Over the years, I've collected a lot of stuff. Stuff is about as descriptive I can about my collection's entirety, because my stash varies quite a bit more than the trinkets your grandma has tucked away in shoeboxes and musty closets. Packed beside my more mundane memories - photographs, newspaper clippings, love letters, scars, and the like - are an array of supernatural artifacts, some dating back to long before even I was born. Some, I found by myself, either by pure happenstance or through projects I pursued to entertain myself: bottomless bags, instant fertilizer, temporary luck charms, and other more or less useless knick-knacks. But the true treasures, sources of real power and change, were entrusted to me for safe keeping.

Everyone has a reputation, something the world at large defines them as. For mortals, these tend to be flimsy, subjective representations of their person: Jim makes jokes instead of dealing with anything, Rebecca never minds her own business, Sam makes a fantastic grilled cheese. Immortals, however, have legacies. To some, the ones who've heard stories about me, Alessia accumulates and protects magic and its vessels. Anything that needs me, finds me.

Magic is a fickle force, and although it can easily be exploited when in the wrong hands, it has its own mysterious consciousness and goals. Few actually stop and listen to its arcane voice, deciding instead to manipulate it for their own gain. Having learned this in the most personal way possible (that witch obviously didn't pour nectar down my throat out of the goodness of her heart), I decided to dedicate myself to protecting my ever-growing collection of magical artifacts. The nectar thrumming through my veins makes listening to and being the voice of magic simple. The power I have stashed away tells me who should wield it, when, and for what purpose.

Today, I felt a fluttering beneath the skin of my ears and hands, the usual indicator that there's something I need to hear and do. The thoughts being nudged into my brain whisper fragments about energy and immortals, giving me an idea of where I need to start looking, but the rest is up to me. The bigger something is, the harder it is for the forces that be to articulate it; judging by how vague the tips I've gotten so far are, this something has massive ramifications.

Being immortal definitely changes your perception. You look at things from the long view. Not so much “what’ll I do this weekend” as “where do I picture myself in 20 years.” A hyper-developed sense of patience becomes your baseline.

At least that’s how it’s been for me for over 150 years. Now things are different. The nectar shortage and the conclave of other immortals all being drawn to the same place at the same time have shortened my view. I’m engaging in social activities more than ever, going to every night of the Winter Festival events, even attending an underground robot fight (I’ve seen worse). It’s like I can’t see past next week, and trying to jam everything into the “now.”

Is this what it’s like for all the non-immortal types? It’s been so long I don’t remember. It’s kind of exciting, living each day like it will be your last, but I’d really like not to make a habit of it. What’s an immortal girl to do?

Dad and I had a talk. I led my trusty band of warriors (that is, my crewmates from the Psyhigh rowing team) over the cliff tops in full view, and though we were quickly met by my father's animal-headed men-at-arms, his whispered LET THEM COME UNTO ME boomed so loudly that we were all driven to our knees.

We were brought before the massive throne, and looked up at my massive father. He really didn't used to be so big. I mean, he was always bigger than me, but just businessman sized. How did he grow so large? So towering? Like a building. Was this his true form? Also, he was always a little paunchy. Here, he was fit, and trim, and strong, as if he was a giant statue made of onyx. Like a god.

We waited. Cringing a little in anticipation of that huge booming voice.

"Hi dad!" I called, hoping he could hear me with head so high, the waters of the river Na crashing over the half-finished dam behind us.

No answer. This was awkward.

I approached the throne, and the guards didn't stop me. His foot was the size of a small car. And as hard as one. I knocked on it. Then I sized up the throne and started climbing. Between his raiments and his crook and flail there was plenty to grab onto. I made it to his shoulder in no time.

"SON"

Ok he wasn't talking, but his words boomed into my head, telepathy style.

"Hi dad."

His head didn't move. His nose didn't flare. He didn't seem to breathe. But the tiniest corner of his eye seemed to twitch in my direction.

"DRINK FROM THE RIVER, SON. THE NECTAR IS ALL OURS. ALL HOURS."

My dad had always been ambitious, but not like crazy "control the source of all immortality and keep it to ourselves" ambitious. More like "do really good in school so you can be president of the company one day" ambitious. What was going on?

"Yeah... about that. You used to say that the Nectar economy was a perfectly self regulating market from which everyone benefited. Why take control of it? What's to gain? We were already immortal..."

"GODS WILL BE GODS, SON. I HAVE BEEN INHABITED BY A GREAT SPIRIT. IT HAS GREAT THIRSTS. IT MUST DRINK. DRINK WITH US AND BECOME ONE."

