All of them were dead—every single one. I vowed revenge, just as I had vowed to protect them with everything I had. Broken promises are a powerfully destructive force. My options were to seek the catharsis of revenge, or let the broken shards of my promise inside me grind around and tear me apart.

I had a secret. One that I had vowed never to use unless I was in danger of burning myself out in a single del swoop. I knew they were dead, in a funny little ironic way that only healing magic could provide. I knew exactly what was wrong, how they had died, and that I could do nothing about it. As I ran into the forest clearing where they had been about to set up camp—they were experts at setting up camp now, or at least, had been—I had just enough presence of mind to know they were gone. One advantage of being a healer for so long is the ability to let go, even if it hurts. But it was a good thing that it did hurt. In the same way a slap to the face, a bucket of cold water, or touching a hot stove could wake you up, the hurt of a sudden loss caused me to become more alert, ready to fight, or run, and then fight.

Ever since the world rediscovered magic, technology has been pretty much useless. In fact, the resurgence of magic had caused most tech to melt or lock up, and was what had caused the first apocalypse. Monsters of our own making still roamed the world, augmented by breeding programs, gene hacking, and K’r{inaudible} knows what else. They survived the environmental hazards much better than we did at first. My parents had been monster hunters, which was what had originally spurred me to seek out magic. A world run by angels and demons and artificial intelligence in tandem made for a cruel master. But I still, despite being a strong user of magic, took precautions to preserve a few choice pieces of technology.

I’d found my holo-goggles in an underground bunker my grandfather had insisted on making, still shrink-wrapped in the original packaging. You could always tell where the crazy nutters like him had lived, because sticking out from the slag would be a huge concrete cube at a funny angle, often still with the burned and twisted remains of a bombed-out house bolted on to the top. Bless him, but I do miss him. Zombies would have been almost easier to deal with than all of everything we eventually did end up with.

I shook myself out of my thoughts and pulled the goggles out of their special protective hidden pocket in the backpack I always wore beneath my cloak. I couldn’t use them long, because the background radiation—both magical and classic-style—would do enough damage even if I didn’t magnify it. So I held very still, slowing my breathing in an almost meditative exercise as I pulled them out in a fluid motion, held them to my face, and scanned the area. I spotted the tracks I needed and committed them to memory, then continued the follow-through of my practiced motion, tucking the glasses back into their pouch and reseating the weight of my bag. A minute of slow calm, maybe five seconds of controlled movement, and then it was over. When I move too fast, parts of me turn clear. When I’m in a heightened emotional state, I can slip and suddenly that limb or digit is filled with glowing golden power. Unhelpful unless I intend to use it, especially so if I’m near technology I don’t intend to damage.

Moar?