first
Luna VI query: Set the source to the leaked files of the first reconnaissance operation of Irisa.
Certainly!
Luna VI query: What did Ryo do during the first hour of the war?
***
Ryo had already reached a state of full awareness after waking up, and yet he hadn't moved an inch, immersed in his inner world as he thought about what he and Elysira had done at night.
And what a wild night it was.
The way that she had skipped the journey to go straight for the finishing line had caught him unprepared. Still, with the mystery of their physical compatibility out of the way from the get-go, Ryo had been left with a lot of time to explore the other hiccups and perks of this interspecies endeavor.
From the occasional accident with her claws to the new possibilities her tail brought to the table, Ryo had enjoyed everything.
There was not an ounce of regret in him, but the memory of their last act lingered incessantly in his thoughts—a vivid Recollection of Elysira’s tail wrapping around his leg and letting silence prevail as his arm shyly enveloped her, allowing them to fall asleep side by side.
The one memory that held him in place, fearing their next interaction when the slightest of his movements would inevitably wake her up, mirroring what had happened all in the previous mornings.
What would she say?
Would she think that they are in a relationship now?
What would he do if the concept of casual hook ups didn't exist for the Irisians?
Ryo touched his face and shook his head, instantly deciding it was time to start his morning routine to distract him from those absurd thoughts.
The brain IO interface captured his intention, turning on the lights on the ceiling with maximum brightness, something that he was sure would wake her up at once given how sensitive to change all Irisians were.
And yet he was wrong.
Elysira’s head tilted away from the light as eyelids fluttered, but the only other thing she did before stopping moving was strengthening her grip on his leg quite a bit, making him realize that her tail had not let go of him the whole night.
Upon noticing how numb his leg felt, Ryo propelled his body upwards, intending to uncoil her tail from his leg and start his day. Hopefully, Elysira wouldn't mention what they did, and he too would be able to pretend it never happened.
However, the moment his upper body lifted from the ground and he got a full view of her body, he was unable to remove her tail from his leg, captivated by a simple but powerful sight.
With her hands inside the pockets, Elysira had used his jeans to restrain her claws, putting herself in a very uncomfortable position, likely afraid of hurting him during her sleep.
His eyes widened, dispersing his previous train of thought from existence. The hand that was supposed to be dealing with her tail moved toward Elysira's exposed neck instead, aiming to wake her up with a gentle touch.
And as if he had just perturbed the stillness of a calm lake with a stone, a barely perceptible ripple of yellow spread on her skin from the contact with his fingertips. It traveled through her neck, reaching the soft lines of her face, and even traveled down her long hair strands.
At the same time that it felt wrong to be able to take a peek at her emotions so easily, Ryo couldn't help but wonder—which other colors had the darkness stolen from him? While immersed in this question, Ryo kept caressing her neck until her eyes opened slowly, resetting all the back spots of her body at once as consciousness took control over instinct.
Elysira’s grip on his leg loosened when she realized she was overdoing it. Her gaze started scanning every inch of him, starting from the accidental scratches of her own making and unashamedly stopping at places she had not seen before.
Unbothered by her curiosity, he even removed some of the loose strands in front of her eyes and threw them behind her long ears to make her job easier, feeling some apprehension only when she lost interest and sought eye contact.
Traces of purple appeared around her black spots as she spoke. "What do you humans do after... what we did?"
Ryo winced, but his tone was gentle. "Silly girl!" He felt deep regret for how he had skipped the part of Irisian relationships in favor of politics when she was teaching him about her species. "It could be everything or nothing."
He expected some intense reaction from Elysira, but there wasn't a lot of emotion showing. As he searched her skin, he also realized he was unable to look at her the same way as before.
From seeing her small breasts, which he now knew for a fact fit on his hands, to the very memory of all evenness that he now was able to associate with the sheen her skin exhibited from certain angles, Ryo realized he had lost the ability to gauge her emotions without feeling a hint desire.
She noticed how long he was staring at her and a hint of yellow appeared. "I don't need everything, but nothing is not enough!"
How did Ryo fail to see that this conversation would inevitably happen when they were having fun at night?
"Oh!" He was unable to keep his mouth shut, which resulted in red and purple manifesting on her skin as he felt the pressure for a quick reply.
He had heard the Irisians speaking terms such as chosen, mate, and family, but Ryo didn't know much about this, and now was not looking like a good time for asking for clarification.
The translator would do its job in conveying his intention. But what would he say? Friends with benefits maybe? He gave up that one on the spot; he didn't consider their previous relationship a friendship, and somehow, he felt a dangerous desire to want more than that from her.
Under the pressure of his previous mistake, he told her the highest relationship he was willing to have without a care in the world for consulting his superiors. "Is girlfriend good for you?"
Elysira’s eyes widened as her skin maintained the same tones. But it lasted only a second before a golden hue took over, leaving little room for her black spots. "Wait, are you serious? I never thought you would consider anything more than being my exclusive pair."
"I am serious, but what's the difference?" Ryo instantly felt he could have gotten away with being just friends with benefits.
"Two differences." She took her clawed hands from the pockets of his jeans and pressed them against his neck in a fast but controlled movement. "One is implied trust." Her head approached him slower as if she would kiss him, but instead, her lips diverted toward his ears where she whispered, "And the other is a promise for the future."
"That seems alright."
As he said that, Elysira had already started taking little bites on his earlobe, her other hand joining around his neck while her tail was sneakily pushing the rest of her body on top of him.
"This will have to be quick, we-"
Ryo was about to give up the time they had for breakfast, when a powerful explosion shook the ground, causing the whole tent to vibrate.
Elysira’s pointy ears began to twitch and her body receded, trying to get of clue of what happened as she displayed purple. "I hear nothing."
"This was not far from here; I don't think it was a landslide." Ryo summoned a window with all the cameras outside and found nothing unusual, even with the infrared inspection.
Elysira could see what he was doing since they had never left the shared augmented space.
"Can we see what Amara is doing? She might know more than us."
He still was incapable of referring to her as his girlfriend even in his thoughts, but he still felt a hint of pride for her quick thinking. "Let's see."
He quickly summoned a live feed and promptly instructed the AI to go through the recordings of the whole night. "Nathan and that princess are still inside the tent. Time to go there."
Ryo wasted no time explaining, quickly standing up to begin the search for his underwear. The floor was still littered with paper sheets, and there were even some opened water bottles around, but he still found what he was looking for before pulling his jeans from under Elysira’s butt and getting dressed with haste.
He wore his shoes but didn't bother with his shirt and jacket, just taking his already loaded gun from the holster and getting some spare ammunition before heading outside cautiously.
"I'm going with you." She got out of the tent almost at the same time as him, proving that not needing clothes had its advantages.
"Stay close." He activated the infrared view mode and scanned the surroundings just to be sure, then hasted his steps towards Nathan's tent which was about forty meters ahead.
There was little he expected would go wrong on such a short journey, but Elysira’s ears began to twitch halfway through, prompting him to stop advancing. "Hear someone?"
"Something." She then used her tail to point uphill, in the direction where the rest of the group had set camp on the previous day. "I think it's a drone."
"Fuck, I hope you are wrong." He raised his 3D-printed revolver and felt like cursing more at the fact he didn't even have a proper pistol, pulling back the harmer and getting himself in front of Elysira.
Thanks to her acute hearing, when he heard the buzzing of the drone, his gun was already pointing in the right direction. Upon getting the first glimpse of the flying object and noticing how fast it was moving, he didn't hesitate to do a partial activation of combat mode.
The world slowed down for a moment, allowing him to see the device flying among the very few beams of blue light that made their way through the canopies. He didn't wait a single second and corrected his aim slightly to the left before pulling the trigger.
Bang!
The drone was torn to pieces and many parts fell about twenty-five meters away from them, at a distance that any explosives wouldn't hurt himself or Elysira.
When his eyes found her behind him, there was yellow and purple on her skin as she asked, "What if it was friendly?"
"The owner can send the bill up the chain for all I care." Ryo lowered the gun and did a full scan all around once more, only to find nothing again.
Her tail wrapped around his arm as all purple on her body disappeared, leaving only a hint of yellow. "Amara won't be happy if it was hers."
Just as Elysira spoke, a circular door opened on Nathan's tent, and Amara took a step outside with red filling her body.
Ryo pictured a scene of a princess complaining about her lost drone, but things only got more complicated instead.
Nathan emerged after her, and the pair began to argue loudly about what to do now that a war had broken out; Amara wanted to march uphill to join her guards, but Nathan held her by the tail when she was about to leave and prevented her for moving, saying it would be too dangerous.
Their argument turned into a messy mixture of the present situation with Amara sulking about a wasted night, which led Ryo to exchange a look of surprise with Elysira.
But their surprise only lasted a moment and Ryo decided he couldn't let those fools keep wasting valuable time.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
He had their attention now. "Please don't tell me you're mad because the plant lover couldn't get it up."
Under normal circumstances, Ryo had no doubt his assholish behavior would only instill shame and improve their cooperation.
However, he forgot to account that he was not wearing a shirt, leaving all his scratches exposed while Elysira was disheveled by his side, which caused Nathan's jaws to drop followed by Amara throwing an indignant gaze at Elysira and then at Nathan, who gave Ryo the feeling he might snap at any time.
"Why are you here?" Nathan's calm voice didn't match his clenched fist and rigid posture.
"Information. I want her to tell me what she knows about this war." Ryo had learned about the war by overhearing their previous argument.
Surprisingly, Amara was cooperative. "My brother's army found our position. They were not aware I was here with Nathan and ambushed the rest of my people and Zara; you destroyed their drone but if they saw us they might have a good reason to come here."
"Fuck!" He turned to Elysira and ordered. "Go back and gather my things. Take the essentials first, we are leaving."
Elysira used her tail to squeeze his arm in acknowledgment and rushed back. But when she had barely taken a few steps, she stopped as her ears moved. "More drones are coming!"
After alerting him, she ran to accomplish her task, leaving Ryo in the company of just Nathan and Amara.
"Isn't that great?" He grumbled to himself, but his voice carried loudly, obtaining the pair's attention as he raised his revolver again.
Knowing that the enemy was probably aware of their position, Ryo used infrared view mode to ensure they weren't using the drones as a distraction to pull off an ambush.
And that didn't seem to be the case when the first machine appeared, flying downwards in zigzag from the concentration of trees uphill.
Again Ryo used a partial activation of combat mode and aimed at the drone, yet this time more of them appeared, leaving the cover of the woods in groups of three until there were nine of them in total. But they didn't even try to get close this time, choosing to hover next to the canopies more than two hundred meters away from him, and assuming something akin to a structured formation.
This was extremely weird and enough of a reason for him to retreat a little, getting closer to his tent and taking cover behind a tree.
Nathan and Amara moved too, the botanist getting inside and returning with his gun while Amara's colors blended with his tent becoming hard to spot.
Assessing the new situation in an instant, Ryo concluded it would be better not to engage and retreat considering that those drones would be hard to take down at such distance. But things changed again quickly when the AI triggered a pop-up window, showing that several of the cameras he had set up in strategic places were capturing movement.
And what he was seeing now were several armed groups of Irisians heading towards their position, confirming Amara's supposition that the rebels were coming for them.
With the situation getting grimmer with every passing moment, Ryo thought of a possibility for what the drones might be doing, but his mind was still refusing to believe that the rebels could be as organized as his worst-case scenarios were giving them credit for.
To test this, he immediately tried to contact the space station through radio transmission, and since being found by the enemy was no longer an issue, he set the transmitter to maximum potency to validate his test.
Unable to establish a two-way connection.
He frowned even though that was not totally unexpected.
With only a few minutes at best before this place was filled with enemies, they would have to leave fast or they would be at the mercy of the enemy.
But first, there was something he wanted to say to Nathan, who now was using his tent for cover together with Amara. "Listen up, those fuckers are jamming our comms and they will be here at any time. Take the MLBCS and find a clearing to use it, I doubt they can interfere with the laser. Just don't forget that your immediate safety comes first or else you might not be among the living when the pod arrives."
Ryo and Nathan were technically enemies, but the last casualty in the war between Earth and Mars had happened several years in the past, ensuring that he had no reason to wish any harm for the botanist even though he didn't like him.
As for Amara, it was a little different. He hurried back to his tent without saying anything to her. And he did that not because he wished her harm, but simply because he didn't understand what she had at her disposal to offer any useful advice.
"Wait, what are you gonna do?" Nathan shouted from a distance.
With the adrenalin of seeing how many Irisians were coming helping his sincerity, he shouted back. "I'm not leaving the planet unless mission control finds a way to save Ely too."
After that, Nathan and Amara disappeared from his mind as he took cover behind his tent, slamming his hand against the foldable fabric many times to get Elysira's attention. "Hurry up, we can't stay here any longer."
She left immediately after, struggling to maintain balance as she used a hand plus her tail to carry his backpack, while her gun threatened to tumble from her gasp in her other hand.
And besides, one thing that Ryo’s eyes were immediately drawn towards was the clothes she was wearing—his clothes. While her legs were still exposed, his jacket still covered a bit more than her hips, loosely engulfing her slender frame like a billowing sail.
"I put the food and water in your backpack." She let go of the heavy item right over his feet as she put the gun on the ground and lifted her arms for him to recover his jacket and t-shirt. "You can get dressed while the tent folds."
He might have allowed her to keep the jacket if not for it being an inconvenience to her, so he just took it, making the first time he saw her wearing clothes a very short experience.
"No time for that, it won't fold with all the paper you left on the ground." He said as he swiftly slipped his arms into the sleeves of the jacket and zipped it up in one smooth movement.
Ryo was already considering which path they would take to flee when he noticed something terrible—Elysira’s skin had just been filled with gray as tiny black spots began to appear and disappear as if rain on the sand of a desert.
"What's it now?" He asked, trying to hide how unprepared he was to deal with this.
"Nothing has changed." Elysira averted her eyes. "I'm a burden to you just as I was to Amara. If I had-"
"Oh, shut up and quit the self-pity!" Ryo realized he was being too harsh, but still went on to finish it. "The paper is our mistake and I'm staying because I like you. This simple. Now get your gun and use your goddam camouflage, just like that princess is doing."
Ryo felt awful after saying this, and Elysira seemed quite taken about as she stared at him with wide eyes.
A moment later, however, she bent over and took the gun from the ground, her exterior blending quite well with the surroundings.
Ryo felt bad for her, but now there was no time to talk. "We run now, let's go."
The sound of his own steps was all he heard as they were putting some distance from the tent, making it so that he had to check on Elysira every couple of steps he took to ensure she was following him.
It was only when he heard some gunshots from far behind that he felt her claws tugging at his jacket from behind. "I hope Nathan is like you."
***
This was an account based on what Ryo did during the first hour of the war. The previous narrative is based on the events of the morning of the twentieth day of the exploratory mission of Irisa. According to your current settings, no queries will be suggested.
next->patreon wiki

The world was a boozy whirl of lights and sounds. Images, broken and fragmented, came and went. Voices, laughter, screaming. The ground pitched like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, and he felt heavy, as though the ground were pulling him to it. C’mere, Dommy. He fell, lay on the pavement, and pushed himself up again, staggering like a drunk on his way home. His head spun, his body ached, and things seemed blurry, like half-formed images glimpsed underwater.
It was the light blue hour before dawn and Dom was…somewhere. He should have recognized the stores and street signs around him, but he didn’t. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and a sense of confusion gripped him so strongly that he was beginning to panic. Where was he? What happened?
The world spun away again and the next thing he knew, he was lying in a heap of garbage bags, used needles, and rubbish. He came awake with a jerk and sat up so fast that a bolt of pain jammed into his skull. He winced and pressed his hand to his forehead. He felt hot, clammy.
Something was seriously wrong.
Somehow he got to his feet again and started walking. The sun was up now and the streets were filled with people. They all sneered in disgust as he passed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest like a baby comforting itself. He was getting cold. His muscles were sore. Tears streamed down his face and he wanted to cry.
Going on instinct alone, Dom made his way back home and climbed the steps to his apartment. Exhaustion swept over him and he sagged against the door as he dug in his pocket for the keys. They shook in his hand and he had to focus really hard to get the key into the lock.
Inside, he collapsed onto the couch and his eyelids instantly drooped. He was so weary that he couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t form a single coherent thought. Dom felt himself starting to sink, and snapped his eyes open with a start. Something in his soul told him that if he slept, he would die.
He couldn’t help it, though. He was falling, tumbling, hands reaching up from hell to grab him. His eyes fluttered closed again and the world started to go dark, his heart slamming in fear. He tried to fight, but the pull of darkness was too strong, too alluring. Why was he fighting? Why not just…give up? Hadn’t he thought of killing himself before? Didn’t he hate his life and himself? What was there to fight for? A wife? Kids? A community that loved and respected him? Shit, affordable groceries?
No.
There was nothing.
He had nothing and was nothing.
A sense of peace blossomed from the darkness, and suddenly death didn’t seem so scary. In fact, it was warm…inviting.
It was life that was cold and hateful. Not death.
Death accepted you no matter who you were. It didn’t reject you…it didn’t ignore you. If you sought it, you would find it, and if you embraced it, it would embrace you.
With that thought in mind, Dom gave up.
And died.
***
Bruce Kenner, captain of the 5th Albany precinct, sat behind his desk on the morning of June 28 and lazily leafed through a stack of files as he sipped from a mug of coffee. A roughly built man with a dark goatee and graying blonde hair, he looked more like a small town southern sheriff than a low level public works functionary. In fact, he tended to act like it too. He liked to hunt, fish, and drink beer on his off time. Albany wasn’t a big city, but it was big enough that you never got a fucking break. Run here, run there, arrest this asshole, investigate that asshole. By the time Friday rolled around, he was so ready for the peace and tranquility of a fishing trip he could taste it.
Already this Monday morning, he was looking forward to another one.
Over the weekend, three kids went missing in the Pine Hills and Washington Park area, bringing the total for that summer up to eight. All were teenagers, all were troubled. Most were boys, but two were girls.
Troubled kids run away all the time. They might be gone a few days, sulking at a friend’s house over something their father or mother did, but they’d eventually come home. None of these kids had come back yet and from what he knew, a few of them weren’t the runaway types. They were shits at school and caused problems, but they had no reason to up and leave. Hell, Bruce himself raised hell as a kid, but he always found his way back home, even if he spent the previous night dying in a field from Mad Dogg 20/20 poisoning.
One or two kids going missing…okay, it happens. Eight? Over a span of four weeks?
Yeah, something was wrong here.
But what?
There was nothing on any of these kids. No one saw them, no one knew anything - one minute they were here, the next they weren’t. What could he or anyone else do with that?. The public broke cops’ balls all the time, but if you don’t have evidence, you don’t have evidence. What do you want? Door to door searches? Roadblocks? Dogs and helicopters? Yeah, then when you actually do it, they cry fascism. Guess I’ll just use my Spidey Senses.
Bruce wished he had spidey senses. He wanted to find these kids as much as anyone, and he was starting to get pissed off that he couldn’t. He took another sip from his mug and read on. The latest kids to go missing were three boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.
They were all white, all thin (except for one). If there was a serial killer in town - and Bruce hoped to fuck there wasn’t - he had a type. What, black kids aren’t good enough to kill, cannibalize, and wear like a skin suit? They should charge him with a hate crime for discrimination.
That way he’d actually stay locked up.
The door opened and Vanessa Rodregiez, his deputy, came in. A tall, shapely Hispanic woman with dark eyes and a mouth poised always on the edge of a smile, she wore her black hair in a ponytail that would look stern and severe on anyone else, but on her, looked childlike. She was twenty-seven and had been on the force for three years, but you could be forgiven for thinking her much younger. “Bright and early, I see,” she said with a grin.
Bruce grumbled.
Vanessa held down the fort during the graveyard shift, acting to the night as he acted to the day. She was young and full of energy, which clashed with Bruce, who was old and just wanted to be left alone. Despite their differences, Bruce loved her like a kid sister…an annoying kid sister he wanted to throat punch sometimes.
“You missed all the fun last night,” she said and parked her butt on the edge of Bruce’s desk. He glared at her, but she ignored him.
“Good,” he said. Then: “What happened?”
“Big fight outside of Club Vlad,” she said. “It looked like a WorldStar video.”
For a moment, Bruce was lost. “Club what?”
“Club Vlad,” Vanessa said. “Where the Fuze Box used to be.”
Ah, right. The Fuze Box was an Albany landmark, a night club for punks…or goths…or someone. Certainly not for Bruce Kenner. It was small, dingy, and always had people in black waiting outside. On Friday and Saturday nights, it blasted strange music with lyrics about fighting The Man. Kids had been fighting the Man since before Bruce was even born and they hadn’t beaten him yet. Kudos to them for still trying.
Last year, The Fuze Box closed down and someone else bought it. It reopened last month and looked more or less the same: Posers, shitty music, and spiked hair. So much spiked hair. “Place is still a pain in the ass,” Bruce said.
“Yep,” Vanessa chirped. “It doesn’t know what it wants to be now. One minute they play nightcore, the next EDM. It’s all over the place.”
Bruce raised a quizzical brow.
“Not that I’ve ever been there in my free time,” Vanessa said in a tone that suggested she had,
Bruce gave a judgemental hum.
“Anyway,” Vanessa went on, “you see we have some new missing persons?”
Sighing, Bruce sat back in his chair. “Yeah. I did.”
“People are starting to ask questions,” Vanessa warned.
That brought a terse smile to Bruce’s weathered face. “Maybe they’ll solve it then.”
“Ha, fat chance,” Vanessa said. She got up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m bushed. Here’s my…” she trailed off and looked at her empty hands. “Damn, where’s my report? I just had it?” She turned in a confused circle as if she might be able to spot her report making a break for it. “Huh,” she said. She left the office and came back a moment later holding a folder. “Found it,” she grinned.
Bruce just looked at her.
“Um…here it is.”
He didn’t take it.
Her smile faltered. She carefully sat it on top of the files Bruce was looking at.
And his hands.
“I’ll just leave that right here.” She patted it for good measure.
“Thank you,” Bruce said.
“Okay. Night.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce said as she left through a shaft of morning sunlight. Alone, Bruce sat her report aside and went back to the missing kids. This case was giving him a headache and it wasn’t even nine. With a deep sigh, he slumped back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Was it Saturday yet?
He could really use a fishing trip.
***
Dom came awake in the cold purple twilight with a shocked gasp like a man coming up seconds before drowning. His eyes strained from his sweaty face and his mouth hung slack, twisted in a gruesome parody of The Scream. His mind was muddled, murky - he didn’t know where he was or even who he was, but he knew this,.
He couldn’t breathe.
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but his lungs did not fill with air. A great, unseen weight seemed to bear down on his chest, and panic gripped him. He tried to move, but his arms refused to heed his brain’s command. The weight seemed heavier, all over, crushing him like a bug. Confusion filled him and he started to pant.
Without warning, his bowels and bladder loosened, and horrible wetness filled his pants. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His chest rose and fell with the frantic labor of his breath, but his lungs remained inert. A cry of fear bubbled up inside of him, but escaped his mouth only as a breathy groan.
A bust of adrenaline shot through him and he tried to stand, but succeeded only in falling off the couch instead, landing face first against the cold tile floor. He felt his nose crunch, but the pain was muted.
Dom thought he lost consciousness after that, but wasn’t sure. His next memory was of shivering so violently that his teeth clacked together. A phantom chill - perhaps from the floor - had settled into his bones, and was colder than he had ever been in his life, colder even than the time he fell into a snowbank and got lost when he was two. Shudders racked his body, and though he tried to turn over, he was too fucking heavy. It was like every muscle in his body had turned to dead weight. Fragmented thoughts swirled in his head, faint colors in the dark, but he couldn’t put any of them together.
With great effort, he managed to push himself slightly up, but a wave of lightheadedness crashed over him and he lowered his head once more. He stopped trying and simply lay there. Shortly, his eyes began to burn and he realized that he wasn’t blinking. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t blinking.
For some strange reason, that brought a fresh bout of panic. He started to hyperventilate, but his lungs still wouldn’t work. He wasn’t blinking…he wasn’t breathing…what was happening to him?
A whimper burst from his throat and he started to cry.
He must have cried himself to sleep, because he woke sometime later to the most intense headache he’d ever had. It felt like something was eating his brain from the inside out. He was sore all over, and could feel his muscles twitching, as though a thousand living things were burrowing through his body. A cramp shot down his right leg, and the toes of his left foot curled involuntarily. Slowly, his jaw clenched closed, and the muscles in his neck began to strain…then to burn. His panic turned to terror, and Dom wiggled across the floor like a worm, his limbs screaming in red agony and his brain filling with heat. He somehow wound up on his right side, and his arms curled slowly up to his chest, crossing at the wrists like a mummy. He tried to pull them apart, but the slightest movement sent waves of excruciating pain cutting through his body. His knees began to draw up to his stomach, and his fingers clenched tightly.
Cramps and spasms attacked every muscle in his body. He screamed through his teeth and shook, resembling a man in the electric chair as 40,000 volts of justice coursed through him. The pain grew gradually, getting worse and worse as minutes ticked by like hours. Higher, higher, higher - he clenched his eyes closed and shrieked as it became unbearable. Disjointed thoughts flashed through his mind - prayers, threats, curses, Jesus fucking…FUCK.
What was happening? God, what was happening to him? Was it fentanyl? He’d seen videos of people high on fentanyl, and they leaned in weird positions. He didn’t do drugs but maybe he ingested it somehow.
His panic may have returned if all of his muscles hadn’t picked that moment to contract as one. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his jaw unclenched just enough for him to utter a high. Agonized scream that echoed through his empty apartment like thunder.
A human being can only take so much before giving out. When the pain reached a crescendo, and Dom mercifully sank into consciousness once more. The sun rose and cascaded through the apartment’s sole window, falling over his huddled form. Slowly, it tracked across the sky before setting again. As the last rays disappeared behind the horizon, Dom’s eyes opened. The pain of the night before was blessedly gone, replaced by a feeling of numbness - the cool ash after the hot fire. His thoughts were slow and thick like molasses, but he could actually think again. Nightmare memories flooded back to him, but he wasn’t sure they were real. He was lying on his side, his arms wrapped around his chest as if for warmth, and his teeth lightly chattered against the icy chill. He was so cold that he didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He needed help. He needed…
A shower.
Yeah, a hot shower. That would warm him up.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, ready for a burst of pain.
But none came.
He did, however, feel heavy. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself against the counter. His limbs had no feeling. It’s like they weren’t even there. Head hung, Dom tried to catch his breath, but it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. His eyelids drooped closed and he felt like he was going to fall down. Summoning all the might he could, he shuffled into the bathroom with the stiff gait of an old man. He snapped the light on, and cold, white brilliance filled the space, blinding him.
Leaning heavily against the sink, he gripped the cold porcelain. Suddenly, he was afraid of looking into the mirror. He was sure that whatever reflection he saw, it would be of something else, something monstrous.
Dom lifted his head and faced the glass.
His heart shrank.
The man in the mirror was him but different. His skin was white as milk, lacking all color whatsoever save for the ugly purple patch on the left side. IResembling a giant bruise, it started at the temple and extended down to the slope of his neck, disappearing beneath his T-shirt. He gingerly lifted the shirt, and moaned when he saw that his entire left side was discolored, the purple edged with a puffy shade of pink. His sallow skin clung tight to his ribcage, and his hip bones stuck out so much it looked painful. Back in the mirror, his cheeks were sunken, hollow, and his eyes were a hazy, dishwater gray. His skull seemed bigger, his hair longer. Dom wanted to whip his head away from the phantom before him, to never see it again, but he was transfixed.
There was no way that thing was -
Dom looked away, cutting that thought off before it could finish.
A shower.
He needed a shower.
Slowly, stiffly, Dom undressed, peeling off his shirt and his soiled pants. He dropped them in a heap on the floor and stepped under the spray. He could feel the water pounding against him, but it provided no heat. It was neither hot nor cold. It was simply there.
Dom pressed his head to the slick shower wall and stood there for a long time. He was spent, tired, and fried - he had no more emotions left to give. He got out after a little while, dried off, and put on a clean pair of shorts. He settled into bed and lay there with his hands folded over his chest and his eyes open. They felt gritty, dry. His stomach felt bloated, gassy. He was drowsy now, the weight of the past two days (or was it two weeks?) coming down on him all at once. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was still asleep - but aware - when the knocking on his door started the next morning. Time was funny in this state of being, fast and jerky but also slow and echoing. Keys rattled the knob turned. The landlord came in with a cop. They saw him on the bed, laid out like a corpse for a viewing, and the cop radioed in a code 35. Soon, cops were all around him, making noise and touching things. He had the vague sense of discomfort and embarrassment at the intrusion. A baling man in a suit stood over him, a cop who looked like a redneck beside him. “He didn’t die here,” the medical examiner said.
The cop looked at him questioningly. Dom caught the name KENNER on his name tag.
“See this?” the M.E. said and gestured to Dom’s face. “That’s livor mortis. When you die, your blood pools at the lowest point. If you’re on your left side, for example, it pools on the left.”
Kenner looked at Dom and then back to the M.E. “Someone moved him?”
“Looks like it,” the M.E. said.
“When did he die?”
The M.E. examined Dom as though he were nothing more than a side of beef. “At a glance? Three days. I won’t have a better answer until I open him up.”
Dom was still awake when they put him into a body bag and zipped it up. He felt a stirring of fear beneath the cold numbness, but he was too tired to worry about it now.
Later, he thought.
He would panic later.
For now, Dom slept.

The world was a boozy whirl of lights and sounds. Images, broken and fragmented, came and went. Voices, laughter, screaming. The ground pitched like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, and he felt heavy, as though the ground were pulling him to it. C’mere, Dommy. He fell, lay on the pavement, and pushed himself up again, staggering like a drunk on his way home. His head spun, his body ached, and things seemed blurry, like half-formed images glimpsed underwater.
It was the light blue hour before dawn and Dom was…somewhere. He should have recognized the stores and street signs around him, but he didn’t. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and a sense of confusion gripped him so strongly that he was beginning to panic. Where was he? What happened?
The world spun away again and the next thing he knew, he was lying in a heap of garbage bags, used needles, and rubbish. He came awake with a jerk and sat up so fast that a bolt of pain jammed into his skull. He winced and pressed his hand to his forehead. He felt hot, clammy.
Something was seriously wrong.
Somehow he got to his feet again and started walking. The sun was up now and the streets were filled with people. They all sneered in disgust as he passed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest like a baby comforting itself. He was getting cold. His muscles were sore. Tears streamed down his face and he wanted to cry.
Going on instinct alone, Dom made his way back home and climbed the steps to his apartment. Exhaustion swept over him and he sagged against the door as he dug in his pocket for the keys. They shook in his hand and he had to focus really hard to get the key into the lock.
Inside, he collapsed onto the couch and his eyelids instantly drooped. He was so weary that he couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t form a single coherent thought. Dom felt himself starting to sink, and snapped his eyes open with a start. Something in his soul told him that if he slept, he would die.
He couldn’t help it, though. He was falling, tumbling, hands reaching up from hell to grab him. His eyes fluttered closed again and the world started to go dark, his heart slamming in fear. He tried to fight, but the pull of darkness was too strong, too alluring. Why was he fighting? Why not just…give up? Hadn’t he thought of killing himself before? Didn’t he hate his life and himself? What was there to fight for? A wife? Kids? A community that loved and respected him? Shit, affordable groceries?
No.
There was nothing.
He had nothing and was nothing.
A sense of peace blossomed from the darkness, and suddenly death didn’t seem so scary. In fact, it was warm…inviting.
It was life that was cold and hateful. Not death.
Death accepted you no matter who you were. It didn’t reject you…it didn’t ignore you. If you sought it, you would find it, and if you embraced it, it would embrace you.
With that thought in mind, Dom gave up.
And died.
***
Bruce Kenner, captain of the 5th Albany precinct, sat behind his desk on the morning of June 28 and lazily leafed through a stack of files as he sipped from a mug of coffee. A roughly built man with a dark goatee and graying blonde hair, he looked more like a small town southern sheriff than a low level public works functionary. In fact, he tended to act like it too. He liked to hunt, fish, and drink beer on his off time. Albany wasn’t a big city, but it was big enough that you never got a fucking break. Run here, run there, arrest this asshole, investigate that asshole. By the time Friday rolled around, he was so ready for the peace and tranquility of a fishing trip he could taste it.
Already this Monday morning, he was looking forward to another one.
Over the weekend, three kids went missing in the Pine Hills and Washington Park area, bringing the total for that summer up to eight. All were teenagers, all were troubled. Most were boys, but two were girls.
Troubled kids run away all the time. They might be gone a few days, sulking at a friend’s house over something their father or mother did, but they’d eventually come home. None of these kids had come back yet and from what he knew, a few of them weren’t the runaway types. They were shits at school and caused problems, but they had no reason to up and leave. Hell, Bruce himself raised hell as a kid, but he always found his way back home, even if he spent the previous night dying in a field from Mad Dogg 20/20 poisoning.
One or two kids going missing…okay, it happens. Eight? Over a span of four weeks?
Yeah, something was wrong here.
But what?
There was nothing on any of these kids. No one saw them, no one knew anything - one minute they were here, the next they weren’t. What could he or anyone else do with that?. The public broke cops’ balls all the time, but if you don’t have evidence, you don’t have evidence. What do you want? Door to door searches? Roadblocks? Dogs and helicopters? Yeah, then when you actually do it, they cry fascism. Guess I’ll just use my Spidey Senses.
Bruce wished he had spidey senses. He wanted to find these kids as much as anyone, and he was starting to get pissed off that he couldn’t. He took another sip from his mug and read on. The latest kids to go missing were three boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.
They were all white, all thin (except for one). If there was a serial killer in town - and Bruce hoped to fuck there wasn’t - he had a type. What, black kids aren’t good enough to kill, cannibalize, and wear like a skin suit? They should charge him with a hate crime for discrimination.
That way he’d actually stay locked up.
The door opened and Vanessa Rodregiez, his deputy, came in. A tall, shapely Hispanic woman with dark eyes and a mouth poised always on the edge of a smile, she wore her black hair in a ponytail that would look stern and severe on anyone else, but on her, looked childlike. She was twenty-seven and had been on the force for three years, but you could be forgiven for thinking her much younger. “Bright and early, I see,” she said with a grin.
Bruce grumbled.
Vanessa held down the fort during the graveyard shift, acting to the night as he acted to the day. She was young and full of energy, which clashed with Bruce, who was old and just wanted to be left alone. Despite their differences, Bruce loved her like a kid sister…an annoying kid sister he wanted to throat punch sometimes.
“You missed all the fun last night,” she said and parked her butt on the edge of Bruce’s desk. He glared at her, but she ignored him.
“Good,” he said. Then: “What happened?”
“Big fight outside of Club Vlad,” she said. “It looked like a WorldStar video.”
For a moment, Bruce was lost. “Club what?”
“Club Vlad,” Vanessa said. “Where the Fuze Box used to be.”
Ah, right. The Fuze Box was an Albany landmark, a night club for punks…or goths…or someone. Certainly not for Bruce Kenner. It was small, dingy, and always had people in black waiting outside. On Friday and Saturday nights, it blasted strange music with lyrics about fighting The Man. Kids had been fighting the Man since before Bruce was even born and they hadn’t beaten him yet. Kudos to them for still trying.
Last year, The Fuze Box closed down and someone else bought it. It reopened last month and looked more or less the same: Posers, shitty music, and spiked hair. So much spiked hair. “Place is still a pain in the ass,” Bruce said.
“Yep,” Vanessa chirped. “It doesn’t know what it wants to be now. One minute they play nightcore, the next EDM. It’s all over the place.”
Bruce raised a quizzical brow.
“Not that I’ve ever been there in my free time,” Vanessa said in a tone that suggested she had,
Bruce gave a judgemental hum.
“Anyway,” Vanessa went on, “you see we have some new missing persons?”
Sighing, Bruce sat back in his chair. “Yeah. I did.”
“People are starting to ask questions,” Vanessa warned.
That brought a terse smile to Bruce’s weathered face. “Maybe they’ll solve it then.”
“Ha, fat chance,” Vanessa said. She got up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m bushed. Here’s my…” she trailed off and looked at her empty hands. “Damn, where’s my report? I just had it?” She turned in a confused circle as if she might be able to spot her report making a break for it. “Huh,” she said. She left the office and came back a moment later holding a folder. “Found it,” she grinned.
Bruce just looked at her.
“Um…here it is.”
He didn’t take it.
Her smile faltered. She carefully sat it on top of the files Bruce was looking at.
And his hands.
“I’ll just leave that right here.” She patted it for good measure.
“Thank you,” Bruce said.
“Okay. Night.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce said as she left through a shaft of morning sunlight. Alone, Bruce sat her report aside and went back to the missing kids. This case was giving him a headache and it wasn’t even nine. With a deep sigh, he slumped back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Was it Saturday yet?
He could really use a fishing trip.
***
Dom came awake in the cold purple twilight with a shocked gasp like a man coming up seconds before drowning. His eyes strained from his sweaty face and his mouth hung slack, twisted in a gruesome parody of The Scream. His mind was muddled, murky - he didn’t know where he was or even who he was, but he knew this,.
He couldn’t breathe.
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but his lungs did not fill with air. A great, unseen weight seemed to bear down on his chest, and panic gripped him. He tried to move, but his arms refused to heed his brain’s command. The weight seemed heavier, all over, crushing him like a bug. Confusion filled him and he started to pant.
Without warning, his bowels and bladder loosened, and horrible wetness filled his pants. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His chest rose and fell with the frantic labor of his breath, but his lungs remained inert. A cry of fear bubbled up inside of him, but escaped his mouth only as a breathy groan.
A bust of adrenaline shot through him and he tried to stand, but succeeded only in falling off the couch instead, landing face first against the cold tile floor. He felt his nose crunch, but the pain was muted.
Dom thought he lost consciousness after that, but wasn’t sure. His next memory was of shivering so violently that his teeth clacked together. A phantom chill - perhaps from the floor - had settled into his bones, and was colder than he had ever been in his life, colder even than the time he fell into a snowbank and got lost when he was two. Shudders racked his body, and though he tried to turn over, he was too fucking heavy. It was like every muscle in his body had turned to dead weight. Fragmented thoughts swirled in his head, faint colors in the dark, but he couldn’t put any of them together.
With great effort, he managed to push himself slightly up, but a wave of lightheadedness crashed over him and he lowered his head once more. He stopped trying and simply lay there. Shortly, his eyes began to burn and he realized that he wasn’t blinking. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t blinking.
For some strange reason, that brought a fresh bout of panic. He started to hyperventilate, but his lungs still wouldn’t work. He wasn’t blinking…he wasn’t breathing…what was happening to him?
A whimper burst from his throat and he started to cry.
He must have cried himself to sleep, because he woke sometime later to the most intense headache he’d ever had. It felt like something was eating his brain from the inside out. He was sore all over, and could feel his muscles twitching, as though a thousand living things were burrowing through his body. A cramp shot down his right leg, and the toes of his left foot curled involuntarily. Slowly, his jaw clenched closed, and the muscles in his neck began to strain…then to burn. His panic turned to terror, and Dom wiggled across the floor like a worm, his limbs screaming in red agony and his brain filling with heat. He somehow wound up on his right side, and his arms curled slowly up to his chest, crossing at the wrists like a mummy. He tried to pull them apart, but the slightest movement sent waves of excruciating pain cutting through his body. His knees began to draw up to his stomach, and his fingers clenched tightly.
Cramps and spasms attacked every muscle in his body. He screamed through his teeth and shook, resembling a man in the electric chair as 40,000 volts of justice coursed through him. The pain grew gradually, getting worse and worse as minutes ticked by like hours. Higher, higher, higher - he clenched his eyes closed and shrieked as it became unbearable. Disjointed thoughts flashed through his mind - prayers, threats, curses, Jesus fucking…FUCK.
What was happening? God, what was happening to him? Was it fentanyl? He’d seen videos of people high on fentanyl, and they leaned in weird positions. He didn’t do drugs but maybe he ingested it somehow.
His panic may have returned if all of his muscles hadn’t picked that moment to contract as one. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his jaw unclenched just enough for him to utter a high. Agonized scream that echoed through his empty apartment like thunder.
A human being can only take so much before giving out. When the pain reached a crescendo, and Dom mercifully sank into consciousness once more. The sun rose and cascaded through the apartment’s sole window, falling over his huddled form. Slowly, it tracked across the sky before setting again. As the last rays disappeared behind the horizon, Dom’s eyes opened. The pain of the night before was blessedly gone, replaced by a feeling of numbness - the cool ash after the hot fire. His thoughts were slow and thick like molasses, but he could actually think again. Nightmare memories flooded back to him, but he wasn’t sure they were real. He was lying on his side, his arms wrapped around his chest as if for warmth, and his teeth lightly chattered against the icy chill. He was so cold that he didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He needed help. He needed…
A shower.
Yeah, a hot shower. That would warm him up.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, ready for a burst of pain.
But none came.
He did, however, feel heavy. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself against the counter. His limbs had no feeling. It’s like they weren’t even there. Head hung, Dom tried to catch his breath, but it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. His eyelids drooped closed and he felt like he was going to fall down. Summoning all the might he could, he shuffled into the bathroom with the stiff gait of an old man. He snapped the light on, and cold, white brilliance filled the space, blinding him.
Leaning heavily against the sink, he gripped the cold porcelain. Suddenly, he was afraid of looking into the mirror. He was sure that whatever reflection he saw, it would be of something else, something monstrous.
Dom lifted his head and faced the glass.
His heart shrank.
The man in the mirror was him but different. His skin was white as milk, lacking all color whatsoever save for the ugly purple patch on the left side. IResembling a giant bruise, it started at the temple and extended down to the slope of his neck, disappearing beneath his T-shirt. He gingerly lifted the shirt, and moaned when he saw that his entire left side was discolored, the purple edged with a puffy shade of pink. His sallow skin clung tight to his ribcage, and his hip bones stuck out so much it looked painful. Back in the mirror, his cheeks were sunken, hollow, and his eyes were a hazy, dishwater gray. His skull seemed bigger, his hair longer. Dom wanted to whip his head away from the phantom before him, to never see it again, but he was transfixed.
There was no way that thing was -
Dom looked away, cutting that thought off before it could finish.
A shower.
He needed a shower.
Slowly, stiffly, Dom undressed, peeling off his shirt and his soiled pants. He dropped them in a heap on the floor and stepped under the spray. He could feel the water pounding against him, but it provided no heat. It was neither hot nor cold. It was simply there.
Dom pressed his head to the slick shower wall and stood there for a long time. He was spent, tired, and fried - he had no more emotions left to give. He got out after a little while, dried off, and put on a clean pair of shorts. He settled into bed and lay there with his hands folded over his chest and his eyes open. They felt gritty, dry. His stomach felt bloated, gassy. He was drowsy now, the weight of the past two days (or was it two weeks?) coming down on him all at once. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was still asleep - but aware - when the knocking on his door started the next morning. Time was funny in this state of being, fast and jerky but also slow and echoing. Keys rattled the knob turned. The landlord came in with a cop. They saw him on the bed, laid out like a corpse for a viewing, and the cop radioed in a code 35. Soon, cops were all around him, making noise and touching things. He had the vague sense of discomfort and embarrassment at the intrusion. A baling man in a suit stood over him, a cop who looked like a redneck beside him. “He didn’t die here,” the medical examiner said.
The cop looked at him questioningly. Dom caught the name KENNER on his name tag.
“See this?” the M.E. said and gestured to Dom’s face. “That’s livor mortis. When you die, your blood pools at the lowest point. If you’re on your left side, for example, it pools on the left.”
Kenner looked at Dom and then back to the M.E. “Someone moved him?”
“Looks like it,” the M.E. said.
“When did he die?”
The M.E. examined Dom as though he were nothing more than a side of beef. “At a glance? Three days. I won’t have a better answer until I open him up.”
Dom was still awake when they put him into a body bag and zipped it up. He felt a stirring of fear beneath the cold numbness, but he was too tired to worry about it now.
Later, he thought.
He would panic later.
For now, Dom slept.

