Hamilton was sitting at the table. And then he wasn't. 

"She totally doesn't understand why it has to be yellow," said Leslie Morrow, Hamilton's receptionist and gal Friday. She was filling her wine glass as she spoke, and around them was the murmured conversations of at least thirty other diners. They were at Melliface's, a trendy new seafood restaurant with a waiting list at least a week long, and it was evening. Waiters and waitresses in crisp white shirts and black slacks milled about, and candles burned softly on tables full of lobster and other delicacies from the sea. 

"I mean, I told her why, but she doesn't get it, you know?" Leslie filled his own glass and then raised her own. "What do you think we should do?" Leslie's green eyes sparkled in the candle light, her cheeks had that flush to them that said she'd probably drank a bit more than she should have. The remains of a shrimp pasta lay before him, and he was holding a crust of bread in one hand. 

Don't panic.

This was not what Hamilton expected. No, not Hamilton. He was with Leslie, so he was still Wilson Sprague. How much of what he just experienced was real? Any of it? What day was it anyway? Was it before the Christmas party? Melliface's was still decorated for Christmas, so that would make sense. Good. That gave him time to do something about Steve. Wait, maybe that wasn't real either. Damn it to hell! He had to get his bearings.

Don't panic.

"Stick to your guns. It has to be yellow," he said calmly as he carefully parsed his next sentence to make sure it was vague enough. "By the way, any last thoughts on the Christmas party?"

Leslie paused, mouth half open to say something, then brought the hand not holding her wine up to cover her laugh. "Oh. My. God. Could you believe Steve?" She shook her head and took a long drink of wine. "I mean," she leaned forward a bit and lowered her voice. "It's not like everyone didn't know anyways. But to do it at a company Christmas party?" She straightened and reached across the table, giving his hand a warm squeeze that went out just a second longer than it needed to. "We're all just so proud of you though. You handled it so well." 

Hamilton smiled. "Thank you. That's kind of you to say. I just wish it hadn't happened at the party. You know, one day of the year to do something nice for everybody and... well... you saw what happened. I just hope it didn't ruin the evening for anyone. Has there been any talk about it, any scuttlebutt?"

"I'm sure." Leslie said, rolling her eyes. "He'll quit I bet. You'll have his resignation in the morning if you don't already have it." She shook her head and sighed, then took another drink of wine and began picking tat her salmon. "I just hope he gets some help, you know? It's the year 2011 for crying out loud. Who cares these days?" 

Around them, people laughed and drank, waiters hustled and bustled. Hamilton could see the remains of brightly colored wrapping paper and stuffed gift bags on more than one table. "So you think hardline it, huh?" Leslie asked, munching a bit of salad as she stared at her phone. Her thumb worked furiously on a text or email to someone. 

He relaxed a bit and used the crust of bread to sop up some pasta sauce. He still didn't know what happened, but it was becoming clear that his world hadn't imploded The details could wait.. "What's that? Oh, yeah, the thing. Yellow, definitely."

He chewed on the bread as he chewed over recent events. What the hell was that thing with the grinning freak? Was it a delusion? It had to be. Forget it. If it happens again, just get a CAT scan. Back to business as usual.

"So, what's my schedule look like?" 

"You're off for the next two weeks, right? Aren't you?" She put down her fork and tapped furiously on her phone. "Unless I missed an email or something." 

Roll with it.

"After that, of course," he said with a laugh. "I want to be able to hit the ground running when I get back." He topped off Leslie's drink. She wasn't getting drunk enough fast enough. "Let's see," she said hitting keys on her phone. 

"You've got the Brookings deal prep on the 15th, all day with marketing and sales. Then the 16th is spent with Accounting finalizing everything for taxes." She sipped at her wine absently as she read, eyes flicking back and forth across the tiny screen. "Personal day on the 17th, then a bunch of meetings with the dev team and sales and support throughout the rest of the week. Pretty normal stuff." 

She tossed the phone on the table and rubbed at her eyes with the palms of her hands, leaning back just a bit in her chair. Her breasts strained nicely at the silk of her turquoise blouse. "Oh God, but I'm beat." She leaned forward and dropped her hands into her lap, eyes bright with wine as she regarded her boss. "So. Wilson. Why did you ask me out tonight, anyway?" She was smiling, as if she already knew the answer. 

