From nothingness to sanctity
One day, in the folds of time, a person was born in the city of Marrakesh. They all had many brothers, and they were poor and their condition was miserable and extremely poor. This person, whose name was Ibrahim, worked the entire summer to buy school supplies for the next year, and if his shoes were torn, Or he sewed his clothes, but he had no shoes, so his clothes were worn out and old. Ibrahim’s father was in the service, so he was absent from the house, not being with his family much. Days passed and Ibrahim grew up, so his father gave him two choices: either to go to the Education Academy to study and graduate as a professor, or to enter the service. The military, and this choice was not recommended by the father, Ibrahim, because he did not want his son to go through a difficult experience like him, but Ibrahim had an opinion and was very stubborn, so he chose military service, so he went, and after a few years he graduated with the rank of colonel, and at that time his mother proposed to him, a girl from the neighborhood in which he They lived in it, and at that time he married a son, and after that she became pregnant and they had a son, a male, and they named him Muhammad, and from here our story will begin. Muhammad was an ordinary child, and he studied well and excelled in his studies. He always went to the mosque in order to memorize the Qur’an, and he was not an honest, trustworthy child with good morals. He respected people and never insulted anyone. He was a pure and pure child. As the years passed, Muhammad grew up and took the baccalaureate degree. And all these years, Muhammad was influenced by the Islamic conquests and the personality of the Prophet Muhammad, may God bless him and grant him peace, and the Companions, may God be pleased with them, especially Omar ibn Al-Khattab and Ali bin Abi Talib, so he devoted himself to reading the biography of the Prophet and watching videos whose topics were Islam. The important thing is that we go back and said that Muhammad reached the age of 18 and did not find in Morocco job opportunities or even a good position, so he decided to immigrate to America like other young people, so he was registered in the American lottery and after a few months had passed. Acceptance came to him, and he was very happy because he would find a decent living and a decent life. But in reality, there is something else. The important thing is that Muhammad collected all the documents he would need and applied for the visa. Before and after that, he collected his beliefs and booked the plane ticket. On the night of the flight, he was so excited that he did not sleep a lot, and in the morning. He went to the airport, his parents said goodbye to him, and he went to the plane, and after hours he found himself in America, and the reality was something else. There were many racists, and they always insulted him with the name Muhammad because he idolized the Prophet Muhammad, may God bless him and grant him peace, and they even called the Messenger lustful, and he married Aisha for 6 years. And God forbid, as they curse the honorable companions, may God be pleased with them. The important thing is that Muhammad completed his studies in America and obtained several certificates, so he submitted his application to enter the police because he had just obtained American citizenship. The important thing is that he submitted his application and they approved it, so he took the written and physical test and passed it, so he passed them, and now Muhammad has become An official policeman for the state of Chicago, Muhammad was sincere in his work and dedicated to it. He always did not accept bribery and punished criminals severely. Years passed and Muhammad rose in his position and became in the anti-gang department. He became the one carrying out executions and began killing and exterminating everyone. Killer gangs because the state gives him the decision to kill them because they incite fear in people, kill them, and rape their daughters. Muhammad killed, or rather executed, thousands of people, and he exterminated hundreds of gangs from existence, and all the criminals feared him and were afraid to even mention his important name. Hours passed, and one day of the daysOne day, Muhammad found a volume containing the story of the revolution and the Soviet Union. He read it all and was influenced by revolutionary thought. He began to imagine himself as the king of the world, and he was one of the most supportive of the Palestinian cause. They always sent thousands of dollars to Palestinian associations, and Muhammad was stable even though he was stable. In America, but he hates its corrupt regime and the racism towards foreigners that is abundant in it, so Muhammad decided to go to Russia in order to settle there and submitted his application to Russian intelligence and gave up his service in America, but he still possessed American citizenship. The important thing is that Muhammad worked in Russian intelligence and began every day. It is getting more and more popular and everyone loves it until one day there was a parade for President Vladimir Putin And then Muhammad met President Putin, and Putin liked Muhammad’s personality and the way he treated and respected him, so he decided to hire him as his bodyguard, and Muhammad was very happy with this news. The next day, he started working with the president, and he accompanied him wherever he went. The president was subjected to a series of assassination attempts, and Muhammad was always He was his savior. Meanwhile, Muhammad became a loyal friend of Putin and became Vice President. One day, Putin became seriously ill, and when he was on his deathbed, he said goodbye to Muhammad. Muhammad was very affected by his death, but he moved forward and now he has become the President of the Republic of Russia, so it began. His ambitions to reshape the Soviet Union, so he began to forcefully occupy the countries that were on his side. He did not kill innocent people or women. He implemented the commandments of the Prophet Muhammad, may God bless him and grant him peace, to the letter. At this time, America began to threaten Muhammad that it would occupy Russia and destroy it. Muhammad was aware of this matter and was He planned in advance, as he intended to obey America and eliminate it, and the opportunity came to him. He restored the Soviet Union a hundred times stronger and stronger than it was during the era of Stalin and the other leaders. He only developed the nuclear arsenal and developed advanced weapons, and at this time Muhammad brought his father because He had experience in the army and gave him the position of first commander of the army staff, so his father trained the armyHis father was very strict, and he trained the soldiers very hard, and this would benefit them later. Muhammad also gave his grandfather the position of the chief president of all the central banks in the Soviet Union. He was the state’s accountant. All of the revenues of the Soviet Union passed through Muhammad’s grandfather. He also gave his great uncle the position of governor. He was in charge of all the car factories in the country, so he was in charge of all the car factories and all the companies. He was the president of them and the first factory because he had experience. He also entrusted him with the tasks of building power plants and manufacturing high-precision surveillance cameras. Muhammad gave his middle uncle the position of president of the iron and aluminum mining companies. All types of metal. He also gave his younger uncle the head of the taxi unions, as he is responsible for companies and all taxis and driving licenses for taxis, as well as their taxes. Muhammad also gave his younger uncle the position of head of the Ministry of Education and responsible for all schools in the country, as well as the head of the professors’ body. As he is responsible for the education and study sector, Muhammad also gave his great uncle the position of head of the body of lawyers, judges and courts in the state because his great uncle had more than 20 years of experience in the field. Muhammad also gave his other grandfather the position of head of arms manufacturing and export companies because his grandfather also had In military service, he had a lot of experience in questions, because this is all his specialty in politics Thanks to these positions that he gave to some members of his family, each of whom had great experience in the field in which he specialized, which helped the Soviet Union develop greatly and become stronger and stronger. At that time, Muhammad consulted his Soviet advisors and his father in his capacity as Supreme Commander. And the highest ranks of the army, intelligence, and security in the country. Ibrahim, Muhammad’s father, was the second most important authority in the country after his son Muhammad. The important thing is that after the long Shura period, Muhammad took the appropriate decision, so he bombed Washington, D.C., with a large nuclear bomb, which led to the erasure of Washington from the map and the destruction of the White House, so America rose. He responded with a nuclear missile, but Ibrahim, Muhammad's father, was able to dismantle it, repel it, and turn it towards America. From here, a fierce battle began between the Soviet Union and the United States of America. In the end, the Soviet Union was able to overthrow and eliminate America. It also occupied Canada and South America and brought it back. Alaska to Soviet ruleThe Soviet Union seized all the wealth of North and South America, and even Canada, and annexed them to the Soviet Union. Muhammad rebuilt America on the Soviet system, and even Canada and Brazil. The power of the Soviet Union increased 1,000 times, and the Soviet Union became the most powerful country in the world. Muhammad’s ambitions increased, so he occupied North Korea. He eliminated President Kim Jong-un and also occupied South Korea, Japan, and China. The thing that distinguished Muhammad was not killing innocent people. He only killed those participating in the war, and when he occupied the country, he rebuilt it and employed its citizens with a better salary than they had been, so everyone saluted him. There were also those who hated him, but they were very few. The important thing is that the Soviet Union became from the Republic of Russia to the most powerful country in history. Muhammad also liberated Palestine and gathered all the lions of the world and burned them, slaughtered them, and exterminated them from the globe. Only Muhammad eliminated all the Jews and it was Palestine. It was filled with ululations and joy at her liberation, and all the people were chanting the name Muhammad Muhammad and calling him Muhammad the Savior. Meanwhile, the grandfather of the first and second Muhammad died of old age, so Muhammad became very sad for them. At the funeral, someone poisoned Muhammad’s food with the most severe type of poison, and when he ate it, he choked and died. He almost died, but when he came out of the coma, the doctor told him while he was crying, “The poison has spread through your body, my lord Muhammad. You have only a few days left of your life.” Muhammad began to cry, but he was patient. Then Muhammad made his farewell conference in which he gave a speech and advised the people. When he dies, the rule will pass to his father, and when his father dies, it will pass to his great uncle, and this sequence will remainAfter a few days, Muhammad died and was buried in a grave of gold and diamonds. He became the most important figure in the world, so people began to visit him from all parts of the Soviet Union and even from the Arab countries. Millions of people visited him daily. As for him, when he died, power passed to him and he ruled with justice. Here the story of Muhammad has ended and has been folded between the pages of the past I forgot to mention that Muhammad was fighting with the soldiers, but he was covering his face with a mask so that the opponents would not recognize him and focus on him to kill him. If the president was killed, the Soviet Union would collapse. Muhammad was fighting with the soldiers and killing a lot of the enemy. He and his father were fighting, even though his father He was old, but he was stronger than Muhammad himself. Muhammad’s father was fighting 10 soldiers at the same time and killing them. Muhammad also occupied France, demolished the Eiffel Tower, and occupied almost all of Europe. Muhammad donated billions of dollars to Palestine until Palestine became very advanced and became a more ornate city. Muhammad also occupied Iran and exterminated the extremist Shiites. The one who poisoned Muhammad was a black man from Ethiopia, and the soldiers shot him dead when Muhammad died.Also, Muhammad could also have eliminated Morocco and wiped it from the map, but Muhammad did not want to do that out of respect for the Almoravids, Almohads, and Idrisids. When Muhammad died, power passed to his father and he began to rule the world. Muhammad’s tomb, built of pure gold and all precious stones, became a place of pilgrimage for millions of people every day, to the point that airports were filled with people and thousands of people were lining up in queues to obtain a visa. There were also thousands of people in the street chanting the name of Muhammad the Leader. The great and even they are queuing up to go to the Soviet capital, as there are people from far away places in the world such as Australia who go to the Soviet capital to visit the grave of Muhammad, and he was the most important and holiest person in the world after the Prophet Muhammad. And his companions, I am talking about his military clothes and weapons, all of them were sold for millions of dollars to Arab museums. As for the Soviet museums, they contain Muhammad’s necklace and his favorite weapon, and even the Soviet museum is crowded with people every day just to see its antiquities. Mohammed. Everyone loved him, so Muhammad became the second legend that history will not repeat. The first legend is the Prophet MuhammadWhen Muhammad died, they wrapped him in very advanced materials to prevent his body from decomposing. Muhammad's body did not decompose, but remained as it was. One of the materials used to preserve Muhammad's body was formalin, so Muhammad's body remained intact throughout the years.There are also some very wealthy Arabs who wanted to move Muhammad’s grave from the Soviet Union to Mecca in order to increase the state’s economy, but the entire world, billions of