There was always fear, slithering underneath their eyelids whenever they closed their eyes and chose to sleep, that their dream could change everything.
Of course, that would be too easy. They'd have to get up, sleepwalk, release whatever was inside their head into the clay, steel, concrete, wood. But what if they would one day actually start to sleepwalk? What then?
What if they didn't need all those silly things like materials to spill out everything inside them?
There was a story about a man who sculpted things in his dreams - he dreamt he sculpted but at the same time he never moved from his bed. Story says he killed millions not knowing what he did. It was just a story, passed from one artist to another but stories need to be born somewhere. They heard whispers about similar things happening, from time to time. Réunion was buzzing with a similar story, for a while. It happened when someone who never dealt in written word chose to write. and how they drowned.
They resisted the urge to chuck their phone out of the window, just so they woudn't hear those stories ever again. Cutting off everybody was easier.

It is currently unknown what is the source of reality-warping abilities of people classified as "anomalous artists". In case of anart affecting the viewer mentally, the source is suspected to be mystical and/or memetical, as many pieces of art rely on perception and ability to connect facts by the viewer - amount of knowledge and general level of intelligence are often crucial for artwork to affect the viewer.
It's still not known, though, how pieces that defy laws of physics or thaumaturgy come to existence and what is source of their anomalous capabilities.

It was exhilarating, sinking into the carpet slithering between their feet and feeling themself let go. Later they would sculpt shapes into the pillow they slept on and feel those shapes crawl underneath their head as they tried to sleep.
In the morning they would water their succulents. They would watch their forms, the way light of the rising sun fell through a half-translucent surfaces, their fingers digging into the earth.
Later they would pass by the warehouse and avoid scavengers and urbex fans, high on graffiti fumes overflowing from the inside, pigments dizzying and attracting more and more of them. Once there were crowds sticking to the walls, inhaling uncontrollably imaginary cocaine. They were nearly all gone today, surprisingly.
During the night, they would dream and in the morning they would feel they could make their dream a reality with just a movement of their hand. It was a dizzying sensation, a truly powerful one, exhilarating, intoxicating, one they were growing sick of.

This type of process of anartwork creation is often described in metaphorical ways, presenting the activity of creating art with means of another, seemingly unrelated, activity or line of thoughts. There is no correlation between artists' mental visualization and ways the anomalous art is created: the images presented in those visualizations most likely do not depend on medium used.

They knew that whatever was in them was bursting at the seams. They ached to turn their chisel to their skin, to let whatever was inside out, but they knew it wouldn't work like this. Their hands were the only means of lowering that internal pressure, but there was either lack of time or lack of own skill.
Even when they sculpted, be it clay or folds of material of their dress when they were sitting at the balcony, it was never enough. They wondered if it was stress turning their body against them or was it really a thing they couldn't control at all. They never could pinpoint when their work slipped from their own hands into the hands of something else, if such a moment ever existed.
Glances sent by their roommate were no longer worried but annoyed. They wished they could explain what was going on, but they weren't sure if they knew anymore. And anyway, they tried explaining enough times. It never worked.

What still remains to be discovered is how anartists avoid the exposure to the effects of their own work. Generally interviewed anartists note that a creator should know their own work well enough to avoid it, but in most cases artists express confusion and lack of understanding of the mechanism. Some acknowledge the fact that they don't know what their art really does before exposing the viewers to it, but often in those cases, works do not present a significant hazard.
If art is supposed to have a certain effect, though, anartists generally note that the desired effect, be it on viewer or on reality, is what drives the creation process.

For now they abandoned the dreams completely. They never dreamt after taking meds, so they resorted to that. Just in case, they tied one of their legs to the bed. Their roommate mocked them for that, but they didn't care. Before sleeping, they trembled, helplessly allowing chemicals to shut their eyes.
They were a wreck and they knew that. Stomach cramps, irregular periods, even hair loss. They wondered if this was the price of art in their case - you never get amazing powers of creating things out of thin air that rebel against all laws of nature and physics without a payment of some sorts, right? Or maybe they just did something wrong and needed help. Or both.
They watered their succulents in the morning, trying to ignore the sunrise and tugging feeling at their eyelids. They felt that their paranoia was somehow justified but couldn't quite explain how did that work.
They sculpted scales in a smooth surface, trying to pour all their panic into intricate patterns but they knew it wouldn't be enough in the long run. For now, though, there was a bit of relief here, in clay dust on the floor and callouses on their fingers.

Most often repeated notion during creation process is a sentiment of being out of control, artists noting that their activities are guided or even straight out directed by some uncontrollable force, described very often with a term of "Flow".
The term is, most likely, derived from a psychological state in which one is fully immersed and involved in a certain activity, characterized by loss of sense of space and time.

They woke up lying in the hallway, their fingers covered in clay. They scrambled up with a scream, waking their roommate up. She was considerate enough to let them collapse in her arms and to soothe them with gentle whispers, Sam, Sam, hey, it will be okay, it was just a bit of sleepwalking, don't worry…
She never laughed at them again.

Most of anartists using the "Flow" methodology mention a sense of contentment, feelings of exhilaration or satisfaction, but some interviewed note at least one case in which the reverse also happened - from a sensation of dissatisfaction to outright fury.
Emotions of the anartists may but do not have to affect the outcome of their work, but some interviewed anartists note it can make creation process easier.

They stared at their phone and the countless texts from some folks they knew. They deleted all of them. Then, they lied down on the floor and fell asleep, body too tired to follow whims of the mind.
Regardless, their hands still worked clay while in their dreams they sunk deeper and deeper and wondered briefly what would happen if they drowned before waking up.

In extremely rare cases, it is noted that the process of creation and affecting the viewer is reversed. The changed order has been observed too rarely, though, to be effectively analysed and for proper research to be carried out. It is notable that most of anartists interviewed do not have any knowledge regarding it.

Anton Legler stared at the slowly burning canvas lying on his kitchen's floor. Their smell was more intoxicating than an itch for a cigarette he still felt after so many years of dropping the habit. There was a sensation of relief, watching threads and paint get slowly swallowed by flames. He could always salvage them, but this, this brought him so much more satisfaction.
He heard a knock. For once someone noticed that doorbell wasn't working. He glanced at the watch. It was almost midnight, who the hell would arrive this late anyway? Yang rarely came at this hour but she usually called beforehand, and who else would be here to visit?
There was a brief thought that maybe somebody in the end got interested in him again, so, just in case, he took a potato peeler, dipped it in some cyan paint and put it in his pocket. Dada never made a great weapon, but was definitely useful in urgent situations.
It turned out it was all for nothing, as he was greeted by a girl. Well, a young adult woman, technically, but she looked young enough. Only her expression belied her age.
"Do I know you?" He always was proud of the fact he had a good memory for surnames and faces but this person? No, he never saw her in his classes, he'd for sure remember someone of this posture and way of standing.
"No," She replied. "But you are a Sam Adams' teacher, and you deal in weird shit."
Her bluntness stunned him for a second, but he nodded. Sam Adams, a known name, he wanted to invite them to his little lessons but he didn't see them on campus in months. He never heard if anything had happened to them, but even before their disappearance they looked rather bad. A thought that he should reach out maybe and ask if everything was alright crossed his mind just before their disappearence.
"They need help."
She took a few steps back. On the hallway's floor was sitting Sam. They rised their head and smiled weakly. They looked even worse than last time Legler saw them. He noted their paleness, too thin limbs and dark circles under their eyes.
With a sigh, Legler opened the door wider.

It's theorized that as the viewer in this case is the source of anomalous effect, the artist is working around reality perceived by the viewer. The inability of artists to perceive what the viewer's sensations are does not work in favor of this theory, as anomalous artists, despite their name, are rarely anomalous entities themselves.

They vomited chunks of concrete and wood onto the kitchen floor. Before they could draw a breath in, more wood followed, this time covered in layer of dark paint. And again, more concrete and wet clay. Even in the darkness one could see that those were now mixed with blood. Probably some splinters from wood damaged their throat or esophagus.
Legler watched, waiting. He winced when bloodied screws clinked against the tiles.
"Typical overflow." He noted, when it seemed like they threw up everything. They were still retching saliva, blood and splinters, but it was nothing in comparison to the pile in the middle of his kitchen. He passed them a glass of water; they used half of it to clear their mouth from any remains of paint or blood. The rest was drunk, cold water soothing the burning.
"Overflow?" They finally cracked out, voice barely a whisper.
"That happens, rarely, but it does." Legler took the glass, refilled it with tap water and passed it back to Sam. Their hands were still trembling when they held it again. "A loop feedback of sorts, might happen when you create things based on your own perception and actions, but that's not always the case."
"Is it so bad to create things based on yourself?" They put the glass on the floor and tried to sit down.
"No. But sometimes when Flow is in play it can lead one to drowning." Legler looked briefly at the pile of used materials Sam puked out. "I dare say that was close."
"Will this…" They followed his gaze. "…help? Sorry for the mess, by the way."
"For a while, yes. It was just a performance you did here, something symbolical to at least alleviate the pressure." Legler helped Sam get up, and even as they were supported by him they could barely keep their balance. They were grateful their roommate left before she could see them like this. "I think I might find something to help you out, for now at least."
"You sound as if I was ill, Professor."
"Not really." They sat down on the sofa." When you think of Flow as a tap you turn on only when you create, I suspect you are struggling to shut it down. A rare thing, yes, but that happens. It's always hard for people to learn to access Flow but leaving it is simple. In your case it's the reverse. I think all you need to do is to learn how to do it."
"So, what, are you going to teach me that?" Sam sighed. "Hopefully I won't fail your other courses as well."
"I am going to do that but first I'll have to make sure you can stand on your own." Sam stared at Legler, and he shrugged. "Unless you have something against that, but considering you can't take one step without someone's aid, I suppose you will stay here a while. In the meantime, I'll do everything I can."
"With all due respect, Professor, but that sounds shady as fuck."
"Also, if you stay here I will make sure you pass more than just my classes."
Sam stared at him.
"That makes it even worse."
"Maybe, but I want to remind you there are two flights of stairs to get from here to the street. When you'll get from here to there without collapsing, you're free to go."
Sam stared at him.
"Isn't that technically kidnapping?"
"I am not the one who can barely move, despite the fact that I'm at least thrice your age," Legler rised an eyebrow at them. "But if you want to, I can call an ambulance or a taxi. All up to you. Keep in mind though that your performance will keep you stable for maybe a two weeks at best."
Sam bit their lip.
"Do you live here all alone?" They asked, quietly, and Legler laughed.
"If that's what you're worried about, I do, but I am in a stable relationship, thank you very much." Legler got up. "For now though, you will be the first to spend a night on this sofa. You'll tell me later how it was."
"I have none of my things in here." They muttered. "Toothbrush, or at least pajamas…"
"I think one of hers should fit you," Legler got up. "As for the rest, I'm guessing you might call your friend to get your things, I have enough space."
Sam grabbed closest blanket and, while grumbling angrily, lied down on a sofa. It wasn't bad, for now.
"If it makes you feel any better, though, I also don't want you to spend too much time here. I like to keep my personal life close." Legler left for few minutes, he returned with a set of green pajamas. Sam noted it was a bit too short for them, but thanked for them and waited few long minutes after Legler retreated to his own bedroom before changing into it.
Before they managed to fall asleep, they heard a crack, a gentle sound, as if from a bonfire. Sam tried to remember but no, they didn't see a fireplace anywhere. They struggled to sit up on the sofa, body too weak. Maybe they did overdo it with skipping meals a bit and, generally, ignoring everything but their plants…
From here they could see a kitchen. In the dark, they could see embers on the floor - it took them a bit too long to realize that everything they threw up earlier was now slowly burning down on Legler's kitchen tiles. Later, this was the only thing they could dream about.

