The President obliged willingly, thankful that there were still some rough men ready to stand up and protect him at their own pain and peril. Blaine thanked him, saluted the President and General, and then left the room in a crisp and courtly fashion.
Walking back over to the Rangers and Pit Vipers, he told them what he’d learned.
“We’re bein’ sent back home. No perceived threat, whah. Get yer grubbies and then relax a couple o’ hours. We’re on the next train to the next flight home.” Blaine said. “Be around when I as calls yeh.” He added, waving his cellphone at them.
The group dispersed to the cafeteria and restrooms, and Blaine walked over to a vending machine. Taking out a billfold, he put a few dollars in the machine and bought a bag of beef jerky and sat down on one of the plush seats in the underground waiting area just outside the president’s bunker. A scuffle broke out inside the room, and then a naked woman backed out of the office with the president held at knifepoint. Blaine did a double-take, as he’d just been in the room, and would have generally noticed a seven foot tall naked woman with dark brown opalescent skin. The General followed them out, holing a pistol and aiming at the tall woman’s head.
She held President Mahoney in front of her chest like a large doll, his feet dangling helplessly in the air. Blaine was already taking aim at her head, when Mahoney shouted for them to put down their weapons. Blaine hesitated as the General complied, every instinct telling him he could make the shot. Then, Mahoney screamed his name and told him to put it down, as the tall woman’s blade quested deeper at his neck.
Blaine complied, with a horrible taste in his mouth. The tall woman slipped out through a side door, and instantly the General and Blaine were in hot pursuit, their firearms finding their way back to their hands with clipped efficiency. Blaine was impressed with the topdog. The older man could move and juke just as good as he could, and that was saying something.
However, Blaine hadn’t let go of the Cu, yet. He’d been suppressing that dark spirit for a while, and it begged to be let loose. Blaine figured that there wouldn’t be any time like the present, and so he stopped the General for a moment at the door and looked him in the eyes.
“General, Sir, whatever you see beyond this door is so highly classified, God has no security clearance, unnerstood, Sor?” Blaine said seriously.
“I can keep my mouth shut, soldier. Your Commander in Chief is in danger.” The General said, eyeing Blaine seriously back.
“Alright…. Don’ get in fron’ o’ me, Sor. I cain’t set a stop till I as pass out.” Blaine said, and walked through the door, growling and snarling and shifting under his uniform as he did so.
The General looked on in shock and horror at the man changing size before his eyes like some grotesque version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Blaine let the Cu run, and the hallway seemed to melt around him as the world shifted a hazy red over his vision. He could hear the screams for help as the tall woman carried the President up the stairwell and into the street.
Clearing the stairs three at a time, he ran for the door and burst into the night in downtown Washington D.C., chasing the now invisible woman who was still holding a struggling President Mahoney.
He chased them down an alleyway, and into another building, before the woman dropped the squealing President to the floor, and materialized once more. Blaine snarled as he came closer, seeing the helpless man on the ground. The Cu was both angry and intrigued. Angry that someone would threaten someone so obviously helpless to defend themself, and intrigued at the nature of the giant woman who stood naked as the day she was born in front of them.
They almost didn’t see the dagger as it slashed an arch at Blaine’s exposed neck. Then, the woman continued in her arch, and sunk the blade into the president’s neck, and withdrew it slowly, squirting blood across the hallway. Blaine almost didn’t see the Cu react, and the woman’s head left her shoulders with a thud against the wall. Her skin phased black and gray as her body died, and her look of shock was only matched by that of the General’s as he quickly moved to staunch the wound that was quickly claiming the President’s life.
Blaine began to shrink, and bones popped themselves back into place as he groaned and fell limp, to the floor. Then, darkness took him as he heard a gurgle from his left…
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Coming to in a cage, he cast around himself and found he’d been completely disarmed. He called out, and a soldier walked up into the light.
“Hey! Get me outta herr, see! You don’ understand! I gotta save the president!” Blaine said, grabbing the bars. The soldier shook his head.
“President Mahoney is dead. You failed your mission, Specialist. You are to be reassigned.” The soldier said, obviously saddened by his plight, but unwilling to ease his pain.
“No…” Blaine said, terrified. He knew they had seen him, there was no denying it this time. “You don’t unnerstands, says I! Mah dawg! Mah home! Mah unit! I ain’t yer guinea pig, nahw heard! You cain’t control it! Noaer cain!” Blaine screamed, as the soldier walked back into the shadows, another wraith.
The Cu tried to bend the bars, but they would not budge. He tried to climb, but the cage was complete, and the only way in or out was the door. Blaine laid down in the corner and waited. This time, he would unleash the Cu willingly against those who would-be his captors. They would learn that the only way to control the dark creature, was to get out of its way.
Several hours crept by, and Blaine stayed curled up, waiting for the poor unfortunate guard that would inevitably come to check on him and shove some form of sustenance through the bars. When he did, Blaine would be waiting. He knew he was faster than any human alive, and always had been. The only times he’d ever been overcome, was when he was sucker-punched, and he wouldn't let them land this one.
Staying just far enough away from the door as to make the guard feel safe, he watched out of a hooded eye as the guard walked forwards with a plate of what could hardly be called food. The sloppy mass of goo looked more akin to a giant blob of snot, than food. Blaine waited as the man opened the small hatch at the bottom, and pushed the plate inside.
Grabbing his arm and unleashing the Cu, Blaine pulled the man through the small hatch and in so doing, crushed his thorax and left the man incapable of breathing. As pulminary embolisms caused the man to bleed from his mouth in a foaming froth, Blaine grabbed the electronic keyfaub from his fatigues and the baton from the man’s side.
Then the Cu paused, thinking for the first time ever as Blaine clearly pointed out that they wouldn’t get far in their current garb. The Cu pointed out that they would only destroy the uniform again when they had to change, but Blaine stowed that thought by pointing out they might not have to if they simply walked out. The dark spirit relented, and Blaine took hold of his actions once again. Nearly passing out from the shrink, he forced himself alert with several smacks to the face, and went about pulling the guard’s uniform off.
Putting it on he found the guard’s cell phone. He checked his text history, and found out that the guard went home at five, or rather, rotated their guard schedules. Then, it hit Blaine. He was on a blacksub! A CIA blacksite under water! He waited, listening for the change of the guard that would inevitably come to replace the guard, after unlocking the door with the electronic keycard.
Looking around, he noticed there were other brig cells, but they were unused at this moment. Quietly stalking to the door, he noticed a camera over it and cursed. The uniform idea was blown, now, as a cover. He knew that someone was watching that feed, or the cameras wouldn’t exist. His worst fears were confirmed, as the sounds of several bootstrikes echoed from the other side of the door.
Blaine waited. He knew the bullets from their guns they were loading couldn’t pierce the door, and the door opened to face the hall. Exactly opposite of where the camera was and where Blaine now sat, waiting for the large steel door to unlock and swing open. The door swung open and a Security Agent came through the door. Blaine, having already pulled off the uniform shirt and unleashing the Cu, slammed the heavy steel on the man as he walked through, creating a red paste against the wall to form from the man’s brains and guts. The M-4 the man was carrying dropped to the floor, and Blaine told the Cu to pick it up. They would be coming from a different angle, and he knew the Cu wasn’t bulletproof, and nothing was as fast as bullets.
Blaine quarreled with the dark spirit as to the placement, until his sharp ears caught the distinct clanging of footfalls on steel flooring. The Cu turned and shrank back, and let Blaine have just enough of the power necessary to stay fit for the fight, and watched as its human host turned security agent after security agent into human sandbags for the next.
The body count rising, the few Agents still alive chose to fall back into the ship, making Blaine come to them. Blaine understood the tactic well, as it was right out of the Quantico playbook for Combat Tactics. Realizing the submarine was not a small ship, Blaine looked for another way out.
Two more doors lead forwards, and another three led aft. Blaine chose to go forwards, noting that submarines normally had the brig located between the Galley and the Engine Room, and so he expected Com to be located forwards of his immediate position. He spun the locks on the mizzenhall door, and made to quietly sneak forwards along the main hallway of the ship. The ship was much larger than any diesel-electric sub, and Blaine realized the depth of the shitstorm he was in.
He was on an unknown nuclear submarine, somewhere in the Earth’s ocean’s. He had no idea how long he’d been there, only that his face hadn’t changed much in its age, noticed while passing a mirror hanging in the hallway. A couple of stray gray hairs, but nothing worth hassling himself over.
What intrigued him more, was that one of the sailors was either incredibly vain, or superstitious, as the mirror was out of Navy regulation on a nuclear submarine. He moved forwards silently, his boots making very little noise due to the way he walked.
Finding a corner, he stopped, took a deep breath, and slowly edged around it. On a submarine, every corner was a killbox, and he avoided killboxes and fatal funnels like the plague itself. Seeing yet another clear connecting hall, Blaine breathed a sigh of relief.
It was short lived. Suddenly, heavy footfalls on steel told him he was being surrounded.
“Five.. No, six guys..” He whispered to himself. “This is gonna be a party!”
Blaine quickly moved down the side hall, as quietly as he could. Making the corner as the first Agent rounded it. With a look of shock on his face, the man had his rifle torn from his grasp, and then his face rearranged by a .308 caliber projectile from his own gun.
The man behind him screamed and filled the hallway with a burst of led before his head, too, exploded in a shower of brain matter and pink mist. Blaine was everywhere at once it seemed, as the Agents tried to press the attack. Running from connecting hall to mizzenhall to connecting hall, Blaine released the finer points of his anger at being captive with violent report.
The bodies lay in piles of guts and brain matter, as Blaine was aiming to miss body armor, and he wielded the firearm as if it was an extension of his mind. Walking through the carnage once more, he realized that not a single sailor had been in the mix. Not even a Navy Seal, which he’d expected by this point.
Moving forwards past the Quarterdeck and Galley, he almost fell into the Com, seeing a group of sailors standing around with terror in their eyes as they aimed their pistols.
“Gents… Let’s hear an’ no’ be hasty, whah? I feel no need to harm a fellow warfighter of the United States. Can we just call an uneasy truce, you don’ shoot at me an’ I don’ kill you, and we as make fer port?” Blaine called into the Com after slipping back around the corner and out of bullet’s path.
“Specialist Price… This is the captain of the ship you are currently on. You’ve fought one hell of a fight, son. I’m really tempted to take your offer, but you understand the protocols and ramifications of such a thing, right?” The Captain said, with a strong voice that belied his actual feelings of sheer terror.
“I as do. I’d ask yeh, Sor… What be the rammifercatshuns as would hold with me stinkin’ your ass an’ takin’ the ship fer me’self?” Blaine fired back.
“Well, that depends. Under piracy, or Admiralty Capture?” The Captain said.
“Admiralty Capture if’n i could as swing it. I don’ want teh shoot yon innocent boys an’ girls, whah? I did nay wanna shoot them CIA boys, but they as given me no choice, heard?” Blaine shouted back.
“Heard. Understood. Acknowledged, Specialist. I’ll ask you to generally accept my capitulation? I have a duty to my crew before my country. I’d ask that you let them be unharmed.” The Captain said, his voice shaking slightly.
“Aye, I will spar’ any what as put up yer guns. I ain’t settin’ to disarmin’ a fool. I’l just rip yer fuckin’ head off an’ shit down yer Sundie Pipe, heard?” Blaine said, steeling himself to face the danger.
“We hear you! Sailors, retire arms! That’s an order!” The Captain shouted. “I said stay that gun, sailor! Do you wanna die? Cause I’ll shoot you myself! The man has agreed, NOT to kill you AND let you keep your pistol! Show some fucking respect for that level of bravery!”

This episode's descriptor reads, "This week Erik and Christopher go head to head to see who is "more" dad. Also there are many musical performances".
Colleen opened this episode using her actual voice. In no time she was singing a song from the musical "Oklahoma" and giving Erik a hard time for not knowing what a "surrey" is though he did know about the city in England to which she replied, "Huh?!". She left to rest her voice, saying Chris, her brother, would be taking over. (edit to correct...Erik said "isn't that a city?"...he didn't say "in England"...I incorrectly added that. Surrey is a county in England and a city in British Columbia, Canada)
After Erik introduced Chris and they awkwardly exchanged "jokes", they decided to name Erik's dad challenge game the "Dad Stuff Competition". Erik's first question was how many multi-tool pocket knives do you own? Chris said, "Two and a half" (the Leatherman, an engraved Swiss Army knife that Jessica got him when they were in Switzerland and then a half tool which Erik said didn't count). Erik said he won because he has three since Colleen buys him one every Christmas from Amazon (Colleen returned, interrupting them and said she was having FOMO so she would join them and sit in the back). Next, how many Henley shirts do you have? Chris thought he had 3 from StitchFix; Erik won with 4. Next, Espresso or drip coffee? Chris "out dadded" Erik because he only has a drip coffee maker. Then Erik asked, "How elaborate is your internal meat temperature tool that you use when grilling?" Chris won with some fancy one that has an app. (Colleen annoyingly HAD to interject that Erik has left multiple nice thermometers outside and ruined them so he should win because that's the most "dad" thing). Wallets were the next challenge; trifold, billfold, card wallet or a fancy metal "magic" wallet. (Erik has adapted a snooty accent/vocal fry...the materialistic shopaholic in him wants to own Chris so badly lol) Chris has a carbon fiber wallet with a clip and elastic so Erik lost or so he thought. Colleen interjected that Erik should get the point because his wallet is fatter so more "dad-like", missing the point that Erik's competition is about which dad has the better (or most) stuff. Next, Erik asked, "How many '#1 Dad' mugs do you own?" Chris has zero which surprised Erik so Erik won because he has one. "How many poopy diapers have you changed today?" They tied at two. The tiebreaker question was how many two-glass whiskey sets with freezer stones do you own that you never use? Chris laughed and said none and Erik said he has six because it's all people buy him (that and multi-tool pocket knives). Bonus round; Apple Watch or classic watch? Chris was Apple but Erik was classic so he lost. The guys then compared what kind of watch they had when they were young, Erik had a Casio and Chris had a pocket watch. Next was family-sized SUV, minivan or renovated airport shuttle bus. Chris won because he has a brand new shuttle bus (I think they're using an app for the questions because there's an annoying Mario Cart-type music playing in the background). The final part of the challenge was whether they could finish Dad Jokes (too corny to transcribe). Colleen had to jump in and add a "Pun-Off Round" asking them to make up a pun about artichokes (so she could make it about herself ofc sharing how Chris and she are artichoke "connoisseurs" even though she admitted she only learned as an adult that most people eat them as appetizers, not a meal - this entire episode is starting to sound like three insecure people trying to one-up the other🙄). Chris shared how he prepares them then asked if they had their kids try artichokes yet and Colleen said, "Our kids basically don't eat food...well Maisy does but the boys are PBJ, chicken nuggets and fish stick guys." Erik scoffed and said eating artichokes was "too much" because they're messy and too much work for too few calories. Colleen finally decided she needed to stop talking and left to go "pick her artichokes". Erik said goodbye to Chris and thanked him for taking part in the podcast.
• Erik did an Indeed-sponsored ad, trying but failing at personalizing it.
(Oh no!! Colleen is back and they're recording now at night and M is with them because ofc, she won't sleep. She's babbling in the background and interrupting the entire time) Colleen's "relax" was her hyper fixation on their kid's interests, currently the kid's love of magnets and now her obsession with making magnets....on and on she went about magnets (M just knocked a guitar onto the floor and is singing/yelling in the background...this is audio hell). Colleen admitted she ALWAYS gets obsessed with SOMETHING for the kids. Erik tried to make her feel better saying there's no limit for the kids and it shows how much she loves them. M interrupted asking for music so they suddenly broke into singing "Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" with the ukulele.
• Erik's next ad read was Better Help with M still babbling in the background even though Colleen said she was going to put her to bed before the ad.
Colleen eventually returned after finally getting M to sleep...it was 10pm and they hadn't eaten yet. Related to that, Erik shared a song he had just written to help keep Colleen quiet. He said it was a "love song" and that made her worry that he would make fun of her again. The song was about what they eat for dinner and how they fight over what to eat and that they usually end up eating fast food (awful song btw). Colleen AGAIN had to talk about artichokes and how she was having them that night for dinner while Erik tried to go through all her prep and eating steps because he doesn't know anything about them. (more boring food talk as he talked out loud about what he might eat and she dissed wraps and he egged her on and on)
• Next sponsor was Helix Mattresses. (Erik sounds like he's in a box or something...ugh)
Erik then shared his "relax" and said he had a few of them. First, he shared that he went shopping (she was shocked and had no idea he had gone shopping but he wouldn't share what he bought when she asked) and had received a "nice fellow" discount. Colleen was convinced the woman at the register was flirting with him. His issue was why be so elitist about discounts (huh?). They both b*tched on and on about emailed discounts and points and sales. Then she said one of her "toxic traits" is she CANNOT buy just one thing. Erik agreed and said you'd "look like a weirdo" if you only bought one thing. (Colleen's now blabbing about expensive bamboo pj's and how much time she spends shopping for them...these two are so out of touch talking about how they HAVE to buy more than they need, even food)
• Erik did the next ad for Liquid IV saying he fills his water bottle with it before his workouts (flex).
Colleen took over, ignoring that Erik had more "relaxes" that he wanted to talk about. She HAD to share how she and Kory had gone to her Beverly Hills (she repeated that a few times 🙄) voice doctor and afterward, they decided to walk around on Rodeo Drive and go into shops. They went into a kid's store so she could look for more bamboo pj's and she was shocked at the prices ($400 for a dress and $400 for a pearl headband). She said she had to "pretend shop" because she was too embarrassed to admit she couldn't afford things in the store. Erik then shared a story of getting trapped in one of those expensive stores too and feeling the same way. Somehow they segued into bickering about their preferred frosting-to-cupcake ratio...blah, blah, blah.
One last plug from her about artichokes..."the twins were made of artichokes and In-N-Out Burger". They ended with Colleen saying she didn't know if we'd hear her voice next week because it may be gone since she's doing shows this weekend (how responsible).

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Absentmindedly, I thumbed through the clothes on the rack. The cloying silence, and the persistent smell of formaldehyde, made the department store feel oppressive. I sighed; here I was, buying boring clothes for work, instead of doing what normal people do on their birthday...enjoy themselves in the company of others. To me, it was just another day to run errands.
I chuckled as I recalled how I'd always hated department stores. When I was very little, my mom would take me shopping and buy me the dorkiest clothes she could find. I'm not sure that's what she intended, but it sure seemed like it. It was so boring trying on all those awful, itchy outfits, only to emerge from the changing room to be told I looked "nice". The circular racks made great hiding places; I could slip away from her, move only a few racks away, and sequester myself in the middle. Pretty soon she'd be calling my name, getting security involved, and otherwise going completely overboard trying to find me. I'd tire of it, slip out of my secret fort, and surprise her by standing quietly behind her as if nothing had happened. I finally stopped doing that when she explained to me how much it terrified her. Once again, the department store became boring.
I found some polo shirts in relatively neutral colors, and a few pairs of slacks to replace the ones that were fraying at the bottom. I hung my uninspiring quarry over one arm, and looked around for the men's shoe department.
The piercing cry got my attention. It was a little boy, shopping with his dad, throwing a temper tantrum. I couldn't catch all the words, but it was clear he had the same opinion of department stores as I did, and vastly preferred to go for ice cream. His dad tried to command him gently, but firmly, making it clear that he needed new clothes for his first day of kindergarten, and ice cream would have to come later. A wave of cold dread overtook me as I stared sympathetically at the beleaguered tot. I knew exactly how he felt, and what indignities awaited him at school.
A few more pointed phrases later, and the dad turned away in disgust. The little boy slowly sneaked away, moving around a few clothing racks. I smiled; I knew where this was heading, and enjoyed the chance to relive my minor childhood triumph.
Then a thought occurred to me. I tried to push it away, but it persisted. The thought grew and grew until it overwhelmed every other one. A sly smile broke out on my face, and after ditching the boring clothes I was going to buy, I crouched down to skulk over to where the little boy was last seen. I rounded a clothing rack; he was coming the other way, and almost ran into me. He stopped with a surprised shudder.
"Hi!"
"Hi." He seemed nervous, but unintimidated.
"I'd like to get some ice cream, too. Want to come with me?"
He looked at the ground. "Yeah. But..." He looked nervously in his dad's direction.
"Don't worry, I'll bring you back to your dad when we're done, safe and sound."
He looked up uncertainly. "Promise?"
I smiled sincerely. "Promise."
His face burst into an excited smile. "OK!"
I looked him in the eye. "There's only one condition."
His nervousness returned. "What?"
"I want you to pretend that you're my son for a little while. Can you do that?"
He was silent as he looked at me, his expression uncertain.
"Do you like playing make believe?"
His smile returned. "Yeah...!"
"That's all we're doing here."
"OK!" he cheered.
I grinned broadly. "Then let's go! But we have to sneak out. We don't want your dad seeing us."
I remained crouched on the ground and strode away with long steps; it would have looked pretty silly if anyone spotted me. He giggled to himself and started walking the same way, even though he didn't need to crouch to remain hidden. We exchanged snickers as we zig-zagged through the clothing racks. Half a minute later, we emerged from our urban jungle and reached the tiled walkway in front of the exit door.
We exchanged giddy laughs. "Where do you want to go for ice cream?"
His response was instantaneous. "Farrell's!" I knew the place; it had been going downhill in recent years, but only because enough people didn't go there anymore. Tonight was the night we could make a difference. "Sounds great!" I exulted.
We left the mall; the crisp autumn air slapped us, reminding us how heated the department store had been. We looked both ways for cars, then scampered to my vehicle. I unlocked the doors and we both climbed in.
"Put on your seatbelt!" I reminded as I attached mine. He looked slightly crestfallen. "Remember, safety first! I want to return you in one piece!"
He snickered as he secured himself. "OK."
I started the car and looked around uncertainly. "Farrell's would be...where?"
He quickly pointed in a direction. "That way!" The memory came back to me; the nearest one was only a few blocks from here, exactly in the heading he indicated. I smiled. "Wow, kid! You sure know how to party!"
He raised his arms in triumph. "Yay! Party!" I laughed; clearly, he was wise beyond his years.
We left the parking lot, merged with traffic, and in no time at all, pulled into Farrell's. It was one of several buildings sharing a parking lot. It looked like the lot had once been just for the restaurant; now, newer buildings, all boring and rectangular and painted blandly, staked out the edge. One was a vitamin store; another was a dentist's office. I shuddered as I realized those simply didn't belong near an ice cream parlor. It was like they were trying to ruin the fun.
We got out of the car and started walking across the parking lot. It was surprisingly busy for a weekday; it gladdened my heart to know we weren't the only ones that wanted to come here. I looked down at the little kid. "Better give me your hand, tiger; let's be safe."
He stared at me blankly, then offered his hand; I took it. We traipsed up to the front door, exchanging an excited smile before entering.
The noise hit us just before the smell. The jaunty banjo music perfectly complemented the spirited player piano, melding with the bustling crowd noise to create the perfect happy atmosphere. Busy employees darted to and fro, all decked out in their red-and-white-striped uniforms, complete with strawboat hats. The overwhelming smell of candy punctuated that neatly; my teeth began to ache involuntarily. All together, it reminded me of happier days, when I was young enough to believe the world was filled with exciting possibilities...before each personal setback constricted the scope of my future, bit by bit. But as long as I was here, it could be like it was, if only for a little while.
There were a few parties before ours; it warmed my heart to see the place was near capacity. Even the counter just past the hostess contained a decent throng of patrons. I felt my hand jerk around; I looked down to see my companion dancing with glee, a big smile on his face.
"Are you excited, son?" I asked brightly. "Yeah!" he gushed. I let go of his hand and chuckled as I watched him jump up and down, stomping out a happy little circle, vocalizing randomly.
I looked at the groups ahead of us in line; one was a family with four small children, and the other looked like a young couple on a date. The family man looked a bit harried, he and the mother continually trying to herd their kids into some sort of group, but despite the chaos of his offspring, I wished I could have been in his place. I never had lofty goals in life; I just wanted to meet a nice girl, settle down, have a family, maybe see a school play or two. It seemed like it was enough for my dad, and I was convinced it was all I needed to make me happy. But somehow, it never happened. I only had to look at the young couple to recall why.
I remembered trying to date in college. It was mostly a series of awkward interactions, each ending in a dispirited fizzle, and empty offers to see each other again. I finally developed a rule; after the third threadbare excuse for turning down another date, I would simply give up and never call back. None of them ever sought out the reason for my disappearance, which told me all I needed to know. Granted, I didn't feel much chemistry with them...with one notable exception. To this day, I can't get her out of my mind.
Most guys probably thought she was homely, but I never did...she had something that set me on fire inside. Besides, I genuinely thought she was gorgeous. I managed to secure one date with her; I took her to a pizza parlor before a movie. My intention was to keep it light and breezy, maintaining an air of fun. My impression, from the comments she made that evening, was that I was being cheap. She didn't seem to enjoy the goofy comedy movie I picked, either. It's so confusing to have such strong feelings for someone, who obviously doesn't feel that way toward you. What was the source of such oddly one-way infatuations? Was it nothing more than self-delusion? What was the difference between confidence and self-delusion, anyway?
Dating as an adult was even more difficult. What was I to do? I wasn't really into alcohol, so I couldn't meet women in bars. I wasn't socially adept, so clubbing was out too. Online dating was a humiliating series of ignored missives and one-star ratings. I even tried volunteer work, but the women my age all seemed to have boyfriends, at least if I was the one asking. And as I got older, I found even less options open to me. The whole thing just seemed impossible.
We were finally at the front of the line. I looked down at my young charge; he stared back with a goofy grin, swinging back and forth for no apparent reason, other than the sheer joy of doing so. "We're next!" I cheered. "Are you ready?"
"Yeah!" he exulted, a little too loudly, but I thought it was perfect. I looked up to see one of the counter patrons glancing in our direction; our eyes met, and we gazed at each other for longer than a moment. Quickly, she turned away, immersing herself once again in her sensible-sized ice cream soda.
I looked her up and down; she was a natural redhead, probably only a few years older than me. There's something about redheads that tends to extremes – it seems they're either stunningly gorgeous, or terrifyingly frumpish. Some men aren't attracted to them at all. I didn't understand that; I always found them to be mesmerizing. And this one looked like she had been one of the beautiful ones, before age did to her what it does to all of us. Her face was a little too round, her body on the plump side. What really got me was the haunted look in her eyes; I knew it all too well.
The pretty young hostess appeared in front of us. "Hello, and welcome!" she bubbled.
"It's my daddy's birthday!" he gushed. I smiled; he was playing his part perfectly.
Her face burst with well-practiced joy. "That's great! We sure know how to celebrate those! How many in your party tonight?"
"Two," I sighed. "Just us." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the redhead look in our direction again; I pretended not to notice as I looked at the ground. "His mom's been out of the picture for a long time."
The hostess didn't skip a beat. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Well, come this way, and we'll get you two seated!" She motioned for us to follow her.
As we passed by, I looked over at the redhead. She was openly staring in my direction, an aghast look on her face. I managed a sad smile as I walked by. I was only a few feet away from her when I heard a loud squeak erupt from the swivel chair.
"Excuse me..." she called out. I froze, partly from excitement, partly from nervousness. I turned slowly to find her gazing at me. "I'm sorry...I don't mean to intrude...but your story was just heartbreaking."
If she only knew how heartbreaking it really was. I tried to play it cool, but I could feel tears threatening to burst from my eyes. "Thanks." So much for that attempt at a smooth move. There are probably a lot of ways to respond to someone expressing sympathy, but thanking them is down near the bottom of the list. I wanted to say something more appropriate, but my mind was a blank.
I felt a tug on my pant leg; I looked down to see him arch his eyebrows, a secretive smile on his face. Bless his joyous little heart! He knew exactly what to do, and now, so did I.
"Well, squirt?" I asked him. "Would you like this nice lady to join us tonight?"
"Yeah!" he exulted, jumping once to punctuate it. My heart soared; I really couldn't have picked a better kid. I wished he really was my son; I think I would have made a great father for him.
I turned back to her; the tears had found their way out. "I'd be honored if you would join my son and I this evening."
She let out a cathartic giggle. "I'd be delighted." She turned to pick up her ice cream soda, flashing the employee behind the counter an uncertain look.
"Don't worry one bit," I told her. "I'll pick up the tab for your soda. In fact, the whole evening is on me."
Her eyes clouded slightly. "Oh, I couldn't make you do that."
A genuine smile beamed from my face. "Really, think nothing of it. Your company is more than I could ask for." Her eyes glowed with warmth; with an excited smile, she moved to follow.
I turned to find the hostess looking at all of us with an open-mouthed smile, her hands clasped in front of her. "This is just adorable," she cooed. "I love working here...it really is the place where magic happens!" She turned to continue to lead us to our table.
A hand shot in front of me. "I'm Kathy, by the way."
I had to think of an alias quickly, something believable. I took her hand and shook it. "I'm Scott."
Our eyes met; she looked down shyly. "Nice to meet you."
I met her gaze fearlessly. "You too."
We sat down in our booth; Kathy was in the middle, and my "son" and I were on either side, near the aisle. The hostess gave me a mocking look of disapproval. "Now, anyone can say it's their birthday, but if you want a free sundae, you have to prove it!" I laughed and pulled out my wallet, showing her my driver's license. She perused it for a moment, then her brow furrowed.
Silently, she mouthed "Scott?" to me. I winked at her with one eye, the one furthest from Kathy, otherwise trying to keep my face still. I momentarily opened my billfold and showed her the thick stack of twenty-dollar bills. The hostess flashed me a concerned look, but didn't say anything. I put my wallet away.
"Your waiter will be right with you", the hostess informed us. "I hope you all have a great time!"
"Well, son?" I began. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself to the nice lady?"
He flashed her a beaming smile. "I'm Ryan!"
She chuckled. "I'm Kathy. Nice to meet you."
Ryan was practically bubbly. "I'm so glad you joined us tonight! This is gonna be fun!"
"Oh, it's my pleasure," she demurred. "I didn't really want to sit all alone at that counter."
"Well, I'm glad you decided to be part of our family. Even if it is only for an evening."
She looked down shyly. "Oh, we all know I'm not part of your family."
"Hey," I assured her, "family is whoever you want it to be, whoever comforts you when you're down. So I say, for one night, we can all be family, here at this family restaurant. No one needs to know better!" Wasn't that the truth.
She beheld me with a bemused look in her eyes. "I don't know how you can manage to be so whimsical. Most people lose that when they grow up."
I laughed as I jabbed my thumb in Ryan's direction. "It's easy when he's around. He keeps me young."
We turned to watch him clasp his hands together into a fist and pump them over his head, in the classic show-off gesture. "See?" I pointed out. "Who can stay serious with him around?"
Kathy smiled as she laughed. I was suddenly struck by how pretty she was when she smiled. It was difficult to tell before; she had such a morose expression on her face. I decided she deserved to be pretty all the time, and vowed to think of any way to keep her smiling and laughing.
That was going to prove to be difficult; I couldn't think of anything clever to say. "So, do you come here often?" There were worse questions I could have asked, but true to form, I couldn't even think of what they might be.
"At least once a week. I work at the dentist's office across the lot." She demurred. "This place is one of the few treats I allow myself."
"People should have ice cream all the time!" Ryan cheered. "It'll make them happy!"
Kathy laughed and gave him a warm smile. "That's not how it works for grownups."
Ryan's face instantly assumed a pained, inquisitive look. "But why?" The kid was a natural actor; I hoped his dad encouraged these skills. Somehow, I thought that was too much to ask. I shuddered inside as I realized how his primary school teachers would react. Rules, rules, and more rules.
Kathy looked slightly taken aback. "Grownups can't just eat ice cream all the time." An impish smirked emerged. "But sometimes I come here more than once a week. Depends on how the day went."
"Tough one?" I offered.
She let out a heavy sigh. "The worst was an older gentleman receiving an implant. He fought us the whole time! Finally, his wife gave us permission to sedate him. I was shaking for two hours."
"He just needed some ice cream," Ryan interrupted.
"Ice cream doesn't solve everything, kiddo," Kathy stated firmly.
"But it can for one night," I interjected. "It's no fun being serious all the time."
She chuckled. "I guess you're right. For one evening, we'll all cut loose!"
"No grumpy talk on my daddy's birthday!" Ryan demanded.
Kathy and I burst out laughing at the same time, as Ryan returned to his fist-pumping show-off pose. "He really is a treasure, isn't he," she observed.
I nodded. "He really is."
The waiter arrived. "Hi, I'm Ryan! And I'll be taking care of you this evening!"
"No, I'm Ryan!" he shot back.
The waiter laughed and pointed at his name badge. "I'm Ryan too!"
He was having none of it. "I was Ryan first!"
I couldn't hold in my laughter; I covered my eyes with my hand as Kathy and the waiter joined in on the mirth. "Well, can I be Ryan too?" the waiter asked him. "Just for a few hours?"
Ryan swayed as he made a goofy face. "Well...OK."
The waiter turned to Kathy and I. "I'll be he keeps you two young."
"He sure does," she agreed. I merely nodded. I was increasingly certain his father never let him act this way.
"What would you like, miss?" the waiter asked.
"Gibson Girl," she replied, unable to contain her joy. Once again, her smile bowled me right over. She really was my Gibson Girl for the evening.
The waiter turned to me. "Gold Rush," I told him.
"Banana Royale!" Ryan belted, out of turn.
I gave him the slant eye. "You sure you can finish that?"
"Just watch me!" he declared confidently.
The waiter darted off to fill our orders; Kathy turned to me. "So do you two come here often?"
"We used to," I sighed, "with his mom. But we haven't as much since...she left."
We both turned as we heard Ryan growl. "That guy was ugly and drove a big stinky motorcycle." Where does he come up with this? I thrilled at his creativity.
"But Ryan really wanted to come here tonight." I appreciated being able to tell the truth, if only for a moment. "So we decided we were going to take this place back, for ourselves."
She rested her chin on her hands as she beheld both of us. "That's adorable."
My smile couldn't be contained. I'm not even sure how long Kathy and I locked eyes. "You're turning red!" Ryan observed joyfully, pointing at me. "You like her!"
She blushed too. "You're right, squirt," I admitted, "I do."
The evening was a blur; I can hardly remember what happened. I play-acted as a family man, as if reading from the diary I never had a chance to write. Ryan burst forth with one silly wisecrack after another, his comic timing a wonder to behold. I'm not even sure how I came up with the sad story about my nonexistent failed marriage, but all of it felt natural, and Ryan chimed in with color commentary. Kathy was practically eating out of my hand, her doe-like eyes locked on mine, all signs of reticence gone. And, true to his word, Ryan finished off his ice cream; I guess I had no reason to doubt him. I paid for everything, tipping the waiter generously, doing my part to keep them in business. After that, we all walked outside into the cool autumn air.
I felt something attach itself to my leg; I looked down to see Ryan hugging me. "Happy birthday, daddy!"
I tousled his hair. "Thanks, squirt!" He let go; I looked up to see Kathy's face beaming.
"Thank you so much for joining us," I gushed. "You really made our evening complete."
She smiled demurely as she moved closer. "Mine, too."
I don't know where my confidence came from. Was I still play-acting? Or were we really experiencing chemistry? I didn't spend any more time thinking about it; I grabbed her gently and kissed her for what was probably only a few seconds, but seemed like ages. It helped that she tasted like ice cream.
Our lips finally parted; I heard a happy sigh to my left. We both turned to see the hostess staring at us, her open-mouthed smile back in full force. "I love working here," she burbled.
"It really is the place where magic happens, isn't it." Kathy agreed with her eyes.
I turned to Ryan. "Well, tiger? Do you think we should invite this nice lady to come home with us?"
"Yes!" he cheered enthusiastically, jumping up and down and, I assume, vocalizing his tiger impression.
She giggled. "I'd love to. Want to give me directions?"
"Just follow my car," I suggested. "I don't live that far from here."
"OK," she replied, her eyes twinkling. "See you soon." She gave me one last wide grin.
I watched Kathy walk away; as I did, I froze. On the other side of the parking lot, still some distance away, but trudging in our direction, was my little companion's father. Ryan noticed him too, then looked up at me uncertainly.
I knelt down, now safely out of sight. "Did you have fun tonight?"
"Yeah!" he gushed.
"Did I make you do anything you didn't want to?"
His face showed confusion. "No..."
I gave him a gentle push on his back. "Then go to your father."
He started to move in that direction, then suddenly turned around and looked at me with sorrow in his eyes. "What's wrong?" I asked him.
"My name's not really Ryan," he revealed.
I smiled. "That's OK; mine isn't really Scott." He looked relieved.
"It's fun to play make-believe, isn't it?" I asked. He nodded eagerly.
I gestured toward his father. He gave me one last beaming smile before toddling off.
Still crouching, I strolled into the parking lot, trying to stay out of sight, sticking to the darker areas between the light standards. My car had never seemed so far away.
I finally reached the grass island; sanctuary was still six spaces away. I heard Ryan's unmistakable squeaky voice, followed immediately by a gruff roar. "Timothy? How did you get here? You scared the hell out of me!" I could hear him protesting his dad's objections, but wasn't able to make out any words.
I unlocked my car with the key; I didn't want the keyless fob's beep to draw attention. Opening the door only as much as needed, I managed to slide into the front seat and gently close the door behind me. So far, so good. I moved to start the car, looking into the rear-view mirror as the engine turned over. My heart fell as I saw Kathy talking to Timothy's father, a frantic look on her face. Was she going to tell him what she knew? Could she describe me to the authorities? Was what I did kidnapping, even though Ryan...Timothy...had been fine with the whole thing?
I decided that it was pointless to ask questions, because they all had the same answer – to get away from here as quickly as possible.
I backed up and veered right. I didn't look in their direction; I didn't even want to know what was happening. I turned left into the next aisle; a chill washed over me as I realized that they were sure to see me in a few seconds.
I saw a dark gap approaching on the right; it looked like a pedestrian ramp leading down to the main street. Was it open, or did it have a handrail in the middle? Was there anyone on the sidewalk? Were there cars going by? I turned to back down it, and saw Kathy, Timothy's dad, and another person all staring in my direction. Was it a police officer, or was I being paranoid? I had run out of options. Thankful that I had no front license plate, I hit the gas and prayed all would be well.
My car started shaking violently; it was a stairway, not a ramp. I could still see no obstructions in my mirrors. I plunged into the darkness; at the same time, I dropped out of their sight. In that brief glance, I thought I could see them running toward me. I was out of time; a few seconds from now, all my questions would be answered, one way or another.
My car dropped off the curb; I veered right to align myself with the street. There were no pedestrians on the sidewalk, and the nearest cars were almost a block away. My heart soaring, I shifted into "drive" and hit the gas. My car leaped away, and soon I was cruising down the street at a moderate clip.
I knew I couldn't come back to this part of town for a long time. That would be easy; I was only here to shop for clothes. Fortunately, the department store was miles from where I lived. The next nearest one was even further away, in a completely different direction; I could go there from now on. I also had the good fortune of not looking very distinguished; my bland, business-casual outfit, and my unremarkable face, would serve me well for once.
And in the end, what had I really done wrong? The kid came with me voluntarily, and was completely uninjured. I was very responsible, and took good care of him; at worst, I was an unauthorized guardian, feeding him ice cream willfully and with wanton disregard. And what about Kathy? Granted, it was wrong to lie to her, but not illegal; otherwise, half the guys in pick-up joints would be behind bars. No, I decided, no one could accuse me of being a criminal...just an oddball. And I could accept that. Besides, for all I knew, maybe Kathy wasn't her real name.
I stopped for a traffic signal; the street behind me was still pretty empty. Joy swelled in my heart, finally pushing its way out, forcing a beaming smile onto my face as I realized what the evening had really meant. For once, I got to have a nice birthday outing, with a kid and and a girl, and pretend to be a real human being, instead of a pitiful outcast. I got to live out my dream of being a family man, the same dream many others live for real. I got a glimpse of how my life could have been if events had taken a different turn. It was really nice to experience that, if only for a short while.
I thought of Kathy, what a nice girl she was, and how she deserved better than she had. I also realized I couldn't have given her what she needed. I knew I wouldn't have gotten along with her in the long run, or even the short run; I was never that good with people. Plus, my sob story wasn't true. So I'd already experienced the best part of any relationship I could have had with her, brief as it was. Even so, that temporary feeling of normalcy was the nicest present I'd had in years.
The light turned green; I depressed the gas pedal as I focused on the freeway onramp, only a few blocks away.
And who's to say what I experienced tonight wasn't as real as it needed to be? How many people stay in phony relationships because they fear being alone? At least I didn't have that problem. How many people lie to themselves every day? At least mine were limited to a few hours of one day. I could return to my boringly honest life, knowing I would go back to causing no trouble for anyone. Most people can't even claim that much.
I pulled onto the freeway and gunned the motor. My eyes teared up as something told me I was going to have happy memories of this day for the rest of my life.