Ah, ok. So maybe this wasn't quite "dad."

I’ve got one of the best Nectar Witches in the business trying to locate the Ambrosia Aquifer and even she’s coming up empty. Never seen anything like it she says. Been watching her all day with her dowsing rods, pendulums, and set of twigs from the Tree of Immortality and she’s got nothin. Bupkiss! She’s havin a cigarette and scratching her head and calling the head of the local dowsing union to discuss. And I’m tryin to figure out what to tell these vendors and customers about when they’ll have the nectar back when I don’t have an answer. Some of them are looking pretty desperate and I am frankly concerned as to my personal safety. Letting all calls go to voice mail is a start.

Ray, Service Tech Level III
The Grand and Ancient Secret Society of Immortal Plumbers

So we sat it out. Me, sitting on the giant stone foot of my dad/god whatever, and my crew, sitting on the ground, surrounded by animal-headed guards with curved swords.

There wasn't much to do. We listened to the rushing waters of the River Na as it poured over the dam as it was being built. We listened to the calls of the slaves as they attempted to slide more stones into the dam. We listened to their task masters' whips, and we listened to their shouts of joy when they got a stone into place, and we listened to their screams when the rushing water won, water and stone and screaming slaves falling into the churning water below. Mostly we heard the crashing and the screaming.

The guards wouldn't let my crew leave, and apparently my dad was waiting for me to drink from the river, or officially agree to be on his side, or something. I had an uneasy feeling that drinking from the river was going to be more than just refreshing. I already drank the Nectar whenever I felt the need--it was the ambrosia that kept me and all my kin immortal. But this close to the source... it certainly didn't look the same. The Nectar as provided to us was always amber in color, and a little thick. Here it was clear, and sparkly.

Maybe that was it? Did my father drink from the river here, at its source, and it somehow transformed him into this giant of a man, as hard and still as stone? And this army of soldiers and slaves... Where did they come from? It's like a cast of thousands from a new Mummy remake. Not really my dad's style at all.

I'd been spending hours contemplating all this, laying on the great stone left foot of my father, daydreaming, doodling in Etruscan, sliding off the foot, looking at all sides of it. Was it truly living stone? A massive block of onyx brought to life? I studied it and found a seam, a straight line where two stones met. I pulled out my keys, attached to my trusty keychain. I'd mentioned that part of our family specialized in ancient weapons--the kind you need to perform the delicate and complex ritual of taking the life of a fellow immortal? It was a birthday present from a few years back--a miniature Katar. Tiny, but the real thing, and made of the right metals and infused with the right spells. I'd been using it as a bottle opener.

Carefully, I slid it into the seam between the stones of my father's foot....

When it rains it pours! What does that even mean? In this case it means that what started as a small increase in the trickle of Ambrosia through the secret ether plumbing of the world suddenly erupted into a firehose. All the recently cleaned out pipes and optimized flow paths I’ve been working on over the past few weeks exploded like we’d struck oil. Geysers and gushers of Nectar shooting out through every utility sink and horchata dispenser at every mystic bodega in town. They’re catching it in buckets and hats and everything else they can find to store it up, freezing it or making it into gazpacho or just putting it in big barrels. No idea if this big flow is the normal or what, but nobody’s taking any chances.

So, looks like my work is done? But do I get a thanks from anybody? Much less a tip? Nobody respects immortal plumbers anymore.

Ray, Service Tech Level III
The Grand and Ancient Secret Society of Immortal Plumbers

When the slow trickles of nectar became gushing waterfalls, the world instantly became a brighter place! Not just because all of us immortals were no longer in immediate danger of gradually turning to dust and blowing away one granule at a time, but nectar literally illuminates everything around it! It sends sparkles dancing across the walls and through my vision, spinning and spinning and spinning! The old muted, amber glow has been replaced by brilliantly clear flashes of light! Extended life is no longer slow and burdensome, but energetic and vivacious! Ever since my first sip, I can feel every atom of my being swirling around inside of me, begging to be free and free and free! Stop rationing your supplies and drink freely, and taste immortality as it was always meant to be! Join us! Join us! Join us!

The longer immortals have been around, the more nectar they need to drink daily in order to sustain their life force. Although my four hundred odd years sound like an eternity to mortals, I generally only need one warm mug of nectar a day to stay sane, even with my abnormally fast metabolism. With the recent shortages, however, I've been subsisting on a shot glass's worth only when my energy starts lagging, so hearing that nectar had suddenly started pouring from fountains and spigots was a welcome relief. Within seconds I had rounded up every dented pot and pan I own, mundane and magical alike, and rushed to the nearest source of aqua vitae.