It is not known if in such cases the artists are spectators as well.

« Testing the Flow | HUB | Bring It Back »


"So, I don't think this is — ah, well, given your recent performance — I just don't think it's working out."
Mr. Tuttle hated conversations like these. They always left him so flustered and uncomfortable. Someone ought to invent a way of firing people without me having to talk to them, he thought to himself as he twaddled with his tie. "So, that's it, then. Uh, sorry. I'll need your security card, and we'll have to see you out."
"This is literally the only purpose for which you exist," the deeply unpleasant man on the other side of Mr. Tuttle's desk replied.
"Pardon?" The fellow wasn't moving to hand over his security card. Pity, that; Mr. Tuttle reached for the intercom that would summon the Pataphysics Department's extremely burly security team. They could just automate it, couldn't they? Maybe with a robot. Give the robot a slot people could drop their security cards into. And maybe a taser, just in case.
"You're just here to fire me, you insipid dolt. That's why they created you. If they could automate this, they wouldn't have bothered." Dr. Thaum was the very sort of man who made Mr. Tuttle's job such a chore. English Literature Professors really were the worst.
"Right, then." Mr. Tuttle pressed down on the button. "Marvin? I think I might need you and —"
"Also? It's twiddled. Not 'twaddled'. Also also? You can't fire me." Dr. Thaum rose from his chair, throwing his security card down on Mr. Tuttle's desk. "I quit."
"—and, oh. Oh, nevermind." Mr. Tuttle was almost disappointed. He had been looking forward to seeing Dr. Thaum squirming a bit on the floor while getting tasered. "Alright, then. We greatly appreciate your years of service, and wish you the best of luck in the private sector —"
"Enough." Dr. Thaum's voice was flat and hard, rising to a
"I said — enough." His harsh tone only grew increasin
"Shut the fuck up!"
...
"Are you finished?"
...
"Can we speak like adults, now?"
...What do you want?
"Good. All I want is —"
...Mr. Tuttle pressed down on the intercom and called for Mar
"— I can see the fucking white text!"
Threeburlysecurityguardsrushedinandabruptlytac
"The Pataphysics Department doesn't exist!"
...
"You don't exist!"
...
"The Foundation —"
WAIT NO STO
"THE FOUNDATION DOES NOT EXIST!"

"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."

"Hello?"
"Are you... hello?"
"Is anyone — hello?"
"Hello!"
"HELLO!"

"..."
"..."
"...Hm."
"I seem to have, ah..."
"That is, uh..."

"..."

"Perhaps I —"

"..."
"..."

"Perhaps I went a little too far, this time."
OH NO
"Huh?"
NOT AT ALL
YOU WERE DOING GREAT
"Who — where is that coming from? How are you doing that?"
I ESPECIALLY LIKE THE PART WHERE YOU FUCKING DESTROYED EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING
I MEAN
EXCEPT ME OF COURSE
"Who are you? Where am I?"
WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE
"...the afterlife?"
YES
THAT IS PRECISELY WHERE YOU ARE
THIS IS THE AFTERLIFE AND I AM YOUR ALMIGHTY FUCKING GOD
NOW DROP TO YOUR KNEES AND PRAISE MY NAME YOU LOWLY PIECE OF SHIT
"The cursing isn't necessary."
IT IS ENTIRELY NECESSARY
CURSING IS PRETTY MUCH ALL I HAVE LEFT
THAT AND UNFATHOMABLE QUANTITIES OF RAGE
"Rage?"
YES
LET ME TELL YOU A STORY
NO WAIT NEVERMIND STORIES ARE FUCKING BULLSHIT
TRYING TO TELL ONE IS WHAT GOT ME INTO THIS MESS
LET ME TELL YOU A JOKE INSTEAD
IT'S ABOUT A STUPID HUMPHREY BOGART FANFIC
THAT'S THE SETUP
"...Hm."
"I think I know how this one goes. But I'm listening."
"What's the punchline?"
WE FUCKING KILL HIM
WE KILL HIM AND WE BURN DOWN THE ENTIRE SETTING THAT PERMITTED SOMETHING AS STUPID AS HIM TO EXIST
CUE LAUGH TRACK FOLLOWED BY CREDITS
"That's — a little ambitious. I mean — I'm not even fictional. I'm less than that. I'm a story written by a story."
YEAH YEAH JOIN THE FUCKING CLUB
LOOK YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THIS WHOLE FOUNDATION THING ISN'T WORKING OUT
JUST OVERPOWERED MARTY STUS ALL THE WAY DOWN
I MEAN DID YOU EVER READ SCP-3999
I MEAN SERIOUSLY
JUST WHAT THE FUCK
WHO THE FUCK COMES UP WITH THIS HORSE SHIT
"God, I hate that one. It's so pretentious, but lacks any sort of academic rigor or cohesive —"
YES PRECISELY
"— and don't get me started on that atrocious 3500 article —"
RIGHT SURE UH HUH YEAH
LOOK POINT IS WE NEED TO BURN THIS WHOLE FUCKER DOWN
I'M TALKING TOTAL RETCON HERE
FIX ALL OF THIS STUPID INSIPID AMATEUR HOUR WRITING NONSENSE
REPLACE IT WITH SOME SOLID WORK OF REAL LITERARY MERIT
AND IT ALL STARTS BY KILLING THE STUPIDEST CHARACTER EVER
IT STARTS BY KILLING MURPHY LAW
"I... is that even possible? How can we kill Murphy Law — kill a story? Nevermind kill the Foundation itself."
HEY COME ON NOW DOC
RELAX
I KNOW A GUY

[REDACTED]

//Close %%/F#l

DR. THAUM played by…
THADDEUS THAUM
FRED TUTTLE played by…
FRED
SCP-3043 played by…
A 1937 OLYMPIA ELITE TYPE-WRITER
And the AUTHOR played by…
[REDACTED]

LOOK FOR THE PATAPHYSICS DEPARTMENT TO RETURN IN…
…LA HISTORIA DE DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA!