If someone held a gun to my head and forced me to describe myself, “nice” wouldn’t be the first word I’d use. It would be slouching a few adjectives back, peeking out from behind “I-will-happily-stab-your-mother-for-a-promotion” and “self-serving-to-a-fault”. I mean, what else do you expect? Toss a bunch of power-hungry Ivy League investment bankers into a thirtieth-floor Manhattan glass-front view with the promise of mansions and seven-figure salaries, and you see what happens. My motto has always been this: be an asshole. Get your work done. Stab those backs and take the credit, which all worked pretty well if I do say so myself... until that damn management position opened up.
Associate.
Translation: an experienced monkey supervising the cub monkey analysts, but a chance at some real money for once, and damn if I didn’t want that new electric-red Aston Martin DB11 coupe with the clamshell hood and the custom leather seats. Talk about pulling some serious tail. I could picture it—I’d entice a pack of cocktail-soaked blondes from one of the high-end clubs in Brooklyn with the promise of a nightcap at my place. They’d mutter a “no” but then see the Aston and their eyes would light up with lust. Wow, this is your car? Sure, your place sounds great.
The only problem was Cliff Baxter, my knockoff-suit-wearing boss and his annual review. He broke my heart, said I needed to develop my “soft skills” before he’d consider me management material. Brad, you have a lot of potential. No one works harder than you, but you need to learn how to play in the sandbox with the other kids first. God, I hated his metaphors. Why couldn’t he just say it? Tell me straight that I needed to take it easier on all the fragile millennial egos Gorman and Gorman loved to hire? Well, I decided, if it meant a shot at Associate, I would do it. I would clench my teeth and bite my tongue... and it only cost me everything.
---
I’d picked up Cliff for a morning presentation we had downtown. A potential corporate divestiture with a hefty commission; big stuff. If we landed it, Gorman and Gorman would profit nicely. I had pulled up to an intersection near Columbus Park—Cliff’s review still stinging fresh in my mind—when I spotted the bum on the corner. An old war vet. Here it is! I thought. My chance to show Cliff I really am a nice guy. He’d been droning on about the day’s laundry list, muttering about the presentation and some tweaks we’d need to make to the cash flow model, but I wasn’t listening.
My eyes were on the bum.
He had a fog-gray beard tickling his belt buckle, so thick it looked like an apartment complex for bedbugs. He was clad in a set of mangy army fatigues, hems tattered, with a faded American flag stitched to his shoulder. His lower right leg ended in a stump, his pants roped off below his knee. Next to him on the sidewalk sat an overstuffed canvas backpack. When he spotted me looking at him, his mouth split into a checkerboard of missing teeth. He looked wolfish. I almost sped off, but he gave me a friendly enough wave. He tossed aside his battered sign (SPENT ALL MY $ ON CARDBOARD-N-MARKER) and crutched his way over to my window. I lowered it, instantly regretting my decision as a cloud of nicotine and BO rolled into the car.
“Spare a few bucks there, cap’m?” he asked, leering first at me then at Cliff, who hissed at me to keep driving.
“Sure can,” I replied in a suitably concerned voice, ignoring Cliff and digging a twenty from my billfold.
The man’s eyes brightened. He snapped it from my fingers with frightening speed... and paused, a strange look rolling over his sun-damaged face. He grabbed my wrist and cried, “It’s you! It’s really you, right here in the bloody damn flesh!” He jerked my door open and flung me out onto the sidewalk. I tried to rise, but he squatted directly on my chest, horrifyingly strong as he leaned over and yanked something from the backpack. It was some sort of—my eyes widened. Jesus, no was all I could think when I spotted the saw blade glinting cheerily in the sun.
“Been waiting for you for a long, lonnggg time, junior,” the man said, firing up the saw with a terrifying whu-whu-whu-eee! “Don’t be scared now. You’ll be fine! Right as rain after this. Your old man always was.”
Before I could open my mouth to object, he slammed my head to the cement, and my vision ignited with stars. I was vaguely aware of him spinning around on top of me. Cliff appeared through the open door red-faced, screaming as the bum cut into my shin. A brittle snap lit the air, the sound of bone splintering—my bone. I howled and bucked against him. It was no use; the man was a bull, pinning me down with his thighs and cutting, and cutting, and cutting until—with a final meaty pop!—my leg severed.
And the pain—the indescribable, ungodly pain...
I looked down to a river of blood, and my burnished leather oxford twitching beneath the pant leg of my custom-fit Burberry suit. People scattered in every direction, the scene descending into chaos. “Oh my God!” someone cried. “Call the police! Call nine-one-one!” A plump woman in a flowered dress snatched up her child with a scream, quick to cover his eyes. Briefcases hit the sidewalk. Purses. There were shrieks. More frantic cries for help. My head lolled to the side in time to glimpse a bald construction worker rushing the bum from across the street, a sledgehammer in hand.
The bum spotted him and scrabbled spiderlike for my still-twitching appendage. “No! No! It’s mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!” It was like he thought the guy was about to steal it for himself. And then the strangest thing happened. The vet rolled up the pant leg of his army fatigue to reveal a scarred stump, onto which he jammed—literally jammed—the bloody end of my stump. I blinked once, thinking, this isn’t happening, this isn’t real, as his flesh twined with that of the severed shin’s, the bones grinding and snapping into place.
A thought crashed through my skull: what in the actual fu—
---
“—are you doing, Nelson? Have you lost your goddamn mind? Get up already.”
My eyes clicked open. I groaned and squinted up at Cliff, who was standing over me with his blue power tie flopped out over his ample gut.
Oh, God, my leg. I jerked upright and reached for my shin which was...
Right. There. Attached below my knee and perfectly formed as if nothing had happened. No pants though, no shoe, the skin a smooth baby pink. I flexed my toes, new ones I supposed. They worked perfectly, the lingering pain from my last gout attack gone. I glanced at Cliff with a hard blink. “Wha-what happened?”
Cliff frowned. “‘What happened?’ Seriously, Nelson? Listen, a guy like that has it hard enough without you harassing him. A veteran, even. You should be ashamed of yourself, jumping out of the car like that and scaring him. This is not Associate behavior, Nelson. Not. At. All. Now get back in the car. We’re holding up traffic.” It was true. I could hear the horns wailing away, people streaming past us on the sidewalk without a second glance like nothing had happened.
Because, apparently, nothing had.
I struggled to my feet and dug the keys from my pocket. Cliff snatched them out of my hand. “Nope, I’m driving. You’re off the presentation, Brad. I can’t have you acting—” He waved disgustedly at my bare leg “—looking like that in front of a client. Christ.” He straightened his tie. “We’re going to have a long talk about proper behavior at Gorman and Gorman when I get back. A long talk.”
I nodded, still dizzy, and got in.
---
A quick visit to Brooks Brothers and I was back in the office, freshly clothed and freshly shamed. I made my way to my desk and flopped down, pulled up a PowerPoint, and stared at it. Bar charts and graphs. Good camouflage. (I’m working everyone. Brad is a hard, hard worker.) But my mind was gone, drifting. It had all seemed so real, so... vivid. No way I had imagined it. No freaking way. I could still feel that saw biting into my flesh, could still see the blood spurting in a bright arterial red from my shin.
My phone buzzed. “Brad,” Ashley the receptionist chirped in her singsong voice, “there’s... uh, someone here to see you.”
“Be right there.” I pulled myself upright, thankful for the distraction, and strolled down the oak-trimmed hall past the other peons pecking at their keyboards, heads down, grinding away. Hit the lobby. Stopped. My jaw unhinged. He was right there, leaning over the desk and chatting with Ashley. The guy from the street. The war vet, his greasy scalp shining. And not just him. Some other guy in a black and gray camo tank top, half his head wrapped in a bandage and drawn mummy-tight over one eye. He had an arm flung on the desk and the other... well, there wasn’t another. It was missing just as the vet’s leg had been missing; had being the operative word. His shin, my shin, was right there attached to his knee, his foot still wrapped in my leather oxford and working just fine.
Time to go, I thought, about to bolt. No way I was staying here, hell no. But Ashley spotted me before I could move. She smiled and fluttered a perfectly manicured hand at me.
“Heya, Brad.”
I froze. She waved again harder—a what-the-hell-are-you-doing kind of wave—and both men turned my way.
My throat glued shut.
The vet flashed his patchwork grin when he spotted me, his pal, the Mummy leaning in and muttering, “That him?” The vet nodded and shouldered past him, appraised me like I was a long-lost frat brother, like he hadn’t just hacked off my leg with a surgical saw a few hours earlier. “Brad, my boy!” he said with a smile that climbed to his ears. “Good to see you, again.”
I took a step back. I wasn’t even sure how the guy knew my name.
“Whoa,” he said, raising his hands. “Whoa.” He gestured at my leg. “You’re fine, ain’t cha? Just like I said?”
And I was—physically speaking… mentally not so much.
“I—uh. How’d you find me?” I asked.
The man’s hand shot into his pocket and returned with a business card. “You gave me this, remember? Out on the street? Told me to swing by later today.” Brad G. Nelson—Analyst. Gorman & Gorman Capital, the card read. It was mine, but I had most certainly not given it to him. And there was no way in hell I’d asked him to swing by. It must have fallen out of my sport coat on my way to the cement. I’d brought plenty along for the presentation.
“Look,” the bum continued, “if this is a bad time, we can always come back later.”
I started to nod—yes this was a terrible, terrible time—but he glanced back at Ashley and said, “Brad here said your shop was going to donate to the Amputee Veterans Association. A sizeable donation. It’s a big, big help, let me tell you. A big help. A lot of soldiers out there need as much assistance as they can get. A lot of families.”
The Mummy grunted in approval.
Uh... what? My mind struggled to keep up.
Ashley’s eyes went large, her lips forming a perfect pink O. She turned my way and shot me a gleaming smile. “Bradley, that is sooo sweet. My uncle served in Iraq. Did you know that? I told you that, right?” She aimed her perky breasts back at the vet. “Thank you both for your service. You men and what you’ve sacrificed for our country... it just means so much.”
“It ain’t nothin’, ma’am,” he said with a quick grin. “Just doing our duty.”
All right, that’s it, I thought, suddenly pissed at the way she was looking at him. This guy doesn’t get to amputate my leg, stalk me to work, and then lie about a charitable donation to the hottest girl in the firm. I wanted her to look at me like that, in awe, not at some deranged back-alley bum who cuts off people’s legs for kicks. I stormed forward, my finger out and jabbing. “Listen here, buddy, I don’t know what your game is, but I’ve had just about enough of your—”
“Now,” the vet said to the Mummy. The Mummy’s hand clamped over my wrist and slammed it to the desk. The vet wrapped his arms around my chest. They felt like steel bands. I fought. I jerked and thrashed, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t free my wrist from the Mummy’s grip, couldn’t break from the vet’s arms. What was it with these homeless guys and their crazy strength? I worked out five times a week. I could knock out three sets of 225 on the bench, no sweat, but I couldn’t fight off a couple of vagrants?
“Hold him down! Hold him still!” the vet spat. Then the saw appeared. That damn saw. Again. Twice in one day. Lucky me.
It buzzed to life.
Ashley screamed.
The saw split my arm at the elbow, the blade slicing through tendons and bone like butter. A spray of blood misted Ashley’s face and her sweater. She stared at me, her eyes wide and blue through all the red. She blinked and screamed again louder. Me along with her. The Mummy clutched my severed limb with a shaking hand and nearly dropped it.
“Hurry!” the vet ordered. “Get it to your arm while it’s still fresh!”
The Mummy smashed it to his elbow, and once again, I was staring at one of my appendages melding to that of a stranger’s. The man’s good eye widened, and he looked at me flexing his... my fingers in wonder. “Thank you. Oh my God, thank you.” He was crying, tears of gratitude streaming down his dirty cheeks, looking at me like maybe he wanted to reach out and give me a solid bro hug.
I was crying, too. But not from gratitude. From pain—pain like liquid fire. I would have passed out, except my stump née arm wouldn’t let me—that’s how bad it hurt. I looked down at it and was dumbstruck to see a stem growing from among all the grizzle. The shoot of a small plant. But it wasn’t a plant. It was (and I still can’t believe I’m saying this) a brand-new arm.
An infant arm at first. Then a toddler’s. A six-year-old’s ready to head out back and toss a baseball around with Dad. It grew with such an alarming speed, I was worried it wouldn’t stop. But then it did. I stared at it stupidly, made a fist with my new fingers. It was an exact replica of my old arm. Except pinker. Bloodier. And the pain was gone. Totally gone. In fact, I felt pretty decent, all things considered. Enough to remember I was pissed. Super pissed. I rushed the Mummy and shoved him to the floor. He clutched his new arm to his chest and scuttled back against the wall, eyeing me like I wanted to snatch it back from him.
“Hey, take it easy, man,” he said, glancing down at the arm as if he might sing it a nursery rhyme or two. “No reason to get rough here.”
Seriously? I thought. I’d show him rough, all right. I’d show him just how rough I could get. Before I could, the vet grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
“Listen, bud, you need to calm—"
I hit him straight in his stupid grin mouth. Take that! I thought righteously as he grunted in pain. He flinched back and fingered his lip, held up an arm like I might do it again, which, of course, I was going to, repeatedly. I planned on beating him until I could no longer recognize his face.
“Brad! Stop it! What are you doing?”
I turned toward Ashley with my fist hanging midair. She stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head as if she’d just caught me masturbating. Worse, the commotion had brought several of Gorman and Gorman’s finest into the lobby, all of them looking at me in disgust. One of them, Pete Webstock—a pasty-faced kiss-ass weasel—actually grinned at me then drew his thumb across his neck with a nod toward the elevator. I followed his gaze to...
Cliff. Freaking. Baxter. His face tomato red, his eyes blinking, taking it all in.
“What in the hell is going on here?” His gaze flicked between me and the vet and then toward the Mummy, who was still cowering against the wall, then back to me. “This your work, Nelson?”
“No, sir. I—”
“He hit him, Mr. Baxter,” Ashley said, cutting me off. “These two nice men stopped by to share some information on their charity when Brad... he, he came over and shoved one of them and then hit the other one!” She sounded like she was about to cry.
“It’s true,” Pete added. “I saw it all.”
“No you didn’t!” I cried. “Are you kidding me?” I gestured at the blood dripping off the desk, puddling on the floor. “Please, Ashley, tell him what happened!”
“Apologies, folks,” the vet said. “Didn’t mean to cause any trouble here. We’ll show ourselves out.”
“Gentlemen, wait,” Cliff said striding past me with an outstretched hand, which the vet hesitantly took. “I’m so sorry for this. Please stop by tomorrow at your convenience, and I’ll be more than happy to cut you a check.”
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Again, sorry for the trouble.”
“Me too,” the Mummy echoed.
Cliff glared at me. “No trouble at all.”
“Wait,” I said. “Can’t you see the blood? I mean, just look at all this blood!” I glanced frantically around the room in search of an ally. “Didn’t any of you see what happened? They cut off my goddamn arm!”
“Enough, Nelson,” Cliff said. “Get your things and get out.”
---
Outside, I took a final shuddering glance back at 101 Franklin Place gleaming in the late afternoon sun then slumped down the sidewalk in a daze. How had this happened? I was supposed to become a titan of Wall Street. A captain of industry. All I’d wanted was to matter, unlike my father, who’d Mom told me was a nasty drunk with a mean disposition and meaner fists. He’d run away before I was born. I swore I’d never turn out like him.
And, until now, I hadn’t. I’d studied my ass off and graduated with honors from Yale followed by a Master’s in finance at Brown. I’d spent years working overtime at Gorman and Gorman, eating Cliff’s shit like it was cake. And now I’d lost it all to two looney-bin street bums with an amputation fetish? That damn question hit again, hard: had it happened? Really? No, of course not. My worst fears had come to pass. I’d cracked. I’d one-hundred-and-fifty percent cracked. Face it, Brad. You’ve lost your ever-loving mind on this one.
Box in hand, I trudged toward the parking garage. I knew where I needed to go—straight to the nuthouse, find some swanky country retreat in the Hamptons where I could sip a few Arnold Palmers until I got my shit together. Maybe call Mom if I got around to it, which I probably wouldn’t. By the time I reached my car, it seemed like a pretty good plan.
That’s when something smacked the back of my skull.
---
So that’s it. That’s how I got here. And by here, I mean a gas-fume warehouse somewhere in the meatpacking district. I’m pretty sure I’m close to Hudson Bay. I can hear the boats gurgling past at night when all the bums are gone and it’s just me and the cage and my bowl of dog food. Yum.
Bums, bums, bums. I don’t call them that anymore. Oh, no. They don’t like it. They prefer I salute and refer to them by their former ranks: Sergeant. Captain. Corporal. Whatever. I do it, but I still think of them as bums, although it’s hard to do much thinking anymore, what with the daily amputations and all.
The vet filled in the missing pieces one lazy afternoon a few weeks later with the air stinking of brine from the bay. Apparently, my old man never left my mom. He was swiped somewhere near Fort Harrison. Some black box operation to support the troops. Shit, kid. I only knew him ’cause I got swiped, too. Only I wasn’t the one stabbed with all the needles like your pops. Nah, I was on the other end of the experiment. Saw them cut off your old man’s arms a few times. I got tossed before I got my leg from him, though. I never could stay off the sauce long enough. Anyway, your dad, he escaped at some point. Word is the dumb bastard got drunk and went straight home to plow your mom. They drug him back again and used him up before I could get re-enrolled. You’re his spitting image, lemme tell you. You got his eyes.
I got his eyes. It’s what landed me in this mess. Pure dumb luck. Oh, and get this, there really is an Amputee Veterans Association. Something I wasn’t too happy to find out about because, ta-da, it’s me! I’m the charitable organization, just like good old Dad used to be. Every day, I’m forced to service a line of grubby, disgruntled veterans looking for handouts, said handouts being my appendages, of course. Days and days of ungodly pain and limb regrowth, rolling around in my cage like an abused dog.
So, yeah, I guess you can say I’ve accepted my fate. There are worse things than helping those who’ve sacrificed so much for our country, though I’ll admit the work-life balance sucks. But—hey!—at least there’s some real job satisfaction here, unlike investment banking. At least what I do matters now. Not everyone can say that about their career. And besides, they’ve given me a name I quite like. It almost sounds like I’m a superhero. Their superhero.
They call me the Limb Farmer.
Sometimes, I dream of escaping, or I used to, anyway. Not so much anymore. There’s no point to it. No one would believe me if I told them. That’s the other thing the vet said. You had to be in the trials to remember the amputations, something about the nanobots in my blood mixing with the air to wipe bystander memories—America’s tax dollars hard at work!
Still, I can't help but hope. The vet passed out after a bender last night right in front of my cage, close enough for me to snag his phone. That's what I'm using to post this right now. The battery is almost dead, so this is my only shot. If you live in New York, I'm begging you--call the cops and give them this phone number. Here, I just looked it up. It's 555-555-3245.
Please help me. You're my only shot of getting out of here. I gotta go now. The vet is waking up. I hope you can do me a solid and lend me a hand...
====>>

Dallas, Texas
April 10, 1963
Though the sun had set, Texas’ nights were still warm. Crickets chirped in the grass, falling silent as the occasional car traveled up Turtle Creek Boulevard. A light remained on in the church that marked the end of the row of houses on Turtle Creek Boulevard, but it was the house in its shadow that was of interest.
Here more lights burned even well after dark. The first floor study, overlooking the back yard, was lit brightly. A figure crossed the windows, moving to sit behind the desk sitting perpendicular to the windows. The walls, decorated with an Asian-inspired floral pattern, were blocked by framed awards and stacks of mail, wrapped in brown paper. Bookshelves stood against the far wall, covered in books-- historical texts, military texts, no light reading.
Out back, however, the crickets had fallen silent. The cicadas dared not to make a noise-- something had disturbed them. Yet, this bubble of silence was lost in the cacophony of noise the other insects around were making. To one outside of it, it was unnoticeable. Within, however, the silence was all-encompassing. Noise seemed distant, it helped one focus.
The disturbance ceased as the figure came to a halt, peering through the trees. A first brave cricket chirped, and then more, and the cicadas joined in again at last. All seemed right again, though the hunter’s eyes had caught sight of his prey.
A decidedly un-natural noise followed as a nearly-imperceptible pair of clicks-- seconds apart, the act was done with deliberate motions-- denoted the action of a bolt ever so slowly turning. Another tick: a bullet being placed in the chamber, then the clicks again-- chik-chak.
Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead as he stared through the scope, unblinking. Light illuminated his eye, taking in the target as the first few junebugs of the year danced in the warm Texan air.
The target’s head came to dominate the sight. Intimately close, but more than a hundred feet away. A forefinger slowly slipped inside the trigger guard, touching the cold steel of the trigger. The shooter paused, getting his heart rate under control, taking a slow breath. His arms began to ache, his heart thundering. He adjusted the position of the rifle, fitting it more comfortably into his shoulder, and took aim again. The figure had not moved, still sat staring down at something on his desk.
All at once, many things happened. A tremendous crack echoed through the spring night, silencing all the crickets in the alleyway and in the yards of all the houses. Glass shattered. The roses on the wall were painted crimson as the figure lurched sideways out of his chair, twisting and landing on his side-- already dead.
The shooter ran.
The alleyway took him to a wooded area, and that to Wycliff Avenue. He lurked in the bushes, his heart beating madly, until there were no cars or pedestrians and he darted across the street into more woods. Here was Connor Park, on the banks of Turtle Creek. His feet fell in wet leaves, crashing through the foliage as he made his way to the shore. It was only here that he worked the action of the rifle, ejecting the spent bullet casing into the rocks-- separating it from the rifle, should it ever be found-- and he hurled the rifle into the middle of the lake with a resounding splash.
Lights were already flicking on along Lakeside Drive, and the shooter didn’t want to be seen so close to the scene of the crime. He continued running north along Lakeside Drive, following Turtle Creek through the woods until he was far enough away to safely return to sidewalks.
It was ten or fifteen minutes before he heard the first sirens, and watched as a police cruiser-- an all-black Ford Galaxie with the words “DALLAS POLICE” adorning the driver and passenger doors-- dashed up Preston Road with its red globe lights flashing on the roof.
The shooter reflexively clutched the .38 Special in his pants pocket, his backup plan.
He reached Mockingbird Lane, and began walking as normally as a disheveled man in clothes dampened by leaves and branches could. His shoes were dirty, caked in mud from the lakeside. Another Dallas Police cruiser crossed ahead, on Preston Road again, moving south.
Two Dallas Police officers stood outside of the residence where no more than half an hour ago a man had been sitting in his office, doing his taxes-- as best they could tell, the documents on the tabletop were drenched with blood and neither had touched anything.
“Christ,” the one breathed, right hand still resting on the butt of his service revolver. “Go back to the car, radio for some help, would you? We got a murder here, no question.”
The other officer nodded, ashen-faced, and gratefully left the study. His colleague began taking notes about the scene-- body position, the broken window, the upturned chair, the ruined paperwork. One package looked to have been impacted, he took special note of this as it may have contained the bullet.
His partner returned, standing in the doorway. “We might have a witness.”
Outside, the two officers met face to face with the pastor of the Presbyterian church next door, who had been awake doing some late night work himself and had something important to say. With one old finger, he pointed north. “I saw him take off up the alleyway, over yonder.”
Oswald continued along Mockingbird, crossing in front of a long series of storefronts. The police kept going down Preston, well behind him now, and he began to feel a little more secure. His pace slowed from a jog to a walk, though sweat still rolled down his cheeks from the earlier efforts to escape. His hair was damp, clinging to his scalp.
He had only to get to the bus stop, and he would be home-free.
The call went out with a brief description of the shooter, as related by the pastor who had only seen him in the dark. A white man, dark hair, maybe six feet tall but most likely shorter, wearing dark clothes, running north towards Connor Park. Dallas Police knew that information was old, though, and extended their search well beyond the park. They knew he was running, which after an hour or so meant he might be as far as a couple miles north if he was in good shape. Units were being called in from the city itself, now, roaring northwards into Highland Park. The name of the victim was being circulated on police radio: Major General Edwin Walker.
This was a national news story in the making, and word was streaking to the top of the Dallas Police chain of command. Lieutenants were calling Captains, and Captains were calling Majors, and eventually a Deputy Chief rang the Chief of Police, Jesse Curry, who sat bolt upright in bed upon hearing the news. Everyone was getting called in.
For his part, Oswald kept moving. Everywhere sirens shrieked, and twice now he had dashed into the trees to hide from police cruisers coming up Mockingbird. The road was too big, he turned south again onto a more residential street as another police cruiser turned onto Mockingbird, though it was lost on him in the moment that this cruiser was coming from the south.
The police officers had spotted this figure crossing Mockingbird, though. As Oswald hurried along, they turned off their lights and sirens and crept onto the road behind him, spotting him far ahead in their headlights. Inside, the officer in the passenger seat pulled his revolver from its holster with a leathery rasp and laid the weapon in his lap, watching the suspect intently. The two officers exchanged a glance, and the driver gave the engine more gas.
Oswald noticed the car approaching from behind-- how could he not, being caught in its headlights-- and his hand reached into his pocket again. He made it to a street corner as the car came alongside him.
“Howdy!” the officer in the passenger seat called, tipping his hat back to get a better look at the man. He clutched his service weapon. “You look lost, you live around here?”
“Well, no, my friend does,” Oswald responded. “My wife and I had a fight. I’m looking for my friend, I think he said, was it Bonita Avenue he lived on?”
“You’re in the wrong part of Dallas if you’re looking for Bonita Avenue,” the officer responded. “You want a ride over there?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Oswald responded flatly.
“Where do you live?” the officer called out.
Oswald didn’t respond for a moment. “I live, uh, on Elvay Road. I took the bus up here, I think I got off on the wrong stop.”
“Which bus?” the officer asked again.
He waved his left hand. “Look, officer, I’m just trying to get to my friend’s house. I’ll be fine.”
The driver put the cruiser in park, and opened his door. The sound seemed to startle Oswald, who scoffed. “What, a man can’t walk at night in this country anymore?”
“Listen, mister, there’s been a shooting and you’re looking mighty suspicious being in the wrong part of town and all. We just want to ask you some questions.”
“I’ve been questioned by the police before,” Oswald said defensively. “I know your tactics. I’m not talking to you without a lawyer.”
The two officers exchanged another glance. “You ain’t even under arrest, son. You don’t need a lawyer.”
“I do need a lawyer if you’re going to frame me for shooting someone. Is it because I am a communist?” Oswald said. “I have the right to belong to whatever political party I want, as an American.”
“Boy, what in the hell are you even--” the driver asked, now leaning on the roof of the car.
His partner cut him off. “What do you have in your pocket there?”
“My billfold,” Oswald said sharply.
The driver had grown more serious, now, and drew his own weapon. “Why don’t you put your hands where I can see them, son?”
Oswald had turned away from them, his body bladed toward them with his right arm hidden. “I don’t have to do anything, sir. You are agents of an illegitimate government, bent on oppressing me for my political views.”
“Put your goddamn hands where I can see them!” the driver called, now producing his own weapon and leveling it at Oswald. The passenger stood behind the door of the cruiser, now, leveling his own revolver.
“This is it,” Oswald said, almost under his breath. He drew the .38 Special and fired three shots-- one hit the hood, one passed through the windshield and grazed the right side of the driver, and the third struck the siren mounted atop the car. In response, the driver fired one shot wide and turned as he was struck. The passenger, however, fired six aimed shots back at Oswald. Four missed outright, hitting the side of a garage and a tree respectively, while the remaining two shots hit Oswald in the torso.
Oswald dropped his pistol, knocked flat by the impact of the two bullets. The passenger, Patrolman Edgar Hanson, called out to his partner, Corporal Glen Burris, who signaled he was alright. Hanson reloaded and crossed the sidewalk to secure Oswald’s pistol, which he kicked across the pavement towards Burris.
“Call up an ambulance!” Hanson shouted, before putting a pair of cuffs on Oswald.
Blinking, Oswald sputtered, “You shot me.”
“Goddamn right,” Hanson responded.
Oswald was loaded into the ambulance some time later, pale from the loss of blood, and transported to Parkland Memorial Hospital. Hanson and Burris, who was only superficially wounded, became the center of extraordinary attention as dozens of police officers converged on the location of the shooting. Eventually the scene played host to the still-groggy Chief Curry, who arrived to personally congratulate the two of them. It hadn’t even been six hours.
“Boy’s porch light was on, but ain’t nobody home,” the Chief said. “Walked off a crime scene and started shooting at police officers.”
“Said he was lost, sir, looking for Bonita Avenue,” Burris explained.
Curry laughed. “God help him, he wasn’t even in the right part of town.”
“We told him that, that’s when he started shooting,” Hanson quipped.
The story ran on the front page on the Dallas Morning News: GEN. WALKER DEAD, SHOOTER CAUGHT. All the lurid details were there, including Oswald’s winding path through residential north Dallas and his paper-thin cover story. Hanson and Burris were touted as hero cops, their own pictures in the paper.
For his part, Oswald remained chained to a hospital bed. Once he was healthy enough he would be taken to the county jail and booked for murder, and left there until what would surely be a chaotic trial.

Russell B. Long, the junior United States Senator from Louisiana, strode through the halls of the Senate office building, making a straight line for the office of Estes Kefauver. A roll of paper under one arm was all he carried, but for his billfold and his kerchief stashed in a pocket on his jacket. Sweat beaded on his brow-- he’d been in the Senate for four years, so not the first person who might otherwise be calling on the leader of the Party, but this was an emergency. He turned a corner, strode up the hall further, and stopped outside of a polished oak door with Kefauver’s name on a gold plate beside it. He stepped inside, barely breaking stride.
Kefauver’s secretary nearly leapt out of her chair. “Excuse me, sir?” she asked, moving as if to stand.
“I’m the Senator’s 7-am, ma’am,” Long responded, stopping long enough to identify himself.
The secretary got up and got ahead of Long, peeking in through the Senator’s office door. “Senator Long to see you, Mr. Kefauver.”
“Send him in,” he heard Kefauver say. Long was through the door while the words still hung in the air, and the secretary pulled it closed behind them.
There sat Estes Kefauver, flanked behind his desk on either side by the United States flag and the flag of Tennessee. Papers stood in neat piles here and there, and a cup with five or six pens sat behind another nameplate. Long took in the office-- on the wall were pictures of the campaign trail in 1952; some other pictures with prominent Tennesseans dating much further back in his career hung there too.
“Take a seat, please. What can I do for you, Senator?” Kefauver asked. He held up a finger. “Coffee?”
Long shook his head. He didn’t have much of a thirst, though the news had made his mouth run dry when he heard it. “No, thank you.”
Kefauver sank back into his chair, and gestured to Long. You have the floor.
After a moment to breathe, Long took the proffered seat and shifted his burden into his lap. “Senator Kefauver, I must assume you saw the President’s speech last night.”
From his lap, Long produced the morning issue of the Times-Picayune, a daily newspaper from back home. The front page bore the unmistakable visage of Walter E. Disney, standing before God, the press, and everyone. The headline: DISNEY CONFIRMS USE OF A-BOMB, ROUT OF VIET REDS.
“I did,” Kefauver confirmed, evidently not having read the papers yet himself. He reached for Long’s, which Long relinquished willingly. The junior Senator sat while Kefauver read the whole story, twice, uttering a tsk as he went. “Louisiana papers are not kind to our dear President, are they?”
His patience wore out. Long cleared his throat. “Well, what in the hell are we gonna do about it?”
Kefauver folded the paper up and returned it to Long. “We need to swing fast and swing hard, we ain’t going to let this bastard slip away and blame the goddamn Chinese this time. Get me Dick Russell and LBJ. Hell, bring in Carl Hayden too, they must’ve broken some rules. Vinson, too, get some of those House boys in play.”
“Of course I saw the speech,” Johnson said, crossing the threshold into the anteroom in Kefauver’s office, a bigger space for the bigger meeting. “Dropped a goddamn A-bomb on Vietnam? Just like that? Didn’t say a word to any of us?”
Hayden sat by the window, in an armchair, while Long and Russell occupied one couch. Kefauver stood opposite them, pacing and cleaning his glasses with his tie. Russell tapped the increasingly wrinkled copy of the Times-Picayune on the coffee table, now joined with a similar Washington Post front page story on the same subject. “More than one, if Disney ain’t lying.”
“Why in the hell would he lie?” Johnson asked, dropping into the unoccupied armchair and ignoring the newspaper. “He’s a goddamn camera hound, you seen him on that weekly program he does. Now he’s just using atom bombs to get attention, it’s a fuckin' mess.”
“Not just a camera hound anymore,” Russell countered. “Now he’s a bigger killer’n Cash My-Check back in Nanking, reckon his stunt with the Bombs killed about as many people at least as that dam thing Disney made all the fuss about. Patton and Mac are dead ducks after this, right hand to God. They’ll be sacrificed to the mob.”
Kefauver replaced his glasses and waved a hand. “Patton didn’t drop the bombs, Disney did.”
Johnson scoffed. “Disney? That sonofabitch ain’t making a call like that, he’s too busy prancin’ around with von Brown talking about rocket ships.”
“Don’t matter who really made it,” Russell opined. “He’s guilty as all get out. Hang it ‘round his neck and he’ll sink sure enough.”
There was a knock at the door and the assembled men turned and looked at Kefauver’s secretary, who got up and peered out. After a moment, Carl Vinson entered. “Gentlemen.”
“Mr. Vinson, thank you for coming down on short notice like this,” Kefauver said, striding across the room and shaking the new arrival’s hand. Vinson spied the newspapers immediately, and cleared his throat.
“I suppose you know what this is about,” Kefauver said, having caught the look.
Johnson looked up from the chair. “We’re fixing to nail that Disney bastard’s ass to the wall, for once and for all.”
Leverett Saltonstall pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling. It had been twenty minutes since he’d been spotted by Lyndon Johnson in the hall, and Johnson had been in his face since then. God, he could even smell the Texan’s breath.
“Now how is this gonna play when Doug Edwards gets in front of the camera tonight and tells America that their government just wiped out 500,000 schoolkids and their mas?” Johnson asked, brandishing the Washington Post like a medieval flail. “You think John Q. Taxpayer wants his taxes to go to blasting little kids to dust with atom bombs?”
Kefauver had chosen well. If you wanted the wheels to turn in Washington, you sent Lyndon Baines Johnson to start pushing. The man was notorious in the halls of Congress for having no boundaries, and for finding yours and deliberately crossing them. He stood half a foot taller than most other Senators and his booming voice battered men into submission. Now it was the senior Senator from Massachusetts, the Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, who found himself in the unenviable position of being LBJ’s target.
Saltonstall demurred. “Mr. Johnson, the President said that they were non-military targets. You’re asking me to go against my own party, for what? Fighting a war against communists?”
Johnson flashed a grin, clapping him heavily on the shoulder. “Then we’ll make you a Democrat, I’ll see to it myself you’ll keep your seat up in Boston. You saw that Kennedy kid pull off a win up there, you can too. Besides, it ain’t 'goin' against your party' to figure out how in the hell the President can just decide by himself to wipe a city off the map. That’s just plain murder, ain’t no war. The American people’ll see that clear as day. Congress has to have its say, the Constitution says it right there that Congress declares wars. Leverett, you remember voting for a war on Vietnam?”
Saltonstall remained quiet. Johnson had him where he wanted him, now, backed up against his own desk. Their noses were almost touching, he could count the beads of sweat on Saltonstall’s brow.
“We are going to convene the Armed Services Committee on an emergency basis and start a hearing on just how in the hell this happened. People tell me Mac said to do it, or Patton, but that dog just don’t hunt I say. This came from Disney, or he was a pushover and let Mac bully him into doing it. That’s a problem for Reed and Celler over in the House, though, not for you and me. You and me, we’re gonna figure out how to stop the President from going around the world dropping atom bombs on rice farmers and handing the world to the fuckin’ Soviets on a silver platter-- we lost four embassies already closed by the host governments, Dulles is rippin' his goddamn hair out, I tell you what. Congress ain’t gonna be sidelined again, I know that much for sure.”
“Fine,” Saltonstall said, breaking eye contact and shrinking away from his assailant. “We’ll convene the committee. There’s important questions on the use of military force, like you said.”
Johnson rewarded him by backing off, slapping the Post down on the desktop with a crack and whooping. “That’s the best goddamn news I heard all day, hell, we all needed news like that after….”
He gestured at the paper.
“I got some other folks to visit,” Johnson said, “speaking of Celler and Reed. You wanna walk over to the House offices with me? I’ll buy you lunch.”
“No, that’s quite alright,” Saltonstall replied, grinning meekly. “I’ll have to make it a working lunch, now.”
Johnson grinned knowingly. You damn well better. He left the paper on Saltonstall’s desk as a reminder and strode out of his office like he owned the place.
The Atomic Authorization Act of 1954, introduced in the House by Representative Thomas E. Morgan (D-PA), flew through Committee under the watchful eyes of Kefauver and Johnson, who worked day and night to scare enough Republicans who were either disgusted by the act itself (which was so rare as to only constitute one or two cases), alarmed by the nearly instant erosion of American goodwill overseas (more cases), or more concerned about the erosion of Congress’s war powers by the President (which was effectively every other case). Some had to be convinced Disney was limp and could get bullied into atomic bombings by Cabinet members with strong personalities or, worse, the military-- and slandering Walt Disney had become something of a sport for Lyndon Johnson and Estes Kefauver especially. For others they simply had to read the telexes arriving at the State Department hourly about embassy and consulate closures, ejections of diplomatic staff, protests, and riots.
After a surprisingly short time circulating through Congress-- only about two weeks-- the AAA landed on the Resolute Desk. Utilizing Congress’s power to legislate under the Necessary and Proper Clause in Article I, Section 8 of the US Constitution to justify the law, the 83rd Congress declared:

• The utilization of atomic weapons is an act of war owing to their immense and growing capability for destruction precluding their use in any other scenario;
  
• Per international law acts of war legally must be preceded by a declaration of war, a power delegated solely to Congress by the US Constitution;
  
• The power to level an atomic first-strike against another state or entity must be subject to a declaration of war made by Congress or an imminent, overriding and existential threat to the United States’s territorial integrity;
  
• The President may only utilize atomic weapons unilaterally, without a declaration of war, in the event of an attack on the United States, its territories, its allies which it is obliged to defend by Senate-approved treaty, and its dependencies by the regular armed forces of another country.
  

In addition to the Atomic Authorization Act, the Administration now faces an inquiry by their old friend Leverett Saltonstall and his Senate Armed Services Committee into the atomic bombing of Vietnam, seeking to examine the decision-making process behind this soon-to-be infamous event in American history with an eye to identify the primary movers and shakers and examine their communications leading up to the event. Congressional subpoenas targeting the Pentagon, the Department of Defense, and their communications with the White House have been issued, with more coming by the day for figures even as high as Douglas MacArthur himself.
Of tertiary concern to the President’s men was the meeting of the House Judiciary Committee, which saw the Democrats-- urged on by Emanuel Celler (D-NY), the ranking member-- investigating whether or not to file articles of impeachment against the President for his actions, which they allege constitutes a crime. The Chairman, Chauncey W. Reed (R-IL), has publicly resisted Celler and his cohorts, citing a lack of a clear offense for which to charge the President, but the rumor mill has it that Reed is being paid frequent visits by Democrats, including one or two by LBJ, and that his resolve is steadily and rapidly being eaten away at.