"Oh, Mr. Sprague," Leslie purred a few moments later in the previously acquired hotel room.

"Please, call me Ham... uh... Wilson."

Don't panic. Just roll with it.

"Did you say...hmmmmm." He silenced her with a kiss and any remaining questions left her booze-addled mind. 

Wilson couldn't wait to see her tits. He considered himself a bit of a connoisseur. He helped her off with her blouse and she removed her bra adroitly like a magic trick.

"Ta da," she said as she did a spin and displayed herself for him.

He hid his disappointment well. That alluring teardrop shape he had long admired was mostly the work of her bra. They weren't bad breasts, but he was hoping for more. They weren't as pert as they could have been, and puffy nipples like hers always threw him for a loop. He had more skill working with pencil erasers. On a ten scale he'd give them and eight... seven. Seven was more like it. Maybe a high six.

"Nice," he said convincingly.

She pounced on him, throwing her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. It was the kind of thing that worked better in the movies. He tottered around the room trying to compensate for the extra hundred pounds wishing he had spent more time at the gym. Falling became inevitable, but he managed to collapse on the bed with Leslie atop him. She laughed and dry humped him as she unbuttoned his shirt.

"You might want to take off the necklace first," she said. "Trust me, it's just going to get in the way."

"I don't wear jewelry."

She snorted a laugh. "And I thought I was shit-faced. What's this then?" She held up a golden pendant and the caduceus stared at Wilson with all four of it's serpentine eyes.

The next thing he knew he was standing in front of the mirror staring at the caduceus with eyes that had never been opened so wide. Leslie was on the floor. He wasn't sure how she got there, but she wasn't too happy about it.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" she screeched

"I don't feel well must be the shrimp I'm going home now bye."

Wilson went to his apartment overlooking the Magnificent Mile and spent several hours staring at the caduceus, touching it frequently to remind himself that it was real. He could remember the pain that Randerawl inflicted on him, and that odd sensation as that pain left him, taking the injury with it. That had to be a dream, but the caduceus was real. Maybe it was all real. That could be tested. It should be tested. It would be tested.

He headed to his stylish, but ill equipped, kitchen in search of a tool to plunge into his flesh. An ice pick would be perfect. Where the hell was his ice pick? Wait, who owns an ice pick any more? He produced a large knife from a drawer, thought better of it and swapped it for a small knife.

Three or four times he checked to make sure he was wearing the necklace. Since when did he have OCD? He decided to make a small incision. That would be enough to prove it. Right? Then he realized he had a fear of knives, after which he realized that everybody had a fear of knives because knives were a good thing to fear. Just a small cut like when he would nick himself shaving. Maybe he should just wait until he nicks himself shaving. No. It had to be now. It couldn't wait. Just a small cut. Maybe he should disinfect the knife first. Where's the alcohol?

Do it already!

He stabbed himself in the meaty part of his hand between his finger and thumb. Then he dropped the knife and watched.


The pain was sharp, blood immediately flowed up and out of the wound like red ink. There was that peculiar swirling sensation again, and the incision closed, just vanished as though the wound had been an image placed there by a projector who's bulb was burning out. Crisp and clean and painful one moment, and then indistinct and swirly, and then gone. The blood remained, pooled in his hand and spattered in drops on the counter, but the wound was gone.

And then he felt the rest. Little swirls in his muscles and joints; his eyes. He felt little things dropping into his mouth as his teeth rejected their fillings, new enamel replacing artificial resins and metal. His hearing grew sharper, his vision more stable and crisp. His clothing grew loose around his midsection as those last few pounds he'd promised himself he'd try and lose up and left. The air smelled... well, not better, but he could smell little things he never could before. The blood in his hand, something he'd washed down the garbage disposal. His trashcan. 

He felt like he could run a marathon. Instead, he ran to his bedroom mirror and tore off his shirt to see what the hell was happening to his body.

He had the body he wished he'd had when he was twenty. 

It was still his body, not some gym-pumped adonis torn from the screen of the latest Hollywood blockbuster, but it was perfect. No blemishes, no imperfections at all. He'd lost probably twenty-five pounds of fat, his hair had returned to a richer shade of brown, his eyes were clear, irises vivid. He was in perfect health. And there, nestled in the soft brown hair at the center of his chest, was the caduceus, gleaming silver in the bathrooms light. 