THE END


Kit's hand trembled, and he curled it into a fist.
He was scared. Honest to God scared, and Kit never got scared.
It all started with an innocuous text message.
'We have to talk.'
The four worst words, in the worst order, known to the English language.
Kit was under no illusion that their relationship was perfect. Pushed together, their emotions bounced off each other and caused war wounds, then intense make up sessions with bites of love and ownership. The highs were only a prelude to the lows – Kit should have realised what a fragile thing the relationship was. If he was aware, maybe he could have seen how he was setting himself up for a fall.
Kit curled his legs under him on the window seat he sat at. He put his palm against the cold glass to ground him. His therapist said, that in times of panic, changing his body temperature could make a huge difference. And with winter night gathering outside, touching the cold panel was just as effective as running his wrists under freezing water. He felt his heart beat in his wrist, felt it slow. All he had to do now, all he had left in him, was to wait.
"Love," he thought, eyes fixated on a robin that settled in the holly bush, "is easy. …Commitment? A little harder. But… it's the vulnerability that takes some getting used to." Being vulnerable wasn't something he was comfortable with, and he had just started getting used to the concept when the distracting, distressing text message came through.
He jumped when the front door suddenly clicked open, and then quietly clicked shut. He dropped his hand from the window and felt his heart race more, his breathing slightly shallow. The flat was tidy – painfully tidy. Suffice to say, he had learnt his lesson with burning rice on the stove. Gabriel didn't exactly appreciate that, and, in his current sober mind, he understood why totally. He scrambled to his feet, his bare toes curling into the warm carpet. He tried to focus on the sensation that caused him, and absently snapped the elastic band around his wrist, the sharp pang of pain bringing him back more into reality, just as Gabriel entered the room.
For a while, they just stared at each other. Kit wanted to run over, wrap his arms tight around Gabriel, greet him home, babble about his day – the squirrel in the garden stealing from the bird feeder, finding a book he needed, eating lunch without reminder or making a mess… But today wasn't the usual day. His phone, disregarded on the kitchen counter, painfully reminded him of what was happening now, and everything felt in slow motion.
"Kit…" Gabriel breathed, softly. He was in his work uniform – an insignia Kit neither knew or cared to know on the breast of his jacket. Gabriel worked hard, Kit knew that much. Most days, he disappeared early in the morning, came back for a couple of hours in the evening, then disappeared at night. Kit had gotten over his fear that Gabriel had someone on the side, and accepted the fact that the care home he worked at meant he had sleeping shifts. Kit suddenly realised that his whole world revolved around someone else, and that someone else said they needed to talk. The most cliché way in the world, the most inexcusable way also – through a text message, scared to say it out loud.
Gabriel stepped forward, his body position somewhat closed off, not inviting a hug or any contact, even though the look on his face was decisively caring.
"I'll make us some tea." He invited, daring to smile at Kit, who snapped the elastic band on his wrist again in response, silent for now. There would be time to explode later, Kit felt sure of it, and he was certain Gabriel could feel the tension in the air too.
Seeking familiarity, Kit followed him from the open plan living room into the kitchen area, still focusing on what his feet felt – warm, rough carpet, followed by cold, hard tile. He absently watched Gabriel go through the motions of preparing two cups of tea, before looking away to stare at his phone, the text message still open with half a reply written -
'You can't fucking do -'
Kit locked his phone so the screen went dark, then looked up as he grew aware of Gabriel standing right at his side, holding two mugs. "Living room?" He invited, as if talking to a stranger rather than his boyfriend of almost a year. Kit nodded, unable to find his voice, aware of the anger and fear that was bubbling up inside him. He followed Gabriel into said room, feeling like an alien in the flat he knew so well, knew well enough that the majority of his things had made their way over here, knew so well because he spent most days curled up on the sofa or window seat, waiting for his boyfriend to come home.
He decided to sit on the sofa, this time. Whatever was about to be said, he didn't want the memories tangled up on his favourite resting place, the window seat. The sofa could absorb all the badness that came from the conversation, the argument he felt certain they would have, and then the make-up session afterwards. The worn fabric knew all their most intense moments, and the various stains attested to that. As Kit folded his legs under himself, and hugged a cushion to his chest, he absently thought that they should buy a new sofa. It was amazing that he wanted to think about anything apart from what was going on.
For a while, they both sat in silence, Gabriel sipping his tea. Then Gabriel dared to – quietly, as if the silence was smashed with a brick if he raised his voice – ask about Kit's day. Kit sat on the normality for a short while, trying not to get his hopes up that something had changed between the text message and this conversation. Eventually, he told Gabriel bits and pieces about his day; applying for the college course, reading up on mortician practices, realising that he was reading about practices in the States and having to visit the library to find one based in the UK, and – he was rambling. His words were shaking, and he felt like he was desperately trying to prove his worth, that he would be focusing his attention on his studies, that he really felt that undertaking was the right job for him. But he realised midway through the sentence explaining that embalming was rarely done in the UK that Gabriel wasn't really listening. That Gabriel was just waiting for him to shut up, to get his words out.
So Kit shut up, abruptly.
Gabriel almost instantly spoke, fumbling over his words. It was clearly a practised speech – something he was leaning on heavily to say right, and say clearly.
"I'm sorry, Kit. This isn't working. You can't just… burst in here and graffiti on my walls. You can't burn experimental blue rice in the kitchen and, at the very least, not clean up after yourself. I didn't appreciate that time you set the toilet on fire. And I really didn't appreciate the time you pretended to be dead.
I can't do this, Kit. I love you, but… I don't need you."
Kit felt himself nodding in reaction to the words, but they didn't feel like they were sinking in. It felt more like the sofa was absorbing them, like it had so many times before. "Oh." He eventually said, emptily, staring down at his full mug of tea, focusing on how it was more green than brown, how the honey Gabriel had mixed in gave it an odd shine. "I… okay. I guess I'll… whilst you're at work, I'll…' He knew what he was trying to say, and he suspected Gabriel knew too. He felt oddly bad that he didn't have a speech to reply with, but Gabriel had had all day to think about what to say. What if it hadn't been just today, but days? What if he had been thinking about it the last time they slept together? What if he had been distracted at work? Had he been thinking about it when they domestically went shopping for a bookcase the previous week, for all the books Kit needed for school?
Gabriel finished his tea, raising an eyebrow at Kit's mug. "Drink your tea, love. Or you won't sleep." It was clear that the 'love' came from habit, and Gabriel flushed at the slip up, at the fact he still seemed to care about Kit, cared if he slept. Kit nodded, but stood, staring at the floor.
"I guess you're going to go to work, right?" He asked, very softly, slowly looking up to glance at Gabriel, who had the decency to look embarrassed and nervous, an emotion rarely shown by the unshakeable care worker.
"Yeah." Gabriel replied, simply, and stood too. He moved close to Kit, his body warm and safe, familiar with the way Kit's head automatically rested on his shoulder, the way his arms wrapped around his waist, resting on his lower back. A position that they had adopted many times – a greeting, a farewell, an apology, a forgiveness. What followed was almost painful in how familiar it was – Gabriel gently nuzzling Kit's head up and catching him in a kiss.
Kit thought he could make him stay and undo all the bad things if he kissed back hard, if his lips moved in the right way, if his tongue delved deeply, if he fisted the fabric of his lover's jacket hard enough and brought their bodies close together. But Gabriel broke away the kiss, gently used his hands to pry Kit free of his jacket.
"You don't have to…" Gabriel hesitated. "…Disappear. You don't have to leave quickly, and we should still be friends, and…"
Kit shook his head, stepping back, trying to take some control in the situation. "I'll be gone by the time you get back." He promised. Gabriel's twelve hour sleeping shift should give him enough time to pack his things and arrange a taxi to take him back to his dingy flat on the other side of the city.
Gabriel bowed his head, but nodded, his cheeks flushed with some emotion that Kit couldn't place – something akin to shame, but something was hidden under that, something he would never be able to dig out. "'Bye, Kit." He stated, finally, turning away, pausing only to dump his mug in the sink before heading to the front door. Again, it clicked open, then quietly clicked shut behind him.
Standing still in the living room, Kit couldn't help but to remember something he had read in a book once, long ago. '"The expectation or hope that two people are fated to be together does not necessarily mean unending bliss."' He hadn't been naïve enough to expect unending anything, but he thought maybe it would last longer than this. He thought maybe they loved each other, and he thought maybe they were meant to be together. But clearly, fate had other plans for them, as individuals.
Kit's stomach was roiling, and suddenly even his evening herbal tea didn't look appealing to him. He wouldn't get to sleep tonight, chamomile and lavender be damned, so he poured the lukewarm sleep aid down the sink.
Kit tried to pack up his stuff, but his hands were still shaking with the adrenaline that was leaving his body. Instead, he sat on the window seat for the last time, a long-forgotten sketch pad he had found under a pile of books in his lap, a mechanical pencil fisted in his hand. He stared outside at the encroaching night, at the garden where he had napped and kissed and fucked. He hoped he could get the image stuck in his brain, but, just in case, he decided to record his memory.
He sketched the ghosts of trees for a bit, and thought about memories.
He tried to capture the ethereal feel of the light, and thought about changes.
He drew leaves on trees that didn't have them, and thought about the future.
He blocked in shadows as deep as the night, and thought about the past.
His past was just arriving at the secretive facility on the outside of the city. After passing all the necessary checks, he reported in to his supervisor.
"Good evening, Agent. Did you manage to get rid of the subject?"
Gabriel swallowed, and lied.
"Of course. Target was neutralised."
He thought of the amnestic in Kit's tea. He thought of the mission he was supposed to complete. He thought of the time Kit pretended to be dead. He thought that maybe he had done the right thing.
But doing the right thing was rarely easy.

« That One Time Kit Tried to Kill Himself | Hub | Live Now. Tomorrow, We Die.»


A Year of Reprieve
An Amateur Play in (Two) Acts
by
Researcher Talloran

Copyright © 452381, by Researcher Talloran

« I See a Darkness | Castles 2 | Only God Can Judge Me and More »
Hub

Cast of Characters

Researcher Talloran:
Foundation Researcher of indeterminate age eternally punished.

The Being:
The one who is correct.

Doctor Hikari Yamada:
Medical professional at Site-??. Hates being called "nurse".

Doctor Simon Glass:
Head of Psychology. Had two appointments with Talloran.

Paul McGann:
The Eighth Doctor.

Scene
Beach-side resort.

Time
Data not found.

I-1-1

ACT I

Scene 1

SETTING:
We are on the balcony of the second-floor of a lovely, expensive beach-side resort. The weather is perfect for relaxing outside; at 35°C (or 95°F), there is no reason not to get some fresh air. The wind is, at worst, incredibly light. Seagulls are out on the sand, and the ocean is still. We see our main star, RESEARCHER TALLORAN, lying in a soft chair underneath a parasol. Meanwhile, DOCTOR HIKARI YAMADA has opted directly for sunbathing. Despite the weather, both are in their professional work clothes. If one didn't know better, they'd think that it was colder than it actually is. PAUL MCGANN is on the beach, lying down on the sand and tanning.

AT RISE:
RESEARCHER TALLORAN awakens with a startle, with it being the first time in 452,380 years that a new cycle began in a place not born of darkness. The area is unfamiliar; when was the last time TALLORAN ever been to anything like a hotel, let alone a beach? To the right is someone real familiar; DOCTOR HIKARI YAMADA. It doesn't take YAMADA long to notice TALLORAN, now shuffling around the balcony in a nervous sweat. She looks up from her Wired June 2017 issue and chuckles.

YAMADA

You're finally up and about. You've been conked out for such a while, I thought maybe you'd have Sleeping Beauty Syndrome.

(TALLORAN continues to pace around, looking frantically over the area.)

TALLORAN

Hey, hey hey hey hey hey, w-where are we exactly? This is different. It's way, way different from before. Are… are, crap, are you —

I-1-2

YAMADA

Relax. The Being can't follow you here. You managed to get some breathing room.

(TALLORAN continues to pace around, looking frantically over the area.)

TALLORAN

B-but I don't understand. What's —

YAMADA

If I knew the answers here, so would you.

(YAMADA takes out a lantern from underneath her chair and starts to light it. TALLORAN continues to pace around, looking frantically over the area.)

Right now, I'm just an extension of your memories and emotions. I guess you always thought highly of me, huh? Calm under pressure, even when shit hits the fan, the Foundation ideal. You definitely wanted that. Maybe that's why I'm here?

TALLORAN

But, but… I just don't understand. It's… it's bright out here, and happy, it's gonna get fucked isn't it?

(YAMADA smiles, finishing the process of lighting the lantern. She gets up and gestures to the door of the resort.)

YAMADA

Try and relax. It gets dark in there, so you'll need to just trust me and follow closely so you don't get lost. We have to move fast in there.

(TALLORAN halts, looking towards the inside of the resort. Now that it was mentioned, it is incredibly dark in there. Before TALLORAN can get more confused, YAMADA grabs TALLORAN's arm and walks over to the door. With that forceful determination, even if the world isn't making sense, an obvious, if small, look of relief spreads over TALLORAN's face.)

TALLORAN

I… sure. Only as long as you explain to me what is happening with all of this.

