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I knew I was the applesauce. And anyway, I didn’t want to start up any witch hunts.I constantly worked to improve my off-the-cuff improvisations, training my reflexes to chose which magical response to invoke, trying to overcome one of magic’s major limitations, which is how long it takes to cast. By having preset spells in my quiver so to speak, I could whip one out pretty darn fast, and adjust it on the fly to fit the exact circumstance. Of course, sometimes it just took time, so I decided to become more deadly as a back-up plan.Starting simple with the weapons training, first is knives, and there aren’t that many female blade masters. I got lucky, and found the best. Her training knives had tiny razor edges, that cut the skin and caused pain, but the cuts would heal in a few weeks or a month. She didn’t seem to mind if our post training writhing embrace was lubricated with my blood. It only stung a bit, added the spice of danger, and was interesting for awhile, -until I improved. It all just seemed so utterly pointless.He had been a hero once. Early in the Afghan War, Joint Special Operations Command had recruited soldiers with Jordan’s particular set of skills. He had been a talented 29-Echo – definitely not a Ranger type. But he was the best Bluesniper in the Army. So the people at Fort Sill gave him his E7 stripes. And then shipped him to Fort Belvoir.There, he got acquainted with the nerd branch of the Joint Special Operations Command. Jordan was probably the lamest Gray Fox in the history of JSOC. But the Taliban’s leadership was addicted to Bluetooth headsets. And Jordan could Bluesnarf those gadgets from two miles away -- not the 300 feet that everybody assumed. So his rare talent brought a few hundred tons of JDAMS down on the Evil Doers before they wised up.Jordan was no physical specimen – extremely tall and skinny with the shock of unkempt brown hair, lean face, high cheekbones and profound eyes of the classic intellectual. He had barely made it.
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