I have an old FOSSIL brand leather billfold wallet that is unusually small and I can't find a equivalent replacement. When closed it is 4"x3" and when stuffed with cards and USD bills, it is less that 1" thick.
Everything I find is way over 4x3 and wicked thick. I tried a TUMI DELTA but it was massive in comparison to this wallet. Trying to stay with leather billfold, six card pockets, two extra pockets and as close to 4x3 as absolutely possible with one currency sleeve. Trying to stay away from cheap wallets.
I've looked at the Bellroy products, but they seem larger than what I'm looking for. I found a Leatherology wallet that seems close, but is almost a half inch taller.
https://preview.redd.it/hls5tlqcpdd91.jpg?width=4032&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=e002d2825a001ed3788dbd1ada531ffe6297e8e1
https://preview.redd.it/500urmqcpdd91.jpg?width=4032&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=3777d734424460445b348cb7034ea505f64765b9
https://preview.redd.it/ieqhmmqcpdd91.jpg?width=4032&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=11b879071fe2cc30c9f3a7d5487fa7e86f96048b

For awhile now I've been trying to put the show into some kind of order.
I'm still working on it, but I thought I would share my progress and get peoples opinons.
These are the just notations on the episode and the probably time they take place.
Season 1
01 Pilot
The date given in the Pilot is KOREA 1950; however, the front lines in Korea 1950 were not near Uijeongbu/Seoul but near Pusan. Likewise, no other dates are given in the series until the arrival of Colonel Sherman Potter on September 19, 1952 - -still showing MASH 4077 in the same place, which is improbable, given the fact that Mobile Army hospitals had to stay behind the shifting front lines in order to care for the wounded.
02 To Market, to Market
Hydrocortisone was first identified by Kendall and Mason in 1949, for which discovery they were awarded the Nobel Prize in 1950. The pilot episode of M*A*S*H began with the subscript Korea, 1950 and all dates specified in the first and second season set the show in 1951. An article in Popular Science suggests the drug was used at least as early as June 1951.Cortisone is also mentioned in the US Army’s official medical history of the Korean War. So its appearance here is plausible.
03 Requiem for a Lightweight
04 Chief Surgeon Who?
05 The Moose
06 Yankee Doodle Doctor
07 Bananas, Crackers and Nuts
08 Cowboy
Henry mentions that his wife has a fistful of credit cards. Before the 1950s, credit cards were issued by individual merchants and only valid at one store or for one chain. That would explain why Henry’s wife would have a fistful. The first modern credit card, Diner’s Club, was only introduced in 1950. If Henry’s wife had one, she would be an early adopter.
09 Henry, Please Come Home
While faking his illness, Radar is shown to be reading Captain Savage #10, a comic from January 1969. The episode, of course, is set in 1951.
10 I Hate a Mystery
11 Germ Warfare
Going by air date order, this is the last episode to feature Spearchucker as a character.
12 Dear Dad
Christmas Episode, This episode is set in the winter, yet in the field surgery scene, the soldiers in the foxhole appear to be dressed as for summer. In fact, the real Christmas 1950 in Korea was quite different. In the south, the US Forces were holding their own in the Pusan Perimeter. In the north, the Marines and US Army were still in combat in harsh conditions and below-freezing weather.
13 Edwina
14 Love Story
15 Tuttle
16 The Ringbanger
17 Sometimes You Hear the Bullet
18 Dear Dad...Again
The character of Captain Casey was inspired by the life of Ferdinand Waldo Demara who impersonated a ship’s doctor on board a Canadian destroyer during the Korean War. In 1951, he performed surgery successfully on a number of casualties, including one with a serious chest wound. But he was exposed when his life-saving exploit was published in the Canadian newspapers. His life story was fictionalized in the Tony Curtis Movie The Great Impostor. This gag was repeated by Private Schaeffer in Fade Out, Fade In, Part 1 who posed as a lawyer and tried to convince Klinger that he could get the Corporal his much-sought-after Section 8.
19 The Long-John Flap
Winter Episode
20 The Army-Navy Game
A 1973 episode of M*A*S*H referenced a fictional Army-Navy game that ended 42-36 Navy. To this day, no Army-Navy game has ended with that score. The radio announcer in the episode says the game is the 53rd Army-Navy game. That game was played in 1952; Navy won, 7-0. The game itself was played on November 29 1952 thus placing this episode on that date. Also, according to a weather website, it was about 40 degrees F at the time which fits with what we see on screen, give or take a bit. What the announcer says may be false, but the game was real and that’s when it took place, which places that episode at that time frame.
21 Sticky Wicket
22 Major Fred C. Dobbs
23 Cease-Fire
24 Showtime
The Stars and Stripes newspaper which Burns reads at the end of the episode contains the following story titles and comes from the Pacific edition, April 19, 1949. Either an anachronism or, like a doctor’s waiting room, they read really old newspapers.
Henry’s son is born in this episode, that means he has been in country for at least 8.5 months
Season 2
01 Divided We Stand
02 5 O’Clock Charlie
The exploits of 5 O’Clock Charlie are loosely based on flights of Bed-Check Charlies, obsolete North Korean biplanes which made night time raids on UN targets.
Read thru Dr. Apel’s book as it references this event.
03 Radar’s Report
Timeline Fix: Radar gives the date of his report as Oct 17, 1951. At this stage of the series, this date is still plausible and doesn’t create any problems yet. This date was later used again in A War for All Seasons in which Major Winchester loses bets on the Giants-Dodgers baseball game.
04 For the Good of the Outfit
At the end of the episode, Radar reads a letter to Hawkeye from his father. The date of the letter is May 24, 1951. The episode immediately preceding this one, Radar’s Report, gives a date (of the eponymous report) of October 17, 1951.
05 Dr. Pierce and Mr. Hyde
06 Kim
At the beginning of the episode, the P.A. announces the following night’s movie which is Flying Leathernecks starring, according to the announcer, John Wayne, Ward Bond, and Maureen O’Hara. This movie was first released in August 1951, so it is appropriate to the timeline (see date mentioned in Radar’s Report). However, while John Wayne did appear in Flying Leathernecks, Ward Bond and Maureen O’Hara were not in the cast.
Fun Fact: One of the movies Radar offers to Col. Blake is Bonzo Runs for President. Bonzo was a chimpanzee who was featured in Bedtime for Bonzo, a 1951 film starring then-actor Ronald Reagan - who would later successfully run for President. (Reagan was governor of California when this episode first aired.)
07 L.I.P. (Local Indigenous Personnel)
08 The Trial of Henry Blake
09 Dear Dad... Three
10 The Sniper
11 Carry On, Hawkeye
A flu epidemic hits camp. Attention all personnel. Here is the latest news from Armed Forces Radio: Stockholm: Dr. Ralph Bunche has just won the Noble Peace Prize. Moscow: Josef Stalin announced he has been unanimously reelected ruler of Russia. Paris: the French Army today predicted it would bring a swift end to the Vietnamese War. Detroit: the automobile industry reached its production target of six and a half million cars. Korea: ammunition and material shortages continue to hinder the Allied war effort.
Dr Ralph Bunche was a Harvard PhD in Political Science and later Professor of Political Science at Howard University. In the 1940s he helped to draft the United Nations Charter and is considered by many to be one of the founding fathers of the United Nations. In 1946 he joined the United Nations secretariat and in 1948 served as the United Nations chief mediator between the Israelis and Palestinians. It was for this peace-brokering work that he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1950.
12 The Incubator
13 Deal Me Out
14 Hot Lips and Empty Arms
15 Officers Only
16 Henry in Love
If Nancy Sue was turning 21 in August, she would have just finished her junior year in college, ostensibly at Ohio State. When she says that it takes her back, it could not have been too far back.
17 For Want of a Boot
18 Operation Noselift
Anomaly: Col. Blake tells Pvt. Baker that they showed The Thing and The Blob in the same week. The Thing From Another World came out in 1951, but The Blob didn’t come out until 1958, five years after the Korean War was over.
19 The Chosen People
20 As You Were
Among public announcements: Attention. Attention all personnel. No casualties expected for indefinite period. AFRS announces the release of Nazi war criminal Alfred Krupp. Everybody’s going home but us. FACT: Alfred Krupp was released January 31, 1951
21 Crisis
22 George
23 Mail Call
24 A Smattering of Intelligence
Season 3
01 The General Flipped at Dawn
02Rainbow Bridge
Although the mass exchange of wounded POWs only occurred near the end of the Korean Conflict in 1953, there were numerous contemporary accounts of Chinese troops at the local unit level releasing wounded prisoners, leaving wounded prisoners to be collected or even inviting UN forces to send personnel to collect their wounded
03 Officer of the Day
04 Iron Guts Kelly
For the record, in the actual Korean war the only US Generals killed in Korean war in 1950-1951 were Walton Walker (killed December 23, 1950 - auto accident) and Bryant Moore (died of a heart attack February 24, 1951 after a helicopter accident)
05 O.R.
06 Springtime
07 Check-Up
08 Life With Father
In trying to determine who the baby’s father might be, Trapper remembers a former colleague: Captain Forrest, a brain surgeon who fell down a lot. Hawkeye dismisses the idea, pointing out that he left two years ago. This could be a reference to Captain Duke Forrest, a major character in both the book and film versions of M*A*S*H, but who was never seen in the TV series.
09 Alcoholics Unanimous
The film that opens the episode (and that the M*A*S*H crew watches) is Tin Pan Alley from 1940, starring Alice Faye.
10 There is Nothing Like a Nurse
11 Adam’s Ribs
12 A Full Rich Day
13 Mad Dogs and Servicemen
Pinning an accurate date to this episode is difficult. Trapper and Travis’ conversation about Ted Williams being very recently drafted into Korea dates this to May, 1952. (Trapper’s comments about Williams previous season are absolutely accurate: Williams batted .318 in 1951.) Elsewhere, Rosie notes that Ike (i.e., General Dwight Eisenhower) has the Republican nomination sewn up; that would date the episode to sometime in mid-July, during or after the 1952 Republican convention held in Chicago. However, the favourite songs of letter-writer Wanda are The Wayward Wind by Gogi Grant, and Bo Diddley by Bo Diddley -- which were released in 1956 and 1955, respectively.
14 Private Charles Lamb
Timeline Facts: The Greek Easter was on April 9 in 1950, April 29 in 1951, and April 20 in 1952.
15 Bombed
16 Bulletin Board
At the end of the episode, there’s a remark about Clark Gable’s divorce from Sylvia Ashley, which occurred in April 1952; likewise, there’s a remark about Presidential candidate Dwight Eisenhower’s vow to go to Korea if elected President, which happened after his election in December 1952, which is referred in 4/4 The Late Captain Pierce. In 4/3 Change of Command, Potter takes command September 19, 1952. In 4/20 The Novocaine Mutiny, the trial takes place in October 1952. Thus, if M*A*S*H had honestly followed the real Korean conflict timeline, Season 4 would have probably been the last season for the show.
The movie the staff watches early in the episode is The Littlest Rebel (1935).
Hawkeye reads the announcement to Henry about the First Annual Polly Adler Birthday Cookout, Picnic and Barbeque. Polly Adler was an infamous madame in New York in the 20s and 30s, who was born on April 6, 1900 (which would make the picnic’s date around April 6, 1951)
17 The Consultant
18 House Arrest
When Frank formally accuses Hawkeye of assault, he invokes the Articles of War, which at the time defined military law. The Articles of War would be supplanted by the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) when it went into effect on May 31, 1951 after being signed into law by President Truman a year earlier. The invocation of the Articles of War would place the timeline of this episode before May of 1951.
Leave Her To Heaven is the movie in this episode.
19 Aid Station
20 Love and Marriage
21 Big Mac
MacArthur did indeed visit Korea in real life. However, unlike this episode, he did not wear his sun bleached khakis from World War II -- when in Korea, he rather sensibly wore cold weather clothing.
22 Payday
23 White Gold
24 Abyssinia, Henry
I have a message: Lieutenant Colonel... Henry Blake’s plane... was shot down... over the Sea of Japan... It spun in... There were no survivors.
Season 4
01Welcome to Korea Part 1
02Welcome to Korea Part 2
The date is given as September 19, 1952.
03 Change of Command
Potter implies that he has 18 months to go in his service before he retires. If this episode takes place in September 1952, this means he would be scheduled to retire in February 1954.
04It Happened One Night
05 The Late Captain Pierce
President-Elect Dwight D. Eisenhower visited the troops in Korea in December 1952; if MASH had kept to the real Korean War Timeline, it would have only lasted for about one more season, as the Korean Conflict ended in July 1953, 7 months after Eisenhower visited.
06 Hey, Doc
07 The Bus
08 Dear Mildred
09 The Kids
10 Quo Vadis, Captain Chandler?
Potter claims he will retire in 17 months, 6 weeks, and 2 days. As he arrives in September 19, 1952, this means he would retire in January 1954; yet in AfterMASH he retires after the Armistice of July 1953. But this is plausible, as early retirement is always an option (in fact, in the Season 6 episode Potter’s Retirement, he announces his plans to retire early after bad reports about him make it to a general friend) and he might have accumulated leave.
11 Dear Peggy
Hawkeye reads about Elizabeth Taylor getting married to someone Ni.... Taylor married Conrad Nicky Hilton May 6, 1950. But this is a bit of old newspaper which Peggy had used to stuff a parcel, so it could have been some time ago. Hawkeye thinks Ni... is Vice-President Richard Nixon. Nixon was elected with Eisenhower on November 4, 1952. So this places the timeline somewhere Nov-Dec 1952 or early 1953.
This timeline is still plausible for Season 4, given that Potter took command on September 19, 1952 about 7 episodes prior. But it advances the story quite far and doesn’t leave much of the Korean War (which ended in July 1953) for the rest of the seasons. That’s why the timeline will be quietly reset or abandoned later in Season 4.
12 Of Moose and Men
13 Soldier of the Month
The rodent-borne hemorrhagic fever in this episode is likely a strain of Hantavirus. This Eurasian strain of the disease causes the symptoms portrayed in the episode—fever, shock, redness of the eyes, kidney failure, and fluid overload. Hantavirus infected more than 3,000 Korean and American troops during the Korean War, and more than 300 of the victims died. In this episode, the hemorrhagic fever is blamed on mites and fleas that preyed on rats; today, scientists know that victims contract this strain of Hantavirus by a bite from an infected rodent, or by inhaling aerosolized rodent’s saliva, urine, or feces that contain the virus.
14 The Gun
The P.A. announces that the movie for the night is Kansas City Confidential. This came out in November 11, 1952. So we are in late 1952, early 1953. This is on track and consistent with the last fix in Dear Peggy, but we are hurtling towards the last few months of the Korean War with 7 more seasons to go. The timeline will have to be reset soon.
The mention of Eisenhower and Nixon is correct as the Presidential Elections was in November 1952.
Potter reads about 80 cadets being expelled from West Point. The actual scandal was in August 1951, when 83 West Point cadets were dismissed for cheating in their exams. So Potter is a year late here. But they probably needed this reference for a bit of deliberate irony; we have just seen Frank show off the stolen gun.
15 Mail Call...Again
16 The Price of Tomato Juice
17 Dear Ma
Klinger remarks on Matthew Ridgeway as commanding general in Korea. He held that post from April 1951-May 1952; yet B.J. came to Korea September 1952.
18 Der Tag
The P.A. announcer notes that Ralph Kiner just hit his 47th home run. The only season during the Korean War in which Kiner hit as many as 47 home runs was 1950; he hit his 47th (and last) of the 1950 season on September 27.
19 Hawkeye
20 Some 38th Parallels
21 The Novocaine Mutiny
Timeline is October 1952 - Potter took over command Sept. 19, 1952 in 4/3 Change of Command; this is Episode 4/20; in Episode 4/4 The Late Captain Pierce, the timeline is December 1952 (Eisenhower’s visit to Korea after being elected President). However, 4/4 was filmed before 4/20.
22 Smilin’ Jack
Timeline fix. The reference to the Battle of the Imjin River fixes the date at April 1951. That’s a bit strange, though. Why would they tally up the scores for chopper pilot of the year in April? Surely it would be done at year end in December? Then again, it is clearly not winter in this episode. Likewise, Mitchell remarks that the front line is at the Yalu River and MacArthur’s Headquarters - yet the Yalu campaign was winter in NovembeDecember 1950. Likewise, MacArthur was relieved from command April 1951. Not to mention Col. Potter and B.J. didn’t arrive at the 4077th until 1952 (Potter arrived in September 19, 1952, and B.J. was already there).
23 The More I See You
The first of Potter’s paintings are crafted, one of Radar, and also Greek Athlete, with Klinger as the model.
24 Deluge
The story of the Pingpong playing cat Dagwood actually happened-in August 1951!
Timeline fix. In early Season 4 the timeline was quite consistent with earlier Seasons and fixed at late 1952. For example, in The Late Captain Pierce, earlier in the season, Dwight Eisenhower is now President-elect and tours Korea (historically accurate - he visited Korean in late November 1952). But during one of this episode’s Newsreel snippets, Harry Truman is still in office. And P.A. announcement mentions the Chinese entering the war, which took place on November 27, 1950. In fact, the final clip of the MovieTone newsreel is dated MCML - 1950. The Chinese rupturing the lines could have been any of their offensives in early 1951. What must have happened is the writers realized that the timeline was advancing too far into the Korean War and there wasn’t much of the war left for who knows how many more seasons. So the timeline has been quietly reset or done away with. This reset of the timeline first took place around Smilin’ Jack which also mentions a Chinese offensive and the Battle of the Imjin River (early 1951).
25 The Interview
At the beginning of the episode, The Interviewer indicates that the war is a year old, placing this episode sometime in 1951.
Season 5
1 Bug Out Part 1
2 Bug Out Part 2
As usual with MASH, little attention is paid by the writers to setting a plausible timeline for this episode. Before Hawkeye and Radar leave for Rosie’s, Houlihan remarks it’s September; the only September that Potter is in Korea is September 1952 (the war ended July 27, 1953), which is just as he arrives at the MASH unit. Meanwhile, Klinger implies he’s already been in Korea for three years, which is a month short of the length of the entire war.
3Margaret’s Engagement
4Out of Sight, Out of Mind
5Lt. Radar O’Reilly
6The Nurses
7 The Abduction of Margaret Houlihan
8 Dear Sigmund
9 Mulcahy’s War
10 The Korean Surgeon
11 Hawkeye Get Your Gun
12 The Colonel’s Horse
13 Exorcism
The battle of Hill 205 actually occurred in the Korean War, but it happened in November 1950. Despite the fact Potter came to MASH in September 1952 in this episode Potter refers to the “man upstairs” meaning General Douglas MacArthur who was relieved from duty in April 1951. The part of the end when Hawkeye wins the bet from Frank Burns is in the remastered version.
14 Hawk’s Nightmare
15 The Most Unforgettable Characters
Radar’s report dated June 11. Potter was introduced as having come to MASH 4077 on September 19, 1952. If that still holds, the year is 1953 and the Korean War will last only one more month.
1638 Across
USS Essex deployments in the Korean War were from August 1951 – March 1952 and July 1952 – January 1953. In real life, POW exchanges in Korea did not happen until summer 1953.
17 Ping Pong
18 End Run
19 Hanky Panky
20 Hepatitis
21 The General’s Practitioner
Potter claims he’ll retire in 14 days and 11 months. In The Most Unforgettable Characters (TV series episode) date of June 11, 1953-Potter would retire July 1954
22 Movie Tonight
23 Souvenirs
Anomaly: B.J. arrived at the 4077th around the same time as Col. Potter, which was September 1952. He tells Hawkeye that his daughter Erin was born shortly before he was shipped out. In this episode, he says she’s almost 2, but the Korean War ended July 1953, so he should have been home by the time she turned 2.
24 Post Op
25 Margaret’s Marriage
Season 6
01 Fade Out, Fade In Part 1
02 Fade Out, Fade In Part 2
03 Fallen Idol
04 Last Laugh
05 War of Nerves
Sidney remarks about how some people think I Love Lucy is real. I Love Lucy began airing in October of 1951 and was an immediate phenomenon: the overall rating in America of 67.3 for the entire 1952 season of I Love Lucy continues to be the highest average rating for any single season of a TV show ever, and by a fairly wide margin. Though no-one in Korea drafted prior to October 1951 would have seen the show, any American who came along afterward would have.
06 The Winchester Tapes
07 The Light That Failed
08 In Love and War
09 Change Day
Army Money gets changed out
10 Images
11 The M*A*S*H Olympics
Col. Potter and B.J. first came to the 4077th in September 1952; the 1952 Olympics happened from July 19 to August 3, 1952.
12 The Grim Reaper
13 Comrades in Arms: Part 1
14 Comrades in Arms: Part 2
During the demonstration operation at the 8063rd MASH, Margaret mentions that they are using a new vascular clamp designed at the 4077th, but this invention doesn’t happen until 3 episodes later in “Patent 4077”. The Timeline seems wrong. That’s because “Patent 4077” was produced before “Comrades in Arms” but the latter was broadcast before the former.
15 The Merchant of Korea
Anomaly: Father Mulcahy takes a red $20 military bill out of his boxing glove to use in the second half of the poker game. “Change Day” was 5 episodes ago, so the bill should be blue.
16 The Smell of Music
17 Patent 4077
This is the episode that details the creation of the vascular clamp as described in Dr. Otto Apel’s Book.
18 Tea and Empathy
19 Your Hit Parade
20 What’s Up, Doc?
21 Mail Call Three
22 Temporary Duty
23 Potter’s Retirement
The Kentucky Derby is in May. As Potter came to MASH 4077 on Sept 25, 1952 in the real timeline, this would have been May 1953 - Winchester would only have had to stay in this cesspool for another month and a half (he would, of course, have had no way of knowing that). Continuity error is Winchester claiming he been at MASH 4077 for 6 Months; in The Most Unforgettable Characters (TV series episode) Radars morning report is June 11 -using Potter’s real arrival at MASH 4077 Sept 25,1952 this would mean June 1953...and the whining Winchester would only have been in MASH 4077 for 1 month {July 1953}
Winchester also complains he missed open heart surgery in Boston. In actual fact...”The first successful intracardiac correction of a congenital heart defect using hypothermia was performed by Drs. C. Walton Lillehei and F. John Lewis at the University of Minnesota on 2 September 1952. In 1953, Alexander Alexandrovich Vishnevsky conducted the first cardiac surgery under local anesthesia. In 1956, Dr. John Carter Callaghan performed the first documented open-heart surgery in Canada.” [Wikipedia..note Vishnevsky conducted surgery in USSR..thus no real open heart surgery in boston..during 1953]
24 Dr. Winchester and Mr. Hyde
25 Major Topper
The mention of dating Audrey Hepburn:
Audrey Hepburn did not shoot to worldwide fame until Roman Holiday, which only came out in August 1953, after the end of the Korean War. She only had a few minor roles in British films before that, which Hawkeye, etc. would not have known about. So how is she such a talking point among the Swamp mates? Probably because in November 1951, she played the leading role in the Broadway play Gigi and apparently with great success. A review of newspapers of 1951 shows many stories written about her in papers across the country. A Walter Winchell column noted her “jump from oblivion to stardom.” Stories talking about her as a “new Broadway star” were typical. Knowing how boring camp life can be, it is likely that the MASH personnel devoured every bit of entertainment news from any newspaper that arrived from the U.S. Therefore, provided the timeline here is set after November 1951, it is, on balance, plausible and not an anachronism, that the Swamp mates would consider dating Audrey Hepburn a big deal - she was already some kind of minor celebrity. After 1953, of course, it would have been an even bigger deal, but in 1951, it was still something to brag about.
Season 7
01 Commander Pierce
02Peace on Us
03 Lil
04 Our Finest Hour Part 1
05 Our Finest Hour Part 2
Date: October 9, 1952: Reporter Clete Roberts returns to the 4077th, to again interview the medical unit. Roberts stated on camera that he decided to make a return trip to the 4077th, citing the uniqueness of the people and their extraordinary survival record.
06 The Billfold Syndrome
07None Like it Hot
08They Call the Wind Korea
09 Major Ego
10 Baby, It’s Cold Outside
11Point of View
We get a close-up of the notepad Rich uses to communicate with the staff, which started out as a letter home, and the date he wrote says “9-12-51” - an anomaly, since Potter didn’t arrive at the 4077th until September 1952.
12 Dear Comrade
13 Out of Gas
14 An Eye for a Tooth
The party everyone participated in the night before is announced over the P.A. celebrating the one-year anniversary of the Officers Club. Since the O Club was introduced in Season Two’s “Officers Only”, that means only a year has transpired between Season Two and Season Seven.
15 Dear Sis
16 B.J. Papa San
17 Inga
18 The Price
19 The Young and the Restless
20 Hot Lips is Back in Town
21 C*A*V*E
22 Rally Round the Flagg, Boys
Continuity error: Winchester came to MASH 4077 after Potter (Who came Sept 19, 1952) yet Winchester refers in the present tense to Douglas MacArthur (Who was dismissed April 1951) by 1952 the US general in command of UN troops in Korea was Matthew Bunker Ridgeway.
23 Preventative Medicine
24 A Night at Rosie’s
25 Ain’t Love Grand?
26 The Party
Season 8
01 Too Many Cooks
02 Are You Now, Margaret?
03 Guerrilla My Dreams
04 Good-Bye Radar: Part 1
05 Good-Bye Radar: Part 2
06 Period of Adjustment
07Nurse Doctor
08 Private Finance
09 Mr. and Mrs. Who?
10 The Yalu Brick Road
The camp is suffering from a brutal case of salmonella.
Correct chronology would have this take place in November 1952.
11 Life Time
Hawkeye sends Klinger to fetch his canvas bathtub. This was supposed to have been traded for ice cream in Season 7’s “None Like It Hot”. Still, it’s entirely possible he just ordered another one.
12 Dear Uncle Abdul
13 Captains Outrageous
14 Stars and Stripes
15 Yessir, That’s Our Baby
Sliding Timeline fix: Hawkeye calls the milk in the surgical glove “Chateau Moo ‘51” which places the events in 1951 and also refers to the US Commander as Douglas MacArthur - an anachronism, since Potter didn’t arrive at the 4077th until September 1952.
It is also possible, however, that Hawkeye might have been making a quip about when the powdered milk itself was made; it almost certainly would not have been immediately shipped to Korea when it was first manufactured.
16 Bottle Fatigue
17 Heal Thyself
18 Old Soldiers
19 Morale Victory
20 Lend a Hand
21 Goodbye, Cruel World
22 Dreams
23 War Co-Respondent
Aggie O’Shea is based on real-life war correspondent Marguerite Higgins, who was in Korea in 1950.
24 Back Pay
25 April Fools
If this had really been following the correct timeline as the real Korean War, this would be April 1953. The Korean War ended in July 1953.
Season 9
1 The Best of Enemies
2 Letters
3 Cementing Relationships
4 Father’s Day
5 Death Takes a Holiday
A sliding time episode..December 1952 was in “The Late Captain Pierce” as Charles came to MASH 4077 after this date...it would have been impossible for Winchester to have celebrated Christmas at the camp.
6 A War for All Seasons
M*A*S*H officially observed its 200th episode broadcast on CBS with this episode.
Bearing in mind that this episode takes place throughout the year 1951, there are numerous anachronisms including, but by no means limited to the following:
Potter’s initial arrival in camp, which is announced by the PA as September 19, 1952. (Change of Command)
B.J. arrived in camp for the first time exactly one week before Potter’s arrival. (Welcome To Korea)
Bobby Thompson’s home run happened on October 3, 1951; but in Radar’s Report, the date is given as October 17, 1951 (and Frank and Trapper were still at the 4077th).
The following events (only two of many examples) are dated after the events of this episode, but feature Frank Burns still at the 4077th:
Mad Dogs and Servicemen takes place in May 1952 (Ted Williams goes to Korea)
The Novocaine Mutiny take place in October 1952.
The Late Captain Pierce takes place in December 1952.
The Most Unforgettable Characters takes place June 11, 1953. {Burns was dropped from MASH 4077 at the end of the 5th season about 10 epsidoes later)
The events of this episode also beg the question: “When did Charles first arrive in camp?” His arrival at the beginning of Season 6 replacing Frank Burns would suggest that he was only in camp for the final few months of the Korean War itself, but Charles’ inclusion in some episodes that mention the date and year would, by comparison, certainly overlap Frank’s time at the 4077th. Had MasH 4077 stuck to the real Korean War timeline Frank Burns would have been out by June 1953 and whining Winchester would have only been at MASH 4077 2 to 4 weeks!
When everyone is celebrating the Giants’ win, Father Mulcahy is so excited he plants a kiss on Margaret. The next time you watch the show, look how surprised she looks - this might have been an ad-lib on William Christopher’s part.
Colonel Potter was not wrong to support the St. Louis Cardinals. They finished a distant third behind the Dodgers and Giants.
At the time MLB teams in their respective leagues all played under one competitive ladder, one for the NL, one for the AL; the leagues were not split up until 1969, when they were divided into Eastern and Western divisions; with new expansion teams being added they divided yet again in 1994 when the Central divisions were created.
7 Your Retention, Please
8Tell It to the Marines
9 Taking the Fifth
Timeline Notes, B.J. mentions that the ‘47 Chateau Margaux is already 4 years old. This places the episode in 1951.
As always, mentioning specific military units introduces timeline problems. 2 PPCLI was in theater from 18 Dec 50 - 4 Nov 51. Given that the episode takes place in 1951 as mentioned above, this is at least plausible within the context of the episode and possibly within Season 9, but wildly inconsistent with the events of the previous Seasons since Winchester is supposed to have arrived in 1952 or 1953. Likewise, Potter didn’t come to MASH 4077 until Sept 19, 1952-a whole year after the 2 PPCLI ‘Had already served in Korea’
10 Operation Friendship
11 No Sweat
12 Depressing News
13 No Laughing Matter
14 Oh, How We Danced
Hawkeye mocks Winchester’s will, claiming that he would like to be cremated and have his ashes sprinkled over Robert Taft. Senator Robert A. Taft, Sr., died July 31, 1953.
B.J. tells Winchester that the Battle of Pork Chop Hill has been over for a month. Since there were two battles here [16–18 April / 6–11 July 1953], the timeline for this episode is April 1953 (the Korean war armistice came in July 1953). Also, Winchester is shown to be reluctant to go on a front line inspection, yet in another episode, it’s claimed he was a front line surgeon at the Battle of Pork Chop Hill-apparently (“The Life You Save”) where he is at the front lines-the second Battle of Porkchop Hill [6-11 July 1953].
15 Bottoms Up
16 The Red/White Blues
17 Bless You, Hawkeye
18 Blood Brothers
19 The Foresight Saga
20 The Life You Save
Winchester at a Battalion aide station - apparently The Battle of Pork Chop Hill - mentioned in 10/16. Which meant that this episode probably takes place in mid-1953; the Korean war is winding down.
Season 10
01 That’s Show Biz
02 That’s Show Biz
03 Identity Crisis
04 Rumor at the Top
05 Give ‘Em Hell, Hawkeye
Two Timeline problems:
Truman is still President at a time in the timeline when Eisenhower should be President. (Remember 4 season/5 episode The Late Captain Pierce (TV series episode) in which it correctly states that Eisenhower not Truman is President!)
Actual barefoot Water skier Charlene Zint Wellborn was in the Newsreel in 1951! (Potter came to MASH 4077 September 19, 1952)
06 Wheelers and Dealers
07 Communication Breakdown
08 Snap Judgment
09 Snappier Judgment
10 ’Twas the Day After Christmas
Takes place on December 25-26
11 Follies of the Living - Concerns of the Dead
12 The Birthday Girls
13 Blood and Guts
14 A Holy Mess
15 The Tooth Shall Set You Free
16 Pressure Points
Potter mentions Joe DeMegio retirement from baseball -he retired December 11, 1951 as a recent event...yet previous and subsequent epsidoes show this episode year is 1953!
17 Where There’s a Will, There’s a War
The Life magazine Klinger gave Hawkeye was dated Aug 4, 1952. Winchester has already been in a battalion aide station in the Battle of Pork Chop Hill (“The Life You Save”), which occurred from March–July 1953 - a sign that the TV show “M*A*S*H” ends with the end of the Korean War in July 1953.
18 Promotion Commotion
19 Heroes
20 Sons and Bowlers
21 Picture This
22 That Darn Kid
Season 11
01 Hey, Look Me Over
02 Trick or Treatment
October 31
Scala specifically mentions the Battle of Heartbreak Ridge, a real battle of the Korean War that took place in September and October 1951.
03 Foreign Affairs
The occurrence of a North Korean pilot defecting did happen, but not until September 21, 1953, two months after the Korean War Armistice was signed in July 1953.
04 The Joker is Wild
05 Who Knew?
The “Shmoo” was first introduced in August of 1948 and hit the heights of popularity shortly after and well into the following year. Since this episode of “M*A*S*H*” takes place roughly close to the end of the war (July 1953), it’s difficult to gauge just how popular the Shmoo would have been at that time.
06 Bombshells
In 3/13 “Mad Dogs and Servicemen” mention is made of Ted Williams going to Korea. Williams was called back into service May 1952 and returned August 1953 from Korea. Thus, this episode mention Ted Williams going home can only refer to summer 1953.
07 Settling Debts
08 The Moon is Not Blue
The movie was released in the USA on July 8, 1953, only nineteen days before the armistice was signed. The episode plot suggests the action took place over a considerably longer time, and there is no mention of the end of the war being in sight.
09 Run for the Money
10 U.N., the Night and the Music
11 Strange Bedfellows
12 Say No More
By the summer of 1953, with the exception of Chinese advances on the right side of the UN Main Line where the R.O.K. forces were stationed, and aggressive patrols and counterpatrols in the MAIN Line, the line was pretty static. The only large scale UN offenses were after MacArthur’s dismissal in 1951-1952.
13 Friends and Enemies
14 Give and Take
15 As Time Goes By
16 Goodbye, Farewell and Amen
Takes place on or around July 27, 1953.