people, categorically refused, whether from within the Soviet Union or from outside it, and they wanted to buy his body for billions of dollars, but the entire world categorically refused. A wave of anger has erupted against Saudi Arabia because of this, because a person like Muhammad cannot be violated and his grave opened When Muhammad's father, Ibrahim, assumed power, and due to his old age, he was 61 years old. He found many difficulties because he found himself facing a great challenge in front of him, ruling millions of people. The Soviet Union, during Muhammad's era, was at the height of its power. He had sat on the throne of the most powerful country in history. Only the area of the Soviet Union was estimated at 400 million kilometers, so Ibrahim had to make a lot of effort, and in some of the Union’s colonies, some civil wars broke out between supporters of Muhammad and his supporters and among those who hated him, as most of those who hated Muhammad were from Central Europe, from the Greek islands and elsewhere. Next to it was the leader of the movement named Johann Gospiel. The latter sought revenge on Muhammad’s followers, and they all wanted to kill Ibrahim and destroy the Soviet Union. He was very hateful, and events will show you why the latter was so hateful of Muhammad and the main family. We will go back in time a little to when Muhammad committed mischief. America and occupied North and South Korea. His ambitions began in Europe, and he started with Italy, so he overthrew it, even though he respected Mussolini, the Italian fascist leader, but Muhammad’s ambitions were to occupy all of Europe, so he occupied Italy, eliminated its leader, and demolished all the ancient Roman idols and gods, and when he headed to occupy the Vatican. Muhammad remembered the words of the Prophet Muhammad, may God bless him and grant him peace, at the sign of the Hour, that in the Vatican there is the staff of Moses and the Thapoth of the Covenant, according to what the commentators and hadith scholars say, so Muhammad retreated.With his army, he went to occupy Greece and wanted to destroy Athens. He met the other army, headed by Johann Gaspiel's brother, called Nicholas Gaspiel. The two armies faced each other. Nicholas' army consisted of 45,000 tanks, a fleet of planes, and 980,000 soldiers, while Muhammad had 60,000 tanks. 2 million soldiers, and the two armies faced each other at the famous Evros River in Greece. The war began, and it was so bloody that the Evros River was filled to the brim with corpses and its color became red with blood. Muhammad was killing the enemies, and his father Ibrahim was also fighting, as he was 51 years old and he was very strong. Stronger than Muhammad himself. The important thing was that Muhammad was fighting. He tore off his mask. Nicholas the commander saw him and said: Here you are, Muhammad. I swear to Zeus, Poseidon, and Athena that you will not survive today. Medusa's curse will fall on you. Today I will hang your head before the gods. Muhammad did not answer him verbally, so his response was to arrest him, cut off his head, and hang his body on a treeThey continued fighting for several hours, and Muhammad was able to eliminate the entire army and occupied Greece at five in the morning. He prayed dawn in the city and began his entry with the soldiers. 200,000 soldiers had died in the war. Muhammad made a broadcast on television and consoled all the families and gave them a salary. For life and huge sums of money. The important thing is that Muhammad passed by the fields and saw some peasants. When they saw him, one of them called out and said, “Where is Muhammad?” Muhammad said to him, “Here is Muhammad.” The man came to him and hugged him and said, “O Muhammad, we have been saved from a tyrant who was torturing us and making our lives miserable.” Nicholas Gaspiel) and gave Muhammad some apples and lemons, so Muhammad bought 300 cows from him and the soldiers slaughtered them, so they ate until their stomachs were full and they slept that night while Muhammad was standing praying. This is just going back in time to explain to you why Johann Gaspial hates Muhammad.Johann Gaspel was telling his experience when he saw Muhammad and saying when Muhammad conquered all of Greece, and the people were chanting his name. I said that Muhammad was not killing ordinary citizens and women because he was carrying out the orders of the Prophet Muhammad and his law of war. Johan Gaspel was 12 years old. He said: “I saw large crowds chanting the name of Muhammad, then I was looking out the window, and suddenly I saw Muhammad passing in front of me and hundreds of thousands of people.” Behind him were hundreds of thousands of soldiers armed with the most modern weapons in the world. He said that Muhammad was strong, broad-chested, not more than 180 centimeters tall, and had a black beard, black hair, and brown eyes. Dark brown, and when Johann saw him, he felt an unusual tremor and said that Muhammad was a person that everyone feared
guys This is a fictional story written by me. Give me your opinion in the comments

An hour after getting back from the Mason apartment, Bruce Kenner had the distinct misfortune of meeting Bertha Henderson.
A plump, gaudy woman with wrinkles and sun beaten skin only an alligator could love, Bertha Henderson wore bright red lipstick, bright red rouge, and way too much mascara. Her tangled hair was a dull red color and her clothes - pink pants and a white floral top - stretched tight across her bulbous frame. She looked like the kind of woman who lived in a trailer with velvet pictures of Elvis on the wall and pink flamingos in the front yard.
She acted like one too.
From the moment she stormed into his office, she hadn’t shut up once. She scolded, chided, accused, and badgered, sometimes even wagging one fat finger in his face like he was a naughty little boy. Ten minutes into the dressing down and Bruce was beginning to fantasize about police brutality.
It took him another ten minutes to find out what the hell she even wanted.
“It’s my granddaughter,” she shot back, “she’s missing in your town.”
My town? Lady, this is barely my office. I share it with three other people.
“Well, if you’ll calm down, maybe I can help.”
Jesus Christ was that the wrong thing to say. She hit the roof and didn’t come down again until Bruce was this close to arresting her for assault on a police officer. “Young man, I do not appreciate the way you’re talking to me. My tax dollars are the only reason you have a job. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be working at a car wash.”
At least I wouldn’t have to deal with you.
Bruce took a deep breath and held his tongue in check. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I told you, my granddaughter is missing. If you listened to me, you’d know this already.”
Bertha produced a picture and slid it across the desk. Bruce studied it. A girl, roughly sixteen with black hair, blue eyes, and dimples smiled back at him. “She;’s with that Rossi man, I just know it,” she said bitterly.
“Who?” Bruce asked.
Rolling her eyes like he was stupid, the old woman told him the story. Jessie - the dimple faced girl - had the rotten luck of having to live with Grandma Bertha after her parents went to jail on drug charges. They lived in Sand Lake, a little town in the mountains outside Albany, where Bertha was no doubt loved and admired by all. One day, Jessie, who her grandmother lovingly described as “A little troublemaker”, ran off. Bruce didn’t blame her. He’d known Bertha for half an hour and he wanted to run off. Bertha did some snooping on Jessie’s laptop and found that the “little whore” had been chatting with an older man, Joe Rossi. Rossi, or so Facebook said, lived in Albany and worked at Club Vlad.
“I want him arrested for pedophilia,” Bertha said and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. “He’s a dog just like all men. She’s probably pregnant already. Another mouth I have to feed.”
Behind the old battle ax, Vanessa appeared in the doorway and lifted her brows as if to say What a piece of work. Knowing her, she’d probably been standing just out of sight this whole time with McKenny, the elderly evidence clerk, and snickering into her hand like a little girl. LOL she called him young man.
Bertha noticed him looking over her shoulder and started to turn. Vanessa’s face went white and she ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding detection. “I’m glad you think this is funny,” Bertha said to Bruce. “Meanwhile, if I don’t get Jessie back, the state’s going to stop sending me my checks. I need that income. I can’t work, you know. I have gout.”
Too bad being an asshole isn’t a job, you’d be world-famous
“I’ll go talk to him,” Bruce said.
“I want more than talk, young man, I want action.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Bertha finally decided to waddle off and ruin someone else’s day, Vanessa came in and sat in the chair the old woman had so recently occupied. “Oh, my God,” she said, “that was intense. I was this close to radioing in a 1015.”
1015 was code for officer down.
“Funny,” Bruce said without a trace of humor. He had kids going missing, a dead guy someone moved around like a goddamn Barbie doll, and now this. What next, hemorrhoids?
“What do you think? Code 1 or code 2?”
Code 1 meant top priority. Code 2 meant not a top priority. Bruce thought for a moment. It didn’t sound like Jessie Henderson was in danger. It sounded like she met a guy - granted, one too old for her - and decided to hide out with him from her psycho grandma. Maybe it could be something more, but he had a gut feeling that it wasn’t…and his gut feelings were usually right. “2,” he finally said. “I got shit to do.”
By shit, he meant “Talk to the families of those missing boys again.” He’d been interviewing them for two days looking for clues, but there was nothing. It’s like they just vanished. Bruce didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Vanessa said and slapped the desk.
When she was gone, Bruce sighed.
Never a dull moment, he thought.
***
Ed Harris - no relation to the Hollywood actor - had been the medical examiner for the City of Albany since 2002, and in all that time, he had never seen anything quite like this.
It was Wednesday evening and Ed was locked away in the cold, sterile space beneath the city offices that comprised his domain. With its puke green tiles, harsh lights, and cloying smells of disinfectant, the .coroner's office creeped most people out, but not Ed. He was at home here, as comfortable surrounded by toe-tagged bodies as a cactus was surrounded by desert. A thin man in his fifties with curly, steel gray hair thinning in the middle, he wore a white smock, blood stained over his clothes that made him look like a butcher instead of a low level government functionary. He had a dark and dry sense of humor, but then again, so do all people who play with dead bodies for fun and profit.
The coroner’s office was a vast, utilitarian vault segmented into multiple different rooms. Here, where the magic happened, three stainless steel tables stood in a row; a bank of refrigerated drawers kept watch, making sure nothing funny happened. One of the cold fluorescent lights overhead flickered with a hum of electricity, and water dripped rhythmically from a faucet. It was a cold, eerie place, but to Ed, it was home.
On most nights, only one of the tables was occupied, but tonight, two were. On one lay an old lady who died of what appeared to be cyanide poisoning. On the other was Dominick Mason.
Naked save for a white cloth draped over his groin to protect his dignity, Dom was the most corpsy corpse you’d ever hope to see. In fact, if you looked up dead guy in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him. His body was pale and sunken, one side covered in purple splotches where his blood had pooled, and his eyes were closed. His abdomen was slightly distended with the expected build up of gas, and his flesh stuck fast to the bones beneath. In other words, he was text book. A normal corpse.
Mostly normal.
As men of his trade are wont to do when strange bodies mysteriously appear, Ed had opened Dom up, making a Y shaped incision from his neck to his groin. He hummed to himself as he did so, his hands wielding his sharp and shiny tools with the deft assuredness of a seasoned surgeon. Done cutting, he dipped his gloved hands into the cavity and started removing organs. A spleen here, a liver there, nothing Dom would miss. When he got to the heart, however, he stopped.
There was something…off…about it. At first glance, it was black and withered like an oversized raisin. An odd and putrid odor emanated from it and though he was familiar with the various smells and stenches the human body produced after death, this wasn’t one of them. Try as he might, he couldn’t place it, couldn’t even compare it to anything. Plucking a magnifying glass from the metal cart next to the table, he peeled back part of Dom’s chest and examined the heart closer.
That’s when things got really weird.
Dominick Mason’s heart was, indeed, shriveled, but it was not black. Instead, it was almost entirely covered by an interlacing crisscross of what appeared to be black mold. Here and there, Ed could glimpse flashes of the heart beneath: It was wrinkled and a sickly gray color. “What is this?” Ed asked himself at length. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from the tray and carefully, very carefully, attempted to remove a piece of the mold for analysis. The moment the cold metal tips touched the heart, it gave a violent spasm that sent Ed falling back with a shocked gasp, the tweezers falling from his hand and clinking to the tiled floor.
The heart began to pulse like an alien egg sac, slowly at first, then more rapidly. For a moment, Ed was frozen in place, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Once you die, your heart ceases beating. That’s that. Only living hearts beat, and Dominick Mason was certainly dead. He was dead from the moment Ed first laid eyes on him earlier that day and he was dead now. Yet there was his heart, beating anyway.
It could be a muscle spasm. They usually aren’t that violent and consistent, but dead bodies sometimes do strange things. As he watched the blackened muscle expanding and contracting, however, Ed had the most eerie feeling. He went to rub the back of his neck, realized he was still wearing blood soaked gloves, and stripped them off. He was spooking himself out; he needed a break and a hot cup of coffee. He’d come back fresh and start over again.
With that mold.
