Oracle
Chapter 1—Great Discovery
Utano Amaya
'I don't get it' the thought ran through my head, 'I just don't get it.' Not that I ever get much of anything. Normally, I just have to hop into things completely clueless because it's always my stupid responsibility to fix other people's messes. Why? Well, because I'm the mediator. Actually, maybe not "the", considering Father Dom, the local Catholic priest and principle of my high school, and Jack, this kooky little kid I baby-sat earlier this summer, and maybe Paul, the kid's older brother, but even after everything I've been through with that guy I'm not sure about him. Anyway, I've met a lot of people, and those are the only other mediators I know.
Oh, yeah. The mediator thing. Well, a mediator is someone who can see and hear and touch dead people, like ghosts and stuff. But no one else can, which can kinda make the job a little harder, because mediators are supposed to clean up these dead peoples messes which they stupidly left behind before they died. Seriously, you'd be surprised at some of the dorky things these people hang around for. It's crazy, the stuff they make me do sometimes. I mean, seriously, from sneaking into all sorts of places to chasing ugly orange cats in a field, I really think I should get paid for this, or at least get, like superstrength or the ability to see through things (like clothes, for instance) or something. But you wanna know the only thing that comes with this whacko "gift" I've been given?
I'm hard to kill.
That's it. That's all I get. I'm hard to kill. Unfortunately, the only way to discover this gift is to be in many near death situations. Which, by the way, I have been.
And all I wanted was a date.
And now, because of my lovely talent, I was getting into trouble again. Don't ask me why that crazy old guy wanted me to do this. I think the guy was so serious during life that he figured he should leave this world laughing, so he decided to put me through torture for kicks. It was the only explanation I could come up with.
Anyway, here I was, reading this book. I don't mean sitting in a library turning pages, I mean I was in this huge protection suit with gloves that made me feel like I would fit in well with the gang on a NASA shuttle, turning -- with the greatest of care -- the pages of this book that I guess was really old. I guess that because it was so old might just crumble or something, which is why I had wear the stupid outfit while coming in contact with it. I think Dr. Clemmings is just a bit eccentric when it comes to this history stuff.
In fact, I think Dr. Clemmings really needs to move on, like now, because he has been annoying the heebie jeebies out of me. First the only reason he was hanging around was because he didn't know he was dead. He went around the museum where he worked, confused at why no one could see him, and then he heard his secretary tell some people one the phone that he was dead, and he came to me for confirmation. I confirmed, telling him that he had died of a heart attack (which, by the way, had been caused by a ghost who was trying to kill him because he knew that she had murdered someone like a century and a half ago, she also wanted to kill me for the same reason, but as I said, I'm really hard to kill.) and that he should try to concentrate on getting wherever it is ghosts go after they die. Well, now that he was all sure he was dead, he was more than happy to. Only, he found, he couldn't. He said he couldn't because "all this ghost stuff" had suddenly learned made him very curious, so he wanted to learn more, and he wanted me to help him.
So I was stuck looking through this old book written by some old dead culture about people who are supposed to communicate with the deceased. The lost race business sounds like a bunch of bull to me. I guess this book was translated from some old stuff on rocks a long time ago, and no one knows what happened to the rocks, nor has there been any other records of that type of writing or that race of people. I think it seems a bit to "Atlantis", but for some reason skeptic Clemmings spent a good portion of his life trying to figure it out. And now he thinks that Mediators might have originally come from these people. He said that they were around so long ago that by now, if one of them lived and married somebody from another race, than most of humanity would have their blood, if only a very tiny piece. And that in some people the ability of this people would become prominent, resulting in psychics and mediators.
Like I care.
I read the book aloud to him. I wasn't sure why he didn't just do this himself, I mean, he's dead. It's not he's going to make the book fall apart. In fact, he probably had the best chance of turning those pages without having any effect on them. Oh yeah, I forgot, he wanted to leave this world laughing at me.
"What does it say Miss Simon? What does it say?" He was jumping around and talking like an excited schoolboy waiting for Christmas presents.
"Down, boy" I said, not bothering to look up at him as I skimmed the pages. "It pretty much says that there are people among us who aren't alive anymore and that until they do what was left undone they will stay locked in this world for eternity. Nothing new there."
"Please! Is there anymore? I know there was more."
"Hold your-" I stopped telling Dr. Clemmings to shut up in mid sentence, and looked at the page in front of me. The words were different...they said something that I didn't know about my job, or at least didn't understand.
"The power of our people," I read aloud so that Dr. Clemmings would hear, "is rare and strange and holds much more than is obvious. A person who holds this power can become like the dead, though they themselves are not a spirit. The world of purgatory is open to them, but each person's path to capacity is different. Finding the path takes work, but it is found the same way for everyone. Matter can mean nothing to you; distance can be traveled quickly, instantly. And if absolutely necessary spirits can come to life again to fulfill their duties. But these secrets are for our people alone and therefor shall not be written of more than they have been."
My breath caught in my throat. Two people suddenly came to mind. Paul, and someone else, someone who had been waiting for this for one hundred and fifty years.
~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~
AN: I was bored so I thought, "Why not write a Mediator fic?" I really don't know where this is going, but I think it's one of those things that surprises everyone, including the author. Well...I hope you like it so far. This is a total boredom thing, so it might be a while before the next part comes out...sorry. Also, this was typed in word, so there's a lot of italics in there that I was too lazy to mark any other way, that you can't see now...
