing in the median (so to speak) makes sense, too. 

When you know what you think is just a theory and it might not work along those lines, you’re a little hesitant to put your foot down and draw a line.  (I like my metaphors shaken, not stirred.)  Gravity, for example, seems to work a certain way, except when it doesn’t.  Magic’s a lot like that, at least, for my small window of observation.  I can’t say anything is possible or impossible for a certain practice, but I’ve got some good rules of thumb that I expect. 

Ivan made a simulacrum.  It was a particularly disturbing situation, as my nightmares recall.  It wasn’t a fully active one, so it was more a shell that looked like him, but I had to add that to my list.  Wrapping a spell into a shape is on those lines.  So maybe it’s easier than I thought, but really, the Red Poets are the real deal.  There are stories about the Cold War that would chill your bones, and that’s even knowing that most practitioners aren’t political. 

I think it makes sense; when you’ve literally seen or even been in the middle of empires rising and falling, whoever is in charge is likely a temporary situation.   Just as they aren’t political, they’re also not especially concerned with local legislation.  I sometimes think Maggie’s headed that way with her disdain for the laws of traffic, let alone physics. 

But, and you knew I was actually going somewhere with this, one of the unwritten rules is usually to not get involved with something so vulgar as law enforcement.  That’s why my brain was protesting that this situation got the police involved.   That subconscious mote was raising flags and complaining, “You don’t do that.  It’s trouble.”  Ordnance aside, an investigation could certainly be considered an act of Will, and it has its repercussions. 

It didn’t actually mean something rogue.  I mean, for all that I know we have home ground advantage, when it comes to mortal and practitioner, well, the whole, “And they lived happily ever after,” usually means someone’s died to make it happen.  Werewolves kill people.   Vampires kill people.  Fairies don’t even notice that what they’re killing are “people.”   (That’s actually one of the reasons they’re pretty darn scary.  At least werewolves and vampires are generally aware of their status as predators, and thus the relationship they have with their victims, both internally (the parasite that takes over the host) and externally (their foodsource)). 

Humanity needs every advantage it gets.  Sure, we do terrible things to ourselves, but don’t be fooled – that’s not unique to our species by any means.   (Sometimes I think all we need to do is point out that, indeed, that behaviour is horrible, so we should stop doing it.   Of course, generally anyone who does is martyr’d in some fashion.   Egads, but I’m a cynic some days.) 

So, the “No Poking the Policeman” rule is good in theory, but a lot less a rule in practice, I guess.  I wasn’t sure how it revised my estimate of the forces that had me in their wake.  The whole Jedi Mind Trick is a slippery situation anyway – I don’t see anything wrong in using it for the little things, but then it grows into this.  Into what happened with Sylvia’s roommates… the, “No, I wasn’t speeding, Officer,” slides right into darker places.  Where do you draw the line? 

Of course, the easy flat line to draw is the, “Don’t lie,” rule.  Lying is bad.  Is theft a form of lying?  Of course it is.  If I convince you that these leaves are a couple Benjamins, it’s definitely theft… by lie.  I’m not saying that all practitioners are as bad as that, but it’s like the paintbrush that says all authors are drunken madmen with the sole purpose of misleading you.  If art is illusion, all art is lies.  We’re doomed, poets, lovers, magicians, and sane men all.

I had to get the police report and the insurance claim, and, well, my neighbors hadn’t actually said anything, but that was just a matter of time.  I sighed as I got more bus tokens out of the bag I kept on the dresser.  I had bought the bag for my dice, but then my collection grew out of it.  (I took a moment to imagine a little tag on the inside that was like a size tag on clothing, but meant for dice.  “6XS – will hold eleven twenty-siders, or fifteen six-sided cubes…”)

I moved things aside so that I could look out the window.  There was still debris and staining and stuff, but much of it had been cleared away.  Light reflects into my room from windshields usually around this time of day, but… huh.  There had been a note on my windshield when Ro had picked me up.  I shrugged.  Probably had been a flier for the local church, but while people rarely move past the fence into the parking area to leave them, we get soul subscription drives every 8 months or so.

I went back to look up the routes and connections.  Things were starting to get a bit darker earlier.  I found another jacket in my closet, courtesy of being a native.  Really, people who live in Colorado don’t just have one jacket, or even one of a single type.  This one was a leather windbreaker I usually wore out to ball games.  It wasn’t the shiny black biker style, just a soft brown cow type, I guess. 

I was sliding my phone into the pocket when I realized I had somehow missed a call.  It was from Sylvia’s phone number.  Curiouser and curiouser, indeed.