Could you really blame him for being creeped out? That stuff wasn’t normal. He’d never seen anything like that before, not even in textbooks. Dom was scrawny and didn’t get enough vitamins in life, but overall, he was healthy; that mold…or whatever it was…had no business being there.
Going over to the coffee pot, which stood in the same room to save travel time, Ed grabbed a styrofoam cup. When he was done here, he planned to go home and -
A terrible, metallic clatter rang out, and Ed jumped. He turned around, and when he saw Dominick Mason standing next to the table, hunched slightly over and staring at him, an electric burst of fright shot up his spine and exploded in his brain, so strong it made the edges turn gray. Pale, hands hooked into talons, and the flaps of his chest hanging open to reveal the cavity beneath, Dominick Mason looked for all the world like a boy who’d been caught sneaking out to meet his girlfriend. A weak, involuntary, “Oh, God,” slipped from Ed’s trembling lips, and the spell was broken. Dom came alive and ran toward the door leading out to the parking lot. He slammed through it, and the sound of it crashing open and then falling closed again echoed through the empty chamber.
Shaking, panting for air, and soaked in piss, Ed sank to the floor in a sitting position, his eyes wide and staring like those of a soldier returning damaged from the front.
It was a long time before he composed himself enough to call the police.
***
Dazed and caught in a nightmarish twilight realm where nothing made sense, Dominick Mason limped painfully down the sidewalk, a stranger lost in a strange land filled with danger and hostile creatures. Barefoot and shrouded in a white sheet, he trembled with cold and struggled to ignore the dark, threatening shapes looming from the fog in his brain, shapes that would turn into unspeakable truths if he let them.
Passersby openly stared at him, their expressions either morbidly curious, disgusted, or alarmed. A man put his arm protectively around his girlfriend; a woman pulled her little boy to her breast, and another man sneered at him, his nose crinkling. Dom, his glazed eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the many street lamps, headlights, and storefronts, lumbered headlong toward nowhere, his fear growing until he was shambling. He imagined he could hear every cough, every whisper; smell the odor of every unwashed body. Each car horn was deafening, every whiff of ass or armpits sent his stomach churning. The rustle of a passing pedestrian’s jacket jammed into his ears like icepicks, and the approaching globes of LED headlamps burned his eyes. He gritted his teeth and groaned against the pain.
The dense mist wrapping his brain made it hard to think. Like a frightened animal, he made his way on instinct alone. Home. He needed to get home. Out here, on the street, he was exposed. At home, locked away in his small apartment, he would be safe.
A car passed in the street, bass heavy rap music blaring from its open windows, and Dom’s brain exploded with agony. He threw himself against a street sign and held on for dear life, his legs weak. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he almost went down. He was also cold.
So, so cold.
People around him quickened their step; they never took their eyes off him, as though he were a venomous snake that would strike at any moment. He needed to get away from them. They were going to hurt him; people always hurt him.
Pushing away from the sign, he began to hobble once more toward home, wherever home was. He looked over his shoulder several times as he made his way down Central Avenue, and each time, he saw that no one was following him as he had feared.
No one, that is, except for the man in sunglasses.
Tall and lank with curly hair, he wore dark Aviators and a leather motorcycle jacket over a button up shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his face showed no expression. He was always there, always a few steps closer. Outside Capital Fried Chicken, a group of people openly stared at him, He heard their whispers as he passed. What’s wrong with him? Dude’s straight tweakin. And the one that struck him the most. That guy looks dead.
Dom hobbled faster, as if to outrun the realization that he was, in fact, dead. The man in sunglasses was closer now, his footsteps so loud that Dom winced. He turned around, and the man was impossibly in front of him. Dom ran into him and bounced backward, going ass over tea kettle and landing on the former. They were in front of a church on a darkened corner, the lights here either burned out or shot out - you could never tell in Albany. Even though it was dark, Dom could see everything with crystal clarity. Dom tried to scurry away, but he was too weak to escape. Right there and then, he decided to give up. Come what may, he just wanted this nightmare to be over.
The man stared down at him, emotionless, unspeaking.
Dom squirmed.
“You’re real lucky I came along,” the man said. His tone was flat, even.
Dead.
“Get up,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”
Home?
Yes.
Dom wanted to go home.
The man helped him up, and Dom followed him into the night.
***
Bruce Kenner stood in the middle of the medical examiner’s office at half past nine that evening with his hands on his hips and stared doubtfully down at Ed Harris. The lonely cavern was alive with activity as cops went over everything, all of them looking either bemused or a mused. Bruce was neither. He’d been at home, sitting in his chair and having a beer in front of AEW Dynamite when Vanessa called. “You might wanna get down here,” she said, sounding confused, “something really strange is going on.”
Ed Harris - no relation to that one guy - sat in a straight back chair beside his cluttered desk and gripped a styrofoam cup of coffee in both hands, putting Bruce - for some reason - in mind of a monkey. When Bruce came in, the old man was white as a sheet and shook like a leaf. In the last half hour, little had changed.
“Tell me again,” Bruce said.
He and Ed were pretty good friends. He knew that Ed knew standard police procedure. Cops don’t ask you to repeat your story a thousand times over because they’re forgetful fucks, they do it because telling it again and again helps to jog loose details that you might have forgotten. Ed, therefore, did not protest. “I turned my back,” he said and chopped the chair like Jackie Chan, “and I heard the noise.”
His voice was thick, unsteady, and halting. He sounded as squirrely as he looked…and he looked pretty damn squirrelly right now.
“I turned around…and he was looking at me. He was standing there and he was looking at me.”
This was the fourth time he’d had Ed go through the story, and nothing had changed. Bruce felt something stirring deep inside his gut. It was either disquiet…or he had to fart. He opened his mouth to speak, but sighed.
“You don’t believe me,” Ed said.
“I dunno, Ed. Dead bodies don’t just get up and walk away.”
Ed flashed. “I know that, goddamn it, but this one did.”
Bruce glanced at Vanessa. She looked uncomfortable.
“Are you sure he was dead?” Bruce asked.
Ed opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, “I did the autopsy.” His voice broke on the last word, and he sounded almost like he was pleading. “His fucking liver’s on the floor. He stepped on it. The man has nothing in him. I-I’m telling you, there’s no way he’s alive.”
During the autopsy, Ed had sat Dominick Mason’s organs on the little tray table where he kept his pointy things. Mason knocked it over while getting up. Indeed, there were human organs on the floor, and one of them did look kind of squished. Bare, bloody footprints led to the exit door, up a set of concrete steps, and then disappeared in the alley behind the office.
“You said you left his heart,” Bruce said.
“And his brain,” Vanessa helpfully added.
Ed pinched the bridge of his nose like a put upon professor dealing with two particularly stupid students. “Even with his heart and his brain, he’s dead. You saw the livor mortis. He was cold, he was stiff. His heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t breathing. He was in one of those drawers for nine hours, not breathing, no blood flow - it’s impossible. It’s just…it’s impossible. I don’t care what you think, he was dead. And even if somehow he wasn’t, I cut out almost everything. I opened his stomach, I took his spleen - you don’t just get up from that. You don’t walk away from that, much less run.”
Bruce chewed the inside of his bottom lip because he didn’t have a Twix. He didn’t look like the smartest man in the world…and he wasn’t…but he knew a dead body when he saw one, and the body they took out of Dominick Mason’s apartment was D.E.A.D. And like Ed said, even if by some freak fluke of nature he wasn’t, he couldn’t just get up and go about his day with no liver, spleen, or kidneys. Hell, Bruce had his gallbladder out and he couldn’t even walk away from that.
“You said there was something funny about his heart,” Vanessa said.
Ed finished off his coffee. “Yeah. It was…moldy. I-I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Is it possible that…has something to do with it?”
“Unless the rules of biology have changed overnight, no,” Ed stated.
While Ed poured himself another cup of Joe, spilling some because he was still shaking, Vanessa took Bruce aside. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Is he telling the truth?”
For that, Bruce did not have an immediate answer. All else aside, he was a cop. He followed the evidence - and his gut instinct - wherever it led him. Ed was a sober man - he was not a drunk, insane, or stupid - and no man on earth could fake the look of trauma in his eyes. Bruce’s eyes went to the bloody footprints leading away from the exam table and his stomach roiled. It might be cliched, but there had to be a rational explanation. “Yeah,” he finally said. “The kid got up like he said, but there’s no way he was dead. Maybe…I dunno, he had a surge of adrenaline or something. I’m not a doctor.”
“That’ll only get him so far,” Vanessa said. “We’ll probably find him on the street somewhere.”
He went back to the purple splotches on Dom’s face, to his cold stiffness. There’s no way he was dead?
Bruce was confused, and he hated being confused.
“I dunno,” he said, “maybe.”
But he had the gnawing feeling that they wouldn’t. They would never find him…and Bruce would be confused forever.
Goddamn it, Mason, he thought, where are you?

An hour after getting back from the Mason apartment, Bruce Kenner had the distinct misfortune of meeting Bertha Henderson.
A plump, gaudy woman with wrinkles and sun beaten skin only an alligator could love, Bertha Henderson wore bright red lipstick, bright red rouge, and way too much mascara. Her tangled hair was a dull red color and her clothes - pink pants and a white floral top - stretched tight across her bulbous frame. She looked like the kind of woman who lived in a trailer with velvet pictures of Elvis on the wall and pink flamingos in the front yard.
She acted like one too.
From the moment she stormed into his office, she hadn’t shut up once. She scolded, chided, accused, and badgered, sometimes even wagging one fat finger in his face like he was a naughty little boy. Ten minutes into the dressing down and Bruce was beginning to fantasize about police brutality.
It took him another ten minutes to find out what the hell she even wanted.
“It’s my granddaughter,” she shot back, “she’s missing in your town.”
My town? Lady, this is barely my office. I share it with three other people.
“Well, if you’ll calm down, maybe I can help.”
Jesus Christ was that the wrong thing to say. She hit the roof and didn’t come down again until Bruce was this close to arresting her for assault on a police officer. “Young man, I do not appreciate the way you’re talking to me. My tax dollars are the only reason you have a job. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be working at a car wash.”
At least I wouldn’t have to deal with you.
Bruce took a deep breath and held his tongue in check. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I told you, my granddaughter is missing. If you listened to me, you’d know this already.”
Bertha produced a picture and slid it across the desk. Bruce studied it. A girl, roughly sixteen with black hair, blue eyes, and dimples smiled back at him. “She;’s with that Rossi man, I just know it,” she said bitterly.
“Who?” Bruce asked.
Rolling her eyes like he was stupid, the old woman told him the story. Jessie - the dimple faced girl - had the rotten luck of having to live with Grandma Bertha after her parents went to jail on drug charges. They lived in Sand Lake, a little town in the mountains outside Albany, where Bertha was no doubt loved and admired by all. One day, Jessie, who her grandmother lovingly described as “A little troublemaker”, ran off. Bruce didn’t blame her. He’d known Bertha for half an hour and he wanted to run off. Bertha did some snooping on Jessie’s laptop and found that the “little whore” had been chatting with an older man, Joe Rossi. Rossi, or so Facebook said, lived in Albany and worked at Club Vlad.
“I want him arrested for pedophilia,” Bertha said and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. “He’s a dog just like all men. She’s probably pregnant already. Another mouth I have to feed.”
Behind the old battle ax, Vanessa appeared in the doorway and lifted her brows as if to say What a piece of work. Knowing her, she’d probably been standing just out of sight this whole time with McKenny, the elderly evidence clerk, and snickering into her hand like a little girl. LOL she called him young man.
Bertha noticed him looking over her shoulder and started to turn. Vanessa’s face went white and she ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding detection. “I’m glad you think this is funny,” Bertha said to Bruce. “Meanwhile, if I don’t get Jessie back, the state’s going to stop sending me my checks. I need that income. I can’t work, you know. I have gout.”