Absentmindedly, I thumbed through the clothes on the rack. The cloying silence, and the persistent smell of formaldehyde, made the department store feel oppressive. I sighed; here I was, buying boring clothes for work, instead of doing what normal people do on their birthday...enjoy themselves in the company of others. To me, it was just another day to run errands.
I chuckled as I recalled how I'd always hated department stores. When I was very little, my mom would take me shopping and buy me the dorkiest clothes she could find. I'm not sure that's what she intended, but it sure seemed like it. It was so boring trying on all those awful, itchy outfits, only to emerge from the changing room to be told I looked "nice". The circular racks made great hiding places; I could slip away from her, move only a few racks away, and sequester myself in the middle. Pretty soon she'd be calling my name, getting security involved, and otherwise going completely overboard trying to find me. I'd tire of it, slip out of my secret fort, and surprise her by standing quietly behind her as if nothing had happened. I finally stopped doing that when she explained to me how much it terrified her. Once again, the department store became boring.
I found some polo shirts in relatively neutral colors, and a few pairs of slacks to replace the ones that were fraying at the bottom. I hung my uninspiring quarry over one arm, and looked around for the men's shoe department.
The piercing cry got my attention. It was a little boy, shopping with his dad, throwing a temper tantrum. I couldn't catch all the words, but it was clear he had the same opinion of department stores as I did, and vastly preferred to go for ice cream. His dad tried to command him gently, but firmly, making it clear that he needed new clothes for his first day of kindergarten, and ice cream would have to come later. A wave of cold dread overtook me as I stared sympathetically at the beleaguered tot. I knew exactly how he felt, and what indignities awaited him at school.
A few more pointed phrases later, and the dad turned away in disgust. The little boy slowly sneaked away, moving around a few clothing racks. I smiled; I knew where this was heading, and enjoyed the chance to relive my minor childhood triumph.
Then a thought occurred to me. I tried to push it away, but it persisted. The thought grew and grew until it overwhelmed every other one. A sly smile broke out on my face, and after ditching the boring clothes I was going to buy, I crouched down to skulk over to where the little boy was last seen. I rounded a clothing rack; he was coming the other way, and almost ran into me. He stopped with a surprised shudder.
"Hi!"
"Hi." He seemed nervous, but unintimidated.
"I'd like to get some ice cream, too. Want to come with me?"
He looked at the ground. "Yeah. But..." He looked nervously in his dad's direction.
"Don't worry, I'll bring you back to your dad when we're done, safe and sound."
He looked up uncertainly. "Promise?"
I smiled sincerely. "Promise."
His face burst into an excited smile. "OK!"
I looked him in the eye. "There's only one condition."
His nervousness returned. "What?"
"I want you to pretend that you're my son for a little while. Can you do that?"
He was silent as he looked at me, his expression uncertain.
"Do you like playing make believe?"
His smile returned. "Yeah...!"
"That's all we're doing here."
"OK!" he cheered.
I grinned broadly. "Then let's go! But we have to sneak out. We don't want your dad seeing us."
I remained crouched on the ground and strode away with long steps; it would have looked pretty silly if anyone spotted me. He giggled to himself and started walking the same way, even though he didn't need to crouch to remain hidden. We exchanged snickers as we zig-zagged through the clothing racks. Half a minute later, we emerged from our urban jungle and reached the tiled walkway in front of the exit door.
We exchanged giddy laughs. "Where do you want to go for ice cream?"
His response was instantaneous. "Farrell's!" I knew the place; it had been going downhill in recent years, but only because enough people didn't go there anymore. Tonight was the night we could make a difference. "Sounds great!" I exulted.
We left the mall; the crisp autumn air slapped us, reminding us how heated the department store had been. We looked both ways for cars, then scampered to my vehicle. I unlocked the doors and we both climbed in.
"Put on your seatbelt!" I reminded as I attached mine. He looked slightly crestfallen. "Remember, safety first! I want to return you in one piece!"
He snickered as he secured himself. "OK."
I started the car and looked around uncertainly. "Farrell's would be...where?"
He quickly pointed in a direction. "That way!" The memory came back to me; the nearest one was only a few blocks from here, exactly in the heading he indicated. I smiled. "Wow, kid! You sure know how to party!"
He raised his arms in triumph. "Yay! Party!" I laughed; clearly, he was wise beyond his years.
We left the parking lot, merged with traffic, and in no time at all, pulled into Farrell's. It was one of several buildings sharing a parking lot. It looked like the lot had once been just for the restaurant; now, newer buildings, all boring and rectangular and painted blandly, staked out the edge. One was a vitamin store; another was a dentist's office. I shuddered as I realized those simply didn't belong near an ice cream parlor. It was like they were trying to ruin the fun.
We got out of the car and started walking across the parking lot. It was surprisingly busy for a weekday; it gladdened my heart to know we weren't the only ones that wanted to come here. I looked down at the little kid. "Better give me your hand, tiger; let's be safe."
He stared at me blankly, then offered his hand; I took it. We traipsed up to the front door, exchanging an excited smile before entering.
The noise hit us just before the smell. The jaunty banjo music perfectly complemented the spirited player piano, melding with the bustling crowd noise to create the perfect happy atmosphere. Busy employees darted to and fro, all decked out in their red-and-white-striped uniforms, complete with strawboat hats. The overwhelming smell of candy punctuated that neatly; my teeth began to ache involuntarily. All together, it reminded me of happier days, when I was young enough to believe the world was filled with exciting possibilities...before each personal setback constricted the scope of my future, bit by bit. But as long as I was here, it could be like it was, if only for a little while.
There were a few parties before ours; it warmed my heart to see the place was near capacity. Even the counter just past the hostess contained a decent throng of patrons. I felt my hand jerk around; I looked down to see my companion dancing with glee, a big smile on his face.
"Are you excited, son?" I asked brightly. "Yeah!" he gushed. I let go of his hand and chuckled as I watched him jump up and down, stomping out a happy little circle, vocalizing randomly.
I looked at the groups ahead of us in line; one was a family with four small children, and the other looked like a young couple on a date. The family man looked a bit harried, he and the mother continually trying to herd their kids into some sort of group, but despite the chaos of his offspring, I wished I could have been in his place. I never had lofty goals in life; I just wanted to meet a nice girl, settle down, have a family, maybe see a school play or two. It seemed like it was enough for my dad, and I was convinced it was all I needed to make me happy. But somehow, it never happened. I only had to look at the young couple to recall why.
I remembered trying to date in college. It was mostly a series of awkward interactions, each ending in a dispirited fizzle, and empty offers to see each other again. I finally developed a rule; after the third threadbare excuse for turning down another date, I would simply give up and never call back. None of them ever sought out the reason for my disappearance, which told me all I needed to know. Granted, I didn't feel much chemistry with them...with one notable exception. To this day, I can't get her out of my mind.
Most guys probably thought she was homely, but I never did...she had something that set me on fire inside. Besides, I genuinely thought she was gorgeous. I managed to secure one date with her; I took her to a pizza parlor before a movie. My intention was to keep it light and breezy, maintaining an air of fun. My impression, from the comments she made that evening, was that I was being cheap. She didn't seem to enjoy the goofy comedy movie I picked, either. It's so confusing to have such strong feelings for someone, who obviously doesn't feel that way toward you. What was the source of such oddly one-way infatuations? Was it nothing more than self-delusion? What was the difference between confidence and self-delusion, anyway?
Dating as an adult was even more difficult. What was I to do? I wasn't really into alcohol, so I couldn't meet women in bars. I wasn't socially adept, so clubbing was out too. Online dating was a humiliating series of ignored missives and one-star ratings. I even tried volunteer work, but the women my age all seemed to have boyfriends, at least if I was the one asking. And as I got older, I found even less options open to me. The whole thing just seemed impossible.
We were finally at the front of the line. I looked down at my young charge; he stared back with a goofy grin, swinging back and forth for no apparent reason, other than the sheer joy of doing so. "We're next!" I cheered. "Are you ready?"
"Yeah!" he exulted, a little too loudly, but I thought it was perfect. I looked up to see one of the counter patrons glancing in our direction; our eyes met, and we gazed at each other for longer than a moment. Quickly, she turned away, immersing herself once again in her sensible-sized ice cream soda.
I looked her up and down; she was a natural redhead, probably only a few years older than me. There's something about redheads that tends to extremes – it seems they're either stunningly gorgeous, or terrifyingly frumpish. Some men aren't attracted to them at all. I didn't understand that; I always found them to be mesmerizing. And this one looked like she had been one of the beautiful ones, before age did to her what it does to all of us. Her face was a little too round, her body on the plump side. What really got me was the haunted look in her eyes; I knew it all too well.
The pretty young hostess appeared in front of us. "Hello, and welcome!" she bubbled.
"It's my daddy's birthday!" he gushed. I smiled; he was playing his part perfectly.
Her face burst with well-practiced joy. "That's great! We sure know how to celebrate those! How many in your party tonight?"
"Two," I sighed. "Just us." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the redhead look in our direction again; I pretended not to notice as I looked at the ground. "His mom's been out of the picture for a long time."
The hostess didn't skip a beat. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Well, come this way, and we'll get you two seated!" She motioned for us to follow her.
As we passed by, I looked over at the redhead. She was openly staring in my direction, an aghast look on her face. I managed a sad smile as I walked by. I was only a few feet away from her when I heard a loud squeak erupt from the swivel chair.
"Excuse me..." she called out. I froze, partly from excitement, partly from nervousness. I turned slowly to find her gazing at me. "I'm sorry...I don't mean to intrude...but your story was just heartbreaking."
If she only knew how heartbreaking it really was. I tried to play it cool, but I could feel tears threatening to burst from my eyes. "Thanks." So much for that attempt at a smooth move. There are probably a lot of ways to respond to someone expressing sympathy, but thanking them is down near the bottom of the list. I wanted to say something more appropriate, but my mind was a blank.
I felt a tug on my pant leg; I looked down to see him arch his eyebrows, a secretive smile on his face. Bless his joyous little heart! He knew exactly what to do, and now, so did I.
"Well, squirt?" I asked him. "Would you like this nice lady to join us tonight?"
"Yeah!" he exulted, jumping once to punctuate it. My heart soared; I really couldn't have picked a better kid. I wished he really was my son; I think I would have made a great father for him.
I turned back to her; the tears had found their way out. "I'd be honored if you would join my son and I this evening."
She let out a cathartic giggle. "I'd be delighted." She turned to pick up her ice cream soda, flashing the employee behind the counter an uncertain look.
"Don't worry one bit," I told her. "I'll pick up the tab for your soda. In fact, the whole evening is on me."
Her eyes clouded slightly. "Oh, I couldn't make you do that."
A genuine smile beamed from my face. "Really, think nothing of it. Your company is more than I could ask for." Her eyes glowed with warmth; with an excited smile, she moved to follow.
I turned to find the hostess looking at all of us with an open-mouthed smile, her hands clasped in front of her. "This is just adorable," she cooed. "I love working here...it really is the place where magic happens!" She turned to continue to lead us to our table.
A hand shot in front of me. "I'm Kathy, by the way."
I had to think of an alias quickly, something believable. I took her hand and shook it. "I'm Scott."
Our eyes met; she looked down shyly. "Nice to meet you."
I met her gaze fearlessly. "You too."
We sat down in our booth; Kathy was in the middle, and my "son" and I were on either side, near the aisle. The hostess gave me a mocking look of disapproval. "Now, anyone can say it's their birthday, but if you want a free sundae, you have to prove it!" I laughed and pulled out my wallet, showing her my driver's license. She perused it for a moment, then her brow furrowed.
Silently, she mouthed "Scott?" to me. I winked at her with one eye, the one furthest from Kathy, otherwise trying to keep my face still. I momentarily opened my billfold and showed her the thick stack of twenty-dollar bills. The hostess flashed me a concerned look, but didn't say anything. I put my wallet away.
"Your waiter will be right with you", the hostess informed us. "I hope you all have a great time!"
"Well, son?" I began. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself to the nice lady?"
He flashed her a beaming smile. "I'm Ryan!"
She chuckled. "I'm Kathy. Nice to meet you."
Ryan was practically bubbly. "I'm so glad you joined us tonight! This is gonna be fun!"
"Oh, it's my pleasure," she demurred. "I didn't really want to sit all alone at that counter."
"Well, I'm glad you decided to be part of our family. Even if it is only for an evening."
She looked down shyly. "Oh, we all know I'm not part of your family."
"Hey," I assured her, "family is whoever you want it to be, whoever comforts you when you're down. So I say, for one night, we can all be family, here at this family restaurant. No one needs to know better!" Wasn't that the truth.
She beheld me with a bemused look in her eyes. "I don't know how you can manage to be so whimsical. Most people lose that when they grow up."
I laughed as I jabbed my thumb in Ryan's direction. "It's easy when he's around. He keeps me young."
We turned to watch him clasp his hands together into a fist and pump them over his head, in the classic show-off gesture. "See?" I pointed out. "Who can stay serious with him around?"
Kathy smiled as she laughed. I was suddenly struck by how pretty she was when she smiled. It was difficult to tell before; she had such a morose expression on her face. I decided she deserved to be pretty all the time, and vowed to think of any way to keep her smiling and laughing.
That was going to prove to be difficult; I couldn't think of anything clever to say. "So, do you come here often?" There were worse questions I could have asked, but true to form, I couldn't even think of what they might be.
"At least once a week. I work at the dentist's office across the lot." She demurred. "This place is one of the few treats I allow myself."
"People should have ice cream all the time!" Ryan cheered. "It'll make them happy!"
Kathy laughed and gave him a warm smile. "That's not how it works for grownups."
Ryan's face instantly assumed a pained, inquisitive look. "But why?" The kid was a natural actor; I hoped his dad encouraged these skills. Somehow, I thought that was too much to ask. I shuddered inside as I realized how his primary school teachers would react. Rules, rules, and more rules.
Kathy looked slightly taken aback. "Grownups can't just eat ice cream all the time." An impish smirked emerged. "But sometimes I come here more than once a week. Depends on how the day went."
"Tough one?" I offered.
She let out a heavy sigh. "The worst was an older gentleman receiving an implant. He fought us the whole time! Finally, his wife gave us permission to sedate him. I was shaking for two hours."
"He just needed some ice cream," Ryan interrupted.
"Ice cream doesn't solve everything, kiddo," Kathy stated firmly.
"But it can for one night," I interjected. "It's no fun being serious all the time."
She chuckled. "I guess you're right. For one evening, we'll all cut loose!"
"No grumpy talk on my daddy's birthday!" Ryan demanded.
Kathy and I burst out laughing at the same time, as Ryan returned to his fist-pumping show-off pose. "He really is a treasure, isn't he," she observed.
I nodded. "He really is."
The waiter arrived. "Hi, I'm Ryan! And I'll be taking care of you this evening!"
"No, I'm Ryan!" he shot back.
The waiter laughed and pointed at his name badge. "I'm Ryan too!"
He was having none of it. "I was Ryan first!"
I couldn't hold in my laughter; I covered my eyes with my hand as Kathy and the waiter joined in on the mirth. "Well, can I be Ryan too?" the waiter asked him. "Just for a few hours?"
Ryan swayed as he made a goofy face. "Well...OK."
The waiter turned to Kathy and I. "I'll be he keeps you two young."
"He sure does," she agreed. I merely nodded. I was increasingly certain his father never let him act this way.
"What would you like, miss?" the waiter asked.
"Gibson Girl," she replied, unable to contain her joy. Once again, her smile bowled me right over. She really was my Gibson Girl for the evening.
The waiter turned to me. "Gold Rush," I told him.
"Banana Royale!" Ryan belted, out of turn.
I gave him the slant eye. "You sure you can finish that?"
"Just watch me!" he declared confidently.
The waiter darted off to fill our orders; Kathy turned to me. "So do you two come here often?"
"We used to," I sighed, "with his mom. But we haven't as much since...she left."
We both turned as we heard Ryan growl. "That guy was ugly and drove a big stinky motorcycle." Where does he come up with this? I thrilled at his creativity.
"But Ryan really wanted to come here tonight." I appreciated being able to tell the truth, if only for a moment. "So we decided we were going to take this place back, for ourselves."
She rested her chin on her hands as she beheld both of us. "That's adorable."
My smile couldn't be contained. I'm not even sure how long Kathy and I locked eyes. "You're turning red!" Ryan observed joyfully, pointing at me. "You like her!"
She blushed too. "You're right, squirt," I admitted, "I do."
The evening was a blur; I can hardly remember what happened. I play-acted as a family man, as if reading from the diary I never had a chance to write. Ryan burst forth with one silly wisecrack after another, his comic timing a wonder to behold. I'm not even sure how I came up with the sad story about my nonexistent failed marriage, but all of it felt natural, and Ryan chimed in with color commentary. Kathy was practically eating out of my hand, her doe-like eyes locked on mine, all signs of reticence gone. And, true to his word, Ryan finished off his ice cream; I guess I had no reason to doubt him. I paid for everything, tipping the waiter generously, doing my part to keep them in business. After that, we all walked outside into the cool autumn air.
I felt something attach itself to my leg; I looked down to see Ryan hugging me. "Happy birthday, daddy!"
I tousled his hair. "Thanks, squirt!" He let go; I looked up to see Kathy's face beaming.
"Thank you so much for joining us," I gushed. "You really made our evening complete."
She smiled demurely as she moved closer. "Mine, too."
I don't know where my confidence came from. Was I still play-acting? Or were we really experiencing chemistry? I didn't spend any more time thinking about it; I grabbed her gently and kissed her for what was probably only a few seconds, but seemed like ages. It helped that she tasted like ice cream.
Our lips finally parted; I heard a happy sigh to my left. We both turned to see the hostess staring at us, her open-mouthed smile back in full force. "I love working here," she burbled.
"It really is the place where magic happens, isn't it." Kathy agreed with her eyes.
I turned to Ryan. "Well, tiger? Do you think we should invite this nice lady to come home with us?"
"Yes!" he cheered enthusiastically, jumping up and down and, I assume, vocalizing his tiger impression.
She giggled. "I'd love to. Want to give me directions?"
"Just follow my car," I suggested. "I don't live that far from here."
"OK," she replied, her eyes twinkling. "See you soon." She gave me one last wide grin.
I watched Kathy walk away; as I did, I froze. On the other side of the parking lot, still some distance away, but trudging in our direction, was my little companion's father. Ryan noticed him too, then looked up at me uncertainly.
I knelt down, now safely out of sight. "Did you have fun tonight?"
"Yeah!" he gushed.
"Did I make you do anything you didn't want to?"
His face showed confusion. "No..."
I gave him a gentle push on his back. "Then go to your father."
He started to move in that direction, then suddenly turned around and looked at me with sorrow in his eyes. "What's wrong?" I asked him.
"My name's not really Ryan," he revealed.
I smiled. "That's OK; mine isn't really Scott." He looked relieved.
"It's fun to play make-believe, isn't it?" I asked. He nodded eagerly.
I gestured toward his father. He gave me one last beaming smile before toddling off.
Still crouching, I strolled into the parking lot, trying to stay out of sight, sticking to the darker areas between the light standards. My car had never seemed so far away.
I finally reached the grass island; sanctuary was still six spaces away. I heard Ryan's unmistakable squeaky voice, followed immediately by a gruff roar. "Timothy? How did you get here? You scared the hell out of me!" I could hear him protesting his dad's objections, but wasn't able to make out any words.
I unlocked my car with the key; I didn't want the keyless fob's beep to draw attention. Opening the door only as much as needed, I managed to slide into the front seat and gently close the door behind me. So far, so good. I moved to start the car, looking into the rear-view mirror as the engine turned over. My heart fell as I saw Kathy talking to Timothy's father, a frantic look on her face. Was she going to tell him what she knew? Could she describe me to the authorities? Was what I did kidnapping, even though Ryan...Timothy...had been fine with the whole thing?
I decided that it was pointless to ask questions, because they all had the same answer – to get away from here as quickly as possible.
I backed up and veered right. I didn't look in their direction; I didn't even want to know what was happening. I turned left into the next aisle; a chill washed over me as I realized that they were sure to see me in a few seconds.
I saw a dark gap approaching on the right; it looked like a pedestrian ramp leading down to the main street. Was it open, or did it have a handrail in the middle? Was there anyone on the sidewalk? Were there cars going by? I turned to back down it, and saw Kathy, Timothy's dad, and another person all staring in my direction. Was it a police officer, or was I being paranoid? I had run out of options. Thankful that I had no front license plate, I hit the gas and prayed all would be well.
My car started shaking violently; it was a stairway, not a ramp. I could still see no obstructions in my mirrors. I plunged into the darkness; at the same time, I dropped out of their sight. In that brief glance, I thought I could see them running toward me. I was out of time; a few seconds from now, all my questions would be answered, one way or another.
My car dropped off the curb; I veered right to align myself with the street. There were no pedestrians on the sidewalk, and the nearest cars were almost a block away. My heart soaring, I shifted into "drive" and hit the gas. My car leaped away, and soon I was cruising down the street at a moderate clip.
I knew I couldn't come back to this part of town for a long time. That would be easy; I was only here to shop for clothes. Fortunately, the department store was miles from where I lived. The next nearest one was even further away, in a completely different direction; I could go there from now on. I also had the good fortune of not looking very distinguished; my bland, business-casual outfit, and my unremarkable face, would serve me well for once.
And in the end, what had I really done wrong? The kid came with me voluntarily, and was completely uninjured. I was very responsible, and took good care of him; at worst, I was an unauthorized guardian, feeding him ice cream willfully and with wanton disregard. And what about Kathy? Granted, it was wrong to lie to her, but not illegal; otherwise, half the guys in pick-up joints would be behind bars. No, I decided, no one could accuse me of being a criminal...just an oddball. And I could accept that. Besides, for all I knew, maybe Kathy wasn't her real name.
I stopped for a traffic signal; the street behind me was still pretty empty. Joy swelled in my heart, finally pushing its way out, forcing a beaming smile onto my face as I realized what the evening had really meant. For once, I got to have a nice birthday outing, with a kid and and a girl, and pretend to be a real human being, instead of a pitiful outcast. I got to live out my dream of being a family man, the same dream many others live for real. I got a glimpse of how my life could have been if events had taken a different turn. It was really nice to experience that, if only for a short while.
I thought of Kathy, what a nice girl she was, and how she deserved better than she had. I also realized I couldn't have given her what she needed. I knew I wouldn't have gotten along with her in the long run, or even the short run; I was never that good with people. Plus, my sob story wasn't true. So I'd already experienced the best part of any relationship I could have had with her, brief as it was. Even so, that temporary feeling of normalcy was the nicest present I'd had in years.
The light turned green; I depressed the gas pedal as I focused on the freeway onramp, only a few blocks away.
And who's to say what I experienced tonight wasn't as real as it needed to be? How many people stay in phony relationships because they fear being alone? At least I didn't have that problem. How many people lie to themselves every day? At least mine were limited to a few hours of one day. I could return to my boringly honest life, knowing I would go back to causing no trouble for anyone. Most people can't even claim that much.
I pulled onto the freeway and gunned the motor. My eyes teared up as something told me I was going to have happy memories of this day for the rest of my life.

Chapter 9 - Stars
​
The seconds ticked by agonisingly slowly as Azee stared up at the sky. Night was falling quickly, and with each passing moment she could see more and more stars appearing amidst the inky darkness. The stars were brighter than she had ever seen them before, the humid air and mists of the swamps around Lillyvale and ranch left far behind. It would have been beautiful, were it not for the fact that she was more frightened than she had ever been before.
No matter how hard she fought couldn’t move. The stun blast had frozen every one of her limbs, leaving her trapped within her own body.
‘They’ll come,’ she thought to herself, trying to calm her frantic heartbeat. ‘Luke… Eloise… they have to have noticed I’ve been gone for a long time.’
Staring up into the sky, Azee felt a strange feeling, as if she were watched. The stars, so cold and distant, seemed to be watching her, staring down at her, utterly unmoved by her plight.
‘My life is about to end!’ She howled to herself. ‘Do something! Anything! Please!’
And still the stars stared unblinkingly down at her., indifferent, or perhaps even amused at her predicament.
Her breath shuddered as she heard footsteps approaching. For a moment she felt hope rise in chest, but a gentle breeze carried the scent of one of the Order Agents to her nose, and her heart sank.
‘Please, please come… Luke… please…’
“Still frozen?” The Order agent with the scarred face asked as he stepped up to Azee’s side, hands in his pockets as he glanced down at her. With the toe of his boot he pressed hard on the fingers of Azee’s right hand. She tried to scream in pain, but only a strangled gurgle came out.
“Right,” the man nodded, satisfied that Azee was still paralyzed. Reaching into his coat he withdrew a small tobacco pouch and a piece of rolling paper. With practised dexterity he filled the paper and rolled a cigarette.
‘Focus,’ Azee’s mind raced. ‘Y-you broke th-the c-collar, you can b-break this!’
“Don’t know what you was thinkin’, trying to run away,” the scarred man mused, lighting his cigarette with a spark rune and taking a long drag. “Fancy collar, nice soft pelt like yours, looks like yeh’ ‘ad it pretty good, all things considered.”
With every shred of effort she could muster, Azee managed to make the fingers on her left hand twitch and curl into a loose fist.
“Aw well.” He turned and stared up at the sky, thick bands of blue smoke curling about his face. “Jus’ bad luck, running into us.”
As he took another long drag, the light from the cigarette filled the scars on the man’s face with dark shadows.
“Yeh know something, truth be told, I don’t really hate yer kind. I know what the canon says, but I don’t think y’all are too dim witted or vicious, least not compared to some of the folks that call themselves human.”
As he spoke, Azee thought that perhaps she saw a flicker of regret cross the man’s face, maybe even compassion. For a moment, she felt a spark of hope.
“Hell, can’t even say I blame the pelt what gave me these.” The man looked back at Azee and gestured at his scars. “He was a runaway too. Course we had to cull him after. Suppose it’s just the way it is.”
The man sighed, looking back up at the sky. “Jus’ the way it is… my momma used to say that to me all the time, ‘just the way it is, just the way it is’. Lord knows I hated it, the idea that things are just… well just the way they are, no sense in trying to change. Never could learn to live with it.”
The man coughed a little after another long drag from his cigarette. “Guess you couldn’t accept that either, could ya. You could be home right now, makin’ tea or mixin drinks fer some old coot. Instead, yer gonna hang, right here, in the middle a’ nowhere.”
Frantically Azee tried to find the spark of regret she had seen before, but it was nowhere to be found.
‘If it was ever there at all…’
Still, ain’t a bad night to go I suppose, and there are certainly worse places.” The man tossed away the rest of his cigarette as he heard the sound of his comrade returning, “Yep… just the way it is.”
Again Azee tried to move, but the effort it took to even twitch left her utterly drained. Despair coursed through her as she realised that she truly was completely helpless.
“Alright, here we go.” Bending down, the man picked Azee up and slung her over his shoulder like a sandbag and carried her towards a nearby tree. It was an oak, old and tall, and eerily similar to the one that stood in the middle of the slave pens back at the Windhill ranch.
The red haired Order agent sat on a log near the tree and was working to tie one end of a length of rope into a noose. As soon as Azee caught sight of the deadly shape her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
As Azee watched, the man grumbled in frustration and pulled his knot apart and started tying a new one.
“What are you doin’?” the scarred man asked, setting Azee down and frowning at his companion.
“Bloody rope is too stiff, can’t get a good knot.”
“If it’s stiff then forget the noose an’ just go for a standard slip knot.”
“It’s fine, hold your horses and just give me a second here.”
“Look, if the rope is stiff it ain’t gonna tighten properly.”
“I’m not sure it will make that much of a difference.” The Red haired man smirked. “It will be the same result either way.”
“I don’t wanna spend all night getting this done, alright.”
“Just… look, it’s simple; we haul her up, tie the rope off, go grab some supper, and then come back in the morning. It won’t matter how tight the knot is, she’ll be long gone by then.”
As Azee lay on the ground, still trying in vain to move, a powerful hate and frustration rose in her chest. Not six feet away the two men were talking about how they were going to kill her as if they were discussing what to have for dinner. There wasn’t even hatred in their voices, just… nothing. At that moment, she would have given anything to be free just long enough to sink her teeth into the necks of both of them.
“Lord’s sake, give me that.” The scarred man snatched the rope out of the red haired man’s grasp. His hands were almost a blur as he looped the rope around into a simple slip knot.
“There, see?” He grumbled, sliding the knot back and forth for his partner. “Easy, an’ it won’t leave the sorry thing gasping fer bloody hours.”
“Yes, granted, but that’s not what the archbishop commanded.” The red haired man pointed out before standing up and striding over to Azee. “But, then again, you are the commander.”
“What in damnation are you doing now?” The scarred man asked as his partner took a short length of rope and began tying Azee’s wrists together. “She’s stunned an’ can’t move, stop torturing the damn thing.”
“Better safe than sorry, right?” The red haired man finished his task and climbed back to his feet. “Besides, it’s not my idea, it’s what the canon commands.”
“Yeah well-” the scarred man threw the knotted rope up and over a sturdy branch a few feet over his head, “-in the army they teach us t’ work smarter, not harder.”
A hint of irritation was noticeable in the red haired man’s voice as he spoke. “Yes well, you’re not in the army anymore, are you? The Order does things properly, by the Lord’s book.”
“Uh huh, an’ when you're in charge you can follow the book to the letter all day long.”
On his third attempt, the scarred man managed to get the rope over the branch. The knot landed on the ground a few inches in front of Azee’s nose.
‘This… this can’t be it!’ Azee’s mind screamed as she tried not to pass out. ‘Please! Someone, anyone, help me!’
“Right, sit her up would ya.”
“N-no.” Azee managed to croak as the red-haired man approached. Ignoring Azee’s protest, the agent grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and hauled her up into a sitting position.
The scarred man handed the other end of the rope to his comrade and stepped over to Azee.
As he knelt down and slid the loop over Azee’s head, the scarred man leaned close and mumbled so that only she could hear. “Before we haul yeh up, I’m gonna count t’ three. When I get t’ three, do yourself a favour an’ exhale. Trust me, it’ll go faster that way.”
Panting with panic and terror, Azee stared into the scarred man’s eyes, hoping desperatly that there would be some mercy there, some sign that he would change his mind. As she felt him tighten the knot around her neck, Azee’s heart sank; there was nothing there, just cold, uninterested detachment, just like the stars overhead.
“Right.” The scarred man got back to his feet and grabbed hold of the other end of the rope with his comrade. “On three, pull ‘er up, then tie it off to that log there.”
“Not that it won’t be effective, but it’s still damn shabby work,” the red haired man grumbled, wrapping the rope around his hand and pulling it just tight enough that Azee had to struggle to breathe. “If we’re just going to half ass it, what’s the point of even pretending to do it properly.”
Ignoring his comrade, the scarred man braced himself. “One… Two…Thr-”
The scarred man froze as he felt the cold steel of a pistol press against the back of his neck.
“If you value your life, you’re going to stop counting, right now.” Eloise growled, her voice dripping with loathing as she activated the spark rune at the back of her pistol with a flick of her thumb.
As the red haired man turned, his hand reaching for his gun, Luke emerged from the underbrush, revolver raised.
“Drop the rope.” He ordered, his gun steady despite the obvious rage in his voice. “Drop it now, or by the Lord herself, I will end you where you stand.”
“Do you know who we are?” the red haired man demanded with righteous indignation, his eyes narrowed dangerously as he glared at Luke. “We are agents of the Illuminant Chain, of the Lord’s Holy Order!”
“I don’t care who you are.” Luke replied, taking a step forward. “She- That pelt is mine!”
The scared man raised an eyebrow. “Yours?”
“Yes, mine, and I have the documents for her in my pocket. Now, drop the rope.”
“Do as he says.” the scarred man said, releasing his grip on the rope and raising his hands.
“Commander-”
“If he’s the owner, then we’re the ones in the wrong ‘ere, so just let her down and relax! Your precious book says we aren’t to kill her.”
“But-”
“Have you not noticed the guns you bloody fool? Drop it!”
With a dramatic flourish the red haired man dropped the rope, stepped back, and raised his hands. Azee collapsed to the ground, gasping for air.
Luke’s gaze flicked to Azee and then back to Eloise. “Do you have them?”
Eloise raised her other arm, another pistol sliding out of her sleeve and into her hand. Aiming the pistol at the red haired man’s forehead, she nodded. “I have them, go.”
Cautiously lowering his gun, Luke stepped over to Azee.
“Hey, it’s okay.” He said gently, pulling the rope off of Azee’s neck and tossing it away. Making certain that his back was turned to the two men so they couldn’t see what he was doing, Luke stroked the side of Azee’s face. “Are you alright?”
Azee had never been more relieved to see Luke in her entire life. She wanted to hug him, to lick his face and nuzzle his neck, but the stun still held her tight in its grasp. Between terrified tears, all Azee could manage was a croaking sound.
“What did you do to her?” Luke demanded, glaring over his shoulder. “If… if she’s damaged, I swear, you’ll-”
“She’s only been stunned,” the red haired man interrupted, his voice steady and silky smooth. “No harm done.”
“No harm?! Are you insane you-”
“Alright now, everyone calm down.” the scarred man’s voice was low and calm, the voice of one well practised in defusing tense situations. “Now clearly there’s been a misunderstanding ‘ere, so I suggest y’all put your guns down now. Ain’t no need fer this situation to get any more awkward.”
“Awkward?” Eloise’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m not sure that awkward is the word I would choose.”
“We’re expected in Caster Run.” the scarred man replied calmly. “And we checked in yesterday. We go missing, and the Order is going to know what stretch of road t’ search. You have my apologies about your pelt, but are you sure you wanna keep escalating this?”
For a moment, there was no sound but the rushing of the nearby water as Eloise, Luke, and the Order Agents eyed one another. The red haired man lowered his arm, so slowly as to be unnoticable, his eyes flicking to the gun on his belt. Eloise’s eyes narrowed, her fingers twitching on their triggers. Azee squeezed her eyes shut as Luke slowly shifted to put himself between her and the Order Agents.
“You make a good point.” Eloise said at last, her voice breaking the silence like a hammer through a plate glass window. “But how do we know you won’t simply gun us down the moment we back off?”
“When the Order gives its word, it keeps it.” the man replied, slowly turning his head so as to meet Eloise’s piercing gaze. “And you have my word, on t’ honour of t’ Lord Herself, you put down yer guns, this little incident will be forgiven and forgotten.”
“You can count my word in that as well.” the red haired man added. “Assuming of course you DO have her papers.”
For a few seconds Eloise was silent, staring into the man's eyes. Finally, with a flick of her wrist, both of her pistols slid back into her sleeves. “Good enough for me.”
“And what about my pelt?” Luke demanded, lowering his pistol but stopping short of holstering it. “How long will she be stuck like this?”
Noting the concern in Luke’s voice, the red haired man raised an eyebrow.
Noting the man’s suspicion, Eloise spoke up quickly. “You’ll have to forgive my companion. We purchased that pelt, for a tidy sum I might add, at the behest of our master in New Burleigh. We’d rather not have to drag her the rest of the way home.”
“It’s just a stun blast, a strong one but not at all lethal. It’ll wear off in a few hours.” the red haired man replied after a moment's pause, running a hand through his hair. “I assure you, there won’t be any permanent damage.”
The man’s reassurances brought little comfort to Azee, who still couldn’t do much more but make the ends of her fingers twitch.
“There, you see?” Eloise looked back at Luke. “Nothing to worry about.”
“We’ll still want to see those papers though.” the red hair man interjected, stepped forwards and extended a hand towards Luke.
“Fine.” Luke grumbled, pulling his billfold out of a pocket within his jacket and tossing it to the ground at the red haired man’s feet. “Help yourself.”
A flash of anger flickered across the red haired man’s face, before with a courteous nod, he bent down and picked up the billfold. Flipping through it, he withdrew a yellowed piece of paper.
“Canine… twenty two years… looks about right.” He raised an eyebrow. “Azee? That’s an odd name.” Returning the paper to its pouch, he tossed the billfold back to Luke and nodded at his partner. “Looks right to me, it’s theirs.”
“Right then.” The scarred man bowed his head to both Eloise and Luke. “Again, my apologies.”
Slowly, Luke replaced his gun in its holster and got back to his feet. Kneeling, he hoisted Azee up onto his back with a groan. “Fine. Well then,-”
“Here, allow me.” the scarred man said, stepping forward and offering to take Azee. “Seems the least we can do, considering.”
Luke felt Azee gasp in fear against the back of his neck. Shifting his grip a little, he shook his head. “I’m fine, really. Thank you but-”
“I insist.” For a moment the scarred man’s tone darkened, before he reached out his arm. “Please, considering the trouble we put you through, it’s only fair.”
Though the link didn’t allow Luke to sense what Azee was feeling, he could feel her heart thudding against his back, and could hear a strangled whimper escape her lips. Luke considered protesting, but forced himself to bury his temper after a sharp glance from Eloise.
“Thank you,” he said, gently handing Azee over to the man.
As the man took hold of her, Azee felt certain that she was going to be sick. She could feel Luke’s hesitation, his own fear as he released her. Had she been able to, she would have ordered him to kill both of the Order agents then and there.
As he draped Azee over his shoulder, the scarred man looked back at Luke. “Where did you say folks was camped?”
“That way.” Luke gestured towards the west.
“Right then, lead on. Oh, by the way, my name is Jace, Alyard Jace.” the scarred man nodded his head at the red haired man. “And my partner, Dallet Baskerville.”
“Charmed,” Dallet replied, tipping his hat courteously.
“I’m… Comb, Thomas Comb.” Luke replied, nodding at Jace.
“Meryle Forde.” Eloise replied with a courteous nod.
“Pleasure to make yer acquaintances. Now, I hope you got a fire started.” Jace said, tromping off into the forest. “I could kill fer a cup’a coffee.”
As Azee was carried off she managed to meet Luke’s gaze. For a moment the two looked at one another, a flurry of unspoken words flashing between them.
Hoping beyond hope that Azee would hear his thoughts, Luke nodded his head slightly, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he rested his hand on the hilt of his gun. ‘I’ve got you.’
“Keep yourself together.” Eloise muttered to Luke as she drew up beside him.
“I will.” Luke replied, keeping his voice hushed as Dallet strode past.
“You know, you got yerself a good looking pelt here.” the scarred man said, shifting Azee on his shoulder.
Humiliation mixed with terror as Azee felt Jace patting her rump, as if she were a sack of potatoes. She wanted nothing more than to bite and scratch, but as with the rest of her body, her claws refused to listen to her commands.
“Where did you say you bought her from?”
“From the Windhills.” Luke replied quickly.
“Ah, down round Lillyvale then.”
“Didn’t get quite as far as Lillyvale.” Eloise spoke up, shooting a glare at Luke. “You know Heren Station?”
“‘eard of it, yeah.”
“Met up with a dealer there.”
“Huh, tha’ right? She trained?”
Eloise shrugged. “No idea, I didn't buy her.”
“Huh… too bad she’s stunned, coulda had her make the coffee.” The scarred man chuckled. “And uh.. who did you say you were workin’ for? Some rancher up near New Burleigh I suspect.”
Luke’s eyes narrowed at Jace’s question. While Luke himself had never been much of a shrewd businessman, his father had been. Of course, Luke was no slouch, the Windhill family had continued to prosper under his command, but the predatory instincts of a true businessman still eluded him.
Luke’s father, Elliot Windhill, had taken great pains to train both of his sons in the art of conversation, salesmanship, and discreet inquiry. Luke had been taught how to spot a good deal, versus one that was too good to be true, how to tell if a buyer or seller was desperate, or had money to burn. But most importantly, Luke knew when someone was suspicious, and fishing for information.
Unfortunately, there was only one rancher that Luke knew for certain was still living in New Burleigh.
“Working for ol’ Eddie Johnsburg, just outside of Three Corner Bay.” Luke replied. “He’s a friend of Windhills, or at least that’s what he said.”
The answer seemed to satisfy Jace, who nodded and continued walking.
“It would seem we have a problem.” Eloise muttered, falling back to walk alongside Luke. “That one at least is smarter than he lets on.”
Luke nodded slowly. “Indeed.”
“It may be worth the risk to deal with them. Get them drunk perhaps? Push them over the cliff, make it look like an accident.”
“And have the Order on alert?” Luke frowned. “I’d really rather not.”
“That is fair enough. Still…” Eloise gently ran her fingers over the handle of the dagger hanging from her belt. “We should keep our options open.”
​

​
Azee couldn’t help but feel humiliated as Luke lay her down on a blanket beneath one of the makeshift tents, though she was at least very glad to be off of Jace’s shoulder. The numbness in her limbs had been replaced by an intense tingling, though she still found herself unable to move anything other than her fingers and toes. Being unable to properly move or talk was utterly maddening, and she still couldn't talk, all she could manage was to croak like a frog that had been stepped on.
“It’s alright.” Luke whispered as he wrapped Azee in a blanket to keep her warm. “Just lay still and it will wear off. They said the more you try to move, the longer it will last, so just try to be calm.”
Azee tried to open her mouth to tell Luke to take off the hot blanket, but only a few croaking sounds emerged.
‘Dammit Luke, think for one moment! I’m going to cook in this thing!’ Azee stared pleadingly up at Luke, but he was too busy tucking her in to notice.
Looking over his shoulder, Luke knelt down beside Azee and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry about what happened, but everything will be alright.
‘Yes, thank you, but the blanket… Luke!’
We’ll get those bastards out of here as soon as we can.”
‘By the tyrant’s saggy teets, get me out of this thing!’
Giving Azee one more pat on the head, Luke got back to his feet and returned to the campfire.
Within moments, Azee began to feel hot, her fur prickling. With all of her effort, Azee tried to wriggle free of the soft cocoon Luke had wrapped her in, but to no avail.
Exhausted, she stopped struggling and stared up at the tent above her, hoping that staying still would keep her temperature down. If she strained her eyes she could see a small slither of sky past the edge of the tent above her. Even the tiny section of the sky above her was filled with thousands upon thousands of stars.
As she looked at the stars, Azee felt the bottom of her stomach twist, a deep rush of fear and panic welling up inside of her. Hurriedly she squeezed her eyes shut, but the image of the sky was seared into her mind, the same pitiless sky that had simply stared down at her as she had very nearly been killed. It was as if each star was an eye, looking down with the same cold detachment that she had seen in Jace’s gaze as he put the rope around her neck. In that moment she was sure she could feel the rope again, threatening to squeeze her throat.
‘If it hadn’t been for Luke and Eloise…’ Azee’s breath shuddered as hot tears welled up at the corners of her eyes. ‘I’d be dead… just like Kashin… or Linn, or Shesta… And Chara would be…’
Azee wanted to rub her eyes, but again her arms refused to do more than twitch.
‘Dammit… dammit!’ Azee wailed. ‘I… I can’t… I couldn’t do anything!’
As Azee fought with herself, bombarded with terror and shame, the only mercy she was afforded was that her sobbing was silent.
​