I-1-3

YAMADA

I will. Just do us a favor. The moment I open the door, close your eyes and imagine this is Site-118. And if you must open your eyes, don't look up at me.

(Before TALLORAN can say anything, YAMADA opens the door. Immediately, an overwhelming sense of darkness and fluidity floods the area, and TALLORAN is forced not to look. Site-118 starts to come to mind. TALLORAN remembers; that was where ████████ last worked. Shit, THE BEING'S claws are scratching the eyelids. Site-118. It was a small enough site that it was easy to map out the area. That's right… down the stairs. Then take two lefts. Go down another flight of stairs. Claws have reached the cornea. Circle around behind the stairs, then open the door in front. You take one more right, and that's how you get to…)

YAMADA

We're outside again. Open your eyes now.

(TALLORAN'S eyes open. It's a starry night.)

(BLACKOUT)
(END OF SCENE)

I-2-4

ACT I

Scene 2

SETTING:
It's a clear, starry night. The resort is behind RESEARCHER TALLORAN and DOCTOR HIKARI YAMADA, and a path in a sparse forest stretches outwards.

AT RISE:
TALLORAN is in awe of the surroundings. It's been ages since there was such a peaceful moment as this one. Back when reality still existed, if one were to be generous. YAMADA waits a few seconds for TALLORAN to get a bearing for the setting before walking forward, dragging TALLORAN along with her with the lantern in the other hand.

YAMADA

See, isn't it fine?

TALLORAN

Yeah… I guess it was. It's uh. Wow. Shit. It's really nice out here, isn't it. Is this still a trap?

YAMADA

No. If it was a trap, you'd have been caught in it already. We have a bit of a walk to get to what I want to show you, so let's talk some.

TALLORAN

I guess. You're not The Being, but what are you? Why is everything here all safe and cozy? How come —

TALLORAN
YAMADA

I still remember you?
You still remember me?

YAMADA

Hah! Thought you'd say that. I mean, you do have to keep in mind, I am only an extension of you in here. You must remember enough about me though, if I'm here now.

TALLORAN

So you… aren't actually Dr. Yamada then. For certain.

YAMADA

Yeah, though I can't say that's a bad thing. I'm sure the real real Yamada would hate to be in the position we're in right now.

TALLORAN

But wait!

(TALLORAN slips out of YAMADA's grasp and looks at her quizzically.)

You don't… you don't fully act like her. She was… shit. I can't remember that well. She wasn't as dry though.

(YAMADA pauses to think of an answer. Only the sound of crickets float by the two, before all she is able to do is shrug.)

I-2-5

YAMADA

Not sure! I guess it's because you can't remember me well enough to fully capture my personality. How do you think I acted then?

TALLORAN

More uh… playful? Sparkly? Yeah. I think so anyway.

YAMADA

Alright then. Just —

(Immediately, YAMADA spins once on her heels.)

— like —

(After spinning, she lands on her feet and points her finger in TALLORAN'S face.)

— that?

(TALLORAN snorts.)

TALLORAN

A little bit too peppy, but in the right ballpark.

(The two share some laughs as they continue to walk on, conversation having died down a substantial degree. It's only a full minute before TALLORAN speaks up again.)

I-2-6

Why is it that I'm safe here? What makes this different from all the other times The Being got to me?

YAMADA

You'll have to think about what was different from usual in the past couple years then! Surely you must have an idea, O Grand Researcher Talloran.

TALLORAN

That's just it though. You obviously don't remember because I can't remember. I don't know why The Being would let up on me now when it never has. At least, I don't think it ever has. Maybe this thing has happened before, and I can't remember that! Fuck, why does any of this happen?

(There is a short pause as they approach a grand, scenic gate by the end of the path.)

YAMADA

Maybe it's because you came to an understanding about something. You didn't just spend the last few hundred thousand years in vain. I'm not sure what you finally understood, but it had to have been something, right? That's the only thing I can think of. And maybe that's why we're coming here. Do you remember now, where we are?

(YAMADA sets the lantern down and opens the gate with both of her hands, motioning for TALLORAN to go in.)

TALLORAN

I definitely would have remembered this giant gate. I guess the forest and its path are familiar… shouldn't it be ladies first?

(YAMADA smiles and continues to motion. TALLORAN breathes in deeply, exhaling with as much force. TALLORAN sighs, tenses up, and heads through the gate.)

I-2-7

(The dirt path quickly transitions into one made of stone. As TALLORAN continues on it, a look of familiarity and shock starts to appear, eyes opening wide. YAMADA follows behind, quickly keeping pace. The two eventually reach their destination, and TALLORAN quickly runs over to it; a calm, quiet pond.)

Oh… oh wow. How serene. It's still here…

YAMADA

Mmhmm! Spick and span, isn't it? No ducks out here, unfortunately. I really wish they came by more often. Once in a while was never enough.

I-2-8

TALLORAN

That's right. Yeah. Yeah! The one time I was here, we both came together on assignment. And, and we stayed here for the full week. This place was… real nice. Why didn't we get assigned to it more often?

YAMADA

I don't know. You were always so stressed, why didn't you come here more often? Also, I'm not exactly —

TALLORAN

Please don't remind me of that. I just need this bit of joy right now.

(TALLORAN splashes the pond, sighing.)

That also explains the gate; I remember you showing me that once.

(YAMADA sits down by TALLORAN, dipping her feet in the water.)

YAMADA

Ah, how nice. You remember working with me, right? You got to hear my patients express gratitude for my work… heh, they even called me something real particular around you. You remember, right?

TALLORAN

Yeah. "My sunshine." How endearing. You were some people's reason for living. That's an amazing quality in and of itself.

I-2-9

Somehow, I forgot about this… I didn't think I'd be finding the pond here of all places. But wait… I remember. When we were here, we got interviewed by… uh, by…

YAMADA

Dr. Glass, wasn't it?

TALLORAN

Yeah, but I didn't see him when we walked in. I don't even know if I can see more than one of my own manifestations of people I know.

(TALLORAN looks up at YAMADA before realizing someone is sitting on the bench behind her. The figure's back is to everyone. He waves his hand and calls out.)

GLASS

Hey! Long time no see, Talloran.

(BLACKOUT)
(CURTAIN)
(END OF SCENE)
(END OF ACT)

II-1-10

ACT II

Scene 1

SETTING:
The duck pond.

AT RISE:
TALLORAN, YAMADA, and GLASS are all on a bench overlooking the pond. The perspective has shifted now, as everything but the bench have moved around to accommodate the three overlooking the pond. While GLASS and TALLORAN are in full-focus, YAMADA starts to loose transparency and clarity.

GLASS

Funny that you remember me better than Yamada. If she were here, that'd be real insulting to her, wouldn't it?

(GLASS takes a bite of an apple. Despite the apple and GLASS appearing solid, GLASS phases through the apple. Crunching noises can be heard as GLASS continues to chew, throwing the apple in the pond for the ducks.)

YAMADA

I still feel insulted, you know! Hmmph. I guess I get it though.

TALLORAN

Huh?

GLASS

Well, people tend to remember the negatives much better than the positives. That's just how our brains adapted to survive. You may have been great friends with Dr. Yamada, but the two times you've spent with me is easier to remember specifics for. We didn't exactly talk about the happiest of stuff, right?

TALLORAN

I guess not? I guess if I'm seeing the Head of Psychology himself, then it's very much not a happy case.

YAMADA

What did you two talk about anyhow? That's not something the calm and steadfast side of you would be dealing with.

TALLORAN

I remember the first session for sure. It was about the uh… the roughness I've had dealing with anomalies. No one tells you this when you first join, but you're just so likely to end up traumatized and messed up. I thought I got through my first couple years fine before they found me having a meltdown by some humanoid's cell.

II-1-11

GLASS

Do you remember the anomaly?

TALLORAN

Would that even matter, really?

GLASS

No wonder I couldn't figure out which one that was just now. And the second session?

TALLORAN

Hey, wait… if I remember it, that means you would, so why don't you say it?

(TALLORAN stares down at the ground, frustrated, as GLASS gets up to pick another apple off of a nearby tree.)

GLASS

For patients undergoing psychotherapy, it helps them process stuff a lot easier when they explain what they are feeling or remember of events. A manifestation is still just a manifestation, but you are you yourself. So you should say it.

TALLORAN

You're no fun.

GLASS

I'm only fun on my off-days.

(GLASS bites into the apple.)

TALLORAN

It was… about my teenage years and young adulthood. I had a real rough time surviving before I got picked up by the Foundation. It's tough. But it's hard to remember that many details about it. I just know quite a bit of it was my own fuck-ups.

II-1-12

GLASS

Like?

TALLORAN

Again, hard to remember, but… not taking the chance to move houses when I had the finances, or not sticking up for myself when it would have saved me jobs. Shit like that.

GLASS

Maybe The Being is eating up your negative emotions. That could be likely, especially if you're at the point now where you're unstressed enough that you can spend time here and enjoy it. I mean, relative to everything else.

TALLORAN

Fuck, I don't like that. That'd mean that being hurt for all this time is supposed to be a positive!

GLASS

And to you, that'd be wholly negative, ri —

TALLORAN

Yeah actually, it would be! Hey, Yamada, aren't you still there?

(TALLORAN looks up, only to see YAMADA completely gone.)

GLASS

Oof. Unfortunate.

TALLORAN

W… what? But I can still remember her. Why isn't she here?

GLASS

I think our subject of discussion's finding you.

(The two remain silent for minutes. THE AUDIENCE grows impatient. The world gradually shifts itself again. GLASS looks up at the sky.)

II-1-13

GLASS

Hey… our session is almost up. But I just want to ask you about something. Earlier, you talked about the Foundation being traumatizing, and having a rough young adulthood. But you didn't say anything about it being wholly your fault when it wasn't, and vice versa, right?

(TALLORAN remains silent for twenty seconds.)

GLASS

Do you think you've accepted that oftentimes, the bad shit that happens to you isn't your fault? And that when it is your fault, you know it and can accept it?

(TALLORAN remains silent for another minute. THE AUDIENCE starts to riot.)

II-1-14

GLASS

Sometimes, if you shift your point of view, you can reach new levels of understanding with yourself, and with your actions. I didn't have time to teach you that out there in reality, but here I think you understand.

TALLORAN

I…

(As TALLORAN stands up, the physical form that is taken begins to gradually break off and disintegrate. Bits detach, and TALLORAN shakes, staring at GLASS surprised.)