Too bad being an asshole isn’t a job, you’d be world-famous
“I’ll go talk to him,” Bruce said.
“I want more than talk, young man, I want action.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Bertha finally decided to waddle off and ruin someone else’s day, Vanessa came in and sat in the chair the old woman had so recently occupied. “Oh, my God,” she said, “that was intense. I was this close to radioing in a 1015.”
1015 was code for officer down.
“Funny,” Bruce said without a trace of humor. He had kids going missing, a dead guy someone moved around like a goddamn Barbie doll, and now this. What next, hemorrhoids?
“What do you think? Code 1 or code 2?”
Code 1 meant top priority. Code 2 meant not a top priority. Bruce thought for a moment. It didn’t sound like Jessie Henderson was in danger. It sounded like she met a guy - granted, one too old for her - and decided to hide out with him from her psycho grandma. Maybe it could be something more, but he had a gut feeling that it wasn’t…and his gut feelings were usually right. “2,” he finally said. “I got shit to do.”
By shit, he meant “Talk to the families of those missing boys again.” He’d been interviewing them for two days looking for clues, but there was nothing. It’s like they just vanished. Bruce didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Vanessa said and slapped the desk.
When she was gone, Bruce sighed.
Never a dull moment, he thought.
***
Ed Harris - no relation to the Hollywood actor - had been the medical examiner for the City of Albany since 2002, and in all that time, he had never seen anything quite like this.
It was Wednesday evening and Ed was locked away in the cold, sterile space beneath the city offices that comprised his domain. With its puke green tiles, harsh lights, and cloying smells of disinfectant, the .coroner's office creeped most people out, but not Ed. He was at home here, as comfortable surrounded by toe-tagged bodies as a cactus was surrounded by desert. A thin man in his fifties with curly, steel gray hair thinning in the middle, he wore a white smock, blood stained over his clothes that made him look like a butcher instead of a low level government functionary. He had a dark and dry sense of humor, but then again, so do all people who play with dead bodies for fun and profit.
The coroner’s office was a vast, utilitarian vault segmented into multiple different rooms. Here, where the magic happened, three stainless steel tables stood in a row; a bank of refrigerated drawers kept watch, making sure nothing funny happened. One of the cold fluorescent lights overhead flickered with a hum of electricity, and water dripped rhythmically from a faucet. It was a cold, eerie place, but to Ed, it was home.
On most nights, only one of the tables was occupied, but tonight, two were. On one lay an old lady who died of what appeared to be cyanide poisoning. On the other was Dominick Mason.
Naked save for a white cloth draped over his groin to protect his dignity, Dom was the most corpsy corpse you’d ever hope to see. In fact, if you looked up dead guy in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him. His body was pale and sunken, one side covered in purple splotches where his blood had pooled, and his eyes were closed. His abdomen was slightly distended with the expected build up of gas, and his flesh stuck fast to the bones beneath. In other words, he was text book. A normal corpse.
Mostly normal.
As men of his trade are wont to do when strange bodies mysteriously appear, Ed had opened Dom up, making a Y shaped incision from his neck to his groin. He hummed to himself as he did so, his hands wielding his sharp and shiny tools with the deft assuredness of a seasoned surgeon. Done cutting, he dipped his gloved hands into the cavity and started removing organs. A spleen here, a liver there, nothing Dom would miss. When he got to the heart, however, he stopped.
There was something…off…about it. At first glance, it was black and withered like an oversized raisin. An odd and putrid odor emanated from it and though he was familiar with the various smells and stenches the human body produced after death, this wasn’t one of them. Try as he might, he couldn’t place it, couldn’t even compare it to anything. Plucking a magnifying glass from the metal cart next to the table, he peeled back part of Dom’s chest and examined the heart closer.
That’s when things got really weird.
Dominick Mason’s heart was, indeed, shriveled, but it was not black. Instead, it was almost entirely covered by an interlacing crisscross of what appeared to be black mold. Here and there, Ed could glimpse flashes of the heart beneath: It was wrinkled and a sickly gray color. “What is this?” Ed asked himself at length. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from the tray and carefully, very carefully, attempted to remove a piece of the mold for analysis. The moment the cold metal tips touched the heart, it gave a violent spasm that sent Ed falling back with a shocked gasp, the tweezers falling from his hand and clinking to the tiled floor.
The heart began to pulse like an alien egg sac, slowly at first, then more rapidly. For a moment, Ed was frozen in place, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Once you die, your heart ceases beating. That’s that. Only living hearts beat, and Dominick Mason was certainly dead. He was dead from the moment Ed first laid eyes on him earlier that day and he was dead now. Yet there was his heart, beating anyway.
It could be a muscle spasm. They usually aren’t that violent and consistent, but dead bodies sometimes do strange things. As he watched the blackened muscle expanding and contracting, however, Ed had the most eerie feeling. He went to rub the back of his neck, realized he was still wearing blood soaked gloves, and stripped them off. He was spooking himself out; he needed a break and a hot cup of coffee. He’d come back fresh and start over again.
With that mold.
Could you really blame him for being creeped out? That stuff wasn’t normal. He’d never seen anything like that before, not even in textbooks. Dom was scrawny and didn’t get enough vitamins in life, but overall, he was healthy; that mold…or whatever it was…had no business being there.
Going over to the coffee pot, which stood in the same room to save travel time, Ed grabbed a styrofoam cup. When he was done here, he planned to go home and -
A terrible, metallic clatter rang out, and Ed jumped. He turned around, and when he saw Dominick Mason standing next to the table, hunched slightly over and staring at him, an electric burst of fright shot up his spine and exploded in his brain, so strong it made the edges turn gray. Pale, hands hooked into talons, and the flaps of his chest hanging open to reveal the cavity beneath, Dominick Mason looked for all the world like a boy who’d been caught sneaking out to meet his girlfriend. A weak, involuntary, “Oh, God,” slipped from Ed’s trembling lips, and the spell was broken. Dom came alive and ran toward the door leading out to the parking lot. He slammed through it, and the sound of it crashing open and then falling closed again echoed through the empty chamber.
Shaking, panting for air, and soaked in piss, Ed sank to the floor in a sitting position, his eyes wide and staring like those of a soldier returning damaged from the front.
It was a long time before he composed himself enough to call the police.
***
Dazed and caught in a nightmarish twilight realm where nothing made sense, Dominick Mason limped painfully down the sidewalk, a stranger lost in a strange land filled with danger and hostile creatures. Barefoot and shrouded in a white sheet, he trembled with cold and struggled to ignore the dark, threatening shapes looming from the fog in his brain, shapes that would turn into unspeakable truths if he let them.
Passersby openly stared at him, their expressions either morbidly curious, disgusted, or alarmed. A man put his arm protectively around his girlfriend; a woman pulled her little boy to her breast, and another man sneered at him, his nose crinkling. Dom, his glazed eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the many street lamps, headlights, and storefronts, lumbered headlong toward nowhere, his fear growing until he was shambling. He imagined he could hear every cough, every whisper; smell the odor of every unwashed body. Each car horn was deafening, every whiff of ass or armpits sent his stomach churning. The rustle of a passing pedestrian’s jacket jammed into his ears like icepicks, and the approaching globes of LED headlamps burned his eyes. He gritted his teeth and groaned against the pain.
The dense mist wrapping his brain made it hard to think. Like a frightened animal, he made his way on instinct alone. Home. He needed to get home. Out here, on the street, he was exposed. At home, locked away in his small apartment, he would be safe.
A car passed in the street, bass heavy rap music blaring from its open windows, and Dom’s brain exploded with agony. He threw himself against a street sign and held on for dear life, his legs weak. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he almost went down. He was also cold.
So, so cold.
People around him quickened their step; they never took their eyes off him, as though he were a venomous snake that would strike at any moment. He needed to get away from them. They were going to hurt him; people always hurt him.
Pushing away from the sign, he began to hobble once more toward home, wherever home was. He looked over his shoulder several times as he made his way down Central Avenue, and each time, he saw that no one was following him as he had feared.
No one, that is, except for the man in sunglasses.
Tall and lank with curly hair, he wore dark Aviators and a leather motorcycle jacket over a button up shirt. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his face showed no expression. He was always there, always a few steps closer. Outside Capital Fried Chicken, a group of people openly stared at him, He heard their whispers as he passed. What’s wrong with him? Dude’s straight tweakin. And the one that struck him the most. That guy looks dead.
Dom hobbled faster, as if to outrun the realization that he was, in fact, dead. The man in sunglasses was closer now, his footsteps so loud that Dom winced. He turned around, and the man was impossibly in front of him. Dom ran into him and bounced backward, going ass over tea kettle and landing on the former. They were in front of a church on a darkened corner, the lights here either burned out or shot out - you could never tell in Albany. Even though it was dark, Dom could see everything with crystal clarity. Dom tried to scurry away, but he was too weak to escape. Right there and then, he decided to give up. Come what may, he just wanted this nightmare to be over.
The man stared down at him, emotionless, unspeaking.
Dom squirmed.
“You’re real lucky I came along,” the man said. His tone was flat, even.
Dead.
“Get up,” he said, “I’ll take you home.”
Home?
Yes.
Dom wanted to go home.
The man helped him up, and Dom followed him into the night.
***
Bruce Kenner stood in the middle of the medical examiner’s office at half past nine that evening with his hands on his hips and stared doubtfully down at Ed Harris. The lonely cavern was alive with activity as cops went over everything, all of them looking either bemused or a mused. Bruce was neither. He’d been at home, sitting in his chair and having a beer in front of AEW Dynamite when Vanessa called. “You might wanna get down here,” she said, sounding confused, “something really strange is going on.”
Ed Harris - no relation to that one guy - sat in a straight back chair beside his cluttered desk and gripped a styrofoam cup of coffee in both hands, putting Bruce - for some reason - in mind of a monkey. When Bruce came in, the old man was white as a sheet and shook like a leaf. In the last half hour, little had changed.
“Tell me again,” Bruce said.
He and Ed were pretty good friends. He knew that Ed knew standard police procedure. Cops don’t ask you to repeat your story a thousand times over because they’re forgetful fucks, they do it because telling it again and again helps to jog loose details that you might have forgotten. Ed, therefore, did not protest. “I turned my back,” he said and chopped the chair like Jackie Chan, “and I heard the noise.”
His voice was thick, unsteady, and halting. He sounded as squirrely as he looked…and he looked pretty damn squirrelly right now.
“I turned around…and he was looking at me. He was standing there and he was looking at me.”
This was the fourth time he’d had Ed go through the story, and nothing had changed. Bruce felt something stirring deep inside his gut. It was either disquiet…or he had to fart. He opened his mouth to speak, but sighed.
“You don’t believe me,” Ed said.
“I dunno, Ed. Dead bodies don’t just get up and walk away.”
Ed flashed. “I know that, goddamn it, but this one did.”
Bruce glanced at Vanessa. She looked uncomfortable.
“Are you sure he was dead?” Bruce asked.
Ed opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, “I did the autopsy.” His voice broke on the last word, and he sounded almost like he was pleading. “His fucking liver’s on the floor. He stepped on it. The man has nothing in him. I-I’m telling you, there’s no way he’s alive.”
During the autopsy, Ed had sat Dominick Mason’s organs on the little tray table where he kept his pointy things. Mason knocked it over while getting up. Indeed, there were human organs on the floor, and one of them did look kind of squished. Bare, bloody footprints led to the exit door, up a set of concrete steps, and then disappeared in the alley behind the office.
“You said you left his heart,” Bruce said.
“And his brain,” Vanessa helpfully added.