It wasn't hard to find. In fact, I didn't even have to look; sparkling nectar was leaking from the pores of bricks and the eyes of stone statues, swirling in ornate bird baths and quaint koi ponds, and cascading down from the peaks of roofs and cracks within pillars. I positioned smaller containers under the minor drips and flows, and then raised my pewter cauldron above my head to capture the nectar waterfall pouring from a rather large hole in the wall, suddenly energized by the endless stream of liquid life. When the rim began to overflow, I eased the pot down and gazed longingly into it...

...and gasped. The glimmering reflection looking back at me was a polluted representation of myself. The imposter was wearing my face, but stared with strikingly red eyes and a grinned with a mouth teeming with fangs. In a saccharine voice, it sang, "Join us! Join us! Jooooooin us!" My immediate instincts were a tangled mess, as the sparkling nectar and the devilish figure were both enticing and revolting, and my parched throat and soul cried for me to drink, drink, drink. My grip on the heavy cauldron began to waver, and then violently shake, as if my entire being was rejecting the shimmering liquid in my hands. The pot crashed to the ground, spraying a wave of nectar across the pavement, and I sprinted back to the sanctuary of my dorm.

I still don't know how I resisted. Maybe it was my relatively young age, or the mystical forces I've been acutely attuned to for years. Or maybe it was just pure luck, muscle failure from holding pounds of pewter above my head just moments before. All I know for sure it that the clear, sparkling fluid seeping from every orifice on campus is not pure nectar, but rather a corrupted imitation. I need to find its source, to understand how and why this dilution is circulating, but I'm already so weak. I only have a few glass bottles of true nectar left in storage, and my rationing will have to be far more restrictive in order to make it last. Soon, I will start wasting away, losing my mind, body, and soul in bits and pieces, and from that there is no return.

An immortal plumber's work is never done. As soon as we get the pipes working again, people start complaining about the Nectar quality. "It's just rust," we told them. "Perfectly natural to let 'em flush out a bit." And it's true. You know, when you go on vacation and come back home and turn on the shower and it comes out blood? You just gotta let that run and it clears itself out.

But the calls kept coming, so they sent me back to check it out. I've got my metaphysical turbidimeters, psychic drop count titration meters, and Rancho McDervish, a Nectar-tasting goblin the head office sent along. I'm supposed to keep him on a leash, but he'd just pull and pull and make me drop all these test tubes, and we can't have that.

We'll be talking samples over the next few days. In the meantime, we suggest boiling your Nectar for 30 minutes in a rare earth magnetic alembic before drinking, and serve with a slice of lemon.

Ray, Service Tech Level III
The Grand and Ancient Secret Society of Immortal Plumbers

I've spent the last month recovering in bed at home. The flood waters--unleashed by the collapse of the great god of living stone when I pried its foot apart--washed everything downstream in a tsunami of ambrosia. Rocks, slaves, animal-headed troops, as well as me and my crew from the Psyhigh rowing team, tossed and tumbled down the underground river's course. My crew and I landed on the banks of the River Na in the cavern beneath my family's home. Thankfully we're all expert swimmers.

But, while we were able to free the river from its unnatural blockage, my crew and I are unwell. We were bathed in the ambrosia as we were caught in its wave, and no doubt swallowed great amounts of it. Our family doctors were brought in--ancient experts in immortal medicine--and stood by our bedsides, checking their arcane instruments and whispering to each other. At first their diagnosis was overdose, that we had been exposed to such great quantities of the purest nectar and our bodies and souls couldn't take it. But now it seems that there was something in the water, a previously unknown pathogen. I didn't mention my father's role in this mess. No need to bring that up until I understand it myself. Could the spirit that possessed him be the source of this sickness? And now it's infected the ambrosia?

Our symptoms have been weakness, dizziness, and an inability to focus. Generally it's a feeling of not being ourselves. I look into the Chinese Magic Mirror presented by the doctors--polished bronze that reflects our true selves--and I don't understand what I see staring back. My eyes glow red, my teeth are sharp... I don't know who it is, but the more I stare into it, the more I start to smile? It's so enticing to become someone else, someone who can leave all my earthly worries behind, someone who embraces all my forbidden tendencies, someone who lives for hunger, and for power, and for control...

AH. I FEEL MUCH BETTER NOW.