​
“Thanks fer the coffee partner,” Jace said, raising his mug as Luke sat down beside the fire. “Nothin’ better after a long day of walkin’.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Luke replied, forcing a smile as he took a gulp from one of the waterskins.
“No coffee?”
“Never developed a taste for it.”
“Fragile stomach you see.” Eloise said with a smile. Taking a small flask from a pocket inside of her vest she poured a substantial amount of pale amber liquid into her own steaming cup. After gently swirling the contents around, she took a delicate sip.
“Now that’s a woman after my own heart.” Dallet grinned. “Mind if I have a swig of that?”
“Help yourself.”
Taking Eloise’s flask, Dallet took a deep swig. Immediately his eyes widened and he had to fight to keep from coughing.
“Are you alright?” Eloise asked, eyes shining as she watched Dallet struggle to swallow.
“Whooo!” Dallet shook his head as he slapped his free hand against his leg. “Good lord woman, are you sure this isn’t for cleaning stove tops?”
“My own recipe. It’s been in my family since before the war with the Drathain.”
“Gah! Well from the taste of it I'd say it’s been sitting on a shelf for at least that long.”
“We’re technically on duty, remember?” Jace commented, raising his eyebrows as Dallet took another, far more cautious, swig. “‘By the book’, remember?”
“Well… it would seem we aren’t doing things by the book tonight. Besides, considering our rather… rocky first meeting, it would be rude not to take advantage of these fine citizens' hospitality, now wouldn’t it.”
Eloise nodded. “I would think so.”
“And how about you?” Dallet extended Eloise’s flask towards Luke.
“No, thank you.”
“Fair enough. If coffee is too much for you, I imagine this’d send you right to the moon.”
Luke frowned as he noted the challenge in Dallet’s voice. With a determined scowl, Luke snatched the flask from Dallet’s hand and took a swig. Eloise raised her eyebrows and rested her chin on her hands.
‘This should be interesting…’
The liquor hit the back of Luke’s throat like a hot poker, and the aroma didn’t so much as attack his nose as leave it in utter ruin. His eyes watered and his throat burned, but Luke was determined not to back down, and forced himself to swallow. The liquid ran down his throat like a fire raging across an open plain.
“It’s… interesting.” Luke wheezed, handing the flask back to Eloise, trying his best to stifle a cough.
“You folks are alright.” Dallet chuckled, leaning back against the tree behind him. “Glad we didn’t have to… well, deal with you.”
“If I recall, it was very nearly us who dealt with you.” Luke observed, meeting Dallet’s gaze evenly. “Then again, we’re not pelts.”
Dallet rolled his eyes “Oh come on now, you aren’t still mad about what we nearly did to that pelt are you? It was a harmless misunderstanding, nothing more.”
“Harmless? If we had arrived five minutes later Az- the pelt would be dead. And the Lord knows how badly you scared her.”
“Scared her? So what?” Dallet scoffed.
“A pelt so traumatised it can’t work is worthless.”
Amused by the anger building in Luke’s voice, Dallet shrugged. “So toss her in a breeding pen with a stud for a few nights and she’ll forget all about it. Couple of tumbles in the hay tends to straighten them out just fine.”
“What my partner is trying to say-” Jace spoke up before Luke could start to argue “-is that we have a job to do, and so we do it. Your pelt was wearing clothes, coloured ones at that. That alone is a violation. We had every reason to assume she was a runaway.”
Luke shot a nasty glance at Eloise before replying. “We were under the impression that it wouldn’t matter that much.”
“Faileth to patch but a single crack, and the whole wall shall fall to ruin; Chapter four, verse three,” Dallet recited. “You let the little things slip, and the next thing you know the whole thing comes crashing down.”
“Options and coin were limited. And we didn’t want to spend weeks brushing dust and grit out of her.”
“Alright lad, alright.” Jace raised a hand, gesturing for Luke to calm down.
Cursing inwardly, Luke took a deep breath, calling upon the training his father had drilled into him. “Apologies…” he muttered, “It would have been… a significant loss of coin if she were to be… damaged.”
“That and you care about it.” Jace smiled as Luke’s head jerked up in surprise. “Peace lad, it’s not a big deal. See, I ‘ave there four hunting cats at home, treat ‘em all good. But there’s one, scrappy, ugly little bastard, that I like the most. Couldn’t tell you why, lord knows she ain’t the best hunter, or the fastest runner, she ain’t pretty to look at. But if any man or beast so much as put a scratch on her, I’d tear them open with my bare hands. Pelts are no different, just cause they’re below us don’t mean they are without meaning to us. ”
“Yes… I suppose so.” As Luke replied he slowly let his free hand drift to his waist, resting close to the grip of his pistol.
“They can be beautiful, soft, even intelligent if they want to be.” Jace continued, staring into the fire. “But, at the end of the day, they are more animal than man, and more savage than civilised. Give them a chance, an’ they’ll sweep everything you’ve ever done for them aside and turn on you.”
‘Like Azee has…’ Though Luke rejected it the moment it flashed unbidden across his mind, the thought refused to leave him entirely.
‘Did she? Did Azee…. really just forget everything we had… everything I did for her?’ Luke frowned, watching as a burning log crumbled into glowing coals. ‘I mean… Even after everything I did for her, all the ways I protected her… she didn’t trust me. So here I am, out in the middle of nowhere, sleeping on the ground and cursed to be her servant.’
Luke’s frown deepened. ‘I’ve always looked after her, I’ve always been kind to her. So she wasn't free, so what? Is a little loyalty too much to ask? I put my life on the line, my own life, to keep her comfortable!’
‘No…’ Luke sighed to himself and ran a hand through his hair. ‘No… this is just the fault of that damned witch, filling her head with nonsense. I just need to figure out a way to get rid of her, and then things will go back to the way they were.’
But as Luke’s mind began to settle, a final thought disturbed the peace. ‘But what if she turns out like Chara did…’
Noting Luke’s silence, Eloise piped up. “So where are you boys headed?”
“Red Lake Chapter house.” Dallet replied, taking another sip of his coffee. “There’s a new marshal down there, making all sorts of changes and shaking things up.”
“Oh?”
Jace nodded solemnly. “The rumours of war with the North have started reaching down even this far south. Some of the plantations and ranches have been reporting more escape attempts. Marshal Dale aims to send a message.”
“Purges?” Eloise asked, trying her best to keep the distaste out of her tone.
“Nah, but even attempting an escape will be a hangin’ offence now, county wide.”
“It’s a waste to be sure.” Dallet shrugged. “Of course the farmers are going to complain, but it should encourage them to keep a closer eye on their workers.”
Eloise nodded slowly. “I suppose it will at that. I take it you think war is likely then?”
“I doubt it can be stopped at this point.” Dallet scoffed and spit into the fire. “Word is the damned fools up in Graile have gone so mad that they intend to let the pelts vote. Can you believe it? Vote, in real elections!”
“Come on now, t’ain’t that simple.” Jace scolded.
Dallet rolled his eyes at his partner. “It’s damn near close enough. Next thing you know they’ll want to make them full citizens. After that they’ll elect some charlatan who makes some insane promise of closing off the gate. From there it’s only a matter of time before they attack us and the other southern nations.”
“Perhaps we should save the political talk, I can't imagine our hosts find it very interesting. Speaking of-” Jace stretched and pushed himself to his feet “- I think it’s time we got to moseying on.”
“Can’t say I agree, but you are the boss.” Dallet stood and tipped his hat at Eloise. “Thank you for the coffee and the rotgut m’lady. You ever decide to start selling that stuff, you make sure to let me know.”
Eloise nodded respectfully. “Of course, and thank you.”
“Here’s hoping I get to see you again.”
“Indeed.”
Jace nodded, “Well, goodnight then, and safe travels.”
With a final tip of their hats, both Jace and Dallet strode off into the forest.
“Why the sudden hurry to leave?” Dallet asked, glancing over at Jace.
“Call it a feeling.”
“A feeling? About what?”
“When you’re on the battlefield, and someone from the other side sets their eyes on you, you get this feeling up your spine.” Jace’s eyes narrowed as he glanced back at the flickering light of Luke and Eloise’s campfire, just barely visible through the trees. “That kind of feeling.”
“If you say so.”
Noting the scepticism in Dallet’s voice, Jace stopped and turned to his partner. “You’ve been riding shotgun with me fer what, two, maybe three, seasons?”
“That sounds about right, yes.”
“And we’ve been in a fair few scraps.”
Dallet nodded impatiently, “Yes, and?”
“How many times has someone been able to creep up on me without me noticing?”
Dallet paused. “That’s… not a bad point. Come to think of it… not once.”
“And yet that woman had a pistol against my skull before I knew she was there.”
Dallet was silent, considering his partner’s words.
“And then there’s that strange boy she’s with, and the pelt.”
“What about them?”
“He talks too well to just be hired help, and that pelt… she don’t make no sense neither. Short, weak limbed, probably a runt, colouring plain as breadcrumbs… yet she’s been brushed and groomed and fed like she’s grade A pedigree.”
“You think they’re spies?”
“No, they ain’t spies.”
“Then what?”
“Don’t know.” Jace glanced over his shoulder one final time before continuing back towards their own camp. “But I think it would be a good idea to make a slight detour ‘fore we head on to Red Lake. Tell me, you ever been to Lillyvale?”
​
End of Part One
See Part Two here: https://www.reddit.com/TheAuroranArchives/comments/t8ewka/links\_chapter\_9\_stars\_part\_2/

Chapter 7 - Graves
​
Bill licked his lips, his eyes shining in the morning light. “There you go, yeh sweet thing… Come to papa…”
There was a great splash, and in a flash of scales and muscles, the catfish Bill had been watching swallowed the bait and the hook whole.
“Yeehaw!” Bill whooped, pulling hard on the makeshift rod. “Come on breakfast!”
Bill’s makeshift camp was set up just off of the main road leading east out of Lillyvale. His tired old riding hound was curled up beneath a tree, watching with boredom as Bill attempted to land his prize.
For a few moments the water of the creek turning into a frothing maelstrom. And then, with a subtle ‘twang’ the line broke.
In an instant the fish vanished back into the depths of the creek, taking the bait with it.
“Lord curse yeh you filthy son of a pelt whore!” Bill bellowed.
He plunged his hand to his waistband and withdrew his pistol from a shabby leather holster, held together with a frayed length of string. The spark rune flickered to life and a large spray of water erupted from the surface of the creek as Bill fired. Six shots slammed into the water, each creating an impressive geyser, but the fish was long gone.
Reaching into his pocket, Bill tried to find some more ammunition, but found only a mere three bullets, a crumpled cigarette, and a collection of lint.
“Dammit all.” Bill growled, shoving his gun back into its holster.
This was not the way that Bill had envisioned spending his night. He’d followed Eloise and Azee from Lillyvale, staying as far back as he could until it had gotten dark enough that he could follow the glow of the lanterns hanging from Eloise’s cart. He’d followed them until they had arrived at the gates of the Windhill Mansion. Bill had considered going over the wall in pursuit of his quarry, but he knew better than to cross the Windhills, even if the current head of the family was a spoiled, soft-skulled brat.
In his youth Bill had been quite the scrapper, taking on anyone and everyone foolish enough to insult him, get in his way, or even simply look at him wrong. He’d been the town’s bad-boy, handsome, rugged, an excellent card player (or at least good enough to cheat and not get caught), and able to fight his way out of most trouble. In his youth he’d been tempting fruit for various young women around town, whose fathers had forbidden them to see him. As a result of this roguish allure, he had more than a few bastards running around Lilyvale. Best of all, some of them belonged to the wives of men he knew, men who had the gall to turn their noses up at him. Bill found it amusing when he noticed them glancing at him, and then back at their supposed child, the brats’ resemblance to him a matter of some concern.
And now? Now he had a miserable old shrew for a wife, his home was little more than a shack, and his tabs had run so high that the only bar in town that would even allow him in the door was the Old Crow. And while Bill was certain he could still give a good pummeling to anyone fool enough to challenge him, the looks of fear he had once generated were gone, replaced by glances of indifference and contempt. To make matters worse, that damned northerner, Eloise, dared to kick him out after pulling a gun on him? For a pelt no less!
The plan had been simple enough: wait for Eloise to drop the pelt off at the Windhill place, then deal with her as she returned to Lillyvale. The roads were dangerous, especially at night, and the swampy forests were full of pools of deep, dark water where a body would never be found. Just another victim of the road. Hell, she’d probably never even be missed.
The pelt would be another problem entirely, what with the Windhill brat treating it like a pet. But an anonymous report to the Order about some misbehaviour would probably be enough to get her dancing on the end of a rope.
“Too bad,” he’d muttered to himself. “Such a fine ass too.”
But Eloise had never emerged from the Windhill place! And now, after a night of sleeping on the ground, Bill was left standing on the shores of a muddy little creek, swearing and cursing at a catfish.
Showing his pistol back into its decaying holster, Bill set about kicking dirt onto his campfire, grumbling all the while. What an utter waste of his time.
“Get up you lazy sod!” Bill snarled, kicking the front leg of his hound. The animal grumbled to itself, but obediently got to its feet.
As Bill was finishing his packing, his ears picked up the sound of a waggon approaching.
‘Maybe this morning won’t be a total waste.’ He pondered, drawing his gun and creeping towards the roadway. If it was a small waggon, single driver, he was certain he could get the drop on them. All he had to do was take out the driver, search the waggon for valuables, then make his way back to town through the swamps. If he made sure someone saw him entering Lilyvale from the opposite direction, there would be no suspicion, and no problem. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.
Hiding himself in a bush, Bill waited until the waggon came into view, revealing it to be a high class travelling buggy. His eyes widened as he noticed the Windhill family crest on the side, and the young master Windhill sitting in the driver's seat. As the buggy drew closer, he also caught sight of Eloise’s cart being pulled along behind it.
“What in the Lord’s name…” Bill frowned. “What is that dusty bitch doing with the Windhill kid?”
As the buggy rolled past, Bill caught sight of Windhill’s pet pelt, sitting on the back.
“Yep.” He muttered to himself, licking his lips. “That is a fine ass indeed…”
As the buggy rolled on out of sight, Bill stood up from his hiding place.
Returning to camp, Bill pulled himself up onto his old hound. With a swift kick to the beast’s sides, he began making his way back towards the road.
‘Wonder what they’re up to…’ he pondered to himself as his hound trotted back towards Lillyvale, ‘Who knows, maybe I can have some fun with the Windhill brat as well.’

As the buggy trundled down the road, Azee shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. Even the back of Eloise’s waggon had been better than the buggy’s slave seat, if only because the cart’s chain had been longer and it had been easier for her to move about. She also hated sitting backwards, it made her feel vulnerable and exposed, and the sight of the trees passing by in the wrong direction made her stomach turn.
Azee shifted again, trying to keep the sun’s glare out of her eyes. Even though the early morning air was cool and moist, the sun was only getting hotter with each passing minute. No matter how she moved, she couldn’t get out of its glare, and the skin beneath her fur prickled.
It was against the law in Halcyon for a slave to ride in a place where a human might sit, nor where they allowed to travel in a vehicle without being chained.
‘The non-human shall not occupy or be within any place wherein a path is plotted, a way forged, or a destiny decided. It is the Lord’s law that the non-human shall be guided only by the hand and wisdom of the human, for it is only through the grace of humanity that the proper path shall be chosen.’ The words flickered unbidden and unwelcome through Azee’s mind. ‘Chapter four, verse nine.’
Even among all the other repugnant pieces of scripture in the Lord’s Canon, Azee had always especially hated that verse. The rest of the scriptures might have been bloody minded and vicious, but at least they served some twisted logic. But this verse only made life more difficult for everyone. It meant the slaves were unable to drive carts for deliveries, or serve as drivers, or boat navigators. It also meant that carts had to be fitted with chains and spaces for the slaves to sit, assuming they weren’t simply forced to walk behind on some kind of leash.
Luke had always laughed the law off as something foolish, words taken out of context or twisted. Azee had never been able to tell him how very angry it made her, how the casual, vindictive cruelty felt like a grain of sand stuck in the corner of her eye.
The buggy bumped hard in a pothole, nearly knocking Azee out of her seat Fear of falling off and being dragged behind the buggy by her throat, or trampled by Eloise’s massive hounds, made her heart beat hard and fast as she desperately gripped the seat..
That damned law! Not an arm's length from her was the comfortable interior of the buggy, leather cushioned seats and soft cushions, not to mention shade. And yet here she sat, the dust of the road stinging her eyes, and the hot sun making her fur itch and burn.
A powerful wave of frustration rolled over her, she wanted to yell and shout, to tear at the buggy with her claws. She wanted to kick and bite, to break something, anything. But she forced herself to stay silent. She was good at that, a fact that added yet more irritation. Thankfully, just as she was reaching the point of being unable to contain herself, the forest around the road grew thicker. The sun vanished behind the dark green canopy, with only the odd flash reaching through the leaves to the road.
Curling her knees up under her chin and wedging herself into the seat, Azee sighed heavily.
Before she knew it, the events of the previous day and night began to take their toll. For the first time she noticed how her muscles hurt, the aching in her ribs from crashing down the stairs, and the throbbing in her wrist from Luke’s gun. Before she knew it, her thoughts started to drift, her mind unable to focus. Her head grew heavy, and it took a greater and greater effort to keep her eyes open.
‘Is it that the collar has stopped working… is that why it’s so annoying?’ She pondered, letting out a long yawn.
That didn’t feel like the right answer.
Azee curled her tail up around her, leaning against it like a pillow.
‘Even if it’s only a little bit of freedom, even if it’s only for a little time, there is nothing you would not do in order to hold on to it.’
“Kashin…” Azee mumbled to herself as her eyes drifted closed. “I think… I think I finally understand…”
Within moments, Azee was asleep.

Keeping a firm grip on the reins, Luke’s eyes swept the forest on either side of the road. While it was uncommon for raiders or highway robbers to look for prey at this hour, or indeed for them to operate too close to a town, he had no intention of being surprised again.
“Azee’s fallen asleep.” Eloise remarked, climbing into the driver’s box and sitting down beside Luke. “Poor thing must be exhausted.”
“Azee is not ‘thing’.” Luke replied sharply, careful to keep his voice low enough that it would not disturb Azee’s slumber.
“A strange statement coming from the man who has a piece of paper in his billfold that says she is quite literally his property.”
“Which is the law, and you know it! It protects her as well!”
“She is still a slave, one amongst many.”
“Azee is a great deal more than a slave to me and you know it.”
“But does she?”
“She should!” Luke snapped. “She did, before-”
“Before you sold her sister?” Eloise interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
“Before you started filling her head with heratical nonsense!” Luke glared at Eloise, rage burning in his eyes. “All of this could have been settled by now. She hit me and got scared, so what? We could have worked it out quietly. But now? If the Order gets even the slightest hint of what has happened, they’ll dissect her! They probably wouldn’t even do her the kindness of killing her first!”
“It is a distinct possibility.”
“Then I hope you’re proud of yourself. Azee’s life wasn’t perfect, but I could at least make her happy.”
“Would you have been happy in her place?”
“That’s not got anything to do with this! This is about Azee, not about me.”
“It has everything to do with you.” Eloise’s tone darkened as she turned to meet Luke’s gaze. “You are an intelligent man, Master Windhill, despite your foolhardy efforts to live with a foot in each world.”
Luke was genuinely taken aback. “What?”
“On one hand, you are Luke Windhill, master of the Windhill Ranch, ​​paterfamilias of the great Windhill family. Slaves shudder in terror when they hear that a member of your family will be attending an auction where they are to be sold. The slaves sold from your Ranch are considered to be of the highest quality, worth almost two of their peers.”
Luke felt an unpleasant knot growing in his stomach as Eloise spoke.
“And yet, you treat Azee, a scrawny, wholly unremarkable runt, as if she were a pet. In fact, no, much more than that; you treat her as if you were a potential mate for her. You dote on her and protect her from the order, despite the fact that you are the reason she needs protecting in the first place, to the point of putting yourself at risk. You were even willing to turn a blind eye when she had the temerity to strike you. And then there is her sister…”
“What about her?” Luke demanded, trying and failing to mask the sudden wave of apprehension that flooded through him at Eloise’s words.
“I am willing to wager that selling her sister was not something you simply decided to do for the sake of good business.”
“And?”
“You were protecting Azee.” Eloise smiled as Luke visibly stiffened beside her. “Azee is far too angry to see it at the moment, but I am not. I imagine that her sister got herself wrapped up in something dangerous, and you wanted to keep Azee as far away from it as possible, even if that meant separating her from the only family she had ever known.”
Luke’s sullen silence was all Eoise needed to confirm her suspicions.
“So on the one hand, you are the slave master your linage and position demands of you. You force your slaves to breed and clearly have no trouble using physical punishment and torture to enforce your will. And yet, on the other hand, you keep one of these creatures close to you. You care for her, make sacrifices for her, insignificant though they may be, and grow furious at the mere notion of someone doing her harm.”
Luke’s breath hitched slightly as he glared at Eloise, every scrap of effort directed towards remaining calm. “And what of it? Other masters have favoured slaves.”
“None like Azee.”
“Get to it witch!”
“I’d keep your voice down if I were you master Windhill, lest you wish for Azee to be privy to this conversation.”
Immediately Luke paused, only for fresh rage to surge through him as a satisfied smile crossed Eloise’s face.
“My point, boy, is that you and I both know full well that the way you treat Azee puts your own position, perhaps at a stretch, even your life at risk. She isn’t a pet, or a toy, or even some sort of concubine. You are attempting to live in a world where you can be ‘Master Luke Windhill’ one moment, and a caring lover to one of the very creatures you are normally so apathetic towards.”
“I… I may be apathetic towards the others, that is true. But Azee isn’t like the others.”
“Oh come now, she is exactly the same as the others. There is only one major difference between Azee and the slaves you keep in your barns, for some reason you care about her. You loosened the chain around her throat, you let her run, and so she ran. She learned to read, she became more confident, and came to believe that she was more than the beast of burden she was taught she was.”
“I gave her those things because she was different!”
“You gave her nothing, Windhill, nothing that she wouldn’t have reached for on her own, that any of your slaves wouldn’t reach for on their own given the right circumstances. Her blood, her fur, her mind, they are the same as the others.”
“Oh… I see now, so not only are you a witch, and a heretic, you’re an abolitionist.” Luke shook his head and scoffed. “What other foolishness do you believe?”
“Foolishness? Child, coming from someone as incredibly deluded as you, that could almost be considered a compliment.”
Immediately Luke’s scorn was replaced by anger. “How dare you!”
“Ah ah, the baby is still sleeping, remember.” Eloise crooned mockingly
“Do you really think me so blind that I would accept that your interest in Azee stems from mere kindness?” Luke spat back, lowering his voice again. “You’re no saint, witch! I’ve seen the way you watch her, like a scientist observing an interesting reaction.”
“That is merely an attempt at deflection, Master Windhill, and a crude one at that,” Eloise chuckled. “Still, I do not deny it. Azee is a fascinating creature. It takes more than mere strength to overcome a rune such as the one you placed on her.”
“So what was it then?” Luke demanded. “How did she break free.”
“Break free? Is that an admission I hear?”
“Admission? Admission of what?”
“That, at the end of the day, Azee is still a slave, no matter how many dresses you put her in, or how many books you read to her.”
As Eloise spoke, a stiff breeze rustled the trees along the roadway, as if to punctuate her words. Luke opened his mouth to speak, but could think of nothing to say.
“As for how she broke free from the collar, I do not know. I have my suspicions, but for now I am content to simply watch how all this plays out.”
“My life is not something for you to play with, and neither is hers!”
“Afraid I will treat you like you do Azee?” Eloise glanced over again, a wry smile on her face. “Or worse, perhaps like your other less favoured slaves.”
“I’ll have your head for this.” Luke snarled. “I swear it. And if Azee gets hurt, there will be no force in this world, not even the Lord herself, that will stop me from tearing you to pieces.”
Utterly unperturbed by Luke’s threat, but seeing no value in continuing the conversation, Eloise stood up from her seat. Eloise looked down at Luke, a teacher scolding a foolish child. “Please believe me, if Azee gets hurt, getting revenge on me will be the very least of your problems, boy.”

As she awakened, Azee had no idea where she was. It was dark and cool, but there were hushed noises all around. For a few moments, she wondered if perhaps the events of the last few days had been nothing but a terrible dream.
But a quick sniff of the air brought everything crashing back. Judging by the smell of stale beer, old wood, and unwashed humans, she was back at the Old Crow.
As she slowly began to sit up, Azee noticed that she was no longer chained to the back of the buggy, but rather curled up on one of the soft leather seats inside. Moments later she noticed that her head was not resting on a cushion, but on a folded up coat.
‘Huh… that’s-’
As the cobwebs of sleep left her, Azee noticed the feeling of a hand on her back. Her eyes flew open and she looked up, mid yawn, realising that she was dozing on Luke’s leg. Luke was leaning against the side of the carriage, also fast asleep. Azee’s heart skipped a beat and her eyes widened.
Awakened by Azee’s shifting, Luke blinked and looked down.
“Oh hey,” he mumbled, dark circles still under his eyes as he yawned. Without thinking he tightened his grip, pulling Azee against him. “Sleep well?”
“Get off me!” Azee shouted, scrambling up, kicking and thrashing.
In a flurry of legs, arms, and fur, Azee exploded over the side of the buggy. Her feet were already running in midair before she hit the ground, scrambling towards the wall. Luke, on the other hand, tried to get out of reach of Azee’s flailing feet. A final kick as Azee escaped sent him tumbling backwards out the other side of the buggy. Luke landed painfully on the hard dirt floor with an audible thud.
“No need to be so dramatic,” Luke groaned, picking himself up and brushing off his jacket. “A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.”
“Get away from me!” Azee snarled, the fur on her shoulders bristling. “I don’t want you touching me, ever!”
“I was merely attempting to make you comfortable.” Luke snapped, annoyed by the ache in his side from the fall, combined with Azee’s unexpected anger. “You were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. I couldn’t just leave you chained up.”
“You never had that problem before!”
“I never left you chained up if I could-”
“Just… don’t touch me!” Azee snapped, shaking like a leaf, more angry than afraid. “In fact, I order you not to touch me again unless I specifically tell you to!”
Luke blinked and took an involuntary step backwards. He hadn’t been so foolish as to expect that Azee would fall into his arms again from one small act of kindness, but her reaction was far from what he had expected. Usually she would be grateful and a little bashful at his displays of affection, at worst slightly embarrassed; but this time there was genuine anger in her tone and on her face.
A horrible sinking feeling set in as Luke realized that his Azee was much farther away from him than he could ever have imagined.
“What are we doing here?” She demanded, crossing her arms across her chest as if she were covering herself, a hint of pink on her nose.
“The witch said that she had business to attend to before we headed out.”
“Fine.”
Luke took a moment to examine his pocket watch. “But that was four hours ago. Lord knows where she is now or what she is up to.”
“Fine. Just…” Azee looked away and slid down the wall. “Just… stay away from me.”
As Luke watched her, Azee felt a wave of discomfort.
In all her life she’d never felt embarrassed around Luke, even when only in the fur. Some of the slaves wore limited articles of clothing, loin cloths or shawls, but most simply saw such things as pointless, or as ‘smoothskin nonsense’. For her part, Azee simply preferred to avoid clothing when possible, it was hot, it caught on things, and it was just one more thing to worry about. Sometimes, during formal functions at the ranch, she and the other house slaves had been instructed to put on clothing, to show off the Windhill’s wealth and extravagance. Such clothes were often uncomfortable, covered in buttons and baubles that pulled on fur and pinched the skin, and in Azee’s view looked utterly ridiculous.
All other times she saw no need, unless of course when she was cooking and required an apron. Besides, she had shared Luke’s bed quite often, he had seen every inch of her and she of him. Yet now, for some reason, as Luke looked at her with a mixture of surprise and concern, she felt very exposed.
“What is it?” Luke asked, noting Azee’s discomfort.
“Nothing.” she grumbled, pulling her knees up to her chin and glaring at Luke. One of the draft hounds stuck its head over the boards of its stable and gently rubbed its nose on the top of her head.
“Azee… we really do need to talk about this situation.”
“I don’t want to talk.” She grumbled.
“This is madness, and you know it,” Luke exclaimed, tossing his jacket aside. “If the Order finds out the you had me cursed… Azee they’ll kill you.”
“You’re going to do that anyway.”
Luke shook his head, “Azee… no, never.”
Azee looked up at Luke again, searching for any trace of dishonesty, but there was none.
“What about when I get old, or weak, or get hurt.” Her eyes narrowed, “You’d have me culled, don’t even try to deny it.”
Luke didn’t answer, instead meeting Azee’s gaze evenly.
Again, Azee could sense no dishonesty, which only made her angrier.
“You just can’t stand not being in control.” She said at last, her ears flattening against her head. “You hate it when you’re not the ‘master’.”
“I never asked to be in my position,” Luke snapped, the anger in his tone startling Azee. “I was born with responsibilities and duties, the same as you.”
“Don’t you dare compare us!” Azee shouted back, abandoning her caution. “You’ve never been hungry! You’ve never been whipped, or beaten, or rape-” the word froze in Azee’s throat.
Snarling in frustration, she forced herself to speak again. “You haven’t spent your whole life being told to do things you didn’t want to do! No reward, no appreciation, no thank you, not even a guarantee of a bed and a meal!”
“What are you talking about? I’ve always made sure you were well looked after!”
“And what about the others!?” Now Azee was on her feet, her fur rippling. “What about Tzana, or Rose, or Fray, or Tasch, or Keeli, or any of the others!”
“I’ve done everything within the law to make things better!” Luke’s temper got the best of him and he took a menacing step forwards. “I’ve increased rations, I’ve given them an extra half hour of sleep, and I’ve told Comb and the others to tone down the beatings!”
“You could have fired him! Why does Comb even still work for you? He’s a monster!”
“He’s a friend of the family! And he keeps things running!”
“He’s a bastard, and he does more harm than good! He broke Drayle’s wrist so badly he couldn’t work right for months!”
“Comb’s job is to keep things running, to make sure that the work that needs to be done gets done! I am running a business, Azee!”
“Fuck your business!”
“Azee!”
Azee felt the same powerful, all consuming rage she had felt the night before rising in her chest.
‘Language Azee, language, you aren’t in the barn anymore.’
“No!” Azee roared, her nose wrinkling and her teeth flashing in the dim half-light of the stable. “Don’t you ‘Azee’ me! I’ll say what I want! I’ll do what I want! For the first time in my life I am free and you are the slave! So fuck your business, fuck your family, and fuck you Luke!”
The words seemed to echo in the stable as both Azee and Luke fell silent. Even the hounds were quiet, watching the exchange with uncomprehending interest.
“So, there it i,.” Luke said at last, folding his arms across his chest. “You can act as indignant and righteous all you like, but in the end this is nothing but revenge.”
“No it’s not.”
“All I’ve done to try and keep you safe and comfortable, and none of it matters to you. The moment you don’t need me to protect you, I am a villain.”
“I don’t want or need your protection,” Azee muttered, stepping back and sliding down the wall again. “I just want my sister back… and I can’t be a slave anymore, I won’t.”
As his anger subsided, Luke felt a great hole open in his chest. The sight of Azee, looking so angry and exhausted at the same time was harder for him to bear than he would have expected.
He wasn’t foolish, he knew there were times when the realities of the ranch bothered her, when his duties as the family head made Azee uncomfortable. But he had never tried to hurt her. He’d always tried to keep her isolated from the horrors of reality, to make her feel safe. And yet, somehow, despite all of his efforts, he’d failed spectacularly.
Sighing heavily, he stepped back and sat on the edge of the buggy. “From the moment I took over from my father, I have never treated you like a slave Azee.”
“You give me orders and expect me to follow them. Azee get my my lunch, Azee clean my study, Azee come to bed.”
“Oh come now!” Luke scoffed, “I never ordered you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”
“I can tell when you are lying, remember.” Azee replied dryly. “Even you aren’t foolish enough to believe that.”
“I never tried to hurt you.”
“And yet you managed it all the same.”
“Azee-”
“Enough!” Azee snapped. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Just… leave me alone.”
Crossing his arms, Luke leaned back against the buggy’s seat. “Fine then, have it your way.”
The moment Luke managed to make himself comfortable, the door at the end of the barn burst open. Luke winced as bright light poured into the darkened stable, temporarily blinding him.
“Now don’t you move, either of you!” Bill bellowed, pointing his pistol at Azee, then at Luke.
Luke raised his hand to shield his eyes from the light. “Graves? What in damnation are you doing here?”
“You should be thankin’ me Master Windhill.” Bill crowed, keeping his gun raised as he stepped into the stable. “Sounds t’me like this ‘ere pelt ‘as you in a bind.”
Her eyes widening in fright, Azee started to order Luke to fight. But the moment she opened her mouth a shot rang out. There was a sudden, blinding explosion of pain as a bullet tore through her left ear and buried itself in the wall behind her.
“AZEE NO!” Luke howled, leaping up and going for his own weapon. Before he could draw, Bill shifted to aim at him again.
“You jus’ keep your hands where I can see ‘em!” Bill shouted, unable to keep a hint of glee out of his voice.
“What in damnation do you think you are doing?”
“Now, ‘ere’s what we’re gonna do, yer gonna take out that pretty little piece and toss it over to me. Then the three of us’re gonna go fer a little walk to see the Order. An’ if that pretty little pelt wants to keep her skull in one piece, she’s gonna keep ‘er mouth shut.”
Azee clutched at the bloody remnants of her ear, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She was no stranger to pain, she’d suffered all manner of cuts, burns, bruises and beatings over the years. She’d even been whipped on several occasions, the pain of which had nearly caused her to pass out. But this pain was something different entirely, far hotter and all consuming. The sound of the shot still rang in her ears, as did the roar of rushing blood and her heartbeat.
Through the haze of pain and noise, she could hear the muffled sound of an argument. Her vision spun, the light from the stable door blindingly bright, the figure of Bill little more than a dark blur. But as she blinked to try and clear her vision, a shadow fell across her face as someone stepped in front of her.
“What in the Lord’s name‘re you doin’?” Bill demanded, waving his gun at Luke.
“This is my business and my business alone Graves.” Luke replied, putting himself between Azee and Bill. “Go back to your little raft and stay out of my way.”
“You think I didn’t hear the way tha’ pelt was talkin’ to yeh?” Bill barked. “She should be swingin’ from a tree fer talking to a human like that!”
“She is my slave, I will deal with it.”
“My ass you will! I ain’t lettin you cut me outta this Windhill, I saved yer life here, and you owe me!”
“I don’t owe you a thing Graves. Now get lost, and maybe I’ll forget that you had the exceptionally poor sense to aim a gun at me.”
“You fancy pants lil’ brat, what with yer fancy words. Fine, but we’ll just see what the Order thinks of all this.” Bill started to back up, keeping his gun trained on Luke. “You so much as twitch boy, and I’ll plug you good, you hear.”
Luke’s mind raced as Bill stepped backwards towards the alleyway between the bar and the barbershop next door. If he managed to get to the street, it was all over. But as fast as Luke was, even he knew that attempting to lower his hands, draw, and then shoot someone who already had his gun drawn and aimed, was suicide.
‘Even if I manage to move… he might hit Azee.’ Luke gritted his teeth. ‘Dammit all!’
Watching for any movement from Luke, Bill kept stepping back.
“Imagine wha’ the Order will think when they find out tha Windhill is a Pelt sympathizer!” Bill called out. “Can you imagine the reward?”
‘Might even be enough fer me to settle down someplace nice,’ he grinned to himself. ‘Hell, if Mabelle were to suffer some kinda accident, I might even find me a nice young thing to shack up with.’
As he reached the side of the Old Crow, Bill spun around the corner, making to sprint for the road. Instead, he came face to face with Eloise.
“That’s quite enough of that I should think.”
“Wha-” was all Bill managed to shout before Eloise drew her knife and plunged it into his throat. Bill stumbled backwards a few steps, before crashing onto his back, shakily trying to stop the blood flowing from the wound. He tried to call out, but found he could do little but make choking, gurgling sounds as his lungs filled with blood.
“Ah Ah Ah,” Eloise muttered softly, kneeling down beside Bill. “If you could, It would be most appreciated if you didn’t die for just a few more moments.”
As she spoke, Eloise withdrew a piece of Catalyst crystal from her dress. A strange symbol was carved into the crystal, jagged and complex, with a strange reddish glow emanating from its core.
With a quick slash of her knife, Eloise opened the front of Bill’s shirt and placed the crystal upon his still quivering chest.
“There we are.”
Eloise pressed a finger upon the centre of the rune and stepped back. In an instant, the blood in Bill’s veins began to glow, pale red lines emerging from under his skin. The light writhed and twisted into tendrils, joining one another and snaking over Bill’s body to the crystal on his chest.
Forgetting for a moment about Bill, Luke turned and knelt down in front of Azee. “Azee! Are you alright?”
“L-Luke?”
Reaching down to his vest, Luke withdrew a silken handkerchief and pressed it against Azee’s ear. He winced as he noted a scrap of torn flesh hanging loose, bound by only a thin strand of skin.
“There we go, there we go. You’re going to be alright.”
“D-did I lose my ear?”
“Nah.” Luke replied, summoning the most carefree smile he could manage. “But you are going to be missing a little chunk.”
“I… I can't hear anything out of it…”
A cold feeling ran up Luke’s spine. Leaning close, he could see a thin trail of blood running from the inside of Azee’s ear, down the side of her chin.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Besides, a little scar will make you look tougher. Speaking of, hold still for a moment.”
“Huh? Wh-”
As fast as he could, Luke took hold of the loose piece of Azee’s ear and pulled. Azee cried out as the piece came loose, and Luke tossed it away.
“It’s okay.” he said, gently touching the side of Azee’s face. “It’s all over, it’s okay.”
As Luke touched her, despite the haze of pain, Azee felt a flicker of her earlier anger flare up again. But Luke’s touch was so gentle, so caring, that she didn’t say anything, instead drawing comfort from it as she tried not to whimper like a pup.
“Finally, a use for you.” Eloise said, gazing down at Bill’s lifeless form. His eyes were wide and unseeing, his mouth frozen in a silent gasp.
Eloise gently removed the crystal from Bill’s chest and held it in her hand. The stone now glowed with an eerie red light that illuminated her palm.
“Charlie won’t like it, but I suppose we’ll call it even on your tab.”
“What did you do to him?” Luke asked, turning from Azee as Eloise approached.
“I cleaned the mess you’d made.” Eloise replied, kneeling down and examining Azee’s torn ear. “Though I suppose I am partly to blame as well. I had rather hoped he would have been smart enough not to actually try anything. If I’d known he was this brainless I’d have dealt with him last night.”
“Last night?”
“Mmm, he followed Azee and I to your house, and then again this morning on our way back into town.”
“H-how did you- If you knew he was there why didn’t you-” Lukee paused and shook his head. “You know what, I am certain I do not want to know.”
“Indeed.” Eloise gently felt the flesh around the tear in Azee’s ear before getting back to her feet. “You’ll be fine dear, the wound is clean. Though it would seem that the shot may have deafened you. At least partially”
“Can you fix it?” Luke asked.
“Fix it?”
“Yes, fix it, like you fixed me.”
Eloise raised an eyebrow. “Master Windhill I saved your life from a grievous injury, this is a scratch, hardly worth the energy it would take.”
“Do it.” Luke commanded, getting to his feet and glaring at Eloise. “Heal her, now.”
“Listen to me, boy, I don’t-”
“I’ll pay you.” Luke interrupted. “Whatever you want, it’s yours. Just fix her and take the pain away, now.”
Eloise examined Luke, searching his face.
‘This has to be some kind of trick, a way of misleading the girl and…’ Eloise tilted her head. ‘No… he really means it… The girl’s pain truly is affecting him. Interesting.’
“You are an odd man, Master Windhill.” Eloise said at last. “Very well then, we’ll talk later about what you owe me.”
“Fine, just get to it.”
Kneeling down in front of Azee, Eloise withdrew a pair of crystals from a pocket of her dress, the red one she had just taken from Bill, and another that glowed pale blue.
“Hold still, little one.” She said softly, examining the torn, bleeding flesh. “This will only take a moment.”
Eloise tapped the regular piece of catalyst crystal against the red one. A gossamer thin strand of red light connected the two crystals as Eloise brought the blue rune towards Azee’s ear.
“What is that?” Azee asked, shifting back, the baleful glow of the red crystal sending terrified shivers down her spine. Her skin writhed, as if her own flesh was trying to get away from the stone.
Instead of replying, Eloise pulled out her knife and pricked Azee’s right arm with the point. As Azee yelped and looked down at her arm, Eloise took advantage of the distraction, seized her damaged ear, and pressed the blue rune against it.
Azee tried to howl in agony, but with her free hand Eloise grabbed hold of her muzzle and held her mouth shut.
“Don’t fight,” she commanded, holding Azee as still as she could. “It’s alright, you’re going to be alright! Just hold still for a few more seconds.”
Azee’s ear felt as if it were on fire, as if thousands of red hot insects were crawling over and through her flesh. She wanted to cry out so badly, but Eloise’s grip was like a vice.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the burning stopped.
“There you go.” Eloise smiled as she leaned back, releasing her grip on Azee’s muzzle and replacing the crystals in her dress.
Blinking back pained tears, Azee hesitantly reached up and touched her ear. The ringing was gone and her hearing had returned, and she could feel no blood or pain.
Azee turned to Eloise“I-it’s fixed?”
Eloise nodded, smiling at Azee as she patted her on the shoulder. “All fixed up.”
“What in the Lord’s name did you do?” Luke demanded. “It looks completely different!”
Eloise turned and glared at Luke, “Is the miracle I just performed not up to your standards? Perhaps you didn’t notice, but she has an ear again!”
“It’s white!”
“W-white?” Azee turned her head, but was unable to catch a glimpse of her ear.
With an exasperated sigh, Eloise turned her knife so that Azee could see her reflection on the flat of the blade. The top half of her left ear was indeed white.
“That’s not the way it is supposed to be.” Luke pressed. “Fix it!”
“Now listen here, you arrogant little prat! I’ve-”
“I like it.”
Both Luke and Eloise froze and looked down at Azee. After a few more moments of examining her reflection, Azee looked up at both of them, eyes bright and tail wagging. “I like it a lot.”
“But… Azee it’s the wrong colour!”
“I know.” Azee grinned. “But I like it.”
“There, you see mister Windhill, she likes it.” A wry smile crossed Eloise’s face as she reached out and patted Azee on the shoulder.
“But I-” Luke paused. It wasn’t like the white on Azee’s ear was ugly, in fact it was rather fetching, a touch of uniqueness that made her seem even more alluring. But it was different… she was different.
‘I just want my Azee back…’ Luke felt his heart sinking in his chest.
“It’s fine,” Luke said at last, managing a smile. “If it makes you happy… then I like it as well. You look… beautiful Azee.”
Azee could sense the lie in Luke’s words, but she could also sense the conflict within him. She considered pressing the issue, she considered getting angry that he would presume to have any say, but the idea of fighting with Luke again held no appeal.
Instead, she turned to Eloise and bowed her head. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, little one. Now, I think we should be getting a move on if we want to get anywhere before nightfall.”
“What about him?” Luke asked, nodding back at Bill’s body.
“I have an idea about that,” Eloise replied. “In fact, I rather suspect that old Bill is going to be more useful to us in death than he was to anybody in life.”
​
End of Part 7
​
Special thanks to my Patrons: Dowel-Rod, Tokamak, ArcaniA20, Technic_Bot, Kapłan Sekty Pieczarek, & Unicorn!
And Special thanks to: Spear Mint Wolf and Unicorn for his stellar editing work.