He decided to remove the caduceus and set it on his dresser. He wanted to see if he would revert to his flabby, middle aged self, but he couldn't find the clasp no matter how hard he looked. It had a clasp before. Right? He tried to pull it over his head, but it wouldn't make it around his head. Did it shrink? It seemed the only way to remove it was to break it, and he dared not try. The caduceus was quickly becoming a good thing.

Abandoning his attempt to remove the necklace, Wilson stepped back, took stock of himself and laughed triumphantly. This was good. This was really, really good. What were his limits? He needed to know. So, he threw on a hat and jacket and went out into the city to explore.

He stuck to alleys for the most part. If he did something spectacular he didn't want any witnesses. There would be fewer people than normal out, but Chicago was always busy. He tested his strength first. How easy was it to lift a cinder block? Was he strong enough to juggle the damned things? He grabbed the bumper of a car and lifted, just to see what would happen.

The car lifted very slightly on it's shocks, but no dice - he was fit, but not superhumanly strong. He also appeared to be able to apply the full force of his strength without the fatigue that should have come with doing so. His arms would just begin to tremble, and that peculiar swirling sensation would take hold, all along the major muscle groups, and the trembling would stop.

Good to know. Good to know. Next he ran. He ran at full speed like he hadn't done since he was a kid. Like with the car, he could run at top speed forever it seemed, but he was no faster than he should have been. He seemed unable to wear himself out. Under the El, just west of Millennium park, he slowed to a walk, and the smile fell from his face.

"Shit."

He knew he was looking a gift horse in the mouth, and being able to heal himself was absolutely a good thing, but Wilson couldn't help feeling cheated. How could he profit from this? How? He could become a circus geek and charge people a quarter to watch him drive a nail into his head, but what kind of living was that? Increased physical ability would have at least been marketable. He needed a product, something he could sell or trade.

Wilson thought of the woman. The power to control the weather? What a gold mine she was sitting on. Any spot in the world that was suffering from drought could become a gigantic ATM. Whatever money those poor people had could be all hers. She could ensure good weather or outdoor events. The PGA would pay a fortune for that service. Celebrity weddings! She could promise blue skies for celebrity outdoor weddings. There was the blackmail angle, too. Unless you want the storm of the century on your special day you'd better pay up. That was just the start. She could sell his services to the military. Holy crap, the possibilities were endless, and that woman probably didn't know how good she had it.

"Is it too late to trade powers?" Wilson cried to the night sky. He punched the side of a building, bloodied his knuckles and almost certainly broke a couple of fingers. That swirling feeling returned and he was suddenly good as new. What was that sensation? Was it some kind of energy. If so, it was a voluntary reaction, so far. Could he learn to control it? To what effect?

From around the corner there came the screeching of brakes followed by a dull thump which was followed by a pained canine yelp. A dog came limping around the corner.

"Here boy," Wilson said. "Easy, boy. It's okay."

The dog came up to Wilson with big pleading eyes as it favored it's right hind leg. Wilson bent down and gave the dog comfort. He was good with stupid animals. The leg was messed up. There was a lot of hide scraped off, and there was enough meat missing to expose the bone.

Wilson tingled with excitement. "What if...?"

He placed a hand gently on the dog's injured haunch and visualized that swirling sensation moving from his hand to the dog.

The dog yelped in surprise as its flesh closed, flowing like water over the wound. There was low 'pop', another yelp, and the dog took off running like a shot, barking it's damn fool head off. It skidded around the corner, its barking dopplering away as it ran... wherever it was going to run. But he'd fixed it. He knew he'd fixed it, because as he'd willed the swirling sensation out and into the animal, information flowed back. He knew that the dog was a bitch, that it had been 'fixed', and that now it was fully able to have puppies again, and that it had been having a little trouble with two of it's back teeth. Which now were cavity free and gleaming. Slight amino acid imbalance as well, but he'd fixed that too. 

It had taken maybe ten seconds, if that. 