Ed pinched the bridge of his nose like a put upon professor dealing with two particularly stupid students. “Even with his heart and his brain, he’s dead. You saw the livor mortis. He was cold, he was stiff. His heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t breathing. He was in one of those drawers for nine hours, not breathing, no blood flow - it’s impossible. It’s just…it’s impossible. I don’t care what you think, he was dead. And even if somehow he wasn’t, I cut out almost everything. I opened his stomach, I took his spleen - you don’t just get up from that. You don’t walk away from that, much less run.”
Bruce chewed the inside of his bottom lip because he didn’t have a Twix. He didn’t look like the smartest man in the world…and he wasn’t…but he knew a dead body when he saw one, and the body they took out of Dominick Mason’s apartment was D.E.A.D. And like Ed said, even if by some freak fluke of nature he wasn’t, he couldn’t just get up and go about his day with no liver, spleen, or kidneys. Hell, Bruce had his gallbladder out and he couldn’t even walk away from that.
“You said there was something funny about his heart,” Vanessa said.
Ed finished off his coffee. “Yeah. It was…moldy. I-I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Is it possible that…has something to do with it?”
“Unless the rules of biology have changed overnight, no,” Ed stated.
While Ed poured himself another cup of Joe, spilling some because he was still shaking, Vanessa took Bruce aside. “So what do you think?” she asked. “Is he telling the truth?”
For that, Bruce did not have an immediate answer. All else aside, he was a cop. He followed the evidence - and his gut instinct - wherever it led him. Ed was a sober man - he was not a drunk, insane, or stupid - and no man on earth could fake the look of trauma in his eyes. Bruce’s eyes went to the bloody footprints leading away from the exam table and his stomach roiled. It might be cliched, but there had to be a rational explanation. “Yeah,” he finally said. “The kid got up like he said, but there’s no way he was dead. Maybe…I dunno, he had a surge of adrenaline or something. I’m not a doctor.”
“That’ll only get him so far,” Vanessa said. “We’ll probably find him on the street somewhere.”
He went back to the purple splotches on Dom’s face, to his cold stiffness. There’s no way he was dead?
Bruce was confused, and he hated being confused.
“I dunno,” he said, “maybe.”
But he had the gnawing feeling that they wouldn’t. They would never find him…and Bruce would be confused forever.
Goddamn it, Mason, he thought, where are you?

The pain was the worst thing`Dominick Mason had ever known…and he knew what it felt like to die. It felt like his brain was in a blender, being chopped to liquid for a Jeffery Dahmer smoothie and though it seemed melodramatic, he imagined he could feel himself losing brain cells by the minute. The sun, Merrick told him, would not burn him, but it would decay him faster, so sleep or rest during the day. With the sick, throbbing agony in the center of his brain, however, that was impossible. He spent most of the day curled up on his side, hugging his knees, and moaning. He had flashbacks to dying in his apartment, and that made things even worse. The room became too small, too close, the air too stale. His heart, filled with the blood of last night’s meal, pounded in his chest, and he went from slightly chilly to hot and feverish as blood was forced through his circulatory system. It mixed with the embalming fluid and left him feeling full and constipated. He didn’t want to get up, but he also didn’t want to go on lying there. He was the definition of miserable.
Before long, the pain became too great and he got up to pace, pressing his hands to the sides of his head and gritting his teeth. Merrick, who slept very little if at all, sat in his chair and watched, trying his best to talk him through it. “It’ll be over soon,” Merrick said. “The pain receptors in your brain are the first to go. When they burn out, you won’t feel anything.”
“When?” Dom asked, his voice raising with the tide of pain.
“A couple days?”
“A couple days???”
“The pain will lessen gradually,” Merrick said, “this is the worst of it.”
Dom believed that this was, indeed, the worst of it, but he doubted it would lessen gradually. For the rest of the day, the pain got worse and worse until every light blinded him, every sound turned his stomach, and the smell of anything made his gorge rise. The cloying smell of the embalming fluid, the light but unmistakable odor of dead flesh, and the scent of stale blood sitting in decomposing stomachs made him want to vomit, but he was afraid to. He didn’t think he could handle the sight of blood rushing from his mouth and splattering the floor. He still possessed enough of his facilities, he believed, to go insane.
Pain has a way of darkening one’s mood, and by the time the sun began to set, Dom was in the most sour mood possible. Even Merrick’s calm, fatherly voice was beginning to get on his nerves. When he took the oath to him the day before (or was it the day before that?), he turned his faith and trust over to Merrick entirely. He was finally accepted, included, finally had the love and fellowship that, in the pit of his soul, he had always wanted. Merrick understood him, Merrick was kind to him.
But deep down, Dom realized that he didn’t fully trust him. He said that his brain didn’t rot because he was “lucky.” That sounded like some bullshit to Dom. Why wasn’t Joe a blithering idiot too? Was he lucky as well? Did lightning strike in the same place twice? In life, people had done nothing but hurt and lie to Dom. Why would death be any different? He thought back to the strange liquid that always seemed to leak from Merrick’s nose, and Joe’s. He thought it was embalming fluid, but it never leaked from his own nose, or from anyone else’s. He tried to tell himself that it was far too soon to judge, but once he began to doubt something, his mind raced away. He felt a twinge of guilt, as Merrick had done absolutely nothing to deserve his doubt, but goddamn it, his head was on fire and he wanted it to stop. Anything to make it stop.
Just after sundown, the music began as Club Vlad opened for the night. It throbbed in the center of Dom’s head and made him want to claw his eyes out. When it became too much for him, he slipped away and stumbled into the sultry summer night. He came out in the alley running behind the club, clutching his head and breathing through bared teeth. He staggered, bumped into a metal trash can, and roared at the top of his lungs, as if he could purge himself of the pain by screaming.. His voice echoed and came back to him, making the pain worse.
Merrick was lying. He knew it. People always lied to him. His brain was rotting and PEOPLE WERE LYING! Flashing with anger, he slammed his fist into the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant. He barely felt anything so he did it again and again until his hand was lumpy and shaking. He sat heavily on the ground and pressed his hands to his head. It felt like maggots were burrowing into his brain, and he was suddenly terrified that they really were. He needed to stop this awful pain, but how?
An idea came to him.
The funeral home.
Maybe there was something there.
He was on his feet and lumbering there before the thought had even finished reverberating through his mind. It was a long shot, but he was desperate. On the way there, he stuck to the shadows, staying out of the light cast by the streetlamps and avoiding people. When he passed them, he kept his head down. When he reached the funeral home, he went to the back door where he and Jessie had gone the other day. He tried it, and it opened.
Inside, he bounced off the walls like a pinball, knocking over an end table and tearing at the flesh of his head, pulling it away in long, gray strips. He panted like a wild animal, his body a raging tempest of emotions. It was reaching a crescendo, he thought, his brain was about to go supernova. The world dimmed, things got really echoy. The young man he’d picked the embalming fluid up from was there, looking scared.
Flashing, Dom grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him against the wall, knocking a painting of a flowery field to the carpet. Everything seemed to go in slow mo. “How does Merrick keep his brain from rotting?” Dom heard himself demanding from far away. “How does he keep the pain away?”
The man trembled. “I-I-”
Dom slammed him again. “Tell me or I’ll make you like me.”
“No!” the man wailed. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes wet with fear.
“How?”
“He-He uses a solution,” the man stammered. “Some kind of special thing. It preserves his brain. That’s all I know.”
An idea occurred to Dom.
Holding the man by the back of his neck, Dom dragged him into the embalming room and pushed him against the table. His head felt like it was swelling. Hot, screaming, getting ready to explode. He looked around, found the embalming machine, and grabbed the hose. There was a sharp tip on it so that you could jam it into a body. He held it in his hand, hesitating for just a moment before pressing it to his temple. The man watched in horror as Dom slowly shoved the tip into his head. It tore his flesh, broke through his skull, and sank into his brain. He felt no pain, only pressure, but cried out anyway. His eyes rolled up into his head and a shudder went through his body.
“Turn it on!” he yelled.
“That’s not what he -”
“TURN IT ON!”
Starting, the man turned the machine on. Cold embalming fluid squirted directly into Dom’s brain. Almost at once, the pain began to ebb away, replaced only by a fuzzy sense of numbness. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, looking for all the world like an addict taking a hit of his favorite substance after a long and trying day. Fluid leaked from his nose, ears, and eyes and dripped down the back of his throat.
The man waited for a long time, then turned the machine off.
The pain was gone.
At least for now.
“Tell me again,” Dom said.
The man did. Merrick used a special preserving agent to keep his brain intact. Joe, the man suspected, got it as well. So Merrick had lied to him.
Dom felt betrayed.
And angry.
Leaving the man (Dom realized that he didn’t even know his name), he walked back to Club Vlad, his hands fisted in his pockets. All his life, he had been hurt, lied to, and ignored. All his life, people had done wrong to him. And all those years, he just took it.
He resolved not to be so accepting in death.
At last, he was going to stop being a sniveling little bitch and stand up for himself.
When he reached Club Vlad, he slammed through the back door and took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he called out Merrick’s name. The old man was sitting in his chair, being attended to by Jessie and Matt. He looked startled when Dom came in. “You lied to me,” Dom said, stalking over to his benefactor.
“What are you talking about?” Merrick asked, doing his best to sound innocent.
“You lied to me!” Dom screamed. He bent over and got so close to Merrick’s face that he could have kissed him. “You told me there was no way to save my brain, but that’s not true. You’re pumping your head full of shit and letting the rest of us rot.”
A dark shadow flickered across Merrick’s face. “Watch your tone when you talk to me,” he said. His voice was low, menacing.
“Fuck you,” Dom said. “I should k -”
Suddenly, Dom was being grabbed from behind and yanked back, an arm around his neck. He cried out in alarm as Joe swung him around and slammed him face first into the wall. He heard his nose crunch, felt his teeth shatter. Next, Joe wrestled him to the glitter-sprinkled floor and wedged his knee between his shoulder blades.
Merrick watched with a sneer of disgust, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. He wheeled himself over, Jessie holding his IV stand steady and following behind. “Listen, you son of a bitch,” Merrick said, “you’re lucky to be a part of this family.”
Cold fear filled the pit of Dom’s stomach, yet he wouldn’t back down, couldn’t back down. He had lived his entire life like a mouse in a burrow, he wasn’t about to live his entire death the same way.
“Fuck your family,” he said defiantly. “And fuck you.”
Merrick’s face darkened and he sat back in his chair. He looked at Jessie and nodded. She went away and came back a moment later holding something in her hand. Dom’s eyes widened when he saw what it was.
A wooden stake, one end honed to a razor point.
Why they had one of those lying around, Dom didn’t know; it’d be like Superman keeping a piece of kryptonite on the mantle over the fireplace. Merrick directed Max and Matt to hold Dom’s arms down/ Joe pivoted, kneeling on his head now so that Dom’s back was exposed. Dom’s heart slammed with terror and tremors raced through his body.
“Is this what you want, Dominick?” Merrick asked. “To die? To truly die?”
Dom swallowed hard. No, it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to live, to love, to have a family one day. He wanted a happy, normal life, the life TV and social media had been promising him since he was a little boy.
But all of that went out the window the night he died in his little apartment. There was no life anymore, just a grotesque parody of life. What was there for him other than death? Clinging desperately onto life for decades like Merrick? Stuffing himself full of embalming fluid and moth balls? Grinding for one more minute just so he could sit hooked up to a machine?
Dom spoke.
“What?” Merrick asked, not having heard.
Dom licked his lips. “Just fucking do it.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Expectation hung in the air. Finally, breaking the tension, Merrick nodded to Jessie. Kneeling down, she brought the stake up, and Dom closed his eyes.
This was it.
He braced himself for death.
Jessie brought the stake down just as a shot rang out, deafening in the small space. Her head whipped back, embalming fluid, skull fragments, and gray, sickly pieces of brain showering from the back of her head. She flopped back and landed on the floor with a sickening thud.