Chapter 1—Great Discovery
Utano Amaya
'I don't get it' the thought ran through my head, 'I just don't get it.' Not that I ever get much of anything. Normally, I just have to hop into things completely clueless because it's always my stupid responsibility to fix other people's messes. Why? Well, because I'm the mediator. Actually, maybe not "the", considering Father Dom, the local Catholic priest and principle of my high school, and Jack, this kooky little kid I baby-sat earlier this summer, and maybe Paul, the kid's older brother, but even after everything I've been through with that guy I'm not sure about him. Anyway, I've met a lot of people, and those are the only other mediators I know.
Oh, yeah. The mediator thing. Well, a mediator is someone who can see and hear and touch dead people, like ghosts and stuff. But no one else can, which can kinda make the job a little harder, because mediators are supposed to clean up these dead peoples messes which they stupidly left behind before they died. Seriously, you'd be surprised at some of the dorky things these people hang around for. It's crazy, the stuff they make me do sometimes. I mean, seriously, from sneaking into all sorts of places to chasing ugly orange cats in a field, I really think I should get paid for this, or at least get, like superstrength or the ability to see through things (like clothes, for instance) or something. But you wanna know the only thing that comes with this whacko "gift" I've been given?
I'm hard to kill.
That's it. That's all I get. I'm hard to kill. Unfortunately, the only way to discover this gift is to be in many near death situations. Which, by the way, I have been.
And all I wanted was a date.
And now, because of my lovely talent, I was getting into trouble again. Don't ask me why that crazy old guy wanted me to do this. I think the guy was so serious during life that he figured he should leave this world laughing, so he decided to put me through torture for kicks. It was the only explanation I could come up with.
Anyway, here I was, reading this book. I don't mean sitting in a library turning pages, I mean I was in this huge protection suit with gloves that made me feel like I would fit in well with the gang on a NASA shuttle, turning -- with the greatest of care -- the pages of this book that I guess was really old. I guess that because it was so old might just crumble or something, which is why I had wear the stupid outfit while coming in contact with it. I think Dr. Clemmings is just a bit eccentric when it comes to this history stuff.
In fact, I think Dr. Clemmings really needs to move on, like now, because he has been annoying the heebie jeebies out of me. First the only reason he was hanging around was because he didn't know he was dead. He went around the museum where he worked, confused at why no one could see him, and then he heard his secretary tell some people one the phone that he was dead, and he came to me for confirmation. I confirmed, telling him that he had died of a heart attack (which, by the way, had been caused by a ghost who was trying to kill him because he knew that she had murdered someone like a century and a half ago, she also wanted to kill me for the same reason, but as I said, I'm really hard to kill.) and that he should try to concentrate on getting wherever it is ghosts go after they die. Well, now that he was all sure he was dead, he was more than happy to. Only, he found, he couldn't. He said he couldn't because "all this ghost stuff" had suddenly learned made him very curious, so he wanted to learn more, and he wanted me to help him.
So I was stuck looking through this old book written by some old dead culture about people who are supposed to communicate with the deceased. The lost race business sounds like a bunch of bull to me. I guess this book was translated from some old stuff on rocks a long time ago, and no one knows what happened to the rocks, nor has there been any other records of that type of writing or that race of people. I think it seems a bit to "Atlantis", but for some reason skeptic Clemmings spent a good portion of his life trying to figure it out. And now he thinks that Mediators might have originally come from these people. He said that they were around so long ago that by now, if one of them lived and married somebody from another race, than most of humanity would have their blood, if only a very tiny piece. And that in some people the ability of this people would become prominent, resulting in psychics and mediators.
Like I care.
I read the book aloud to him. I wasn't sure why he didn't just do this himself, I mean, he's dead. It's not he's going to make the book fall apart. In fact, he probably had the best chance of turning those pages without having any effect on them. Oh yeah, I forgot, he wanted to leave this world laughing at me.
"What does it say Miss Simon? What does it say?" He was jumping around and talking like an excited schoolboy waiting for Christmas presents.
"Down, boy" I said, not bothering to look up at him as I skimmed the pages. "It pretty much says that there are people among us who aren't alive anymore and that until they do what was left undone they will stay locked in this world for eternity. Nothing new there."
"Please! Is there anymore? I know there was more."
"Hold your-" I stopped telling Dr. Clemmings to shut up in mid sentence, and looked at the page in front of me. The words were different...they said something that I didn't know about my job, or at least didn't understand.
"The power of our people," I read aloud so that Dr. Clemmings would hear, "is rare and strange and holds much more than is obvious. A person who holds this power can become like the dead, though they themselves are not a spirit. The world of purgatory is open to them, but each person's path to capacity is different. Finding the path takes work, but it is found the same way for everyone. Matter can mean nothing to you; distance can be traveled quickly, instantly. And if absolutely necessary spirits can come to life again to fulfill their duties. But these secrets are for our people alone and therefor shall not be written of more than they have been."
My breath caught in my throat. Two people suddenly came to mind. Paul, and someone else, someone who had been waiting for this for one hundred and fifty years.
~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~+*+~~
AN: I was bored so I thought, "Why not write a Mediator fic?" I really don't know where this is going, but I think it's one of those things that surprises everyone, including the author. Well...I hope you like it so far. This is a total boredom thing, so it might be a while before the next part comes out...sorry. Also, this was typed in word, so there's a lot of italics in there that I was too lazy to mark any other way, that you can't see now...