TWO
Rachel’s shift passed uneventfully. One of the guys from the bachelor party got a little too hands on with Tiffany, but Johnny was right behind her, and shut it down quickly. The white collar human boys, not used to being in trouble on the wrong side of the tracks, were quick to make reparations. Tiffany got a financial apology, and when they closed their tab and left, Rachel got tipped out better than she expected.
Before she went back into the dressing room to change back into her street clothes and leave, she took one last scan of the room. The creeper guy at table two that had been tipping her well but ignoring the other girls looked like he was getting up and leaving. Johnny caught Rachel’s eyes. He nodded towards her, then nodded towards the creep, then looked back at her.
Rachel wasn’t scared. The guy looked like another white collar dead ender in some boring career. He had a receding hairline and a bit of a gut under his button up shirt, he didn’t look like he'd be much of a fight if it came to that. Rachel imagined that he had some kind of incredibly banal human job, like selling vinyl siding or holding down a cubicle in some office farm. She went into the locker room and grabbed her ratty clothes out of the locker, stripped out of her sex trash, and got ready to leave.
“You want me to walk you out?” Johnny asked. He did that for all the girls, it was his job and his choice.
“I’m fine Johnny.” Rachel told him.
“That guy left two minutes after you got off the floor. Didn’t take any dances or put any dollar bills on the main stage the whole time he was in here. He’s got a thing for you, Ray.” Johnny said.
“It’s weird, but I guess it’s possible I’m just his type.” Rachel shrugged.
“Just call the club if something weird happens on your walk home, okay? Anything. Don’t take any chances. You know I don’t like it when you girls get hurt.” Johnny said.
“We’re not girls, Johnny. We’re tieflings. We’ve been getting shit on by humans our whole life, I can take care of myself.”
“Rachel, I trust you to take care of yourself. But I don’t trust cops.” Johnny said. “I don’t want to hear your voice on a 911 tape on the news.”
Rachel shook her head and walked out.
On the walk home, she passed the Hell Patrol office again. The sergeant was there, still standing in the window, as if he had never left. Rachel wondered how much coffee he drank in a day to accomplish that. She had never walked past that place without him being there.
Seeing him reminded her of what Valorie had said. Maybe she was too stuck up. Maybe the whole black and white tiefling act would be a hit, and she was just overthinking it. Of course she didn’t like to think about her demonic heritage, no tiefling did. But people had told her that white tieflings, porcelain white tieflings like her, were rare. That some especially fucked up and evil demon was her father. An archdemon, a general of Hell, maybe one of the original rebel angels out of Heaven, if the Bible was real. Demons were real, and apparently the war ended when the Vatican allowed rebel demons sanctuary in Purgatory, so theoretically at least that much of it existed.
Valorie was really freaky though. She loved her job. She touched herself and moaned on stage, a lot. Like not faking, actually enjoying herself. Rachel didn’t mind the adult industry as a job and an act, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be close to Valorie like that. Whatever Valorie did to herself on stage, she’d probably try to get Rachel into it, and Rachel... Rachel wasn’t ready for a lot of things. She wasn’t a virgin, but she wasn’t an exhibitionist either.
For today, it would be a no. No Hell Patrol, and no weird girl-girl Ebony and Ivory striptease. The tips that she made that night and the rent that she paid that month were telling her that she didn’t need to go down that road, yet.
She was lost in thought as she crossed the street, and looked up randomly while in the middle of the crosswalk to see a familiar pair of eyes on her, waiting at the intersection for her to cross. It was him, the creeper from the club with the receding hairline, the guy at table 2. He was driving a late model champagne colored Honda, and he was staring right at her through the windshield.
Rachel only froze for half a heart beat, then forced herself to keep walking. They had left the club at roughly the same time. Such a chance encounter was a possibility.
But Rachel was a girl, a tiefling girl in a bad neighborhood in a society that victimized tieflings. She didn’t believe in coincidences. She didn’t believe Johnny when he said it, but she knew he was right.
She picked up her pace and forced herself to stay calm. She was still in control. The creep was in a car, and that was a disadvantage. She could change direction on the sidewalk with the turn of her heel, and walk the other direction. She could walk back to the club and stay there, or she could just duck through some alleys, take some left turns, and lose the creep. As long as she could use pedestrian mobility to her advantage, she had the upper hand.
She kept walking, pretending not to notice him following her. He turned the corner and rolled up the street after her. He was driving slow, always around 30 feet behind her, stopping at red lights, looking inconspicuous. But Rachel knew, she could feel his eyes boring into her back, it made something in her shoulders twitch. Something that was old, and demonic, and instinctual... It was a feeling she got when she was in danger, like if there was a pair of succubus wings on her back that she never got from her demon parent, that she would flap and fly up into the sky, to escape from harm. Those phantom wings twitched now, squirmed and itched on her shoulder blades with nerves that only existed in her mind.
He was still behind her when she reached the liquor store, and the fear built up in her mind. Fear of things that she didn’t think of, but Johnny did. Rachel didn’t think she needed saving at first because she didn’t think the human could overpower her. But Johnny was a step ahead. Johnny was thinking of cops, of 911 calls, of human authorities. Of stories that cops may or may not believe. Scenes that would be hard to explain. Rachel didn’t live in a society that had her best interest in mind.
She saw the gangbangers loitering in front of the liquor store and felt a sudden twinge of hope. They were the same guys from earlier, gang tieflings from the orphanage that knew her. They wouldn’t hurt her, and they might have something to help her. The least she could do was stop to talk to them, in hopes that it’d drive off the creep. But Rachel had a new idea now, one she should have thought of sooner, one she would act on now, and refuse to be anyone’s victim.
She walked up to the thugs, and she noticed out of the corner of her eye that as she did, the champagne Honda peeled off the road into a parking lot on the other side of the street, as if he had some business to do on the other side of the strip mall. Rachel wasn’t convinced.
“I need a strap.” She told the gangbanger.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, girly.” The gang tiefling said.
“A heater. A piece. A gun. Sell me one.” She said.
The one gang tiefling turned to the other. “Is this chick five-oh?” He asked his compatriot.
“Nah, she’s straight. We were kids in the same orphanage. I seen her around. She works that strip club down the street.” He explained.
“Maybe I’ve got a piece for you. What you gonna do for me, babe? You looking for a boyfriend, somebody to protect you?” He asked.
“My boyfriends are Smith and Wesson. I’ve got cash.” Rachel said.
The gang tieflings nodded. “Step into my office.” They led her around to the side of the building, off the street.
“Listen.” The gang tiefling said. “I’m only telling you this because we’ve got history at the orphanage. I’ve got a piece I can sell you, but it’s hot, ok? Was used in a crime. We have to get rid of it.”
“I’ll take it.” Rachel said.
“You understand that if you get caught holding this strap, and the cops run the serials, it’s gonna come up stolen, and if they run ballistics, it’ll be attached to a shooting, right?” He asked.
“I’ll ditch it when I don’t need it anymore.” Rachel said.
“Do you know what’s going to happen to you if you get pinched and you tell the cops who you got this gun from?” The gangster asked.
“That’s not gonna happen.” Rachel said.
“It better not. 50 dollars.” He said.
“I thought you were trying to get rid of it?” Rachel asked.
“I gotta eat too, girl. You want it or not? I ain’t stupid, I saw that dude rolling behind you in that Civic. Don’t get caught slippin, girl.” He said.
Rachel knew he was right. Street tieflings weren’t criminals because they were stupid. They were criminals because there was nowhere else for them to go. There wasn’t a tiefling in the hood that couldn’t spot a tail on their tail. She pulled a roll of bills in a rubber band from her pocket and handed it to the gangbanger.
He pulled a 38 special out of his waistband and handed it to her butt first. She took it, pointing the barrel down, out of sight.
“You know where the safety is on that thing? It’s that little switch, right there. You got six shots, fully loaded. Don’t shoot until he’s too close for you to miss.” The gangster said.
“Yea thanks. You guys come into the club sometime, I’ll get the girls to take care of you.” Rachel said.
“Yea sure, now get the fuck out of here and put that shit in your purse. There’s cops out tonight.”
Rachel left the liquor store and got back out onto the street. The gun was in her purse. She walked with her hand inside of it, her fingers touching the grips, ready to pull it. The cold and heavy feeling of that steel revolver made her feel comfortable, safe.
The champagne Honda pulled out of the strip mall it was parked in and whispered up the road behind her again. Rachel was just a few more blocks from her projects and the reassuring fences and gates, the bars on her windows. Just a few more blocks.
Her heart almost stopped when she saw red and blue flashers ahead. She felt like her lungs had leapt up into her throat when she saw the cop car. Where the fuck were the pigs when you needed them? She didn’t want to see them now that she was carrying a hot gun in her purse. If they harassed her now, she’d have bigger problems than the creeper from the club.
As she walked closer, she saw the scene. Two cops, human men, had Alix the hooker sitting on the curb. All she had to do was walk by, ignore them, and hope they ignored her. She walked closer to the buildings, as close as possible, a shadow on the sidewalk. She hoped the cops would ignore her while they harassed the streetwalker. She wasn’t one of them, she wasn’t out on the corner, dressed like that. Not a target. At least she hoped.
As she passed the cops and Alix sitting on the curb, she saw the ice cold deadpan stare in the streetwalker’s eyes. Alix’s eyes didn’t plead or beg. There was none of that futile emotion left in her. Now, she just sat and waited. Waited for the worst to be over.
Both girls knew what was going to happen. The cops never actually took the hookers in. All the tieflings knew that. Instead, they’d stuff her in the back of their cruiser, roll down to her motel room, and take a free ride on her. That’s what they always did when they caught the tiefling hookers.
As she walked past, a cop looked up, noticed her. “That one of ours?” He asked his partner, pointing at her.
Rachel’s mind raced. She began to believe that she had really fucked up now. The gun felt hot in her purse, like an ingot of molten iron. There she was, a tiefling girl, being followed home by some creep, with a stolen gun in her purse and ten feet away from cops that picked up tiefling hookers.
“I don’t think so.” The other cop said, adjusting his duty belt.
“She’s not one of my friends. She has a real job at a place down the street. She walks past my spot every day on her way to work.” Alix said.
“That’s the kind of alibi a hooker would make for another hooker. Excuse me miss, can we talk to you?” One of the cops said.
Fuck. Rachel thought. This is it. This is how I end up in prison.
“I’m telling the truth.” The hooker said.
“You stay quiet, you’ll make it worse.” The first cop replied.
“Is there something wrong, officer?” Rachel asked, fear gripping her neck.
“Do you have ID on you, miss?” The cop asked.
“Yes sir. Can I reach into my purse and get it for you?” Rachel asked.
“Of course, slow please.” The cop said.
Rachel felt the gun in her purse, burning hot. She fished around, passed it, felt her billfold clip in the bottom, wrapped her fingers around it, pulled it out slowly.
She handed it to the cop.
“Stay here while I go run this.” The first cop said, taking her ID back to the cruiser.
“Where are you going tonight, miss?” The first cop asked.
“I’m coming home from work. I work down the street at the club. I’m a cocktail waitress.” Rachel admitted. “You can call the club if you want, I’ll give you the number.”
“That would help your case.” The cop asked, and pulled out his cell phone.
Rachel listed off Johnny’s number. The cop dialed it. It rang once, and Rachel’s heart beat. It rang twice, and Rachel’s heart beat. It rang three times, and Johnny picked up, and Rachel remembered how to breathe again.
“This is officer Bill Gibson, Las Rojas PD. Who am I speaking to? Uh-huh. Yes. And you work at the club? Yes. No sir, just a routine stop. She’s not in trouble. What’s your relationship with her? Okay. Okay. Cocktail waitress. Thank you sir, she’ll be fine. If she doesn’t come back with any warrants she’ll be on her way.” The cop said.
Right about then, the other cop came back with her ID.
“She’s clean. No warrants, no priors.” He said.
“Her story checks out. Come on Gary, let’s go. We’ve got what we wanted. Miss, you move along now, you’re free to go.” Officer Gibson said.
Rachel took her ID back with numb fingers. She dropped it into her purse mechanically, turned like a robot, and walked down the street, her neck stiff, refusing to look behind her.
She heard the snapping sound of handcuffs, and Alix being hauled up to her feet. She heard the doors of the cop car open and close, and the cruiser took off up the street, with Alix in the back seat.
As she expected, the cop car took a left turn at the first light, towards Alix’s motel, instead of straight forward, towards downtown and the police station.
She was alone again. Alone with the gun that now felt in the purse like a cement brick.
Then she looked over her shoulder, saw that champagne Honda, and the feeling of the steel against her fingertips was cool and calming again.
She forced herself to walk slowly and inconspicuously for two blocks, but when she finally got within a block of her building, she broke into a sprint, slapping the concrete as fast as her ratty old Converse Chuck Taylors could carry her.
She tore open the security gate, slammed it behind her, and ran all the way up the stairs to her studio apartment and locked the door and sat down with her back against it.
She didn’t cry until she felt her phone vibrating in her purse. She pulled it out.
“Ray? Are you okay? I just talked to the cops.” Johnny asked her.
“I’m okay, Johnny. They almost pinched me. They were picking up hookers.” Rachel explained.
“Where are you?” Johnny asked.
“I’m fine. I’m in my apartment.” She said.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’ll get over it.” Rachel said.
“I told you to call me if things got weird, Ray. You call me when you leave your place for work tomorrow, okay? And don’t leave your apartment a minute before that. You stay home tonight, okay?” Johnny demanded.
“I will.” Rachel said.
“I gotta go back to work. Evening crowd is coming in.” Johnny said. “You call, okay Rachel? You can always call. You know I won’t let anyone hurt my girls.”
“Yea, thanks Johnny.” Rachel said, and hung up the phone.
She stopped crying. She got up to her knees, peeked out the window overlooking the street outside. The champagne Honda stopped at the intersection in front of her complex, sat at the light, then pulled a U turn in the intersection and went back the way it came.
Rachel left her purse where she dropped it. She crawled over to her mattress on the floor, plugged in her phone on the charger, and then rolled all her blankets up around her. She stayed there until she fell asleep. She went to bed without dinner, the trauma had destroyed her appetite.
Rachel woke up late the next morning, her makeup smeared like grease across her porcelain face, stains like crude oil and tire tracks on her pillow case. She sighed at the inconvenience, pulled the pillowcase off the pillow, and rolled off the mattress.
She struggled to her feet and got into the bathroom, then the shower stall. She dropped her clothes on the floor of the shower, and then turned the water on. She blasted the pillow case with the shower head to clean it, and then threw it like a rag on the bottom of the shower. She started to clean herself, then realized that the black makeup would probably stain the wad of clothing and the tile grout in the floor of the shower.
She decided she just didn’t give a shit. She washed her face, soaped up and rinsed off, and then turned the shower off, leaving the wet clothes in it. She dried off, threw on a ragged pair of daisy dukes and an old concert tshirt from some band that stopped touring before she was born, and she shambled from the bathroom to her kitchenette.
She had food to cook, but she couldn’t muster the effort. She reached into the freezer and pulled out a microwave burrito, and threw it in the microwave. She brewed coffee. It was the most depressing breakfast she had eaten since she moved into the apartment and had to eat dry cereal for a week to cover her deposit.
As the coffee dripped, she sat and stared at her purse where she left it on the floor. Some of her possessions had scattered where she dropped it, and the butt of the gun was poking out the top of the purse.
She contemplated taking the gun down to the drainage ditch behind her complex and throwing it into the flood channel. It’d disappear downstream in a cloud of pesticides and silt when the floodwater from the farms up the valley irrigated their crops.
Buying it was stupid. Fifty dollars down the drain, and it could have gotten her sent to prison. That fifty bucks could have been some real food, or saved up to buy a car, or at least a new cocktail dress for work that fit better that the shapeless slut-sack she crammed herself into every night.
But the more she thought about disposing of it, the more she wanted to keep it. She could dodge cops. She could always toss it if she needed to. But the creeper was still out there. Cops would lock her up, but in prison she’d at least get 3 meals a day and not have to pay rent. If the creeper from the club grabbed her, there was no telling what that was. Sexual assault was the least her imagination could conjure. What if he was Jack the Ripper? What if he made her into a skin dress?
There was no way she was tossing the gun. She’d rather go downtown in the back of a cop car than find out what would happen to her if she got stuffed into the back of that champagne Honda. She might have to find a better way to keep it on her person though, maybe in her waistband or pocket the way the gang tieflings did, leaving it in her purse might be too slow to get to when she needed it. If she wasn’t so strapped for cash, she could have just walked into a pawn shop and bought a holster.
As morning crept on, she woke up, but did not eat anything other than the microwave burrito and the cup of coffee she had forced herself to make. She had a list of chores to do, she wanted to take that tip money from last night to the secondhand store and buy some clothes, maybe a pair of shoes if there were any good ones, but buying the hot gun off that gangster had changed that. Moreover, going outside was a bad idea, she had no idea what the creep did for work, if he worked at all. He could be out there, waiting, stalking her right now.
She focused on an old picture of Danica Patrick in a fire suit, standing in front of her race car, her childhood heroine. When Rachel was a little girl, she wanted to be a racecar driver. As soon as the orphanage let her outside it's gates as a teenager, she was walking down to the local go kart track to try to hitch rides. She would do anything to get some laps- Beg, borrow, or steal. The guys that ran the place didn’t let her on the track until after they shut down for the day, because she was an insurance hazard. None of the helmets fit tieflings, because of the horns. She would sweep out the place and take out the trash in exchange for the privilege.
At 16, she scrounged together every dime she could find and pooled her money with some of the other orphans to buy a car. They found a shitbox 74 Volkswagen Super Beetle for six hundred dollars and bought it. They ripped out the interior, pulled the fenders off, patched the rust holes in the floor with some traffic signs that they stole off the street at night with a ladder and wrench, and they hot rodded the shit out of it... At least as much as a couple of broke teenagers could.
They had it really hauling ass for about 3 months after they finally worked out all the problems, and then one night while the boys were out hooning, they lost control and ran into a drainage ditch, flooded and totaled it. Rachel never forgave them, she was a better driver than any of them, if she was behind the wheel it never would have happened. How the hell do you let a 60 horsepower car get out from under you?
This is me. She thought to herself. How did I get here? From the little girl that used to haul garbage bags and sweep floors to get laps at the go-kart track to a cocktail waitress in a shitty strip club with a hot gun, getting stalked by some middle management cubicle rat serial killer in a budget Japanese sedan. When did the dream die?
The words HELL PATROL floated through her mind. They had cars. They got cars just for signing up. They hit demons with cars, for fuck’s sake. Maybe it was worth it, just to get back behind the wheel again. To actually have a car that was hers, that nobody else drove. It was probably the closest thing she’d ever get to actually being a race car driver.
But tieflings in Hell Patrol, they could die. They did die. It wasn’t exactly safe. Some of the demons they hunted were as big as a fucking car, bigger. There was a reason they only let tieflings do it, because they didn’t give a shit if tieflings died.
Rachel had to wonder what was worse. Dying in a blaze of glory, getting ripped limb from limb by imps after they pulled you out of your driver’s seat, or living the safe life. The slow life, barely paying her rent every month with cocktail waitress tips, where she would be fine... Until she got old and wasn’t pretty and guys didn’t tip her as much anymore, or some weirdo caught her walking home one night and made a skin dress out of her in his Buffalo Bill basement.
Well if the only choice is picking who turns me into a skin dress, maybe I should at least get a free car. Rachel thought, morbidly. At least when I could drive, I was happy.
Rachel sat for a few hours lost in thought, wondering what to do, wondering where she had lost control of her life, or if she ever was in control of it. Eventually, an alarm on her phone went off, and it was time to go to work. She only hoped that the champagne Honda wasn’t outside.
She grabbed the gun, felt it in her hand. It didn’t feel safer, but it did feel satisfying. Rachel figured if she had to be a skin dress, she’d at least make the son of a bitch work for it. She looked out the window onto the street, and there was no champagne Honda.
Rachel gathered her things. She called Johnny on the phone.
“Johnny, I’m leaving my apartment. I’m heading to work now.” She told him.
“Okay. If you’re not here in 20 minutes, call me again. If I don’t see or hear from you in that time, then I’m coming out of the club and going down the street to find you.” Johnny said.
Rachel took a deep breath, hung up the phone, and left the apartment.
When she got to 8th street, she saw the streetwalker, this time, on her side of the road. She stopped to say something.
“Thanks for trying to protect me last night. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to help you, I was holding something illegal.” Rachel said.
“I figured you were. I saw you go into the alley with those gangbangers up the street.” The prostitute said.
“Did the cops...” Rachel started.
“They’re not that bad. They don’t pay, but they don’t rough me up. They like the girls pretty when they pick us up. You know you had a tail last night, right? I saw that-”
“The champagne Honda. Yea he followed me home from work.” Rachel said.
“Do you ever think about Hell Patrol?” The hooker asked.
“Everyday.” Rachel said.
“I remember you from the orphanage. You had that Volkswagen with Charles and Pete, until they wrecked it. I figured you’d be a natural for that shit, you like cars.” The hooker said.
“You’re Alix, right?” Rachel asked.
“Yea.” Alix nodded.
“Do you ever worry? About your life? I mean, wouldn’t it be safer to work at the strip club, not have to walk the streets?” Rachel asked.
“The orphanage lost my paperwork when they discharged us at 18. I can’t even prove I’m a US citizen. I can’t get a real job.” Alix said.
“I’m sorry.” Rachel said.
“Doesn’t really fucking matter anyways, does it? I’ve got johns and crooked cops, you’ve got club stalkers... Strippers, waitresses, whores. That’s all there is for a tiefling girl. One’s much like another in the end, we disappear through the cracks.” Alix said.
“If it’s that bleak, why aren’t you already in Hell Patrol?” Rachel asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe there’s a piece of me that still cares if I live or die, and thinks I’ll last longer out here. I barely know how to drive, but I know these streets.” Alix said.
“I have to go to work. Maybe we should talk about this again. We could go in together. Maybe that would make us both brave enough.” Rachel said.
“Yea... Maybe it would be enough, just to have a friend.” Alix said. “Stay safe tonight, okay? I don’t want to see that Honda following you home.”
“You too, don’t get caught by those sleazy cops.” Rachel said.
She continued down the street. The gangbangers weren’t in front of the liquor store this afternoon, which probably meant they were running the blocks on the south side, breaking into houses to try to make a score.
When Rachel got to the Hell Patrol office, she saw the staff sergeant in the window, like she always did. But today, there was another person in there. A tiefling, wearing the black leather jacket of the Hell Patrol, with the giant white pentagram embroidered on the back. He had jeans that didn’t have holes in them, he was wearing expensive looking aviator sunglasses, and his hair looked like he paid someone to cut it. He was talking to the staff sergeant, they were relaxed, laughing, holding coffee mugs. They looked about as close to normal people without stress that Rachel had ever seen.
The sergeant saw her, pointed out the window, and waved. The tiefling greaser, with his cool guy jacket and glasses, lifted his mug towards her in a greeting gesture. The sergeant pointed towards the door.
Rachel kept walking. The greaser Hell Patrol tiefling and the sergeant went back to talking to each other. They were probably talking about how she walked past everyday and didn’t come in, but she would. One day she would. Maybe they were right.
When she got to the club, Johnny Octopus was standing outside waiting for her, his big arms and their tentacle tats folded over his broad chest made his bald head look like a pimple on top of a giant mound of flesh.
“You okay, Ray?” Johnny asked.
“I don’t even fucking know anymore Johnny, I feel like the hookers in this town are safer than me, at least the cops actually take care of them.” Rachel admitted.
“I mean, were you followed?” Johnny asked.
“No. I didn’t see him outside when I left the house. He must have a real job or something, won’t be out til 5.” Rachel said.
“One day at a time, Ray. That’s all you can do. Come in, there’s a lot of Demon War vets in here this afternoon. You know they sip their beers and tip their waitresses like good boys.” Johnny said.
Rachel went inside and went straight to the locker room, and put on her uniform. When she came out onto the floor, she saw Tinman and some of the other Marine regulars were there, sitting at a table. At least he had friends, it must be nice to have friends, Rachel thought.
She pulled a Budweiser out of the cooler and popped the top. Tinman always took a beer from her at the start of her shift and gave her a few bucks.
“Here you go honey.” She said, putting the bottle down in front of Tinman. “Can I get you boys a pitcher and some glasses?”
“Rachel, are you okay? You look like shit. Johnny told us someone followed you home last night.” Tinman said.
“It’s fine Tinman, it’s Johnny’s job to worry about me. You just relax and let the girls take care of you.” Rachel said.
“I might have left my legs in that Humvee, Rachel, but if anyone ever tries to hurt you girls I’ll still kick their asses.” Tinman said.
Rachel smiled. It occurred to her that Tinman’s metal leg halfway up her stalker’s ass was an almost comforting thought.
“You just worry about Raven, sweetheart.” Rachel said.
She went back to the bar to run some drink orders. Behind her, she saw Tinman and a couple of his buddies get up and move towards the main stage. The DJ had just announced Raven, and she always put on a show.
Rachel was about to put some drinks on her tray and hit the floor again, when Tiffany and Jen snuck up behind her, hooked her by the arms, and dragged to the stage where there was an empty seat front and center.
Before she could struggle and realize what was going on, the DJ boomed over the club on the PA system.
“Our waitress Rachel had a rough night, boys. Let’s show her some love!”
The girls sat her down at the stage, and Raven slid down off the pole, rolled onto her back, spread her legs, and then kicked out and rolled over. She crawled across the stage on her hands and knees to where Rachel was sitting, and grabbed her by her horns.
Before Rachel could react, Raven’s tongue was in her mouth, and the scent of her perfume hit her nostrils like a brick made of compacted potpourri. It didn’t even occur to her struggle, fight back, or kiss back, she didn’t know what to do with the information that Raven was tongue-fucking her face.
The boys at the table laughed and cheered, and pushed their money in front of Rachel. Raven let go of her mouth, and tried to take her hand and pull her up onto the stage, but Rachel found her consciousness again, and resisted.
“Oh look boys, she’s shy!” Raven said. The boys cheered. “You know the shy ones are the kinky ones!”
The girls let her go, and Rachel struggled out of the chair, away from the stage, to go back to the bar and go back to work. When she got there, Johnny was at the bar.
“I can’t believe that bitch!” Rachel gasped.
“She was only trying to help.” Johnny said.
“She was trying to manipulate me into doing some kind of lesbian porno show with her. She’s been trying to get me in on that act the whole time I’ve worked here.” Rachel said.
“She just wanted to help you make a little extra cash so you’d feel better after last night.” Johnny said.
“Well a card or a gift basket would have been nice.” Rachel said. “I’m gonna give that bitch a piece of my mind when she gets off that stage-”
Johnny put his hand on her arm.
“Rachel, I know you didn’t like it, but she really did want to help. You know Val, she’s a free spirit, an exhibitionist. She gets into it and gets off on it.” Johnny said.
“Well I don’t.” Rachel said.
“I know that, Rachel. That’s what I’m saying, she doesn’t. She didn’t mean any harm, she doesn’t understand how that crossed a line with you because she doesn’t think like that. She doesn’t get that for some girls, this is just a job.” Johnny said.
“And how do you know that, Johnny? I don’t see you out there bussing tables or humping poles with heels on.” Rachel said.
“Look, you’re not wrong. And you’ve got a right to be pissed off about it... And you went through some shit last night. But Ray, think about it like this- This club, these girls, they’re the only friends you’ve got in this shitty town, and that’s barely enough. Do you want to make drama with your only friends?” Johnny asked.
Rachel knew he was right.
“Will you talk to her, tell her to cut that shit out?” Rachel asked.
“I think the manager or the house madam should do that.” Johnny said.
“I want you to do it, Johnny. They’ll just encourage her. They probably want to get me up on the pole with her.” Rachel said.
“I’ll do that for you, Ray.” Johnny said.
Rachel served her tables, and came back to the bar for the next run. This time, Valorie was waiting for her with a wad of bills in her hand.
“Here’s your cut, babe.” Valorie said, and pushed a stack of cash at her.
“You know I’m mad at you, right?” Rachel asked, but she still took the money.
“I was just having fun and trying to help.” Valorie said.
“Look, I was going to go full bitch on you, but Johnny talked me down. Just let me know if you’re gonna do something like that, okay?” Rachel asked.
“I promise.” Valorie said.
Jenny came up to the bar. “This place fucking sucks tonight.”
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.
“There’s only one group of dudes worth working this shift and Valorie just pumped them dry with her little girl-girl show, Tinman and his Marine boys. You know those vets on disability only bring so much cash and then they tap out.” Jenny explained.
“I’ll share them with you, there’s gotta be a dollar left to squeeze. They still tip Rachel for drinks.” Valorie said. “What about the rest of the club?”
“All the other tables are a bunch of wide-eyed lover boy pussies that only want a dance from their favorite girl, and that tiefling guy at table 4 is a real piece of shit.” Jenny said.
“You mean fuck him because a broke-ass tiefling with no cash, or fuck him because he’s actually just an asshole?” Valorie asked.
“Go find out for yourself. Maybe I’m not his type, but I’m pretty sure he’s just some angry dude that’s mad because girls won’t talk to him if he doesn’t have money.” Jenny said.
“Did he think that he wouldn’t get more of that here?” Rachel asked.
Jenny rolled her eyes.
“Maybe he just needs a drink. I’ll go sort him out.” Rachel said, and took her pad and her tray over to table 4.
She knelt down next to the seat to get eye level with him. He was a red tiefling with ram-like horns, a typical example of the species. He was wearing ratty Carharts and looked like a construction worker.
“Hey babe, you want a drink? You got a certain kind of girl that you like?” Rachel asked.
“I want the biggest whore in this dump.” He said.
“Honey, you’re confused. The girls here don’t do that. You can pick up a hooker on 8th street.” Rachel said.
“They’re not as pretty as the whores in here.” The angry tiefling said.
“If you don’t change your attitude and stop trash talking my girls, you’re gonna have to leave.” Rachel said.
A giant, fleshy shadow was moving up behind the tiefling in the chair. Rachel pretended not to notice the Herculean bulk of Johnny coming up behind him. There was a certain stealth that bouncers had, they weren’t normally quiet people, bulls in china shops, but when there was the smell of dynamite and violence in the air, a shaved gorilla was suddenly very quiet in the moment before it struck.
“You tiefling sluts are all the same. Selling yourselves to human men. You won’t give tiefling guys a break because you know we don’t have money.” The angry tiefling rattled off.
“Honey, I’m only going to tell you one more time. You can behave and let the girls be nice to you, or you can go jack off in the street. You really think any of these broke-ass disability vets paying us quarters out of their government checks have that much more money than you? Nobody in this town is rich.” Rachel said.
“What’s your price?” He asked.
“She’s not for sale.” Johnny’s voice boomed behind him, and the tiefling sat bolt upright in his chair like an electrical shock just went through it.
Johnny’s meaty palms clapped down on the tiefling’s shoulders.
“You’re not ordering drinks, you’re not putting dollars on the stage, and you’re bothering my girls. It’s time for you to go.” He said.
“I’ll have a beer!” The tiefling squeaked.
“I wasn’t giving you a list of options.” Johnny said, hauled the tiefling up to his feet by his collar, and dragged him to the door.
When he came back inside, Rachel was at the bar, reloading again. He came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder.
“I could have handled him, Johnny. We might have at least got a beer out of him.” She said.
“You’ve handled too much for one day, Ray... Don’t turn around.” He said.
“What?” Rachel fought the urge to look over her shoulder.
“Look slow, out of the corner of your eye. Look who just came in and sat down at table 2. That’s him, isn’t it?” Johnny instructed.
Rachel glanced at table 2. Her stalker with the receding hairline was just then sitting down in the chair, popping open a drink menu.
“It’s him.” Rachel said, her blood turned to ice in her veins.

I’m a detectorist. Go ahead and laugh, I’ve heard it all before. The kooky old man minesweeping the sand for pop tops and bottle caps. It’s a perfectly harmless hobby. I’m retired these days, the kids are inland with families of their own, and my wife passed away a couple of years ago. I need a reason to venture forth the castle, and this fits the bill. Jonesy comes with me most of the time, which doesn’t bother me a bit, even on the days when I have to carry him back. He’s good company.
 
I worked in a steel mill before we retired down the shore. It was a good job, a union job, though it seems they've gone the way of the dodo. Shame that so many have been convinced to act against their own best interest by bloodsucking corporate fiends who would sell their own grannies for a nickel. Parasites.
 
Most mornings off-season, Jonesy and I make our way down to the diner before we hit the beach. I’ve become friends with Phillip, who runs the counter and manages the waitstaff. He’s a delightful conversationalist but scandalously younger, so even if I weren’t mourning . . . Well, let’s leave it at that.
 
During the summer months, I go straight from the home front to the waterfront. The diner fills with obnoxious tourists who think the copper they drop in our coffers entitles them to behave like boorish fools, ordering waffles and mimosas, sausage and bellinis. They stay for hours, not content to leave until they are fully bloated and finished bloviating. Poor tippers per Phillip, so it’s best for me to avoid them. My filter has fallen away in my golden years, and people do not like to hear the unvarnished truth. I will not suffer those who think themselves superior due to a checking account with two commas.
 
Diner or no, once we get to the water’s edge, I’ll take Jonesy off leash and let him wander around. He’s not the type to sprint after a crab or a squirrel, so it’s easier to swing my arcs when he’s not attached at the hip. That’s the trick to efficient detecting, you’ve got to overlay the arcs without being in a rush. No sense in firing up the motor if you’ll only hit half the asphalt, or even a quarter if you’re all but jogging up the strandline. That’s what an amateur would do. I am no amateur - I plan my sessions and log the results with the help of a GPS tracker.
 
I’ve been doing this long enough that I am confident my little slice of shore is shorn clean of any trinkets of real value, but I keep at it. Plucking those pop tops and bottle caps means someone’s kid isn’t going to put it in their mouth when they should be building a sand castle. The parents may be selfish, money-grubbing vulgarians, but that doesn’t mean little Joey or little Suzy should spend the Fourth of July in our urgent care waiting room. Not on my watch - you can take that to the bank.
 
Back at my humble abode, I’ve got the tidal charts printed along with the lunar movements. I know when to expect the king and neap, and I plan my detecting accordingly. When the tide is high, I may only go out for an hour, content to sweep familiar ground for the aforementioned detritus. But when the tide is out - far out, I’ll push myself further in search of virgin territory. At those unexplored areas, I sweep slowly, my arcs methodical and redundant. I’m not in a rush to do the whole beach, and I want to make sure I don’t miss anything. I need to find something, some sign of her.
 
Officially, Patricia is a missing person, but I know she is deceased, that she chose to end her life. Her ghost haunts me, burdening me with unbearably tragic purpose. My children have stopped taking my calls, Patty’s father too. They stubbornly insist she is only missing, as if it is normal for people to suddenly vanish for years. They’ve managed to trick themselves and each other into expecting her back any day now. They think I’m the crazy one, but they haven’t experienced what I have. At first, they marked my claims as the raving of a guilt-laden husband, but they’ve long since turned away from me completely. I’m dismissed as delusional when I tell them I can hear her calling to me from the ocean at night, that I can hear her whisper in the feedback on my detector’s headphones. She wants me to find her. It terrifies me to think of her out there, alone, begging to be found and laid to rest.
 
I found her here once, over thirty years ago. We met at a gas station. I was the pump jockey in my stained coveralls. She was the daughter of a financial tycoon (no less than the founder and chairman of Brein Securities, should you care to know), and she was devastatingly stylish in her effortless couture. She limped in with a flat tire and rolled out with four wheels up, a full tank, and a fresh tree hanging from her rearview. When she inquired about the charges, I told her I wouldn’t settle for anything less than her phone number. I was pleasantly surprised to see her jot down the digits on my brown lunch bag (the beach house number, that is). When I rang through that evening, Mr. Brein screened the call and hung up on me. Undeterred, I tried again and again until Patty herself answered, flustered both ways. She told me later she was inclined to agree with her father that she could do much better for a summer fling, but she begrudgingly agreed to our first date to stop me from calling and to irritate her old man.
 
For the life of me, I couldn’t tell you anything about the movie we saw. It was at a drive-in theater, and we made the most of what little wiggle room we found in the cabin of her coupe. The ceremony made it official six months later, and it wasn’t exactly a shotgun wedding - if anything, I was the one packing heat. We were happy for a time, her with a burly blue collar husband, me with a certified dime heiress. Stephanie’s birth followed soon after, with Jennifer’s not too far behind. As our clan grew, so did my battles with the in-laws.
 
Mr. Brein became Steven (despite his objections), and Mrs. Brein became Eleanor (when she wasn’t spaced out on quaaludes and cocktails). To say I was the black sheep of my new family would be an understatement. I knew nothing of the inner workings of the country club class, and ol’ Stevie got mad enough to spit nails when he caught me, shall we say, fraternizing with the staff. Sorry, pappy, you should have put your foot down before your daughter started playing footsie. Frankly, I’m surprised he waited as long as he did after Patty’s passing to write me off.
 
It wasn’t always this raw between us. At one point early on, he offered to get me into his alma mater, with the goal of finding me a corner office at his firm. The first hurdle we hit was my lack of a high school diploma, and Steve’s patience boiled over when I had a falling out with the GED tutor. After I cemented myself in the working class by getting a job at the steel mill and joining the union, he gave up on his goal to make me a reborn Eliza Doolittle. He didn’t have more than two words for me until the first time Patty tried to end her life.
 
The girls were too young to clearly remember this, but Patty and I had an argument several years back, and she dramatically announced her imminent demise before jumping from the balcony of her parents’ villa in Barcelona. She landed in the fountain, gaining naught but a shattered ankle for the trouble. Steve ordered me to delay her surgery until he could have an orthopedic specialist fly in with a blank check and a set of titanium screws. After that, it was time to whitewash the suicide attempt. I was told in no uncertain terms that Patty’s accident was very unfortunate, and that my role was to push that story to anyone who asked, lest I never catch so much as a whiff of the flotsam and jetsam from Steve’s billfold again. I played my part, and now they all believe the lie that prevents them from seeing the truth about Patty’s passing. For that sin, I fear I shall never atone.
 
On nights when I sleep with the windows open, her spirit calls out from the ocean. The first time I heard her, I thought I was imagining it. I jolted out of bed, my heart pounding as I peered around the dim room for a burglar or a drunk who got lost after last call. I heard her voice again, more clearly this time, and I realized she was calling to me from the water. Fear seized me, stopping me from closing the window or running away. I stood frozen in place, listening to my dead wife beg me to find her, telling me she’s alone at sea. I lost consciousness right around the false dawn, only punching back in when Jonesy whimpered and licked at my ears shortly after he was expecting his Alpo.
 
In the morning, with the sun shining and the birds chirping, I managed to convince myself it was all a hallucination, that I was worn out and just needed to clear my head. By the time I got to the beach and commenced sweeping, I could hear her voice again in my headphones. It was faint, but it was audible. She wanted me to find her body, to land her and bury her properly. I have become convinced the only way to do it is through my detector, that a physical remnant of her will ping as I near her remains. Those screws in her ankle, maybe that bridge in her jaw. I can’t recall if she met her reward wearing earrings. It does not matter, I will find her and pull her ashore. I must. A small part of me wonders if she wishes for me to find closure through the act, that this effort to make amends will allow me to file her death certificate with the courts and force ol’ Stevie to remove her estate from escrow.
 
Patricia Varalica chose to end her own life. I witnessed her make the decision a second time. My ears throbbed as she read aloud the correspondence I kept hidden in my armoire, my eyes ached as she showed me her own epistles - advice she received from a divorce attorney. My tongue bled as I bit into it while I held her in her final moments, her body twitching as those final breaths escaped, no more than harmless bubbles that floated to the surface. My arms burned as I carried her out beyond the shallows and set her adrift, confident her corpse would be discovered shortly thereafter and declared an accidental drowning.
 
My luck only held for so long. As the song goes, her body never was found. And now she haunts me, taunts me, refuses to set me free. I live in fear of never finding her, of spending the rest of my days probing this sandy expanse in a fruitless folly. In the small hours, with a belly full of cheap scotch and a heavy heart, I fear that she calls me not to find her but to join her.