Wilson watched the dog run off and then continued staring after the dog had gone. He had the ability to heal others. Not only that, he had the power to analyze living things in a manner which science could only envy. It was incredible. It was amazing. It was something he could market! The possibilities washed over him. People would come from all over to be healed and he could dictate the terms. He didn't worry about money. The money would be there. He could have something better. He could have followers, worshipers in fact. That would be the perfect power base for building an empire that would win the stupid game.

As giddy as he'd ever been, he paced back and forth. Then he saw Millennium Park two blocks away down Monroe Street. Why not? It was a wonderful night for a walk in the park. He practically skipped down the street toward the park.

He would be famous. His would be the most recognized face in the history of mankind. People would see him, identify him as the son of a bitch who stole there money, send him to jail, and he would no longer be able to dictate terms. He would be worse than a prisoner. He would be a slave who did his captor's bidding.

Wilson stopped skipping. He stood on the sidewalk staring straight ahead.

"Shit!"

Why could nothing ever be easy? Even when blessed with godlike power?

"Shit!"

Batman was staring at him in the form of a life size cardboard stand-up in a comic book shop window. A secret identity? That was a completely ludicrous idea that just might work. Who would he be? Captain Caduceus? Doctor Man? Captain Doctor? Doctor Doctor? No, that was being to literal minded. He just needed to be a mysterious figure surrounded by a circle of acolytes who protected his identity. Could he make that work?

He mulled over the plan as he walked through the park. He stopped by the Bean, a huge amorphous sculpture with a mirror-like surface. People were drawn to it. Even at this hour on this day there was a small crowd around it staring at their own distorted reflections.

Wilson was not sure how long he'd been standing there when he heard the scream. He turned to find a young woman laying on the ground with blood dripping from her face. She either tripped over her feet, or slipped on some ice. Her friend stood over her screaming. They were both too drunk to be of any use in the situation. 

Chicago was one of the largest cities in North America, but it was still the Midwest, so people came to the woman's aid. Wilson could see that a tooth was missing from the normally pretty face, and he was inspired.

There was a wool cap in Wilson's jacket pocket. He put it on. There was also a pair of sunglasses from that ski trip to Vail. Despite the late hour he put those on, too. Finally he turned his collar up, and approached the injured woman. He politely moved people aside until he was kneeling next to the young woman. He took a look at the crowd. Among them was a young man who would rather film the bloody carnage with his phone than help. Bless him.

"Don't you worry about a thing," Wilson said to the injured woman. "We'll fix you right up."

Wilson checked to make sure the young man filming this had a clear shot, then he placed a hand on the young woman's face and summoned the swirly feeling. The scrapes and contusions healed, but that miracle was hidden by the blood that remained. The dramatic part of the process, the part that people would be talking about, was the tooth that grew back in place as people watched.

Wilson stood and stepped back. Everybody stared at him, including the formerly injured woman who was suddenly sober. Wilson gave the crowd a modest nod and began to walk away. The crowd followed, of course they did.

"Who are you?" several of them asked.

"Please, don't make a big deal about this." Wilson was always proud of his ability to fake humility. "I just want to be left alone."

He started jogging to distance himself from the crowd, but not too far. He slowly built up some speed, and the older and less fit began to trail off until it was just Wilson and the young man with the camera running down Michigan Avenue at full speed. The kid kept pace with Wilson, but could not match his incredible endurance and he too gave up the chase.

"Wait," the young man panted. "Who are you?"

Wilson stopped and turned around. The young man was still filming. Good boy. It was time to put a name to this new persona. Doctor Doctor? No, don't be ridiculous.

"I'm Hamilton Wylie."

He turned and ran off with a smile spreading across his face. Let the games begin.

It didn't take long. Roughly three hours later, Hamilton  was staring at himself healing the young woman's face on YouTube, then running and calling his name back to the cameraman. Hundreds of hits had occurred, and the number kept rising as he hit the refresh key on his laptop. Comments ranged from "it's for a new movie!" to "It's the messiah!" to "Shitty special effects man." But overall, he was a hit. 

Good, very good. People were talking and that was important when launching a new product. Whether or not people actually believed the video was not important at this point. There was buzz. Buzz was good.

