JOURNAL ENTRY – PHILIP HARROWFIELD // SEPT 17-SEPT 25, 2097

 

Sept 17 — Seattle
We didn’t go to LA.
We went home.

I told the others it was to “take care of business,” which is true — just not all of the truth. The itinerary’s a mess of obligations: Mount Rainier site inspection (progress: measurable, though the work crews look at me like they know I’m the reason the mountain isn’t eating them alive), check-ins with the labs, sit-down with Zara Coatl fresh from the Lost Continent, and the formal offer to my future father-in-law to leave Lone Star and take the post as medical officer. There’s the Brotherhood to probe — again. Mr. Black wanted a meeting, too. It's been too long since we shook hands.

But underneath the to-do list, I can feel the pull. Not in one direction — in three.

Philip Harrowfield — Aztechnology board member, the smiling executive, the good partner, the clean-cut public face — he’s drowning in meetings, memos, and public perception. The “Cheerful Philip” mask is... It's no longer a mask. It has become my face, or perhaps it always was?

TB — the Beast — is studying. Hoarding. Dreaming in sorcerous equations. Pulling threads of power from Velaxas himself, knowing full well it’s a bargain without a contract. The more TB feeds, the calmer the mountain becomes. Cause and effect? Or just two predators circling each other?

Wizkid… Wizkid’s stopped being just a noise in my head and a digital ghost in the Matrix. Blackwell’s robes fit him now. The old adolescent impulse-loop is breaking, replaced by something dangerous: self-direction. Velaxas chats him up between data heists. That version of the dragon is sly, curious — even funny. I don’t like how much Wiz likes him.

Some days, I wonder if this is mental illness with a better wardrobe. But then I remember: in the Awakened world, madness and metamorphosis are cousins. And whatever the nature of this transformation or its ultimate form, we are committed. There is no turning back now. There never was.

Sept 21 — Los Angeles, Public Concert
Back on the tour rails. LA was a riot in the best sense. Halo on a high stage, in front of millions on-site and online, tearing into the set like the old gods were watching. Pyro, AR dragons in the crowd, and enough sonic assault to shake the smog out of the basin.

Sept 22 — Los Angeles, Intimate Concert
No stage clothes. No stage. Just her. Wings unfurled, guitar in hand, voice like a confession. The simsense feed was pure vulnerability, equal parts ache and solace. People cried. People prayed. Some probably converted on the spot.

Sept 23 — Seattle
Back again, and this time with a decision.

The Brotherhood won’t be razed to the ground — not yet. Halo’s going to try something else: subversion. She’ll make it hers, bending the structure to her will until it’s less cult and more congregation. In parallel, Wizkid’s combed through their networks and flagged 1,700 “problematic” members for… further handling. Quiet investigations, selective removals.

And if that fails? We still have the old plan in the drawer — the one with the armed conflict and the mass destabilization. The sword in the stone, waiting for someone to pull it free.

I... that sword. I've dreamt of it, but forgotten. It means... something, but I don't know what. But I will.