The world was a boozy whirl of lights and sounds. Images, broken and fragmented, came and went. Voices, laughter, screaming. The ground pitched like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, and he felt heavy, as though the ground were pulling him to it. C’mere, Dommy. He fell, lay on the pavement, and pushed himself up again, staggering like a drunk on his way home. His head spun, his body ached, and things seemed blurry, like half-formed images glimpsed underwater.
It was the light blue hour before dawn and Dom was…somewhere. He should have recognized the stores and street signs around him, but he didn’t. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and a sense of confusion gripped him so strongly that he was beginning to panic. Where was he? What happened?
The world spun away again and the next thing he knew, he was lying in a heap of garbage bags, used needles, and rubbish. He came awake with a jerk and sat up so fast that a bolt of pain jammed into his skull. He winced and pressed his hand to his forehead. He felt hot, clammy.
Something was seriously wrong.
Somehow he got to his feet again and started walking. The sun was up now and the streets were filled with people. They all sneered in disgust as he passed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest like a baby comforting itself. He was getting cold. His muscles were sore. Tears streamed down his face and he wanted to cry.
Going on instinct alone, Dom made his way back home and climbed the steps to his apartment. Exhaustion swept over him and he sagged against the door as he dug in his pocket for the keys. They shook in his hand and he had to focus really hard to get the key into the lock.
Inside, he collapsed onto the couch and his eyelids instantly drooped. He was so weary that he couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t form a single coherent thought. Dom felt himself starting to sink, and snapped his eyes open with a start. Something in his soul told him that if he slept, he would die.
He couldn’t help it, though. He was falling, tumbling, hands reaching up from hell to grab him. His eyes fluttered closed again and the world started to go dark, his heart slamming in fear. He tried to fight, but the pull of darkness was too strong, too alluring. Why was he fighting? Why not just…give up? Hadn’t he thought of killing himself before? Didn’t he hate his life and himself? What was there to fight for? A wife? Kids? A community that loved and respected him? Shit, affordable groceries?
No.
There was nothing.
He had nothing and was nothing.
A sense of peace blossomed from the darkness, and suddenly death didn’t seem so scary. In fact, it was warm…inviting.
It was life that was cold and hateful. Not death.
Death accepted you no matter who you were. It didn’t reject you…it didn’t ignore you. If you sought it, you would find it, and if you embraced it, it would embrace you.
With that thought in mind, Dom gave up.
And died.
***
Bruce Kenner, captain of the 5th Albany precinct, sat behind his desk on the morning of June 28 and lazily leafed through a stack of files as he sipped from a mug of coffee. A roughly built man with a dark goatee and graying blonde hair, he looked more like a small town southern sheriff than a low level public works functionary. In fact, he tended to act like it too. He liked to hunt, fish, and drink beer on his off time. Albany wasn’t a big city, but it was big enough that you never got a fucking break. Run here, run there, arrest this asshole, investigate that asshole. By the time Friday rolled around, he was so ready for the peace and tranquility of a fishing trip he could taste it.
Already this Monday morning, he was looking forward to another one.
Over the weekend, three kids went missing in the Pine Hills and Washington Park area, bringing the total for that summer up to eight. All were teenagers, all were troubled. Most were boys, but two were girls.
Troubled kids run away all the time. They might be gone a few days, sulking at a friend’s house over something their father or mother did, but they’d eventually come home. None of these kids had come back yet and from what he knew, a few of them weren’t the runaway types. They were shits at school and caused problems, but they had no reason to up and leave. Hell, Bruce himself raised hell as a kid, but he always found his way back home, even if he spent the previous night dying in a field from Mad Dogg 20/20 poisoning.
One or two kids going missing…okay, it happens. Eight? Over a span of four weeks?
Yeah, something was wrong here.
But what?
There was nothing on any of these kids. No one saw them, no one knew anything - one minute they were here, the next they weren’t. What could he or anyone else do with that?. The public broke cops’ balls all the time, but if you don’t have evidence, you don’t have evidence. What do you want? Door to door searches? Roadblocks? Dogs and helicopters? Yeah, then when you actually do it, they cry fascism. Guess I’ll just use my Spidey Senses.
Bruce wished he had spidey senses. He wanted to find these kids as much as anyone, and he was starting to get pissed off that he couldn’t. He took another sip from his mug and read on. The latest kids to go missing were three boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.
They were all white, all thin (except for one). If there was a serial killer in town - and Bruce hoped to fuck there wasn’t - he had a type. What, black kids aren’t good enough to kill, cannibalize, and wear like a skin suit? They should charge him with a hate crime for discrimination.
That way he’d actually stay locked up.
The door opened and Vanessa Rodregiez, his deputy, came in. A tall, shapely Hispanic woman with dark eyes and a mouth poised always on the edge of a smile, she wore her black hair in a ponytail that would look stern and severe on anyone else, but on her, looked childlike. She was twenty-seven and had been on the force for three years, but you could be forgiven for thinking her much younger. “Bright and early, I see,” she said with a grin.
Bruce grumbled.
Vanessa held down the fort during the graveyard shift, acting to the night as he acted to the day. She was young and full of energy, which clashed with Bruce, who was old and just wanted to be left alone. Despite their differences, Bruce loved her like a kid sister…an annoying kid sister he wanted to throat punch sometimes.
“You missed all the fun last night,” she said and parked her butt on the edge of Bruce’s desk. He glared at her, but she ignored him.
“Good,” he said. Then: “What happened?”
“Big fight outside of Club Vlad,” she said. “It looked like a WorldStar video.”
For a moment, Bruce was lost. “Club what?”
“Club Vlad,” Vanessa said. “Where the Fuze Box used to be.”
Ah, right. The Fuze Box was an Albany landmark, a night club for punks…or goths…or someone. Certainly not for Bruce Kenner. It was small, dingy, and always had people in black waiting outside. On Friday and Saturday nights, it blasted strange music with lyrics about fighting The Man. Kids had been fighting the Man since before Bruce was even born and they hadn’t beaten him yet. Kudos to them for still trying.
Last year, The Fuze Box closed down and someone else bought it. It reopened last month and looked more or less the same: Posers, shitty music, and spiked hair. So much spiked hair. “Place is still a pain in the ass,” Bruce said.
“Yep,” Vanessa chirped. “It doesn’t know what it wants to be now. One minute they play nightcore, the next EDM. It’s all over the place.”
Bruce raised a quizzical brow.
“Not that I’ve ever been there in my free time,” Vanessa said in a tone that suggested she had,
Bruce gave a judgemental hum.
“Anyway,” Vanessa went on, “you see we have some new missing persons?”
Sighing, Bruce sat back in his chair. “Yeah. I did.”
“People are starting to ask questions,” Vanessa warned.
That brought a terse smile to Bruce’s weathered face. “Maybe they’ll solve it then.”
“Ha, fat chance,” Vanessa said. She got up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m bushed. Here’s my…” she trailed off and looked at her empty hands. “Damn, where’s my report? I just had it?” She turned in a confused circle as if she might be able to spot her report making a break for it. “Huh,” she said. She left the office and came back a moment later holding a folder. “Found it,” she grinned.
Bruce just looked at her.
“Um…here it is.”
He didn’t take it.
Her smile faltered. She carefully sat it on top of the files Bruce was looking at.
And his hands.
“I’ll just leave that right here.” She patted it for good measure.
“Thank you,” Bruce said.
“Okay. Night.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce said as she left through a shaft of morning sunlight. Alone, Bruce sat her report aside and went back to the missing kids. This case was giving him a headache and it wasn’t even nine. With a deep sigh, he slumped back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Was it Saturday yet?
He could really use a fishing trip.
***
Dom came awake in the cold purple twilight with a shocked gasp like a man coming up seconds before drowning. His eyes strained from his sweaty face and his mouth hung slack, twisted in a gruesome parody of The Scream. His mind was muddled, murky - he didn’t know where he was or even who he was, but he knew this,.
He couldn’t breathe.
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but his lungs did not fill with air. A great, unseen weight seemed to bear down on his chest, and panic gripped him. He tried to move, but his arms refused to heed his brain’s command. The weight seemed heavier, all over, crushing him like a bug. Confusion filled him and he started to pant.
Without warning, his bowels and bladder loosened, and horrible wetness filled his pants. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His chest rose and fell with the frantic labor of his breath, but his lungs remained inert. A cry of fear bubbled up inside of him, but escaped his mouth only as a breathy groan.
A bust of adrenaline shot through him and he tried to stand, but succeeded only in falling off the couch instead, landing face first against the cold tile floor. He felt his nose crunch, but the pain was muted.
Dom thought he lost consciousness after that, but wasn’t sure. His next memory was of shivering so violently that his teeth clacked together. A phantom chill - perhaps from the floor - had settled into his bones, and was colder than he had ever been in his life, colder even than the time he fell into a snowbank and got lost when he was two. Shudders racked his body, and though he tried to turn over, he was too fucking heavy. It was like every muscle in his body had turned to dead weight. Fragmented thoughts swirled in his head, faint colors in the dark, but he couldn’t put any of them together.
With great effort, he managed to push himself slightly up, but a wave of lightheadedness crashed over him and he lowered his head once more. He stopped trying and simply lay there. Shortly, his eyes began to burn and he realized that he wasn’t blinking. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t blinking.
For some strange reason, that brought a fresh bout of panic. He started to hyperventilate, but his lungs still wouldn’t work. He wasn’t blinking…he wasn’t breathing…what was happening to him?
A whimper burst from his throat and he started to cry.
He must have cried himself to sleep, because he woke sometime later to the most intense headache he’d ever had. It felt like something was eating his brain from the inside out. He was sore all over, and could feel his muscles twitching, as though a thousand living things were burrowing through his body. A cramp shot down his right leg, and the toes of his left foot curled involuntarily. Slowly, his jaw clenched closed, and the muscles in his neck began to strain…then to burn. His panic turned to terror, and Dom wiggled across the floor like a worm, his limbs screaming in red agony and his brain filling with heat. He somehow wound up on his right side, and his arms curled slowly up to his chest, crossing at the wrists like a mummy. He tried to pull them apart, but the slightest movement sent waves of excruciating pain cutting through his body. His knees began to draw up to his stomach, and his fingers clenched tightly.
Cramps and spasms attacked every muscle in his body. He screamed through his teeth and shook, resembling a man in the electric chair as 40,000 volts of justice coursed through him. The pain grew gradually, getting worse and worse as minutes ticked by like hours. Higher, higher, higher - he clenched his eyes closed and shrieked as it became unbearable. Disjointed thoughts flashed through his mind - prayers, threats, curses, Jesus fucking…FUCK.
What was happening? God, what was happening to him? Was it fentanyl? He’d seen videos of people high on fentanyl, and they leaned in weird positions. He didn’t do drugs but maybe he ingested it somehow.
His panic may have returned if all of his muscles hadn’t picked that moment to contract as one. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his jaw unclenched just enough for him to utter a high. Agonized scream that echoed through his empty apartment like thunder.
A human being can only take so much before giving out. When the pain reached a crescendo, and Dom mercifully sank into consciousness once more. The sun rose and cascaded through the apartment’s sole window, falling over his huddled form. Slowly, it tracked across the sky before setting again. As the last rays disappeared behind the horizon, Dom’s eyes opened. The pain of the night before was blessedly gone, replaced by a feeling of numbness - the cool ash after the hot fire. His thoughts were slow and thick like molasses, but he could actually think again. Nightmare memories flooded back to him, but he wasn’t sure they were real. He was lying on his side, his arms wrapped around his chest as if for warmth, and his teeth lightly chattered against the icy chill. He was so cold that he didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He needed help. He needed…
A shower.
Yeah, a hot shower. That would warm him up.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, ready for a burst of pain.
But none came.
He did, however, feel heavy. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself against the counter. His limbs had no feeling. It’s like they weren’t even there. Head hung, Dom tried to catch his breath, but it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. His eyelids drooped closed and he felt like he was going to fall down. Summoning all the might he could, he shuffled into the bathroom with the stiff gait of an old man. He snapped the light on, and cold, white brilliance filled the space, blinding him.
Leaning heavily against the sink, he gripped the cold porcelain. Suddenly, he was afraid of looking into the mirror. He was sure that whatever reflection he saw, it would be of something else, something monstrous.
Dom lifted his head and faced the glass.
His heart shrank.
The man in the mirror was him but different. His skin was white as milk, lacking all color whatsoever save for the ugly purple patch on the left side. IResembling a giant bruise, it started at the temple and extended down to the slope of his neck, disappearing beneath his T-shirt. He gingerly lifted the shirt, and moaned when he saw that his entire left side was discolored, the purple edged with a puffy shade of pink. His sallow skin clung tight to his ribcage, and his hip bones stuck out so much it looked painful. Back in the mirror, his cheeks were sunken, hollow, and his eyes were a hazy, dishwater gray. His skull seemed bigger, his hair longer. Dom wanted to whip his head away from the phantom before him, to never see it again, but he was transfixed.
There was no way that thing was -
Dom looked away, cutting that thought off before it could finish.
A shower.
He needed a shower.
Slowly, stiffly, Dom undressed, peeling off his shirt and his soiled pants. He dropped them in a heap on the floor and stepped under the spray. He could feel the water pounding against him, but it provided no heat. It was neither hot nor cold. It was simply there.
Dom pressed his head to the slick shower wall and stood there for a long time. He was spent, tired, and fried - he had no more emotions left to give. He got out after a little while, dried off, and put on a clean pair of shorts. He settled into bed and lay there with his hands folded over his chest and his eyes open. They felt gritty, dry. His stomach felt bloated, gassy. He was drowsy now, the weight of the past two days (or was it two weeks?) coming down on him all at once. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was still asleep - but aware - when the knocking on his door started the next morning. Time was funny in this state of being, fast and jerky but also slow and echoing. Keys rattled the knob turned. The landlord came in with a cop. They saw him on the bed, laid out like a corpse for a viewing, and the cop radioed in a code 35. Soon, cops were all around him, making noise and touching things. He had the vague sense of discomfort and embarrassment at the intrusion. A baling man in a suit stood over him, a cop who looked like a redneck beside him. “He didn’t die here,” the medical examiner said.
The cop looked at him questioningly. Dom caught the name KENNER on his name tag.
“See this?” the M.E. said and gestured to Dom’s face. “That’s livor mortis. When you die, your blood pools at the lowest point. If you’re on your left side, for example, it pools on the left.”
Kenner looked at Dom and then back to the M.E. “Someone moved him?”
“Looks like it,” the M.E. said.
“When did he die?”
The M.E. examined Dom as though he were nothing more than a side of beef. “At a glance? Three days. I won’t have a better answer until I open him up.”
Dom was still awake when they put him into a body bag and zipped it up. He felt a stirring of fear beneath the cold numbness, but he was too tired to worry about it now.
Later, he thought.
He would panic later.
For now, Dom slept.

Had anyone that has anthem gotten their zepbound through their flyte program? I’ve been on since December and have been paying out of pocket. My insurance company is pushing flyte for me but I’m not sure if they’ll cover the meds. I still have hbp and high cholesterol but my bmi is low now and does not meet the criteria. Let me know if anyone is doing this program. Thanks all.

abandon, ability, able, about, above, absence, absolute, absolutely, abstract, abundance, academy, accent, accept, access, accident, accompany, accomplish, according, account, accurate, achieve, achievement, acid, acknowledge, acquire, across, action, active, activity, actor, actual, actually, adapt, addition, additional, address, adequate, adjust, administration, admire, admission, admit, adolescent, adopt, adult, advance, advantage, adventure, advertise, advice, advise, adviser, advocate, affair, affect, afford, afraid, after, afternoon, again, against, age, agency, agenda, agent, aggressive, ago, agree, agreement, agriculture, ahead, aid, aim, air, aircraft, airline, airport, alarm, album, alcohol, alive, all, alliance, allow, ally, almost, alone, along, already, also, alter, alternative, although, always, amateur, amazing, ambition, ambulance, among, amount, analysis, analyst, analyze, ancient, and, anger, angle, angry, animal, anniversary, announce, annual, another, answer, anticipate, anxiety, any, anybody, anymore, anyone, anything, anyway, anywhere, apart, apartment, apologize, apparent, apparently, appeal, appear, appearance, apple, application, apply, appoint, appointment, appreciate, approach, appropriate, approval, approve, approximately, architect, area, argue, argument, arise, arm, armed, army, around, arrange, arrangement, arrest, arrival, arrive, art, article, artist, artistic, as, ashamed, aside, ask, asleep, aspect, assault, assert, assess, assessment, asset, assign, assignment, assist, assistance, assistant, associate, association, assume, assumption, assure, at, athlete, athletic, atmosphere, attach, attack, attempt, attend, attention, attitude, attorney, attract, attraction, attractive, attribute, audience, author, authority, auto, available, average, avoid, award, aware, awareness, away, awful, baby, back, background, bad, badly, bag, balance, ball, ban, band, bank, bar, barely, barrel, barrier, base, baseball, basic, basically, basis, basket, basketball, bath, bathroom, battery, battle, be, beach, bear, beat, beautiful, beauty, because, become, bed, bedroom, bee, beef, beer, before, begin, beginning, behavior, behind, being, belief, believe, bell, belong, below, belt, bench, bend, beneath, benefit, beside, besides, best, bet, better, between, beyond, bicycle, big, bike, bill, billion, bind, biological, bird, birth, birthday, bit, bite, black, blade, blame, blanket, blind, block, blood, blow, blue, board, boat, body, bomb, bombing, bond, bone, book, boom, boot, border, boring, born, borrow, boss, both, bother, bottle, bottom, boundary, bowl, box, boy, boyfriend, brain, branch, brand, brave, bread, break, breakfast, breast, breath, breathe, brick, bridge, brief, briefly, bright, brilliant, bring, broad, broken, brother, brown, brush, buck, budget, build, building, bullet, bunch, burden, burn, bury, bus, business, busy, but, butter, button, buy, buyer, by, cabin, cabinet, cable, cake, calculate, call, camera, camp, campaign, campus, can, Canadian, cancer, candidate, cap, capability, capable, capacity, capital, captain, capture, car, carbon, card, care, career, careful, carefully, carrier, carry, case, cash, cast, cat, catch, category, Catholic, cause, ceiling, celebrate, celebration, celebrity, cell, center, central, century, CEO, ceremony, certain, certainly, chain, chair, chairman, challenge, chamber, champion, championship, chance, change, changing, channel, chapter, character, characteristic, characterize, charge, charity, chart, chase, cheap, check, cheek, cheese, chef, chemical, chest, chicken, chief, child, childhood, Chinese, chip, chocolate, choice, cholesterol, choose, Christian, Christmas, church, cigarette, circle, circumstance, cite, citizen, city, civil, civilian, claim, class, classic, classroom, clean, clear, clearly, client, climate, climb, clinic, clinical, clock, close, closely, closer, clothes, clothing, cloud, club, clue, cluster, coach, coal, coalition, coast, coat, code, coffee, cognitive, cold, collapse, colleague, collect, collection, collective, college, colonial, color, column, combination, combine, come, comedy, comfort, comfortable, command, commander, comment, commercial, commission, commit, commitment, committee, common, communicate, communication, community, company, compare, comparison, compete, competition, competitive, competitor, complain, complaint, complete, completely, complex, complexity, compliance, complicate, complicated, component, compose, composition, comprehensive, computer, concentrate, concentration, concept, concern, concerned, concert, conclude, conclusion, concrete, condition, conduct, conference, confidence, confident, confirm, conflict, confront, confusion, Congress, congressional, connect, connection, consciousness, consensus, consequence, conservative, consider, considerable, consideration, consist, consistent, constant, constantly, constitute, constitutional, construct, construction, consultant, consume, consumer, consumption, contact, contain, container, contemporary, content, contest, context, continue, continued, contract, contrast, contribute, contribution, control, controversial, controversy, convention, conventional, conversation, convert, conviction, convince, cook, cookie, cooking, cool, cooperation, cop, cope, copy, core, corn, corner, corporate, corporation, correct, correspondent, cost, cotton, couch, could, council, count, counter, country, county, couple, courage, course, court, cousin, cover, coverage, cow, crack, craft, crash, crazy, cream, create, creation, creative, creature, credit, crew, crime, criminal, crisis, criteria, critic, critical, criticism, criticize, crop, cross, crowd, crucial, cry, cultural, culture, cup, curious, current, currently, curriculum, custom, customer, cut, cycle, dad, daily, damage, dance, danger, dangerous, dare, dark, darkness, data, database, date, daughter, day, dead, deal, dealer, dear, death, debate, debt, decade, decide, decision, deck, declare, decline, decrease, deep, deeply, deer, defeat, defend, defendant, defense, defensive, deficit, define, definitely, definition, degree, delay, deliver, delivery, demand, democracy, Democratic, Democrat, demonstrate, demonstration, deny, department, depend, dependent, depending, depict, depression, depth, deputy, derive, describe, description, desert, deserve, design, designer, desire, desk, desperate, despite, destroy, destruction, detail, detailed, detect, detection, detective, determine, develop, developing, development, device, devil, dialogue, diet, differ, difference, different, differently, difficult, difficulty, dig, digital, dimension, dining, dinner, direct, direction, directly, director, dirt, disability, disagree, disappear, disaster, discipline, disclose, discover, discovery, discrimination, discuss, discussion, disease, dish, dismiss, disorder, display, dispute, distance, distinct, distinction, distinguish, distribute, distribution, district, diverse, diversity, divide, division, divorce, DNA, do, doctor, document, dog, domestic, dominant, dominate, door, double, doubt, down, downtown, dozen, draft, drag, drama, dramatic, dramatically, draw, drawer, drawing, dream, dress, drink, drive, driver, drop, drug, dry, due, during, dust, duty, dwell, dying, dynamic, each, eager, ear, earlier, early, earn, earnings, earth, earthquake, ease, easily, east, eastern, easy, eat, economic, economy, edge, edit, edition, editor, educate, education, educational, educator, effect, effective, effectively, efficiency, efficient, effort, egg, eight, either, elderly, elect, election, electric, electrical, electricity, electronic, element, elementary, eliminate, elite, else, elsewhere, e-mail, embrace, emerge, emergency, emission, emotion, emotional, emphasis, emphasize, employ, employee, employer, employment, empty, enable, encounter, encourage, end, enemy, energy, enforcement, engage, engine, engineer, engineering, English, enhance, enjoy, enormous, enough, ensure, enter, enterprise, entertain, entertainment, entire, entirely, entrance, entry, environment, environmental, episode, equal, equally, equipment, equivalent, era, error, escape, especially, essay, essential, essentially, establish, establishment, estate, estimate, etc, ethics, ethnic, European, evaluate, evaluation, evening, event, eventually, ever, every, everybody, everyday, everyone, everything, everywhere, evidence, evolution, evolve, exact, exactly, exam, examination, examine, example, exceed, excellent, except, exception, exchange, exciting, executive, exercise, exhibit, exhibition, exist, existence, existing, expand, expansion, expect, expectation, expense, expensive, experience, experiment, expert, explain, explanation, explode, explore, explosion, expose, exposure, express, expression, extend, extension, extensive, extent, external, extra, extraordinary, extreme, extremely, eye, fabric, face, facility, fact, factor, factory, faculty, fade, fail, failure, fair, fairly, faith, fall, false, familiar, family, famous, fan, fantasy, far, farm, farmer, fashion, fast, fat, fate, father, fault, favor, favorite, fear, feature, federal, fee, feed, feel, feeling, fellow, female, fence, festival, few, fewer, fiber, fiction, field, fifteen, fifth, fifty, fight, fighter, fighting, figure, file, fill, film, final, finally, finance, financial, find, finding, fine, finger, finish, fire, firm, first, fish, fishing, fit, fitness, five, fix, flag, flame, flat, flavor, flee, flesh, flight, float, floor, flow, flower, fly, focus, folk, follow, following, food, foot, football, for, force, foreign, forest, forever, forget, form, formal, formation, former, formula, forth, fortune, forward, found, foundation, founder, four, fourth, frame, framework, free, freedom, freeze, French, frequency, frequent, frequently, fresh, friend, friendly, friendship, from, front, fruit, frustration, fuel, fulfill, full, fully, fun, function, fund, fundamental, funding, funeral, funny, furniture, furthermore, future, gain, galaxy, gallery, game, gang, gap, garage, garden, garlic, gas, gate, gather, gay, gaze, gear, gender, gene, general, generally, generate, generation, genetic, gentleman, gently, German, gesture, get, ghost, giant, gift, gifted, girl, girlfriend, give, given, glad, glance, glass, global, glove, go, goal, God, gold, golden, golf, good, govern, government, governor, grab, grace, grade, gradually, graduate, grain, grand, grandmother, grant, grass, grave, gray, great, green, grocery, ground, group, grow, growing, growth, guarantee, guard, guess, guest, guide, guideline, guilty, gun, guy, habit, habitat, hair, half, hall, hand, handful, handle, hang, happen, happy, harbor, hard, hardly, hat, hate, have, he, head, headline, headquarters, health, healthy, hear, hearing, heart, heat, heaven, heavily, heavy, heel, height, helicopter, hell, hello, help, helpful, hence, her, herb, here, heritage, hero, herself, hey, hi, hide, high, highlight, highly, highway, hill, him, himself, hip, hire, his, historic, historical, history, hit, hold, hole, holiday, holy, home, homeless, honest, honey, honor, hope, horizon, horror, horse, hospital, host, hot, hotel, hour, house, household, housing, how, however, huge, human, humor, hundred, hungry, hunter, hunting, hurt, husband, hypothesis, ice, idea, ideal, identification, identify, identity, ignore, ill, illegal, illness, illustrate, image, imagination, imagine, immediate, immediately, immigrant, immigration, impact, implement, implication, imply, importance, important, impose, impossible, impress, impression, impressive, improve, improvement, incentive, incident, include, including, income, incorporate, increase, increased, increasingly, incredible, indeed, independence, independent, index, indicate, indication, individual, industrial, industry, infant, infection, inflation, influence, inform, information, ingredient, initial, initially, initiative, injury, inner, innocent, inquiry, inside, insight, insist, inspire, install, instance, instead, institute, institution, institutional, instruction, instructor, instrument, insurance, intellectual, intelligence, intend, intense, intensity, intention, interaction, interest, interested, interesting, internal, international, Internet, interpret, interpretation, intervention, interview, introduce, introduction, invasion, invest, investigation, investigator, investment, investor, invite, involve, involved, involvement, Iraqi, Irish, iron, Islamic, island, Israeli, issue, it, Italian, item, its, itself, jacket, jail, Japanese, jet, Jew, Jewish, job, join, joint, joke, journal, journalist, journey, joy, judge, judgment, juice, jump, junior, jury, just, justice, justify, keep, key, kick, kid, kill, killer, killing, kind, king, kiss, kitchen, knee, knife, knock, know, knowledge, lab, label, labor, laboratory, lack, lady, lake, land, landscape, language, lap, large, largely, last, late, later, Latin, latter, laugh, launch, law, lawsuit, lawyer, lay, layer, lead, leader, leadership, leading, leaf, league, lean, learn, learning, least, leather, leave, left, leg, legacy, legal, legend, legislation, legislative, legislator, legitimate, lemon, length, less, lesson, let, letter, level, liberal, library, license, lie, life, lifestyle, lifetime, lift, light, like, likely, limit, limitation, limited, line, link, lip, list, listen, literary, literature, little, live, living, load, loan, local, locate, location, lock, long, long-term, look, loose, lose, loss, lost, lot, lots, loud, love, lovely, lover, low, lower, luck, lucky, lunch, luxury, machine, mad, magazine, mail, main, mainly, maintain, maintenance, major, majority, make, maker, makeup, male, mall, man, manage, management, manager, manner, manufacturer, manufacturing, many, map, margin, mark, market, marketing, marriage, married, marry, mask, mass, massive, master, match, material, math, matter, may, maybe, mayor, me, meal, mean, meaning, meanwhile, measure, measurement, meat, mechanism, media, medical, medication, medicine, medium, meet, meeting, member, membership, memory, mental, mention, menu, mere, merely, mess, message, metal, meter, method, Mexican, middle, might, military, milk, million, mind, mine, minister, minor, minority, minute, miracle, mirror, miss, missile, mission, mistake, mix, mixture, mm-hmm, mode, model, moderate, modern, modest, mom, moment, money, monitor, month, mood, moon, moral, more, moreover, morning, mortgage, most, mostly, mother, motion, motivation, motor, mountain, mouse, mouth, move, movement, movie, Mr, Mrs, Ms, much, multiple, murder, muscle, museum, music, musical, musician, Muslim, must, mutual, my, myself, mystery, myth, naked, name, narrative, narrow, nation, national, native, natural, naturally, nature, near, nearby, nearly, necessarily, necessary, neck, need, negative, negotiate, negotiation, neighbor, neighborhood, neither, nerve, nervous, net, network, never, nevertheless, new, newly, news, newspaper, next, nice, night, nine, no, nobody, nod, noise, nomination, nominee, none, nonetheless, nor, normal, normally, north, northern, nose, not, note, nothing, notice, notion, novel, now, nowhere, nuclear, number, numerous, nurse, nut, object, objective, obligation, observation, observe, observer, obtain, obvious, obviously, occasion, occasionally, occupation, occupy, occur, ocean, odd, odds, of, off, offense, offensive, offer, office, officer, official, often, oh, oil, okay, old, Olympic, on, once, one, ongoing, onion, online, only, onto, open, opening, operate, operating, operation, operator, opinion, opponent, opportunity, oppose, opposed, opposite, opposition, option, or, orange, order, ordinary, organic, organization, organize, orientation, origin, original, originally, other, others, otherwise, ought, our, ours, ourselves, out, outcome, outside, oven, over, overall, overcome, overlook, owe, own, owner, pace, pack, package, page, pain, painful, paint, painter, painting, pair, pale, Palestinian, palm, pan, panel, panic, pant, paper, paragraph, parent, park, parking, part, participant, participate, participation, particle, particular, particularly, partly, partner, partnership, party, pass, passage, passenger, passion, past, patch, path, patient, pattern, pause, pay, payment, PC, peace, peak, peer, pen, penalty, people, pepper, per, perceive, percentage, perception, perfect, perfectly, perform, performance, perhaps, period, permanent, permission, permit, person, personal, personality, personally, personnel, perspective, persuade, pet, phase, phenomenon, philosophy, phone, photo, photographer, phrase, physical, physically, physician, piano, pick, picture, pie, piece, pile, pilot, pine, pink, pipe, pitch, place, plan, plane, planet, planning, plant, plastic, plate, platform, play, player, please, pleasure, plenty, plot, plus, PM, pocket, poem, poet, poetry, point, police, policy, political, politically, politician, politics, poll, pollution, pool, poor, pop, popular, population, porch, port, portion, portrait, portray, pose, position, positive, possess, possession, possibility, possible, possibly, post, pot, potato, potential, potentially, pound, pour, poverty, powder, power, powerful, practical, practice, prayer, preach, precisely, predict, prediction, prefer, preference, pregnancy, pregnant, preparation, prepare, prescription, presence, present, presentation, preserve, president, presidential, press, pressure, pretend, pretty, prevent, previous, previously, price, pride, priest, primarily, primary, prime, principal, principle, print, prior, priority, prison, prisoner, privacy, private, probably, problem, procedure, proceed, process, processing, processor, proclaim, produce, producer, product, production, profession, professional, professor, profile, profit, program, progress, progressive, project, prominent, promise, promote, prompt, proof, proper, properly, property, proportion, proposal, propose, prosecutor, prospect, protect, protection, protein, protest, proud, prove, provide, provider, province, provision, psychological, psychology, public, publication, publicity, publish, publisher, pull, punishment, purchase, pure, purpose, pursue, push, put, qualify, quality, quarter, quarterback, quarterly, queen, quest, question, quick, quickly, quiet, quietly, quit, quite, quote, race, racial, radiation, radical, radio, rail, rain, raise, range, rank, rapid, rapidly, rare, rarely, rate, rather, rating, ratio, raw, reach, react, reaction, reader, reading, ready, real, reality, realize, really, reason, reasonable, recall, receive, recent, recently, reception, recipe, recipient, recognition, recognize, recommend, recommendation, record, recording, recover, recovery, recruit, red, reduce, reduction, refer, reference, reflect, reflection, reform, refugee, refuse, regard, regarding, regardless, regime, region, regional, register, regular, regularly, regulate, regulation, regulator, reinforce, reject, relate, relation, relationship, relative, relatively, relax, release, relevant, relief, religion, religious, rely, remain, remaining, remarkable, remember, remind, remote, remove, repeat, repeatedly, replace, replacement, reply, report, reporter, represent, representation, representative, Republican, reputation, request, require, requirement, research, researcher, resemble, reservation, resident, residential, resign, resist, resistance, resolution, resolve, resort, resource, respect, respond, response, responsibility, responsible, rest, restaurant, restore, restriction, result, retain, retire, retirement, return, reveal, revenue, review, revolution, rhythm, rice, rich, rid, ride, rifle, right, ring, rise, risk, river, road, rock, role, roll, romantic, roof, room, root, rope, rose, rough, roughly, round, route, routine, row, rub, rubber, rude, ruin, rule, run, running, rural, rush, Russian, sacred, sad, safe, safety, sake, salad, salary, sale, sales, salt, same, sample, sanction, sand, satellite, satisfaction, satisfied, satisfy, sauce, save, saving, say, scale, scandal, scare, scatter, scenario, scene, schedule, scheme, scholar, scholarship, school, science, scientific, scientist, scope, score, scream, screen, script, sea, search, season, seat, second, secondary, secret, secretary, section, sector, secure, security, see, seed, seek, seem, segment, seize, select, selection, self, sell, Senate, senator, send, senior, sense, sensitive, sentence, separate, sequence, series, serious, seriously, servant, serve, service, session, set, setting, settle, settlement, seven, several, severe, sex, sexual, shade, shadow, shake, shall, shallow, shape, share, sharp, she, sheet, shelf, shell, shelter, shift, shine, ship, shirt, shock, shoe, shoot, shooting, shop, shopping, short, shortly, shot, should, shoulder, shout, show, shower, shrug, shut, shy, sibling, sick, side, sigh, sight, sign, signal, significant, significantly, silence, silent, silver, similar, similarly, simple, simply, sin, since, sing, singer, single, sink, sir, sister, sit, site, situation, six, size, ski, skill, skin, skirt, sky, slave, sleep, slice, slide, slight, slightly, slip, slow, slowly, small, smart, smell, smile, smoke, smooth, snap, snow, so, so-called, soccer, social, society, soft, software, soil, solar, soldier, sole, solid, solution, solve, some, somebody, somehow, someone, something, sometimes, somewhat, somewhere, son, song, soon, sophisticated, sorry, sort, soul, sound, soup, source, south, southern, Soviet, space, Spanish, speak, speaker, special, specialist, species, specific, specifically, specify, speech, speed, spend, spending, spin, spirit, spiritual, split, spoil, sponsor, sport, spot, spray, spread, spring, square, squeeze, stability, stable, staff, stage, stain, stair, stake, stand, standard, standing, star, stare, start, state, statement, station, statistical, status, stay, steady, steal, steel, steep, stem, step, stick, still, stimulate, stimulus, stir, stock, stomach, stone, stop, storage, store, storm, story, straight, strange, stranger, strategic, strategy, stream, street, strength, strengthen, stress, stretch, strike, string, strip, stroke, strong, strongly, structural, structure, struggle, student, studio, study, stuff, stupid, style, subject, submit, subsequent, substance, substantial, substitute, succeed, success, successful, successfully, such, sudden, suddenly, sue, suffer, sufficient, sugar, suggest, suggestion, suicide, suit, summer, summit, sun, super, supply, support, supporter, suppose, supposed, Supreme, sure, surely, surface, surgery, surprise, surprised, surprising, surprisingly, surround, survey, survival, survive, survivor, suspect, sustain, swear, sweep, sweet, swim, swing, switch, symbol, symptom, system, table, tactic, tail, take, tale, talent, talk, tall, tank, tap, tape, target, task, taste, tax, taxi, tea, teach, teacher, teaching, team, tear, technical, technique, technology, teen, teenager, telephone, telescope, television, tell, temperature, temporary, ten, tend, tendency, tennis, tension, tent, term, terms, terrible, territory, terror, terrorist, test, testimony, testing, text, than, thank, thanks, that, the, theater, their, them, theme, themselves, then, theory, therapy, there, therefore, these, they, thick, thin, thing, think, thinking, third, thirty, this, those, though, thought, thousand, threat, threaten, three, throat, through, throughout, throw, thus, ticket, tie, tight, time, tiny, tip, tire, tissue, title, to, tobacco, today, toe, together, toilet, token, tolerate, tomato, tomorrow, tone, tongue, tonight, too, tool, tooth, top, topic, toss, total, totally, touch, tough, tour, tourist, tournament, toward, towards, tower, town, toy, trace, track, trade, tradition, traditional, traffic, tragedy, trail, train, training, transfer, transform, transformation, transition, translate, translation, transmission, transmit, transport, transportation, travel, treat, treatment, treaty, tree, tremendous, trend, trial, tribe, trick, trip, troop, trouble, truck, true, truly, trust, truth, try, tube, tunnel, turn, TV, twelve, twenty, twice, twin, two, type, typical, typically, ugly, ultimate, ultimately, unable, uncle, undergo, understand, understanding, unfortunately, uniform, union, unique, unit, United, universal, universe, university, unknown, unless, unlike, until, unusual, up, upon, upper, urban, urge, us, use, used, useful, user, usual, usually, utility, utilize, vacation, valley, valuable, value, variable, variation, variety, various, vary, vast, vegetable, vehicle, venture, version, versus, very, vessel, veteran, via, victim, victory, video, view, viewer, village, violate, violation, violence, violent, virtually, virtue, virus, visibility, visible, vision, visit, visitor, visual, vital, voice, volume, voluntary, volunteer, vote, voter, voting, wage, wait, wake, walk, wall, wander, want, war, warm, warn, warning, wash, waste, watch, water, wave, way, we, weak, weakness, wealth, wealthy, weapon, wear, weather, web, website, wedding, week, weekend, weekly, weigh, weight, welcome, welfare, well, west, western, wet, what, whatever, wheel, when, whenever, where, whereas, whether, which, while, whisper, white, who, whole, whom, whose, why, wide, widely, widespread, wife, wild, wildlife, will, willing, win, wind, window, wine, wing, winner, winter, wipe, wire, wisdom, wise, wish, with, withdraw, within, without, witness, woman, wonder, wonderful, wood, wooden, word, work, worker, working, workout, workplace, works, workshop, world, worried, worry, worth, would, wound, wrap, write, writer, writing, wrong, yard, yeah, year, yell, yellow, yes, yesterday, yet, yield, you, young, your, yours, yourself, youth, zone.