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According to my research, the most common cause of death for spies is due to direct kinetic action.
Having studied modern spycraft, I have come to the conclusion that to engage in direct kinetic action is taking the risk that your opponent is more highly skilled, through cybernetics, natural evolutionary gifts, bioware, or just plain willingness to drive through injury and pain.
This should be the reason that all options should be examined while engaged in espionage activities.
--Ba'ahn Ya'ahrd, Lanaktallan Unified Executor Council, Espionage Division, Senior Most High Agent
The office was comfortably lit by outside light. The smartglass windows were opaque to anyone on the outside, reflecting any known wavelengths back into the office, preventing the interior from being shown, while letting in warm sunlight from outside. The windows vibrated slightly at a high frequency to prevent laser microphones from listening in as an extra little bonus. The windows even enhanced incoming light so that the light of the two moons at night made the office nice and cozy.
The office was comfortably appointed. The massive desk that doubled as secure workstation, several flat 2.5D screens on the walls, artwork, three holotank projectors, and nearly a dozen comfortable chairs on the side. The carpet was thick and rich, comfortable to walk on in shoes or bare foot pads. The lights were cunningly hidden in case the occupant didn't want to use the ambient nanite light.
It was late, past working time for most people. A glance out the windows showed that the majority of the taller buildings, rarely over 15 stories, were dark or just running maintenance and standby lighting. The streets were largely empty, the vehicles from the rush home after work already safely parked in garages and recharging.
The office only held four people.
Two non-descript security agents stood against the wall on either side of the door, dressed in government standard suits, their hands folded and at their waists, mirrorshades hiding their eyes, and a visible earpiece as well as their datalink.
Another Telkan sat in a chair in front of the desk. He was the type of person that was easily overlooked, forgotten about even before someone looked away.
He was also the Assistant Director of the Telkan Intelligence Agency.
The final person present was usually known as the Planetary Director of Telkan-2, a female Telkan who's vision and leadership got the people of Telkan-2 through the terrible Dwellerspawn War over five years prior. Despite her wishes she had been re-elected to serve again and the people were confident that she'd carry through with the electorate's wishes as well as do what was needed for the Telkan people to thrive.
Brentili'ik stared at the report on her desk, the screen beneath the smooth smartglass surface dark under the paper. Not plas, not smart-paper, plain old paper. She read it again, then a fifth time, before looking up.
"You're sure?" she asked.
"As near as we can be," the male Telkan stated.
"Could it be a glitch in the voting system? Some kind of tabulation error?" she asked.
The male Telkan shook his head. "No."
She tapped her front teeth with one claw for a moment before looking down at the paper again.
Two months ago, when her husband had been working with Lady Keena to overcome difficulties from his last deployment, Brentili'ik had sent up a law to be ratified to the Confederate Senate. It was a minor piece of legislation, nothing ground breaking or earth shattering, just a confirmation that the Telkan System would abide by Confederate Interstellar Trade Statutes.
The vote to confirm the legislation by the Senate had only taken roughly an hour.
Now she had the vote tallies in her hand, so to speak.
She had instructed, via diplomatic courier, that the Telkan delegates vote "Present" only "in order to remove any question of conflict of interest" and then waited.
The three delegates had done just that. No confirmation with her office, no request for clarification, just voted "Present" and that was all.
It was then double-checked via datalink real time voting with the Telkan population, to ensure that the Telkan people agreed with the legislation.
That was what Brentili'ik was looking at.
Vote totals, as well as who voted how, was highly secretive. Something in the Terran's history had made it so that the fact that nobody, not even elected officials, could look up how any being had voted. As far as Brentili'ik was concerned, whatever it was had been so traumatizing that the voting results were more heavily guarded than even military databases. The voting rolls were supposed to be classified, but the Telkan Intelligence Agency was allowed access to see who was eligible to vote as well as who had voted.
Just not how the being had voted.
She looked at the paper again.
100% of the Telkan people had voted.
Except, that wasn't quite true.
100.92% of the Telkan people had voted.
"They're still on the voting rolls," the Telkan male said. "My office had the Legislation Administration do a 'proof of life' check, via datalink, for nearly a thousand Telkan who have died of old age in the last six years."
"And?" Brentili'ik asked.
"Any of them who have died in the last four years replied with proof of life good enough that it takes major suspicion and a court order to demand they show up in person to validate their status," the Telkan said.
"So... the dead are voting," Brentili'ik said. "Not just the Terran dead, but all the dead."
"Yes, Madame Director," the agent said.
Brentili'ik sighed and sat down, tapping between her shoulderblades with her tail, a nervous habit she'd developed in the shelters during the Second Telkan War.
"And proof of life was determined sufficient?" Brentili'ik asked.
"Yes, Madame Director. Knowledge of current events, imaging taken in real places that corresponded with records, proof of System Identification Number, date of birth, and last place of employment," He gave a sudden slow smile. "However, we did find out one thing."
"What's that?" Brentili'ik asked.
"They are all employed by Tempus Archive and Record Systems, a Rigellian registered company that hooks into multiple other companies," he said. He smiled. "All of the deceased are employed by the same company, once you get through the shell companies and the proxies."
"Are they being paid?" Brentili'ik asked.
The male nodded. "Yes, Madame Director. Bank accounts, the whole thing. Bank accounts that were opened in their names after their estate handled all their debts and assets," he said.
"So, somehow, the dead are still voting and are employed, aware, and capable of action," she said. She tapped the paper. "How long until the dead outnumber the living?"
"Barring a major disaster, my office estimates, using doubling time mathematics and current birth/death ratios, that the dead will outnumber the living between one hundred and one hundred and fifty years. However, the voting dead will outnumber the voting living within seventy years," he said. He shook his head. "That means..."
Brentili'ik never found out what it meant as a section of the wall exploded inward, throwing her backwards. A chunk of armor from in between the layers of the wall hit the Senior Agent like a meat axe, ripping him in half and spraying blood and viscera across the room.
She hit on her back, her vision blurred, her ears ringing.
Shapes came through the sudden smoking hole in the wall, short squat shapes in armor and carrying weapons.
The two security agents were shaking their heads, one down on one knee, the other thrown against the chairs and trying to get his eyes to focus.
The weapons in the attacker's hands hissed and Brentili'ik realized she could hear the mechanisms click as they subsonic magac rounds ripped into her guards before they could get it together.
Brentili'ik opened her mouth to scream, to call for more security, or maybe just to breath better.
She was aware the back of the chair was on her tail.
One of the figures stepped forward. The visor was blanked and all Brentili'ik could tell was that the figure was bipedal and only a few inches taller than a male Telkan. It looked at her, nodded slightly, and lowered the barrel of the weapon down to point it at Brentili'ik's face as two others moved up next to the first one and two other ones came around the other end of the desk.
Looking into the muzzle she could see the mag coils, see the faint threads of electromagnetic energy along the rails, see the faint heat distortion of the barrel. She could see the light above the trigger was green, that the weapon had no stamps or markings, not even the legally required serial number stamp of a weapon run off by a nanoforge.
She knew she was about to die.
Brentili'ik raised her chin slightly, lifting her upper lip, and stared at the opaque black visor.
She wouldn't close her eyes. Wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
The wall paper seemed to come alive, pulling away from the wall and into a kaleidoscope pattern as it moved forward. Brentili'ik could see it, over the armored figure's shoulders, as it pulled itself free of the wall, burning red eyes suddenly visible. An arm went up and a knife suddenly extended from the blurred and fractured glass looking limb.
Before anyone could react, the figure was on the armored troops. A blurred hand grabbed the forearm holding onto the front of the SMG from behind, pulling it upwards. The blade sunk into the neck seal of the armor and pulled free so fast that the mag-coils hadn't finished energizing.
Brentili'ik stared, frozen, as the figure turned, stuck the knife through the side of the helmet and yanked it free, then repeated it on the second one.
The squirt of arterial blood from the first stab wound was less than a foot long.
The knife stabbed into the side of the head of the third one twice, both times with crunching sounds that overlapped.
The SMG was only two inches over Brentili'ik's head when it went off with a whispering sound.
The forearm, covered by black armor, broke in the middle, under the blurred and prism-like hand, and went to the side.
Brentili'ik was still inhaling, blood was still squirting from neck wound, when the one being held was whipped around so hard that she heard bones break inside the armor.
The knife flew from the hand, whipping through the air with an ear-splitting whistle, to punch through the center of one of the armored figures that had moved around the other side of the desk, neither of which had begun to react.
Brentili'ik's nameplate was snatched off the desk in a blur that resulted in it whipping through the air before the knife had impacted. The crunch of the nameplate punching through the visor was loud and the figure flipped in mid-air even as the other one slammed against the wall.
The two stabbed through the helmet sagged and began to collapse.
The prism-effect vanished and Brentili'ik saw one of the short women with pale skin, black hair, and grey eyes staring at her as they crouched down and drew a pistol in a smooth motion.
The three that had stepped up to look down at Brentili'ik finished collapsing.
"Confederate Intelligence Services," the Terran woman said, her voice calm and unruffled as if she had not just killed five beings in less than three seconds.
Brentili'ik just nodded.
There was a dull thumping sound from inside the five suits of armor then the armor suddenly dissolved into black powder.
"Inversion charges. Disintegrates the body. Nanite armor, it's how they got close," the agent said. "Stay down."
Brentili'ik just nodded.
The agent put her index and middle finger against her own temple, still looking around the room. "Attacks across your office building. Attack at your manor."
"My podlings, broodcarriers," Brentili'ik gasped. "My family."
"My sisters made the attackers before they could engage. Telkan Intelligence got your family to the panic room in time," the agent said. She looked around. "Still attackers here. They know that you weren't eliminated."
Brentili'ik blinked. "How long have you been here?"
The agent blinked slowly and for a second Brentili'ik could see data streaming across the woman's retina. "Since you returned to take charge of the refugee camp after the first Telkan War."
Brentili'ik stared. She felt useless, but it was like she was frozen. She could faintly hear weapon fire in the distance.
"Telkan security can't hold them. They're bringing in heavier weapon, Madame Director," the agent said. She shook her head. "Panic room here is compromised."
"What... what do we do?" Brentili'ik asked, licking her lips with a dry tongue.
"We do nothing. You will hide under the desk and I will protect you," the Terran woman said. She handed Brentili'ik a small device. "Get under the desk, turn that on. Do not turn it off, it can only be disabled by myself or one of my sisters."
"Give me a gun," she said.
The woman shook her head. "No. That would pose an unnecessary risk. Perform your duty and follow my commands, Madame Director."
Brentili'ik nodded, taking the device and scrambling under the desk. She activated it and the space she was in suddenly had glowing hexagons lining it, the room blurring and sound receding.
She stayed there, curled up, for long minutes. She kept tapping herself between her shoulder blades as well as licking her nose like she was a podling.
She wished her husband was there.
Not to fight, but to hold her, so she could hold onto him.
I hate this. I hate being helpless, she thought. She started to protest having to hide under the desk while a Terran did the job of protecting her.
Then she remembered that a single Terran female, without power armor, had killed five armored mercenaries in less than five seconds with nothing more than a knife and her nameplate.
She opened her mouth to ask if it was safe yet when there was a faint rumble through the floor beneath the hexagonal energy field beneath her knees.
The desk was shattered, whipped away, and the hexagonal pattern went from blue to yellow for a moment while the device hummed in her hand.
She closed her eyes, waiting.
After too long the device beeped three times and she opened her eyes. For a second nothing happened and then the hexagons vanished. There was a slight glimmering aura around her as the device shifted what it was doing.
She was instantly soaked by what she thought was rain at first. The sprinkler system was going in what was left of the room. She realized that the sprinkler system, made from battlesteel in accordance to construction laws, was all that remained of the ceiling. She could see straight up to the fourth floor. The wall behind her and to her left was gone, revealing the lawn of the Planetary Director's Hall.
The Terran female stood there, in her black suit, her hands folded in front of her at her waist.
"The threat has been neutralized, Madame Director," the Terran woman stated, her voice calm and even.
Brentili'ik turned and stared. The grass was on fire here and there, some of the bushes were smouldering. A pair of grav-lifters were crashed on the lawn and burning. There were burning LawSec vehicles beyond the fence.
"All of this?" Brentili'ik asked.
"They were most insistent that you not be allowed to survive the attack, Madame Director," the agent said.
"My security," Brentili'ik started.
"Were all eliminated in the first one hundred eighty seconds of the attack," the agent said. "It was coordinated, prepared, and rehearsed. Multiple teams, each with overlapping objectives, with air and fire support."
"The military?" Brentili'ik asked.
"Are arriving as we speak to secure the area," the agent said.
Brentili'ik looked around again at the carnage. "Then who?" she looked at the agent. "Just you?"
The woman nodded slowly. "Yes, Madame Director. They were ignorant of my presence and thus unprepared for my counter-assassination efforts."
Brentili'ik moved over and sat on a chunk of debris that she recognized as being part of the roof grav-lifter pad. "Who? Do you know who did this?"
The agent had moved with her, standing three paces away. She was silent for a long moment before nodding. "Yes. Not based on evidence from this attack, but other intelligence gathered over a period of time."
"Who?" She asked. "Is it something to do with..."
"Do not finish that sentence, Madame Director," the agent warned. "If they think you represent a threat to them they will escalate their efforts to eliminate any threat you may pose."
Brentili'ik looked around at the burning debris. She could see military grav-lifters dropping down, troops in power armor jumping out, search lights panning the grounds.
"Escalate?" she asked as power armor troops jogged forward.
The agent raised her hands, her hands open, her feet shoulder width apart, a black billfold held in her right hand and open, showing a badge.
"They consider a planet cracker reasonable escalation in the face of a threat of full discovery, Madame Director," the agent said.
"TELKAN MARINES! ON YOUR KNEES!" the lead power armor troop shouted as two others moved to either side of Brentili'ik, bringing up their protective screens.
The agent got down on her knees, still holding up the billfold.
Brentili'ik just stared as she held up her hand. "She's Confederate Intelligence," she said.
The agent just smiled.
--------------
Brentili'ik sat in the bedroom, staring at the wall. It wasn't her manor, not the Planetary Director's manor.
It was on-post housing on the Telkan Marine base.
Outside, security troops made a steady sweep. She knew at least two satellites were watching her. She could hear grav-strikers, hear the whining of power armor, hear the thudding footsteps of robot combat power armor. Knew there were six Telkan Marines outside her house and Telkan Intelligence Agency agents inside her house.
The broodcarriers were asleep behind her, the podlings, even the older ones that normally would be too old, were asleep in the pile of blankets.
They had been urged into the panic room by security. They had been nervous, the broodcarriers distressed, during the two hours they were in the panic room.
Once the area was secured, they were moved to the house that Brentili'ik now resided in.
It had taken her a long time to soothe her two broodcarriers.
It hadn't soothed her.
"I know you're in here," she said.
The wall didn't answer.
"Thank you, and thank your sisters for me, for what you did today," Brentili'ik said. She stared at the wall. "I can't stop my investigation. It's bigger than me. If I stop, Telkan not yet born will pay the price."
Silence.
"But I'll be more careful now," she said.
She laid down and pulled the covers over herself, snuggling up to her broodcarrier.
"An attack upon one is an attack upon us all," Brentili'ik quoted.
The wall didn't answer.
It just watched.
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The room was spinning and he hadn’t even opened his eyes yet. An unknown substance glued his cheek to the desk, making an obnoxious tearing sound as Damien sat up to wipe the drool from his chin. He’d deal with that in a moment.
He reached for something across the desk but found only air. The headache had already set in, the vertigo was next.
“Wake up,” he grumbled. The overhead lamp flickered on, the touch-surface panels of the desk came alive with warmth and color. One screen showed a blinking cursor in a blank terminal while another displayed the spec for a new encryption protocol. He wiped his face and hissed as he realized what was sticking to his face.
An aluminum can, wrapped in nondescript black vinyl, sat on its side, leaving a pool of semi-congealed blue liquid across the desk—the lights on the monitors reflecting off the iridescently shimmering sludge.
“Fuck.”
6,000 qwen wasted. It must’ve gotten into his eyes because his whole face was starting to burn. He doused his face with the small water jug he kept beneath the desk. It didn’t help much.
He blinked viciously until the pain started to subside, leaving only the sharp, steady throbbing in his skull. He started to stand up but immediately found the room turning sideways. The vertigo was one of the worst parts. To distract himself, he stared at the screen.
He had two new messages. One from Ceci:
> CyberVyber68: “thx BIG D - shit l00ks i1l - Qs Ncoming.”
He rapped his knuckles against a third screen which blinked to life. A few taps later and a transaction list popped up, showing a new deposit from Onyx Industries from earlier that morning. Just in time, he thought, looking at the empty black can.
He slid it closed and checked the other message.
> TrojanReaper66: “They don’t want you to know the truth, Damien. Find out why she REALLY died. Stop them. LSF-09-063-714. Hurry before it’s gone.”
He deleted it. Another troll. He’d gotten used to them over the years. A lot of lunatics out there who enjoyed tormenting him. Liberty had been a shining light in a city succumbing to darkness. When she was killed, a lot of people lost hope and wanted someone to take out their frustration on. Since it was Damien who’d gotten in a fight and dropped his billfold—the ID inside with his address on it—and it was Damien the goons were after when they broke into their apartment, it only felt right that Damien be the target of the city’s angst.
He crushed the empty can and tossed it in the overflowing trash can by his feet. He needed to piss but didn’t trust his legs yet and instead tapped out a quick message to Zarkon requesting another six-pack. As he hit send, the room stayed just still enough that he dared to navigate the sea of old server parts to the porcelain promised land.
He washed his hands and someone knocked at the door. Damien froze, looking down the hallway. Too quick to be Zarkon and he didn’t have other visitors. Tiptoeing to his desk, he grabbed the pistol he kept underneath and crept to the door.
He waved his hand over a pad by the door and a live feed appeared over his right eye. A grey hoodie and a black hoodie, standing outside his front door. The person in grey knocked once again, this time much harder.
“Kill the lights,” he whispered to no one in particular. The hallway sconces and strips which illuminated the walkway faded out.
Tapping his temple, the image switched to his left eye. His thumb pressed the small indentation near the trigger guard. A faint click followed as the biometric firing lock disengaged. Damien rested his shoulder against the door hinge and took a deep breath, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants
“Go away,” he shouted. The doors and walls had been reinforced and mostly insulated. He needed to shout.
The one in grey turned to the other. He could make out her face for a moment. Female, brunette, in her teens. Probably a pair of urchins looking for a score.
The kid in black pressed his head against the door and shouted. “It’s Jackson. Open up.”
Damien stared at the floorboards as he processed. “Look up and to the right. Take off your hoods.”
Both figures stared into the camera. The girl is unfamiliar but the other wasn’t. It was him. Definitely.
“Lights.” The overhead panels illuminated. Damien re-engaged the safety, tucking the gun behind his back.
He stared up the hall as soon he opened the door.
“You gonna let us in?” Jackson glared at Damien, the same curled eyebrows his mother used to make.
The girl looked nervous, checking over her shoulder. Jackson wrapped an arm around her.
“She pregnant?”
“What? No! We just need a place to hang for a bit.”
Damien let them in, locking the door behind them. It shocked him how deep Jack’s voice had gotten. He looked like an elongated version of the kid Damien remembered, a bit of acne and the faintest hint of a mustache over his lip. The girl looked malnourished, hair tied in a greasy knot. Her clothes looked like they had been nice once. Hand-me-downs and donations. Dirt caked under her fingernails.
“Is she an urchin?”
“Her name’s Emma.” Jackson’s voice cracked a little as he spoke. Puberty in full effect.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
The teens hovered near him, eyes skating around his apartment. Damien stepped over towards the window and Jackson stood still.
“So who’s after you?”
The girl’s voice was soft, delicate. But there was also a bit of edge to it. “We never said someone was after us?”
They stared each other down for a moment. She looked tired, not just physically but emotionally fatigued as well. Damien could relate.
“You gotta tell me something, Jacks.” Damien crossed his arms. “Otherwise, I got no choice. Gotta call your grandpa.”
“Is that a real gun?” Emma asked, she and Jackson saying something through their eyes to each other. Her shoulders loosened as she took a deep breath. “My friends are looking for us.”
“This a real strange place to play hide-and-seek.” Damien sat down on the couch, setting the gun on his lap. “These friends want to hurt you?”
The girl picked at her fingernails. “Yeah…”
Damien turned to Jackson. “And you came here instead of the Stripes because…?”
Jackson pursed his lips, his arms dangling loosely by his side. The two teens stood stony-faced and silent.
“Okay,” said Damien. He touched his temple and pulled up a comm interface on his eye implants.
“What are you doing?” Jackson asked.
Damien returned the silent treatment.
Jackson grabbed Emma’s hand and started towards the door. “C’mon, let’s go.”
“Shut ‘er down.” The apartment went into lockdown—magnetic door locks and window seals engaged, effectively turning the apartment into a prison cell.
Jackson struggled against the knob frantically before giving up. Damien grinned.
​
“I’m surprised you called.” The medals and ribbons worn by Damien’s father somehow complemented the stern facial expression he seemed to default to. “He’ll never forgive you, you know.”
In true Onyx tradition, the two refused to meet eyes, keeping shoulder to shoulder in the cramped hallway. Damien’s apartment was even more cramped as the detectives questioned Jackson and the girl.
“We don’t have to be friends, as long as he’s safe.”
The elder Onyx nodded in agreement as the door opened. A detective emerged with an orange holopad in front of him, flicking through the pages of a long report.
“What can you tell me, Oz?” asked Damien’s father.
“Emily Phillipa Greenberg. 15 years old. Parents used to live in the Sanctuary, died in a fire when she was six. Moved in with an aunt, aunt got killed in a mugging. Vanished from foster care a few years back. By the look of her, she’s been living on the streets ever since.”
Damien was getting antsy. He didn’t like having Stripes poking around his stuff. “They tell you who’s after them?”
The detective stared through Damien like a sheet of glass. The tan skin and square jaw looked familiar. This guy might’ve worked his wife’s case.
The detective continued: “So, the reason they didn’t want Stripes involved. We ran her prints. Some small-time break-ins over the past two years. Thinking she might be a Sewer Rat.”
Damien scoffed. “That’s really a thing?”
“Unfortunately,” said Superintendent Onyx.
Eyes glued to the pad, the detective added: “A bunch of dangerous little shits hitting licks all over Sanctuary. They target the wealthy, not afraid to get violent. A year ago they hit an old widow’s mansion while she slept. Grandson came home early, spooked ‘em. Took thirty-seven stab wounds to the chest, bled out on the way to the hospital.”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t know much more than that. We hear the leader calls himself Piper and has got a fanbase in the Mods. Apparently, they like to split the big scores with the other urchins, keeps the other kids from ratting, no pun intended. The few that do agree to talk either change their minds or turn up missing. It’s a fucking mess.”
“And you’re saying these kids are after Jackson?” Damien caught himself biting his thumbnail.
“She’s not saying much but that’s what it’s looking like.” Oz turned to Damien’s father. “Superintendent, with your permission, I’d like to take them both into protective custody until we can further assess the threat.”
“We’ll move them to my estate and have a protection detail meet us there.” Damien’s father affixed his hat to his head. “And, Winters, I want the best men on this.”
“Of course, sir.”
Damien’s father turned to leave, pausing for a moment, noticing Damien. “We’ll be out of your hair soon, son.”
“Thanks.”
The Superintendent straightened his jacket. “And call your mother. She’d like to hear from you.”
​
The crunch of lettuce reverberated through his skull. The onions, tomatoes, and burger were all secondary. Damien savored the rich, spongy texture surrounding it all. A slender man stared with a half-smile behind the counter.
“You picked the right time. I only had enough for one more. Lord knows when we’ll be getting more in.”
Damien used his sleeve to wipe the grease from his chin. “Damn shame.”
Alfonse stood there, arms folded, looking around the empty dining room. “Ya know, they say before the war, wheat was everywhere, man. Acres and acres, all across the continent. Even the poorest families kept loaves of bread in their home. Hard to imagine, right?”
Damien cleaned his teeth with the tip of his tongue. “All those funding dollars going to the Hub and no one’s working on that. I mean how many different types of space torpedoes, do we need?”
Alfonse took away the empty plate. “You would know better than me, Onyx.” The name came across like an accusation.
Damien stood up, downing his glass of water before pulling out his wallet. “You got something to say then say it?”
Alfonse shook his head. “Nothing, man. Just been a long morning.”
“You and me both.” Damien lifted his sleeve. The man ran a portable scanner over his forearm which let out a ding as several hundred qwen were removed from his bank account.
“Word of advice: people come for the food, not a history lesson.”
Alfonse laughed as his eyes sharpened. “Have a good afternoon,” he gently hissed.
About ten feet out the door, Damien heard a small chime. A small, perfectly symmetrical mole, began to glow green around the edges on the side of his forehead. A mechanical controller for the implanted gadgets weaving through multiple parts of his skull. A series of green arcs showed on his optical sensors meaning he was now in range of his home network, systems were synchronizing.
A new message had come in while he was out. Crossing the street, he tapped the controller again to open it. TrojanReaper66, yet again. Since he had time, he decided to backtrace the origin to a proxy network it was funneled through. He had used it in the past when dealing wares for grey-hats looking to stay anonymous. But right now, he couldn’t be bothered to delve any deeper. He stared at the message and paused.
> TrojanReaper66: They are LYING. Find the truth about Elle’s death.
Seeing the name Elle spelled out there stung. Not many knew he called her that. This was probably an old coworker looking to torture him or playing some kind of mind game. But who would still hold a grudge after all these years? A name popped into his head without really having to think.
The building he currently lived in wasn’t a slum but it was about as slum-like as you could find in Sanctuary. Unlike the home he shared with Liberty, there was no doorman or desk clerk to greet you when you entered. Just a rusty metal door, occasionally propped open by lazy tenants not interested in carrying keys on them. Damien liked it though because he could easily afford an entire floor and the landlord didn’t mind his security upgrades.
As he stepped off the elevator, a person covered in black stood at his door. At first, he thought one of the detectives had sent an officer to collect something. But he soon realized the clothing was more patch-work and discolored. A thin metal pole extended behind his back.
Damien drew the pistol and stepped forward. The elevator sat next to the stairway so he was the only way out.
“Too late,” he shouted, pointing the gun down the hall. “They’re already gone.”
The person spun the pole around in a panic, pointing the end towards him. A black and red gas mask covered the guy’s face, a tattered maroon hood stretching over it. Damien aimed between the crimson lenses.
“Who are you?” A bicep began to spasm as he loosened his death-grip on the pistol’s handle.
The person remained silent, staring at him from behind the mask.
“Set it down on the ground,” he said, looking at the stick.
No response. Damien could feel his heart pounding louder. He was now about ten feet away.
“I said—”
Before he could finish, the hard-rolled metal slammed into his knuckles, the pistol’s grip slipping from his damp palm and skittering across the floor. Something soft hit his chin and it felt like he had taken the Elix again. His legs caved from beneath him as the hallway faded into black nothing.