A woman cop, her black uniform in stark contrast to the burning white light, stood in the doorway to the hall, her gun drawn. Everyone did, indeed, freeze, more out of surprise than respect for authority. They all looked at her, their dead mouths agape, resembling children who’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Everyone on the ground!” she barked.
No one knew what to do. They hadn’t expected to be raided by the police so had not prepared. She jerked her gun and everyone instinctively flinched. “On the ground!” she repeated. To Max: “You too, bone boy.”
The first one to react was Joe. He sprang at her like a big, undead frog. She brought the gun around and fired, but he was already crashing into her. The shot went wild and struck the IV bag next to Merrick; he ducked and let out a sound of fear. The others rushed her, and Dom got quickly to his feet. Jessie lay on the floor, her mouth open in a silent scream and her bony fingers frantically examining the ragged hole in the center of her forehead. For a moment, he was frozen; everything was happening too fast. Then, when Merrick saw him and cried, “Stop him!, he came alive. Jessie tried to grab at his leg, but he kicked her hand away and stomped on it like it was a giant spider. On the other side of the room, Matt, Joe, and Max had forced the cop to the ground. Perhaps excited by all the action, perhaps just hungry, they began to tear her apart. She howled in pain, and the last thing Dom saw before he fled was her open, blood-filled mouth. Her eyes were filled with pain…with terror.
After that, Dom ran.
***
When the interloper was dead, Merrick directed Joe and Matt to dispose of the body. “Get rid of it,” he said wearily and rubbed his temples, “make sure it isn’t found.”
They rolled her into a carpet from the office, and the way her feet stuck out may have been comical under other circumstances.
Goddamn it, this was bad. Merrick’s entire philosophy rested on avoiding detection. He had done well in that regard. Whereas other vampires had attacked their villages and gotten themselves dug from the ground and staked, he had made it four decades. He never shat where he ate, and there is no bigger turd than killing a cop. They might dawdle on all the boys who’d gone missing - taken because their blood was stronger and more robust than the blood of girls - but they would not take a cop dying lightly at all.
Merrick owned various businesses around the country. He and the others would simply move on. Tomorrow night, they would disappear into the night. They had done it before and they would likely do it again. Once things were settled at their new base of operations, he would have Joe killed for all the trouble he’d caused.
And Dom?
Let him go.
The little rat wouldn’t last a month on his own.
“Jessie?”
Jessie sat against the wall, gazing into space.
“Jessi…start packing. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
She didn’t move, didn’t seem to hear. The shot had all but lobotomized her.
Damn it.
Joe backed the van up to the back door of Club Vlad, and then helped Matt carry the carpet-rolled body down the stairs. They loaded it in and closed the back doors. Together, they drove around looking for a place to dump it. Merrick wanted it to go unfound, but Joe doubted there was anywhere isolated enough in the city. On a whim, he drove to Washington Park, a vast expanse of green trees and shadows. There was a large pond there. It seemed the best option. They were leaving tomorrow anyway, so did it really matter?
Joe backed the van to a railing overlooking the dark water and put it in park. He and Matt got out, fetched the body, and carried it to the railing. They lifted and heaved it over. It splashed. Thus, they rid themselves of Vanessa Rodregiez.
***
Bruce sat anxiously up in his easy chair and waited for his cell to ring.
Parked in front of the TV by warm lamplight, a beer wedged between his legs, he’d been watching the 11’o’clock news when the phone rang. He picked it up and it was Vanessa. “Hey,” she said, “I think I found our body?”
“Which one?” Bruce asked and took a drink. “We have a lot of those these days.”
“Dominick Mason.”
Bruce sat forward in his chair. “Dead Dom? Where?”
“He just came out of a funeral home, ironically enough.”
“That sounds about right,” Bruce said. “Where are you now?”
“I’m following him east on Central.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” Bruce asked.
“I think so, but I’m not sure. I’ll call you back when I’m done.”
Bruce sat the phone aside and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
At some point, he fell asleep sitting up, his head lulled to one side and his mouth open. He snorted himself awake, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. He checked his phone and was perturbed to see that it was past 2am.
Vanessa hadn’t called.
He dialed her number and let the phone ring until it went to voicemail. Sighing, he ended the call, then waited a few minutes and called again.
Still no answer.
It was possible she had forgotten. Maybe the guy turned out to not be Dead Dom after all. She followed some random guy around, realized it, and that was that. Hell, she was probably too embarrassed to call and tell him about it.
Something told him that wasn’t right, however.
There was something else going on here.
Something…darker.
Just before 3am, his phone rang. He snatched it off the end table next to the chair and answered it. It was Burt, the night sargent. “Rodriguez is missing,” he said simply.
Bruce’s heart sank. “Missing?”
“Yeah, she hasn’t checked in for hours and she isn’t answering calls.”
“I’m on my way,”
Bruce tore through the house, pulling on his uniform, socks, and shoes in less time than it took a Daytona 500 pit crew to service a car. In ten minutes he was speeding down 787, the Albany skyline rising in the distance. As he hurried to the station, he thought back to his last conversation with Vanessa. She’d found Dom the Dead Man, the “corpse” who’d scared Ed Harris out of a 20 year career. Despite all their talk about vampires and the living dead, Bruce didn’t believe it, not really. Even so, he was sure that Dominick Mason had done something to Vanessa.
He checked in at the station before doing anything else. They had triangulated Vanessa’s last known location via cell towers. Cops were already out searching the streets for her. Bruce went out as well, intending to start from her last known position and work his way east on Central. The closest funeral home was Tebbutt and Frederick on Central. There was also Lasak & Gigliotti on North Allen Street. Bruce didn’t know which one Vanessa had seen Dom come out of, so he checked both.
Both were deserted at this hour.
Undeterred, Bruce drove up and down Central Ave. At one point, he noticed a shape in an alleyway that looked human. He hit the brakes, jumped out, and pointed his gun at it. “Freeze!”
An old wino stepped out of the darkness. “Alright, you got me,” he said, hands up. “I started COVID. It was an accident, I swear.”
Bruce sighed and put his gun away.
For two more hours, Bruce searched the streets of Albany for Vanessa. At 4am, he spotted a squad car abandoned in the rear parking lot of an abandoned gas station on lower Lark Street. He called it in and the desk sergeant confirmed that it was the one Vanessa had signed out that night.
Still there was no sign of Vanessa herself.
Just after dawn, as the city came alive and CDTA buses began lumbering up and down the streets, Bruce got a call on his cell. “A jogger found a body in Washington Park.”
Bruce was in his personal car. He had no bubble light, no siren. Even so, he sped through the streets like he did, blowing through red lights and stop signs with little care to himself or anyone else. When he got to Washington Park, he found an army cops by the pond, the scene cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. He slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and jumped out without even turning off the engine.
The body was rolled up in a carpet and lying on the bank. Two beat cops unrolled it at Bruce’s direction. “We should wait for -” one of them started, but Bruce cut him off.
“Do it.”
They compiled, and at the carpet’s center, like a rotten cream filling, was the body of Vanessa Rodregiuez. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes wide and staring. Her throat had been mangled and ripped away, her head nearly severed. Even in the black and red mess, Bruce could make out the teeth marks and puncture wounds. They may have looked like something else to anyone else who saw them, but he knew, in that moment, what they were dealing with.
A sharp pang of horror sliced through him, and his knees went weak.
“Jesus Christ,” one of the beat cops drew.
Bruce fell to, rather than knelt on, one knee. He bent over the body, a mixture of horror and grief welling his throat. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her in death, but he stayed his hand. Instead, he visually examined the body. She had bruises on her face, defensive wounds on her hands, and her gun was gone. Whoever had attacked her, she put up a fight.
Something glinted on her pants.
“What’s that?” one of the cops asked.
“I dunno,” the other replied, “but it’s all over the carpet.”
Indeed, there were glinty little specks all over it, winking like mocking eyes. Nice work, eh? We really fucked her up, didn’t we? Wink wink.
“It looks like…”
The other cop cut him off. “Glitter.”
Bruce flashed back to his visit to Club Vlad the other day.
There had been glitter everywhere.
Bruce stood up.
He had work to do.
***
Instead of going back to the station to start his shift, Bruce went to Lowes. There, he bought a mallet, a gas can, and a dozen sticks of wood. An employee in a blue vest used a machine to sharpen them to a wicked point and he took his purchases to the car. Next, he drove over to the Mobil station and filled the gas can. He was so hellbent on revenge that he sprang for premium, the good stuff. No expense shall be spared.
His final stop was at a Catholic church. He filled a canteen with holy water from the marble font by the door, then swiped a crucifix from the wall. He stopped by the station, went inside, and grabbed a black duffle bag with POLICE written across the front in yellow. He opened the gun cabinet in his office, took out a shotgun, and loaded it with shells. He grabbed a handful from the box and stuffed them into his pocket.
He was just finishing up when Bertha came in. “There you are,” she spat, “I’ve waited long enough for you to do something. I demand -”
Bruce shoved the duffle bag into her arms. “Make yourself useful.”
“What?” she demanded.
“We’re going to get your granddaughter,” Bruice lied. Kind of.
Bertha’s demeanor changed. “Good. It’s about time. I was starting to think you were a complete incompetent.”
Bruce didn’t answer. Outside, he plucked the bag out of Bertha’s hands and tossed it into the backseat. He slipped behind the wheel and Bertha sat in the passenger seat. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Club Vlad,” Bruce said and started the engine.
“I want all of them arrested.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce said.
She barked orders the entire way there. Bruce was so deep in his thoughts that he barely heard her. The image of Vanessa’s ruined throat and terror-twisted face haunted him, and he felt a lump forming in his throat. Hot tears filled his eyes but he blinked them back and forced himself to calm down.
I’ll cry when I’m done killing, he thought.
A few minutes later, he pulled to the curb in front of Club Vlad. It was a hot and sunny day and the place seemed even more ominous because of it. The windows were black, the front cast in perpetual shadows by the old marquee from when it used to be a theater. The place was surely closed, but Bruce could hear music still playing from inside, some techno dance bullshit. “Alright,” he said, “let’s go.”
Getting out, he slung the dufflebag over his shoulder and carried the shotgun, the canteen full of holy water clasped to his belt. Bertha carried the gas can, looking confused. “Why do we need this?” she asked.
“We’re burning the place down.”
Bertha blinked in surprise…then an evil grin carved across her face. “That’ll show the bastards.”
Unlike last time, the door was locked. Bruce used the butt of the shotgun to break the glass, then reached inside and unlocked the door, being careful not to cut himself. This was the point of no return. What he had in mind would probably get him kicked off the force or even thrown in jail - and we all know how tough jail can be for a former barnaclehead. The memory of Vanessa’s contorted face pushed him on, however.
He’d suffer any consequences he needed to just so long as he got the sons of bitches who did this to her.
Inside, the club was cool and cave-like. Strobe lights flashed, on and off, black and white, dazzling Bruce’s eyes. The bartender was at his station, cleaning up from the night before. When he saw Bruce and Bertha come in, he started. Bruce pointed the shotgun at him. “Don’t fucking move,” he commanded.
The bartender hesitated, then reached for something under the bar.
The shotgun kicked in Bruce’s hands, and the bartender flew back, turning as he crashed into the barback. Bottles, glasses, and mugs crashed to the floor along with the bartender. Bruce racked the gun, and the shell flew out. He moved low and fast now, expecting to be swarmed by vampires, living thugs who worked for vampires, or vampire thugs who worked for themselves.
Though the shot had been like thunder, no one came.