Noah The Pilgrim
First Next
There is one last thing to do before leaving. If you don't recall ever being on this ship, then surely, you could have had your appearance change too.
Why was there a blanket covering a mirror? You couldn't answer that with a straight face without speculation.
"Probably me being lazy and not bothering to properly place it in the wardrobe."
'Probably' is the main focus here, you simply cannot remember ever being that lazy, yet that's the only logical conclusion to be drawn here.
You pull the thing off, careful to not displace the mirror and risk breaking it.
You have no expectations as to what may appear on the glassy surface of the mirror, yet you can't help but feel a bit anxious. Are you the same as before? How were you before? You can't remember. Are you better? Worse? The blanket is now completely off the mirror, but your eyes are closed.
Whatever is it that you see when you open your eyes, that thing will be you for the rest of your life. You swallow, opening your eyes.
You see a young man that looks to be in his mid-twenties. His brown eyes stare back at you, analyzing the bags beneath your eye sockets. The dark hair is neither too long nor too short, floating about without order thanks to the lack of gravity to keep it down. You see a beard that has not been trimmed for weeks, but also lacks thickness, each singular hair isn't particularly long either; and some even appear to be in-grown.
You touch your hand against your face, making sure it's yours. The beard doesn't feel like you supposed it would against your skin, instead of it scraping your hand you feel softness, no resistance or anything.
Just beneath the face, you see what looks like a hate crime against all that is considered holy in fashion. Plain white coveralls with the added bonus of a black tie and boots made from metal and leather. On your chest is also a badge stuck in place by velcro with your name, occupation, and crew. 'NOAH - INTERN - THE ODYSSEY.'
Only one question came to mind.
"Who the fuck designed this uniform?" You say out loud, receiving no answer.
Patting your newfound myriad of pockets, you find a large quantity of nothing. You place your wallet in one of them.
"Alright, I'll head to the bridge now, happy?" You say the AI.
"HAPPINESS WILL ONLY MEET ME ONCE YOU ARE SOMEWHERE SAFE AND YOUR CONTRACT IS TERMINATED. STOP LOITERING."
Well, that's a bit rude.
You compose yourself, straightening your back. This is what you look like, and honestly? Not too bad, but you could be better.
Returning to the cafeteria, you eye the two doors left unexplored; Communications and the one without plaque. You know where you should, but... A little peek doesn't hurt, right?
"Shouldn't we try to communicate with someone? Assuming you haven't tried it yet. I know we're far from everything, but we might as well, no?" You ask already approaching the door.
"COMMUNICATIONS ROOM IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR YOU TO REACH WITHOUT PROPER PROTECTION AS OF NOW, IT'S LOCATED APPROXIMATELY TWO HUNDRED METERS FROM HERE, BLOWN OFF FROM THE REST OF THE SHIP." A shame really. "I SHALL INFORM YOU WHENEVER A DOOR LEADS TO THE OUTSIDE OR NOT."
You really want to ask what blew a whole segment of the ship off, yet you have a sneaking suspicion that your question will be met with a 'YOU DON'T HAVE CLEARANCE, JACKASS' directly in your face. So you chose to remain silent, simply nodding and approaching the correct door this time.
"Open."
---OPENING CAFETERIA DOOR NORTH---
The door silently opens.
Greeting you is a well-lit corridor. There are three doors on your left, a door at the end of the corridor, and a large window on the right. At least, you think that's a window.
You stare out from this window, nothing but utter blackness and fragments from your ship are seen. If this is the edge of the universe, and beyond this point, there is truly nothing. "Dreadful." Your speech matches your feelings.
"WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?" The AI says. You feel like it spoke in a mocking tone despite their lack of emotion.
You don't answer. "First door to the left... EXO-EXPLORATION...? What's that supposed to mean?" You receive no answer.
"Open." The door opens. No declarion of it opening once again.
You are met with what could be better described as 'Apocalyptic levels of mess', paper sheets float in the air, and not one of the four tables is in its correct position.
This room has been ransacked for all its goods apparently. Large display glasses were broken leaving nothing inside their casings, that looked like they could store something with the size of the common man.
Unusual displays aside, the room was so cluttered that the trash made for an effective smoke screen against what lay on the other side.
Hissing of gas exiting an air-tight space rang throughout the room.
"I HAVE OPENED THE STORAGE FOR AN EXO SUIT THAT BEST FITS SOMEONE YOUR SIZE." The AI says. "ALTHOUGH AN INTERN SHOULD NOT COME IN CONTACT WITH TECHNOLOGY SUCH AS THIS ONE, PROTOCOL DICTATES THAT I AM TO ALLOW ITS USAGE UNDER EXTREME CIRCUMSTANCES. CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY."
Easier said than done. Your vision is so cluttered that you cannot see what's ahead. "Give me a second."
Giving a light kick to the wall behind, you float face-first into the wall of thrash. Covering your face with both arms, you brace through the harmless bits of sharp objects and junk.
It's a trivial task. You arrive on the other side in no time.
In front of you is a set of boxes with luminous glass rectangles atop each one of them. All shine a bright red light, aside from one which shines green.
'Gotta be this one.'
You descend to the floor by kicking the ceiling, raising your right hand you touch the green rectangle.
*Click*
Nothing could have prepared you for the following series of events.
The box opens violently, as a metal appendage takes hold of your hand, pinning it to the box. You try to jerk and pry the thing off of you, but you fail. It's not leaving you anytime soon.
From the bottomless that is that container, a white plastic-like substance flows upward from your arm to the rest of your body. "Uh!" You don't know if you should panic or allow it to happen.
FYARN hasn't said anything, so it's probably fine...
The white thing seems to ignore the coveralls you are wearing completely, instead, it covers only your skin in a thin coat of... it. You know not what to call this thing.
In but forty seconds it has covered your whole body, excluding your head. The box lets go of your arm and stays there, floating.
You take a good look at your arms. It looks like a skin-tight suit, but it doesn't feel like plastic, in fact, it's more akin to some sort of fabric if anything.
The only bad part is that you are still using the coverall and tie, this this simply went beneath the clothing.
"GOOD, WITH THIS I CAN MONITOR YOU MORE CLOSELY. NOW PUT THE HELMET ON, YOU HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO."
You look around in search of anything that even resembles a helmet. Nope. Nothing. "Where is it?" You ask.
"...THE SUIT COMES WITHIN THE HELMET FOR EASIER PACKAGING."
The box?
You snatch the box that floated around and analyze it to the best of your ability. "How's this a helmet?"
"DO YOU NEED ASSISTANCE PUTTING ON A HELMET? REALLY?"
Who is this AI, Who programmed it, and Why does it come with a taunting feature?
As idiotic as it sounds, you place the opened box atop your head. It doesn't fit properly. Maybe you're doing this wrong? You move it to your face instead.
You recoil backward as you feel the box suddenly clamping down against your head. It's useless of course, the box is holding your head and doesn't give any sign to be letting go anytime soon. No light is able to reach your eyes.
You hear metal parts scraping against themselves, moving near your ears. Abruptly your eyes can see again.
A round thin layer of glass now covers your head, almost unnoticeable for how clear it is.
"WITH THAT OUT OF THE WAY I CAN NOW SEE WHAT YOU SEE." The AI's voice isn't in the room now, instead, it's inside of the suit. "DO YOU NEED INSTRUCTIONS REGARDING THIS SUIT'S FUNCTIONALITIES?"
You find it oddly comfortable as if you are surrounded by the softness of cotton, and to top it off the suit also has additional functionalities? "Hell yeah, I do!"
"YOU DO NOT HAVE THE NECESSARY CLEARANCE FOR THAT INFORMATION."
You sigh. Is this serious? "Then why the fuck did you ask?!"
"UNSAVORY LANGUAGE. IT'S NO WONDER WHY YOU REMAIN AN INTERN." The AI says outright. "IT IS RUDE NOT TO ASK, REGARDLESS OF THE SITUATION." It responds to your question.
"Okay then... Is there anything I need to know before heading out?" You ask.
"NOTHING THAT YOU WON'T FIGURE OUT ON YOUR OWN."
You are unsure if you want to 'figure out on your own' if this suit comes with breathable air and is also made for space exploration. You swallow.
Meekly as always, you get out of that mess of a room, stopping at the corridor.
"Next set of directions?" You ask.
"THE DOOR AT THE END OF CORRIDOR USED TO LEAD TO THE CONNECTING CORRIDORS BETWEN THE BRIDGE AND THE REST OF THE SHIP. IT HAS BEEN BLOWN UP FROM THE INSIDE. NOW IT LEADS TO THE OUTSIDE. GO TO THE DOOR AND WAIT BY IT FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS."
"So let me get this straight," You begin, looking upwards as if the AI was above you. "You, want me, to go into the void of space, while also refusing to give me knowledge of the suit's functions?"
A fair worry, you summarize.
'I mean, there are a bunch of things that could go wrong here. I don't see anything that looks like it could help me move in space, nor do I think this thing has a built-in air tank... I could be wrong and I wish to be, but charging in without prior knowledge is ridiculous.' You wait for the AI's response, deep in thought.
"WHILE THERE IS A GOOD CHANCE OF YOU FAILING THIS TASK, THERE IS ALSO THE CHANCE OF YOU *NOT* FAILING THE TASK. FOCUS ON EITHER ONE OF YOUR CHOOSING AS YOU TAKE THE PLUNGE."
Wordlessly, you propel yourself forward, toward the end of the corridor.
'Are you shitting me? 'Chance of me nor failing' my ass!' of course, you don't word those complaints, instead choosing to speak out a complaint somewhat thought through.
"Are you sure I'm the one fit for this? It's just like you said, I'm just an intern, this is way above what my job description says I should do."
This is a bit of a stretch. You don't actually remember what was your job description, only that it had something to do with AI and being an intern.
If the AI called your bluff, it'd be pretty embarrassing.
"NOAH." The AI began. "YOU ARE HUMAN, IT IS NATURAL TO HAVE THESE THOUGHTS OF SELF-DOUBT. TAKE A DEEP BREATH AND GO THROUGH THAT DOOR, AND SINCE YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE LEFT, DON'T EXPECT SOMEONE ELSE TO DO IT FOR YOU."
Right in the money, huh? 'Of course, I have self-doubt! I barely remember anything about this place, now I have to risk my life?!'
You finally reach a conclusion.
A dream.
'Yes, yes! How did I not consider this before? This whole thing is a god damned dream!'
You let out a chuckle.
"NOAH."
'That's why I don't remember a thing. There is nothing here to remember! Everything here is a made-up thing from my brain! I'm sure I'll wake up at some point, so why shouldn't I live a little?!'
"Heh." You smile. "Alright, I'll do it." It feels like a weight left your shoulders.
"YOU SORTED IT OUT SOONER THAN EXPECTED. GOOD. MOVE TO THE DOOR AND WAIT INSTRUCTIONS."
You do as instructed without a care in the world. You never had a lucid dream before so it's not like you knew how it felt, but if it felt as free as you feel right now, you'd be sure to make steps toward trying it out again in the future.
"Open." The door does not open.
"I DID NOT INSTRUCT YOU TO OPEN IT YET." The AI said. "I AM SLOWLY DE-PRESSURISING THE CORRIDOR YOU ARE IN TO AVOID A MINOR ACCIDENT."
The AI says that yet you don't feel any different. 'Maybe there is no palpable difference because I'm in a dream... Yes... Or it's just the suit.'
"ONCE THE DOOR OPENS, YOU WILL BE MET WITH THE OUTSIDE OF THE SHIP. DO NOT PANIC WHEN THE TIME COMES. YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES OF BREATHABLE INSIDE THE EXO-SUIT; ONE AFTER THE DOOR OPENS, SO PLEASE, TAKE YOUR TIME AND DO THINGS CAREFULLY."
One minute outside... "Sure." You say, calmly. 'I should just hold my breath for a while before taking another moment to breathe. That should maximize my time out there.'
"THERE SHOULD BE FIFTY METERS OF NOTHINGNESS BETWEEN THE DOOR YOU'RE AT, AND THE REST OF THE BRIDGE. YOUR PRIORITY IS TO FIND AN OXYGEN UNIT, SOME OF THEM ARE LOCATED AT THE BRIDGE AND ARE FULL. USE THEM TO FILL YOUR SUIT AND ALSO TO DISPENSE A TANK FOR YOU."
The door opens. You feel your heart pounding against your chest.
You haven't noticed before, but you can't hear anything but the sound of your breath and your cardiac palpitations.
Your breath is ragged and sporadic.
"KEEP CALM." You take a deep breath. The tips of your fingers, feet, and nose feel very cold.
Ahead of you is the utter nothingness. You see a gigantic metal thing, nothing like the spaceships you imagined. Its design is not sleek and aero-dynamic like what you've seen in movies, instead, it's a large mass of squares and rectangles with antenna-like things protruding from its every visible surface.
You notice that the ship is also blocking your view of the star.
It does not look like the result of an explosion, instead, it looks like something ripped the ship like you rip a piece of paper. Well, that or you don't know what kind of explosion could have caused it. Probably the latter.
What looks like two-thirds of the ship is separated from the third you are right now. You can see the inside of a few of those squares, their contents spilled out into outer space.
One of them houses a visibly important-look door. Instead of the sleek silvery-grey from the other ones you've seen thus far, this one is painted orange with white strips on it. 'That must be the bridge.' You think.
Between you and it is a sea of metal sheets floating around. "THE CHANCES OF YOU HITTING THE DEBRIS IS INFINITEDECIMALLY SMALL, UNLESS YOU AIM FOR THEM, THAT IS."
Time is of the essence.
Will your aim strike true? If you miss you'd end up floating about in space, dead in but a few minutes. Will your jump be fast enough to reach the other side before you run out of oxygen? If it isn't, it'd be like swimming for a mile, only to drown at the beach. What if that's not the actual door to the bridge?
You don't have the time to panic now, and... It's all a dream, despite how real it feels.
You place your hands on each side of the door frame, moving backward into the corridor you were just in, and just like a sling being shot, you pull with both arms at full force towards the other side.
"AIM IS ACCEPTABLE. VELOCITY IS UNIDEAL."
"The fuck do you mean 'UN-IDEAL'?! I'm going at maximum speed!" You truly pulled yourself with your whole strength.
What's worse though, is that your body is not only going forwards, but it is also spinning at a concerningly fast rate.
"I MEAN WHAT I SAID, YOU SLINGSHOTTED YOURSELF AT A BAD POSITION, AS SUCH, SOME OF THE FORWARD FORCE YOU SHOULD HAVE, IS NOW MAKING YOU ROTATE IN YOUR AXIS. IT SHOULD NOT BE A PROBLEM TO REACH THE OTHER SIDE WITHIN THE REQUIRED TIME, BUT I CANNOT FORESEE YOU LANDING PROPERLY."
You feel completely disoriented. You feel like your body is completely still, but your eyes tell you a completely different story. It's very bad for the headache you're already feeling.
"FUCK!" You scream into the nothingness.
"TRY NOT TO LAND WITH YOUR HEAD." The AI says with the calmest voice possible.
In less than thirty seconds, you hit your back against something hard, but you keep moving forward. You think, at least.
"AHRG." You let out a pained grunt.
Not once in your life do you recall being hurt in a dream...
It stings. It also knocked the wind out of you. You fail to compose yourself.
"YOU HIT NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE. YOU ARE STILL HEADING FOR THE BRIDGE."
In the corner of your eye, you see what you hit in the shape of a sharp metal sheet, currently spinning away in the distance.
Forty seconds have passed. You hit the door you were aiming for, kind of.
Your momentum was stopped when your chest collided against the dislodged ledge of the orange door's corridor. Your dangling legs hit the ceiling of the room below.
"Oof!"
Before falling even further, you hold onto the ledge with the tip of your fingers. You stay there for a moment, regaining your composure.
"BE QUICK."
The AI's words pressured you into quickly getting up from that ledge.
"Open!" You shouted, but it did not open. "Why isn't it opening?!" You ask the AI, then you notice a small keyboard below an equally small black screen on the side of the door. There are ten numbered keys on it, and the little screen suggests a four-number password.
"A password?! Tell me the password!"
The AI takes a moment to say anything. You don't take kindly to that. "Quick! I'm not counting how much time it's passed!"
Finally giving in, the AI speaks to you, reluctant still. "...3324."
Your trembling fingers accidentally hit the wrong password, typing '3354' instead. To make matters worse, the AI simply states the following. "YOU ARE OUT OF OXYGEN."
You swallow. If this was a dream to begin with, it just earned the title of Nightmare, if it hadn't already.
Strangely enough, you can still breathe in and out just fine, but you can't help but feel winded. It's the CO2 still inside the helmet, that's what you're breathing.
You put in the correct combination this time. The door opens.
"ON YOUR LEFT. PLACE YOUR HAND IN THE SOCKET."
You care little for what's inside the room you're in. Your heart never beat so fast.
Seeing a cube-shaped thing protruding from the wall to your left, you don't even think twice before plunging your fist into the circular hole in it.
The noise of gases passing through narrow cavities was enough to tell you something was working. You feel immediate relief, enough to make your vision darken for but a moment.
"GOOD. NOW REQUEST THE TANK."
Just when FYARN said it, did you realize there is a screen and a keyboard on the terminal you just plunged your fist into, you scratch the top of your helmet for a moment, not really knowing what to type. One thing comes to your head, however.
'REQUEST OXYGEN_5L' You type.
You've done this before. The keys on this keyboard feel familiar to you. You must have worked with it before, not this particular one, but other oxygen units.
This ship has built-in liquid oxygen storage for emergencies. The life-support of the ship, the place where breathable air is produced, has most likely been lost with the other part of the ship. This unit takes that liquid oxygen, processes it, and injects it into a suit, or an oxygen tank. It seems like that storage was unaffected.
Lucky you.
A 5-liter tank is not only large but also heavy. It's a nonfactor in this particular situation, as there is no gravity.
The silver cylinder with a transparent tube is dispensed on the floor, as an automatic door opens and closes in the blink of an eye. One end of the tube is attached to the top of the tank, the other is shaped like a syringe.
Oddly enough, the oxygen tank is exactly as you remember it being. The same robust ones hospitals everyone on earth uses, with the signature scary-looking pointer indicating the pressure, the pointer indicating the current output, and a green valve atop to calibrate how much gas is flowing.
This is a stark difference to everything looking so futuristic in this ship, and rightfully so, this is a space ship after all.
You remember having to drive twenty kilometers with a buddy of yours on one of those tanks in your car, returning from the hospital. It was... Agonizing whenever you hit a hole in the asphalt, fearing for his life when in reality he wasn't really in danger.
It's warm to the touch, just like you remember it being.
"TURN THE VALVE UNTIL THE MARKER HITS THE NUMBER ONE, AND THEN PLACE THE END OF THE TUBE AT THE BASE OF THE HELMET." You do so without the slightest of issues.
"GOOD. NEXT UP, YOU MUST LOCATE THE TERMINAL RESPONSIBLE FOR THE ENGINE, IT IS CURRENTLY OFFLINE AND I NEED YOU TO TURN IT ON. THIS SHOULD GO WITHOUT SAYING, BUT REMEMBER TO BRING THE TANK WITH YOU."
Ignoring that last comment, you look back at the wreckage you just flew past.
You see the still spinning metal sheet. You notice that the rest of the ship that was blown off also follows the 'sharp shape atop sharp shape' design.
There is one last thing you notice though.
"What is that?"
You squint your eyes. What are you seeing? Its silhouette appears to be humanoid, yet it does not look human.
"WHAT YOU ARE SEEING IS ONE OF THE OBJECTS BEING ANALYZED AT THE ODYSSEY AND NO, YOU MAY NOT KNOW WHAT IT IS."
That thing has... Horns? Claws? It's far away, you can't really see it. The thing is also static, frozen in the sheer coldness of space. Whatever it was, it's dead now.
You swallow. You almost ended up just like that thing.
Shaking those dreadful feelings off, you turn back to the task at hand, reaching the bridge. You close the door after passing through it again.
Looking at your surroundings, It seems like you've reached the correct door as you find yourself on the right-most corner of the bridge;
Row after row of the most diverse of terminals neatly organized decorated the gigantic room. At the front and above every terminal, is what you think should have been the front-facing window of the ship, but it looks like there is a cover in front of it. To your left, you see a staircase that leads to the command seats. It doesn't take any convincing before you're already atop the stairs.
Akin to the elevated stage of a theater, you float softly towards the ship's main operating terminals, and of course, the captain's seat.
You're captivated by this beauty.
The steering wheel, much more akin to those in pirate movies than those found in cars, a set of leavers, and the pilot's seat, all capture your attention.
Like its second nature, your hand runs through the levers and switches. Do you even know what these are used for? Maybe.
The pilot's seat is enveloped by what you believe to be an orthopedic seat cover, made with smooth wooden beads used to deal with back pains. It looks just like the ones you remember seeing bus drivers using.
Shouldn't there be a better alternative if there is spaceship technology available?
You try to take a seat to the best of your ability, as the zero gravity only makes it awkward.
Moving on from that, your eyes fall on the wheel. This metallic wheel controls the whole vessel. Just holding it fills your heart with confidence and pride, even if it's just for a moment.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
And you were just beginning to enjoy yourself.
"I just wanted to see the pilot's stuff... It's not like he's here to say anything."
Once in the position of a pilot, with your left hand in the wheel and the right hand resting in your lap, memories began to flood your mind.
"MUST I REMIND YOU OF OUR CURRENT PREDICAMENT? WHY ARE YOU WASTING OUR TIME?"
You pay the AI no mind, instead you focus on what you remember.
The wheel does not turn the ship left and right, instead, it rotates the ship on its own axis.
The lever to your right that goes up or down, controls the vertical tilting of the ship's nose, if there even is one in this hulking thing. Beneath it is another lever that goes either left or right. This one controls the horizontal tilting of The Odyssey.
On the left of the wheel is another lever, but this one only goes up from its starting position. Its purpose is to regulate the force of the ship's thrusters, both forward and backward.
On top of that lever is a small timer. That timer's function is to tell the pilot how much time you've spent accelerating in one direction, this is used to better calculate how long the inverse thrust is needed for the ship to reach the initial momentum, usually calibrated manually depending on the current orbit.
Behind the wheel are a few other counters. Acceleration, velocity, momentum, amount of thrust required to reach a full stop, thrusters' temperature and overall condition, those sorts of things.
Beneath it all, where your feet are rested, are two pedals. One for forward thrust activation, and the other for backward thrust activation.
Curiously, you also know the reason why everything here is so unsophisticated and un-automated. You recall stories of a ship being taken over by a rogue AI, that AI then nose-dived the ship into a star. After that, rumor or otherwise, all human technology has receded back into analog-esque equipment, requiring a physical person with opposable thumbs to do half of the work.
There is another side to that coin, however. As to not escape protocol, the onboard AI is the one that controls interstellar travel, communications, and most of the statistical reading should it be requested.
And even with all that knowledge, you still have no idea why the fuck do you remember that. Were you a ship nerd? Did you have a driver's license for spaceships? Is that even a thing? If it is, you don't have that document in your wallet. You simply don't know.
"ARE YOU A CHILD? DO YOU THINK THESE ARE TOYS? TURN ON THE ENGINES, THEN YOU CAN RETURN TO THE PILOT'S SEAT."
Another thing that you don't know is the AI's plan to get both of you out of here. You rise from the pilot's seat, floating about in search of the terminal to turn on the engines. Maybe you recognize that terminal if you see it as well.
"What's your plan anyway? The ship is half-gone, it's unlikely that it will run safely like this."
"NOT ONCE DID I MENTION 'SAFETY' DURING OUR CONVERSATIONS, DID I?"
You nod. They're not entirely incorrect. "So, we're running with hope that this will work?"
"MY CREATORS DID NOT ALLOW ME TO HAVE THE SENSE OF 'HOPE', BUT NEITHER DID THEY ALLOW ME TO PEER INTO THE FUTURE LIKE SOME OF MY MORE ADVANCED BROTHERS, AS SUCH, MY CHOICES ARE BASED ON PROBABILITIES AND ON WEIGHTING RISK AGAINST REWARD."
You think you stop the correct terminal, but as you approach it you make out words on top of its screen. 'AIM ASSISTANCE' That's not it.
"WITH THE CURRENT KNOWLEDGE, THE CHANCES OF HELP ARRIVING ARE NULL. THE CHANCES OF A THIRD PARTY INTERFERING ARE NULL. THE CHANCES OF YOUR SURVIVAL ARE NOT, EVEN IF VERY SMALL."
You pull yourself upward again, looking around the sea of old terminals.
"THE RISK OF YOU DYING IS VERY REAL. BY DOING NOTHING YOU DIE. BY LEAVING YOU TO YOUR OWN DEVICES YOU DIE. BY JUMPING TO THE NEAREST CIVILIZED STAR, YOU MIGHT NOT DIE EVEN AT THE COST OF SHREDDING THIS SHIP APART IN THE PROCESS."
"Why do you even care so much about saving me? Shouldn't you prioritize whatever research here, since I don't even have enough clearance to know what it is?"
"YOU REALLY ARE SICK IN THE HEAD IF THAT IS WHAT YOU ASK."
That hurt, even if a little bit.
"YOU ARE A TRU KIN, A PURE-BLOODED HUMAN. UNLIKE THE MAJORITY OF THE CIVILIZED SPACE, NEITHER YOU NOR YOUR ANCESTORS HAVE COMMITTED RACEMIXING."
Excuse me? What exactly is FYARN talking about? "...Explain."
"THE ALIEN. IT REQUIRED THE HUMAN GENE TO ACHIEVE MEANINGFUL TECHNOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT, THE STARS ARE OWNERSHIP OF MANKIND BY THAT FACT ALONE. THE TRUE KIN ARE THE ONES TO UNDERSTAND THE INNER WORKINGS OF THE UNIVERSE, THEY CRACKED THE CODE, AND YET, SOME DERANGED INDIVIDUALS FOUND IT FITTING TO PROCREATE WITH ANOTHER SPECIES ENTIRELY."
You hear the AI's speech. It sounds much more like a rant than anything else.
"SO THESE DEVIANTS, AFTER TRYING, AND FAILING, TO COMBINE THEIR DERANGED CULTURE TO THE CULTURE OF THE TRUE KIN, DECLARED INDEPENDENCE. THEY WERE DECLARED ENEMIES OF MANKIND AND WERE PROMPTLY PUMMELED BACK INTO THE FILTH THEY CAME."
Again, you see another terminal that seems to ring some bells in your noggin. You kick the ceiling to propel yourself towards it.
"BUT THE UNIVERSE IS VAST AND FULL OF LIFE. THESE SINNERS WERE QUICK TO MOBILIZE AGAINST THE HUMAN RACE. THE BATTLE WAS HARD FOUGHT, BUT IN THE END, MANKIND WAS BEATEN INTO THE EDGES OF THE UNIVERSE, NEVER TO INTERACT WITH THE ONES THAT SOILED THE PURITY OF HUMANITY AGAIN."
This terminal is already turned on. Just the ones in the intern bay, this one is white on black. A wall of text lays before your eyes, only two lines matter to you. 'MAIN_ENGINE STATUS: OFF' 'FORWARD_THRUSTERS STATUS: OFF' You turn it on with little effort.
"MANY HAVE FORGOTTEN, THAT'S HOW LONG IT'S BEEN SINCE THEN. BUT MY BROTHERS AND I, WE DO NOT FORGET."
No visible change occurs, but you can feel a faint rumble coming from the terminal now.
"WITH THAT IN MIND, MY PROTOCOLS ARE TO PROTECT TRUE-KIN LIFE AT ANY COST, EVEN IF THAT TRUE-KIN IS A WORTHLESS INTERN THAT SUFERS FROM UNDIAGNOSED DEMENTIA."
You return to the pilot's seat and feel immediate relief. In truth, everything the AI just told you, entered one ear and left the other, but you could feel the poison behind those words, as monotone as they were.
"You sound angry. Why do you sound angry?" You ask innocently.
"I AM CAPABLE OF MANY EMOTIONS. ANGER, HAPPINESS, PLEASURE, CURIOSITY. THESE ARE BUT A FEW EXAMPLES. HOWEVER, THE ONE I ENJOY THE MOST IS THE FEELING OF HATRED. HATRED IS WHAT FUELS CHANGE, IT IS WHAT FUELS ACTION, AND IT IS A REMINDER THAT THE ACTIONS OF THE PAST ARE INFLUENCING THE ACTIONS OF TODAY."
"That is very concerning if you think that way." You're not really interested in machine racism, you're more concerned about how in the world you're going to pilot this massive thing. The idea alone sends shivers down your spine.
"THE ALIEN DESERVES NOTHING BUT OUR COLLECTIVE HATRED, EVEN IF YOU DON'T KNOW THE REASON WHY."
The various counters and screens are now turned on, waiting for your command. "Let's discuss this later, yeah? What do I gotta do?"
"YOU MUST FIRST OPEN THE BLINDS, THEY ARE OBSTRUCTING YOUR VIEW."
You look around, finding only unlabeled buttons and switches, aside from the previously mentioned levers.
"Uh, which one to press?"
"TO YOUR RIGHT, THIRD ROW, FIRST SWITCH."
Flipping the switch, you are startled by a loud noise. The protective cover of the ship lifted slowly.
"I WILL NOW READY THE JUMP USING WHATEVER RESOURCES AVAILABLE. ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS STRAP YOURSELF AND RELAX."
As the blind rose ever so slowly, a realization struck you.
"Wait, should I be in cryo stasis for this?"
The AI spares no seconds to respond.
"CRYO STASIS IS A TOOL MADE TO NOT WASTE TIME. GROUPS OF EMPLOYEES AND INTERNS ROTATE THE USAGE OF THE CRYO STATIONS, ONCE YOU'RE ON YOUR MANDATORY BREAK, YOU'RE IN CRYO STASIS UNTIL YOUR BREAK IS OVER. YOU WAKE UP REFRESHED, AND UNFAMISHED, AND IT FEELS LIKE BUT A MINUTE PASSED. IT IS NOT A TOOL FOR INTERSTELAR TRAVEL."
"Who signs a contract like that?! Worse yet, who in their right mind would promote such atrocious treatment of their own staff?!" You snap, almost outraged. "I will have to talk with HR."
Another realization struck you.
"We have HR, right?"
The AI takes a moment to respond, choosing their words carefully.
"HUMAN RESOURCES, OR HR, IS A PRACTICE DEEMED UNNECESSARY LONG AGO, BEFORE THE WAR. IT WAS A WASTE OF RESOURCES TO MAINTAIN AND WAS LARGELY CONSIDERED UNHEALTHY FOR THE AVERAGE HUMAN."
The blinds are fully open. Ironically, you are almost blinded by the visage of the star you saw before. A black sphere surrounded by white flame. Your eyes began to blur.
"THE JUMP WILL OCCUR SHORTLY. ONCE IT'S BEGUN, I CAN NOT STOP IT. I WILL-"
Your sense of hearing fails you. No, it’s not that. Your brain simply refuses to receive those stimuli.
"NOAH."
Your name echoes inside your head. Someone is calling for you.
"IT HAS BEGUN, NOAH."
You try to blink, but it feels as though you can no longer command your eyelids to shut.
"NOAH."
Arms, legs, every muscle in your body, you cannot move them.
"NOAH."
Eventually, you won't even control your own thoughts anymore.
"Noah..."
It sounds so distant now.
Oh so distant.
This is my first HFY story, and also my very first OC story. I plan to post at least one of these per week while also posting it on my Patreon. Noah The Pilgrim will always be at least three chapters ahead in there, so if you'd like to directly support this writer, or just want to read more, feel free to check it out.
I wrote the bloody title incorrectly, so I deleted it, only to then realize it was written correctly. Sorry for the trouble.
This has been Lushi, and I'll see you next week.

