The boy emerges from beneath the shadow of the airship overhead, slipping behind the staircase. The envelope wedged between the cracks of the stonework stops him in his tracks. He slips out of his rocket harness and unfastens his head gear before he opens the letter.
Dear Master Mason,
We, the proprietors of Novem: The Muses Playhouse regret to inform you...
The letter falls into a puddle of acidic rain at his feet.
An Incubus can't be Sheriff. I'm going to have to take your badge back.
A jet of flame singes the edges of the paper that haven't yet darkened and blurred.
Even if I could separate the Science from the superstitious BABBLE in your equations your CONCLUSIONS are far too dangerous, doubly so if there's the slightest SHRED of truth in them!
The dial on his equipment quivers towards the red line as he barrels through cloud after cloud.
...and the Deadly Ringer incident proved it once and for all, Captain. The top brass doesn't even want to know how a demon got into the Capper Brigade, let alone why! Don't even bother to salute! Just take these discharge papers and GET THE HELL OUT!
He touches down in Steelhead. He walks straight ahead, never turning his gaze to the left as he passes the property that was once his.
If ever you find a situation that your Science or Magic cannot solve, you need only ask me for a wish...
Tears well inside his goggles as he closes the gate behind him and approaches the door of the farmhouse.