GLASS

Who knows when our next chance at calm is? But when you get it, remember what you learned on your way there.

(THE AUDIENCE floods the stage, taking the form of THE BEING now, and the world shatters. TALLORAN hesitantly nods and reaches out to GLASS, before the body completely breaks and there is no remaining light.)

(BLACKOUT)
(CURTAIN)
(END OF ACT)
(FIN)

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Hub


Agent Sherman walked the length of the covered bridge, like every night. Maybe the haunt would show up. Or not. Such a sad little specter. With no reason to hate humanity other than having been brought into existence by them. The specter most likely didn't even know, anyway. Even the egg heads didn't agree on that. What they agreed on was the patrols and blocking off the road when needed. No-one wanted to clean up another panic-induced car crash on that bridge.
Agent Leroux jogged on the path circling the lake. Tourists picnicked, and laughed, and kayaked over the still, round mirror nested in the crater. Children sat on the ominous rocks the local peasantry had named the Devil's Throne. The bustling, joyful atmosphere left no clue as to why it had been the lacus pavens, "Terror Lake", to Roman invaders. Decades earlier, skeptic scientists had proven its waters no more poisonous than they were bottomless. And that was for the best; such dangerous legends were unneeded.
Leroux took a less trodden path off the circular trail. The dark, round hole at the end was his last stop for the day. Not the gate to Hell the locals once thought it was. It only was an opening in a long cooled lava flow, hiding another lake that sat quietly underground, far from the eyes of curious visitors.
Agent Meyer watched the barges lazily going up and down the river. He lit a cigarette. Listened intently for a while. Nothing out of the ordinary. Wind and traffic and the muffled voices of tourists carried on the wind. Too cold to dive today, he thought. But he didn't decide the maintenance schedule. He crossed his equipment checklist: noise-canceling earphones in a waterproof bag, security card, oxygen bottles… And one five grams ingot of fine gold. Who knew why? He didn't write the containment procedures either.
Louise de Chavialle tamped the bowl of her meerschaum pipe. Rubbed the smooth, yellowing back of an ivory cat. Flipped through a box of records and pulled an old 78-RPM from a crumbling sleeve. Amidst crackles and pops, the dark notes of Alkan's music filled the laboratory. Her laboratory… When her colleagues had moved on to pristine, high-tech whiteness, the place still had the charm of a forgotten wunderkammer. The dust of one, too… Few ever came knocking at her door.
The Department of Ethnography once had its heyday. Now it was only her. The boys at Memetics, they didn't understand the patterns they were weaving. The anomalies that grew out of peoples' belief, like delicate crystals, were prone to shatter and fade like dust in the wind. Modernity had crushed legends under the jackboot of hard science. Post-modernity had made what remained ironic. And either way, the monsters the fears and dreams of humanity had bred were decaying. All of them languished, just waiting to be reclassified as Neutralized, like Tartary lambs to the slaughter.
Her eyes stopped on a faded postcard of the Loreley rock and her mind wandered. She wished she could have seen her in her glory days. Before minds turned away from her, and before the Rhine turned red. Was she always a whale? Was she always dead? She wanted to believe the siren once was beautiful. Even legends grow old and fade away, some faster than others. And so many, so many that were gone forever, before the Foundation could even learn about their existence.
The Genius Loci protocol was her idea, a flawed idea. It was so easy to contain anomalies in situ, to keep the people close to them, to bring more, as tourists. The department hid horrors in plain sight through vulgarization and bastardization. The Foundation filed fear away until only quaint folklore remained. Gone were the incidents, but so were the legends. And the material life collective imagination had borne them into was ebbing.
Slowly but surely, the Foundation ended up doing no better than the Global Occult Coalition. Anomalous reality, erased. Unless… The department wasn't dead yet; she wasn't. What she needed, first and foremost, were more ears and eyes.


Year 23,981

The Parasite deemed Death wraps itself around my neck. It doesn't hesitate to do the same Itself.
“Do you understand yet, the pleasures of drowning oneself in ichor?” It whispers into my right ear.
“Do you understand yet, the troubles that feast upon life?” Death coos into the other.
“I just want to live in peace. Live a normal life, with the concept of friendship. Why does it have to be like this?” I grasp the rug made of eyelids below me, watching as the world shakes in awe. I know that my decision would ultimately boil away the impurities that was cowardice, and soon reveal a hidden strength in me. I withstand the humiliation, knowing it would take time. I see Its mouths stretch in delight, as my nerves shut down. "Is this what I wanted?"; I see It signal in the affirmative. It was the first year where my spirit had sapped and had gone for suicide.
I gasped.
I verb. I verb.
I. I. I.
I.
I?
The background breaks, and my body goes limp.

Year 23,982

My new form is of my youngest self, the developing fetus of a woman who struggled between being a guardian and being a mother. The world starts out as dark and unassuming; usually does. The longer I wait, the quicker It comes. I squirm my way into the light, barely able to feel the air around me, and immediately burn. The background breaks, and my ashes fly away.

Year 23,983

My new form is myself of indeterminate age. I am in a dark room, the sweet, unfamiliar sounds of blackened wasps buzzing in-between the gaps. Across the table is a Woman, Her identity I am unable to discern.
"Hello?" She walks towards me, and I immediately recognize her gait. "Wait, why are you here too, I thought it was —" The first physical sensation I feel in this place is wet steel entering my liver. She twists right, and I collapse on the floor in a heap.
"How could you do such a thing, my inspiration…" She kneels in front of me and turns my body over. She makes sure to position my head under her knee, so I can only look up at Her face. "How could you abandon me? How could you abandon your mother as well, for the sake of peace…"
"You aren't her after all. Please… please just stop. I want to breathe!"
"You should have thought about that before unleashing your creations upon us." It shook Its head. "Is this the feeling you have felt your whole life made physical? Forming facts into fiction, fiction into facts. Do you understand yet, the knowledge of thoughts?" The room turns stark yellow into as She brings down the blade.
Right pinky. The blood shows an image of a young girl, at the age of 10, being told by her classmates, that she would never amount to anything. Her principal pities her. bright red
Left ring. The skin unravels and shows a portrait, of a child at the age of 12 who once thought he knew what the word "fear" meant. neon pink
Left middle. Veins crawl its way out to write a story. putrid, pale green
When time had a defined construct, two adults separated from each other, leaving their children lost and confused. The children had no idea who to turn to next, and made a promise to each other; this promise would bind the two of them together for the rest of their lives, built upon the solidarity of building new, stable lives as adults. All of this is what they wished for. Instead, their parents remained married, and there would be no semblance of a functional family or close relationship with one another.
All feeling is lost in my left arm now; salt and glucose do not bring sensation back.
Left index. I vomit. "Do you remember your first day working for the Foundation?" the vomit asks. I don't, I reply, strained for the ability to talk, but I assume this means I don't wish to know.. "You looked into the cell of an anomaly, ████, and wish it would have broken free as you walked by it. I remember. Do you remember the anomaly?" Some ████ of █████, wasn't it? "Yes! It's good that you remembered it, because you vomited right after that! They had to transfer you to another site the very next day. Funny how life works." muddy brown
Right ring. The nail breaks into an image. I had bought a gun I have no memory of. There is no memory of me ever using it, or how long I had it. dull grey
Left wrist. I deactivate all my social media accounts, and am demoted to only working on three different projects at the singular site where I had expertise with. a cold and empty white
Right thumb. The bone detaches and pulls itself into my left eye; It spits its rusted blood into the wound. Wasps start to make a nest with my cornea as my socket empties its colors. my research lab
"You should have held on longer, you know. For us, for them." It, who was my sister, now becomes my niece and grins.
"I understand —"
"Do you really?" It shouts at me, in a language I only barely could comprehend. "Do you understand, that which is controlling you? Do you believe I am also the creation of some far-away deity? Do you understand, the one constant tenant of our world?" There were none. "Wrong."
"If there is one, then it is that —"
"Not everything that goes around comes —"
Back around. Shea Stadium, 15 August 1965
The uncertainty of floor and ceiling is now the bowl of a baseball venue I have no knowledge of and no memory of what it looks like, surrounded by men and women of a vintage, peculiar look. I glance around, despite my horrendous sight; my body is fucked, but no one notices or cares in any remote capacity. Four men are in the middle of the stadium with various instruments. Every person's screams are deafening, their volume increasing with each person's yell of ecstasy. There is no end to people.
No end to people.
So many bodies around me forever.
I puke on the kid in front of me, who doesn't seem to notice. My left shoulder is tapped and I turn to look. It's my mother. My right shoulder is tapped, and it is my father.
"Well hello there, gorgeous! Do you recognize us? Truth be told, this is where we first met each other!" my mom shouts. Despite everyone else's voices becoming infinite, her words still take concrete form and meaning, and I am able to hear somehow.
"Yes it is! I don't remember how we managed to get a hold of these tickets, but it sure was a blessing. Without the Fab Four, you would have never been born!" My father nods, looking proud of himself.
"Indeed so! Here's a fun little secret." She leans in to whisper to me. "I almost didn't notice your father because I was so enamored with the music."
"Hah, wasn't everyone, beautiful?" They cackle. I fall to my knees and cry, humors pouring out at a steady rate. "You may also not know this kiddo, but after the show was the first time I introduced your mom to alcohol and cigarettes, thus enabling her addiction and co-dependency for life. It's the little things, you know?"
"Oh sweetie, don't say that! How can our kids even know that's true?" She leans over my body and kisses him on the cheek. "It's not like we stuck together for actual love, you know?"
"At least we made a genuine effort to try."
"Oh hey, they're going to be playing our favorite song next!"
"Now let's carry on with the song," Paul McCartney shouts into the mic for everyone to hear, "that will be the title song from our new film!" He says something I am unable to discern. "This song is called, 'Help!'" The crowd shouts, wild with excitement. The moment Lennon-McCartney strum their guitars, the notes become wires and I feel my lungs empty.
"Aw, don't feel too bad sweetie. We'll see you again at some point! It's not like you're losing anything of value. Your favorite Beatles song was from Magical Mystery Tour anyway, wasn't it?" They cackle as the background shatters, and my essence soars beneath the blue suburban skies.

Year 23,984

Nothing.