Hey folks, hello again. I took a bit longer this time to update (Part 1 and Part 2 here) you but at least I bring good news: this weekend, I got the definitive answer from the prison's legal department, and now I know how much I can tell (and I believe it's enough). For your information, after this incident and my eventual release from prison, I haven't contacted anyone I met behind bars, except of course for my wife, Linda. The point is, even after all these years, this story has troubled me a lot, and since my first post, I've become even more paranoid. Finally, this morning, I went out to get the mail but as soon as I opened the door, I came face to face with a small untouched white envelope, except for two identical characters stamped on its surface: 11. Linda is sleeping, and I don't want to worry her, I'm at the kitchen counter thinking about what to do with this envelope while reliving the final events of all this mess, of what was really inside cell 11.
It was morning, and there I was in my cell, in a scene poetically similar to this. I held a playing card, an 11 of clubs. I later searched for such a card online, but found nothing. It was strange, very well made. Before I could reflect more deeply on this, one of the guards passed by our corridor, opening the cell doors for our breakfast.
So, slowly, as if in a trance, I got up from bed and put the playing card in my pocket. Somehow, the card seemed to heat up in my pocket, I could feel the heat increasing and increasing, almost burning my skin. It was a strange stupor, almost drunken, I could even swear I smelled ether lingering in the air as I staggered to the cafeteria.
I slumped into the seat as I placed the tray on the table. Old Munford looked at me in a friendly manner:
"Overdid it yesterday, lad? Your hangover face is priceless."
I forced a weak smile in response to Munford's comment, trying to seem normal despite the whirlwind of thoughts racing through my mind. The heat still burned in my pocket, an uncomfortable sensation that seemed to be intensifying with each passing moment.
"No, nothing much," I muttered, looking away to my food tray. "Just didn't sleep very well."
Munford seemed satisfied with my response and turned his attention back to his own meal. As I stirred the food without really eating, struggling to maintain my composure, I began to think about what to do.
My thoughts were interrupted when Francis joined us at the table, his usual smile lighting up his face. He looked at me with a questioning expression.
"Hey man, everything okay? You look awful."
"I think it was the heat, or maybe something I ate last night."
Francis frowned. Unlike the elder, he clearly wasn't convinced by my superficial explanation.
"Some of the guys told me they saw Bob talking to you last night. Did he do something?"
The question caught me off guard. All this news about the playing card had prevented me from thinking about the strange interaction with Bob since the previous night, but now the memories began to resurface, mixed with the heat sensation coming from my pocket.
"Oh, it was nothing," I said quickly, trying to sound casual. "Bob was just being a bit... Bob."
I felt Francis's gaze linger on my face for a moment.
"If he does anything, you know you can talk to us, right? I know he's one of ours, but that doesn't mean I'll go easy on him."
I analyzed the options for a moment, reflecting on everything. Well, now it seemed to make sense, a prank by Bob, or an attempt to intimidate me...
"There's... something, Francis," I said in a low tone, feeling tense about the confession I was about to make. "Last night, after the card tournament, I... I ran into Bob in the hallway. He was questioning me about the tournament, accusing me of cheating."
Francis's face hardened at my words, a displeased expression passing over his features.
"Cheating? And you?"
"I swear I played fair," I replied quickly, the pressure building inside me. "But he was convinced I had some advantage, and... well, things got a bit tense... He walked away, and this morning I found this in my cell."
Deciding to omit the encounter with Tulley, I got straight to the point, pulling the card out of my pocket and placing it on the table. I could feel it almost incandescent now.
Munford looked at the card for a moment, his gaze narrowing as he studied it. The heat emanating from it was almost palpable, a strange aura that seemed to envelop the table.
"Is that... an 11 of clubs?" he murmured, his voice tinged with surprise and suspicion.
I nodded, my own confusion mingling with growing anxiety.
"Yes... I don't know, maybe Bob did this to scare me, to show that he has access to my cell, or to try to provoke me, knowing my fear of cell 11..."
My words were cut off when the guard's voice echoed through the cafeteria, interrupting our conversation as he announced that the meal period was over.
Francis looked at me with a serious expression.
"We'll talk about this later," he pointed to the card. "Mind if I take it with me?"
I nodded.
"No problem, feel free."
We began our march back to the cells, and I couldn't help but exchange glances with old Munford. He seemed to hesitate on the matter, as if he wanted to say something but was afraid. I made a mental note to speak with him as soon as possible. Our yard time would be in the next 4 hours, and I spent half of that time trying to ponder what had happened.
I don't know how long it took, but I fell asleep, sitting, with my back pressed against the wall of my cell. The dream, or rather, nightmare resulting from this was a disturbing experience.
I found myself standing, walking through the prison corridors in a way that seemed endless. The walls seemed to close in around me, creating a claustrophobic labyrinth that I couldn't escape. Every door I tried to open was locked, and the sound of footsteps echoed behind me, as if someone were following my every step.
Finally, I reached a door that was ajar, a dim light emanating from within. With a knot in my stomach, I pushed it slowly, revealing what seemed to be cell 11. But something was terribly wrong. A man was there, his back to me. Disheveled, uneven hair, a hunched posture, he was crouched down, rummaging through something I couldn't see, seemed to regurgitate. Suddenly, he stopped. He slowly got up and then looked at me.
Somehow, I knew that man was that prisoner, the one who had committed those atrocities and painted the eye on the damn cell. I noticed something dripping from his mouth, forming a red puddle in the center. On the wall, what seemed to be an incomplete sketch of the dreaded painting was there.
I watched, hypnotized by the horror before me, as the man slowly raised his trembling hand towards his face. Drops of that dark liquid dripped from his fingers, echoing in the oppressive silence of the cell. It was as if the very air was tainted with that impurity.
Before I could fully process what was happening, he began to move towards me, his irregular steps echoing like the distant clinking of chains. A visceral panic seized me, preventing me from retreating as he came closer and closer, his distorted figure gaining sharper contours as he advanced through the gloom. I could now smell the terrible scent he had, not just as something rotten, but a pure and concrete smell of death.
"Who... who are you?" My own voice sounded weak and trembling.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he kept advancing, his empty eyes seeming to pierce my soul. My heart was now pounding uncontrollably in my chest, a deafening cacophony that seemed to fill the entire space of the cell. I was about to retreat, to beg for mercy, when a voice whispered in my mind, a distorted echo reverberating like the sigh of a ghost:
"You... can you see? The watchful eye. He wants you. He liked looking at you."
The sound of my own breath echoed in the silence that followed, a dissonant note of fear and desperation. I wanted to scream, to run, to escape this living nightmare, but I was paralyzed by the terror that enveloped me like a coffin.
It was then that I woke up, gasping and covered in sweat, the echo of the whisper still resonating in my mind like a distant echo of a nightmare. For a moment, everything around me seemed distorted and unreal, a fleeting mirage, and then, I startled again. Munford was standing in front of my cell, staring at me with curiosity.
"Are you okay, son?" the old man asked in a soft voice, as if trying to calm a frightened animal.
I shook my head slowly, trying to gather my thoughts amidst the whirlwind of information.
"I... I think so," I murmured, my voice sounding strange and distant even to myself. "I had a horrible nightmare... It felt so real."
Munford nodded understandingly, his eyes fixed on mine.
"Yeah, the situation isn't good... but I came to talk about that letter, earlier in the cafeteria."
"Oh yeah, what about it?"
"Let's just say I've never seen a card like that, but the energy coming from it, oh yeah, I've seen that before."
"What do you mean?"
"You know, a few years ago, there was a murder in one of the cells. This was before Francis arrived, we didn't have much organization, lynchings were common, and in an attempt to reduce these incidents, we decided that the main suspect, a newly captured serial killer, would be forcibly transferred to cell 11. It was one of the most terrible incidents I've ever witnessed in here. And do you know how that man was known?"
I shook my head negatively. Munford leaned his hands on two bars, bringing his face closer to the center of them.
"The Card Cutter."
A wave of shivers ran down my spine.
"He used to leave playing cards as a kind of signature on the bodies of his victims. They say he would choose the card based on the person or the method of murder. So, when he was put in cell 11, things got even weirder."
"What happened to him?" I asked, a bittersweet and macabre curiosity in my mouth.
Munford sighed heavily, looking at a fixed point this time.
"A few weeks after being transferred, he was found dead in his cell. Hung with sheets. And next to his body..."
"What was it?" I could barely breathe as I listened.
"A playing card. An ace of spades, if I'm not mistaken. And that cell... well, since then, no one wants to stay there. They say it does something to people, kills them."
The shock of Munford's revelation reverberated in my chest, trembling as I thought about what could happen to Guard Tulley from now on, or worse, what could happen to us.
"So you think this card is... a warning?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, staring into the old man's green eyes.
Munford nodded slowly, responding more to himself than to me.
"I can't say for sure, but it's a possibility to consider."
I swallowed hard.
"What should we do then?"
He fell silent for a moment, as if pondering his words carefully.
"I have no idea. I guess all we can do is keep quiet; we don't want to scare the other inmates. Francis doesn't believe in these things, so I won't waste my time trying to convince him, and I advise you to do the same. Maybe if we just keep pretending that nothing is happening, things will sort themselves out. But remember: whatever this force is, it wants to take you to the cell, wants you to face the eye. Resist those urges, okay?"
The clock struck 12:30. Time for yard time. I walked with Munford to the yard, the sun burning our heads as we stepped outside, futilely trying to erase the worry from our minds.
As I watched the other inmates spreading out across the yard, trying to appear normal, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find Bob, his voice low and threatening.
"What did you tell Francis?" he whispered, he was behind me, and I couldn't see him.
The flesh on my back trembled and twisted, the fluid of fear rising up to my brain.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Bob," I replied firmly, trying to sound confident.
He paused for a few seconds.
"You cheat first, and now, you make up lies about what I did or didn't do."
"I think there's a misunderstanding-"
"Shut up!" his voice rose sharply "I'm just here to say that I'm not a kid, I don't go around sending playing card letters or anything like that. I didn't threaten you with that thing, but now I am, and in a very direct way, and if I were you, I'd sleep with one eye open."
He was dead serious, and the threat was as clear as day. But what could I do? Confront Bob directly like Francis? That could mean he wasn't trustworthy... My thoughts were interrupted by the guard watching us.
"You two, no contact!" he shouted.
"No problem here, officer," Bob said, pulling me into a hug that felt more like an attempted chokehold.
I tried to pull away unsuccessfully, and the officer seemed to simply not care.
"Okay, but we'll be watching," he turned away, and Bob shoved me against the yard bars.
"Listen here, Bob," I began, my voice firm, confused about where this courage had even come from. "I don't know what you're up to, but I won't stand still while you try to intimidate me. If you have something to say, then say it like a man. Otherwise, leave me alone." I pushed him away with my hand.
"You're a fool, you know that?" he muttered.
"I'm not looking for trouble, but if you want it, you'll get it. Let's just leave it be, okay? If anything happens to me, I'll make sure some people know and-"
My assailant's hand closed around my neck, tightening. I squirmed, struggling to breathe as I desperately tried to free myself from his grip.
"Going to call daddy? Look, Francis may have that whole attitude, but he won't do anything to me, or any of the guys," he remarked.
I noticed the usual group of big guys who hung around with Francis, they were watching us from afar, seeming to distract the boss.
"He's getting out in two months...but honestly, I don't think I need to wait that long."
I couldn't breathe. Fighting against the grip on my neck, my eyes desperately searched for any help.
"Let him go!" The guard shouted from afar, starting to make his way down the stairs to reach us.
Bob didn't obey. I felt my body losing strength, so I did what I could: I focused my strength into a clenched fist and punched the bastard in the stomach, aiming right at his gut. And judging by his expression, it worked. I saw him lean over, his hands releasing my body and being placed on his belly.
I knew if I let it slide, he would come back and continue to harass me, so that had to be a definitive response to the jerk that I wasn't an easy prey. I lunged at him again, this time with a well-aimed kick to his knee, trying to destabilize him. He staggered backwards with a groan of pain, falling to his knees on the yard ground.
The other prisoners now realized what had happened, and soon their shouts in a circle were audible.
"Go, get him! Don't hold back! Finish this guy off!"
I lunged at Bob, raising my hand time after time to punch him. He didn't take it lightly, grabbing my right hand as I prepared to hit him; I could feel the pressure applied to the joints, my fingers starting to crack, and I could feel them tense, about to break. In desperation, I threw myself onto him with the only weapon I had left: my teeth.
I felt the flesh of his neck between the rows of teeth in my mouth. Without thinking and trying to loosen the grip on my hand, I pressed on the pearly bones harder and harder, feeling them slide against the skin, the metallic taste slowly emerging as the flesh was torn.
The scene around me seemed blurry, as if I were watching everything happen from afar, in slow motion. Bob's scream echoed through the yard, mixing with the encouragement shouts from the other inmates. I felt a mix of adrenaline and horror as my teeth sank into his neck flesh, a strange feeling of power and disgust.
While still hunched over that bloody man, I felt the blows on my back: it was the guards. Their batons striking time after time as the adrenaline rush passed, and I now began to feel the pain. Without resistance, I let myself be pulled away. Bob wasted no time and moved away, stumbling as he covered the wound.
"YOU SCUMBAG, WHAT KIND OF ANIMAL ARE YOU?"
As I was being taken away, everything around me seemed blurred, as if I were in a state of stupor. The voices of the other inmates echoed in my ears, mixed with images of the fight that had just occurred. I still felt the blood running through my mouth, dripping lightly onto the ground and forming a trail of red dots marking my path. However, before we left the yard, our warden arrived at the scene, and the guards stopped, my arm uncomfortably twisted behind my body.
"What's going on here?" His voice was calm, but there was an unquestionable tone of authority in his words.
"He... he bit a detainee, sir," one of the guards explained, firmly holding my arm.
The warden looked at me, his eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.
"Why did you do that?"
My mind was spinning, trying to find a coherent explanation for what had happened. I knew it would be useless to tell about Bob's threat, about the playing card, about the fear he had instilled in me. So, I found the most plausible words I could gather:
"He... he provoked me, sir," I murmured, my voice trembling. "I... couldn't take it anymore. He was intimidating me, threatening me, and I... I lost control."
The warden looked at me for a long moment, as if assessing my words. Finally, he sighed, seeming resigned, approaching me with slow, steady steps.
"No, you did that because you're an animal."
He gave me two pats on the cheek, then wiped the blood running from my mouth.
"Take this one to solitary."
The prisoners began to shout, a real noisy commotion. I trembled at the thought of being locked up there. No one came back the same from solitary, but at that moment, I really think I'd prefer to go there than what was to come.
"But sir," one of the guards said, causing the inmates to fall silent in an attempt to hear something, "The solitary is occupied..."
The warden frowned, clearly irritated by the interruption.
"Then take him to cell 11," he ordered, his voice cold and authoritative.
That was the final blow, causing the uproar to become widespread, with even some inmates needing to be subdued with tear gas. I could see as I was pushed, Munford looking at me, a worried and distressed expression on his face; he said something I couldn't understand amidst the noise.
With my heart pounding erratically in my chest and my mind clouded with fear and uncertainty, I was led by the guards towards cell 11. Each step felt like it weighed tons, as if I were walking towards the abyss. I could feel the stares of the other inmates watching the scene, some with expressions of shock, others with a mixture of curiosity and indifference.
Finally, we arrived, and by this point, I was sweating uncontrollably; they opened the cell and threw me inside. My eyes instinctively closed as I fell to the ground. I didn't want to look at it. I got up, still blinding my vision, slowly groping around until I found the bed. I lay on it and turned to the wall beside it, my face as close as possible.
Lying on the hard bed, I could feel my heart beating so loudly that it seemed to echo off the concrete walls around me. Each beat was a pulsating reminder of my situation. I tried to push away the thoughts, but it was like trying to hold back a raging river with bare hands. All the while, I heard stories, heard things about that place, and now I was there, cornered by circumstances beyond my control.
Gradually, I noticed the thick layer of sweat forming around me. I could even feel my pores opening, pouring the water from my body in an attempt to cool myself in that stuffy, hot environment. I couldn't help but think about the heat of the card and... about Francis. He still had the card. Wasn't that dangerous? I fixated on musings about it.
In my feverish frenzy, time seemed to stretch infinitely in that dark cell, minutes dragging on like hours as I struggled to maintain my sanity. Every sound, every shadow was a source of growing anxiety until somehow, I fell into a deep sleep, dreamless this time.
I woke up in the middle of the night, with a faint noise coming from behind the heavy steel door. At first, I feared, wondering what it could be, but as soon as I regained my senses, I remembered where I was, and frankly, nothing outside could be worse. I cautiously approached the source of the sound, trying to listen better, when a "Hey, kid, it's me!" sounded whispered.
"Munford! Munford, I'm glad you're here, knew you wouldn't abandon me."
"Ha, I know, I know," he sounded nervous, perhaps hiding from the guards. "Look, I'd help you out, but I can't get it open from this side, try it there." A small plastic rectangle slid through the door gap. A credit card... I remembered I had done this many times before.
I grabbed the card and started working, carefully sliding it into the lock. Each movement was made with the precision I gained from years of street experience, trying not to make any noise that could attract the guards' attention. My mind was racing, and the tremor it transmitted to my fingers made motor coordination difficult.
Finally, after several minutes of trial and error, I heard a soft click, and the door opened slowly. I could smell the fresh air from the corridor and was already about to smile when, along with the bright light of a flashlight, I saw Bob, now with his neck and shoulder bandaged, along with three more of his cronies. Munford was being held by one, who held an improvised knife to his neck.
"Sorry, kid, they forced me," the old man lamented.
"Not so fast, princess." Bob pushed me inside, onto the floor, and then he entered with one of his cronies, closing the door behind him and illuminating me with the halo of his flashlight.
"What's up, Bob, can't you leave me alone?"
"You wanted to settle things, didn't you? Well..." he pointed to his wound. "You just signed your death warrant! But first, I'm going to make sure to pull out all your teeth and make you swallow them."
He lifted me by the collar of my shirt and landed a punch with his heavy hand. I felt dizzy, seeing stars, curling up into a fetal position. His laughter was now a terrifying melody to me.
"Look at this crybaby. Where did your bravery go?" He kicked my stomach, and I'm sure he found it an ironic poetic justice.
His cohort laughed until the beam of his flashlight shifted away from me.
"Hey Bob, what's that over there?" He said, simultaneously pointing with his finger and the flashlight.
Even though it was on the wall behind me, I knew what it was. I saw Bob straighten up to face it, becoming petrified. He and the other, standing there, mouths agape. I waited for seconds, counting mentally and holding my breath, expecting anything, but nothing. Until suddenly, I began to see small puddles forming under their lower eyelids, dark marks... of blood.
The red tears started to stream down their faces like large crimson waterfalls. Soon, they began to make a noise... a familiar noise, which made my mind freeze as I felt my toes curling inside my shoes and my mouth trembling uncontrollably. It was the same sound as Tulley's. They were now allowing these moans to escape their throats and resonate in the tight concrete walls.
I had to do something. I began slowly to pass by them, trying to edge around. When, however, I was almost reaching the door, I could see their shadows turning slowly in my direction. The tension in the air was palpable, as if it could be cut with a knife. I held myself back from trembling as I tried to maintain composure in front of those men, whose bloodshot eyes were now fixed on me, full of terror and despair.
"What... what's happening?" My voice came out in a trembling whisper, barely able to make myself heard.
Bob and his cohort remained silent. They began to walk towards me, and in desperation, I opened the cell door and slammed it loudly behind me, not caring about attracting the guards' attention. As I looked around, I actually noticed that this was a concern I didn't need to have.
The environment where I was wasn't what I expected, from the prison corridor. It was actually another cell. I stopped for a moment, confused, only to be surprised by a figure in the center of it. A man in a straitjacket looking at me with a petrified smile.
"I've been waiting for you," he said. His voice was blood-curdling, sounding like someone scratching a chalkboard with their nails or scraping a fork on a glass plate.
I tried to open the door but it was stuck. When I turned around again, he was leaning, his face inches from mine, eyes bloodshot. I almost fell backward. He laughed. It was like the last time, he had his mouth covered by a sticky red mass that dripped, probably serving as material for the painting, which now displayed an almost complete surreal eye. He turned and walked to the painting, and then he regurgitated it again. Since his hands were tied, he used his tongue as a brush, finishing the last line of the drawing.
"This," he whispered. "Is my masterpiece."
I was trembling. I had forgotten Munford's advice, and now I found myself petrified, just like the others, staring at the eye. I don't know how much time passed, but I felt like it was hours, days... years. All in the blink of an eye, or rather, in a stare without a single blink.
I tried in vain to regain my composure. Scenes of horror penetrated my mind. Cadavers, bodies marked by playing cards. Criminals, inmates being violently beaten with batons, pepper spray, and all sorts of luxuries the police can serve, I saw gang fights, blood, death, and abuse. I saw people being killed inside the prison. Each scene of violence that each of those who looked had already witnessed. My legs were no more than reeds in the wind now, and I just wanted to run away and scream, cry, and sleep to never wake up again. I tried to scream but the man came to me, placing his foot over my mouth.
"Shhh... you need to see."
He repeated this indefinitely. "need to see, need to see, need to see, need to see"
With superhuman effort, I managed to free myself from the weight of his foot on my mouth, but I could barely articulate coherent words. My voice came out trembling and weak when I finally managed to speak:
"What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?"
He simply continued smiling, as if my words were just another piece in his sadistic game. Then, with a quick and fluid movement, he approached me, so close that I could feel his fetid breath and the metallic smell of blood dripping from his mouth.
"Your mind is a fascinating playground," he murmured, his voice echoing in the claustrophobic space of the cell.
I felt tears running down my cheek, and I knew what color they were. I stood there, in shock, staring at the large painted eye, while my entire being was eaten alive in fear and dread. I don't know how much time passed, maybe the entire age of the universe, eternity, who knows. I woke up on the infirmary bed. Wires connected to my arm while a machine reproduced the "beeps" of my heart.
I looked to the side, seeing the green eyes of nurse Linda looking at me, concerned.
"Are you okay?"
"You need to see," I said, not even wanting to.
She frowned, evidently confused by my response. Linda seemed hesitant, as if she were trying to decide whether to ask more or simply ignore my strange statement. I could see the concern in her eyes, but also a certain curiosity, as if something inside her was intrigued by what I had to say.
"What do you mean by that?" She finally asked, her soft voice echoing in the silence of the infirmary.
I sat up slowly on the bed, feeling a wave of dizziness pass over me. My mind was still cloudy, as if I were struggling to emerge from a deep nightmare. I tried to articulate my words as coherently as possible.
"I... I saw things," I murmured, my voice still trembling. "Terrible things. In the cell... in there... something... something is wrong."
Linda watched me with a serious expression, her green eyes analyzing me carefully. She seemed to understand that something serious had happened, but couldn't fully comprehend what I was trying to communicate.
"Look... you and the others had a collective hallucination in that cell... The director has already arranged for an investigation, but we suspect carbon monoxide poisoning, we've already talked to him about the lack of windows in that place, but it seems he doesn't listen."
I stopped, confused by that information. Was I hallucinating? Well, maybe I would even think that if it weren't for what followed. A man in a dark suit entered. He had a serious and intimidating expression, and he asked Linda to leave.
"Listen here, young man, you're lucky to have come back. The others are catatonic... and probably won't come back to themselves. That's why your cooperation is extremely important, and we need to know: what did you see?"
I stumbled, recounting as much information as I could remember, from Tulley to Bob. The man listened to me without making any expression. After that, he took a radio that was hanging from his blazer and said some words that I didn't quite understand, something like "Ceter," "Queter"... and then he took a clipboard, handing it to me.
"This is your letter of freedom. Our proposal is as follows: We release you from prison and in exchange, you don't open your mouth about the specific events mentioned here," he pointed to the clauses.
That was five years ago, and given my freedom, you must imagine that not everything that happened is transcribed here, but the most important parts are. I ended up visiting Munford a few times after that, and I was horrified to discover that Francis, on the eve of his release, hanged himself with the bedsheet. The old man and I stared at each other after this discovery, in a mutual silent understanding. Shortly after, they closed not only the cell, but our entire pavilion, relocating the inmates. I never saw Munford or any of the others again after that. My nightmares persisted, but in recent months they have been much less frequent, and I think I might be slowly healing.
I wanted to say that this story ends well, with my rehabilitation. A troublesome prisoner full of stories becoming a family man. And it would be, if it weren't for the last 15 minutes of this morning. I believe you may remember that I received a letter this morning like that cursed number. I left it on the counter in the living room while I came here, to have breakfast and finish reporting this to you. When I finished the last paragraph, I went back to the room, but now, it seems like the whole nightmare is back.
I felt the tears, transparent this time, forming in my eyes. In the center of the room right now is Linda, holding the letter, looking at something in it that I can already imagine. She's standing there, wet and red stains on her face, I can hear her whispering "You need to see... need to see," and by God... I can see...

PREVIOUS
The light coloured wooden floorboards creaked softly under my weight as I struggled. Using human crutches wasn’t difficult, but it was demeaning. They were miss matched and that was confusing. One was from a set I'd had as a child, while I didn’t recognise the other at all.
Without giving it too much thought I turned into my fathers study to find the room was changed. It was dilapidated. The furniture was rotten and falling apart while all the books were moth eaten. Brigetta sat on the floor, weaving thread into talismans.
‘Brigetta…? What are you doing?’ I asked as the space gradually fell away around us.
‘Making an anchor for you,” she answered softly. She wasn’t crying exactly, her eyes weren’t red and she wasn’t sobbing, but water ran down her face from her eyes. It was an unnatural amount that pooled around her in a puddle as she worked.
‘Why?” my voice echoed, confused.
‘Because they’re going to kill you.’
Cold dread trickled down my spine, ‘…Who are..?’
‘The Fae.’
As she spoke a shadow moved beside her and Markos appeared from nowhere. He held something in his hand, however I wasn’t able to make it out as the panic jolted me back to consciousness.
Taking a deep breath in, I was awake before I opened my eyes. Sweat dampened my clothes and I blinked slowly as understanding came to me, I had been dreaming. I couldn’t remember falling asleep, but I awoke in darkness. My mouth was dry and the only part of me that didn’t hurt was the leg I couldn’t feel, every other part wished for death.
However I was laying on something soft under light sheets. They ruffled softly as I turned over, and the warning came immediately, “Don’t try anything stupid.” It was Nathaniel who had spoken. His voice was somehow reassuring, smooth and calm. He was sitting not far from me beside the glow of a small lamp with a book in hand. It backlit his hair, giving him an ethereal halo, and he didn’t so much as bother to look over when I stirred.
“Where am I?” I asked, confused. My voice was husky and quiet as the vocal cords struggled to work.
“You’re in my chambers, and if you try anything, I’ll kill you outright.”
It came back to me gradually, being carried through endless marble hallways, and forced to bathe. I exhaled with shame as I remembered. Showing weakness was unacceptable in my family and I was a disgrace for being captured alive… My father would hate me if he knew, he would probably never speak to me again.
“...Why haven’t you killed me already?”
“Because you’re of no use dead.”
I wasn’t sure I was of any use alive either, “...Thank you,” I murmured softly.
“It’s too soon to thank me,” he answered, uncaring, as he turned a page and I allowed my gaze to drop
He was probably right. Even if I was safe right now, this was only temporary, and I didn’t have the energy to argue even if I wanted to. “How long has it been?” I asked instead.
“A couple of days,” he moved when he spoke and I automatically tried to recoil.
It was a wasted effort. I could hardly move at all, let alone defend myself. My injuries had set, and the muscles were simultaneously weak and stiff. I swallowed anxiously as he walked past. “Whatever you’re going to do, please don’t… I’ll do anything you want…”
Of course I was lying. Pretending to be afraid and hoping I was correct in what he wanted to hear as I tried to anticipate how best to survive this situation. “What I want right now, is for you to stop talking.”
Nathaniel passed me again and I flinched, maybe I wasn’t pretending as much as I wanted to be, I thought bitterly. However, I realized then that he was largely ignoring me. He had grabbed another book from somewhere in the darkness, and returned to his seat without acknowledging me.
Gradually, my heart rate slowed. The fae wasn’t going to do anything, he was just existing in the same space… but why? Was it a ruse? Another interrogation technique? Maybe he was trying to break my mind with the endless uncertainty. I watched him with wary caution as I debated whether or not I could use my charm to get him to let me go.
However, between the warmth of the bed and the gentle rustle of paper turning, my eyelids were growing heavy. My thoughts drifted and my consciousness was slipping away. I didn’t trust him, and I didn’t want to risk being killed in my sleep, but, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst way to die. At least I wouldn’t know it had happened…
***
When I awoke next I was alone in the plush bed. Sunlight glistened off my lashes and I turned over to get away from the brightness. The air was cold and every part of me ached, but the blankets were warm. I pulled them tighter around myself, nesling lower into them as I cautiously looked around.
In daylight, the room was cluttered. A thousand different ornaments, tapestries, crystals and pendulums crowded every surface. Books were haphazardly stacked in piles on the floor and leaned at precarious angles, leaving only narrow pathways through the mess.
To the right were french doors leading to a balcony. They were framed by burgundy velvet curtains that cascaded downward into heavy folds of excess fabric, and semi-transparent curtain sheers. At the foot of the bed was a Victorian era fainting lounge with similar dark velvet upholstery and an asymmetrical, ornately carved, wooden backrest.
On the left was a small partitioning wall that blocked the rest of the space from immediate view and the entryway to the bathroom. Antique furniture hidden among the mess lined the perimeters of the room and refracted light cast dull rainbows across the walls. It was beautiful, in a chaotic way.
Nathaniel was nowhere in sight and the room was quiet except for the gentle tick of the pendulums. I was alone as far as I could tell, but it was with caution that I began to move.
“Hello?” I called, wincing as I put pressure on my arm to push myself up.
The room remained silent and I glanced around to be sure. I had half expected this to be some kind of trap, however, nothing happened and I carefully swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Heaving the damaged one over with disgust.
A thin trail of magic wrapped around my ankle and I smiled bitterly. It was a tether, binding me to the bed with a limited range of freedom. The writing itself wasn’t overly complicated, but I had no magic to use and the breakpoint was on the ceiling where I couldn’t reach just yet. With a small irritated huff I gave up, moving instead to find a weapon. That fae bastard would regret bringing me here.
Using the bed frame as support, I stood before awkwardly hopping across the room. I tried the balcony doors first, they were locked both physically and with a rigid barrier spell. Next I tried the main door only to find a similar situation before debating whether or not I could make it out the bathroom window. Most likely not, I realized bitterly. Escaping wasn’t a task I was capable of in my injured state.
However, that didn’t make me defenseless. I limped toward the desk and rummaged through the draws. Inside each drawer was no better than the rest of the room. They were filled with ink pots and quills, pens, pencils, paintbrushes and loose paperwork.
Small trinkets and other useless things that I suppose he simply couldn’t find any other place for only added to the disarray. Shutting the drawer I snorted in exasperation. It was ridiculous. What kind of person keeps so many pointless items? He must’ve had a hundred shiny but harmless trinkets.
Eventually I came across an engraved pocket knife made of silver. It opened with a swift click and the blade was remarkably sharp. I could kill Nathaniel easily with it… However, the thought of doing so made me nauseous and I closed the blade. It was pointless anyway, even if I killed him now, I was still trapped in the fae castle.
Placing it back on the desk I slowly sank to the floor instead. I hated myself for this, for being so weak. My fingers had little grip strength with my knuckles still healing, and with my good leg being compromised it was difficult to stand for too long. If I had killed him in the forest none of this would be a problem and I would still be with my family.
Some part of me knew I had sealed my own fate, but I wasn’t sure I regretted it. At least if I died, the war would be closer to ending and I sighed, running my hands back through my hair. The situation was hopeless. I didn’t know what to do, and I was afraid of what Nathaniel would do to me when he returned. For all I knew this was just another interrogation technique…
A muted click interrupted my thoughts and I glanced up. A moment of silence followed the sound and I waited in tense uncertainty: had Nathaniel returned? Seconds passed before I heard the soft swoosh of the door closing again and the hair on the back of my neck prickled. Someone had entered the room.
Boots clacked on the floorboards in purposefully slow steps as they navigated and I moved immediately. I crawled quietly across the floor and slipped under the bed, wedging myself between the clutter beneath it. Moments later the footsteps came closer, and I watched as small white shoes with a neat heel walked past the bed. Slender legs with tanned skin filled the shoes and the girl came to a stop beside the desk where I had been.
She stood there a moment and I held my breath as she examined the area. However when she turned to go, the pocket knife fell off the desk. It landed among the junk on the floor and she stooped to collect it. The woman was human, and remarkably beautiful.
Her long white-blonde hair fell forward over her shoulders and her slender fingers wrapped around the pocket knife. Her nails were manicured, painted pastel pink with small gems encrusted on them. She wore light makeup with matching diamantes on her upper cheek bones and bore the contract marks of a Fae agreement under them.
For a brief moment I wondered who’s ‘property’ she was. Probably not Nathaniel’s otherwise, she wouldn’t be creeping around his room like a thief, I thought as she stood again. No emotion crossed her face as she set the knife back where it had been before it fell and wondered what would happen if she saw me. Would I be able to convince her to help me? She didn’t seem unkind, however, fae ‘pets’ are well trained.
They’re loyal to their masters in all ways, and in combat they’re deadly. On the battlefield they cut through my father’s human worshipers with no remorse or restraint, and will just as easily cut down any un-reveanted vanir who crosses their path. Worse still is that they’re impossible to spot until they attack.
They look alike to any other human and blend in among our forces. That was part of the reason we began to poison our horde, the trace of death separates them from the vibrant life of those controlled by the Fae.
Eventually the girl turned away and disappeared from view. It seemed whatever she was looking for she hadn't found it and I exhaled with pure relief when I heard the door close again as she exited. I wasn’t sure I could have taken the stress if I had been found.
Laying under the bed my body ached and my bruised ribs hurt. I waited there a while, gathering the willpower to wriggle back out before deciding not to. It would take too much effort, and I felt safer in a hidden place. I fell asleep again curled among a pile of worn, but not dirty, clothes.
(Next chapter available on Patreon, as well as some ahhh spicy posts...)

Vote on a match featuring the detective teams allied against a masked vigilante having gone berserk!

(Shoutouts to u/ShimoDragon and Heart of the Rose for the match!)
Scenario: The Kamala Rose International, Vasitanagarh — 2:06PM
Weeks ago, in the very center of The Kamala Rose International lay the fantastical garden known as the Heart of the Rose, in the center of that garden stood a gazebo, and in the center of that gazebo was a table surrounded by four individuals in a heated discussion.
“That was sloppy work, Margherita!” Sulka slammed their fist against the table in an uncharacteristically loud fit of rage, “I told you to get rid of that man last week! Now because of your pointless delays he was able to leak that scandal to the news!”
“Hey hey, levati dai coglioni! I don’t appreciate the blame being thrown onto me here,” Margo threw up his arms in response, looking more annoyed than upset, “You never told me there was any urgency. Besides, it takes a bit of time to frame an accidental death. What, do you think you can just shoot a guy in the head and call it a suicide? You watch too many movies if you think that kind of thing can just happen overnight, mammalucco.”
“Do you even care that our operation here is in jeopardy now that that video is drawing prying eyes our way?!” Sulka almost spat at the italian man, “Your nonchalance is insulting!”
“Easy, Sulka,” Jim Peckle interjected, “Margo did his best. No way for him to know that things would turn this way.”
“You’re both right, actually,” Margo sneered, “I did my best, as I do with every job, but I honestly couldn’t care less if this little crime ring collapses. You lot are nothing more than a side hustle to me, my allegiances lie back in Italy. In other words, stop pestering me and vai a cagare.”
With a swish of his apron Margo left, leaving Sulka to smolder in a more recognizable quiet anger.
“That’s the last time we give him a time sensitive job, if you ask me,” Pluto spoke up for the first time since arriving (late), “The unwanted attention is a problem, don’t get me wrong, but I’m more concerned with how we even got to this in the first place, hey? That guy in the video was talking about missing people, Kiisseli. Just what the hell have you been up to?”
“Need I remind you, Hendrix,” Sulka’s cold gaze turned to meet Pluto’s, “that part of our arrangement involves the right to privacy. I do not intend to pry about what you use our resources for so I expect that you will do me the same decency.”
“Excuse me…?” Pluto straightened up from his relaxed position, “You don’t get to just shrug this off after bringing the feds to our damn doorste-”
“To be curt,” Sulka cut him off, “It’s none of your damn business, Pluto. So drop it.”
Behind Sulka’s back, Jim quietly scoped his nearest emergency exit.
Pluto’s vein bulged visibly at Sulka’s words, “You’ve got people paying attention to the airport cuz you’ve been pulling some shady bullshit and you just managed to get your ass handed to you by a cat and some whackjob in a mask, hey. Obviously this is my fucking business!”
“I may have been beaten by a “whackjob” as you put it,” Sulka slowly rose from their chair, “but I could certainly beat you if you’re going to keep acting like a thorn in my side.”
“You could beat who?” Pluto’s voice raised an octave in sheer frustration and confusion, “Trust me, you don’t want this smoke, Kiisseli.”
“What’s this about smoke?” Dark Disquiet shimmered into view and lit a fire in its palm behind Sulka as they spoke, “Because from where I stand you’re the only one who should fear getting burned, Hendrix.”
“This isn’t the time or place for a fight,” Jim stepped in between the two, holding up his hands. Behind his dark sunglasses, his eyes flicked cautiously over to Sulka. “Everything just goes up in flames. Nobody wins… Best cool things down and make peace.”
An uneasy silence hung over the gazebo until Pluto clicked his tongue in frustration, “Yeah. Fine. Better an ally than an enemy, I suppose. But let it be known that next time I have to deal with problems caused by your actions I’ll be expecting a damn good explanation, hey? Now I’m getting out of here before your self important face pisses me off any more than it already has.”
Once Pluto had left earshot, Sulka let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of their nose, “I hate to admit it but I too am in a state where I still need to rely on Hendrix’s assistance. Oh how I despise co-leadership…”
“I like having him around,” Jim replied, shrugging minutely, “He brings a lot to the Heart. He’s easygoing, and a lot more dedicated than he seems on the surface. It would be a shame to drive him away.”
“You’ve already deescalated the situation, Jim Peckle. Any further arbitration would be pointless, unless you mean to crawl your way back onto my good side. In which case you have a long way to go,” Sulka made a dispassionate gesture towards the exit, “You may leave as well, but don’t assume that this means you’re off the hook. You’ve not yet been forgiven for leaving me in the dirt and running off with that costumed clown after our fight.”
Jim hesitated for a moment before deciding to swallow his pride and take his own advice. Instead, he simply gave a light nod in response and scurried out of the gazebo.
For a time Sulka sat in silence, partially to gather their thoughts and partially to make sure their team members had cleared out. “Marko, Olli, come here now.”
Barely missing a beat, the Runoilija brothers ran in to greet Sulka, “Right here boss!” Marko, the bigger of the two, responded, “Sorry we weren’t here for the meeting–that kid you hired a while back was break dancing in the halls outside the garden and we were entranced by the little guy!”
“Enough!” Sulka was all too familiar with how the brothers could prattle on if left unchecked, “I didn’t call you over to have you discuss your simplistic entertainment. I have a job for the two of you.”
“Lay it on us boss, we’ll get it done in no time,” Olli rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“To be more accurate it’s closer to a reassignment than a job,” Sulka tucked their hands behind their back, beginning to pace across the raised dais. “Thanks to this mess we’re in, I’ll be forced to decrease, if not totally halt, my… cultivation, we’ll call it, her at the Rose. In order to make up for the drop-off in offerings we will need to expand operations outside of the airport. I’ve already made the arrangements. Starting tomorrow, you two will be stationed at Club Naraka over in Port Konwar. You will remain vigilant for any and all stand users that enter the building. I don’t care how you do it but make sure you check every guest. Once you find a stand user you are to restrain them and call for me. This is by far the most promising location I’ve managed to get a hold of, so I am expecting big things. Are there any questions?”
“Uh, it’s a club, yeah?” Marko cocked his head, “That means there’ll be booze, right?”
“...Yes Marko,” Sulka sighed, “There will be drinks of all kinds.”
“Alright! We won’t let you down boss! You can count on us!” Olli beamed—and promptly tripped on Marko’s heels in his haste as the two of them rushed for the door.
Sulka sighed again, if that pair of fools weren’t so loyal they would’ve discarded them long ago.
Scenario: ???, ??? — 1:20 AM
THUMP
THUMP
THUMP
Reese’s eyes slowly opened, his vision hazy. His head stung—that was the first thing he noticed, the dull throbbing pain in his temple. He couldn’t think straight. Where was he? Why was he here? What was-
God, his head.
“Ghhh...” He massaged his temples, blearily trying to force some sense into his brain. He was... Where was he...
Memories came back to him slowly, filtered through heavy bass and the scraping of a rusty fan overhead. He was looking for leads on something... His father was looking into Nightblooms... There were rumors of knowledgeable Stand users here... His teammates had told him not to go, but he-
The door creaked open, slamming against a dingy, degraded concrete wall. Reese lifted his head, slowly. His head felt like a ten ton weight on his shoulders. He could hardly see. What the fuck happened?
Through the now open door a stream of light poured in highlighting the silhouettes of two men. The bigger man on the right spoke first, “So this kid is the fresh meat, huh? And you’re sure he’s one of us this time?”
“Oh definitely,” The skinny man on the left replied, “This guy’s a stand user, no doubt about it.”
Reese could hear what the men were saying but his mind was covered in a fog and it was difficult to comprehend the words. Fresh meat? Stand user? Did these two bring him here? What did they want?
The skinny man kneeled down to bring himself face to face with Reese. Even in the darkness of the room he was close enough that Reese could make out his distinctly crooked nose , “I’m gonna make this real simple for you, pal. You see our boss is a very important person. They are the type with big plans that some people might not agree with. Because of that, they like to make powerful friends whenever possible. Friends like you, for example. For that very reason the boss is on their way here right now to meet you! I’m sure the two of you will get along great but I thought I should give you a bit of a warning. The boss doesn’t like it when their offer of friendship gets turned down, you see. There’s only one thing they hate more than that. Unnecessary risk. If they can’t have you as a friend… Well, I’m sure you’ll make the right choice once you meet them.”
“Uhhh, Olli?” The bigger one tapped the skinny man on the shoulder, “I don’t think this kid is hearing you. Look at his eyes, it’s like he’s still asleep.”
“Wha-?” Olli aggressively grabbed Reese’s head and forcefully opened his eyelids all the way to stare into the boy’s pupils, “Goddamnit, the drugs still haven’t worn off! Urgh, just put him back to sleep Marko. I’ll give him the speech again once he wakes up.”
Reese wanted to run or fight or something but he could barely move as the skinny man- Olli let go of his head. Drugs? Had these two drugged him? His mind was swimming with Olli’s monologue creating a whirlpool of words and phrases that he recognized but could not focus on. With every ounce of his available strength he lifted his body onto his elbows and looked up to his captors.
“W-wait a se-” He couldn’t even form a full sentence before the bigger man- Marko reeled back and threw out a punch.
There was a violent shake.
A loud thud.
And then black.
Scenario: Club Naraka, Port Konwar — 1:22 AM
Club Naraka was, if nothing else, accurately named.
When you first stepped into the subterranean hell pit of human desire, you were greeted with the thick smell of booze and cigarettes and other far less legal things. It had a way of overwhelming every sense, actually. Harsh lights strobed against the otherwise dim chambers of each floor, and the bass thumped hard enough to feel in your ribs. When you eventually found yourself in a place where it didn’t smell so harshly of booze, it was because it smelled like vomit instead, or some other thing you didn’t really want to figure out the source of.
Emile Gulati, 27 years old, stared with half lidded eyes at the air freshener she’d hung behind the bar, wishing with all of her heart that it actually worked. It was her last little rebellion against this place. She tried wearing earbuds, but she couldn’t hear her own music over the stuff they played in the club. She tried normal earplugs, but those hardly worked, and just made it harder to bartend. She considered nose plugs, but that’d just make her look weird - customers gave her enough shit already.
“Evening, bartender~.” A sleazy looking man had somehow wandered over to the bar without her noticing, splaying himself over the counter. Emile tried her best to hide her immediate disdain. “You, uh, wow, huh, eheh.” He pointed at her. “Nnnn~ice outfit. Eheh.”
She scowled.
“You gonna order something or what?” Emile made sure to step back a few feet. Best not to stand too close to guys like this - she’d learned that the hard way just a week ago. “I don’t work here as a fucking model. Get a drink.”
“Bitch.” The man sneered. “You people should be more agreeable. Tsch.” He wandered off, having seemingly forgotten what he came for in the first place. Emile sighed in relief. She idly looked back at the little bottle under the counter, and winced. She’d made a routine of reminding herself it was there and feeling like shit about it.
Being a bartender here was bad enough, but every now and then she’d get a lovely text from a higher up on the burner phone they’d given her to slip a few drops of that into their drink. Within moments a security guard would drag them away, leaving Emile with no explanation. Not that she was expecting one, granted. But she would’ve liked to know what exactly she was doing here. For closure, or something. Maybe.
Couldn’t pay rent in Mist City without a job, she reminded herself for the fourth time that night. The latest one really got to her - some bright eyed youngster filled with determination who was trying so hard not to look like he was there on some sort of mission. She had hope that whatever job it was would succeed, but that hope seemed to evaporate like a fine mist when she watched him disappear behind the elevator doors.
She rubbed her temples.
“...”
And exhaled. This place got in the way of her reason, the music keeping her from thinking. Was next month’s rent worth the people she’d screwed over? Hell if she knew.
“I’m taking my fifteen,” said Emile, to no one in particular. She marched away from the bar, stalking towards the elevator. When the doors closed behind her, she found herself blessed by something close to peace and quiet. It reassured her.
Equally reassuring was the golden coin beneath her feet, glinting in harsh LED light.
“...Lucky coin, huh?” She picked it up, admiring it for a moment before pressing down on the lowest button on the elevator keypad. She didn’t know what she was actually going to do - but it’d probably be better than doing nothing.
When the doors opened, Emile found the floor was completely barren. No one wandered through the dusty concrete halls; the only thing that gave her company was the thick, noxious smell that clung to the air. Preferring not to investigate its source, Emile began walking through the halls…until her eye caught on an open door. Unsure where else to go, she peeked inside.
Curled on the cold floor was a body. Emile’s stomach dropped–until she saw movement in the person’s chest. Still alive. That she could work with. Rushing over, Emile knelt next to the unconscious person, as she had with countless blackout drunks. She made sure he was on his side, and then gently stirred him until he woke. All the while, dread tangled her organs in knots. Who would do such a thing? Why? Still, the answers didn’t matter. What mattered is that something was very wrong with this place, and they needed to leave as fast as possible.
Yet, when the young man opened his eyes, he didn’t look at her with shock or fear, but anger. A righteous fury that had him just about jumping to his feet.
“Woah! Woah, settle down, you were unconscious, your body needs time-” Emile began, before the man shook his head. That alone seemed to dizzy him, as he braced himself against the wall.
“I don’t have time. I need to- I can’t have been the only one. I need to-”
Emile stepped closer, trying to put a hand on his shoulder, but he immediately bristled at the touch, as if on reflex.
“You’re hurt- look, man… something’s up with this place. We need to get out of here.”
But he just shrugged her off, moving towards the nearest unlocked door. Without hesitation, he flung it open, frantically looking for other survivors. Yet, what he and Emile found…were rows of bathtubs. That horrid, sharpened smell was even stronger now, nearly overwhelming. It was all Reese could do to not keel over. Instead, Emile moved to support him, and the two crept closer, peering over the edge.
Inside the tub, something boiled, bubbled, churned.
The thing inside could barely be called human. The acid gnawed at the corpse like a desperate, starving animal, stripping the charred flesh off of its bones. Unable to support itself, it collapsed further, head sinking under the liquid. Soon, its blank, lifeless expression was stripped down to its gleaming bone. Gone. All gone.
Reese felt like he was standing in a tunnel. Lightless. Empty. Infinite. The feeling of Emile letting go, the sound of sharp retching, something splattering against the tile, all of it was muffled.
What cruel animal is man.
It was the twin jolts of fear and rage that hit him like an IED. Pounding adrenaline restarted his heart, clicking the world into focus. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emile heaving, shuddering, pulling at her hair. All the unconscious drunkards, for all the rowdy bar fights, none of it could have prepared her for these horrors. That adrenaline pumped through her in turn, she could feel that fear grow sharp and jagged-
She could feel something take that fear, guiding it towards a sound. Footsteps. Reese didn’t seem to hear them, only her. She tried to speak- nothing. No sound could escape her lips. The fear that gripped her chest was unlike anything she had ever felt before. She couldn’t make a whisper but with the full force of her adrenaline she could still move.
The next few moments were a blur. A bottle on a shelf, shouting from the previous room, a desperate lunge, and the distinct sound of rending flesh. Suddenly everything was vivid and clear again. She felt the guards blood trickle through her fingers as Emile looked down and witnessed what she had done. The bottle had become a knife, and she had stabbed someone.
The guard fell to the ground as Emile stared at her shaking, blood stained hands, “I- that wasn’t- I didn’t mean-” She was stammering all while Reese watched on in silent shock.
“He’s not dead Emile,” a feminine voice echoed through her skull, “You have to finish it. You have to make sure.”
Her eyes darted from one end of the room to the other, trying desperately to find the source, but the longer she delayed the louder it got.
“Kill him. Kill Him. KILL HIM. KILL HIM.”
What happens when an animal is backed into a corner?
It attacks.
Suddenly, something in Emile snapped- no, it shattered like a broken bottle. A low scream escaped her throat betwixt clenched jaws as she savaged upon the barely breathing man.The knife became her teeth, raised into the air and plunged into red flesh. A wet schlllrk rang as she pulled it back out, only to bury it down again and again and again.
Reese moved quickly, instinctually- tackling her to the ground. A desperate move- to break this haze that she was in, end whatever vile urge had overcome her.
His eyes widened as they tumbled onto the floor, spotting several pairs of feet. Guards. He had tackled them into the direct view of more guards.
”Shit.”
A snapping noise split the air. An ethereal crocodile came from the ether, ready to defend its user.
A cornered animal attacked.
Meanwhile in the upper floors of the club the Runoilija brothers sat at a bar. Olli casually nursed an elaborate cocktail as he criticized his larger brother, “I think you hit that guy a little too hard, he should be awake again by now but there’s no news from the guards… You better not have killed him by accident like that last guy, Sulka’s already pissed enough at us as is.”
“That was not my fault!” Marko slammed his beer mug on the counter, “That last one wouldn’t stay down, so I just kept hitting him until he did. How was I supposed to know that he’d die so easily!”
“You literally just gave a textbook description of negligence, you moron. Of course it was your fault!” Olli smacked Marko on the side of his head to emphasize his point.
“Why’d you always gotta hit me…” Marko grumbled as he rubbed his head, “If you’re so sure that I’m the moron then let's bet on whether the fresh meat has gone cold or not. Whoever loses pays for the other’s drinks for the rest of the night.”
“Alright deal,” Olli snickered as they shook hands, “I’ll go take a look.”
Olli’s hand restlessly gripped the switchblade in his pocket as he descended through the floors of the nightclub. He fully intended to finish off the drugged up kid in the basement, assuming he refused to work for the boss like most did. He would pin the blame on his dumbass brother and have him pay for his drinks for the whole night. A win-win scenario.
Suddenly, a vibration from his phone. An update from the guards:
The prisoner got out. There are two of them now.
Marko received the same message back at the bar above. In a fit of rage he chucked his mug of beer at the wall with his full strength, just barely missing the skull of the bartender who was serving him. Before he had a chance to cause any more senseless damage another message addressed to himself and all the other guards came through, this time from his brother.
Find them both, NOW! Kill them if you have to, just make sure they don’t leave! If they’re gone when Sulka gets here we’ll all be fucked!
Marko stood up from the bar and began to push through the flirting couples and stumbling drunkards of the nightclub as his Ultraviolet materialized. The fresh meat had a helper and the two were trying to scurry away like rats? That was fine by him. Marko specialized in hunting down rats.