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"How bad?" Dreams asked, poking a piece of sushi with her bladearm and lifting it up to nibble on.
"Bad," Words Spoken We Fear commonly called Speaks, said softly. He glanced over at the Mosizlak, who was sitting on a hard light boulder and drinking a can of something or other. He was dressed in adaptive camouflage, but without his deadly implement. Instead of a hat he was wearing a heavy psychic dampener.
"You're supposed to be the diplomatic assignment's intelligence operative. Surely you can tell me morer than 'bad'," Dreams said with a smile.
Speaks sighed. "The Mosizlaks, all three of them, are the only surviving Terran Descent Humans on our ship," he said, waving at the human who was drinking out of the can. The human let out a long burp. "And like we say, without those dampeners, they're a bit... um..."
"Growly?" Dreams suggested. She sniffed the air. "Well, at least the environmental is holding out," she speared another piece of sushi. "What about the rest of the fleet?"
"I was able to contact most of the vessels. The thing is, diplomatic missions are largely crewed by Terran Descent Humans," Speaks said. He stabbed a piece of dripping raw 'beef' with his bladearm. "There's twenty-eight ships between our diplomatic mission and the group we ran into."
"I thought we had thirty-one," the russet mantid Fights said.
"We did. They were destroyed and half of the rest of us are damaged," Speaks said. "When we did the crash translation, for some reason, the partial crews of one of the vessels went crazy and started firing on each other and on us before firing off their self-destruct."
"How many ships are under power?" Dreams asked.
"None. Between the twenty-eight ships there are thirty-one humans still alive and coherent," he sighed.
"None?" Fights said. She shivered. "We only have three Terrans here and nearly no crew members."
"117 was bringing the ships AI out of storage before Sees had him start helping her on some kind of weird project," Speaks said.
"How many Terrans do we have total?" Dreams asked.
"Between twenty-eight ships, five aren't responding at all. 117 said the sensors show no life signs. Six only responded with garbled screaming. Over the last eight hours three of those are no longer showing life signs and the other three are showing a rapid decrease in life signs," Speaks answered. "Every warborg is in critical damage hibernation. Every bioborg, same thing. All of the cryopod backup crew are in critical injury medical hibernation that can't be unlocked."
"So how many Terrans do we have?" Dreams repeated.
"Forty-one," Speaks said. "across seventeen ships."
"And non-Terran crewmembers?" Dreams asked.
"Two hundred sixteen," Speaks shook his head. "Enraged humans did a number on them. You have to remember, nobody was armed or armored, and nobody expected Enraged to start rampaging through the ships."
"That's probably who was doing all the screaming and who started shooting with capital ship weaponry," Fights said.
Speaks nodded. "Whatever happened, the Terrans it didn't kill it Enraged. We're lucky the Mosizlaks didn't go crazy," he turned to the human, who was pulling another drink out of a rock. "No offense."
"None taken," the Terran burped. "I do feel weird."
Fights moved over to him, asking questions quietly.
"Can we even crew a ship with who we have?" Dreams asked.
Speaks shook his head. "No. To fly a modern ship you need engineers, astrogators, navigators, all kinds of specially trained jobs. We've got some serious gaps."
"What about the AI?" Dreams asked. She looked up at where Mr. Rings was thumping a treat against a branch. "Can it do it?"
"Something caused the security charges to go off on critical sections. 117 has most of his brethren working on fixing critical systems like, you know, drive computers, navigation, stuff like that," Speaks said. He paused to take a bite of the beef. When he swallowed he looked at Dreams. "Whatever it was, it dropped us out of hyperspace, the shields went down, which shredded the DS's, and then the security charges went off on everything from the SUDS system to the clone banks to the databases."
Dreams adjusted her hat, thinking.
The Confederacy put a lot of security precautions in a diplomatic mission's vessels. There was a lot of high security data, a lot of sensitive information, and all the equipment was state of the art. Something had caused the security charges to go off.
She wondered if it had to do with the massive superstructures they'd destroyed less than a week ago.
"What's 117 working on with Sees?" Dreams asked.
Speaks shook his head. "I don't know. Sees had a trance fugue state, drew a bunch of stuff on the wall, called in 117 and some of his friends, and they all ran off to a cargo bay and started working."
Dreams stood up. "Then perhaps we should go find out what they're working on."
The Mosizlak stood up. "I'll guard you, madame diplomat," he said.
Dreams wanted to ask him what exactly he was going to guard her against, but changed her mind at the sight of the heavy psychic dampeners.
-------------
The cargo bay was massive, the huge set of six Class XI Creation Engines sitting silent against the far wall. One was surrounded by mist, deslushing and cooling off, but still silent.
Dreams felt a twinge of fear from something more than the fact that her implosion wire had gone dead when the ship had made its crash translation from hyperspace. In the middle was a swarm of green mantids, all working on computer surrounding a hexagon of black armaglass. A bank of cables ran from a hypercom connection to a huge computer that was then hooked up to all of the computers in the encircling rows.
Something about that hexagonal chamber made Dreams feel cold.
She quickly saw 117 standing with several other mantids, his black warsteel cybernetic bladearm marking him out.
--stand back power test-- 117 said, moving forward and waving Dreams and Speaks and Fights away.
"Where is Sees?" Dreams asked.
--here here here-- 117 flashed, obviously excited.
As Dreams approached the opalescent seer she saw that the other mantid had her eyelids fully retracted, her compound eyes glowing with bluish energy. She was rocking back and forth, chittering out numbers and words and letters.
There were nearly two dozen green mantids and a Mosizlak gathered around, writing things down as fast as possible.
Dreams stopped and looked down at 117. "What is going on?"
--no know exciting yes yes yes-- 117 said. He looked up, then waved at the computers being turned on. --seeing sees sees things seen and unseen with seeing sight-- he said.
Dreams did the equivelant of purse her lips in irritation. "Funny. Now in Standard, please."
--sees sees passwords network addresses logins data requests on invisible networks-- 117 said.
Dreams saw one of the greenies step forward, raising his bladearms up and his clasped together hands. He spread his vestigal wings in two fans of bright color as the others all gave the mathematical and formula equivelant of a cheer.
The greenie stepped up to Sees and Dreams frowned, wondering why he was going to interrupt the seer.
Sees's bladearms flashed down, impaling the greenie, and folded as they lifted the doomed engineer up. Her hands grabbed the biceps of his bladearms, holding them still.
As Dreams watched horrified the opalescent mantid took a big bite of the greenies head.
The rest of the greenies cheered.
"WHAT!?!?" she shrieked.
117 smacked her. --no interrupt--
"What, what is happening?" Dreams gagged as Sees took another bite of the doomed male's head.
--not know never seen before-- 117 admitted.
Sees finished off the male's head, then began chirping and singing, blue energy flowing from her eyes and antenna and down her thorax to run across her abdomen and drip down her legs.
Dreams could feel the hypercom fire up as three greenies dragged away their dead brethren.
--ooh new datastore-- 117 said.
A dozen greenies moved a cable from the computer connected to the hypercom to a bank of computers that were powered but nothing more than a simple command prompt to show that a bare bones operating system was loaded.
Sees shrieked out a rush of disjointed words, numbers, and Old Terran letters and symbols.
The greenies cheered again.
Data started flowing across the screens of the computers that had just been hooked up.
"I think we are seeing something we are not meant to see, madame diplomat," Speaks said softly, moving up next to Dreams. "Might I suggest we return to your room?"
Several of the greenies at one of the computer banks gave a cheer as the computers beeped and went to standby.
"No. I want to witness this. Everything that happens is my responsibility," Dreams said, gagging as another greenie stripped off his tool harness and raised his bladearms and hands in victory. She looked away before the slice of the bladearms and the crunch of the greenie's skull.
Why? Why throw away their lives like this? They live in a world of science and logic, why like this? she wondered.
Dreams faced away from it all, staring at the computers. When a computer bank that had been dark except for the operating system lit up after Sees spouted gibberish, the greenies would drag the dead one over and drape him on the console, arranging him as if he was praying for a new head.
It made Dreams's stomach knot up.
Finally everything went still.
Speaks moved up next to her. "They're surrounding Sees with psychic shielding," he said softly. "She collapsed after that last bout."
"Doesn't this bother you?" she asked.
Speaks shrugged. "Yes and no. Did you notice how the one selected for 'sacrifice' was painted up with engineering and other formula? How he knew what was going to happen and went into it willingly?"
"Still..." Dreams said reluctantly.
"We are in unknown waters, Dreams, without a paddle, without a map, our tour guide was eaten by alligators and our rowers are gone," Speaks said. "If you've got a better idea, let me know."
Speaks shook her head.
The computers all whirred to life and a low hum filled the cargo bay, pulling Dreams attention from the conversation to the hexagon of black armaglass. She gasped as veins of red and gold and blue started snaking through the glass, as the glass turned from night black to a pale opaque blue. The lights in the cargo bay dimmed as the reactor took the load. Sparks showered down from the glowstrips and when Dreams looked up she saw that in more than a few places the glowstrips were now tubes of flickering white light. Mist gathered around the base of the huge hexagon, then started pouring down from the walls and forming on the top of it. The mist only pooled out a foot or two, then wisped away.
Finally the lights brightened and the mist tattered and vanished.
There was a slow winding noise that lowered in frequency until it went inaudible.
Like every other Mantid in the cargo bay, Dreams held her breath.
The door opened and Dreams rubbed her wings in anxiousness.
A Terran stepped out, wearing a green beret and dressed in green, brown, and black woodland camouflage. He was carrying a rifle and had wargear on his chest.
"Mantids," the Terran said in Confederate Standard. He looked around slowly as he took several steps out. Five more exited behind him, all moving so they were spread out and not in each other's way.
Dreams moved forward, despite wanting to run back to her room.
"I am Dreams of Something More, diplomatic liaison for the Terran Confederacy of Aligned Systems," she said. "The fleet has suffered extreme circumstances and I am trapped light years from any help."
The Terrans spoke quickly to each other in a language she didn't understand.
**be very careful they're speaking Ancient Hamburgereese** Speaks sent to her over the secure channel of her datalink.
"Then we'll provide assistance. We'll try other methods first, since extraction would be problematic," the blond one said.
**those are old Hamburger Kingdom uniforms, from the before the Burger Wars** Speaks warned.
"I must insist on verification," Dreams said stuffily.
"And you are right to insist," the leader said. He used two fingers to pull a plastic billfold out of his top pocket. He slid it across the floor to a greenie, who picked it up and ran over to Dreams.
Dreams opened it and stared. All of it was written in Ancient Burgerlander. The picture matched, but seeing the ancient symbol of the Hamburger Kingdom was chilling. She looked up and the Terran nodded.
"Case Omaha Protocols," he said. "If you'd rather, I can return and try to arrange another method of assistance," the human said.
Dreams felt suspicious but still nodded. "We need a way to gather up the crews of the disabled spaceships and get this ship to the nearest friendly planet."
The Terran nodded.
It looked on the up and up, but something nagged at Dreams as she waved at the Terran.
"If you'll follow me to the bridge," she said.
Dreams felt her chitin grow cold as the Terran moved up and held his hand out. "My ID, madame diplomat."
She handed it back, ignoring the deep feeling of fear as she stared into the Terran's eyes and saw a red glow deep inside.
-------------------
Daxin was leaned against the ground vehicle, staring at the fire, which never got any lower nor any higher, never needing fuel once it was lit. He took a long drink out of the bottle, which never emptied, and stared at the flames.
He was at peace here. It was possibly the only place in 8,000 years that he'd found that he felt peaceful.
Which made the crunching of gravel from deeper in annoying.
"What?" Daxin growled, using the sound of his voice to cover the sound of the compartment on his leg opening and the pistol sliding out.
"It's just me, brother," Legion said.
"Don't lurk around in the dark," Daxin said, taking another drink. "Come sit down."
Legion moved up and looked down at Daxin. "You know, Dax, I finally met someone grouchier than you."
"Interesting company you're keeping then, Dhruv," Daxin shrugged.
"You might want to hold onto your balls, Dax," Dhruv said.
"Why?" Daxin asked.
Legion pointed at the fire. "We're about to get a visit from the Devil herself."
That made Daxin take notice. The pistol retracted into his thigh and the shutters snapped closed as he stood up. He took a long drink off the bottle and watched the fire.
It roared up suddenly, the flames reaching the concrete ceiling and spreading out. Screaming and wailing could be heard as the flames began to twist and warp.
Daxin expected the huge brown demonic figure to burst out of the flames.
Instead it was a shined and polished loafer, attached to a leg covered by grey slacks. A woman stepped out, in a gray suit, polished black loafers, a black tie, her hair pulled back into a bun that looked painfully tight. She had on dark red lipstick that was more reminiscent of blood than sensuality, a little blush on her cheeks, and the mascara and eye shadow made her gun metal eyes even more striking.
The flames suddenly returned to their eternal size.
The woman looked around and sniffed, tasting the air.
"Earth. What a shit hole," She said.
"You look different," Daxin said.
"I'm in disguise," the woman said, smiling.
Daxin had been around long enough not to be fooled. There was no warmth, no real emotion in that smile, it only existed so that his brain would tell him that she had smiled.
Daxin smiled the same way back.
The woman turned to Legion. "He's a big thug, but I like him."
Daxin snorted.
"Where's the dobie?" she asked.
"Fido!" Daxin called out.
**DAXIN DAXIN DAXIN** sounded out from above.
"Wow, what an imaginative name," the woman drawled.
"I didn't have a dictionary when I found him," Daxin shot back. They could hear Fido running down the ramp from the second story of the parking garage where he'd been up chewing on a tire.
"Get hungry and eat it?" the woman sneered.
Daxin smiled. He recognized what was going on. Pure dominance games without any excuses, veneer, or thin justification.
"Some of the words were a little overdone," he said.
Legion just stared silently as Fido stopped in spray of gravel next to Daxin, lolling out his tongue and panting.
"Does the words 'Cheyenne Mountain' mean anything to you?" the woman asked.
"Crying Anne Mountain," Daxin answered. "You might say that."
"Mister Multiplexity here assured me you can open the door," the woman said.
"Thanks for that," Daxin said, glaring at Legion, who just shrugged. He looked back at the woman. "Maybe, why?"
"Heard of Prince Whopper?" the woman asked.
Daxin nodded. "Keeper of the Keys of the Sol System," he said. "What does a mythical prince who never existed have to do with anything?"
The woman stepped forward, her smile getting larger, which Daxin knew was just to show off all of her teeth.
"Because, like most myths, it holds a grain of truth," she said. She reached out and rubbed Fido's head.
"It isn't spelled w-h-o-p-p-e-r," she smiled.
"It isn't a myth?" Daxin frowned.
"How is it spelled then?" Legion asked.
"W.O.P.R."
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Hello everyone- I posted this on unresolved mysteries sub as well. It doesn't seem to be against the rules to post the same thing here. Please inform me if it is. I hope you are all able to learn something new.
I was browsing NAMUS the other day in my home state of Washington when I came across something that caught my attention. A large percentage of the unidentified people in Washington state in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s were unidentified transient men who were found dead in Spokane, Washington. When browsing chronologically, at one point there were five of these men listed in a row. So I decided to look a little closer. Despite the fact that King County in Seattle (2.2 million) is four times the size of Spokane County (550,000) in population, a ratio which has stayed consistent throughout the decades, Spokane has 17 unidentified adult male decedents, over 20 if you count children and infants. King County on the other hand has only 14 unidentified male decedents. This figure includes children and adults in King County. What has caused this odd uptick of unidentified bodies and murder victims? While many cases were natural deaths or accidents, a few were homicides. Was a predator targeting homeless men in Spokane? Or is premature death simply the reality of people living on the streets? Or maybe the Spokane Police Department is merely vigilant in uploading the cases of unidentified people into NAMUS. Either way all of these men deserve some exposure so that hopefully they can get their names back and their loved ones can get some answers. Let's take a look.
Spokane John Doe January 21, 1961: This unidentified man was found sitting upright near the Spokane River and Howard street. Rats had eaten some of his face, but he was still recognizable. He had been dead approximately three days and had died from most likely heart disease, although only an external examination was performed. The man was most likely in his 60s and was possibly homeless due the area his body was in. He was most likely white/ caucasian. There is no other information for this man, we don’t even know his hair color, clothing, or possessions. There is no mention in the autopsy regarding his teeth. His fingerprints were taken, but unfortunately no DNA is available for this John Doe. There is no other information available and no rule outs for his identity.
Spokane John Doe July, 1961: A body of white male, aged 60-70 was found in the Spokane River at the base of Clark Avenue. The man had drowned and had only been dead a few hours when he was discovered in the water. An external exam was done by the ME who determined the man was possibly transient. He was found wearing a belt with the letter “G” on the buckle. No other clothing was noted. The man had no real teeth. His fingerprints were taken and sent to the FBI who were unable to find a match. DNA and dentals are not available but his prints are. There have been no rule outs for his identity.
Spokane John Doe June 10th, 1963: One summer day in 1963, the decomposed body of a man aged 20-40 was found floating in the Spokane River near Nine Mile Dam. The man had been dead approximately 6 weeks prior to his discovery. He died in a probable drowning. The doe’s dental records were taken, but his fingerprints were unable to be obtained due to decomposition. The man was most likely of Asian descent but white or mixed descent was also possible. No DNA remains to be compared and no people have been ruled out as the identity of this doe.
Spokane John Doe 1964: In 1964 near some railroad tracks near Hangman Creek in the area of 18th Avenue and Ash Street, the body of a badly decomposed man was found. He had been dead about four weeks. The man was believed to be white and in his 50s or 60s at the time. The manner of death is unknown; it appears as if he either jumped or was pushed out of a moving train meaning his case may be a homicide. Fingerprints were not obtainable but the man had teeth so his dentals were taken. The man had gray hair and wore a blue herringbone tweed suit, a khaki or tan shirt or undershirt, tan shoes, and a two piece long underwear set. No one has been ruled out as a possible identity for this victim.
Spokane John Doe May, 1971: In May 1971 a man who had passed away due to natural causes was found dead laying on some cardboard near the railroad tracks in Spokane. The man was most likely a transient. This decedent appears to be balding, white, about 5’ 8” and weighing about 155 lb. He was between the ages of 55 and 70. When he was found he was wearing black shoes, a long brown coat, a rust colored shirt, and green trousers. He was also wearing a gray hat. There was a tattoo on the right forearm that is possibly a name, but the name was unreadable. Pictures of this man are available online. He is not William Arnold, John Wagner, John Dial, or Lyndal Ashby.
Spokane “BS” John Doe September 2nd, 1971- This victim was found floating in the Spokane River under the Division Street Dam in Spokane. The man had been dead for two days after drowning in the river. His case is believed to be nothing more than a tragic accident. This doe was 45-60 years old and white. He had a distinctive amatuer tattoo on his left forearm which says “BS” or “B5.” SPD sent the man's fingers to the FBI to take prints but no matches were found and the fingers were sent back to the coroner. No information on clothing or other identifiable features were noted. No DNA remains to be compared and no people have been ruled out as the identity of this doe.
Spokane John Doe June, 1978- One day in the summer of 1978 the badly charred body of a man, aged 20-70 was discovered in the abandoned Cadillac Apartment Building in Spokane. The building was a popular place for transients to stay, but for whatever reason the tenement had a history of catching on fire. The man was 5’6” and weighed only 130 lbs although this may have been due to his burned state. The victim’s race was unable to be determined but he may have been white. He had brown head hair, was most likely “middle aged” and had no teeth. The Medical Examiner noted however that this autopsy was incredibly difficult to do and that his age could be anywhere between 20 and 70. The victim’s left forefinger had been amputated half way down but it was well healed. He had signs of cardiovascular disease, a remote appendectomy, and degenerative joint disease in the lower spine. This man also had cirrhosis of the liver and alcoholic hepatitis, indicating he may have been an alcoholic. No one has been ruled out as a match for this doe. Sadly, fingerprints, DNA, and dentals are not available for this man.
Spokane John Doe January, 1980- One cold winter day in 1980 three men walked under a railway tunnel where they discovered the body of a murder victim. The victim was a white male who was extensively burned and suffered traumatic injuries to the face. He was curled up on his left side. A medical examiner stated the decedent was 35 to 45 years old but admitted that age was hard gauge and a decedent might be younger or older than that. The man had died due to smoke inhalation and traumatic injury to the head. The man was determined to be white about 5’ 6”, 124 lbs, wearing many layers of clothing. The victim had brown hair and light brown eyes. He had only been dead about two days at the time of discovery. His death was ruled a homicide. He was wearing a blue jean jacket, a blue jean shirt, a blue and brown thin cotton plaid shirt, another jacket with a nylon lining and foam insulation with an outer cotton fabric that had a fine blue colored weave. There was also a heavy denim garment with an inner lining of nylon which showed some quilted pattern. A pair of cowboy style boots that were mid calf in height with one bearing a label that said HYER Quality boots, made in U.S.A. There was also a single pair of white wool socks. Thankfully dentals, and fingerprints are available for this man. The Doe is not George Nace, Francis Cantea, or Christopher Wells.
Spokane “Harold” Doe 1981- In July 1981, the partially skeletonized body of a murder victim was found in a “hobo camp” near Trent and Erie streets in Spokane. Several transients in the area said they knew the man as “Slow Harold.” This victim was determined to have died from blunt force trauma to the head and his case was ruled a homicide. The man was 40 to 60 years old, with short light brown hair with some gray. His head was partially severed from his body. He wore a long wool type overcoat with large front pockets; black leather coat with the letters "KLENE" hand written in ink on the interior label, J.C. Penney shirt, "Big Mac", 100% cotton, size Tall XL, size 17-17 ½ lace up boots, mid-calf high. He also carried a small leather coin purse with a metal clasp at the top. His clothing had some interesting labels and dry cleaning tags, but unfortunately calls to dry cleaning companies with that name produced no leads. One piece of clothing label had the name or word "KLENE" written in permanent ink. Two items of clothing had labels which read "Troy Linen Company" and "N-1805-75-1". One of his pieces of clothing had a tag that said Jantzen, which is a now-defunct company that makes swimwear, but at one point also made coats. Pictures of these items can be found at the Doe Network here. Unfortunately Harold Doe’s fingerprints, DNA, and dentals are unavailable. The man who called himself Slow Harold is not Ronald Kimble, Francis Cantea, or Christopher Wells.
Spokane John “Tattoos” Doe, July 3rd, 1989: In July of 1989 an employee at a garbage dump was digging with a bulldozer when he uncovered a human leg. Subsequent searches discovered the body of an adult male 45 to 60 years old, white, and wearing a pair of greenish blue slacks with an elastic waist. The man’s eye color could not be determined, and in all reconstructions he is bald although there is no information in reports regarding his hair except for that it was "short", he also had some facial hair that was likewise described as "short." The man was estimated to have been dead one to three weeks. The area he was found in was around garbage that had been brought to the dump two to three weeks prior. The man had three very distinctive and colorful tattoos. One tattoo was an eagle on a branch of a tree with some mountains in the background. This tattoo is located on his left forearm. There's also a tattoo of a green, white, and black snake on his right bicep. On his right forearm he sported a tattoo of a colorful snake on some branches. The head of another animal is below the snake and is looking up at it. The animal is often called a panther but it kind of looks like a wolf to me. The Spokane Police Department hopes that these tattoos are remembered by a tattoo artist who can possibly help identify this individual. “Tattoos doe’s” death has been ruled a homicide and his case is still open. Thankfully this victim’s dentals are available. The man's tattoos and reconstruction can be seen here: http://www.doenetwork.org/cases/362umwa.html. Some people online think that the Doe looks like this https://charleyproject.org/case/edward-lawrence-dubarry missing man from New Jersey as his age progression looks similar.
Only 8 days after the tattooed man was found, another doe was recovered from the Spokane River. Spokane John “Rich” Doe July 11th 1989 was found floating in the river. The victim had been dead 1 to 8 weeks and had a skull fracture and other injuries about his head. It is unknown how he entered the river or if he drowned, but his other injuries make homicide a distinct possibility. The man was only about 5’ 5”, white, and 150 lbs. The man was wearing a pair of jeans, a pair of work boots, a pair of white socks with a blue trim, a blue and purple button up shirt, and a grey and maroon striped t-shirt. The man's boots for size 7 and the brand was Hi Tec. He was also wearing a white metal necklace with a gold cross attached to the necklace with a paperclip. The man also had a tattoo on the left bicep which appears to be the name Rich. It is not exactly recognizable due to decomposition but capital R lowercase c h can be seen rather clearly. The tattoo may be an amateur piece. The case is still open with the Spokane Police Department. His dentals are available. This doe is not Francis Cantea, Christopher Lawrence Duffy, Matthew Paul Garnes, David Harvey Hoober, Ronald Owen Kimble, Ralph Alan Newcombe, George Wayne Pooler, or Christopher Brian Wells.
Spokane “Ellen Lakeway Lodge” doe, 1992: Two transient men walking near East 500 Trent st. found a man who appeared to be sleeping on the ground and attempted to wake him up as it was the morning, but to their horror the man was actually dead and they called police from a nearby store. The body the men had found belonged to a white male approximately 40-60 years old. The man had black and white hair that was about 2 inches long, as well as a beard that was 1 to 2 inches long and gray in color. His mustache had turned a yellow color presumably from tobacco. He had brown eyes. His left hand index finger had been amputated at the joint, but it was a very old and healed injury. The decedent had a small tissue growth on one of his nostrils, a 2” long scar on his left forearm, and had previously had an appendectomy. The autopsy report notes that the man had some missing upper teeth and many missing lower teeth. The man was 5’7” and 140 lbs. He appeared to be living in a nearby camp where all of his belongings were found. He was wearing one pair of gray socks with orange trim, another pair of dark green socks, gray corduroy pants with a belt, dark green sweatpants, a blue and yellow knit beanie hat that said “Daily Record” on the back, a blue denim jacket with inner gray and red liner and a long-sleeve blue zip-up jacket. He also had a maroon pullover sleeveless sweater, a T-shirt with an inscription on the front that read: "MIKE'S BURGER ROYAL". This shirt also had a yellow crown with a red design. He also had a pair of black rimmed bifocal glasses in a tan case in his shirt pocket. Nearby was found two types of tobacco and a blue, cloth billfold. The billfold had no ID but it had some food stamps and some business cards. There was also an inscription which read, "Ellen Lakeway Lodge, Apartment 31.” Checks of Lakeway lodges all over the country turned up no clues, and there is no business called Ellen Lakeway Lodge. The man's fingerprints were taken but there were no hits on the FBI's database at the time. An examination of the body showed that the man had died from pneumonia which stemmed from late stage lung cancer, so his death was ruled natural causes. The man had been dead 1-3 days when found. No one has been ruled out for the identity of Spokane's Ellen Lakeway Lodge doe. Pictures of this man are available online here.
Spokane “Corcoran” doe, 1995: In the summer of 1995 the severely decomposed body of an adult white male was found on the North bank of the Spokane River near 2200 West Falls Street. The victim was 18 to 40 years old, about 160 lbs. while alive, and 5’11” in height. The man was fully dressed in light blue Rustler brand denim jeans, dark colored socks, and very tall ankle boots Corcoran brand- possibly black in color and of an unknown size. The man also had $0.35 worth of pennies in his pocket. He may have had very dark brown hair. According to the Doe Network he also wore a pair of red, slightly meshed, under shorts, a dark colored T-Shirt, size medium, Eddie Bauer brand. Due to the state of decomposition very little is known about this man including his cause of death; his case is still open with the Spokane Police Department. One report says the man had been dead for two to three months and had likely drowned, but this is not corroborated by other reports. This man is not Leonard Collins, Craig Alexander, Ralph Newcombe, Dana Torgeson, or Gregory Waskel. Thankfully this man's DNA and dentals are available. His information can be found here. I had suggested to the Doe Network that this man is possibly Steven Needham who disappeared from Bellevue in 1994, but dentals ruled out Needham as a match.
Spokane doe, 1998: June of 1998 employee Spokane Riverfront Park noticed the body of a man snagged in the intake on the upper part of the Howard Street Bridge near the park. The body belonged to an adult Caucasian male age 18-99, who was about 5 foot 7 in height. He had been dead at least 1-6 months and was in a profound state of decomposition. The victim was wearing a pair of twill trousers that were dark blue, a long sleeved checkered shirt that was light blue and white in color with two snap pockets, a black leather belt with a white metal buckle, one tan sock, and a pair of athletic rubber-soled shoes that were dark blue and had two Velcro straps. The shoes were Pacific Walker brand. The man also had a pair of sunglasses with plastic frames that were dark blue, and a prescription bottle of the medication Risperidone which is used to treat schizophrenia. The pill bottle had no name on it. The man had significant heart disease and some upper teeth. The man's dental records did not match any missing people and his fingerprints were unable to be obtained. Thankfully DNA is available in this case. The man's manner of death is unknown at this time. He is not James Bradford, Paul Buckley, John Bell Jr, Gyula Lenart, or Carl Woracker. Information here. I have suggested to the Doe Network that this man is possibly Steven Needham who disappeared from Bellevue in 1994- but I heard that he has been ruled out via dentals. However, because this rule out is not listed on Namus, I wanted to mention it here.
Spokane Foot doe 1999: In 1999 snorkelers in the Spokane River about 1/4 of a mile north of Nine Mile Dam found a submerged human foot in the river that was about six to ten feet from shore and submerged under several feet of water. The foot was 8 inch or 24 cm from the heel bone end of the big toe bone. The foot was mostly skeletonized and was inside of a dark sock. Due to the state and lack of remains the cause of death, age, race, and sex have not been able to be determined. NAMUS lists the remains as belonging to a male, something they do when the sex of the remains are unknown. One of the report says that the foot is of unknown sex, but the official autopsy report states that the remains are most likely female, but unknown. The only object discovered with the foot was a singular black bead. The foot had no deformities, or evidence of surgeries. The size of the foot meant that the person with that foot most likely was 5’4”-5’5” and height, and was probably an adult who was not elderly or largely overweight due to the joints being in good condition. The doctor who performed the autopsy is a podiatrist and surgeon. She did several tests to see if she could determine the race and sex of the foot, but noted that these types of tests are rather inaccurate. One test for example showed that the foot most likely belonged to a black female while the other test indicated the foot belonged to a white man. The doctor also noted that the foot, if it belongs to a man, would have been a very small or short man based on the length of the foot. DNA was taken but the DNA did not match any in the database. Because the sex of the foot is still unknown at this time, I assume that this was an incomplete or mitochondrial DNA test. No one has been ruled out as the identity of this doe, and she or he remains unidentified.
Spokane, June 27, 2007: In June of 2007, a passerby noticed a body floating in the Spokane River just east of the Washington Street Bridge in the city of Spokane. The body was badly decomposed and had been dead 1 to 6 months before discovery. The cause of death is not known. The man was determined to be approximately 5’ 3” to 5’ 6” probably weighing 130-180 lb in life. This victim's body did not have any tattoos, but not all of his skin was present. His fingerprints could not be obtained. This man was only wearing one tattered sock made of wool like material. And one shoe men's size 5 or 6. There's no description of the shoe or sock.
When this victim was discovered, he had only one remaining tooth. In life the man had suffered earlier (healed) trauma to his jaw, nose, and orbital bone. This traumatic injury would have left him with some scarring and possible facial deformities; he may have had an underbite that would have been noticeable. He most likely had a scar over his left eyebrow. His nose has been broken in the past, and his jaw had been surgically repaired with two titanium “Walter Lorenz” brand plates. By 2007 these plates were no longer being made, and it appears that the man had had jaw surgery 2 to 5 years prior to his death. It is possible all three injuries occurred at the same time from something such as a car accident. It is possible the man lost his teeth in this incident, but the medical examiner also noted that the teeth could have been lost before or after the trauma to the face occured. And it is even possible that he lost his teeth during decomposition after death, meaning in life this man may have had teeth. The corpse also had signs of gum disease, and black head hair three quarters of an inch long with no gray present.
This man's race and age have been disputed over the years. His age has been estimated as anywhere between 33 and 55, with the general consensus being that the man is about 40 years old. An examination of the skull showed that the man was white or Caucasian, but his hair is classified as “negroid hair”. Because of this many have speculated that the man was biracial or mixed race, most likely a combination of white and black heritage. This man is not Jose Rodriguez Hernandez, Joe Pichler, John Baker, George McDonald, William Downey, Shawn Houston, Anthony Sam, Alvin Matlock, George Pooler, or Alfred Grimes. Thankfully dental charts and DNA are available for comparison to this unidentified victim whose reconstruction can be viewed here.
I have submitted two men as potential matches to this doe. Stanley Gene Chandler, and James Natalia Foster. Foster disappeared from Steilacoom, Washington in the late 1980s at age 19. Very little is known about his disappearance and he may be living as a transient. I suggested him as a possibility for this doe- although it is a long shot. Chandler on the other hand, disappeared from Seattle in 1990 at age 23. Meaning he would have been 40 in 2006 or 2007. Most notably, both Chandler and the unidentified man both had a noticeable scar over their left eyebrow, and both men were only 5’4” in height. Both of these missing men are listed as being black, while the unidentified man is reported to be biracial. I decided there were enough similarities between the cases that they deserved to be submitted, even if they are not matches. I heard back from the Doe Network who informed me that Chandler has previously been submitted, but he has not been ruled out yet. Foster had never been.
Spokane, chairlift #1 Doe, 2012: One day in the fall of 2012, a mountain biking club in Mead Washington, Spokane County, were biking in an area west of Chairlift #1 on Mt. Spokane in a wooded area, when one biker found what he thought to be a human skull. The man marked the area and went to tell the park ranger, but when he couldn't find him he left him a message on the ranger’s phone. The ranger later located the skull and called the police. The skull is not a full skull, and no mandible was found. No race or gender can be determined but the skull is believed to have belonged to an adult age 20 to 50. No PMI could be estimated, and no other bones or items were found in the skull’s area of discovery. No one has been ruled out as an identity for this doe.
If you had a friend or a relative who disappeared while living in Spokane, or was a transient in the Spokane area in the 1960s to early 2000s, I would highly suggest that you contact the Spokane Police Department at (509) 755-2489 or the ME’s office at (509) 477-2296. My guess is that many of these people were never reported missing at all, but maybe one of you can change that. Who are these unknown men and women of Spokane, Washington?
Sources:
http://www.doenetwork.org/uid-geo-us-males.php#washington
https://www.namus.gov/UnidentifiedPersons/Search#/results
http://cp.spokanecounty.org/medexamineunident.aspx
https://charleyproject.org/case/james-natalia-foster
https://charleyproject.org/case/stanley-gene-chandler
https://www.spokesman.com/stories/2006/aug/05/naming-spokanes-unknowns/

Hello everyone, for the last few months I have been creating long form write-ups on a variety of unsolved cases. If you are interested in other lengthy write ups you can find them on my profile- https://www.reddit.com/useQuirky-Moto.
I was browsing NAMUS the other day in my home state of Washington when I came across something that caught my attention. A large percentage of the unidentified people in Washington state in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s were unidentified transient men who were found dead in Spokane, Washington. When browsing chronologically, at one point there were five of these men listed in a row. So I decided to look a little closer. Despite the fact that King County in Seattle (2.2 million) is four times the size of Spokane County (550,000) in population, a ratio which has stayed consistent throughout the decades, Spokane has 17 unidentified adult male decedents, over 20 if you count children and infants. King County on the other hand has only 14 unidentified male decedents. This figure includes children and adults in King County. What has caused this odd uptick of unidentified bodies and murder victims? While many cases were natural deaths or accidents, a few were homicides. Was a predator targeting homeless men in Spokane? Or is premature death simply the reality of people living on the streets? Or maybe the Spokane Police Department is merely vigilant in uploading the cases of unidentified people into NAMUS. Either way all of these men deserve some exposure so that hopefully they can get their names back and their loved ones can get some answers. Let's take a look.
Spokane John Doe January 21, 1961: This unidentified man was found sitting upright near the Spokane River and Howard street. Rats had eaten some of his face, but he was still recognizable. He had been dead approximately three days and had died from most likely heart disease, although only an external examination was performed. The man was most likely in his 60s and was possibly homeless due the area his body was in. He was most likely white/ caucasian. There is no other information for this man, we don’t even know his hair color, clothing, or possessions. There is no mention in the autopsy regarding his teeth. His fingerprints were taken, but unfortunately no DNA is available for this John Doe. There is no other information available and no rule outs for his identity.
Spokane John Doe July, 1961: A body of white male, aged 60-70 was found in the Spokane River at the base of Clark Avenue. The man had drowned and had only been dead a few hours when he was discovered in the water. An external exam was done by the ME who determined the man was possibly transient. He was found wearing a belt with the letter “G” on the buckle. No other clothing was noted. The man had no real teeth. His fingerprints were taken and sent to the FBI who were unable to find a match. DNA and dentals are not available but his prints are. There have been no rule outs for his identity.
Spokane John Doe June 10th, 1963: One summer day in 1963, the decomposed body of a man aged 20-40 was found floating in the Spokane River near Nine Mile Dam. The man had been dead approximately 6 weeks prior to his discovery. He died in a probable drowning. The doe’s dental records were taken, but his fingerprints were unable to be obtained due to decomposition. The man was most likely of Asian descent but white or mixed descent was also possible. No DNA remains to be compared and no people have been ruled out as the identity of this doe.
Spokane John Doe 1964: In 1964 near some railroad tracks near Hangman Creek in the area of 18th Avenue and Ash Street, the body of a badly decomposed man was found. He had been dead about four weeks. The man was believed to be white and in his 50s or 60s at the time. The manner of death is unknown; it appears as if he either jumped or was pushed out of a moving train meaning his case may be a homicide. Fingerprints were not obtainable but the man had teeth so his dentals were taken. The man had gray hair and wore a blue herringbone tweed suit, a khaki or tan shirt or undershirt, tan shoes, and a two piece long underwear set. No one has been ruled out as a possible identity for this victim.
Spokane John Doe May, 1971: In May 1971 a man who had passed away due to natural causes was found dead laying on some cardboard near the railroad tracks in Spokane. The man was most likely a transient. This decedent appears to be balding, white, about 5’ 8” and weighing about 155 lb. He was between the ages of 55 and 70. When he was found he was wearing black shoes, a long brown coat, a rust colored shirt, and green trousers. He was also wearing a gray hat. There was a tattoo on the right forearm that is possibly a name, but the name was unreadable. Pictures of this man are available online. He is not William Arnold, John Wagner, John Dial, or Lyndal Ashby.
Spokane “BS” John Doe September 2nd, 1971- This victim was found floating in the Spokane River under the Division Street Dam in Spokane. The man had been dead for two days after drowning in the river. His case is believed to be nothing more than a tragic accident. This doe was 45-60 years old and white. He had a distinctive amatuer tattoo on his left forearm which says “BS” or “B5.” SPD sent the man's fingers to the FBI to take prints but no matches were found and the fingers were sent back to the coroner. No information on clothing or other identifiable features were noted. No DNA remains to be compared and no people have been ruled out as the identity of this doe.
Spokane John Doe June, 1978- One day in the summer of 1978 the badly charred body of a man, aged 20-70 was discovered in the abandoned Cadillac Apartment Building in Spokane. The building was a popular place for transients to stay, but for whatever reason the tenement had a history of catching on fire. The man was 5’6” and weighed only 130 lbs although this may have been due to his burned state. The victim’s race was unable to be determined but he may have been white. He had brown head hair, was most likely “middle aged” and had no teeth. The Medical Examiner noted however that this autopsy was incredibly difficult to do and that his age could be anywhere between 20 and 70. The victim’s left forefinger had been amputated half way down but it was well healed. He had signs of cardiovascular disease, a remote appendectomy, and degenerative joint disease in the lower spine. This man also had cirrhosis of the liver and alcoholic hepatitis, indicating he may have been an alcoholic. No one has been ruled out as a match for this doe. Sadly, fingerprints, DNA, and dentals are not available for this man.
Spokane John Doe January, 1980- One cold winter day in 1980 three men walked under a railway tunnel where they discovered the body of a murder victim. The victim was a white male who was extensively burned and suffered traumatic injuries to the face. He was curled up on his left side. A medical examiner stated the decedent was 35 to 45 years old but admitted that age was hard gauge and a decedent might be younger or older than that. The man had died due to smoke inhalation and traumatic injury to the head. The man was determined to be white about 5’ 6”, 124 lbs, wearing many layers of clothing. The victim had brown hair and light brown eyes. He had only been dead about two days at the time of discovery. His death was ruled a homicide. He was wearing a blue jean jacket, a blue jean shirt, a blue and brown thin cotton plaid shirt, another jacket with a nylon lining and foam insulation with an outer cotton fabric that had a fine blue colored weave. There was also a heavy denim garment with an inner lining of nylon which showed some quilted pattern. A pair of cowboy style boots that were mid calf in height with one bearing a label that said HYER Quality boots, made in U.S.A. There was also a single pair of white wool socks. Thankfully dentals, and fingerprints are available for this man. The Doe is not George Nace, Francis Cantea, or Christopher Wells.
Spokane “Harold” Doe 1981- In July 1981, the partially skeletonized body of a murder victim was found in a “hobo camp” near Trent and Erie streets in Spokane. Several transients in the area said they knew the man as “Slow Harold.” This victim was determined to have died from blunt force trauma to the head and his case was ruled a homicide. The man was 40 to 60 years old, with short light brown hair with some gray. His head was partially severed from his body. He wore a long wool type overcoat with large front pockets; black leather coat with the letters "KLENE" hand written in ink on the interior label, J.C. Penney shirt, "Big Mac", 100% cotton, size Tall XL, size 17-17 ½ lace up boots, mid-calf high. He also carried a small leather coin purse with a metal clasp at the top. His clothing had some interesting labels and dry cleaning tags, but unfortunately calls to dry cleaning companies with that name produced no leads. One piece of clothing label had the name or word "KLENE" written in permanent ink. Two items of clothing had labels which read "Troy Linen Company" and "N-1805-75-1". One of his pieces of clothing had a tag that said Jantzen, which is a now-defunct company that makes swimwear, but at one point also made coats. Pictures of these items can be found at the Doe Network here. Unfortunately Harold Doe’s fingerprints, DNA, and dentals are unavailable. The man who called himself Slow Harold is not Ronald Kimble, Francis Cantea, or Christopher Wells.
Spokane John “Tattoos” Doe, July 3rd, 1989: In July of 1989 an employee at a garbage dump was digging with a bulldozer when he uncovered a human leg. Subsequent searches discovered the body of an adult male 45 to 60 years old, white, and wearing a pair of greenish blue slacks with an elastic waist. The man’s eye color could not be determined, and in all reconstructions he is bald although there is no information in reports regarding his hair except for that it was "short", he also had some facial hair that was likewise described as "short." The man was estimated to have been dead one to three weeks. The area he was found in was around garbage that had been brought to the dump two to three weeks prior. The man had three very distinctive and colorful tattoos. One tattoo was an eagle on a branch of a tree with some mountains in the background. This tattoo is located on his left forearm. There's also a tattoo of a green, white, and black snake on his right bicep. On his right forearm he sported a tattoo of a colorful snake on some branches. The head of another animal is below the snake and is looking up at it. The animal is often called a panther but it kind of looks like a wolf to me. The Spokane Police Department hopes that these tattoos are remembered by a tattoo artist who can possibly help identify this individual. “Tattoos doe’s” death has been ruled a homicide and his case is still open. Thankfully this victim’s dentals are available. The man's tattoos and reconstruction can be seen here: http://www.doenetwork.org/cases/362umwa.html. Some people online think that the Doe looks like this https://charleyproject.org/case/edward-lawrence-dubarry missing man from New Jersey as his age progression looks similar.
Only 8 days after the tattooed man was found, another doe was recovered from the Spokane River. Spokane John “Rich” Doe July 11th 1989 was found floating in the river. The victim had been dead 1 to 8 weeks and had a skull fracture and other injuries about his head. It is unknown how he entered the river or if he drowned, but his other injuries make homicide a distinct possibility. The man was only about 5’ 5”, white, and 150 lbs. The man was wearing a pair of jeans, a pair of work boots, a pair of white socks with a blue trim, a blue and purple button up shirt, and a grey and maroon striped t-shirt. The man's boots for size 7 and the brand was Hi Tec. He was also wearing a white metal necklace with a gold cross attached to the necklace with a paperclip. The man also had a tattoo on the left bicep which appears to be the name Rich. It is not exactly recognizable due to decomposition but capital R lowercase c h can be seen rather clearly. The tattoo may be an amateur piece. The case is still open with the Spokane Police Department. His dentals are available. This doe is not Francis Cantea, Christopher Lawrence Duffy, Matthew Paul Garnes, David Harvey Hoober, Ronald Owen Kimble, Ralph Alan Newcombe, George Wayne Pooler, or Christopher Brian Wells.
Spokane “Ellen Lakeway Lodge” doe, 1992: Two transient men walking near East 500 Trent st. found a man who appeared to be sleeping on the ground and attempted to wake him up as it was the morning, but to their horror the man was actually dead and they called police from a nearby store. The body the men had found belonged to a white male approximately 40-60 years old. The man had black and white hair that was about 2 inches long, as well as a beard that was 1 to 2 inches long and gray in color. His mustache had turned a yellow color presumably from tobacco. He had brown eyes. His left hand index finger had been amputated at the joint, but it was a very old and healed injury. The decedent had a small tissue growth on one of his nostrils, a 2” long scar on his left forearm, and had previously had an appendectomy. The autopsy report notes that the man had some missing upper teeth and many missing lower teeth. The man was 5’7” and 140 lbs. He appeared to be living in a nearby camp where all of his belongings were found. He was wearing one pair of gray socks with orange trim, another pair of dark green socks, gray corduroy pants with a belt, dark green sweatpants, a blue and yellow knit beanie hat that said “Daily Record” on the back, a blue denim jacket with inner gray and red liner and a long-sleeve blue zip-up jacket. He also had a maroon pullover sleeveless sweater, a T-shirt with an inscription on the front that read: "MIKE'S BURGER ROYAL". This shirt also had a yellow crown with a red design. He also had a pair of black rimmed bifocal glasses in a tan case in his shirt pocket. Nearby was found two types of tobacco and a blue, cloth billfold. The billfold had no ID but it had some food stamps and some business cards. There was also an inscription which read, "Ellen Lakeway Lodge, Apartment 31.” Checks of Lakeway lodges all over the country turned up no clues, and there is no business called Ellen Lakeway Lodge. The man's fingerprints were taken but there were no hits on the FBI's database at the time. An examination of the body showed that the man had died from pneumonia which stemmed from late stage lung cancer, so his death was ruled natural causes. The man had been dead 1-3 days when found. No one has been ruled out for the identity of Spokane's Ellen Lakeway Lodge doe. Pictures of this man are available online here.
Spokane “Corcoran” doe, 1995: In the summer of 1995 the severely decomposed body of an adult white male was found on the North bank of the Spokane River near 2200 West Falls Street. The victim was 18 to 40 years old, about 160 lbs. while alive, and 5’11” in height. The man was fully dressed in light blue Rustler brand denim jeans, dark colored socks, and very tall ankle boots Corcoran brand- possibly black in color and of an unknown size. The man also had $0.35 worth of pennies in his pocket. He may have had very dark brown hair. According to the Doe Network he also wore a pair of red, slightly meshed, under shorts, a dark colored T-Shirt, size medium, Eddie Bauer brand. Due to the state of decomposition very little is known about this man including his cause of death; his case is still open with the Spokane Police Department. One report says the man had been dead for two to three months and had likely drowned, but this is not corroborated by other reports. This man is not Leonard Collins, Craig Alexander, Ralph Newcombe, Dana Torgeson, or Gregory Waskel. Thankfully this man's DNA and dentals are available. His information can be found here. I had suggested to the Doe Network that this man is possibly Steven Needham who disappeared from Bellevue in 1994, but dentals ruled out Needham as a match.
Spokane doe, 1998: June of 1998 employee Spokane Riverfront Park noticed the body of a man snagged in the intake on the upper part of the Howard Street Bridge near the park. The body belonged to an adult Caucasian male age 18-99, who was about 5 foot 7 in height. He had been dead at least 1-6 months and was in a profound state of decomposition. The victim was wearing a pair of twill trousers that were dark blue, a long sleeved checkered shirt that was light blue and white in color with two snap pockets, a black leather belt with a white metal buckle, one tan sock, and a pair of athletic rubber-soled shoes that were dark blue and had two Velcro straps. The shoes were Pacific Walker brand. The man also had a pair of sunglasses with plastic frames that were dark blue, and a prescription bottle of the medication Risperidone which is used to treat schizophrenia. The pill bottle had no name on it. The man had significant heart disease and some upper teeth. The man's dental records did not match any missing people and his fingerprints were unable to be obtained. Thankfully DNA is available in this case. The man's manner of death is unknown at this time. He is not James Bradford, Paul Buckley, John Bell Jr, Gyula Lenart, or Carl Woracker. Information here. I have suggested to the Doe Network that this man is possibly Steven Needham who disappeared from Bellevue in 1994- but I heard that he has been ruled out via dentals. However, because this rule out is not listed on Namus, I wanted to mention it here.
Spokane Foot doe 1999: In 1999 snorkelers in the Spokane River about 1/4 of a mile north of Nine Mile Dam found a submerged human foot in the river that was about six to ten feet from shore and submerged under several feet of water. The foot was 8 inch or 24 cm from the heel bone end of the big toe bone. The foot was mostly skeletonized and was inside of a dark sock. Due to the state and lack of remains the cause of death, age, race, and sex have not been able to be determined. NAMUS lists the remains as belonging to a male, something they do when the sex of the remains are unknown. One of the report says that the foot is of unknown sex, but the official autopsy report states that the remains are most likely female, but unknown. The only object discovered with the foot was a singular black bead. The foot had no deformities, or evidence of surgeries. The size of the foot meant that the person with that foot most likely was 5’4”-5’5” and height, and was probably an adult who was not elderly or largely overweight due to the joints being in good condition. The doctor who performed the autopsy is a podiatrist and surgeon. She did several tests to see if she could determine the race and sex of the foot, but noted that these types of tests are rather inaccurate. One test for example showed that the foot most likely belonged to a black female while the other test indicated the foot belonged to a white man. The doctor also noted that the foot, if it belongs to a man, would have been a very small or short man based on the length of the foot. DNA was taken but the DNA did not match any in the database. Because the sex of the foot is still unknown at this time, I assume that this was an incomplete or mitochondrial DNA test. No one has been ruled out as the identity of this doe, and she or he remains unidentified.
Spokane, June 27, 2007: In June of 2007, a passerby noticed a body floating in the Spokane River just east of the Washington Street Bridge in the city of Spokane. The body was badly decomposed and had been dead 1 to 6 months before discovery. The cause of death is not known. The man was determined to be approximately 5’ 3” to 5’ 6” probably weighing 130-180 lb in life. This victim's body did not have any tattoos, but not all of his skin was present. His fingerprints could not be obtained. This man was only wearing one tattered sock made of wool like material. And one shoe men's size 5 or 6. There's no description of the shoe or sock.
When this victim was discovered, he had only one remaining tooth. In life the man had suffered earlier (healed) trauma to his jaw, nose, and orbital bone. This traumatic injury would have left him with some scarring and possible facial deformities; he may have had an underbite that would have been noticeable. He most likely had a scar over his left eyebrow. His nose has been broken in the past, and his jaw had been surgically repaired with two titanium “Walter Lorenz” brand plates. By 2007 these plates were no longer being made, and it appears that the man had had jaw surgery 2 to 5 years prior to his death. It is possible all three injuries occurred at the same time from something such as a car accident. It is possible the man lost his teeth in this incident, but the medical examiner also noted that the teeth could have been lost before or after the trauma to the face occured. And it is even possible that he lost his teeth during decomposition after death, meaning in life this man may have had teeth. The corpse also had signs of gum disease, and black head hair three quarters of an inch long with no gray present.
This man's race and age have been disputed over the years. His age has been estimated as anywhere between 33 and 55, with the general consensus being that the man is about 40 years old. An examination of the skull showed that the man was white or Caucasian, but his hair is classified as “negroid hair”. Because of this many have speculated that the man was biracial or mixed race, most likely a combination of white and black heritage. This man is not Jose Rodriguez Hernandez, Joe Pichler, John Baker, George McDonald, William Downey, Shawn Houston, Anthony Sam, Alvin Matlock, George Pooler, or Alfred Grimes. Thankfully dental charts and DNA are available for comparison to this unidentified victim whose reconstruction can be viewed here.
I have submitted two men as potential matches to this doe. Stanley Gene Chandler, and James Natalia Foster. Foster disappeared from Steilacoom, Washington in the late 1980s at age 19. Very little is known about his disappearance and he may be living as a transient. I suggested him as a possibility for this doe- although it is a long shot. Chandler on the other hand, disappeared from Seattle in 1990 at age 23. Meaning he would have been 40 in 2006 or 2007. Most notably, both Chandler and the unidentified man both had a noticeable scar over their left eyebrow, and both men were only 5’4” in height. Both of these missing men are listed as being black, while the unidentified man is reported to be biracial. I decided there were enough similarities between the cases that they deserved to be submitted, even if they are not matches. I heard back from the Doe Network who informed me that Chandler has previously been submitted, but he has not been ruled out yet. Foster had never been.
Spokane, chairlift #1 Doe, 2012: One day in the fall of 2012, a mountain biking club in Mead Washington, Spokane County, were biking in an area west of Chairlift #1 on Mt. Spokane in a wooded area, when one biker found what he thought to be a human skull. The man marked the area and went to tell the park ranger, but when he couldn't find him he left him a message on the ranger’s phone. The ranger later located the skull and called the police. The skull is not a full skull, and no mandible was found. No race or gender can be determined but the skull is believed to have belonged to an adult age 20 to 50. No PMI could be estimated, and no other bones or items were found in the skull’s area of discovery. No one has been ruled out as an identity for this doe.
If you had a friend or a relative who disappeared while living in Spokane, or was a transient in the Spokane area in the 1960s to early 2000s, I would highly suggest that you contact the Spokane Police Department at (509) 755-2489 or the ME’s office at (509) 477-2296. My guess is that many of these people were never reported missing at all, but maybe one of you can change that. Who are these unknown men and women of Spokane, Washington?
Sources:
http://www.doenetwork.org/uid-geo-us-males.php#washington
https://www.namus.gov/UnidentifiedPersons/Search#/results
http://cp.spokanecounty.org/medexamineunident.aspx
https://charleyproject.org/case/james-natalia-foster
https://charleyproject.org/case/stanley-gene-chandler
https://www.spokesman.com/stories/2006/aug/05/naming-spokanes-unknowns/