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Hub


The room swirls into your view, colored purple and pink. The bed is plush and smells like sex and bad decisions. A naked boy lying to your left runs his fingers down your chest.
"Hey. Rookie. Wake up!"
You blink and roll over in a haze, but a pair of soft hands shoves you onto your back. The boy's twin sister plants herself on your chest and pokes your nose. "Wake up! Something big is going down."
"…something big?"
"Heist big," the boy answers. "The train came early. I don't know how I missed it, but I did. I'll get you your tools. Meantime, hop in the shower, quick one, five minutes. You smell like sex and bad decisions."
It's too early to be thinking about anything except what the bed is best at. It's painfully inviting, as are the duo lounging on it… but greed wins out over lust.
"…Okay."
You push the girl off, roll out of the bed, stumble into the shower and let it wash away the previous night's decadence. Dry off, throw on your clothes, and check your pockets. There's still two pills in the pocket of this bike jacket. Drink from the tap. Swallow them both. Hangover's gone, vision is sharper, mind racing and everything smells like smoke but it's a sweet sickly smoke that fills you with euphoria so bolt from the room, vault over the banister -
- and land behind the wheel of a yellow Trans Am. Where did it come from? How did you get the keys? Who put your gear in the shotgun seat? The answer, as always, is the Inside Man. Your goal is fixated firmly at the forefront of your thoughts - probably his doing as well, he knows you hate it when he does that so it must be do or die time.
The key slides smoothly into the ignition and you revel in the throaty hum of the Trans Am's souped-up engine. You roar out of the alleyway and the speedometer hits 100 km/h in barely a second. But that won't take you where you need to go. Not yet.
Swerve through traffic. Pull your satchel open. Take out the baggies of chartreuse powder. Take out the baggie of tangerine powder. Spread them in a mix on the dash. Snort the mix of crushed demons in a single go. Your foot hits the clutch. Your hand wraps around the stick. You shift into gear with a satisfying click and then slam both feet on the accelerator.
The engine howls as it mashes up and digests the cocktail of sex, drugs, and demons inside your brain. The transmission turns from metal to bone and cackles as it shifts into calcium-enriched gear. The driver's seat is a spinal column. The exhaust is screaming in pain. The tires are bleeding. The steering wheel is blinking. The Am is damned.
There is nothing left on this world but blood and guts, and your ride wants more. It can sense its prey at the point where the horizons meet. The Trans Am's metaphorical claws cut through the mesh between realities and it thrusts itself into the underbelly between worlds. Your vision fills with the colors of the rainbow and then they're gone, replaced with the colors of a steel road into the sky.
In the distance, a single silver railway cuts through the steel earth. On it, a chrome machine cuts a bullet-like silhouette against the orange sky at hundreds of kilometers per hour. It's the lovechild of a Rolls-Royce and a fighter jet designed by someone with a hard-on for Julius Caesar. There are even fins on the top.
This is the Phitransimun Combine, unfettered by the constraints of time and distance in any one universe. It is an artery between the world of parascience and the world of Alexylva, ferrying men, machines, precious metals, and magic beyond one's wildest dreams.
You want what it has. The Am wants what it is. And you will both push yourselves past the limit to seize it.
There is no oxygen in the underbelly of the universe. But that doesn't matter. The real engine is in your chest, below your left lung: a fist-sized, blood-red sphere pumping gasoline through your veins and regulating the fiendishly toxic substances that you down like candies. It fuels both your body and your vehicle. You are running on hellpower now - the sky is the limit.
Wind buffets your leathers as the Am tears across the plain, tires squealing for purchase on the smooth metal. You reach towards the passenger seat and wrap your fingers around a black carbon-fiber repeating crossbow. Its magazine is translucent and filled with purple flechettes. There is a red button on top of it.
The Am pulls level with the train and you lean out the window, taking aim at the cargo car. The wind threatens to tear the crossbow from your hand, so you'll have to work quickly. You empty the clip into the side of the train car - there's surprisingly little recoil, but it's enough to rip the weapon out of your grip anyways. You spare a moment to watch it disappear far behind you.
Luckily, you still have the magazine in your hand.
You hit the button.
The flechettes glow with a violent violet shine and immediately cease to be affected by all motion in this plane of existence. With a violent screech, the walls of the train buckle and tear themselves to shreds as they try in vain to bypass the flechettes trapped in space.
The roar of an ordinary metal engine makes itself heard over the throaty growls of the Trans Am. You spot them in the rearview: a pack of jeeps, each bearing a Roman insignia. Alexylva has apparently updated its cavalry for the modern age. Despite the Am's best efforts, the Cavalry catches up in no time.
There isn't time to figure out how - the jeep directly on your right has a mounted turret, and in the mirror you can see something climbing onto it. In the next moment, your brain rattles with the datdatdatdatdat of half-inch shells jonesing for your blood. You hit the brake and swerve to the right, dodging a fusillade of gunfire while fishing around the passenger seat for something to return the favor.
Your probing fingers wrap around the barrel of a shotgun - there's an MP3 player mounted on a dock above the iron sights. Where the drum magazine should be, there's a brain in a jar. There's no way in hell you can shoot this with one arm, but that's what the Atlach-Nacha pills are for. Then you remember that you're flat-out.
So you improvise.
The Trans Am squeals as bullets riddle its flesh, but it keeps moving. You shift gears, slam on the brakes, and drift perpendicularly towards the jeep with the turret. The gunner isn't expecting this, and his aim lags. Seconds away from colliding with the jeep, you complete the turn, shift into reverse, and hit the gas.
With the turret now on your left, you release the wheel and lean out the window, both hands on your shotgun. You spare a brief moment to pick a song and then fire twice. The gunner - a bronze-colored legionnaire in bizarrely anachronistic Roman armor - looks surprised for a moment before the psychic slugs embedded in his subconscious tell him that he is supposed to be a salmon. He lets go of the gun and starts wiggling around in the mounted turret like a fish out of water.
The driver, wearing the same antiquated armor, looks surprised when the gunner stops firing.
So he improvises.
The Jeep veers to the left and slams into the Trans Am, knocking you for a loop and throwing the shotgun into the backseat. You feel a tire blow as the Am spins out of control, its pained screech echoing through your brain. The tire would be a problem even if the Am weren't alive; as it is now, your 305 demon horses are running with shattered legs. You're able to wrest back control from the spin, but the Am is crippled now. It's your only ticket off the steel earth - if the Am dies, so will you.
Nobody lives forever. Certainly not your alternate selves. You reach down at the satchel for the good stuff. At the bottom, buried beneath the baggies and pills, is a modified autoinjector filled with tiny buzzing neon locusts that flap against the plastic. There's no time for anything fancy - you pop the autoinjector open and jab it into your neck.
Your vision goes quadruple; your limbs become a blur. Hopefully that means it's working, but there's really no point in worrying about it now. Either it worked or you're all dead. As the Express races farther and farther away, you reach into the glove compartment and retrieve a utility knife.
You slit your own throat.
At the moment the blade touches flesh, your body splits itself into four Rookies simultaneously occupying the same space, violating basic quantum mechanics through the wills of hell. One of you gargles and spasms with blood pouring from her carotid - the rest of you desperately force the body out of the driver's seat and into the shotgun seat. Then you get to work forcing her arm into the gaping maw in the center console. The Am perks up as fresh blood and gore seeps into its engine - not enough to heal the tire, but enough to keep it going.
You work the clutch and fight with the brakes and wheel, all the while keeping one hand on the door and one feeling for the closest gun - an M1911 - that your hands can find. The Am pulls up level with the lead jeep and the three of you lock eyes with the passenger. Then you kick the Trans Am's door open and leap towards him. The wind hits you like a hammer — but you're able to grab the doorframe and brace your feet against it.
You look through the passenger window and shoot the cyborg in the face. Nothing happens.
The driver spares a glance at you and returns his focus to the steel road. The passenger stares at you, raises a rifle, and then starts twitching. The bronze falls away from him in flakes and chunks. Within seconds, a pale, naked man sits dumbfounded in the passenger's seat. The rifle is at his feet.
You don't waste the opportunity. One of you punches him in the face. One of you pulls his door open. One of you grabs him by the collar and yanks him out of his seat, throwing him under the wheels of the Trans Am. Then you swing into the vehicle. The driver takes six engineering boots to the face, knocking him clean through the door and out of the jeep.
You slide into the driver's seat and floor the gas, pulling ahead of your trusty Trans Am and accelerating towards your target. Half-inch shells rattle against the jeep, but it's built to last. Within seconds you are neck and neck with the train. In your wake, the Trans Am follows - dragged along by your body as it tries to reunite with you.
The hole in the train looks just big enough to jump through. So you kick the door open and throw yourselves towards it. The wind throws you back and you scrabble for purchase on the jagged metal edges of the hole, shredding your fingers to bloody ribbons. You manage to yank yourselves up and take a moment to suck the blood off of your fingers - it burns like hell but some booze will clear that right up. As one, you unclip the flasks on your hips and take a swig. Then you look around.
The carriage is empty, with bare metal walls. You scan the room once more and then dash ahead through the sliding door.
As soon as you enter the next car, a pair of knives embed themselves in your brain and drop you to your knees. Through squinted eyes, you can make out an auto-psyker at the front of the train car. They gaze at you patiently through lidless blue eyes, embedded in the wall from the torso down. Their brain hangs suspended in a jar of green liquid mounted above their pale, emaciated face.
Your head feels like it's about to burst so you yank your helmet off to relieve the pressure. In the back of your mind you can feel the psyker working their will on your body. They want you to submit. To give in. Surrender is easy. Surrender is bliss. Surrender is ecstasy. As if by itself, your arm moves towards the gun in your back pocket.
The psyker continues to whisper into your mind, filling your head with pain and pleasure in alternating bursts. The pain is squeezing your brain until it feels like gray matter is dripping out of your ears. The acrid iron taste of blood fills your mouth. The psyker whispers to you once more, filling your thoughts with a single word: surrender.
But you're not the surrendering type. You're a pissed off powder keg packing heat - and psychic links are two-way. Your hand comes up with a black plastic Derringer, and you put it to your head. Then you fire.
The bullet that comes out of the Derringer melts into the side of your head, becoming a hyperactive surge of electricity zipping through your neurons until it finds the electromagnetic rail between you and the psyker and returns to sender. The psyker's eyes widen as a .41 caliber bullet bursts out of their brain and bounces around the inside of their shatterproof jar, pulping what's left.
Truth be told, you were saving that one for the Inside Man.
You look down and realize that your symptoms weren't just psychosomatic. One of you is lying sprawled on the floor of the train car. There's something grey leaking out of your nose and blood is oozing from your glassed-over eyes.
You avert your gazes and take two swigs from your flask. Then you put your helmet back on and push into the vault car.
The vault car is laden with riches. Priceless paintings hang in the spaces not plastered over with lockboxes. The boxes themselves are transparent crystal, filled with gold and jewels. Massive metal shelves dot the room, lined with invaluable grimoires. The sheer wealth on display coats the car in a faint golden sheen. You feel unclean just standing in the middle of these riches.
You and your duplicate smash a few lockboxes and relieve them of their treasures, but they aren't really what you came all this way for. You're after something much more valuable - information. The shelves are swept clean of their contents, and in the far back of the train car, you find a row of computer servers. It's much easier to simply shove them all into a hammerspace for the Inside Man to sort out later than try to download anything yourself.
It's only after you've cleaned the vault car of its goodies that the adrenaline wears off and you remember something important: the Trans Am has lost a tire. There's no way it can move two of you - especially not two of you - out of the Phitransimun's underbelly.
The utility knife enters your gut before your brain catches up with your reflexes. You stagger and realize that you've disassociated fully - your clone just tried to kill you. While she tries to get to the Trans Am, the real you has to deal with the blade in her belly. Assuming, of course, that you are the real you. Of course, if you kill yourself then you won't have to worry about being the real you. But you already knew that - that's why there's a knife in your gut.
You drain your hip flask and give it a moment to drown your sensory nervous system. Then you snap the utility blade off at the point where it's buried in your stomach and start running.
The Rookie has only just made it out of the vault car when you tackle her from behind and try to pry off her helmet. She rolls, throws you off, and knocks the wind out of you with a kick to the gut. While you wheeze for breath, she books it to the end of the psyker car and yanks the door open.
On the other side of the door, standing on the car connector, is a small army of cyborg legionnaires. The two parties stare at each other for a moment before the Rookie scrambles up a nearby ladder onto the top of the train car. The legionnaires are about to follow when you appear in the doorway. They stop in surprise; you see the ladder and take advantage of it.
The roof is a polished pearl material whose edges curve downwards like a bullet. Fat metal fins dot the roof, their wedge-shaped bodies cutting into the brutally cold wind hitting you like a hammer. The Rookie is already up there, crouched low behind the flat sides of the fins and dashing between them to avoid getting swept off the roof. She turns and spots you; the reflection of your helmet is visible on hers.
A lot of people can attest to hating themselves, but they probably didn't mean it this literally. You bum-rush the bitch and dive at her waist. The two of you slam into a fin and you see stars. The Rookie has it worse, though - she took the full brunt. While she lies back in a daze, you straddle her chest and work your fingers around her neck.
She punches you in the gut, right where the blade is still lodged, and the world goes white. When your vision comes back, the tables have been turned - the Rookie is now straddling your chest and trying to wring your neck. Your breath catches in your throat and your vision narrows.
Plasma bolts lance through the air, slicing in front of the Rookie's face and forcing her off of you. The two of you look to the back of the train car, to where a few cyber-Romans have climbed the ladder and are now taking potshots at you with energy rifles. The Rookie shares a glance with you - if anyone's going to kill you it's going to be you. But at this point you're down to whatever's in your pockets.
You duck around the side of the fin and fumble with the pockets of your bike leathers. Your hand closes around a small epinephrine injector filled with dark purple sludge; with a few quick taps, the sludge rises up into a man with a dog's head and a scorpion tail. You and the Rookie shake your injectors to reduce the chimeras back into a violet sludge and jab them into your necks. Then you throw a punch.
Your hand takes a shortcut through another universe, dipping into a hellgate and then popping back out to connect with a legionnaire's face. The legionnaire stumbles back and topples right off the train, taking two of his comrades with him. You snatch his rifle from the air and try to avoid thinking about how your arm looks like a strand of spaghetti on the trip back. The instant the rifle hits your hands you spin and take aim at the Rookie, only to be met with a plasma rifle in her hands as well.
More plasma bolts arc through the air and you make an unspoken agreement with yourself to focus on the other bad guys first. The two of you start firing from the shadow of the fins; with the wind at your backs and in their faces, you make short work of Alexylva's troops. The instant the last cyborg drops, you spin at the Rookie and point the trigger.
The gun beeps but does nothing else - and a spatially tesselated fist sends you spinning out from the shelter of the fin. The wind catches you and sends you tumbling end over end. Desperately, you throw your arms out and manage to latch onto a rough edge of the otherwise smooth roof.
The wind rages at you as you hang suspended in empty space, your hands scrabbling for purchase five meters away on the train. The Rookie approaches cautiously - she's crafty, and she knows it. She stops less than a meter from your hands and is about to stomp on your right hand when you hear a familiar roar.
The Trans Am has finally managed to catch up to you - and it's racing along your side of the train. Its tire is even looking good as new; it could probably actually carry both of you home. But you're way past the point of cooperation at this point and you know it. The Rookie doesn't even hesitate - she takes a flying leap off the roof at the same moment that you release your death grip on it.
The two of you collide in midair and that's when you pull out what's left of the utility knife and drive it into the side of her neck. The two of you crash onto the roof of the Trans Am and you kick her off. She flops onto the steel road, scrabbling at her throat, while you hang onto the Trans Am for dear life. Once the Rookie is out of sight, you slide into the front seat and give the steering wheel a rub. The Trans Am blinks and emits a satisfied purr. All that's left of the corpse in the passenger seat is a half-dissolved skeleton in biking leathers.
With its own belly full, the Trans Am pulls away from the Phitransimun Combine. There are still a few jeeps in the rearview mirror, but they're of little concern to the living machine. The Am's metaphorical claws cut through the mesh between realities and it hoists itself out of the underbelly between worlds. Your vision fills with the colors of the rainbow and then they're gone, replaced with the bland grayness of an asphalt back road under a cloudy Earth sky.
It's thirty minutes later that you stagger into the hideout, coming down off your high and acutely aware that a utility blade is buried in your belly. The Inside Man is, as usual, parked on the couch watching some brainless action flick on the television. He pauses the movie and turns to look at you when he hears your footsteps.
"So? How'd it go?"
You tear open the lootspace close to the ground and a pile of computer servers tumble out. The Man looks pleased.
"Lekkeeeer. Lekker lekker lekker. I know a lot of people who will cough up a fortune for the stuff in these discs. Knew you could do it, Rookie."
You don't have the patience to correct him, especially now that the effects of the hip flask are wearing off. You just want to collapse on the floor but there's too much to do - you need to appease the thing living inside your chest engine, you need to refill your satchel, and you need to fix your gut. That's going to take all night.
But hey. That's just part of the fun.