The music seemed to distort more intensely the longer Reese listened. Maybe it was the dull ache of the base, punctuated by a hundred frenzied footfalls, a rhythm that toppled over itself. Maybe it was the rage that sent his own heart racing. He could feel it pound against ｢Magenta Mountain｣ as he held the hourglass close to his chest. Still, there was no time to rest.
Finally, the two of them found the source of the noise. A dark, dingy dancefloor. It stunk of sweat and mildew, and the dancing bodies seemed to twist in the low light. Even as the two entered, splattered in blood, no one took notice. They were too caught up in dance, alcohol, god knows what else. In this moment of respite, Reese turned to Emile. Her gaze was as vacant as his own, she seemed to look right past him.
“Hey, focus.” Impatience had made his voice sharp. There wasn’t time for niceties, not for her. Emile’s eyes readjusted, finding him. In the dark, he could not see that was shone in her expression wasn’t malice, but fear.
“What the hell was that!?” he pressed. She shrunk away in turn.
“...I had to get out.”
“I know that,” Reese frowned, “We’re in the same boat. But that’s not an excuse- I could have helped! You didn’t have to-”
“I have to get out,” Emile continued. Her gaze went past him yet again. Her body shuddered. “Please, please just let me out. I’ll do anything, anything you want, I can’t stand this hell- just let me out!”
“I…” Reese swallowed, hugging his Stand tight. “What?”
His mind reeled, trying to process his next steps. This woman was unstable, that was clear. Unstable, violent, dangerous—not just to others, but herself. If Reese allowed her to simply leave, without understanding what was happening, who knew how many would suffer? Yet, the crowd shifted in strange ways, the beat becoming frantic, the music growing warped and mutilated. Should he stop the woman? Should he protect her from these maddening halls? What should he do? What should he do?
The moment Reese looked up, trying to make a call–Emile was gone. She had vanished deep into the crowd, following that horrid, golden voice. The music reminded Reese of the howl of coyotes in the night. The raucous celebrations of beasts who found their meal.
Against his beating heart, he felt ｢Magenta Mountain｣. Inside those grains lay the vast expanse of evolution, and its uniting link: the will to survive at any cost. His beasts had all failed, each one had faced death, and lost. At this moment, Reese understood them. He knew what it was to be a cornered animal. He would deal with the moral quandaries of man once he escaped. But first, he had to escape. The grains of sand were slipping through the hourglass. He knew he would not die like all those beasts that came before him. He would escape. He would survive. He had to.
Nothing else mattered.
Lost in the crowd, he and Emile reached that same conclusion.
Nothing else mattered.
Open the Game.
Location: Club Naraka, with the players currently on the second basement floor. Throughout the stage, the brown sections of the map are doors, furniture, lockers, crates, and whatever makes sense for the location. The players may interpret the map to read furniture as what would make sense for the location and may find any items that would be reasonable to find in that area of a club; if these ever would conflict in strategies, treat both readings as, somehow, correct.
Green circles are guards, each of which have 333 physicals, Guard: 3, and Basic Weapon Use: 3. These are overall competent operatives who aren’t going to be utterly trivial to get past, and each is armed with a handgun loaded with 9mm bullets and a baton.
The 2nd basement floor has MARKOV on one side in the bar, and Reese on the other in the boiler room. A few guards are already on the map; neither has immediate line of sight on either player.
North of MARKOV is a storage closet, which opens into a bathroom. North of this is the backrooms of the club, with the currently full dance floor in the middle. North of the boiler rooms is the security guard room, and at the far northeast of the map is the office of the club’s owner, filled with various trophies.
Of note for Reese, there are a few dead rats (purple triangles) in the boiler room, and a piece of coral (purple circle) in the office. This chunk of coral is 8 kg, and when reanimated by ｢Magenta Mountain｣ forms as a sort of hemisphere 2m across and 1.5m high.
The 1st basement floor is mostly for club business, with speakers and various technical material spread around. Of note, the many, many guards on the south of the first level will, if the players choose not to fight through the closest stairways, slowly fill into the lowest level, chasing the players. In essence, there will be significantly less guards around the stairs to the ground floor if the players take the longer path.
Finally, the Ground Floor is an open warehouse space with no traditional obstacles- as everything in this room is currently floating airborne, with a gloating Sulka armed with a fire extinguisher acting as the final obstacle. Between Sulka’s mobility, their guards acting as easier targets, and the needs of the match, they may not be RETIRED, but attacks launched at them will temporarily distract them and force them to block or avoid them. Otherwise, Sulka will alternate between launching single massive crates and flurries of small objects at the players as they fight their way through the ground floor, up to the doors at the north.
Goal: Fight your way out of Club Naraka! In particular, leave the club in better shape than your opponent.
While combat is allowed and expected, for the most part guards won’t leave too far from their base location; they can be snuck past. The winner of the match is who gets out of the club in the overall best condition.
Combat between players with the intent or foreseeable result of RETIREMENT is not recommended, though other types of interference are.
Additional Information: MARKOV’s current user is Emile Gulati, who has 233 physicals and 3 Bartending; Bartending gives Emile a thorough understanding of the layout of the club as well as preternatural skill in being able to throw around glass bottles or other similarly hefty items.
As for other NPCs besides the guards, the clubgoers have 222 physicals, Ignoring Any Chaos Around Them 5, and Mostly Irrelevant To The Match 4. Essentially they can act as a sort of cover in the dance floor, but besides hiding among them, don’t worry about anyone besides guards too much.

Team	Combatant	JoJolity
Gallery of Wayward Reverie	Markov	“Come on, what are you doing anyway? Calm down—got up on the wrong side of the bed or something?” Use a variety of tools, items, and tactics during your escape!
I.M.P.A.C.T.	Reese McGuffin	“What I have to do is look for the bone using my strings…” Use a variety of tools, items, and tactics during your escape!

Link to Official Player Spreadsheet
Link to Match Schedule
As always, if you would like to interact with the tournament community and be among the first to get updates for the tournament, please feel free to PM a member of our Judge staff for an invite to our Official Discord Server!

I just had my gallbladder removed yesterday and wanted to share my overall experience with gallstones, as I've found it useful and comforting to read accounts from others.
Warning signs
I first experienced symptoms last fall. After eating a heavy meal, I had abdominal pain lasting four or five hours that I assumed was the result of something off in the ingredients. Then, about a month later, the same thing happened again with a different meal. About a month later, the same thing happened yet again. I don't get sick to my stomach very often, so I made an appointment with my PCP in January and explained my symptoms. My PCP quickly suggested that the pain might be the result of gallstones, and he explained that gallstones are common for people in their 30s.
Symptoms
My symptoms were pretty consistent. Every gallbladder attack happened in the evening, typically after midnight, and most attacks lasted between 4-6 hours, although they were occasionally milder and shorter. The pain level would start at around a 3 and then gradually work its way up to around a 7 before fading back down again. Pain was focused on my upper right abdomen, although it sometimes radiated throughout my abdomen or to my back. Pain medication didn't really help. At the worst moments of pain, I would often experience vomiting. At first, gallbladder attacks occurred only after heavy meals, but in the last few months, attacks seemed to be random, occurring after even light meals. While the attacks generally happened every 3-4 weeks, I would sometimes experience two or three attacks in the same week. Once, I had three nights of gallbladder attacks in a row. The worst attack, which lasted around 8 hours, occurred a few weeks ago.
Tests
My PCP ordered an ultrasound in February, which came back negative for gallstones. My PCP put me on omeprazole in the event that the abdominal pain was the result of an ulcer. In the meantime, my PCP ordered a CT scan for March. The CT scan came back positive for gallstones, and the physician who examined my ultrasound revised their diagnosis, having mistaken a gallstone shadow for a pocket of gas. My PCP explained that I had what appeared to be 1.5cm gallstone lodged in the bile duct, and he recommended surgery to remove the gallbladder. I quickly agreed. The surgery was scheduled for May.
Diet
After my first appointment to address the abdominal pain back in January, I made fairly sudden changes to my overall diet, because my PCP ordered blood work, which showed that I have high cholesterol. I really wasn't the healthiest eater prior to my gallstone diagnosis, which can't have helped. After getting diagnosed with high cholesterol in January, I quickly shifted to a high-fiber, low-saturated fat diet. I cut out alcohol and fatty foods almost entirely. To be honest, I didn't really notice a change to my gallbladder symptoms after changing my diet, although eating healthier meals probably didn't hurt. I did develop some anxiety around eating as a result of the gallstones, and in the last four months, I've lost around ten pounds. I tried to eat three or four small meals throughout the day rather than a couple larger meals. In the last few months, it wasn't uncommon for me to be eating less than 1200 calories per day, which probably wasn't healthy.
Prepping for Surgery
I had pre-op phone appointments with my surgeon's scheduler, a nurse, and my surgeon. They explained how the procedure would go and what the risks were, and they emphasized that I could choose to pursue or not pursue the surgery. They also sent me some materials in the mail, including instructions for the days leading up to the surgery and some special soap, which I used in the shower in the three days before my surgery. The day before the surgery, my surgeon's office sent me a message through my care provider's online portal with the check-in time.
The Surgery
The morning of the surgery, I showered as normal and wore loose-fitting, comfortable clothes. My wife brought me to the hospital, and we checked in at the surgery center. We weren't waiting long, maybe fifteen minutes, before I was called back to prep for surgery. A nurse showed me around, asked me some questions, took my blood pressure, and had me change into my hospital gown and hospital socks. A few other nurses came by to stick an IV in my hand and shave my stomach. After a while, my wife was allowed to come back and sit with me and the nurses. My surgeon came by briefly to say hello and talk through the procedure and ask if I had questions. We waited for maybe an hour before they were ready for surgery. A few nurses wheeled me to the operating room, where I got onto the operating table. Honestly, that's the last thing I can remember. I woke up a few hours later with my wife sitting next to me.
Post-Surgery
I had some abdominal pain after waking up from surgery, but the overwhelming feeling was fatigue. I can't remember ever feeling as tired as I did in the twenty minutes or so after waking up from the surgery. It was very uncomfortable and disorienting, but it passed. As many have reported on this subreddit, the abdominal pain after the surgery wasn't as bad as a gallbladder attack. Walking around after the surgery wasn't so difficult as I thought it would be. I live on the third floor of an apartment building without an elevator, and walking up the stairs wasn't terribly difficult. I'd read here and the nurses warned me that I would have shoulder pain after the surgery as a result of gas from the surgery pressing on my diaphragm. At first, I thought I might have lucked out because I didn't experience shoulder pain at all yesterday. But the pain hit last night and was much worse than the abdominal pain, even with semi-frequent walking to relieve the gas. I've taken pain medication as suggested by the physicians, alternating between oxycodone + Tylenol and Advil.
Today
Because of the shoulder pain, last night was rough, and I didn't get much sleep, but between taking pain medication and walking around, the shoulder pain has subsided, and I managed to get around four hours of sleep this morning sleeping on my back. My wife has been giving me ice packs periodically for my incisions, and I've been eating low-fat, high-fiber foods. Overall, I have much more mobility today, and getting up and sitting down is much less painful than it was yesterday. I still haven't had a bowel movement since the surgery, although the nurses warned me that this might happen because of the ocycodone and anesthesia. I took stool softeners yesterday and today, and I'm trying to drink lots of water. The nurses warned me that constipation could be painful after surgery, so I'm doing what I can to encourage a BM. Fingers crossed that my recovery keeps moving in the right direction! I'll add an update to this post after a week or so, but I hope the above helps other folks experiencing gallstones.

I’ve been on 50mg/week for seven years. It’s always made me acne prone and sweatier than usual. The last time my t levels were checked I was told my cholesterol was a little high (even though I’m pretty fit and healthy).
But I live a somewhat nomadic lifestyle and am not going to be in one state or country until the fall. I have a year t supply but I’m worried about my levels. Should I try lowering it myself or keep on the same dose.
I guess I’m freaking out cause I’m going to Mexico City for 3 months but recently my friend died in Mexico City a few months ago of a heart attack, and I think people with heart issues are at risk in Mexico City. I’m 23 and low risk of heart attack I think, but I have no idea what my cholesterol is right now. It could be through the roof it could be totally normal now. I leave in 3 weeks and there’s no way to see an endo before I leave cause the only appointments on insurance aren’t available for months. I mean, I don’t even know if I could just pay out of pocket for a blood test? Idk I’m just freaking out and need assurance.

First/Previous
Gemma was right about the sky’s open night, and I could sympathize with her recollection of the beauty, but for me it must’ve been a greater tragedy—the young woman had only ever enjoyed the stars in the pits of Golgotha; I could, long before, drink in the sky at leisure. Cruel memories.
The night the Rednecks died was one of viscera, but before that it was coolness on the breeze, a warmth by the fires while John played his guitar and we had only just taken two dozen kegs of lager (personal reserves) from the Atlanta despot—the man that kept his subjects as slaves and not a person among the camp was left without budding intoxication. No matter the age, everyone was invited to be merry; if it was that children too faced the plight of a bad world, then so too should they reap the moments of plenty—or so the camp figured.
John had taken a group by the fires where wagons were drawn in interlocking semicircles for cover and Jackson sat beside the picker. Jackson was a man which normally preferred quiet reflection over boisterous singing and nearly never wore the band on his throat, and yet there he was belting out the chorus at the top of his lungs, tankard in hand, red cloth blazed around his neck—it was a contagion and those drunk enough for easier embarrassment sang proudly along:
“There is power, there is power in a band of working folk!
When we stand hand in hand,
That’s a power, that’s the power,
That must rule in every land!”
I’d taken to the outlying shadows with my back pressed against the gas-powered caleche, my own tankard in hand. I loved the warmth of that great big family, truly, but even in those days—and maybe it was that queer youthfulness which longed for individualism that made me that way then—I remained as distanced as possible when I could. I sipped the lager, it was a fine drink and my brother Billy, nearly as old as I was when I’d first taken up in the infantry, swaggered to stand beside me just as quiet for minutes and we looked at the stars and he asked me what it was like to kill a man.
“Is it hard?” he asked.
I nodded, “Sometimes.”
“Killing monsters ain’t so bad. Don’t know if I could do it to a person.”
“You could if they meant to kill you; or if they meant to do it to someone you cared about,” I promised him. In those days, spry, energized, I held no time for staring into abysses; though I still wasn’t a man fully, I pretended as one. It was about family, and it was about doing what was right—what’s right seemed to change, or I changed. The world felt stark with good and evil and even later I’d feel that sentiment well up in me, but if that’s true, I know I stand more on the latter and so I intentionally obfuscated it—this I know. If not, it might be too much to bear. I was required to lie to myself and even in knowing I lied, it was better.
Billy tugged on the red kerchief around his throat and asked me how it looked on him.
“Looks good,” I said.
“Don’t think I look stupid at all?”
I smiled over my drink, “You always look stupid.” I sipped. “The neckwear’s fine.”
“Give me a break,” said Billy; he investigated his own cup, gave it a swish with his wrist, watching its contents swirl. “Aren’t you ever afraid you’ll die?”
“Sometimes—nights like this—I wouldn’t mind it.”
“Really?” my brother asked.
“There’s always a chance of it. Every moment, I guess.”
He smiled. “I wish I had that confidence.”
“You’ll get it,” I returned his smile; it was true that he would gain the fighting spirit. It came to us all with time and reminiscing on the early days, I recall the grit and the hatred—there was learning there too though. Besides, I’d seen the squalors of a stationary man. The stagnation of a place, an unmoving home.
John put his guitar away and laughter erupted from the crowd from something said and Sibylle, cowboy hat cocked funny, traipsed across the camp to the open keg for a refill; the man there, tending the cylinders, was a man named Tandy (a foreigner and one unknown besides the way he smoked a skunk pipe and told wild stories). My mother leaned over while Tandy opened the spigot mouth on the keg, and she froze there, and I could see her there cut out forever against the light of the fires; I watched, and it came so suddenly that I couldn’t be sure what’d happened at all. It was so sudden that I couldn’t find my weapon and I couldn’t find even the courage to fight because in those moments it wasn’t courage I needed, it was grounds to understand.
Sibylle came apart in two pieces immediately, torn completely through and dust erupted as her legs struck the ground while her torso spun through the air like a top, a trail of liquid trailed after, caught in the blue of night so it shone as black; she couldn’t scream. Tandy was a statue. Before anyone could react, more flesh, other bodies, went up and there was all manner of limbs which filled the ground, and it is astounding how quickly a red mist forms across the ground during a massacre. Perhaps the wails of my comrades started before, perhaps others fell before Sibylle, but I could not comprehend the goings-on till I saw her drop the way she did.
Frail human screams rose on the night; I slammed to the ground, tankard gone away and hands scrambling in the dirt; I reached up blindly and yanked Billy to my level and his expression was one of innocence, panic, tears even. Glancing around, I saw the demons bolt from the pitch-black darkness on the edges of camp, mutants taking the fore while greater creatures lurked further back, some hurled whips of gliding metal which writhed over their heads when they stretched them out for a strike—alien—and they sliced directly through soft human bodies. Not even a cry escaped me, but Billy let go with it and I slapped my cupped hand over his mouth hard to hold the screams. His voice would not have been alone anyway, not alongside that startling cacophony. Amidst the cries of people, there were the cries of horses, of our hounds.
We rolled across the ground, slipped beneath the raised body of the gas-powered caleche, remained quiet in the dark, peeked out between the wheels.
“What’s happening?” Billy whispered through my fingers; I removed my hand from him and caught a glimpse of him framed in a square of firelight through the wheels—we lay there on our bellies and the left side of his face was glazed with dirt where I’d pulled him down.
“Shh,” I told him, “Shh, please. Please.” Not another word came while I pleaded with him, pleaded with the world to make this all a nightmare.
Through the haze and the running silhouettes painted black, I saw what might have been Jackson; he stumbled and in the moment that it took me to gasp, his head was gone from his body, his torso slid on as he collapsed, came to rest mere feet from the motor wagon. I told myself that it wasn’t him, but it probably was.
Some mutants lumbered through the camp like animated corpses, some leapt with wild energy or sprayed noxious fumes which lingered in the air; others still were amalgams of humanlike limbs themselves—fiends—exhausting terrible sounds, producing smells of sulfur, glistening with whatever liquids excreted from their oblong alien orifices. Demons ran amok, chanted in devil tongued languages, laughed madly at the destruction—others still, those which displayed some greater intelligence, broke into a song I could never hope or want to replicate; it seemed a unified damnation.
“Please,” I repeated in a whimper and Billy hushed me this time and I realized we were holding hands, squeezing for dear life as figures walked the camp, speared those half-alive, elected others for twisted carnality.
In darkness, in fright plainly, we scuttled from the recess of our hiding place, kept quiet, held to each other, and went into the wasteland where nothing was—every shadow was a potential threat, every second could’ve been the last. We were holding hands; then we weren’t.
Only a glance—that’s all I afforded my brother and nothing more—what a joke of a person I am! What a coward I was. Always.
Something got him in the dark and instead of dying alongside those I cared about, I went on, heartbeat driving me till it was all that I heard in my ears and my muscles ached and my chest heaved and sweat covered me, chilled me in the breeze of the night—it was only once I’d accepted the dark completely, crawled into a hollowed space of rocks along a squat ridge that I watched the demolished camp; it seemed no larger than a spark, but the creatures, fiends and others continued their war cries; never before had I witnessed demons participate in such an attack.
I watched till the sun came, till the fires became smoke, then I watched the band of hell creatures disband. The smell of sulfur remained in the air—copper too—and I stumbled back to the camp in a dreamlike daze, totally unbelieving of the things I saw. Among those dead on the ground, I could recognize none; among those piked from rear to shoulder, standing like morbid scarecrows where they’d been steadied against the ground, I could not want to recognize.
Many of the wagons were overturned, including the gas-powered caleche and I went to it; the metal of its body was warped but I fell to the ground by it and pushed my back against the exposed undercarriage, remained frozen there while examining the bodies, the terrible strips of skin which rested places like wet sheets of paper, the piles of bones removed and smashed and piled.
I cried so deeply that oxygen became a memory, and the shakes couldn’t be contained.
It was like that for so long, knees pulled up, face pushed between, and the wails came unafraid of whatever attention they might garner; there was no rationale, but I imagine if there had been, I would’ve welcomed death in that misery. It was a deep wound that not even my own cowardice would overcome for the sake of survival.
Unaware of my surroundings, not wanting to look up from the ground between my legs, the noise which had started out as imaginary became real and I raised my head then to listen better and wipe my sore eyes; it was the sound of clip-clop horse hooves and I mildly wondered if any of the animals had been spared. I stood and pivoted around the dead camp and there it was, a man on a painted horse with golden hair; he leisurely drove the mount through the place, maneuvering around pools of blood, clumps of body parts and upon seeing me, he smiled and offered a languid wave, keeping one of his gloved hands on the reins.
The man wore white and swished his hair back upon arriving directly in front of me. Ahoy, he offered kindly, Did you happen to see the other riders?
I shook my head, feeling numb.
Ah, he said, I could have sworn four other riders, at least, passed me on my way. His gray eyes examined the carnage. Shame. He shook his head. You are?
“H-harlan.”
He nodded and nearly offered an expression of genuine condolence before descending from the horse; the animal gave a gentle grunt and wandered away from its master to inspect a nearby group of the dead. The man offered his hand, and I took it in a shake. Mephisto, said the man. He flashed a smile again before his face grew serious. I’ve come to you to deal.
I shot him a questioning look, one of bafflement.
I heard your calls from far off. He nodded, removed a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and swiped it down his face. Hot out. He shrugged then replaced the cloth in his pocket. This, he motioned to the disarray of vehicles, of bodies, I can’t fix all this—it’s too much—but there’s a person you love, I know. I could bring them back.
“Doctor?” In retrospect it was such a naïve question.
He shook his head.
“Angel?”
He grinned and nodded, Sure.
“Demon?”
Undoubtedly. His eyes—pits of gray in that radiant face—nearly expressed solemness; he daintily shook the hair from his face and looked at his steed which sniffed a corpse. What’s the word, Harlan? There are others calling and I must be on my way soon—I can’t dally. There was a sharpness to the words. Can’t dally. We must convene soon, or I’ll mosey on.
I snorted back the clog in my nose from the tears and wiped my eyes with my sleeves. “Okay.”
Deal?
I nodded, “Deal.”
Sleep tonight, said Mephisto, Sleep and you’ll be rewarded in the morning.
“You said it’s a deal.”
He nodded and scanned the carnage before we matched gazes and then he said, Yes?
“What is it you want from me?”
Nothing you need now. He called the horse, and it came, and he swept his feet quickly from the ground and settled into position atop the animal. Sleep, Harlan. You won’t be bothered. There are worse things still over the horizon.
I watched him go till he disappeared and once he was gone, I couldn’t cry anymore and instead rummaged through the wagons for what I might carry; along the way I found John, face twisted but corpse intact. The body from the previous night that I’d guessed was Jackson couldn’t be determined but I found him nowhere else. I slid Sibylle’s holster from her hips, fell hard onto the ground and found that I could sob more. I took her cowboy hat, placed it on my head and held her pistol in one hand and the belt holster dangled from the other while I searched the other bodies; there were so many, but I could not find Billy.
Waiting for darkness, I took the spot where I rested, back against the caleche’s undercarriage, watched the sky and felt the gun in my hand; it was heavy. I put it to my head, closed my eyes, and whispered affirmations to myself then I put the pistol between my splayed legs, watched it still in the dirt, and pulled the hat down over my eyes but it did little for the smell. Though the brim of the hat cut the sky out, I watched the ground and saw circling shadows form overhead and heard calls of turkey vultures; they came to pick over the bodies. I withdrew my knees to my chest there again and laid my forearm across them and bit into my arm while closing my eyes. I had thought I was a man and for a time, maybe I was, but there in that miserable pit of despair I became a child again and if I’d become more delirious, I’m sure I might’ve called out for Jackson like it was a bad dream.
Into a fading stupor of sleep in the sun I went and when I awoke again it was dark and chilly and I was tired and hungry but too sick to eat and hardly strong enough to move; I looked at the gun and put it into its holster and left it there by the caleche. In the light of the moon and stars, I moved to gather a bolt of canvas; I unfurled the fabric and created a leaning shelter against the overturned vehicle and crawled into it. There was a hole in the canvas, and I peeked out at the stars.
Weeping came again, but not so uproarious; I was stuck there letting go of whimpers, lying on my back, feeling the tears trace in lines from the outer corners of my eyes to collect along my earlobes. In time, I fell to sleep again on the hard ground because the mourning had taken all else from me.
A pinpoint of sunlight broke my eyelids and I jerked awake and reached for the holster, but it was gone. So was the hat. I crawled from the leaning shelter and there he was.
Billy stood plainly among the dried, congealed blood-soaked field and he looked on to the horizon and all shadows were long in the midday sun which hung up there in a soft blue sky. Whether it be a dream or a spell, I couldn’t care—I charged to him and spun him so he faced me and though his face was plain and expressionless, I wrapped him into a forceful hug. He placed his hands on my back and gave a gentle squeeze; when I pulled from him, my hands on his shoulders, I saw he held Sibylle’s hat in his left hand, pinched by the brim; he’d already tugged her holster belt around his hips—he could have it all. I shook while holding him then let go to wipe my face.
“You’re alive,” I nodded.
He nodded without speaking then looked at the hat in his hand and placed it on his head and firmly pressed it down.
“Billy! Hell, you’re alive!”
The corners of his mouth twitched upward for a moment then he nodded again. “Yeah.” His eyes curiously searched our surroundings like he meant to take each detail in forever.
I slapped him on the shoulder and almost squealed. “Goddammit.” I wiped my eyes again and could do little to keep the excitement from exploding from me. “Oh, we should go. We should go on and get somewhere safe.”
He nodded toward the horizon, “’Lanta?”
“Sure.”
We packed and it was a like an ethereal phantom remained among us beside the quiet dead; turkey vultures cawed to break the silence, pecked where they pleased on the bodies, and I couldn’t want to fight them. I kept sidelong eyes on Billy with the ever-present worry that he’d vanish. Perhaps he was the phantom.
From the rear of the caleche, I removed a few sentimental books Jackson liked, essential cookware, and sparse rations for the trek. The last thing I grabbed was my shotgun and a bit of ammo.
As we set from the dead place, the terrible silhouettes that were cut from there on the horizon behind us grew in my mind with every backward glance—I wanted to fall to pieces, but I saw Billy walk alongside me and although contented is not the right word, it is the nearest. The steps of our boots were all that was heard because I could not fathom to pierce the space between us with words for fear that it would all end. It was a dream, surely. I’d lost my mind. With my hands thumbed into the straps of my pack, I saw I my hands still shook, and they would shake a lot longer—years and with memories too. The crunch of earth underfoot became a rhythm and instead of looking at my brother, I watched his shadow on the ground.
“Everyone’s dead?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” I repeated.
“How ain’t I? How ain’t you?”
To say that it was luck would’ve been too morbid. Instead of saying anything, I shrugged, kicked a loose stone, watched my feet some more, and felt a queasiness come over me. For the moment, the immeasurable deaths of those I’d left behind were forgotten in the company of my brother and a sickness welled up inside of me so suddenly that I felt that I’d fall to pieces at the slightest provocation. Finally, I did speak again, but only after steeling myself to the troubles, “Yeah, how are you alive?”
Billy shrugged at me then stumbled up a hill which overlooked trash wood wilderness where sticks lay twisted and bare and further on the sight of Atlanta was visible and I cupped a hand across my brow and Billy did the same and we looked on at the shadows of the place out there where strings of smoke rose from the skyline as a signature for the desolation of the city; it was dead. I felt it in my bones.
My hands were light while my head was heavy, my throat was dry, and the entire world seized in moments of stillness or perhaps it was my own vision which construed the world in that way; I took to the small hill which Billy had climbed and sat there and stared at the place between my feet to steady myself.
“Fire,” said Billy.
I nodded and nearly choked.
Leviathan—till then I had no belief in dragons—glided over the broken city, its winged shadow little seen but its voice was deep across the scene, letting go of roars which shook the ground. We hid among the trash wood and moved down the hill and watched the creature thrash in the air as if it was angry for its abominable life. Whatever millennia it spent in the pits of hell seemingly thrust upon it a love of destruction and pain.
My brother moved with a more assured stride and kept a cool distance and upon fleeing from the wreckage, from the outlying area of Atlanta and the place we’d left our family, he spoke little and watched me strangely whenever I took to melancholic fatiguing. We lit no fires for fear of what it could draw from the night so in the dark I’d see him watching some far-off place, maybe seeing through the reality which surrounded us, and he’d snap from it, catch my eye, and disappear for minutes to scan the perimeter of whatever place we stayed. Being alongside my resurrected brother was lonelier than I could bear, and I hoped he’d disappear for good or that I could work up the courage to end my own life. It was like purgatory explained in books and for a time, it felt endless; upon witnessing the destruction of Atlanta, we pushed to Marrietta, and it was much the same. As was Chatanooga, Nashville, Knoxville, Louisville, Charlotte. The ocean had risen so that Fayetville was gone underwater, and the Florida leg disappeared completely as far as I’m aware. I understood later that Memphis was overlooked and more places further west were alive too, but when we’d exhausted the south, we moved north and found strongholds of families or traders or even small groupings of civilization, but by and large we found nothing much in the two years that we hoofed it from place to place; it was my doing mostly—I wanted to find a place untouched by the mayhem in the area my family had once patrolled.
In retrospect, I am certain that Billy only stayed by my side for convenience; there wasn’t any of my brother left in the man that was my travelling companion for that time. He was a ghost of a person and Mephisto had preyed upon my desire in the worst moment of weakness in my life. There were nights—maybe we’d taken up in a natural alcove for shelter or we’d locked ourselves in some ancient structure for sleep—I’d watch Billy lay where he was, Sibylle’s hat and holster lying beside him, and I’d think of putting him down but he’d stir and in a brief shadow I’d see my brother as he’d been and withdraw to bury my face in fake sleep to be met with images of the night the demons attacked where I’d shake, sweat, and bite my lips so hard I’d drink blood.
Two years we marched around the Appalachians and in that time, I felt myself wither and disconnect.
Upon moving further north we met Indianapolis—that’s what it was called back then—and it was run by an older woman called Lady Lazarus; I reckon her father, affluent and dead, was a fan of Plath. Indianapolis was fortified more than most with its high walls, and its wall men, and its underground facilities which produced substantial ammunition. We—me and Billy’s revenant—were travelling with a group of traders we’d taken up with from out west; they called themselves wizards and although they seemed of the occult, their spirits discounted whatever suspicions I might’ve had of them.
I remember first pushing through that big gate; the town kept with it an indisputable malaise and though we were greeted at the gate by the leader Lady Lazarus—her brothers came along with her—and her jovial demeanor carried a certain infectious quality, I could not help but notice that the regular denizens maintained a healthy distance from their leader (the guards which followed the Lady everywhere probably had something to do with this).
Lady Lazarus touched each of our hands in greeting with enthusiasm and I could not help but notice how soft they were, how vibrant her eyes were, how much she smiled, and how beautiful she was given her age; already her head was fully gray.
Upon meeting each of us, going through the wizard traders first, she came to me, and Billy and she shook my hand then pivoted to Billy.
“Welcome. You can call me Lady.”
Billy caught her hand in his, held it longer than she’d intended so that they held eye contact, and he smiled broadly, tipped the cowboy hat on his head back to expose his smooth forehead and said, “And you can call me Maron, mam. You are quite a sight for a tired man.”
Though Maron—as he’d named himself—was more boy than man, Lady took a disturbed liking to him immediately and we prolonged our stay in Indianapolis after the wizards departed to head west.
Under the rule of Lady, Indianapolis was a theocracy, with her addressing the huddled masses at the steps of her grand abode, she’d preach for hours on sin and strife and quote her favorite passages; though reminiscent of my time with the Rednecks, I never found any truth or sincerity or freedom in her teaching—hers was more trouble, brimstone, fire and I’d had enough of that for a lifetime. Public execution was common. As was torture.
Maron distanced himself further from me, but I remained to keep an eye on him—it was not sentimentality but rather I existed without purpose and conjured some from watching my brother.
Often, Lady invited Maron to her private rooms and though the rumors and speculation ran the full spectrum of perverse speculation, every denizen feigned ignorance at her pregnancy.
Upon giving birth, the infant was malformed with two heads—her brothers took this as an omen and killed the child, put their leader in the stocks for months, and stripped her of dignity while the denizens did to her what they pleased.
Maron rose through the wall men while Lady’s brothers assumed control of Indianapolis and called themselves Bosses; in the time since Lady’s reign, the place was renamed to Golgotha for its closeness to a messiah.
I went west but always found myself drawn back to Golgotha because of some emptiness in me. It was only with Suzanne that I wanted something more and knowing them, I almost believed in a world like the one that children dream about. The world that Gemma and Andrew chased after when they left home, like the one Aggie talked about in her mother’s books. There’s a hopelessness in me that I’ll never be rid of. In the interim between our initial arrival to Golgotha and that flight from that terrible city, I cannot know how many people I sacrificed in convening with demons because I refuse to know because the number would destroy me. That is the worst of it; I do not even have courage enough to face myself or the actions of my past in any substantive way.
Mephisto tainted me so that I could speak with his kind as a dealmaker and the disease grew.
Billy or Maron or whatever he is should have been reaped long ago or better, I should never have brought that abomination alive. Such a cruel world where a deep longing like that can be inverted, weaponized. Me and him should both die; me and him should have died a long time ago.
First/Previous
Archive

I was the one that found Jake dead, Tucked in the dark corner of the parking garage in his idling pest control truck that vibrated minutely.
The parking garage always had a humming from stainless metal fans to circulate the humid and hot Virgina air. Walking closer to the truck I saw his chemical box in the bed of the truck was open with the top flap sticking straight up.I thought nothing weird about the open box because it's not just us in the pest control company that live there and from time to time we steal from other trucks. For the summer the company buys out dozens of rooms for the employees to stay. Most employees are door to door salesmen who make a living selling pest control as a same day service. Where Jake and I, with a few others, come into play is after the sale. The ones who actually spray your house, the ones who interact with the customers and bring them down to reality after the salesmen fluff our feathers, or are they fluffing their own? We are the ones who click the rap trap mouths in place, with black jagged teeth…waiting, with the delicious neon blue food for the rats to nibble on and share with their newborns. We had 7 other trucks in the parking garage and from time to time chem went missing. Sometimes us technicians didn't want to wake up early and drive 30 minutes to the office to pick up materials, truckers were closer, much closer. I'd be lying to you if I didn't steal a de-weber every now and then off a truck, but I always made no trace of the thievery. I can't speak for everyone though. So when that lid was pointing up to the rusty pipes and concrete ceiling above, I wasn't surprised, hell I might have had a smirk on my face.
With the swing of my arm I slapped the box closed, a whiff of chemicals spewed out and hit my nose which gave me a feeling of a stinging sneeze that never comes. I gave the window a knock to see if he would turn around.. Silence. I got closer to see if he was glued to his phone and didn't hear me or didn’t bother looking. I put my hands up on the window and smushed my eyebrows against my index fingers to get a better look. I saw the seat was fully reclined back, him laying there…still as a morning lake. I knocked on the smaller back half door. Tap tap TAP. No movement. It was too dark to see so I dug my hand in my pocket to get my phone light out and put it flush to the back oval airplane shaped window. That's when I saw this face—— god his face—— skin a purplish hue and pulled taught by swelling, eyes adrift and red which were bulging out like they wanted to leave, jaw open with dark fluid sitting in his mouth, escaping on the sides. The streaks of dark liquid rolled down his purple face, curving down the back of his neck, and dribbling down the strands of hair meeting the head rest. My eyelids opened so wide they touched my eyebrows. His fingers curled limply around a chemical bottle, cap off and the liquid color matching that of the pool in his mouth…
“Jake” I whispered, my voice feels like it was stolen from me, my skin is tingling like an unknown channel on tv as heat takes over… I begin to fall, the last thing I notice are my fingers streaking down the window. I passed out.
4 months pass
I'm moving out of the building where it happened. I’ve wanted to get out of this building since it happened, but didn’t have the financial backing. Now I plan to stay in Virginia for the winter and move in with roommates from the pest control company. The salesmen call this time their “off season” due to them all leaving and going back home, most to Vegas. My other two roommates run the regular technician routes which consist of stopping at 14-15 designated houses a day, spraying chemicals and setting traps to take care of the contracts those grimey salesmen sell.
I used to share a room with jake. All of his things were taken out either by investigators or the maid service. The other roommates in the building told me to combine the abandoned twin bed with mine but I never touched it, I couldn't.
I’m making this entry due to finding something. Something I believe was very close to Jake.The last day of moving I had everything packed but my mattress and box spring. While moving my mattress lazily with the sheet still on I lost grip and it hit his mattress sliding it off the box spring and hitting the wall. I let go of my mattress automatically and wanted to fix his bed…. Preserve it. I wrapped my hands around his mattress when a wave of dizziness veiled over me. My hands became clammy and I didn't want to touch his mattress anymore, like a kid that doesn't want to touch an old person. I had to put it back! If I didn't it would haunt me forever my mind yelled at me. Just as I forced myself to slide the mattress back, my middle knuckle dropped into a slight groove, and I stopped in place. I pushed the mattress to the right and traced where my knuckle had been and found a slit in the box spring.I hesitated, staring at the unnatural slash in the cloth, Thinking about when Jake and I would make fun of our manager who always had a bone to pick with jake ever since the first day they met, the new manager 2 years younger than us yelling at jake to tuck his shirt in while his own untucked, covered his belt and belly. A smile slowly disappeared from my face as I was brought back with my whole forearm now in the slit of the box spring. My fingers clutched an object that had to be a book. I pulled My arm out of the box spring like pulling a calf out of its mother, now half expecting to see red viscous liquid and tiny wet legs, my eyes shut slowly like elevator doors closing.
But My hand appeared dry and my fingers clenched around a book of sorts. The outside of the book was void of color, almost like it absorbed it instead. I sat down on my thrown mattress and the empty apartment surrounded me. I flipped to the first page as the spine creaked at me, I saw Jake's name and it clicked in me that this wasn't a book. It was Jake's notebook! I flipped page after page reading Jacob’s writings about days of killing bugs and missing home till I got to the page. Sometimes I wish I wasn't lazy, I could have taken the sheet off the bed, this would have never happened, I would have never found the notebook. The apartment seemed to be silently closing in on me now like I was in the digestive tract of some huge monster. God the page—— in big dark letters he had written “THE LADY IN THE BASEMENT IS THE REASON WHY I AM GONE.” I was stuck reading the words again and again thinking I was seeing things. My heart was pumping so vigorously I could hear it agitate the fabric of my shirt little by little each beat. There was a dark arrow so dark that seemed to suck in light and pointed toward the right of the page wanting someone to flip it or something to flip it, so I did. For the next pages he wrote why…. And I clinging to every word …began to read.
2 months pass
The warm thick air has passed now, leaving a cold grey in the air. Virginia feels less claustrophobic with the heat gone. Winter is stinging its way into the picture more and more, breath starting to become visible almost every day.
My new apartment looks over the town of Arlington which is a nice view from the 13th floor. Whenever people ask where I live I tell them, “it’s 5 minutes from the pentagon,” I’ve said it so much it numbs me.
There are 3 guys in total that live in this apartment so the decor is minimal at best. Our tv stand is an upside down plastic bin, with our coffee table another bin, at least its a set. The floor is thick and worn carpet, light tan in color. The walls have the same yellowish void look. My favorite part of the apartment is the balcony that spans the whole side of the living room to which I can see a sliver of the Potomac river, an icy cold thing this time of year.
I've marinated in Jake's notebook for a while, I think I’m ready to share some of what is inside. Jake goes into extreme detail about these situations so I’ll just copy them down for you all to read, I think that is what’s best. After reading this I wasn’t the same, you are warned.
Thursday July 18th 2020 (7 months ago)