The others could very easily put things together, of course. That was expected, even desirable in the case of three of them. It was the other one, Richard. No, not Richard... Dick. That was a more fitting name. Big Dick. He was a problem. It was clear from that creepy meeting that Dick's head was in the game, and that he intended to be ruthless. With any luck he would prove to be inept, but Hamilton didn't hold much hope.

He needed a plan, and he needed one quick. A scheme usually required months of planning. This time he had to think on his feet. He would need to be known, but unknown. The world should see his power without ever seeing his face, at least not until the time was right.

How on Earth could he pull that off? He would need access to a secretive, far reaching organization that operated outside of normal channels, and such things did not exist ready made.

Wait a minute.

The man who had become Hamilton Wylie smiled. Soon he was sitting in a dark booth making contact with just such an organization.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned... a lot."

"A lot?" Father Mitchell said. "Should I clear my calendar?"

"Actually, this should go pretty quick. Just a couple of talking points."

"Very well, tell me about your sins."

"Okay. Well, I guess my biggest sin is that I've made a career out of tricking people out of their money to the tune of several million dollars."

Father Mitchell stammered before collecting his wits. "MIllions? Oh dear, how many people are we talking about?"

"Several dozen. Probably more than a hundred."

"When you said you've sinned a lot you weren't exaggerating. We're not only talking about absolution with God. There is also the matter of restitution to your fellow man."

"Yeah, I'm not worried about either. I can make restitution, not necessarily monetarily, but I can definitely help people. As for God, I think he's already forgiven me, or at least he has set me on the road to absolution."

"A bold claim, and dangerously close to blasphemy in my opinion. What makes you believe God has already forgiven you?"

"He chose me."

"Oh dear," Father Mitchell said. "Let's be careful here. What do you mean, he chose you? Chose you for what?"

"Good question. He gave me the ability to heal people with just a touch, but I'm not sure why. You know, why me, why now. That's what I was hoping the church could help me with."

"Oh dear. This is more than we can handle here. I'm afraid you may need extensive counseling."

"I'm not delusional."

"I'm not saying that you are, but these are bold statements you're making."

"I can back them up. I healed somebody down in Millenium Park the other night. It's on the internet. Check it out."

"I'll do that, but can we make an appointment? I'd like to talk to you more in depth."

"I'd like that, but no appointments. I'll make contact with you, and I'd appreciate it if this just stayed between you and me for now.. Listen, this has been great. I'm looking forward to working with you, but I should be taking off."

Father Mitchell opened his mouth to speak, but he could see through the confessional lattice that the confessor had left. Poor man. Life can be so hard for the mentally ill. He mapped out a plan for their next meeting. He needed to get this man into the system so he could get some help.

From out in the nave Father Mitchell could here a woman scream, and he ran to investigate. He found Mrs. Ebersbacher among the pews standing tall and staring at him with clear eyes, neither of which she should have been able to do. The ancient woman had been bent over with osteoporosis for years, and her vision had been clouded by thick cataracts. Not only was there no longer any sign of either condition, she seemed generally robust and healthy. Father Mitchell and Mrs. Ebersbacher stared at one another.

"H-he said his name was Hamilton Wylie."

- - - - -

"This was three days ago?"

Father Mitchell nodded. "Yes, Archbishop."

"And he said he would make contact with you. Did he mean you specifically?"

"I don't believe so. I believe he was speaking of the church in general."

"Good, good, and how is the woman doing? Is she still well?"

"Yes, she is still the healthiest octogenarian you've ever met. She looks years younger."

"Fascinating, and how many other events have there been?"

"Three confirmed healings. There have been many reports from the last twenty-four hours, but we suspect most of them are spurious. This is becoming quite the phenomenon."

The two specialists from the Vatican spoke back and forth in Italian. That struck Father Mitchell as rude. They were both fluent in English.

"Every church in the diocese has been alerted to keep an eye out for this Hamilton Wylie, and to contact me immediately" the Archbishop said. "I should represent the church in this matter. You understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, if I should encounter him again, you will be the first to know."

"Thank you, James. Your cooperation is appreciated. Now, if you will excuse us we need to establish a strategy for this. Thank you for your time."

Father Mitchell nodded, left the office and let out the breath he had been holding. He couldn't be happier that his role was being marginalized by the brass. The sooner, the better. He left the Cathedral and went to an adjacent building where he roomed. Having lunch alone in his quarters should clear his head, but he would not have that chance.