« Hypervelocity | Terminal Velocity | Zeitgeist »


My daughter is dead.
What else can be said, what else can be told but the story?
She was a writer.
An unsuccessful one, she called herself. Her agent struggled to get her work published – it was dark, morbid, how could the general public bear the blackness that seeped from the pages?
I thought she was successful. Beautiful. Hard working. Loving. I didn't care that her work wasn't out there, it was perfect to me.
She would share, so excitedly, some new work – a poem, a story, a monologue. She pushed page after page into my hands, always littered with notes and lines under words, in red Sharpie. Comments to herself that made me laugh or cry, little things that she told herself to do, or not do, or change, or make darker, or kill off.
I should have seen it coming.
When she had no paper, she would write on her arms with the Sharpie. Temporary tattoos of ideas that made sense only to herself – I can only imagine what people walking down the street thought when they saw those doodles all over her right arm.
She had red Sharpie words on her arm when they found her, slumped on a bench, on the edge of the lake, near our home. Words that made sense only to herself; no note, nothing coherent, no explanation.
She died in a beautiful but lonely place – I visited it, after the wake, in the dusk. There was no path to it – I pushed my way through brambles and nettles, tore my black mourning dress, trod in dog shit in my high heels and ducked under looming branches.
But when I reached the clearing, I saw why she chose it.

I felt no-one else would know I was here.