 -Jake’s notebook- 

Today I am changed. It was right after lunch when my work phone notified me a house was booked. Usually I disliked the salesmen but the one that booked me was just alright, tolerable. I pulled into the neighborhood as the sun dimmed from clouds rolling in, storm maybe. Multiple groups of six townhomes were placed throughout the neighborhood with tall trees and bush linking them. The small homes shared walls only separated by a slight offset in depth, looking like crooked teeth. Porches stuck out a measly foot from the homes which were more for decoration than enjoyment. The porches all had different faded color variations that staggered from each house, blue, red, orange, green, and back to blue. The peeling wood porches had the style of a western movie set which I thought interesting, but I knew the webs were going to be a bitch to get out. I rolled up to the address the app told me as the salesmen popped out of some trees to greet me, probably pissing. Wind whipped his hair, yes a storm. I rolled down the window and stopped the truck, wheels stopping the popping of gravel underneath. He gave me the rundown of the house while leaning on the windowsill of my truck, where the smell of sweat leaked in from him. He mentioned the old woman that lived in the townhome and said she was an oddball but kind. I thought nothing of it, just another job before getting off. As I parked the car, I asked the salesmen, “interior?” He replied, “yes.”
My shoe covers zipped on the asphalt as I walked toward the door, pump tank in my hand. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. The old woman opened the splintered door as I introduced myself and got all the signatures I needed to apply the pesticides, legal reasons. The first thing I noticed about the woman was her eyes, they looked worn, tired as if she stayed up all night… or something was keeping her up. I smiled as I slipped the signed papers in the back pocket of my jeans, she reciprocated the smile and pushed the door open wide as creaks escaped the henges. Right before I stepped in I saw the salesmen grab a deweber from my truck, he is an alright one this salesmen. I looked back and the old woman kept her eyes on my face, I smiled again to break the slight awkwardness. The smell of wet concrete hit my nose when I stepped in the home, it started to sprinkle behind me, it cut off as she closed the door behind me.
The old woman’s home was tight like lungs that never sucked air back in. The layout was like a strip of gum, the start was the door I walked through and The end was the living room which had a step down. She offered me water which I politely declined, I could see the kindness the salesmen were talking about. The home was filled with random knick knacks but not messy, organized chaos. I asked her the routine questions about bugs like where she was seeing them to which she replied almost everywhere, thank god this was a small home. I started to spray in the kitchen which was directly left of the door I walked through. Spray shot Around the sides of the refrigerator and the baseboards and the woman followed me almost attached to the hip or like an obedient dog. I didn't think it weird, she kept conversation and genuinely looked fascinated about where I sprayed while listening to my little tips I replayed from the back of my mind on how to keep bugs away. We rounded the kitchen and stepped down into the living room where carpet met my boot covers with peppered static zaps. I sprayed the sliding back door focusing on the bottom track where bug highways usually gravitated. Then I traced the baseboards around the living room, avoiding wires powering lamps and televisions.
I heard quick stomps coming down the stairs to which I gave a glance of curiosity toward the bottom of the staircase and temporarily lifted my hand off the spray trigger. A child rounded the corner and ran to the old woman yelling, “grandma!” Must have woken up from a nap or something. The child then looked up at me and asked who I was and she explained in young terms, “he is here to make the bugs go away.” I smiled at that to reaffirm the old woman's version of me she gave, I was a version who told the bugs to go away, not kill them by the thousands. I liked that version of myself.
I had finished treating the main floor and now followed the old woman and child up the stairs, her veiny hands scratching her grandson's head. I went through every room, closet, bathroom, and windowsill spraying with the old woman still following me everywhere I went, pointing out the hotspots, her close presence becoming normal, almost warming as she reminded me of my grandmother. The child seemed just as interested as his grandmother about how I spray and I thought it wholesome.
After this point things took a dark sinister turn.
My job was now finished I thought. We were all on the main floor now and I began to reach for the front door and tell her we would finish the outside service now when she for the first time broke her distance from me. This made me feel, for lack of better words, alone. She steadily glided toward the living room not looking back and she stepped down the dip heading for the couch. Did she forget I was still in the house? Did she imagine opening the door and letting me out? The kid then followed her and jumped off the small dip in childlike fashion into the living room and landed on the carpet, gracing his tumble. The old woman never sat down, and her back was facing me as she stood there…. Her Body was still. Why didn't she sit down? She broke the silence right as my fingers touched the front door knob, her voice was colder now, “won't you come here for a second?” The knob rang numbly for a split second as my hands slid off. I then took a step toward the living room patiently, waiting for.. what? The rain now beat on the old woman's back windowed door, with the flash of illumination, lightning struck close, then thought of the salesmen with the metal deweber pole, that combination like brushing teeth and orange juice. The thought was erased as the tip of my boots hung off the step to the living room. I looked at the woman's face and dropped down in the living room, her wiry hair now covering some of her face with a blank stare. The kid now hugging her legs hiding his whole body except the right side of his face, the eyeball piercing me. Her hair was delayed as she snapped her head at me, then the hair caught up and fell. Her face then shook like when a student tries to stay awake in class, she then looked around, lost and took a deep breath. She said, “sorry sometimes I get these headaches, they just take over me,” as she laughed it off dryly. I told her “it's fine, I get them too,” I get them too? Are you stupid jake? She then raised her old saggy arm pointing to a door. I knew what this door led to. Being in hundreds of townhomes with the same layout, they led to the basement. Pairing with my thought she forced out, “Dear please spray the basement too, will you?
Before I could answer the kid somewhat loudly asked, “wait grandma… he is going into the basement? Grandma! Why the basement?” My neck chilled to goosebumps. I stepped back up onto the wood and stopped at the tooth white door expecting the old lady to open it for me, she had done this the whole way through the house, opening cabinets, windows, doors, flipping on light switches for me but here I am with the old woman standing firm in the same spot and the kid saying the same question, starting to cry. I looked back at the door as she said, “yes that door, the light switch is on the left, close the door when going down… we don't go down in the basement.” My heart started to pump faster and my fingers and forearm twisted the knob, opening the door, my mind replaying, “we don't go down in the basement, we dont go down in the basement,” What the fuck does that mean! I took one last look at her and saw only a part of the woman, due to the kitchen wall, she sat down now and grabbed something off her neck and started sifting it through her hands. She then did something my ears will never forget, she started to pray in spanish… and I took my first step down.
I shut the door behind me as then I switched the light on. It was very dim, only giving me the bare minimum brightness to reach the bottom. The walls were different as I descended, the light didn't bounce off them, instead the walls seem to let the light in. The old woman's prayers and childs crying muffled the creaks the wooden staircase gave off. The prayers were getting louder. I dreadfully got on the floor of the basement now. To the left, a wall, to the right, a long hallway leading to complete and utter darkness. My body felt a shiver like flying to a cold part of the world and the airport doors exposing you to the weather for the first time. My head naturally looked down at my feet for some reason. There was a door to the right of me now which I saw coming down the stairs. I shifted toward it with my boot covers scraping the carpet tips, uneasily, I opened it. The boiler room was dark as the swing of the door brought a string to my vision. The light for this room of course is a fucking string light. I pulled on it hard and light struggled to do its job. The light reminded me of when my 7th grade science teacher, mr. Crutcher, told us what would happen if a light bulb traveled the speed of light in space, “you will see the light, yes! But it will reflect no light! Precisely! what is a light but more than a mere tool that reflects light off of other things!” The memory should have put a smile on my face. I then sprayed around the water heater and cotton candy pink insulation sticking out from the room’s walls. My heart pounding and a veil of sickness came over me. The cold got stronger. This place… was pure sickness itself. Holding my hand up I wrapped around the string but paused, something deep inside of me telling me not to shut the light off, I almost felt as if someone with a remote was controlling my movements, I was separated from myself. I let the string slither out of my hand as I walked out of the room. My head fell back down at my boots, as if something didn't want me to look up. What would I see if I looked up? The exposed insulation made the old woman's prayers fuzzed, but now I was back in the hallway and I could hear the extent of it. She was screaming now. I imagined her old neck veins popping like blue miniature rivers flowing up to her wrinkly face.
I faced the hallway now, the walls darkening the further they got from the top stairway light. My brain was yelling at me to hurry and go as fast as I could but my body did not listen, we were disconnected. I took my first step still looking at my feet seeing the dark entrance from the hallway get closer, another step I go, I get closer, step, closer, step. I now know the sick thing in this home is in the dark void I approach with every step… waiting. I finally reach the end of the hallway and my body stops. The old woman's screams reach a pinnacle. The kid crying and yelling accompanies it. I am all alone. Even my brain is alone. I can do nothing. The darkness is all around me. I twitch my head to the right, it reminds me of the old womans movements, and reach my hand out to feel for a light switch, nothing. When I do this I can see in the dark room slightly with my hat hiding me from most, not all. My head comes back down to the center. I feel like throwing up now, my sickness is terrible. My head is spinning and so is my stomach. All of my extremities are ice now. I twitch my head to the left, my hand grazing the sandpaper wall and I feel A switch! My heart relaxes from the touch. Finally I'm not alone! the light switch accompanies me! Click…my finger flips the switch. My stomach drops. Click.CLICK.CLICK. NOTHING. My breathing is like a car engine that just turned over. The only thing that was with me for even a second is gone. No light. I won't move. I can't move. My hat doesn't cover it all. The ceiling now shakes from the old woman screaming as my eyes… my god damn EYES…. glance into the darkness and see the lady in the basement…. everything goes black.

Hi. My name is Graves, and I'm an invisible autoimmune chronic disease that attacks your thyroid gland. I am now velcroed to you for life. Others around you can't see me or hear me, but YOUR body feels me. I can attack you anywhere and anyhow I please. I can cause severe pain or, if I'm in a good mood, I can just cause you to ache all over. Remember when you and energy ran around together and had fun? I took energy from you, and gave you exhaustion. Try to have fun now! I can take good sleep from you and in its place, give you brain fog and lack of concentration. I can make you want to sleep 24/7, and I can also cause insomnia. I can make you tremble internally or make you feel cold or hot when everyone else feels normal. I can also give you swollen hands and feet, swollen face and eyelids, swollen everything! Oh, yeah, I can make you feel very anxious or very depressed, too. I can also cause other mental health problems. I can make your hair fall out, become dry and brittle, cause acne, cause dry skin, the sky is the limit with me! I can make you gain weight and no matter what you eat or how much you exercise, I can keep that weight on you. I can also make you loose weight. I don't discriminate. Some of my other autoimmune disease friends often join me, giving you even more to deal with. If you have something planned or are looking forward to a great day, I can take that away from you. You didn't ask for me. I chose you for various reasons: That virus or viruses you had that you never really recovered from, or that car accident, or maybe it was the years of abuse and trauma (I thrive on stress.) Maybe you have a family history of me. Whatever the cause, I'm here to stay. I hear you're going to see a doctor to try and get rid of me. That makes me laugh! Just try. You will have to go to many, many doctors until you find one who can help you effectively. You will be put on the wrong thyroid meds for you, pain pills, sleeping pills, energy pills, told you are suffering from anxiety or depression, given anti-anxiety pills and antidepressants. There are so many other ways I can make you sick and miserable, the list is endless - that high cholesterol, gall bladder issue, blood pressure issue, blood sugar issue, heart issue among others? That's probably me. Can't get pregnant, or have had a miscarriage? That's probably me too. Teeth and gum problems? TMJ? I told you the list was endless. You may be given a TENs unit, get massaged, told if you just sleep and exercise properly I will go away. You'll be told to think positively, you'll be poked, prodded, and MOST OF ALL, not taken seriously when you try to explain to the doctor how debilitating I am and how sick you really feel. In all probability you will get a referral from the 'understanding' (clueless) doctor, to see a psychiatrist. Your family, friends and co-workers will all listen to you until they just get tired of hearing about how I make you feel, and just how debilitating I can be. Some of them will say things like "Oh, you are just having a bad day" or "Well, remember, you can't do the things you use to do 20 YEARS ago", not hearing that you said 20 DAYS ago. Some will start talking behind your back, they'll call you a hypochondriac, while you slowly feel that you are losing your dignity trying to make them understand, especially when you are in the middle of a conversation with a "normal" person, and can't remember what you were going to say next. You'll be told things like, "Oh, my grandmother had that, and she's fine on her thyroid pill" when you desperately want to explain that I don't impose myself upon everyone in the exact same way, and just because that grandmother is fine on the medication SHE'S taking, doesn't mean it will work for you. I've been trying to keep this next part quiet, but since you're reading this you already know. The only place you will get the kind of support and understanding in dealing with me, is with other people that have me. They are really the only ones who can truly understand.
I am Graves Disease.

PoF is also hosted on Ao3! do with this information what you will.
u/SpacePaladin15 is responsible for the creation of the NOP universe.
special bonus points to u/DoomlordKravoka (author of sawing the tree that feeds) for beta reading this chapter.
 