Bruce had no idea where to go, but he imagined that vampires were naturally gravitate to the lowest part of the building. Was there a basement? Shit, he should have looked up the building plans at city hall. Damn, this is what happens when you go off half-cocked. He searched around a bit, opening doors and sweeping the rooms beyond with the shotgun. He found no basement, only stairs leading up. “Stay close,” he said to Bertha.
In the lead, Bruce crept up the stairs, the flashlight on the shotgun providing a cone of clean, white light. At the top of the stairs, he went right, and came to an office and a store room. Backtracking, and bumping into a bungling Bertha, he went into the next room. It was large and open with a vaulted ceiling, almost like a ballroom. Here the same strobe lights throbbed on and off, making him dizzy. Was this to dazzle prospective vampire hunters?
Either way, this was the place. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, some curled up on their sides and others in the classic vampire pose: Flat on their backs with their hands laced over their chests. In the center, like the sun to the planets, Merrick Garvis lay slumped back in his wheelchair, his neck exposed for any potential assassin to come and cut. Not that it would kill him. At least Bruce didn’t think it would.
“They’re all dead,” Bertha whispered. She looked around and gasped. “There’s Jessie.”
Jessie lay on her back, her hands folded on her chest. She had a ragged bullet hole in the center of her forehead. “Oh, God,” Bertha wavered, “someone shot her.”
He hoped it was Vanessa. And he hoped it fucking hurt.
Looking around, Bruce couldn’t find Dominick Mason. Was he the one who killed Vanessa? Was it a group effort? He wanted the little son of a bitch bad, but it looked like he’d have to go on without him. They didn’t have much time.
Unshouldering the duffle bag, he knelt down and rummaged around. “Start splashing that gas on the bodies,” he said.
“But -”
“Just do it,” he snapped.
There must have been a harder edge in his voice than normal, because Bertha jumped and did as she was told. She upended the can and began to splash gasoline onto the sleeping forms, the smell of it acrid and strong.
Taking out a stake and the mallet, Bruce went over to Merrick and knelt down. He gripped the stake in one hand and placed it firmly against Merrick’s chest. He brought the mallet up and hesitated, the gravity of what he was doing finally reaching him. What if he was wrong? What if -
Merrick’s head whipped up and their eyes locked.
Too late.
Bruce brought the mallet down as hard as he could. The stake drove deep into Merrick’s heart, and the vampire let out a howling screech that rang through the chamber like the cry of a banshee. His bony fingers clawed at the stake and his head whipped from side to side, his back arching and his robe coming open. In the quick strobe pattern, Bruce was shocked to see that his body was little more than a wood frame, chicken wire, and cotton balls. His blacked heart was hidden behind a screen of mesh that the stake had easily torn through. It throbbed, seemingly in time with the strobe lights, and Merrick let out another wail.
Bertha screamed, and Bruce jumped to his feet.
The vampires, drawn by their master’s cries of distress, were rising to their feet. Two, four, six of them, pale and ethereal like ghosts in a gothic mansion. They came toward Merrick, and Bruice fell back a step. The old man had gone still and lay slumped to one side, his eyes open and his mouth slack, embalming fluid leaking from the corner of his lips. Jessie bent over him and touched his face. Though she moved like a zombie, with no human emotion, Bruce was crazily sure that it was a touch of tenderness and love. Merrick didn’t stir.
He was dead.
Jessie looked at him. Yellow liquid leaked from her eyes like tears. Instead of attacking him, she turned on her grandmother and slammed her against the wall. Bertha screamed and dropped the can. It landed on its side, its contents sloshing out onto the floor. A man that resembled the pictures Bruce had seen of Joe Rossi only deader rushed him, slamming into him and knocking the shotgun aside. It hit the floor and skidded away. Joe grabbed Bruce around the throat and squeezed. Still the lights flashed, off and on, off and on. The walls thrummed with the mechanized beat of dance music, pierced only by Bertha’s screams as Jessie ripped out her throat.
Joe leaned in, his fangs wicked and glowing in the light. Bruce clawed at the monster’s face, tearing away strips of dead flesh. Joe turned his head to the side, and Bruce kneed him in the groin. Even dead, getting kicked in the balls hurt like hell, apparently. Joe’s grip loosened and Bruce was able to shove him off. Bruce unclasped the canteen and frantically screwed the cap off as Joe recovered. Joe sprang at him again, and Bruce splashed him in the face.
A sound like sizzling meat filled the air, and Joe screamed at the top of his lungs. He pressed his hands to his face and danced around the room, his skin liquifying and oozing between his fingers. The others were coming now, led by a terrible skeletal thing. Bruce scooped the shotgun off the floor, brought it around, and fired. The blast hit the thing dead center, tearing it literally in half. The top half flew back, an all too human look of surprise on its face, and the bottom half fell over with a wet thud. Another vampire came at, and Bruce slammed it across the face with the butt of the gun. He heard its jaw crack, saw teeth flying.
Bertha lay dead on the floor, Jessie bent over her. The smell of Bertha’s blood attracted the others, who seemed to forget about Bruce, Merrick, and everything else. Joe was on his knees, wailing in pain, and the skeletal thing was pulling itself toward Bertha. A feeding frenzy broke out as vampires fought to get a piece of her the way piglets might fight over their mother’s teat. Bruce watched in a mixture of horror and fascination, but recovered himself. He grabbed the gas can from the floor and dumped the rest of its contents on Merrick’s body, the feeding vampires’ backs, and the floor, using the last of it to make a little trail to the door. He tossed the can aside, bent down, and stuck a match.
A huge, fiery whump filled the room, and fire streaked along the trail. The vampires all went up in a huge ball of flames, and fire shot up Merrick’s body, catching his robe, his hair, and the wooden frame that had kept him semi upright for God knows how long. Letting out inhuman screams, the vampires broke from Bertha’s corpse. One stumbled around, bounced off the wall, and fell; another toddled toward Bruce before falling to its knees. The half skeleton kept drinking from Bertha’s neck even as it burned.
The heat was enormous, baking. Bruce backed away, and the last thing he saw before smoke obscured his vision was Merrick Garvis.
He was literally melting.
***
Dominick Mason tried to go home, but he no longer had a home. All of his worldly possessions sat on the sidewalk in front of his building, discarded coldly as easily. His key didn’t work in his door and there was a FOR RENT sign on it. Why would it be any other way? He was dead. Sooner or later, everyone forgets you when you’re dead, and all the things you held so dear wind up in the trash. It was a hard pill to swallow, but most people aren’t around to see it after they die.
He was.
From his building, he walked east toward Washington Park. In the distance, thick, black smoke billowed into the air, and sirens rose. He barely noticed and wouldn’t have cared even if he did. No more rubbernecking for him. That was for the living.
The pain that had plagued him so the previous day came back, only less this time. Maybe he was imagining it, but it was getting harder to think. Not that he cared, really. What was there to think about anyway? How he had no one to mourn or miss him? How he died and not one single person, except for maybe his mother, cared, or even noticed? How he had done nothing with his life? Even to the women he’d slept with, what was he? Just another dating app hookup. They probably didn’t even remember his name.
Merrick had been right about one thing. Death was easy. It was life that was hard…life that hurt.
With that in mind, Dominick made his way to Washington Park. It was a vast and deep place with many small caves and thickets. Kids played on the playground, their cries of laughter scenting the still air. It had grown cloudy and began to rain. Still, smoke poured into the sky in the direction of Club Vlad. Dom didn’t wish ill on Merrick and the others, didn’t hope it was them burning. He didn’t care anymore. Not about them, not about anyone. For better or worse (and he would argue it was worse), his life was over. His time came days ago, he just missed the boat.
Picking out an isolated little area, Dom sat against a tree with his legs splayed out in front of him. He titled his head back and closed his eyes. Yes, thinking was hard now. His mind felt sluggish, cold. He was thirsty…so, so thirsty, but he ignored it.
Slowly, the bugs found him. Flies buzzed around him and laid their eggs in his skin. Beetles scuttled over him, followed by worms.
Next, it was the birds. They ate out his eyes and nibbled at his blue, bloated skin.
The animals came last.
Their appetites were bigger.
And they left little remaining of poor, outcast Dominick Mason.
***
That night, Bruce sat alone in his little trailer, a bottle of whiskey wedged between his legs and unshed tears in his eyes. He stared at his reflection in the darkened TV set and took long swallows from the bottle. He planned to drink until he forgot or passed out, whichever came first. He tried to not think about Vanessa, but in his addled state, he couldn’t control himself, and began to cry. When that storm passed, like the others before it, he chugged from the bottle.
As distant church bells clanged the hour - midnight - a feeble knock came at the door. Bruce took another drink and it came again. Getting up, he stumbled, nearly fell, and gripped the bottle tightly. He didn’t want to lose one precious drop.
Again, the knock.
“I’m coming,” Bruce slurred. He staggered to the door and fought with the lock. He was dizzy and seeing double.
When he got it, he opened the door.
The bottle dropped from his hand and clanked onto the floor.
Vanessa, clad in a puke green hospital gown, stood on the step, her hands pressed to her chest and a look of anguish on her milk white face. Her head tilted to one side, the wounds on her neck cleaned but open, gaping. Her dark eyes shone with tears. “I’m dead,” she said.
Breaking down in tears, she collapsed against him and they sank to the floor. She was cold and smelled. Bruce wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest anyway. “Shhh, it’s alright,” he said drunkenly. “Hey, it’s alright.
“I’m dead,” she repeated, and her voice broke. “I don’t want to die.”
Bruce held her close, trying to warm her icy skin. He didn’t know what to say, so he cried with her.
“You’re safe now,” he said, “it’s going to be okay.”
“I want blood,” she said and sobbed harder, “I want to hurt people.”
“Shhh,” Bruce said again. “It’s okay.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a utility knife. He flicked the blade across his wrist and searing pain shot up his arm. “Here,” he said and offered her his blood, “drink this.”
He did this without care and without thought. She needed him, and one barnaclehead always backs up another.
Vanessa hesitated, looking from his face to the oozing blood, unsure.
“Go ahead,” he told her.
Vanessa brought his wrist to her mouth.
And began to drink.

Grax stared out the viewing screen as the massive Phoenix darted among the drifting debris that was all the remained of his once mighty armada. Dozens of Vrax ships, some still with atmosphere and artificial gravity, drifted listlessly like tombstones under the broken moon's pale light.
Despite his rage, Grax felt a cold sense of finality steal over him. The battle was truly lost. His subcommander stepped up trembling, awaiting orders. But Grax knew the only choice left. With a furious growl, he slammed a claw onto the comm panel. "All ships, power down weapons and cease hostilities."
The bridge crew looked on cautiously as Grax straightened. "Human vessels, this is Ambassador Grax of the Vrax Empire. You have destroyed our armada and made your power clear. We...surrender unconditionally." The words burned like acid on his tongue, but Grax had sworn an oath to protect his people above all else.
Moments dragged by in tense silence before a female voice replied. "This is Commander Aoki of the ESN Phoenix. Your surrender is accepted, Ambassador Grax. Stand down all weapons and prepare to be boarded. No further harm will come to you or your crew."
Aoki's promise of mercy did little to console Grax as he watched sensor readings show Phoenix launching shuttles towards the nearest hulks. His officers moved nervously, eyeing their restraints with trepidation. Boarding parties would no doubt confiscate any means of resistance or escape.
The arrival of human soldiers aboard the cruiser sent a hush over the crew on the command deck. Towering in unfamiliar powered armor, the soldiers spread out efficiently while keeping weapons trained. Though outmatched, a proud Vrax snarled as energy cuffs bound his wrists.
Grax stared coldly at the humans, meeting their impassive gaze through polarized visors. "Your victory is absolute, but know that the Empire will not forget this humiliation. One day, we will return with power enough to repay this debt tenfold." A soldier laughed derisively. "Save your threats, insect. You're prisoners now."