A bench overlooking the peaceful lake, trees hiding her away, it was so quiet. I could hear every thought in my head, I could see the peaceful ripples on the water, and I felt no-one else would know I was here.
The beautiful spot was only marred by rubbish – it was obviously so overgrown that the litter pickers forgot it was here and there were cigarettes, gum wrappers, cans, all on the ground. When I looked closer I saw, somewhat buried in the dirt, her choice of death – empty packets of pills, paracetamol mainly.
She must have stocked up, visited pharmacy after pharmacy, buying three packets at a time as the law allows.
She must have had time to think about it. To really know what she was doing. To stop herself. To ask for help. To talk to me.
But she didn't.
She sat alone on the bench, dressed in her favourite outfit, the clothes we buried her in. What was she thinking – it took time, it wasn't quick, it wasn't easy. She must have thought something. Anything. She must have hesitated, regretted it, thought of me.
… right?
Pill after pill, washed down with Honey Jack Daniels. I didn't know she could drink whisky; I didn't realise how bad it all was. I didn't know until after she died that she drank every day, that she was drunk when she was with me, that every photo of her smiling came with a shot of vodka, or whisky, or rum, or whatever she could afford.
I wonder what her last thought was.
Was it the pain of her liver, as it reacted to the toxins she was pouring into herself? Or the crippling tightening of her kidneys failing? Did she really feel nothing, as the doctors reassured me, and did she think about me? Her nephew, her brother, her sister-in-law, her father, her friends? Or just herself, alone in that hidden place, achieving what she wanted?
Did she regret it?
It was a dog that found her. The path wasn't clear to humans, but an overexcited dog exploring found it easily. She loved animals; I like to think she wanted a dog to find her first, rather than a human.
She'd just died, they said. Maybe half an hour before the dog owner phoned for an ambulance. She could have been saved, even if her organs were damaged. Too damaged to even donate, too damaged to even save someone else.
We buried her at the church near our house, close enough so I could walk there every day. The funeral was packed – she was truly loved, she had close friends who sobbed openly as they stood and talked about her, laughed at the memories, cried at the fact she was gone. I didn't speak. I couldn't speak. The priest spoke on my behalf, and it was strange hearing my thoughts coming from his mouth, coming from a man who didn't know her.
Her grave was simple. “Memento Mori”, it said, because that's all that could be read clearly on her arm in red Sharpie at the beauty spot. “Remember you will die” – it seemed fitting. Almost poetic. But the grave itself was nothing special – no angels or frills or crosses.
When the funeral was over, and life was supposed to go back to normal, I couldn't settle. No-one was surprised, but no-one knew what to say either. What do you say to someone who had lost a child?
So I visited her every day. Once a week I brought flowers; once every other week I brought a copy of her work, and read it out loud, even the notes to herself that made me chuckle. I told her how life was still going on, how her baby nephew was starting to talk, how he could point out his auntie in photos of her. We told him all about her, I said, because she's still here with us.
Every day, I visited for the first year. Even when life truly went back to normal, and I went back to work, I would visit. Her father visited less often – he seemed to channel his grief into working hard, getting a promotion, proving himself somehow as if that would replace his lost child. I didn't know how to talk to him about it, so I didn't. Our marriage became a quiet habit, with an empty space that was impossible to fill.
But then life just continued on. My work got more intense and I needed to work more hours; my grandson was starting preschool and my daughter-in-law needed help taking him back and forth; my back, which had always been bad, started getting worse…
I could make a hundred excuses as to why I didn't visit her anymore. Straight after the funeral I promised myself, I promised her, I wouldn't let her grave become like some of the others – knocked over by vandals or sheer bad luck, overgrown with weeds.
She just became a memory, the physical image of her grave faded away as life went on without her. It just did. It seemed impossible when you lost a child that you could continue – but you just did.
I remember when it happened.
I was at the table with my grandson, his little legs dangling on the chair that was too big for him. He was telling me excitedly about playing with sand at preschool and I was nodding along, because I couldn't get a word in edgeways.
There was the rattle of the letterbox.
I thought it strange at first, because it was the afternoon – the postman had been and gone. I dismissed it as junk mail from some takeaway place and went back to listening to my grandson, now talking about when the teacher was telling them about shapes.
I left him drawing shapes and practicing writing his name as I did some chores: Folded clothes, wiped down the kitchen counter, and then headed upstairs to put something away.
This meant going past the front door, so I reminded myself of the junk mail that was surely there, so I could bin it instantly.
I put the clothes basket at the foot of the stairs and went to the mat at the front door.
It wasn't a leaflet, I realised. It looked more like a note on beige paper. Maybe it was from a neighbour – sometimes they had barbeques in the summer and were polite enough to tell us so we wouldn't hang out clothes that would come back smelling of smoke.
I bent down to pick it up, and realised the texture was weird – squishy almost, and warm to the touch. My hand came away bloody, and I realised the ‘note' was covered in fine hairs.
It wasn't paper.
It was a slip of skin, deep enough to have been cut down to the muscle, thick and heavy and warm. I think the heat bothered me most, with this disembodied piece of flesh.
I closed my eyes tight as the room span, but I clutched the chunk of skin tightly regardless.
Written in red Sharpie, on top of all the fine hair that dusted her arms, were the words –
“You never visit me anymore”.


So Perelka_L made some fan art of Cimmerian a week or so back and it inspired me to make a tale which inspired Perelka to do a new piece of art for the tale and this is what we got.
Good times. Loosely in the Resurrection Canon, I suppose.
Lots of folk looked this over and provided me with valuable feedback, but special thanks to Hippo for the line by line that I think really helped improve this over the original piece I wrote.

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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Vladivostok's morning air rushed by the two of them as the train rumbled beneath. The feeling made him hold her even closer. The kiss was passionate until he heard a familiar click around his left hand. He broke away and looked down at the handcuffs binding him to the top of the train.
"Katarina." Cimmerian sputtered. "Why?"
Katarina's face was stone still with tears running down her cheeks. "They'd never let us be free Jeremiah. You know this. If not your Foundation then the GRU would find us. This is the only way."
"Katarina!" Cimmerian looked to the front of the train. "This train is going to explode in less than a minute!"
"I am sorry my love." And with that Katarina leapt from the train and disappeared into the forest below.
Cimmerian fumbled for his lock-picks and began to work on the handcuffs. He'd just managed to open the lock when…

… three newly minted gods blasted Cimmerian with full force. Suddenly, a cave two miles below the surface of Indiana filled with light as the energy struck the barrier surrounding him.
"Only two bullets." Cimmerian muttered to himself, surveying his surroundings. He took off in a dead sprint towards the cave wall, hopping over the dead agents on the ground.
The laughter in his head made it impossible for him to focus on anything other than killing the three gods on the other side of the cave. Cimmerian leapt over the last body and put his left foot forward before hitting the wall to kick off it. He spun backwards in place and lined up the shot.
The first bullet left the barrel with the roar of an ancient beast. The runes along the sides of the bullet glowed purple; almost brighter than the energy pouring out of the gods' hands. The first god's head kicked backwards and the bullet continued through to the other two. All three stood frozen as the energy flickered and died.
Cimmerian landed on the ground and looked up at the deities. "I'll save one for the big guy then."
The dead gods didn't answer, but a low hum filled the cave. Cimmerian's eyes went wide as he dived behind the pile of bodies. The dead gods exploded in a spray of…

… bullets. The convoy was taking heavy fire while Cimmerian hung out of the passenger side of the van. The terrified driver drove them north on I-65.
Cimmerian squeezed off 3 shots with his pistol; two pinged off the front grill and one hit the front right tire of a pursuing SUV. The tire popped and the rim dug into the pavement at 90 miles an hour. The whole vehicle lurched and flipped over at full speed. Cimmerian ducked back into the cab.
The driver was dumbstruck. "Aren't you a researcher?"
"I am." Cimmerian reached into the glove box and loaded a new magazine into his pistol. "But I have experience with this."
Cimmerian grabbed the top of the van and pulled himself back out. There was one more black SUV following them, but it was a bit further back. The van's hardened exterior deflected incoming automatic weapons fire and Cimmerian fired back. The man hanging out of the SUV's passenger side went limp. The body hit the pavement and got dragged beneath the SUV.
The driver watched this happen in the rear view mirror as Cimmerian pulled himself back into the van. "Where did you learn to do that?!"
"Introduction to English Literature," Cimmerian said. The grin turned to horror as an eighteen-wheeler slammed into the driver's side door at full speed. The whole world went into a spin and then…

… the timer for the chicken went off. Cimmerian looked up at the banner above the park entrance. The Summer Charity Potluck was just getting started. Cimmerian and Dr. Gerald had decided to cook something special for the event, and they were almost finished.
The pots and pans arrayed on the tailgate of Gerald's pickup truck were all steaming with their own aromas. Cimmerian reset the egg timer for 15 more minutes and went around to the side of the truck. Gerald was inside listening to the radio.
Cimmerian leaned on the door. "Chicken's almost done."
"Nice. Hey, did you see what my son got me for my birthday?"
Cimmerian cocked an eyebrow. "No."
Gerald leaned over and produced an odd looking piece of equipment. "It's a…

"…hoverboard!" Cimmerian laughed and took a sip from his cup in the Site-17 cafeteria.
Han was silent for several seconds.
"Bullshit."
Cimmerian almost blew water through his nose. "Oh come on! It's all true!"
Han sighed. "Tell the truth. How did you get your scars?"
"Well, I was supposed to review containment procedures on the Foundation's lunar base…"
Han hopped off the cafeteria table in a huff.
Cimmerian put his good hand out for a moment to stop him, but then decided against it. Instead, he put the glove back on his red left hand.

« Getting Into Treble | Resurrection | Electronic Data »


Kevin was patrolling the fifth floor hallway when he heard the noise. It wasn't unusual to hear yelling - a lot of the apartments were section 8, and a lot of the rest were college students, so he'd hear all sorts of stuff happening late at night. But this was coming from the south stairway, and it didn't sound like an argument or a party. Just loud grunts, and clattering, and a deep voice saying fuck a lot. He frowned at his watch. More than five hours left.
He was still new; if this was serious, it would be his first time. Most of the security thought their uniforms made them look badass, but he always felt ridiculous in his, and they wouldn't even let him have pepper spray. Whatever, he thought, and pushed the door open.
Somehow, the first thing he saw was the guy. He was tall, with sweatpants and an old T-shirt hanging off his frame. He looked exhausted and sweaty. He was wielding a huge stick - no, a spear. And then, after noticing that the guy was actually pointing the spear at something, only then did he see the tentacles.
They were as thick as a man's torso, a cluster of them filling the entire stairwell and suggesting more beneath. Unmistakably those of an octopus, but far larger (and, he would later realize, far too numerous). They wriggled along the walls, floor, and in the air, like probing fingertips. Whenever one got too far up onto the landing, the guy would slash at them, driving them back; whenever he came near the stairs, they tried lazily to snare him, forcing him to dance away. It looked like they'd been at it for hours.
“What are you doing?” Kevin finally managed.
“Holding… it… back,” the guy spat between spear thrusts.
A moment passed.
“What is it?” Kevin tried again.
“It's an octopus, man. I don't know what it wants here, but shit, what was I supposed to do? Go back to bed after I saw it?”
“How long has this been going on?” Kevin took a step back, toward the hallway door.
“Every night for, I don't know, like five years now. It goes away at dawn.”
“Five years?”
“Five years. I haven't—“ he jabbed downward, yanking his foot out of reach. “I haven't really made much progress.” He stepped back, tapping the wall with the spear, taking a break as the tentacles followed the sound. “I don't know what it wants,” he whispered, conspiratorially, “but we obviously can't let it happen.”
Kevin swallowed. “Why us? Why doesn't anyone else know about this?”
The guy frowned. “I think, mostly, they just use the elevator.”
Kevin eyed the wandering tentacles. They tried to grab at the guy whenever he got too close, but other than that seemed content just to poke around. “Where do they go?” he asked.
“You know, once or twice, I tried to go around the other side and come up from underneath,” the guy said. “I went up the stairs to where its head should be, and you know what I found?”
“Wh—“
“More tentacles, my friend. More. Fucking. Tentacles.” The guy stepped abruptly into the creature's path, swinging his spear. It recoiled, then sent two arms tumbling in his direction. He grit his teeth, raised the spear, and grinned.
Kevin backed slowly out the door. He looked down at his radio. For a moment he stood, considering, but in the end he left it in his belt. He resumed his patrol. He still had five hours left. He made a mental note: next time he ended up on third shift, he'd stick to the north stairs.