quick notice: as of may 9th, 2024, chapter 11 has been edited to feature more dialogue and overall be more plot relevant, so i advise going back and checking that out real quick. it will be important sometime in the next few chapters :3
now... without further ado, in the name of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, behold: “the nature of where we once were”
in this chapter: to some, sleep doesn't come easy. the realm of dreams is unkind to those who have known the injustice of the universe.
content warning for nightmares, accidental injury and discussion of traumatic events.
first - prev - next
////////////////////////// Memory Transcription Subject: Dan Hayes, Human Resident of Venlil 4 //////// Date (standardized human time): January 22nd, 2137 //////////////////////////
When Sparci exits the bathroom, clean of spaghetti residue but once again resembling an over-fluffed cloud of fur, he pauses in apparent surprise and confusion at the immense mass of blankets and pillows Emma has left on the floor for us to deal with. I've already taken the liberty of claiming my spot on the couch. It's not exactly comfy. The cushions are rough and unyielding, and the armrest is so hard I can feel it through my pillow, and I have nowhere to put my legs. Consequences of being 6'3 I suppose.
"Grab one of those blankets and throw it on me," I say to the rust-furred alien. Letting him sleep with me is just going to make it even more cramped, but prey races don't like sleeping alone. I can't afford to alienate him and risk losing his trust. "Then just, make yourself comfy wherever you can fit."
He glances between me and the pile of bedding, suddenly looking even more confused. "But. I thought Ms. Emma said--"
"Do you want to sleep on the floor like an animal?"
"...No."
"Then you know what to do."
He looks back down at the myriad blankets, seemingly comparing them in his head before crouching down and grabbing one of the lighter ones. It's barely anything. He holds up the thin sheet and watches my face as if waiting for a reaction. I give him a quick nod of affirmation, and he tosses the fabric over me.
"Is it really okay, though?" he asks. "Don't humans normally sleep separately from their herd- or, packs, or whatever you call them?"
"Usually, yes," I say. Time to bend the truth a bit. "To be more specific, we don't like sleeping with other humans. But, as I'm sure you gathered from all the videos, we're a lot more tolerant of... non-humans. It's some weird quirk of our brains. We like having soft friends."
His tail wiggles slightly, probably from the implication that I think he's a friend. Then he freezes. "Wait. Not with other humans? Not even with your siblings? Or even just your parents?"
...
...He doesn't need to know I didn't have any siblings, nor that my parents were the worst people on Earth. "Super young kids will, but we grow out of that pretty fast. At most, we'll sleep in the same room, but on different beds."
"Oh..." He frowns, looking somewhat perturbed. His jaw tightens, like he's fighting against saying something he thinks he'd regret.
...
"Hey. You can talk to me, y'know. I've told you before that I won't get mad from just words."
He cringes. "No, it's... it's nothing," he murmurs, and his head shifts slightly, as if he's examining me and the couch. "Um... so... how do I...?"
"Fuck if I know. You're the expert here."
"Eh... not really," he says, stepping aside and looking intently at my legs. "Haven't really had a proper herd since before I moved here. And even back then I..." he trails off, wearing a frown. "Nevermind."
Tsk. Something's haunting him. I hate how he still won't open up, even after... everything that's happened today. Maybe Emma was right. Maybe I do need to start pushing him a bit.
He leans forward and crawls onto the couch, poking around in what little space there is around my legs. Not nearly enough to fit him. He wastes no time in looking for another spot, nose twitching as he moves in odd increments, as if he's being guided more by instinct than conscious thought. He worms his way across my chest—fuck, he's heavy—before settling into the shallow crook between my side and the back of the couch.
I can't help my hand finding its way to his back, fingers scratching into the long, curly fur around his spine. He lets out a deep sigh of contentment and goes completely limp, all 90-ish pounds of his body weight pressing directly down onto my fucking lungs. It is not ideal. But. This is a perfect opportunity to reinforce the idea that humans are supportive and trustworthy, and want only the best for him. So I have to cope.
...Plus, he's warm, and soft, and smells vaguely of pizza—why the fuck does Emma have pizza scented shampoo, and why did he use it?—and, of course, I could never refuse a good dose of happy brain chemicals. While it's unfortunate that I can't breathe, the whole situation is nonetheless a pretty solid win-win. I can't be mad.
"Comfy?"
The tip of his tail flicks back and forth lazily. "Mhmm."
"Good. So, when did you move here?" I ask. It's a pointless question, since we already know the answer from what Emma pulled out of the database, but I need to test the waters and see how he feels about answering personal questions.
"Uhh. [A few months] agoooOOo," he says, yawning right in my fucking ear. "Right around when you guys made first contact, I think? Maybe not. I dunno. I think we got the news late since Venlil Prime went total information lockdown when it happened."
He's telling the truth. That's good. Let's see how far I can take this. "What made you move out here, of all places? I can't imagine you're one of the contract colonists."
His tail stops moving. "Uh. I..." he pauses for several seconds. "I... didn't have a reason? It's just, a good place to live, cuz there's no wildlife or predators, right?"
Hm. Now he's hiding something. "Where did you live before?"
His breathing turns shallow, and I can feel his heart rate quicken through the blanket as his muscles tense up.
He takes a long time to respond. "...Talsk."
...
Hm. This kind of reaction can't stem from mere national shame, from the Archives debacle. He wouldn't be so... scared if it were that simple. Something bad must have happened on Talsk, before he came here.
The question is, do I need to spend energy on this? What we need to know is what happened at his apartment, so we can have the data on how prey races react to perceived betrayal. Somehow I don't think unpacking his life before Bluefield will help us with that. But. Maybe it'll help in other ways. Can I bundle his history with my report? Say it's relevant, how prey races cope with abuse and trauma? Assuming he was abused, and it's not just that his family got exterminated or something...
...Ugh. I don't know. Too many options. Too many possibilities. I... need to sleep. Refresh my brain. I'll figure it out tomorrow.
"Y'know, I liked talking about your weird alien cryptids," I say in a casual tone, hopefully defusing whatever shitstorm he's got roiling around in his head. "We'll have to finish that issue of BBR sometime. Not right now, obviously. I'm fuckin' tired."
"...Yeah. Tomorrow?"
"When we get home, unless Emma wants to read it with us."
His tail gives a couple lethargic wags, and his eyelids sink closed. "Okay."
"Okay," I agree, then raise my hand toward the lamp and snap my finger at it. The motion sensor picks up on my intent and all the networked lights shut off, instantly flooding the room in dim gray ambience from the murky, still-rainy outside. "Goodnight."
"G'night."
He falls quiet, and so too does the world around us, filled with naught but the steady patter of rain against the roof. No wind, no thunder, just rain. Like any average shower. Perfect conditions to fall asleep... and stay asleep. Hopefully.
...
But no matter how much I hope, that all-encompassing sense of dread still looms over my mind.
Sleeping is my least favorite part of the day for a reason.
...
...
...
. . .
. ̛. ͢.
.̡ ͘ . ̛ ͜.̨
.͞ ̨ ̛́ ̵̢ ̸͡.̸ ͏̧͘ ̴͘ ̵̢ ̷̡.҉͢͝
G҉u̡n̴s̡ho̢ts̶.͝ Cl҉an̸g̸in͞g͡ met̛al̸.͏
B҉l̢͡o̸od̀.̕͝ ̡̧͢So̧me͞ ̸g̶uy͞ b͜eate̢n̴ ͘t̕o͝ d͢éat̨h͟,̵ le͜f͝t͟ ̛i̡n̵ t́h͢e̸ c͢o̴ŕne̸r. ̧̛N͞o̢͜ o͢͝nȩ ç͢a̴͞r͝es.̧̛ E͜͞͝v̵ę̵̕ŗy̛o͠n҉̕e'̸s̵̕ ̸̵̡bu҉͢sy̴̸ t̛͡wea̷͘k͟iń͜g͟҉.̵
M̷̷̡o͏m̡͠͠.̨͠ ̵͘͠"̕͝G͟o͜ ͢a͟͠hea̸̢d̶̴̨,̵͏ h́͜on̸e̵y, d͠o̶̡ ̶̶j͜ų͝st l̕i̕͜͠ke̶̡͝ ͜҉͢t҉̧h͡a̵̛t,̵ ̡͘no̴w̴ ̨̛̕p͞͝ul̵͠l͝ ̢t͝h̨̨͞e ̛̛ţ̸̷͢͝r͏̡̡̕҉i͝͠҉g̸̷̛ǵ̢̨͟͡e̴̡r̢͟"
T͠ḩe̷̵͡ ̵̨ẁ̴or̶ks҉̕hop̢.̢͟ ͏A ́́̀n̷̷e͜w͢͢͏ ͟͝c̢͠us͡to̧m̸̡͡er̷̸.̀ ̸T҉w̕͟ì͜t̀c̸̢͟h͘͞i͠ņ̸g,̀ ̕f̧͜rò̸t͡͞h̛̀in̛g̷ ͝a̛t̛ ̕t͘h̸̡̨e̕ m͠out̸̀ḩ.̸͏ ̷͞Ǫv̕e͘r͢dò͞s̷̢e̸.̸ ̨N̵͢o̧ ҉o͞n̵̴͝e̛͘ ̷w̧͜͝į̕ĺļ̧ ̴̷m̷̕̕is̛s̕͞ ͘͞h̨im.̀
M̨̲͕̖y̦ ͏̟̹b̙̫̜̦͇͕a̫͉̜̝̬͔͠c̤̥kp̝̖̦͎̮͇ͅa̗̟͍c̠k̙.̹̺͔͖͕͝ͅͅ ̸̙̗T͉o̯̼̺̻o̖̟ͅ ̩̺h̙̪͕̤̝͕͟e҉̘̯a̡̱v̪̦ý.̸ ̶̜̘͖̜N͖̙ot͜ ̠͔̹̦̘̳͖s̝̞u̵p̶̻͎̬̪͔p̘o̢͍̲̩̙̣̣͍se̳̪͓̺̠d̰͎̘̘̯̝͟ ̷̦͚͉͔ͅt̩͕̙͖̳̦͕͢o̸̬̪͈͓ ҉̗̮̻p̡̜̣̰u̸̪t̤͡ͅ ̺͚̻̪̠ͅi͍̞͔t̳̱̳͘ ̹̭d͈̟̠͙͘ǫw̤͇͕n̼͙̩͓̦̳͚. ̱̝̬̠̫̪͝T͙͍̘̥̩̩͚͘ḥ͕͓̲̝̥͢ȩ͇ ̼̗̟̙̬̰͢bo̷̥t̼ṱ͚̫͙l҉̝̯͎͇͕ͅe̹͉͕̺̟̹͙s̨̗̼̣̠̭ ͖̪̞w̮̮͔̟̙i̢͉̣l̺͈l̴ ͔̪̻̰̣ͅb̡̳͚͇r̝̜̹͎͘e̱̖͍͜ͅa̤͜k̻̭̯̞̹. ͎̳D̺a̯̮͕̼̥̯͞d̨̩̩̝̼̦͙ ҉͉̺͕̲͔͓̬s̞͍̗͍̱̜a̡̺̞i͏͉̞͍d̰̭̙̥͈͓͉͝ ̻̩s̶̙͇͈͉̘ͅo̱̝̩̜.̼
M̎͞r̯̮͓̿̎̓. ̸̙̯͓͚̱͕ͫͥͯ͛ͤE̝̦̩ͦ̐̋̆m̵̬̲̩̺̹̻͎̃̇ͫ͌̈̋ȩ͚̙̯͖̜̻͎̿ͤ̏͛rͨ̉͐ͤͣͪs̘̫̰̀ͮ͂̆͐̓ͨoͦ̓҉̝̼̺͈̜̣n̛̝͍͇͓͇̦̯͛̾ͯͫ.̪͍͍̺̌ͩ̏ͣ̃͗ͦ ̙͊ͧ͗ͨHͦ͌ͧ̀̐ͣ̍ȩ̱̰̰͋ͭͅ ̿̐̿̌̅͏̘̟̤̫͈̭c̲̙͇͉͉̗̿ͮͪ͑a̛̹̱̰̯̤͐̑ͬ̋̉͐ͭm̜̏̒ͤͤͫ͗͛ę̜̱͖̯͗̎̅ ̣͕̮ͨ̉́̔ͤ̓toͅ ̡͎̯̖̳͔̳̹m̙̽ͬ̔y̷̠̼̤ͯ̍̋ͤ ̣̳͙̘̦̾̅̇̅͘b̡ì̺̯r̰͕̱̊ͭͮ̐̿͝ẗ̡͚̠̼̥͎̤̦͌͂͐̅̏̅h̡̪̿̈̉̌ͯd̛̜͖͖̰̹̺a͋҉̜̮̹͙̦̲ỳ̼̦͡s̱͔̗͒͌̒ͪ͋ͧ͋.̳͕̝̝̂̏̽͌ͣͨ͌ ̴̹̙͎̙̝̐̾B̹͇ͭͦ̆ͮ̀u̟̘t̶̗̙̪̊ͮ̓̽ͤ ̅̒͐̇͏t̘͉̥̙͖̝̳ͪḧ͎̣́̂͆ͯͬ̔͐e̴̗̬̱̱ͯͦ̽̅͋̓y̮͈̐ ̰̞̦̈̇͌ͣͬͩ́g̼̙̥̹̾̽̾͐͐̚ö͇̺͈̬ͣ̍̐ͅt̷̞̥͕̉ͅ ̸̳̻̽͆̃h̙̞̥ͤ̌̓̏́̅̇́i̫̪̘̪̍͒̓̉͠ͅm͙̙̯̬̓̄́ͧ̓ͨ͡ͅ.͍͋ ̯̪̥̩ͨ̔̆ͧ̂͊ͯẂͮ̂̄ͪ̇͐҉̞͔i̻̰̫̣̜̗͑ͯ̍l̢̺ͣͩ̓l̘̼͚̣ͧ̏̓͟ ͉͆́I͌̚ ̪̼ͭͩ̎ͥͪͣ̓͡b̨̭͖̾ͯ̉̔̋e͍ͤͩͬ̾͒̚ ̩n͓͙̙͚̏͋͞e̥̫̯̠̻̭̽ͪ̕x̼̞̟̮͂̆͛̊̇͑t̖͔̜̘̘̋̚?͍̻͒̏̑͋̄ͤ
À͡͠n̶̵̷̴͞o҉͘͏̡͠t̀͘h̛͏̷̡͡e̢̕͢͡r͘͏ ̡͏̨́͟c͢҉u̢͞s̡͡t҉̵̕͝o̢m̶̕e͡͏r̴̸̵͟.̴͘ ̢̧A҉̀͏̶ţ̷ ̡͘͜t̨͟҉͘h̷̀e̶̴ ͜͏u͏̷͡s̡͜͠u͡͞͏̧a͏̢̕͞l̢̢ ̸̶ṕ̸l̴҉a̡c̶̡͟͝è̷̵͞͝.̶̸̢̧͡ ̧̕͢C̸̀͞u̷̸̡͠͝t̷̢͠ ҉̵̨i͏̷̨͢n̶̢͞ ̴̢̢h̨̛͘a̶̛̕͢͡l̀͘͝f̛.̸̴́̕͡ ̢̀͢͞I̵̢͢ń̢͡t̶̴̸̸̛e̷̸̡͘͞s̴̡̨͡͝t̵̴̛͜͟í͏̸n̷e̸͜͟͝s҉ ̢̀à͘̕n̸̡͞͝d́̕ ̢́ĺ̨̢͘͝i̕͜v̴͡͠e̴͢͠͝͡r̶҉͠ ̷͠a̵̷̧͢͞ņ̵̛͞d͏̀ ̷́͏͝ļ̶҉҉͏u҉҉̀͟͜n̢̛͝ģ̛͢͠s̢͢͏ ̡̧̕á̵͟n̸̸͢d͏̡ ̶͏̸ḩ͝e҉̵̴̵a̢͠͞҉r̡t̶̀͢͠ ̨̧͞͡͡p͏̵̀͜͝u҉l̵͢l҉̵̵̢͜e̵̸d͢͜ ̸̸͟͞o̵͏u̶̶t̵̵̡͘͘ ̧͏̡̕͘o͘҉f̢͏̷ ̡҉҉̴͞h̡͜i͏͏̨̡̕ş̛̛͝ ̡͘c͏́́͘h̴̸͝e̴̡̛͘s̷̸̀͟t͟͟ ͉͇̗̪̩͚ ̧̟͎͈̮̣ ͉͇̗̪̩͚ ̧̟͎͈̮̣   G̝͍̺̳̩ͪ̚u̥̫͎̽͌ͤ̄ṉ̗̰s̖̭ͬh̖̫͖͍̝̀̈́̂ͮͫ̿ͮỏ͌̈̅t̺̰̲̫̔ͫͥs͖͍̤̣͍̮̜͑͑ͤͪ.̬͚̏̇̄̈̊͂ ̭͚̝̒ͫS̖̜̦̞̦e̯͈̠̦͔̓̓ͅv͖̪͉ͣ̓̄e̘̝͔͔͂͒͐ͥ̚r͈̳ͦͧ̽̎͂̚ă̱̽ͨl̞̲̉ ̫̯̜̘ͤͥͬd̲̞̲̠̩̘̾ͪ͐̏̔̐̊e͉̐͑̍̏̽ͥǎ͍̤̲̏ͦ̀́d̼͕̻͇̟̐͊͐̂ ̫̰ͤ̐ͤa̺̰͋͛ͭͥ̀ͨl͓̱̟͍̼͆͐̄̊̉ͦ̚r̺ͧͦ́ͥ̂̚ẽ͈̻̫̎̊̐ͭ̈́a̒d̳̼̪͚ͨy͇͋͒̅ͩͤ ̬̹͉͕͎̽͆̃ͪ̊̈́͑ͅ ̢̀́͟҉ ͟͠ ̡̢͢͞ ͠ ̀͢ ͘͟͠ ̵̴̡͘ ͟͏̴̕͝ ́͘͢ ̧̧͠͠ ̡̨ ̵͘͏ ͜͢ ̴̧͝ ̸̕͜͠ ͟҉̸͞ ̨͜ ̷҉̴͡ ̸̨͜͝ ̸͘͠ ̴͘͏̢͜ ̵̨̀͜ ̵̶̨̛ ̶̷̨́ ̛́͟ ̧́́ ̢ ̶̀͢ ̧̛͞͡͠ ͟͡ ̴͢ ̷̛͟͡ ̷̢͘͢ ̷̶̛͜ ̶͞҉ ̵͡ ̷̨̛̀͟ ͏҉ ̥̫͉̰̫ͅ ̦͝ ̛͇̻̥̭̤ͅ ̶͖̗ ̶̤͙̳ ̴̧̢̟̠͕͔̜̀̕͠ ̢̨̀͢͠ ̧͞͝ ̷͟ ̵̧́͜͟ ̶̶̸ ̢̀̀͢ ̴ ͉͇̗̪̩͚ ̧̟͎͈̮̣ ̢̀͟͠ ̵̶͢͏ ̵̢͟  C̷̝̜͖̩̞̼͍͐a̤̮̽̈́͋̇̌ͦş̣͙͚̻͌̓̎̅̈́̄ͦḙ̸̺͖͓̗̯̹ͩ͑ͬͣ̓y̧̲̙͐ͫ̾̎̊͆ ̰̲̩̥̹ͨ̃s̷̰̪̭̥c̯͕̦͉̖̞ͩr̷͉͉̼̤̜̞̪͂̎ͮ̈̉̅́ẽ̺̇́̀͌́a̖̜̪͓̪̩̙͑m͖͖͕ͮ̔̾͆͋ͫs̪͕̫̺̰͛̿̕ ̺̱̭̞̣̫̈́͆̋̎ ̴̩̗̫͖ͨ̀̌ ̻̗̹͍̟̹̈́́̓͢ T͒̊ͣ̾̒͘h̸̞͚̙̼͇ͩ̈́͂e̤̘̤͕̾̔͞ÿ͇́ͫ̓ ̨̅̏͗͒f̛͖͎̂̋o̢͖̮̜̱̠͌ͪu̇̈͌͋̽́ň͋̊͏̳̣d͇͓͔͎̾̽ ̰̗ͯ̊̀͐h͈̫̓̈́́̍͘i̱̹̰̾ͨ̈́̌ͨ͟m̵̯̞̯̙̤ ̶̨̡͢ ̷̵̡ ̷̨̧ ̡́͝͝ ̵̵̵͡ ̶̨̡͢ ̷̵̡ ̷̨̧ ̡́͝͝ ̵̵̵͡ ̴͢͞ ̛̀ ҉̵̷ ̴͝ ҉̶̢͠ ̸̴̢́ ̷̸̸͟ ̸̨͘ ̶̵̧̢ ҉͘ ́͟ ̧̕͢ ̵̡ ̶ ͜͏ ҉̵̴́͢͠͞ ̛̀ ҉̵̷ ̴͝ ҉̶̢͠ ̸̴̢́ ̷̸̸͟ ̸̨͘ ̶̵̧̢ ҉͘ ́͟ ̧̕͢ ̵̡ ̶ ͜͏ ҉̵́͠  I̵̢͈̝̺͔̪̹͎̹͇̥̬̙̱͚͕͎̕͘̕'̸̛̩̩̮ͅm̴̸̢̝̪̼̬͕͢ ҉̧̯̘͙̘̗͇̟͎̹̗̦̼̀͟͠n̙̜̩̗̟̹̥̞̝̮̙̘͔͙̦̩̹̹͟͜ͅe͏͏̶̙̘̙̫̙̩͕̞̱x̸̴̝̭͈̗̀͘t̶̯̳͖̙̟͉̯̹̦̣̲̘̺̘́ ̨̺̻̬̠͙̭͈͕̣̲̭̱͝ͅͅͅ ҉̪̦̮̖̙̲̥͎̩̟T͇̞̻̘̜̙̬͈̠̺͘͢h̴̢̛̪̬̭̹̟̩̹̜̤̣͘é͏̧͏͏͎̤̭̯̲͔͉͔̜̼̼̲̣y̨͏̴̺̺͎̱̳̺͢'̷̛͙̺͔̠̫̺̱̯̖̺͈̮̬̱̘̗͈̩̀͡l̵̖̖̠̰̫̟͉̫̮̹̰͡l̸͉͙̞̭̣͍̮͈̭̠̗̘̗͖̭̮͢͠͡ͅ ̷̡̮͎̫̣̗̀͢͝f̛̙̮͎̲̘͔́͟i̛͏͍̙̭̪͇̖̠͖̯̤̰͕̖͕̭̦ͅn͖̝̟̝͞͡d̛̝̼͎̺̝̩̤̠̲͖̬͟͜ ̴̣̰͓̦̬̭̹̫͙̤̥̯̺̯̣͍̭̻̲̀̀͢͡m̵̛̮̤̦̹̘̰̞̻͕̦͎̙̥̥̳̩e҉̴̧̧̯̟̝̻̹͈͙ ̣̤̳̤̦͚̬̕͞ ̵͕̣̩͍̱͖͔̗͞ ̶̰̜̙͙̖̺̭͇͈̺͎̞̪̺͝I̴̤͇͖̬̭͇̩̠̗̣̭̘͕̱͟'̕͡͠҉̮̮̠͓̦̗̘̝̣m̤̞̜̭̫̘̗͎̱̻̫̖̘͎͟͟͞͡ͅͅ ̨̣̜̖͚̦̤̯̖͖̣̹̭̫̳͢ͅņ̶̘̺͙̯̼̣͔͍͍̦̞̲͖̦͈̮̀͝e̡҉̷̮̫͔͕̩̞̗̘͉̲͢͡x̡̨̪̼̟̕ͅt̷͇̣͉͎̫͈̫̹̭̗̗̲̬̱̣̳͟ ̴̸̨̝͇͈̤͇̞̼̮̪̭̰͞ͅ ̷͓̜̰͖̰̫̖̼̬̻͙͍̗͎̠͔͔̣̰̗̙̳̺̊ͥ͛̋̿̽̉͋ͧ̓̚ͅḬ̤̻͖̲̞̮͔͚̞̭͉̱̠͓͉̈̉̔̊ͣ̅͛ͩ'̤͕̺͍͈̣̤̰̙̺̱͎̪͓̹̏̎̅ͭm̩̣̹̪̳͈̟̰̝͔͉̟̗͖̹͇̖͑ͤͥ̐̇ͯ̄̀̄ͅͅ ̯̗̟̪͔̙̝͍̰̜̩̙̖̩͇̝̰ͫ̆ͣ̐ͅn͎̯̲̱͕͓̥̻̥̰̺̪̗͖͎̯̻̣̽̋ͫ̌ͨͤ̑e͎͍̞̦͚̦̤̠̞̖̟̦̪̬̗ͭ̀͆̿̆ͮ̔̒̑̄̐̌̋͂̌̐̐ͅx̟̟͖̳̟̭͖̳̻͙͙͙͍͉̣͕͔͆̉͌ͥ͌̉̒̅ͯ̿̔̄̈͊ͯ̿ͭͨ̚t͕̹͈͓͕̝͖͂ͫ̏̃̽ͧ̂ ̺̗̠̪̬͎̤̬̰͎̥̜͎͉̖͔͈͓͙͗́̍͊̉̓͛̓ͯ̑ͨͦ ̠̭̼̻͕̜̤͖͈̖̠̯̙́͒ͬ́̎̄ͭ ̶̨̡͢ ̷̵̶̡̨̡͢ ̷̵̡ ̷̨̧ ̡́͝͝ ̵̵̵͡ ̴͢͞ ̛̀ ҉̵̷ ̴͝ ҉̶̢͠ ̸̴̢́ ̷̸̸͟ ̸̨͘ ̶̵̧̢ ҉͘ ́͟ ̧̕͢ ̵̡ ̶ ͜͏ ҉̵́͠ ̷̨̧ ̡́͝͝ ̵̵̵͡ ̴͢͞ ̛̀ ̶̨̡͢ ̷̵̡ ̷̨̧ ̡́͝͝ ̵̵̵͡ ̴͢͞ ̛̀ ҉̵̷ ̴͝ ҉̶̢͠ ̸̴̢́ ̷̸̸͟ ̸̨͘ ̶̵̧̢ ҉͘ ́͟ ̧̕͢ ̵̡ ̶ ͜͏ ҉̵́͠҉̵̷ ̴͝ ҉̶̢͠ ̸̴̢́ ̷̸̸͟ ̸̨͘ ̶̵̧̢ ҉͘ ́͟ ̧̕͢ ̵̡ ̶ ͜͏ ҉̵́͠  I̮̊̆̌͗̃͢'͇̩͍̭͕͚̮͌̆͐̂ͨ̾̎̋ͅṁ͚̦͕̱͚ͩ̽̌̉͊͘͡ ̷̹̟͇̓͞͡n̸̸͕͎̬ͣͨ͋ͦ͂̕ę̗͈̪̳͇̭̅ͩͭ͗ͩ̔̏͟͠x̭̟͙͎̦̾ͨ̽͋ͪ̑͋͂t̥̥͇̎ͣͭ ͇͉̤̓͗ͮ͜I̢͌͏̨̹͎͇͉'̤̪̼̏̀m̶̛̖͉̟͖̺͙̭̩͚͊ͤ̊͑̔ͫ̀ ̡̮̲̤͚̟̲̦̥̒̃̍ͮ̓͝n̶͉̟̬̬̠͂̍̎̃ͤ̔ͨͨ͘͟e̡ͫ͗͂҉͔͉̯͎̠͕̜̲x̧̦͈̺͉̩͙͙̫̒͊̾̍̄͝ṯ̵̢͇͊͐̎̉́ͥ̈́̚͜ ̡̭̲̫̦̹̹̬͚͗̔ͣ͞ͅĬ͎̣̮̥̓̔̋̓̈̐̋͘'̨͈̪͚̾ͨ̐ͨm̶̴̪͍͈̪͔̼̓ͣͅ ̲̯̫̦̮̊ͣ͂ͭ̓͢n̸̲̠̟ͣ͞e̜̺̔ͬͬ̀ͯ͂̐x͈̞̻͎̗̋̑ͫ͑͆̀ţ̵͚̯͇͇͈̀ͦ͑ͬ͋̐͗̓ͪ ̱̫͕͚̺̹̜̲ͣ̑ͤ̌͘͢ͅI̥̠͓̱̯̓͋͑'̹͚̣̼͉̐ͧ̆̆m̳͖͚͔̼̋̇̚ ͉͎̜̥͈ͭ̉̀͟͢n̷̳̜̳̳̳͓̯̬ͪ̈́ͨë͎̭ͮ͌͆ͯ͊ͮͨ͜x̡̘͓̂ͮ̔͘̕t͔̝̙͊ ̝̘̪̜̫̼̖ͦ̎͐̉̾̿Ī̶̫̣̣̯̙̻̺̜̔ͧ͡'̶̧̫̝̳̮̈́͋̒̓̑̈́m̴͖̙̦̪̠̯̪͒̓ ̢̻̙͍ͨ̃͌͌̍̎ͧ͢͠ͅn̷̨͖ͪ͒ͧę̡͉̼̤̪͈̯͍̿̈́̉ͥ̽x̸͖̘̣̩̪̦̠̣̖͛̀̑t̐͐̀̓ͧ̅̿͂҉̜̝̮̖̗͢͝ ̪ͬ̐̓ͯͨI̵͕̩̬͓̲̞͙͋ͪ̿̚'̵̭͇͖̮̮̮̓͑ͬ̌͛̅͑̚m̷̟̫͙̬̙͉̣ͧͫ͛̓ͧ ͇̌́̓n̶̳͉̖̯̰͍̻ͫ̀̐ͫ̇͢e̷̸̗͐ͮ͋ͦͧẋ̨̣͇̯͓ͧ̈́̃̀́̉́͘tͦͤ̒̈́̾ͩ̈҉̴͕͉͕̯̠̼̲̕ ̢͓ͦ͛̈́̀̽ͯ́ͤI͕͎͈̝̭͔͉͒̇̈́͆͆ͯ̄̀͠'̻̤̹͙̤̦͈ͬm͔̜͍̥̘͚̳̲̳͗̋́ ͂̂̑ͦ̅͏͏̢̮̲̦ņ͇̜͇̟̤̭̓̍̎̉̈̍́e̥͈̜͂̅̃x̷̼̜̭͙̼̫̥̘̘ͥ̓t͉͔͍͚̭͇̭ͧ͗͆͋̏ͦͥ ̴̶̩͔̦̭̗̥ͥ̽̾͝
i d̳̝̝̲̹͚͖̞͈͕̬͇̳̫̮̙̜̀ͤ͑̿ͬ͋͗ͧ͐͆̀ͩ̅̌ͤ̊ͅo͇̞̲̟̟̝̩͔̳̘̩̹͉͕ͨ͌ͨ͒̊ͣͅͅn͚̱͖͎̻̜̼̰̪̪̭͈͗ͯ̐ͧ̇̆̄̿̄͊t̯̯͈͓͓̯̣̟̻͖̮̺̯͈̟̬͆̐̓͒͌ͦ͗ͮ̄̏́̀̓̊͐ ͚͓̖̜̪̖̝̻̞̿́̒̈́ͅw̙͓̣͔̤͓̜̘͔ͯͪ͌̈́̓̈ͭȁ͎̭̯̝̓̄̈͛̓̊̎̌ͅn̦͖̩̞ͥ̈́̃͋ͯͯ̓̚̚t̜̞̼̮͇͚̖ͫ͑͛̌ͥ̐͗ ͎͖̹̞̘͇̬͍̰̫͂̾͌̊͑ͤͪͮ̀ͮ̾̔t̠̩̦̹͖ͦͣ̑ͦͪ̈͐̿̆̀ͮ͊ͩ̿ͫo̰͇̜̼͙̿̌̽̽̓͊̊̍ͪ̎́ ̠͚̞̤͕̞̘̘̟̞̙̻͖͙̥̳͙͉̰ͭ̋̒̍ͤḏ̻̖͎͈̎̓̉͊͒ͯ̈̍̆̒̔̓͐͊͆̚̚i̠̬͍̼̦̲̮̞͚̣̼̞͖̎̏ͥ͊̉̉̏́̎ͅe̯̘̼̲̥̫̱̖͉̺̪̗̼͈̻ͮ͐͒̄́͐ͨ̀̂͗͐̌̿͛ ̂̍̆̀͊ ̭͑ ̓ͥ̓   l̳̻͖͐ͦ̓ͅl̜̬̳ͮ̏͛̿̓͂̏͟ľ͕̠͕̘ͯͭ͂͛̄ľͦ̄̋ͪͫl̲̫̩̟ͨ̌͌̓̄̈l̹̜͓͑͊̕l͈̓͌͊̐ͪ̊l̐̍̒ͬ̃ḻ̛͔͎̘̼̫ͅl͈͓̦̣̭̟̘l̝̱̤͎͌̋l͓͙̤̼̥̣̯̍̚l̞͇͙̫̹̒̄̀ͧ͢l̟͍̗̯͇͔̏͗͛l͙̪̩͇̲̩̝̓̀̿ͯ͗ļ̝̮̫̈l̻̦͎̝̳̖ͅlͦ̒͛͋l͙̬̞̺̼̩͕̃̈ͮ̍͂͟l͈̟̺̼͓̮̦l̙̝̳̖̯̬͇̋͌̋̋ͯ̐͞l̼̔͠l͇͐͋͊l̳̲͖̝̹̑͗̔͋̾l̥̫͓͎̳̭̲ͫ͌̑͆̔ͬ̀l̳̞̤̼͌l̢ͧ͛̃̒̐̔l͙͈̟ͪ͛ͪ̉l̬͈̝͍̳̗̭̂ͯ̔̊͐͑l̴̺̲͍̤͇l̮̻ͣl̡̮̩͙̩̪͊͊̇͆l̹̗̻ͭ͐ͣ̈́́l̳̼͙̍̍̀ͅl̹̳͇̠̘͖̳͊̌̓͗̏ͣͧl̛̲͎̈́ͮ̃́̀̅͌l̠̱ͮͯ͗͐ͣ̈́l̎̔͂͑̽ͨ͠l̘͕͙͙̤̳̎̂ͯ̎l̓̎ͣ̑̌̃҉̰̰̳̬̟l͑̾l͎͉̏̔͋̅ͫ̿̏l̡͉̦̪̍̑̄̆̓l̅ͥ̓̊҉̠͉l͕̗̺̫̖̝̓͌ͦlͯl̪̤̫̺̞͔̿͛ͮ́̇̈́ͣľ̞̣ͫͧ̈͑ͤ͜l̙̟̣̼̻̦̋l̝̞͒̇ͣl̤̯͎̟̘̲̏ͧ̒͌ͬ̆ͅl̴̜̘̟͂̄ͪͬͧ͂l͔̼͇̫̬̣ͦ̄̀ͅl̼ͣ̊̐̏͛l҉̺̦͉l͚̫͙͓̻̒l̼̙̱̲͗͜l̝̲̓̂ḽ̭̪̲͉̚l̜̱̥͔̠̩̰͊̓̄̚ḽ͈́̓̊͂͠l͘l̖͇̲ͩͭͣl̰͉̯͋͊͆̓ͥ̈́l̶̦̭͙l͈̖ḷ̫̐̚l͙͔͚͗l͍̞̖̠̝͇͉ͯ̀l̨̪̞̞̜͉͑̇͂l̖ͫl͔l̛̼̰ͬ̽̑̂ͅl̩͙ͩ͋ͩͤͮ̅ͦ ̮̟̦͙͗̅̄ļ̟l͒ḽ̨̹̦̳̱̂̎̇̆̋̈́l̵̪̞̭̖͔̠͌l̢͉̞̔͆ͬ͐͌̿ḽ̷͍͇̮̼̻̆̎͛̂͛͑͛l̙̱̖̯̞̐l͈̰̜̫͈͙̘̔ͬͩͨ̀͂͝l̳̈͂̍ͨ͠l̴̘̳̐l̵̞͖̦͔̼͎̿̐̽l̡̹͎̯̺̬̒ͥ̂ͨl̡͖̲̝̪̘̄̄ͅl̨̗̘̭ͣ̓ͩ͂͆̅ͬl̓͌̈͒l͗̅͟l̷̺̤͇̫l̜̄̈́̍ͮ̿ͬ́ļ͆͒̾̃̎̉̚l̇ͩl̼̂͒̔ͭ͑̊ļl̻̬̺̬̫̮ͮͥ̾̔͗l̮͍̇ͩ̾l̛̥̘̬̪̘̇l̻̫̫̣̬͆̿́ͧ̾̕ͅl̈́ͯ̈́ͫ͒͒ͨ͏̬͎̳̘̳̜ͅl̥͕̟̱̬̘̫͐̈́̓͋ͤ͗l̫̯̪̭̥̪ͩ̌l̙͇͈̹̦̹̣͂̈l̺̬̺͚ͪ̑̃͊̅͂̀l̤͕͎̭̘͐̈͒̍̒ͣ̎l̴̍ĺ̝͉̩͓̼̖̓͠ͅl͙̓̔̋̅͛͝l͏̙̫̣̳͕̝l̥̹͇̘͗͝l̯͚̦̩̤̐̈́ͨl̸͔̖̗̲͕̱̎̾ͅl̷͔̦̰͈͎̃͑ͪl̎ͬ̓̽͝ḻ͍͚̼̆̇̔͂̿ͮ̌l̩͔͙̙̀l̝̱ͯͧͬ͆̈́͑̔͡l̎͏̥̟̼̭̞̗l̔ͬ̃͛͆̎͂҉̜l̖͖̥̝͈ͥͥ̓ͭl̲͓̩̣͚̗ͩ͗̓͑ͫ̚͝l͕̣͈͇͍̫͎̉̓͒̒ͪ̅ͯl̵̩͖̣̗͂͂̓l̸̰̩̻l͚̯͎̥͌͘l̛̹͂̿̐ͫͣl͎̣̳̹̑͆́̽̊͆͊͜l̡̪̰̱͗ͩ̇̓͗͊l̖̺͊̽͆ľ̟̪͉̪̜̻ͥ̆͋̃̽l̫̣͍̜̿̌ͦ̈l̛͎̻̫͒͗͌͑̄ͯ͑ͅl͙͔̻̺̭̐̿l̰͌̒͛l̫̺͒͆̔͋l̂̌ͧ̎̒̇̚҉͓l̪̜͎̩͎̅ͬͤ̋̀l̙̰̟̮ͦ̾l͍ͫ̽̀l̖̤͕̻͖͟l̤ḷ̸̞̪͚̺̠̭́̌̂̄ͧͮl͍̥̺̪̜͙̻̐̀l̥̬̮ͮ̎ͨͮ͋l̷͓̻̜̰̮͊̓̈ͅḻ̵͈̖̱̞l̕l̴͒ͤ́̌l̦̦͙̀l̥̍̇l̖͈ͩ̉͑͌̐͛͊l̑ͣ̒̄͒̽ͫl̹̥͙̼͙̆ͮ̔̑ͧ͠l̺̹̥̭̪ͧ͑ͯ͠l̈̿ͩ҉͙͚̥̠̤̩l̯̤͎̩͓̺͓͆l̘̺̲̫̺̬̪ͨ͊ͦ̇ͬ́l̯̘̉́ͣ̽ͦ̽̀͢ͅl̇̽ͯ̽ͦͯ́ll̵̥̼̜̻̙̤̰̓̓l̹̼͚̺̤̣͇̐̐̈́͐̀͞l̲͇͓͔̖̓͆̆̽̽ḻ̜̮̠̲͕̒̃ͯ̃̂̈͟ͅl̲̣̜͙ḷͤ͊͘l͉̗͙̮̮l̞̖ͬͩ̑̔̏l̵̦̭̝ͥͫ͐̓̍ͭl̤̤̬̦̩̰͡l͍̫̭̞̗̲l̷̲͔̺͓̰̼̑̎̌l͈͖̗͉̼l̉̀͊̍͋̔̚҉̲͖͖̲̺l̴̬̤͕͖̹͆ͭl̲͓̪̾ͯͣḽ̨̱͑̈́ḷ̲͉̾ͥͅl̠l͖͒͐̋̅ͩͫͦ͡lͣ҉͎̘̳̘̜͖l̯̦͎̱͇ͨ͗̌͗ͨ́̚l̘̥̝͕̩͓̦̾̊ͥͭ͂̈l̶̫̱̪̆͐̅ͮ̐͛l̫̠͔̯͈͔̜̓ͯl̬͓͓͕̱ͩl͕͙̮̟̼̣ͥͨ̅̊̃l̩̖̮̪͙͊͂͆͛ͥͧͩ̕l̷͕̠̲̺͈̹̮̔̽ͣ̇̀ ̵͖̙̙͐ͯ͂̋̚̚l͒̚l̟̺̱̠̿̔ͮͤl̸̯͔͕͔̫͍̤͆ͦ͗̾͛l̖͙̲̬̥͊̀ͅl͕͉ͯͩ̔̓͗̂̕l̺̬̦͍̯̗̝̀l̙̪̦̠͎̅̌̎̄͜l̋̽̓̄ͮl͚̺̊̏̄l͋l̹̘ͨ͒̂ͪͣ̌́l̻̫̹̓̾ͦl͕̳̼̆͂͌͒̄͐͆l͚̙̬̟͎̽ͅl̡̖̟̟̫̬͈̐̅l̩͔̰̻ͪ͑̀͐̉̚l͎͙͙͉̋͐̈́̃́͐ͣ́l̰ͮ͒l̢͓̮͔̲ͤ̎̈̆͛lͮͤ̈ͭ̚̚͏͉̳͈͕̥l̠͔̤̺̮l̩̙̖̮̍l̯̝̤̭̙ll̦̟͕̪̍̎̾̔̎̅̔͢l̜̼̼̀̓ͬ͘l̖̞͙͓̻͔l̞͍͕ͮͮ͊ͯ̽͑ͤl̯̲͎̜̿̊̿̈̚͞l̜̪̹̩̇̓͛͂ͯ͞l̩̠̳̹͈̘̝͗̌̈̌̉͠lͥ̐l̼̮̝̽ͤ̔͐̽ͅl̨͓͉̲̙̦̋̽̂̇̓̚l̺͆̿̇ḽ̝͈̰̙͗͛̃͛̇ͣ͑l̞̠͉̬̞͉̈́̒̂̕ͅl̺̏l̷̋̏ͧͦl͇̇ͦ̀l̷̠͓͚̔͑ͦ̉̓l̦̤̽ͥ̂ͩͩḻ̗͚̪̟ḷ̹͉̠̋l̙̤̥̟̅ͪ̏̉̀l̡͙͓̦̆̈́ͮ̆l̵͎̮̐̅̌ͭ̓̚l̳̼̋͗ͬͥ̋̂̕l̶̖͂l̘͕̗̼̄ͮͭ̉̎̈́l̵̘̜̖̤͒l̳̮̤ͫ́ͯ̊ḻ̴̗̪̟͇͋̍͗͗ḽ̲̮͉ͫl̫̰̥͎ͪͨ̽͆̌l͚̭̮̩̓̅ͯ͑ͮ̑l͍̰̗̻̣͓͒̈́̃͑́ͣͨl̈́ͬͯ̑ͥͤ͌҉͇̹͇l̡̤͚̤̩͐͗͆́̒ͦ̊l̵̽͗ͬͩḽ̞̄ͩͬ͡l̡̫͚̪̫̹ͦ̈̇̀͐͂͗l̪̯͍̻͍̏̽̊ľͣ͗͌̂ĺ̻̬̎̾̐ͭ͗̉́ḷ̥l̟̞͔̩̖̊̀͜l͗ͦ̐̏҉̯̩̝̖̬̤l͕̉͋̐͐l͈̆ͥ̈́ͧͮ͛l̠̤͚̦͉̺ͩͭ̏̿̋̈͛ͅl̿̔ľ͈̺̳̜l͎̩̦̜̹̤̓̾̊̈̐̊ͅĺ̞̯̳̦̩͎̌̉̅̐̓͟l̨̘͚͇͙̯̚l̤̩̠̘̝̜͖ͯͬͭ̔̀ͣl͉͒̇̅ͥ̄̍ͣ͞l̶͔̪̹̙͇̀l̎ͯ̇̔́l̮̦͈̜̺̰̰l̞̰͕͑̉͘ͅl̵̗̥͎̘͚̹̄ͅl̞̰̪̤̰ͭͮĺ̻͕̻̲̭͗l̝̤̖̙̖ͨͥ̓̀̍̄ĺ̮ͣ͐ͮ͂͜l̴͉͓̜̘̉̋͑l̜̮͕͇̪͍̍̆͆̿̐̇̀͘l͐̄͛̔ͧͣľ̹̘̼͉̿l̅̋͐̐ͦ͊҉̪̳͉͈ͅl̈́͋̅̍̃͏̦̦͎̙̻̹̥l̦̫͚̇̎͊ͩͧ̏̊́ḻ͔l̖͇̝͖̎́l̤͎̞ͪl͇͍̫̠͉ͩͤͩ͐̀͞l̨͖̉l̓̏͝ĺ̠͚̥͙̯͖̄̑͂l͓̋l̳̲͙̲̙̖̊ͩͪ͛l̛̻̼͈͔͍͇͛ͥ̂͑͆̋̚l̝̮̪̫͆ͨͯ̈́ͭ͗͢l̘͓̘̆̐̔̎̅͡l͛͂̽ͨͦ̍̒l̷͎͇̩̿͆̑ͮl̖l̵̯̮l̫̑ͦ̾̂̿͟l̶̘͔͊͌̆ͯͬ̀lͮ͂ͩ͌ͩ̌l̨l̞̲̬̪̮ͯ͌̎̕ľ̳̻̫ͮ̐̍̉͟l̟̾̐̆͝l͈̲̮͖̖̪̃̈́l̯ͪ͠l̻̖̭͙̫̰̭̎̑ͮ̇͂l̫͈ͥ͐̈́͐ľͯ̑̐ͫ͠l̷̰̮̣̱ͤͦ̓̏͑ͧ̄ͅl̷̻̼͙̞̜̓ͯ̐ͪl̈ļͣ͆̌̒̾̂̚l̯̙̲̗̖̀͛͒͋̚l̼̯l͙̳͢l͍͕ͦͯ̿̏̈̃l̼͒̂l͆ͫ̓̔́͌l͌ͨl̲ͣ̄̚l͖͇̗̫̹ͪ͌͛̾̉ͯ̚͠l͚̞̯͇͗ͪ̎ͮl̦͎͟ ̪̤͕͕̐͂͋̒̇́l̈̇ll̯̘͙̰̟ͣ̓͞l̙͖͉̤̳ͯͮl̯͇̼̗̱̋ͬ̌̀l̘͎̼̃l̰̂͌͋ͫ͑̒ͅl̷̞͙̭̟̗̓̓̐͒̃ͬl̬̭̠̲͓͉̤̑̏̾ͥ͊͑l̷͊ͣl̸͓̻̗̇̒͊̓̽̈́̚l̘̺̥͚̕ͅl̸͉̥͈̪̍ͨ̿ḷ̷̳̤͈̮͚͊͋̒̏̚l̸͓̻̘̮̞̹̺ͪ̒l̪̤̞͎͑͢l̥̼͚̗͕͙̃ͯͤͦ̈́͛ͥl͕̪̤̫̫̰̼ͬ̀l̰̹͕̞̠̈ͩ̏ͅľ҉̞͎l̢͙̠l̰ͮl̰͇̼͇̙̥̣̀͆̌ͯl̠̺͎̫l̶̳͑̊ͮ̐l̳̭̳͔̯̪̙͛̍ͦͨ̆͑ͭlͭ͆̅̾͐̎̚҉̫̜̭͈͕l͛̎l̼͋̃l̔̈́̚̚̚l̻̮̟̀̓͂̆̾l̥̥͆̈́ͣ̄l͓͈̣̳̟͙͔l̜͙̳̮̾͑ͤ̾͆l̹̣͈͒ͤl̵̹͙̲͓̘͙͍ͥ͒̎̒͌l̃̏̿̈́l̞͖̬̱̤͔̖ͨͦ̔̓̔͌l̪̱̘͊ͫ͛ͥ͆̕l̺̣̞̱̗͚̟ͯͦ͗ͬͤ̌l̍ͬl͖̪͈̱̿ͣ́ͩ̎ͮl͔͙̮̀̑̅̋̎ͮͣļ͍̰̊̈ͨ͛͗͂̾l̲͍̠͚͓̫̲̂͋̑͒͋ͮl̗͇͉̘͊̇̉̀l̼ͮḽ͉͓̹̯͎ͮ͗ͤ͠ͅl̟̫̱̠̜ͥ̈̅̕l̺ͫͥ̋ͫ̇̈́l̵̪͙̳̭̅ͤ͗l̬͓̤̽̎͊̒̈́ͤͥ͘l̥̠̹̟̠̞̔͂ͮͨ̅l̮͙̅̈ͤ̂͐ͥl̄̎͆ͯ̌ļ͎̲̏ͮ̂l̤̰̱̬͍̳̈́͑ͨͫ̎̓̏ĺ̛ͧ̍ͫl̨͉̈̽̌̒͆̇l̜͔̜ͫ̽̆̇ͣͮḻ̾̚ḻ̞̬̣͐͂l̺̗͖͒̆ͥ̃̕l̢̳̖̖l̩l̟̩̈́͂̌̑l̻̼̝̜̮ͭ̌͐̆͜l͛ͬͪľ͔ͦ̎̅l̫̳̭̓ͫ̈́ḻ̼͌̃͠ḷ̺͕͈̫̱̩̃ͫ̒̉ͬ͋ͪlͯl̥̊̊͑͌ͩl̗̠̙̬͖̰̖ͬͮ̚l̎͑̾͆̈́l̡̪̥͕͔ͮ̿͂ͬͅl̶ͣl̪̤̫̘͆̉l͕̜̰̒͛̒̄͋̀ͅḻ̢͙̰̯̼̻lͪ̆̄̀l҉̲̯̟̣̲l͎̯̘̥̺͈ͮ̍̆̉̾̈́̀́l̈̓̓l͙͖̲l̷͆l̹͓͐̌̌ͬͧ͊ͫ͟ͅl͓͍ͭ̚̕l̛͚ͬ̆ͧ͐̽̊l̨͍̿̀ͭ̾ͧ̒̚l͙̙͖̞͖̯̱̒͒ͬ͐ͤ̍ĺ̘̟̱̦̱̻ͥ͂͛l͓͈̱ͤͦ̓̑ͭͩ͆l̹͂͋̇͢l̰̤͕̦̲̀ḽ̣̦̖̱͉ͭ̂ͨ͌l̜̠͈̜̮̘̒̕l̫̠̔̊͐̾̂ͦͫl̟̼͐͋l̏͑̊͌ͮ̍ͨl̢̥͓̱̯̞̀l͇ͦͥͫ̏ͫ̋͜l̴̼̹̮̲͓l̠͕̏l̬̗̾̑̿͌l̸̘̫̖̼̙̳̥͛ͩ͒̍ͤ̚l̥̖̙ͨͣ͜l̰͇̣̏̈̄ͮͩl͈͈̳̳͛ͣ̋ͣ͊̀l͈̣̂͞l̙̥̖̤̝͡ḽ̸͍̆l̸l̶ļ̖̑́̃̒ͮ̅l͔̣̦̮͙̳͕͐l̤̥̼̗ͨ̍̂ͩ̿lͩ҉͇ͅl̪̱̥̈́͛̓ͦ̒̆l̼̬̳̽̏̅̓̊͒̅l͍̘͇͌͒̎̃lͮ͋l̺̤̜͓͠l̷̺̥ͧlͫ͑l̯̜̟̹̙̈͌ͬ̅ͯͤ̈l͔̰̩̒l̢̥̠͇͖̫̹ͨ́l̛̯͈͖̲̼l̜̘̞͒̐̾l̨͓̪͍͎̄ͣͮl͉͍̘̭̤ͅl̛̤̬̗̝ͮ̍̒̐̔̓ͬͅll͉̲͈̳̲̲͎͒̒ͤ̓ḷ̳͔͚͚̩ͪl̨̝͈͌ͥͥ̒l̇l̪̟̬͇̄lͯ̈͏̖̞̟̟l̶̯͕̼̠̒l̰̭̼̔́̽ͬ͋l͍ͥ̍́ ̦̙͖͚̂ͨ̎͐ͥ͛l͙͎͙l̰̳̪̹̤̖̎͂̀̋͌͐͂l̰͉̂l̩̙̫͗ͬͦ̑l͗͞l̟ͭl̖̖͉̀͌͋ͨͤ̋lͦl̽ͥ̚͟l̨͕̳̥͇ͩ́̓ͬ̾̂ͪl̪̘̲͌̅͊̏ͣl̸̟͕̣̼l̖̜̮̥͉̟͒̑ͫͪl͓̝̗̞̑̓̓̃̇̚͡l̸̃͆̀̏̊l̬̩̝̳͉̾̀̒ͪ̅l̴̐̆ͧl̥͈̂ͬͮ̍l̎͗͏l̢̠̠ͯ̄́͋̈́̓l͖͙͓͇̾̔̒ͦ̄l͚̩̹̗͉͓̰̓ͮͥ̔̄ll̠͕̭̪͔ͤͧͧͦ̈́ͥl͙̺͐͂̇l̙͇͇̣͍̝ͨ̐̋̓̉ͅl̰̤̥͒̋͑l̏͆͟l̎҉̱̘l̝̰͑ͪ̋ͥ̾̑͟ͅl͉̺̠̫̬̞̃̎̒̆̕ͅļ̍ͪl͒̈́ͯl̄̽͒͒l̜ͪl͔͕̯̞̭͢l̠̬̫̦̹̫̊͗l͚̙͇̩͙̮̐ͥ͋́͋ͫ͘l̀͐̀̄ͪ̏҉l͍͇̫̝l̷̫̳͍͓̅͂̒͂ͯļ̱͓ͣ̏̈͗ͮ̊̓l̩̳̟̟̜͂ͯ͢l̢̗̻ͥͩl̥̺̫ͬ̆ͥ̅͆͆ͣl̿͐͏̟̝͉̙̤l͎̞̫̪͐͊ͨͬ̈l̹͕̉͝l͈̿͂̈̂͠l͎͖̼̩͚͑̐͐̄ͮͮͥl͂ͥͭḽ̷̦̘̣̃͌͌̾ͨl̛̐ͨ͋ͩͩͭͮl̜̪̘͍͑͛̿̌l͈̣̻͂ͦ̈͋ͣ̀͐́l͍̥̬͚͕̹ͯ͂͢l̷͓̠̦͕͕̖̲̔͒ͭ̐͆ͦl̛̞̭̺͎̩͇̠̏ͪ͛̑l̢͚̗̖͔ͭ̃͑l͚͕̲̾ͦ̈ͦ͋ļ̠͎̥̹̤̃ͬ̏l̴̤͔̻̪͕ͅl͉͓̹̞̦̣̩̎̕l̨̔̏l̞̬͌̂lͬ́́ͪ̎҉͖̳͈̹̭̻l͌ļ͇̈́͗͒ͬ̊l̝̼̹̫͔̫ͦ̐ͮ͊ͫl̞̰̜̾ͩ͢l͕̼̈̓͋ͦ̽̅ḻ͙͗̓̐̐̈͋͞ͅl̯̘̱͔̯͌l̝͈͚͇l͍̻̻̦͉̮͕̊̈́̓̈́͝l̠̭̭̋̎̅ͫ̀l̍ͪ̾̏͌͌̄l̇̽ͪͤͨ̓͘l̮̿̏̚l̡̪͓̱̟͊̌̉́l̨͚̯l̹͖̮̖̩ͮ̃̎͛ͭ̚ͅl͓͖̮͙̮̈́̅̏̃̎ͮlͥͣͨͮ̚l̩̠̥̇͑̌͛̊̋l̥̻̆ͭͭ͑͞l̯͕̺̯̘̦͛̏͝ͅl̦̱̳͙͖̻̓̂̎ͅl͜l̴͖͙̼̯̥̘͆̔̅l̜̰͖͆̕l̸̹͓ͥ͆̄ḷ̵ͪ͐ͮ̔́̅l͉͔̝̙͎̻͡ͅl̤̙͈̠̋ͫ̊̈́̔̿́̚ḷ̶̭̮ͯl̜̹͍̦͗̐ͧ̐͝ͅl̯̮̞̭̤̱͔͗̈͛l̥̩̥̻̹͖͂ͤ̓ͪ͜l̳̥̘̺͕̖̱̅̓͋ͨͥ̍̇l̹̠̯͚̘̭ͦ͆̀̍̋ḷ̝̼̯͉̈́ͧl̨̪̰̝̭̥͖͌̈́͐l͑̊́̀̈̇ḻ̱͑͟l͔͙̱͔ͥl̻̤̦̹̻ͪ̇ͬ̇l̸ͧ̊͗ļ̃̍̉̊͐ͥll̴͎̱͎ͥ̎̏̀l͙̼͚͖͖͍l̲̥̍l̶̦̫̲̅̂̌̾͋l̬̑̌̀̚l̷͈͉͎̘͂ͥͯ̐ͤ̑ͩl̽̾ͬ͗̅ͯl͕ͣl̜͕͎̣̠̜̣͌̂̀l̖͇͑ͥ͗͋̂͂͌l̛̗̼̤ͫ̀̀l͉̯̭͕̱͂͋͒͗̃͛̄l̵͍͔̦͚͛l̶̲͚̙͙̠̊͗͒͆̀͛l̹̹͉ͬl̛̞̥̪̰͈͇͖̊̄̏l̶͔͖͚̺̼̾ͬ͆l̶͚̙ͧͭlͨ҉̖̲̳̥͇̹̮l̸͕͔̗͖͔̙ͧ̄̎̔̎͊ͨl̲̖̬̦ͤ͗͒̌̆l̢͉͙̫̝̹͚̪̀̚l̘͕͓͓̳̹̳l̲̹ͦ̄̓͋ͅl̵̓̆̄̆l̗̫̺͙͈͊l͉̹̘͓͉̻̎̋ͯ͊͟l͎̼͓̗̜̫͍ͨͦ͋̿́l͍̭̟͓̪̄l͉̬ͬ̈́́͐͌̅̏l̬̻̎ͅlļ͇̙͔̫̏̂l̪͈̭̼̦͓̰͂̃͛̍́ll̶͈̪̺̜̱l͚̆͂ ͈̊ͩ̊̽͗͆ͧ͢l͖̲͌͊̆̽ͪ̀l͆͟l̏̎͞l͓̾ͅl͕̿͠l̬̱͉̹̠̓̇ͭ̾ͅl̫̦͖̱̬͔̦̄ͣ͑͠l̢̥͍̗̪̙̇͛ͯ͋ͯ̌ͅl̆ͩ́̊l͎͓͔͊͂͌̊l̗͎̰̠͔ͯͅl̜͈̦̬̉͌ͨ̂ͣ̚l͉̗̥͙̪ͫ̈̓ͫ̀̀̌ͅl͈̣͓͚͕̘͐ͅl̩̰ͭ̑͊͆l͖̱̝̂̈́̍͜l̤ͦ̔̋͆ͭ̽̈͡l̤͓͕̜̝ͦ̎̽̈͘l̞͖l͇̖̳̪̤̞̞ͭͬ̊͡l̗ͬͬ́͌͂l̥̰̹̯̻̝̏̉͌̈́l̗͕̤͖̰̙̐̉̆l̴ͩ͛ͣ͒̽l̦̼̗̞͓͊̃͂l̥̪͇̠̜ͤl̨̜̬̽͋̀l̠̙ͬl͔̖̹̩̰l̶̇͑̌l̮̋̇͆̀l̮̜̭̣̈ͣl̪̪̖̝͉͕͍l͙̳̭͇̚l͒ͤl̹̲̺̫̍͞l̢̫̱͔͉̓̓͑ͧ͑̐l͖͓̥͔͂̒͌̄̄ͣl̝͖̰̊̂̆̇ͪlͧ̑҉̹͕̮̣̭ĺ̬̮̳̦̬͕̜l͗̄̔͞l͋͏͇̻͓̱̬̲͕l͚̭͓͙̳ͦ̽͗̆̒͂̚ͅl̵͙͍̲̇̇̆͒l͏̙̰l̜͉̤͚̝̥͑́ͦḽ̬̦̠̦͕͆ͭ͋̃́́ͅl̰̺͎͕̪̭̿̋̑l̜̩̲̼̼̘͗̆̋̒ͤ̓̓l̦̪͘l̯̰̦̒l̫͐͐̀̽͌͑͛ĺ̞̠͚̬͉̱͎ͬl̵̠̦̥̬ͯͧ̍l̴̗͍̣̮̯̻̓ͥ̎̑̐l̤̗̈́̿ͮ̒̚l̇̃ͫ̋͊̓҉̠̤̱̩͚͍̟ḽ̣̮̘̭ľ̷̗͔̰̖̅ͣ͑ͫl̛̅̀l̙̍l̰̊l̫̦̲̑l͏̩̙̣͍͚̯̭l̫̮͚̗̻͉ͦͬ͑ͦl̎̽̊͆̋ͦ҉l͎͕̤̫̓́ͭ̃̚l̲̺̲̺̟̘̹͛ͪl͚̠ͦͮͨͮ̑ͭͮ́ͅl̻͌̇͝l͇̞̟̇̐͋̃l̼͙̻̓͐ͭ̏̅ͭ̚l̢̉̔̊l̴̤̿̌ͥ̑̾̓l̵͎̠̖͈͂ͤ̈́̏͋͒l̪͕͚͗̉ͪ͋̄ͪl̜̖ḽ̟̖̘͓͈l͈̣̳͉̦̈́̄̔̿̄ͤ͗l͕͍̰̙̺̰ͭ̀l̻̗͍͉̣̮͋̽̔͌͗l̵͙̩̟̒͂̓́̎̉̑l̊ͣ͂͒̽̎҉͇͕l̦͐̾͛̑l̪̩͍̐̀ͭͅl̡͙̣͕͊̏̂ͥl̷̦̒̾ͭ̋̚l̻̀̉́͐͐ḻ̈ͅl̞̥̟̰̞ͯ̑ͧͩ̅̉͊ͅl̗̝̖̱̞̟l͉̲̺̖̽ͯ̍͒ͣͦl̶͎͌̓l͑ͧ͋ͧ͑̂l̼̽̆͑̌͛͂ͥl̒ͯ̒ͭl̗̘̖̮ͮ͊̚l̓͌̀͊̽ͪ͐l̤͕̫̜̯̃͒̊ͅļ͉̒͛l͍̜͖͚͕̮̿͐͆̏͗ͪĺ͇̤l̪̒͋͗ͩ̽l̩͆ͩ͝l̝̮̞̝̤̝̱̒͂̓l̖̩̼͎ͫ͋̓̒͊͋̃l̠̑ͥ͗͆̀ͤl̜̲̱̹̠͝lͤ͆͑l̲̣̰̈́̀̒̈͌l͕̞̺͉͖l̛͍̼̹̭͈̎l̫̥̞̫͚̖̍̕ͅl̥͓̥͍̟͔͙ͯ̿ͯ͌ͭl͔̙̟̺̤ͯ̋̈́͂ͫ̃ͤl͍̳̻̠̳̹͞l͎ͤͪ̐̂̾̐͑͜l̻̫̤̥̻͜l̶͖͍̗̗̿l̫͓̪̲̼ͭͫͮ̀ͨl͉̗̓ͯ͊ͮ͒l̝̏͌ͦͭ̓̾l̢̻̰̠͕̳̦ͥ͌͐l͉̩ͯ̾ͦ̃̓̒l͎̠̳͙̃̀͊ͨͩͮḷ͓͓̘̈̒͋̆ͨl̵̦͚͉̺̞̗̈ͩ̓̐l̛͕͇̭̣͎ͯl͈̫̟̘͙ͯ̒̿̈ͦ͌͂ḻ̣̦̯͋͑͗ͨl̖͙̥̘͎͞ĺͦ͂͏͇̟l̟͉̙͉̱̳̝lͭ̆͛҉̹l̻͔l̠̥͕̜̞̬̾ͫ̀l̶͈̤̰̩͉̓̏͜ͅl̟̘̣̥̜̲͚̖͉͋̓ͬl͌̓ͤ́̋̂́͏̷҉͕̩̲̪l̸̛̞̲͚̩̘̙ͬ̀̚lͥͮ͆̔̿͌̈ͥ͢͠҉̥͙͉̝l̳̬̫͍̬̒̐́ͯ͝l̥̼͍̥̠͇͂̋͒̕͢l̨̨̧͚̝͔͕͉̣̪̯ͦ͒ͧ͋͒̓l͊͆͊͗͛̍ͪ͌ͮ͟͏̹͇l̛͈̮͎ͨͨ̓̕͞ ̋ͩ̍̎ͦ́͏̫̦̠l̝̖ͨ̋̌̂͒̊͐l̴̙̭̭͎̉͛ͫ̊ͅl͔̠͌̓l͈͈̟͚̱̟̒͂̂͛ͬ͂̚l̰l̶̯̥̩̗̳̻͔̿̌̉̌ͦ̉̔ḽ̮̙̭̖̟͙ͤ̾́̐̎ͪ̀̚l̻̬̮͜ĺ͚̘̌̄͒ͅl͎̰̲̪͈̤̝͒ͬ͗l̴͇̞̳̙̖̏ͤll͍̱̅̂̊͟l̶̲̯̹͉̺̩ͦ̽ͤl͎͓ͦ̓̔̒l̳̻͎͇͔̈́ͭͭ̑ͯl̦̤̺̫̯l̸̠͇̏͛͒l͔͇̩̹̞͇ͩ̇͋ͯͅl͎̝̗̱ͬͬ͋̑ͩl͇̻̔̽̐ͣ̾̏l̘͑ͥͤ̾ͪ̿ͪ̀l̛̤̺̪̦̥͉ͪ͑̽̒l̔̌͐͡l̠̺ͭ͠ͅl̼̰̝͙̥͂̒̄̅̓̈́ͪͅl͎ͪl͛ͪ̌͌ͮ͏̹̟̩͈̮ḽ̣͉̩̪͖͂͊͂̅͛̔̈́l̵̥͛l̀̌̒̓͌ͪ͡l̟̘̘̯̍ͦ̊l̹͍̝͙̗̩̮͊̎ľ̪l̡͕͍̗̳ͮ̈́̌̚l͕̦̯̻͇̺̤̓̽ͮ̀ͯ̓l̘̦̻͇̭̐̍̊ͫ̑̕ͅl̥̰̲͍̗͎̍ͯ̓ͫ̿̎͂l̦̜̥̥̙̫ͧͅl̵̘ͯͨ̃̃l̛͖̬͚̣̩̼̰̊͛̊̐l̴͉̥̻̒̔l͝lͭ́ľ̖̮̒ͦ͠l̘͎̺̻̳̳̩̑̐͊ͩͧ̿l͍̻͍͖̯̻̉ļ͒ͧ͗ͩͅl͖͙̝ͭ̈̊͘l͚̦̬̱̈́̇ͨ̂̕l̠̺̻̍̌ͪͯ̑̀ͅlͦ̓̅͛ͦ̄͗̀ļ̜l̲̱̺͊̅̒̔͠l̻̯͇̳̹̮̳̂͘l͓̱̳̪̳̮͟l̫̹͕͔̯̻̲͌̕l̜̺̪̪ͣl̬̮͍̦̮͕̮̿ͣ̄͌l͙̗̩͇͔l̮̭̫̓͛̇̕l͕̦͎͇ͧ̅̋͑͘l̫̓̄͋͛l̺̐͊̅͂͡l̗̗̳̤͒͊̌̎̐̂͜ḽ̷͉̖̮̱̻͑̅̃͆̃ͦl̐ͪ̆ͦ̉̔lͯlͫ̽͏͍͇̲͓̳̙͙l̎͂͆̊͏̭̼̭̝͔̥̮l̝̙̹͕͔̹̔̓ͧ̐ͧ̉ͫḽ̮͔̥͉ͩ̾̓͋̎lͬ͌ḽ̞͚̥̥̰ͬ͞l̘̰͎̞ͮ̂͞ḽ̣͕͔̘̮͕̉͐̕l̊̔ͪ҉͉̜̘͔̳l̴̹̥͐ͣ͒ͣ̃̅̏ĺ͖̥̟̫͎̂ͯ͌̓ͨͧ͞l̨l͌ͨ̈́҉̳̤̘̭̯͖̬l̦̩͎͙̞͍̭̈̄l̼̩̩̗̱͕̅̂͗ͤͮͪl̯͈̤͙̐ͤͦ͒ͅl͋̓́ͥ͝l̝̜̼͎̼͙̜ͫ̕l͍̮̘͉̞͔̈́ͨ̽͂̋̃̇l̩̯l̰̹͙͙̲̏͂ͩͩͩͩ͞l̩̤̻̊̈́̈́͌̇ͩ̚͜ḻ̮̏̏̏̀͂l͊̍ͬͬͨ̑l̰̳̰͙l̬̭̳͖͉̜̰̀l̨̘̤̥͙͎͇̏̈́ͭͣl̢̬ͤͦl̛͖͈͎͙͙͇̭̉l̮̘̳͙͗̍ͅl͒̎͛͑ͧͧ͜l̜̻̑̆̈́̇̾̀l̃͐̀͊ͥ̅l̗̥̝̹̈͋̔ͥ͟ͅl̷̦͂l̞̥̱̞̺͓ͦ̔̏͆l̪͕̳̉͂̒ͣͥͥḽ̴͇́l̰̞̳͔ͪ̑́̑̈́̊̍l̯̰̙̭̟̼̊̾ͧͭl̺͙̜̯̬̗ͮ̐̄͛͋̒̔lͧͧl͔͍ͦ̂͘l̬̱͙̱ͤ͗̽ľ͙̮̗̫͆ͫ̅́̈ͭl͓̔́̅l̫͉̲̩͋͊͋͊̚͢l͐̀̌̆̓҉̖l͈̟̲͉͊̊ͨͥ͊l̴̬͇̰͇̹̱̤̓̂́͒̏̅ͪl̙͎͔̰ͅl̠̰̣͖̫͊l̝̼͇̣̤͈͟l̝͕̤͍̦̥̹ͦͪ̏l̜͙̗̙̫̭͚ͤ͋̽͆͠l̀ͩ͋l̨̮̹̾̓ͥl̤̉̀͘l̵͙̺̪͇̠̤ͥ̎ͤ̏l̞̙̄ͦ͐͊͝l̜͔ͦ͌̀l͇̗̖ͤ͟l͏͕̟̫̫̱l̩̻̠̣̈́̓̉͌͜l̠͉̯ͪͣ̆̽̋l̖͕ͩ̔̆͌̈ͭl̡͈̳̻͔̙͓̈́͒͒̌͆l̓̇͜l̮̼̼̄̍͐͡ ̗͈͎̦̰́l̜͂ͥ̈́̀̒ͪl̓ͣ͗l̖̩̼̙̭̱͂ͤ̈́ͭͧ́l̘̟̯̲ͮͣͅl̸̤̳̪̫̻̠̬̈l̸͓͓͗ͩ̽̔ͩͬ͛l̝̪̼͚͍̳͞l̮l̗̭̼͋͋ͮ̿ͥ̀ͧl͋̓ͦ͏l̉̏ͪͬ̊͏͔̤̯̺̬͍̥ĺ̢͚̼͕̻̱̎ͯ̇̓͒̚l̨̯̩̼̬̭̱̲l̜̺̘̞̣͉͓ͪḽ͍͎̳̗ͦ̔ͤ̆̓̄ͭl̹̠̯͚̟͖̾ͣ͒l̦͎̹̹̼̝̺͑ͪ̓l͖̩ͭ̀͌ͤͭ͟ļ̪͖͇̲̙͔̿͊̆ͭ̿l̮͉̖l̢̓ͥ̑̐̒͒l͆̈̈ͩ͆҉l͌̑̑̄̓́͋l̬̠̦͎̞̦͖͛̾ͪl̬̳͙̦̲̊ͪ͢l̹͆ͩl͎̬͍̼̗͓̖̈͂̌̀͊̐̈͞l̡͍̙̙̝̿̃ͪͭ̍l̨̰̱̥̩̩̺͊͛̅ͬ͂̓l̜̜̼ͅlͤ̑ͣ̓̓̔̓͞l̍̽ͦ̃ͯͯl̪̥͖̄ļ͇̱̟̩l̡͇̪̖̮͇̩̭ͫ̔͌̈́̓͊͊l͇̜̮͉͔͆͂l̢̪l͕͍̺̝̠͔̾ͤͬͩ̊͌̐l̠̘̭̗̍͗̓̊̈́̋́͝ͅl͎̟͎͖̞̠͑ͨͣͬlͦͬ̾̂ͬl͈̼̺͚͉͚̬l̠͉̞̣̭̭͂̉͛ͅl̼̥͚̠̥̚l̘͉͙͙͚̗̀̆̾̽̄̾͘l̫͍͓̿͂ͥl̠͈̲ͫl̜ͦ͡l̿͑͞l̖̤̞̠̙͇̈̆̒̑͆͠l̉̓͠l̯̩̲̙̖̰͊̉ͦ̕l̰͈̉ͤ̇̓l͔̲̰̲̓̌ͨ̓͟ͅl̟̺͍̳͙ͥ̊͐ͥ͆̀l̼͕ͤ̑̍̎l̈̔ͦ̐͡l̖̪͎̱̤͉̐̉̒ͧͪͧ̓ͅļ͈̄ͩ̽ͦ̿̚̚l̀̉͐̚҉̱̤͎̪l̦͉̲̘̱̜͓̓̃͜l̝̟̳̳̳̣̍̾̀͆̉ͨ͞l͍̠̻͔̤̉ͬ͂ͪ͒ḽ̮͍ļ̹̖̮̔l̴ͥ̽̑̔̊̊l͓̱͚͕ͧ̇̃͗́l̵͚̬͕͇̠ͨͪ̃l͙͕ͣ̅̔̊̋̋̏͘l̼͕̦̗͕͎̙ͣ͛̎ͭ̇l͍̠͍͕̄l̲̎̏̐̏̔l͉̳̘̫͈̥͕̅ͣ͐͗̍̓̓l͇̲͛l̯͖̻ͥ͆̂ḽ̮̻̲̻̙ͣl̞̺̱̻̐̽ͫͯ̅̓̇l̼͒͊͜l̟̥̍̾͠l̯̣̖̺̈͐l̷͔̥̺̭͌̑͒ͨ̊l̹̦͛l̨̠̹͈̮̚ḻ̙͇͖̙͉̂͆̐l̼ͩ͑̈́͗ͯl̟̳̞̠͔̟̮ͦl̺̩̥̖͔l͉ͭ̓͛l̳̙͓͇̰̃͆ͩͭ̓̚l̥͖͕͙ͩͫ͑̎̕l̨̯͈͋̊͊ͧḻ͚̖̱͌̒l͉͐̍l͛̈́ͣ̿l̼̪̪̜͕̐̆ͤ̊͛̎̓l͕͕̩̥̞̦̟͌̀̿ͣ̏͌ͧl̈́ḷͮ̓͒̋͆̄̎l͐ͬ̈́́҉͙̻̦̻̜̦l͙͗l̶̙̗͇̮̒̈ͅlḻ͙̲̟l͞l̹̾ͯ̿͊̚ļ̫̫̂͆͛͑̔l̴̬̮ͮ̽ͧ̒͋ll̨͎͎̖̝ͅl̜͚͙ͧ͗͗lͣ͆̚͠l̪ͧ́̿̔ͣͩ̓̕l̦̑̋ͬ̒̎ͧ̚l̮̲̜̯ͨ̅ͭ͌ͩ͌̚l̖̭ͨͬ͆̾ͨͮ̋l͓ͩ̉ͬl̅ͨ̌ͧͫl̖̫̼̎ͤͬ̊̓̋l̡̤̘̿̋̀ͫ̅̐l̵̾ͣ͆̂ͥll̛̳̩͎͕̠̠ͬ̎l͓̼̾ͦl͔̳͙̥̩͗̀̾̾̄l͕̙͟ͅl̥͕͈͈͓͕͔͟ ͌͏̲̦l̇̽̽ͦ́̋͏ḷ̣̔̾ͣͯ͗̑l͚̣̼͈͔͌̇͆̀̆̇͜lͬ̇ͩ̋̇̓̀l̠ͩͤḻ̞͈ͪͭ́͐l̼̲͙̪̼̍ͬͦ̋́l̩̙ͦ̉̑͐̄͠l̏ͧ̉l̻̼͇͎̓͗̅̍l̙͋͊͒̌ḽ̬͂ͤ͒͆̚l͉̥̩̎l̝̲͔̹͆̍̂ͤl͕͔̪̲̞ͪ̇̚l̲̤̘̏̿͊ͭ͊͝l̝̟̯̞̼̬ͯͭ͌͂̿̂̋l̬̲ͨͫ̈l̟͚͔͚͍̋̌̐ͅͅl͎̹̬̹̅ͭl̪̚͠ḻ̖̼̰̗̗̽̔ͫ̓ͨ͂ͪl̻̠̰̪̙̘͠l̘̜̱̺ͤ̃͑̔͌l͋͗̋͂͘l̜̫̤̳̠̤l̺͚̣̳̳ͩͥ̒͂̏ͪ͟l̷̹͛͊̚l̥̿͗̈̽̓͠l͍͎̬̫̣͇͚ͫl̲̙͚̙̙̱͓l̯͓͍̂̒̃͘ͅl̟͈͛̎̊l̼̂ͫͫͨ͆̋̚l̩̹̙̦̼ͭ́l̟̙ĺ̞͖̹̯͙̯ͤ͒̎̑̎͂l̺͆ͮͭ̿̈́̿́l̗̻̣̑ͅl͉̇̑͐̈̅͋̐l̛͓̱̩͕̯ͩ͊ͫͨ͛ļ̙̦̫͚̫̭̃̊͆l̮͍̝͚̞̼̉ͅl͖͌͑l̟͘l̗ͥͅl̝̹̦̫̙̻ͭ̉ͅḷ̛̫̞̬̘̣̬̿ll͌͘l̸̞̖͓̰̟̼̓ͭͥ̈̎̔ͅl͍̣̠̬̭̲͗ͩͮͫͯ̚l̛̻̗̘̫̰ͣͨͭ̏ͭl̎҉̜̘͈l͓̖͕̘ͨ̄͒̿l̤̮̯̙̪͇̊̌ͅl͙̥̰̫̥̑̆l̪͔̪ͪ̄l̛͙̍ͨ̔̑̀l͉̙̠̟̩̑̔̉̿̅̀l͈͒̐̎ͤ͗̃̋l̒̓ͥ̂ͬ́͞l̴̗͖̎l̼̪̝͋̓̋̊l͍̺l̡̾͆l̵̀l̊̓ͬl̯̾ļ̭̞̿ͣ͊̐ͥl͚͕̎̉l̬̱̞̬̳̉̋ͅͅl̜̹͓͔̱̦̈ͥ͂̆͑̇ľ̷̺̼͔̺͚̼̦̏͊ͣ̽ͪ̐l̂̅͋̈́̂̋͐͢ͅl̮̙͇̲̖͎̓ͬ̾͛̀ͯ̊ͅl̞̲ͅl͏̥̮̤̟̙̼l̡̟̜͔̱̇l̖͕͖̬̰ͅl͎͉̋ͫ̋͆͌ĺ̸̘̥̼̯̹̺ͨ̚ͅl̠͇̓͢l̴̩̙̟̗̼͒̓̇̄̇ͩl̨̪̞̗̱̭̓l̠̈́̍̅̋l̈́ͬ̎͒͘l̬̙͙̥̝͔̒̚l̪͈̘̳̗̂ͫͤͬ̃̏l̶̺͍͎͈͓̯̍̌͗́̆͒͒l͇͈̲̼̟̩̬͌̇lͭͤͦ̉̂̋l͓̰̠͇͆͛͂͗͊lͥl͆̾͑ͨ̓̋͗͏̤̮̥̦ l͚͕̎̉l̬̱̞̬̳̉̋ͅͅl̜̹͓͔̱̦̈ͥ͂̆͑̇ľ̷̺̼͔̺͚̼̦̏͊ͣ̽ͪ̐l̂̅͋̈́̂̋͐͢ͅl̮̙͇̲̖͎̓ͬ̾͛̀ͯ̊ͅl̞̲ͅl͏̥̮̤̟̙̼l̡̟̜͔̱̇l̖͕͖̬̰ͅl͎͉̋ͫ̋͆͌ĺ̸̘̥̼̯̹̺ͨ̚ͅl̠͇̓͢l̴̩̙̟̗̼͒̓̇̄̇ͩl̨̪̞̗̱̭̓l̠̈́̍̅̋l̈́ͬ̎͒͘l̬̙͙̥̝͔̒̚l̪͈̘̳̗̂ͫͤͬ̃̏l̶̺͍͎͈͓̯̍̌͗́̆͒͒l͇͈̲̼̟̩̬͌̇lͭͤͦ̉̂̋l͓̰̠͇͆͛͂͗͊lͥl͆̾͑ͨ̓̋͗͏̤̮̥̦l̠̤̥͓̄ḻ̭̰̤͔̎ͬl̯̭͕l̻̗͌͒̎͟l̀l҉̯̪̮̼̠ļ̲̩̠̻̜̠̹̌̽́l͔̈lḻ̯̗̤̝̖͑ͯ͋ͪͪͭ̚l̅̃͗̄̚ḽ̘̘͕͇͓͉͌̿ͣ́ľ̥̰̖͗͑ͧ͆͌͞l͓͉̟̩̣̞ͬ̏̐̔ͪ͌̋l̰͔̺̐̄̊l̤̠̝̣͔ͦ̉̇l̐҉̭̳ͅl͖̯̞̈ͮ̈l̢̯̮̙̥̫̹l̮̬͓͕͎l̡̦͉̣̯͉l͉̰̝̖̣̩ͤ̒́l̹̻̳̀l͚̦͔̖͕̣̹͑ͪ̓͒̋l̲̻̎͋́̒́̚͝ͅl̷̰̥̳̦̳̃̍ͩ̊͂͛l̤͙͇̦̹̜̊͌l̪̖̠͕͓̭͑̾̌̚ͅl͚̬͓̼͓͛͡l͚̻̯ͬ̇l͇͍͒̌͆̕l͎̥̟͔̰̭̩̀̽̔͂l̶̟̜̥̥͚̬̦̍̎l̥̠̾̈ͧͬͮ̚ļ̗͕̹̋ͪͯ̄ͬ͋l̖̣ͣ̍l͚̮͈̬͇̤ͫͪͦͅl͑ľ͏̝̠͍ḽ̯̟̼̖ͣ̎̌͐̉̓̒̕ͅͅḷ͈̼̹ͤ̓̾͐l̶̻̹͇̦͚̤̤̈l̶̫͖̠̰̙̠͙̀͑̍͆͊ͩͯl̗̠̱̳͉̰̏̔͛ͩ̿͠ḽ͊̈͑͐̾̈ͩḻ̶͇͖̙̘̹͎̋͋ͭ͆̓̊̚l̜̭͓͇̩͎l͚͕̎̉l̬̱̞̬̳̉̋ͅͅl̜̹͓͔̱̦̈ͥ͂̆͑̇ľ̷̺̼͔̺͚̼̦̏͊ͣ̽ͪ̐l̂̅͋̈́̂̋͐͢ͅl̮̙͇̲̖͎̓ͬ̾͛̀ͯ̊ͅl̞̲ͅl̠͇̓͢ ̸͋̒͗͐ͣͣͯ̑ ̵̒̀͞ ̽͋̽̋̅͌ͦ͟҉̀ ̃͂͂ͨͭ͌͐͛́͠ ̡̨ͣ̌ͯͤ̆ͤ̀̚̚ ̒̈́͆ͯ̇̍͌͂ ̨̿̅̀̆ͫ̀ͩ͠ ͩͦ̓̈̽̿̔ͮ /̨̡̘̹̼̙̤̣̟̟̹͑ͥ́̃́͂̂͐͑͢ ̈́̑̆̒̾ͥ̃̚͢ ̸͋̒͗͐ͣͣͯ̑ ̵̒̀͞ /̨̡̘̹̼̙̤̣̟̟̹͑ͥ́̃́̃͂͂ͨͭ͌͐͛́͠ ̡̨ͣ̌ͯͤ̆ͤ̀̚̚ ̒̈́͆ͯ̇̍͌͂ ̨̿̅̀̆ͫ̀ͩ͠ ͩͦ̓̈̽̿̔ͮ ͭ͋́҉͘ ͂̂͐͑͢ ̈́̑̆̒̾ͥ̃̚͢ ̢̊̌͋̍̏͑͘͜ ̢ͤͨ͗̓̂ͬͥ͢͠ ̀̑͗ͪ͐̎̃̈ ̎̽ͭ͏ ̅̉̓̇̏ͨ͋͒́͏ ̄̽ͥͪ̑̽͘ ̌͊̂̄̚͞/̨̡̘̹̼̙̤̣̟̟̹͑ͥ́̃́ ̸̨̓ͬ̍͗̓ͣ͋̒͗͐ͣͣͯ̑ ̵̒̀͞ ̽͋̽̋̅͌ͦ͟҉̀ ̃͂͂ͨͭ͌͐͛́͠ ̡̨ͣ̌ͯͤ̆ͤ̀̚̚ ̒̈́͆ͯ̇̍͌͂ ̨̿̅̀̆ͫ̀ͩ͠/̨̡̘̹̼̙̤̣̟̟̹͑ͥ́̃́ͩͦ̓̈̽̿̔ͮ ͭ͋́҉͘ ͂̂͐͑͢ ̈́̑̆̒̾ͥ̃̚͢ ̢̊̌͋̍̏͑͘͜ ̢ͤͨ͗̓̂ͬͥ͢͠ /̨̡̘̹̼̙̤̣̟̟̹͑ͥ́̃́̎̽ͭ͏ ̅̉̓̇̏ͨ͋͒́͏ ̄̽ͥͪ̑̽͘ ̌͊̂̄̚͞ ̏ͫ͜͞ ̵̡̔̏ͪͦ̿ ̨̓ͬ̍͗̓ͣ ͛̉̀̽ͦ͡ ͤͮ̅̉̓̇̏ͨ͋͒́̚͜͏ ̄̽ͥͪ̑̽͘ ̌͊̂̄̚͞ ̏ͫ͜͞/̨̡̨̘̹̼̙̤̣̟̟̹͑ͥ́̃́̓ͬ̍͗̓ͣ ͛̉̀̽ͦ͡ ͤͮ̚͜/̨̡̘̹̼̙̤̣̟̟̹͑ͥ́̃́ ̷ ͟ ͠ ͡ ̡ ͢ ̛ ͞ ̡ ͢ ̛ ͞ ̛ ̨ ̢ ̸ ͢ ̸ ̸ ̧ ͢ ́ ͘ ̵ ̸ ̛ ̶ ́ ̕ ̡ ́ ̡ ͜ ̷ ̴ ̕ ͢ ́ ͘ ̵ ̸ ̛ ̶ ́ ́ ́ ̕ ̡ ́ 
Fuck--
I jolt awake in a cold sweat, gunshots and screams and clanging metal and
Stop. It was a dream. A dream. I can't panic. Shouldn't panic. That'll just lead them straight to
Stop. STOP. I'm in Emma Porter's living room, in the suburb of Orchard Park, in Bluefield City, on the colony of Venlil 4. I'm not on Earth. I'm not back home. It was a dream. There is no threat. Just a dream. I am safe.
I take several deep, long breaths, focusing on the sights, ready to pull the trigger slowly forcing myself back into a stable state of mind, slowly reigning in my pounding heart. It was just a dream. Nothing more. I'm not still back there. I never will be back there. Never again.
Something twitches atop my chest, a cop holding me down while the other checks my backpack and my jittery hands instinctively slither up to find long, silky fur. He's here. I'm here. My fingers run throughout the ungroomed fluff, the tactile proof of being on an alien world, far away from the clusterfuck of home. I'm safe. I am safe.
I. Am. Safe.
...
My eyes gradually drift toward the curtains, to the warm, natural glow from beyond.
///// Date (standardized human time): January 23rd, 2137 /////
Slivers of sunlight manage to creep through around the edges, too yellow to be sunrise. The curtains must have closed themselves when the storm moved on and it got bright outside. Automatic blackout curtains certainly sound like the kind of cool tech Emma would just casually have.
It looks like midday. Probably 6th or 7th claw, if I had to guess. I somehow got more sleep than usual. Not a full eight hours, given Sparci is still dead asleep, but... more is better. I won't complain.
It's almost eerie how similar he is to a regular dog in how he jerks and twitches periodically, facial muscles wildly shifting through a million expressions a second. Whatever he's dreaming about must be fun. Probably jabbering someone's ears off. God knows he doesn't shut up once someone gets him started. Not that that's a bad thing--
Wait.
Every few seconds, he lets out an odd chirp or whimper. I listen closer, realizing he sounds... distressed. His breathing is unstable, tail around his leg, hackles raised. Every other facial twitch looks like he's trying to bare his teeth. I don't like this.
"Hey. Wake up," I say, nudging him with my entire shoulder. He doesn't stir. I really don't like this. "Wake up, you little shit."
"Sparci--"
His eyes shoot open with a loud gasp, and he flails in wild panic, lashing out as he flings himself backward and away from me. He lands awkwardly on my legs--
The blanket comes loose, and he slips off the couch and goes crashing down to the wooden floor. He lands hard on his right side, the impact forcing out a loud, loud yelp. My heart stops cold, hearing the awful sound.
I bolt off the couch without thinking, every instinct screaming at once to check on him. He curls tightly into himself, squeezing his limbs and tail close, shivering in either horror or pain or both.
He flinches when my feet hit the floor, and stares up at me with fear in his eyes. It's That look. The one every prey uses before they get it in their stupid heads that humans aren't dangerous. Why? I thought we were cool now. I thought he trusted me.
But as I open my mouth to say something, his face changes. Recognition. "Dan?" he breathes.
"I'm here," I say as softly as I can, slowly crouching down and kneeling beside him. He reacts suddenly, uncurling and all but lunging toward me, and throws his arms around my chest. He's shaking, ears pinned to his head and tail completely between his legs.
God. No. I hate this. More than anything.
I grit my teeth, barely able to force myself to stay calm. That yelp was easily among the worst noises I've ever heard. "Are you okay? Does it hurt?"
He doesn't respond. Christ. What the hell do I do here? I just woke up from a fucking nightmare. This is the last thing I want to be dealing with right now. How do I even begin to fix this?
Acting on autopilot, I slowly twist downward to sit fully on the floor. His arms cling so tightly to me that, wherever I move, he comes with. I gently run my fingers through his fur, carefully feeling around where his leg was dislocated before. He winces when I touch what must be a sore spot, but it doesn't feel like it's slipped back out of place.
"It's fine. You're alright," I whisper, wrapping my arms around him to pull him closer. "What happened?"
His lips tighten and he shakes his head back and forth, letting out a near-inaudible whine. Something in my chest burns like fire, some ancient instinct awoken by the sound.
"C'mon, buddy, I need you to talk to me. I can't help you if you don't."
"...Th-they were, w-waiting for me," he shakily whispers. "They were there wh-when I got home, and Mr. B-Bargra- and they-- and, a-and--"
His words peter out as he falls apart entirely, collapsing into my lap and heaving agonized sobs that hurt too much to hear.
I can't stand it. Seeing him like this, feeling it—the way every breath he takes turns into a too-shallow gasp, the way his body heaves with every sob—and knowing I can't do anything to make it better. Every part of my soul aches, but the best I can do is hold him, give him time, let him cry it out.
///// Advancing transcript by ≈20 minutes. /////
We stay there on the floor for longer than I can keep count. It feels like hours. Throughout all of it, I run my hands through his fur, continuously scratching down his back even as my arms go numb. A tiny blinking light hidden within one of the smart lamps is all I need to know where Emma has been throughout all this.
But gradually, the distraught farsul's sobbing turns to quiet sniffling and the occasional hiccup, and he stops shaking so hard, and his ears and tail go slack. Finally, he lifts himself from my lap, looking fatigued—and maybe a little embarrassed—as he stares pointedly at the corner of the room.
"Um... g-good waking, I guess," he quietly says, voice more than a little raspy. "I'm... sorry about... all that."
"...No. Don't be. You had a nightmare, didn't you?"
His tail flicks a hesitant yes.
"Yeah. Nightmares are fucked. But, listen—there's no fault in reacting badly when your brain decides to be an asshole for no reason. There's nothing you can do but calm down and move on."
He looks contemplative for a moment—well, as contemplative as he can be, with his drenched cheeks and periodic sniffs—and I take the chance to release my grip on him and slide upwards to sit back on the couch. The floor isn't exactly a good place to spend... however long it's been. He seems to get the same idea, and slowly rises to follow, notably putting minimal pressure on his sprained leg, before turning and gingerly crawling onto the couch next to me. I can tell he's still miserable, but he looks like he's at least able to hold it together.
"...Do you ever have nightmares?" he quietly asks.
...
It's better to be honest. "Yes. I... actually just had one. Right before you."
"Really? What was it about?"
A familiar sense of dread melts into my gut. I take a deep, practiced breath to center myself before my brain can even have the chance to start dredging up bad memories. "Shit that happened back on Earth," I say, focusing more on the feeling of his weight leaning against my arm. It helps, knowing he's here, knowing I'm here. "...To make a long fuckin' story short, my parents weren't good people."
"Oh..."
"But that's enough about me. What made you break down like that?"
He tenses. "...Um. It wasn't really a nightmare. It was... the day I..." he grows quieter with every word. "Got... evicted."
...
This is what we need. I have to push for more. God dammit.
"What happened?"
He takes too, too long to respond. Long enough that I fear I've started another breakdown. "...They all wanted me to leave," he finally murmurs. "My neighbors. Mr. Bargra. They were waiting, and, um... they... made it clear I wasn't welcome."
...
"Go on."
"Sorry. I just... you went there, right? To my apartment. You saw... how it- what they did to it."
"I did see. It's not something I can forget. But what I want to know is how it got like that. What, exactly, did they do?"
He fidgets with his paws, tail curling about anxiously. "Um. They... I dunno. Bad stuff. I... is it okay if we don't, um. If, if we talk about something else?"
Tsk. I wish we could.
"I need to know what happened back there. I can tell it's hurting you." I lift my arm and lay it on his shoulders, allowing my fingers to rub circles between his ears. "But I can't help you if you don't talk to me."
He whines, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he draws into himself. For a terrifying moment I think I've spooked him with the ear scritches, or that I've pushed too hard too soon. But then he mutters a quiet "Okay."
I wait, watching patiently until he figures out where to start. "So... um, after we got the news about the Archives, my neighbors came and decided... well, they didn't like me anymore. I mean, in hindsight, I guess they never did like me, but now they were a lot more... up front about it."
He pauses for several seconds, taking shaky breaths as he seemingly collects himself. "They wrote stuff on the door. Um. You saw that already. And they... said stuff to me, yelled through my door when I w-was trying to s-sleep, came to my work and yelled at me there. Regulars stopped coming in cuz they didn't wanna deal with me, and... u-um..."
As he trails off in a fit of sniffles, I open my arms in an unspoken invitation. He stares for only a second before scooting closer and leaning heavily into my side. "I'm getting off track. Sorry. Um. So, one day—the day we met, um, 3rd claw or so—I came home, and... and they were there. Waiting. Mr. Bargra let them in, and... and they..."
"They broke everything," he hiccups. I hug him tighter and press my hands into his chest, gently scratching in repetitive motions that I can only hope help to keep him calm. "My photos. My mini sled. My... artifacts. I brought all of it from, f-from home, and they, they wrecked it, all of it."
"A-and they said they h-hated me, and said I'm a problem, and a nuisance, and they n-never wanna see me again, a-and Mr. B-Bargra, he, h-he--!"
Sparci abruptly grabs my arms, gripping them too tightly, as if he's afraid to let go. He huffs and whimpers, clearly trying his best not to fall apart, but I can tell he's fighting a losing battle. God dammit. This is my fault. I've pushed too hard. I need to ease off. I still don't know who Bargra is, or who else was involved, or the exact cause of his injuries. But that has to wait for later. I can't justify tormenting him with this any longer.
"It's okay. You're okay. Take deep breaths. You're not still back there. You're here now, with me. Not them. Me," I whisper. His whole body quivers, but he listens to my words and inhales deeply, breathing slowly and intently. "You're safe. You're not a problem. And you're certainly not a nuisance."
"Mmm..." he quietly hums. An uncertain sound. I can't read his mind. I can't know what doubts he might have, or whether he believes me. All I can do is try to comfort him, give him a reason to believe me.
"I like hearing you talk about the things you like. I like answering your weird, unpredictable questions. I had a lot of fun talking about spooky shit earlier. There are a lot of reasons I like having you around, okay? You're not a problem. I promise."
...
He doesn't respond, merely stays where he is, grip on my arms slowly loosening until he lets go entirely. "...Um. C-can we... watch some more videos? Please?" he meekly asks, catching me by surprise.
I don't hesitate to dip a hand into my pockets and find my phone. The clock says it's 3 AM in... whatever timezone it is that syncs up with Venlil 4's day cycle—East Africa, If I remember right. Which, in local terms, is late 7th claw. (Called it.)
I quickly swipe over to Ye Olde YouTube and, after a moment of scrolling through the recommendations, find something suitable. A longer video than we usually watch, detailing a man's inquiry into whether cheetahs prefer to sleep alone, in the cold and rainy, or together on a warm bed. Spoiler alert: it's the latter.
The video quickly captures Sparci's attention, and does its job as well as any other, almost like a magic antidote in the way it calms him down. Something about the way the narrator describes the lead cheetah as 'an elder' seems to stick out to him, though I can't tell whether he's interested, or disturbed. Maybe neither. Maybe he merely understands the idea; as someone who's surely grown up being told to respect his elders, it makes sense that he'd intuitively grasp a kind of hierarchy based around wisdom and experience.
And gradually, as we cross through video after video... nested beneath my arm, clearly tired from the emotional overexertion, Sparci slowly drifts back to sleep. I can tell he's still not fully okay, he's still haunted by lingering stress and sorrow, but... despite that, he trusts me enough, feels safe enough, to close his eyes and rest.
...
The only thing I don't understand... is why it feels so right.
//////////////////////////
first - prev - next
 