A man sat in Father Mitchell's room in his chair next to the window reading the Bible. He didn't recognize the face, but he had a strong hunch who the man was.

"Interesting book," the man said. "I can't wait for the sequel."

The voice was familiar. "You are Hamilton Wylie."

"Sure. More or less." Hamilton placed the Bible down and smiled. "So, Father, how are things?"

"Things have been interesting because of you. There are some august individuals in the cathedral who would like to meet you. If you would just follow me..."

"Nope. Not good. I work with you and you alone for now. If you try to pawn me off on some mucky mucks, I swear I'll take this to the Protestants."

"Me? Why? There are so many others who have more resources."

"Exactly. Those characters don't need me so much. You, on the other hand, you need me. Besides, I've been doing my research. I like you, James. You're a hard working, nose the the grindstone type, and as far as I can tell you haven't touched any altar boys with your dick."

"Vulgar!"

"You're right. You're right. I'm sorry. That was uncalled for, but it does address one of my selling points. The church has taken a pummeling in the media these last few years. A bona fide miracle worker could do wonders for your organization."

Father Mitchell stood mute. He was out of his depth, and just wanted to go back to his duties.

"By the way, these august individuals you were telling me about. What are they saying about me? Good things?"

"All manner of things are being discussed. Most believe you are a sign from God."

"Most are saying that? What are the rest saying?"

"Well, there's been talk of fraud, but your work with Mrs. Ebersbacher has been very convincing. Her previous ills are well documented."

"So, I'm winning hearts and minds all over the place. Ain't that grand? Is there anyone talking me down? Any troublemakers?"

"Well, there is some fear that you might be a demoniacal presence."

"Ooh. Scary. Anything else? Don't pull punches. I can take it."

"There is some discussion that you may be the Anti-Christ."

Hamilton Wylie laughed. "Me? God, I hope not. I've never been a saint, but I'm not that guy. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've met the Anti-Christ recently. I'm not a fan."

"You're joking, of course."

"I hope so, but who knows?"

"I don't know what to make of any this. What do you want from me?"

"Just tell your guy with the fancy hat that your my go-between. See, I'm a little insecure right now, and I just need to feel like I have some control. All my business with the church goes through you. "

"What kind of business?"

"Well, I'll eventually have to go public with this, but not for a while. I want to keep doing good things, but I need a buffer between me and my enemies. I believe the church can serve that function for me."

"Enemies? What enemies?"

Hamilton Wylie smiled. "You might want to sit down for this."

The priest said very little during the retelling, merely sat across from Hamilton on a mean little bed, with his hands resting lightly on his thighs, eyes wide. The white collar looked very bright in the light of the rooms sole lamp, almost luminous. When Hamilton finally ended his tale, Father Mitchell cleared his throat gruffly, his voice when he spoke sounding hoarse and ill-used. 

"Randerawl?" 

"Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? RAN-de-rawl." 

"And he had some kind of deformity of the mouth?" 

"That is a very kind and generous way of describing something that will haunt my dreams forever."

Mitchell shook his head slowly, one large hand absently toying with the small crucifix dangling at the end of a rosary the priest had removed from an inner pocket. His fingers were blunt and thick, a bricklayers hands perhaps. Not the hands of a priest. 

"You understand that there really is no such thing as the Anti-Christ, yes?" He looked up at Hamilton, a wan smile on his face. "Some commentators, both ancient and modern, identify the Man of Sin in 2 Thessalonians chapter 2 as the Antichrist, even though they vary greatly in who they view the Antichrist to be.They argue that Paul used the term "Man of Sin", sometimes translated as Son of Perdition, or Man of Lawlessness, to describe what John identifies as the Antichrist."

Hamilton's smile revealed nothing. Mitchell surprised him. The Christians he was used to meeting didn't have the guts to actually study their faith. Cherry pick to justify existing prejudices, sure, but that was about it. Hamilton was getting a feel for this man. He could learn how to play him.