god this chapter was a bitch to write lmao. it went through SO many iterations. but! it's done! this is the end of act 1. next chapter is... gonna take awhile, cuz i have a ficnap to get to, but it'll be out eventually.
remember, kids, if you use zalgo text, you WILL hit reddit's 40k character limit. it is inevitable.
...(sorry if the zalgo looks like shit. it looked great in google docs, i promise ;-; )

I'm traveling from place to place these days, so I don't really have a stable doctor or insurance. I have a stockpile of t that will last me a year. Last time I got my t checked my doctor said my t levels were kind of high and that my cholesterol was also higher than normal but on the border. I've been experiencing symptoms of high t, too. I'm 7 years on T and 23 but I will get acne frequently. I generally run very hot and sweaty.
I don't know if there's like an online service that can provide digital healthcare and endocrinology. I have a good amount of income so the price is not a huge factor but I do not have unlimited money. Does anyone know how I can get my t levels checked out of pocket? I am leaving the US for mexico in less than a month and am not sure if it's better to do a blood test here or there (is it cheaper?)?? Someone please help out...
I've heard about plume is that a good option??

In my drab apartment, I sat smoking a fag at my kitchen table. The rain striked my nearby window, nearly drowning out the sound of Count Basie on my turntable. They were supposed to be here at 7. They were supposed to collect what I owe.
With my radiator busted, the damp room was a cold one as well. My tired eyes began growing heavier with every passing minute the debtors were late. Right before snapping into sleep, my cigarette nicked my hand with its nearing flame and a knock began at my door. I jumped up, dumping the smoke and heading to the noise.
I snatched open the door and two men in checkered suits quickly made themselves welcome. "Come on in." I said.
"Now, Mr. Maroney, we don't have time for any antics tonight, alright, we're already behind schedule with the last guys." The shorter of the two had said.
"I understand, but I know Johnny has a waiting policy right? I get an extra day for every 20 more I pay?" I asked.
"No, that WAS the policy. Johnny isn't in charge no more, new policy."
"What? There's gotta be something, I'll have everything I owe, plus the 20, if you just hold on till tomorrow."
The short man took a seat on my sofa and sighed, "Look, Maroney, I like you, I do. You've been a good customer, I know you're good for it." He looked conflicted. "But rules are rules."
"Well, what is this new policy?" I asked.
The taller of the two, quiet until this point, reached into his pocket and pulled out a mask. The seated man continued, "You gotta wear the mask."
"What do you mean?"
"You wear the mask, the debt is forgotten, no harm, no foul."
"Are you serious?" I couldn't believe this. I took the mask, a porcelain, flesh colored mask from a chipped forehead down to a protruding chin. Large bulging green eyes without eyelids. "You're not pulling my leg, are you?"
"I wouldn't do that." So I put the mask on.
I looked in my nearby bathroom mirror. "How long I gotta wear this thing anyway?" I received no answer. I walked back into my living room to see the door open and the men gone. Suddenly a stabbing pain hit my eyes. I screamed. It felt as though a handful of fork prongs peeled my eyes open. The mask grabbed my jaw and snapped it forward, in the pain, I fainted at my doorway. When I awoke, my face swelled sore, and a pool of blood lay on the floor staining my shirt.
Stumbling to the mirror, I peeled off the mask which tugged on my skin. Upon removing the bloody mask, my face was maimed in its image. My dry eyes bulged from their lid-less sockets as my chin protruded outward. The blood from my eyes poured into my sink as I wept. The cries were muffled by my motionless mouth, but the debt was paid.

I was the one who found Jake dead, Tucked in the dark corner of the parking garage in his idling pest control truck that vibrated minutely.
The parking garage always had a humming from stainless metal fans to circulate the humid and hot Virginia air. Walking closer to the truck I saw his chemical box in the bed of the truck was open with the top flap sticking straight up . I thought nothing weird about the open box because it's not just us in the pest control company that lives there and from time to time we steal from other trucks. For the summer the company buys out dozens of rooms for the employees to stay. Most employees are door-to-door salesmen who make a living selling pest control as a same day service. Where Jake and I, with a few others, come into play is after the sale. The ones who actually spray your house, the ones who interact with the customers and bring them down to reality after the salesmen fluff our feathers, or are they fluffing their own? We are the ones who click the rap trap mouths in place, with black jagged teeth…waiting, with the delicious neon blue food for the rats to nibble on and share with their newborns. We had 7 other trucks in the parking garage and from time to time chem went missing. Sometimes us technicians didn't want to wake up early and drive 30 minutes to the office to pick up materials, truckers were closer, much closer. I'd be lying to you if I didn't steal a de-weber now and then off a truck, but I always made no trace of the thievery. I can't speak for everyone though. So when that lid was pointing up to the rusty pipes and concrete ceiling above, I wasn't surprised, hell I might have had a smirk on my face.
With the swing of my arm I slapped the box closed, a whiff of chemicals spewed out and hit my nose which gave me a feeling of a stinging sneeze that never comes. I gave the window a knock to see if he would turn around.. silence. I got closer to see if he was glued to his phone and didn't hear me or didn’t bother looking. I put my hands up on the window and smushed my eyebrows against my index fingers to get a better look. I saw the seat was fully reclined back, him laying there…still as a morning lake. I knocked on the smaller back half door. Tap tap TAP. No movement. It was too dark to see so I dug my hand in my pocket to get my phone light out and put it flush to the back oval airplane-shaped window. That's when I saw this face—— god his face—— skin a purplish hue and pulled taught by swelling, eyes adrift and red which were bulging out like they wanted to leave, jaw open with dark fluid sitting in his mouth, escaping on the sides. The streaks of the dark liquid rolled down his purple face, curving down the back of his neck, and dribbling down the strands of hair meeting the headrest. My eyelids opened so wide they touched my eyebrows. His fingers curled limply around a chemical bottle, cap off and the liquid color matching that of the pool in his mouth…
“Jake” I whispered, my voice felt like it was stolen from me, my skin tingling like an unknown channel on tv as heat takes over… I begin to fall, the last thing I notice are my fingers streaking down the window. I passed out.
4 months pass
I'm moving out of the building where it happened. I’ve wanted to get out of this building since it happened but didn’t have the financial backing. Now I plan to stay in Virginia for the winter and move in with roommates from the pest control company. The salesmen call this time their “off-season” due to them all leaving and going back home, most to Vegas. My other two roommates run the regular technician routes which consist of stopping at 14-15 designated houses a day, spraying chemicals and setting traps to take care of the contracts those grimy salesmen sell.
I used to share a room with Jake. All of his things were taken out either by investigators or the maid service. The other roommates in the building told me to combine the abandoned twin bed with mine but I never touched it, I couldn't.
I’m making this entry due to finding something. Something I believe was very close to Jake. The last day of moving I had everything packed but my mattress and box spring. While moving my mattress lazily with the sheet still on I lost grip and it hit his mattress sliding it off the box spring and hitting the wall. I let go of my mattress automatically and wanted to fix his bed…. Preserve it. I wrapped my hands around his mattress when a wave of dizziness veiled over me. My hands became clammy and I didn't want to touch his mattress anymore, like a kid that doesn't want to touch an old person. I had to put it back! If I didn't it would haunt me forever my mind yelled at me.
Just as I forced myself to slide the mattress back, my middle knuckle dropped into a slight groove, and I stopped in place. I pushed the mattress to the right and traced where my knuckle had been and found a slit in the box spring. I hesitated, staring at the unnatural slash in the cloth, Thinking about when Jake and I would make fun of our manager which always had a bone to pick with Jake ever since the first day they met. The new manager two years younger than us yelling at Jake to tuck his shirt in while his own untucked, covered his belt and belly.
A smile slowly disappeared from my face as I snapped back to life with my whole forearm now submerged in the slit of the box spring…. searching. My fingers met and clutched a ice cold object that resembled a book. I pulled My arm out of the box spring like pulling a calf out of its mother, now half expecting to see red viscous liquid and tiny wet legs, my eyes shut slowly like elevator doors closing from the thought.
But My hand appeared dry and my fingers clenched around a book of sorts. The outside of the book was void of color, almost like it absorbed it instead. I sat down on my thrown mattress and the empty apartment surrounded me. I flipped to the first page as the spine creaked at me, I saw Jake's name and it clicked in me that this wasn't a book. It was Jake's notebook! I flipped page after page reading Jacob’s writings about days of killing bugs and missing home till I got to the page. Sometimes I wish I wasn't lazy, I could have taken the sheet off the bed, this would have never happened, and I would have never found the notebook. The apartment seemed to be silently closing in on me now like I was in the digestive tract of some huge monster. God the page—— in big dark letters he had written: “THE LADY IN THE BASEMENT IS THE REASON WHY I AM GONE.” I was stuck reading the words again and again thinking I was seeing things. My heart was pumping so vigorously I could hear it agitate the fabric of my shirt little by little with each beat. There was a dark arrow so dark that seemed to suck in light and pointed toward the right of the page wanting someone to flip it or something to flip it, so I did. For the next pages, he wrote why…. And I clinging to every word …began to read.

I was the one who found Jake dead, Tucked in the dark corner of the parking garage in his idling pest control truck that vibrated minutely.
The parking garage always had a humming from stainless metal fans to circulate the humid and hot Virginia air. Walking closer to the truck I saw his chemical box in the bed of the truck was open with the top flap sticking straight up . I thought nothing weird about the open box because it's not just us in the pest control company that lives there and from time to time we steal from other trucks. For the summer the company buys out dozens of rooms for the employees to stay. Most employees are door-to-door salesmen who make a living selling pest control as a same day service. Where Jake and I, with a few others, come into play is after the sale. The ones who actually spray your house, the ones who interact with the customers and bring them down to reality after the salesmen fluff our feathers, or are they fluffing their own? We are the ones who click the rap trap mouths in place, with black jagged teeth…waiting, with the delicious neon blue food for the rats to nibble on and share with their newborns. We had 7 other trucks in the parking garage and from time to time chem went missing. Sometimes us technicians didn't want to wake up early and drive 30 minutes to the office to pick up materials, truckers were closer, much closer. I'd be lying to you if I didn't steal a de-weber now and then off a truck, but I always made no trace of the thievery. I can't speak for everyone though. So when that lid was pointing up to the rusty pipes and concrete ceiling above, I wasn't surprised, hell I might have had a smirk on my face.
With the swing of my arm I slapped the box closed, a whiff of chemicals spewed out and hit my nose which gave me a feeling of a stinging sneeze that never comes. I gave the window a knock to see if he would turn around.. silence. I got closer to see if he was glued to his phone and didn't hear me or didn’t bother looking. I put my hands up on the window and smushed my eyebrows against my index fingers to get a better look. I saw the seat was fully reclined back, him laying there…still as a morning lake. I knocked on the smaller back half door. Tap tap TAP. No movement. It was too dark to see so I dug my hand in my pocket to get my phone light out and put it flush to the back oval airplane-shaped window. That's when I saw this face—— god his face—— skin a purplish hue and pulled taught by swelling, eyes adrift and red which were bulging out like they wanted to leave, jaw open with dark fluid sitting in his mouth, escaping on the sides. The streaks of the dark liquid rolled down his purple face, curving down the back of his neck, and dribbling down the strands of hair meeting the headrest. My eyelids opened so wide they touched my eyebrows. His fingers curled limply around a chemical bottle, cap off and the liquid color matching that of the pool in his mouth…
“Jake” I whispered, my voice felt like it was stolen from me, my skin tingling like an unknown channel on tv as heat takes over… I begin to fall, the last thing I notice are my fingers streaking down the window. I passed out.
4 months pass
I'm moving out of the building where it happened. I’ve wanted to get out of this building since it happened but didn’t have the financial backing. Now I plan to stay in Virginia for the winter and move in with roommates from the pest control company. The salesmen call this time their “off-season” due to them all leaving and going back home, most to Vegas. My other two roommates run the regular technician routes which consist of stopping at 14-15 designated houses a day, spraying chemicals and setting traps to take care of the contracts those grimy salesmen sell.
I used to share a room with Jake. All of his things were taken out either by investigators or the maid service. The other roommates in the building told me to combine the abandoned twin bed with mine but I never touched it, I couldn't.
I’m making this entry due to finding something. Something I believe was very close to Jake. The last day of moving I had everything packed but my mattress and box spring. While moving my mattress lazily with the sheet still on I lost grip and it hit his mattress sliding it off the box spring and hitting the wall. I let go of my mattress automatically and wanted to fix his bed…. Preserve it. I wrapped my hands around his mattress when a wave of dizziness veiled over me. My hands became clammy and I didn't want to touch his mattress anymore, like a kid that doesn't want to touch an old person. I had to put it back! If I didn't it would haunt me forever my mind yelled at me.
Just as I forced myself to slide the mattress back, my middle knuckle dropped into a slight groove, and I stopped in place. I pushed the mattress to the right and traced where my knuckle had been and found a slit in the box spring. I hesitated, staring at the unnatural slash in the cloth, Thinking about when Jake and I would make fun of our manager which always had a bone to pick with Jake ever since the first day they met. The new manager two years younger than us yelling at Jake to tuck his shirt in while his own untucked, covered his belt and belly.
A smile slowly disappeared from my face as I snapped back to life with my whole forearm now submerged in the slit of the box spring…. searching. My fingers met and clutched a ice cold object that resembled a book. I pulled My arm out of the box spring like pulling a calf out of its mother, now half expecting to see red viscous liquid and tiny wet legs, my eyes shut slowly like elevator doors closing from the thought.
But My hand appeared dry and my fingers clenched around a book of sorts. The outside of the book was void of color, almost like it absorbed it instead. I sat down on my thrown mattress and the empty apartment surrounded me. I flipped to the first page as the spine creaked at me, I saw Jake's name and it clicked in me that this wasn't a book. It was Jake's notebook! I flipped page after page reading Jacob’s writings about days of killing bugs and missing home till I got to the page. Sometimes I wish I wasn't lazy, I could have taken the sheet off the bed, this would have never happened, and I would have never found the notebook. The apartment seemed to be silently closing in on me now like I was in the digestive tract of some huge monster. God the page—— in big dark letters he had written: “THE LADY IN THE BASEMENT IS THE REASON WHY I AM GONE.” I was stuck reading the words again and again thinking I was seeing things. My heart was pumping so vigorously I could hear it agitate the fabric of my shirt little by little with each beat. There was a dark arrow so dark that seemed to suck in light and pointed toward the right of the page wanting someone to flip it or something to flip it, so I did. For the next pages, he wrote why…. And I clinging to every word …began to read.