Mitchell looked down at his lap, at his hand worrying at the little silver icon of Jesus upon his tiny wooden cross, and carefully replaced the rosary back in his pocket. "There are references in Daniel as well, and the Jews have several anti-messanic figures in their holy writ. Whomever you met, whatever you met, I doubt it was the spawn of Satan." He kept looking at Hamilton's face, a question in his eyes that never quite made it to his lips. Outside  could be heard the low murmur of voices as another small group of the Church's live-in clergy headed towards their rooms.

"The Church," said Mitchell after a very long pause, "is probably a very bad place for you to be seeking your fame." 


The smile disappeared from Hamilton's face and he blanched. "Fame? Did you say fame?" Hamilton stood and paced as if he were agitated. He wasn't, but he was pretty sure he could sell it.

"That's what you think this is about? Fame? Listen, I'm cocky to a fault. I know that. I mean, I totally see how you would get that, but I'm here because I need your help. Maybe Satan and the Anit-Christ have nothing to do with this, but I've been through some things, seen some things, that have me scared."

His voice quivered just so on the word 'scared', He paused a moment to take pride in his craftsmanship... inwardly, of course.

"Father, I've seen visions of the end of the world. Maybe it was just Randerawl lying to me, but it might come true. I really think it will. Trust me, I'd like nothing more than to run and hide right now, but I don't seem to have that option. When I talked about going public it wasn't because I want fame. I've always avoided fame. What I said about going public was because we're going to need an army. There's four other people out there with strange abilities, and I don't know which side they're on. Do you hear what I'm saying? I can't do this alone. Father Mitchell, I need your help. Please help me. Please, please help me."

Hamilton was wild eyed and seemed on the edge of panic. If Mitchell was as sincere as he seemed he should offer succor to this poor lost sheep. 

"Mr Wylie, please, be seated." The priest gestured towards the chair Hamilton had just left. "I don't think I'm explaining myself very well, let me try once more." 

Hamilton nodded and sat. 

"It is obvious that there is something very unusual going on here, and that it centers on you. We cannot disregard the miracle that has rejuvenated Mrs. Ebersbacher and others in the congregation, and I have no doubt that you were involved. Nor do my superiors." He frowned a bit at that word, blinked, then sighed heavily. "Mr. Wylie, have you given consideration to how this might be handled by the Church? Particularly how you yourself will inevitably be seen by the faithful?" 

Hell yes I have!

"No, I can't say that I have. There's so much to think about. I haven't been able to land on any one thought for very long. That's one question I hope you can help me answer, and I'm so sorry about blowing up like that. Please, accept my apology. It's been a strange week."


There was a pause, and when the priest spoke again, he did so slowly, carefully picking each word. "My fear, Mr. Wylie, is that there are those who would interpret your ability as a sign of favor. That they would use you to gain favor and power, to put butts in seats, as it were." He looked down at his hands. "Don't get me wrong, Mr. Wylie. I am a man of faith, and my belief in God is as strong as it ever was, but my fear..." he let the words trail off, then took a deep breath and looked up, eyes locking on Hamiltons own. "My fear is that you would be flown as a banner of the Catholic church, a sign from God himself that we are chosen above all other religions. That our Word is the only Word." He paused again. "Can you imagine the harm that would cause, out there?" He waved a hand at his door. 

"I'm serious when I say there are others out there with strange abilities. They're making plans as we speak. People are going to unite behind them. You understand what I'm saying? The world is going to divide into factions. That's going to happen whether we take some kind of action or just sit on the sidelines. Wouldn't it be best for everyone if we became a force for good for people to rally around in dark times? If people come together when someone sees Jesus in a piece of toast just think of what we'll be able to do with genuine, provable, repeatable miracles. This is exactly the time to win hearts and minds, and I'm frankly surprised that you see this as a bad thing."

The priest was looking at him curiously, studying him. "Are you now. Surprised you say? Why is that, My Wylie?" Hamilton knew he'd screwed something up, tipped his hand. He'd spent years perfecting his skills at manipulating people, and he suddenly knew that this bumbling padre smelled a rat. 

"Of course I'm surprised. Listen, lots of things are coming together, and it's going to get to a point where everyone is scrambling to be on top and call the shots for the entire world. Don't you think the group who gets to that point should be an agent for peace. I'm really afraid that a whole lot of people are going to die, but maybe we can change that. Maybe we can save lives. Isn't that a good thing? Am I not being clear here? Things are going to get bad and we can do good."