The insult made Grax bristle, but further defiance was pointless. As if realizing this, the soldier deactivated her mask to reveal brown eyes that studied the aliens with detached curiosity. "We mean your kind no harm. Cooperate, and you'll be treated fairly." Her promise did little to reassure Grax's raging pride, but he submitted silently.
Transporting the surviving crew took hours under the watchful eyes of armed escorts. Grax watched through viewports as the immense Phoenix loomed ahead, eclipsing the pockmarked moonscape. How did these creatures command such power while his Empire spanned worlds? The questions ate at him during processing into separate holding bays.
Finally, Grax was brought before a sealed hatch where a human stood calmly awaiting, jet black hair cut short in strange angles. Recognition dawned as her intense gaze met his. "Commander Aoki, I presume. You have robbed me of victory and left my Empire wounded. What purpose have you brought us here?"
To his frustration, Aoki merely nodded. "All will be explained. For now, know that your lives and citizenship remain intact, so long as peaceful relations are established. The past is regretted, but a new future can be forged." Her tone allowed no argument as soldiers led Grax's delegation away, sealing him in metallic solitude with only his swirling thoughts for company.
Hours passed before the hatch slid open once more to admit a familiar figure. Ambassador Jonah surveyed Grax and the others pensively. "I have argued for leniency and understanding. Your people will be safely returned to your territory once arrangements are made." The human's calm manner surprised Grax, who had expected condemnation after all that had occurred.
"Why show mercy to those who came to conquer?" Grax asked cautiously, probing for the alien mindset. Jonah softened slightly. "We wish no escalation, only peace. Though power dynamics have shifted, cooperation benefits all." His optimism sounded foolish to Grax's bitter pride, but some practical logic prevailed as well. War offered no guarantee of victory on either side now.
Jonah took Grax's contemplative silence as acceptance. "Rest now, Ambassador. Tomorrow we will convene talks to forge a new understanding between our peoples." The human departed, leaving Grax to sit brooding as the stale manufactured air cycled endlessly. His fleet had fought bravely if not wisely, and now their lives were forfeit to human whims. Yet Grax knew defiance would solve nothing - for the Vrax to recover their honor, new strategies must be devised.
As night cycle began, Grax stared into the darkness, filtering Jonah's idealistic words. The human clearly underestimated his Empire's will to restore lost pride by any means. And while open war invite mutually assured destruction now, subtler methods remained. Given time, opportunities would arise, and the Vrax would reap a bitter harvest from the seeds this defeat had sown... The shuttle trembled as magnetic clamps disengaged from the Phoenix. Through clouded windows, Grax glared at the blue-green orb growing ahead, pondering the fate that awaited him and his people on the human home world.
Beside him, Jonah reviewed incoming messages, worrying his lip. The victory celebrations had tapered off as reality set in. An alien invasion force had assaulted Earth's doorstep and needed to be dealt with. Harsh retribution versus rehabilitation would dominate the emergency session.
The shuttle touched down with a jolt, airlocks pressurizing. Security escorted Grax and the Vrax commanders off, mag-cuffs binding their movements. A bristling crowd had gathered, shouting varied insults and demands for justice. Grax saw fear, anger, but hope glimmering in some eyes as well.
World leaders' holograms flickered within the expansive Lunar chamber. Emotions ran high as each delegation demanded to be heard. "These creatures attacked our sovereign soil and people!" bellowed China's Premier. Nods and cries of agreement followed.
"Revenge breeds only further conflict," spoke India's Prime Minister more delicately. "If they pose no future threat, wisdom says deal with them constructively."
Hours dragged on. At every turn, Jonah presented rehabilitation programs emphasizing education, limited communications and oversight. "Showing mercy where possible could yield long term cooperation, not further enmity."
Russia's President countered harshly. "We cannot appease an imperialist power so willing to use brute force. They understand only strength."
The heated debate raged without resolution. Then the elderly Secretary General spoke. "While security remains paramount, reacting from anger helps no one. I say we craft safeguards ensuring accountability on all sides, then we negotiate over imprisonment."
Reluctantly, a compromise took shape - the Vrax would face oversight on a secure facility, with strict controls on information and technologies. If proving genuinely willing to negotiate, some leniency would follow in time. But any breach meant permanent incarceration.
That evening, Jonah met privately with Grax within the detention center. "This was the sole agreement preventing worse outcomes. I will continue advocating on your behalf, but changes must come from within as well."
Grax replied coldly. "You speak of mercy, yet we are prisoners. Do not forget - my people's pride and strength are far from broken. This conflict is only beginning." His frigid eyes sent a chill through Jonah's core as he departed, doubtful any understanding could overcome such enmity.

Grax stared out the viewing screen as the massive Phoenix darted among the drifting debris that was all the remained of his once mighty armada. Dozens of Vrax ships, some still with atmosphere and artificial gravity, drifted listlessly like tombstones under the broken moon's pale light.
Despite his rage, Grax felt a cold sense of finality steal over him. The battle was truly lost. His subcommander stepped up trembling, awaiting orders. But Grax knew the only choice left. With a furious growl, he slammed a claw onto the comm panel. "All ships, power down weapons and cease hostilities."
The bridge crew looked on cautiously as Grax straightened. "Human vessels, this is Ambassador Grax of the Vrax Empire. You have destroyed our armada and made your power clear. We...surrender unconditionally." The words burned like acid on his tongue, but Grax had sworn an oath to protect his people above all else.
Moments dragged by in tense silence before a female voice replied. "This is Commander Aoki of the ESN Phoenix. Your surrender is accepted, Ambassador Grax. Stand down all weapons and prepare to be boarded. No further harm will come to you or your crew."
Aoki's promise of mercy did little to console Grax as he watched sensor readings show Phoenix launching shuttles towards the nearest hulks. His officers moved nervously, eyeing their restraints with trepidation. Boarding parties would no doubt confiscate any means of resistance or escape.
The arrival of human soldiers aboard the cruiser sent a hush over the crew on the command deck. Towering in unfamiliar powered armor, the soldiers spread out efficiently while keeping weapons trained. Though outmatched, a proud Vrax snarled as energy cuffs bound his wrists.
Grax stared coldly at the humans, meeting their impassive gaze through polarized visors. "Your victory is absolute, but know that the Empire will not forget this humiliation. One day, we will return with power enough to repay this debt tenfold." A soldier laughed derisively. "Save your threats, insect. You're prisoners now."
The insult made Grax bristle, but further defiance was pointless. As if realizing this, the soldier deactivated her mask to reveal brown eyes that studied the aliens with detached curiosity. "We mean your kind no harm. Cooperate, and you'll be treated fairly." Her promise did little to reassure Grax's raging pride, but he submitted silently.
Transporting the surviving crew took hours under the watchful eyes of armed escorts. Grax watched through viewports as the immense Phoenix loomed ahead, eclipsing the pockmarked moonscape. How did these creatures command such power while his Empire spanned worlds? The questions ate at him during processing into separate holding bays.
Finally, Grax was brought before a sealed hatch where a human stood calmly awaiting, jet black hair cut short in strange angles. Recognition dawned as her intense gaze met his. "Commander Aoki, I presume. You have robbed me of victory and left my Empire wounded. What purpose have you brought us here?"
To his frustration, Aoki merely nodded. "All will be explained. For now, know that your lives and citizenship remain intact, so long as peaceful relations are established. The past is regretted, but a new future can be forged." Her tone allowed no argument as soldiers led Grax's delegation away, sealing him in metallic solitude with only his swirling thoughts for company.
Hours passed before the hatch slid open once more to admit a familiar figure. Ambassador Jonah surveyed Grax and the others pensively. "I have argued for leniency and understanding. Your people will be safely returned to your territory once arrangements are made." The human's calm manner surprised Grax, who had expected condemnation after all that had occurred.
"Why show mercy to those who came to conquer?" Grax asked cautiously, probing for the alien mindset. Jonah softened slightly. "We wish no escalation, only peace. Though power dynamics have shifted, cooperation benefits all." His optimism sounded foolish to Grax's bitter pride, but some practical logic prevailed as well. War offered no guarantee of victory on either side now.
Jonah took Grax's contemplative silence as acceptance. "Rest now, Ambassador. Tomorrow we will convene talks to forge a new understanding between our peoples." The human departed, leaving Grax to sit brooding as the stale manufactured air cycled endlessly. His fleet had fought bravely if not wisely, and now their lives were forfeit to human whims. Yet Grax knew defiance would solve nothing - for the Vrax to recover their honor, new strategies must be devised.
As night cycle began, Grax stared into the darkness, filtering Jonah's idealistic words. The human clearly underestimated his Empire's will to restore lost pride by any means. And while open war invite mutually assured destruction now, subtler methods remained. Given time, opportunities would arise, and the Vrax would reap a bitter harvest from the seeds this defeat had sown... The shuttle trembled as magnetic clamps disengaged from the Phoenix. Through clouded windows, Grax glared at the blue-green orb growing ahead, pondering the fate that awaited him and his people on the human home world.
Beside him, Jonah reviewed incoming messages, worrying his lip. The victory celebrations had tapered off as reality set in. An alien invasion force had assaulted Earth's doorstep and needed to be dealt with. Harsh retribution versus rehabilitation would dominate the emergency session.
The shuttle touched down with a jolt, airlocks pressurizing. Security escorted Grax and the Vrax commanders off, mag-cuffs binding their movements. A bristling crowd had gathered, shouting varied insults and demands for justice. Grax saw fear, anger, but hope glimmering in some eyes as well.
World leaders' holograms flickered within the expansive Lunar chamber. Emotions ran high as each delegation demanded to be heard. "These creatures attacked our sovereign soil and people!" bellowed China's Premier. Nods and cries of agreement followed.
"Revenge breeds only further conflict," spoke India's Prime Minister more delicately. "If they pose no future threat, wisdom says deal with them constructively."
Hours dragged on. At every turn, Jonah presented rehabilitation programs emphasizing education, limited communications and oversight. "Showing mercy where possible could yield long term cooperation, not further enmity."
Russia's President countered harshly. "We cannot appease an imperialist power so willing to use brute force. They understand only strength."
The heated debate raged without resolution. Then the elderly Secretary General spoke. "While security remains paramount, reacting from anger helps no one. I say we craft safeguards ensuring accountability on all sides, then we negotiate over imprisonment."
Reluctantly, a compromise took shape - the Vrax would face oversight on a secure facility, with strict controls on information and technologies. If proving genuinely willing to negotiate, some leniency would follow in time. But any breach meant permanent incarceration.
That evening, Jonah met privately with Grax within the detention center. "This was the sole agreement preventing worse outcomes. I will continue advocating on your behalf, but changes must come from within as well."
Grax replied coldly. "You speak of mercy, yet we are prisoners. Do not forget - my people's pride and strength are far from broken. This conflict is only beginning." His frigid eyes sent a chill through Jonah's core as he departed, doubtful any understanding could overcome such enmity.

Here we are again in the shit stew that is the Fallowveil trailer park. We’ve got soul eating strippers, jobs that kill us, and plenty of weirdos, both the trailer trash and the potentially paranormal variety. It’s the place where even your own computer sometimes threatens to kill you. I can’t tell if I should be worried, or annoyed that all my neighbors have such irresponsible web habits. I know it’s not me that brings in all these machine wiping viruses.
So even though I got a system error that literally said “you’re useless and you should die” I’m less interested in that. Stupid thing. Like I don’t already know I’m useless. That’s not what I’m depressed about.
Well… I suppose it's tangentially related.
I hope anyone reading will forgive me. I’m feeling the sting of rejection right now. It was really stupid of me to ask. Especially now. Nobody here really likes me. They’ve only been nice to me as a courtesy because I was almost involved in a god damn shootout. And my idiot self decided that was the perfect time to push one of my few friends all the way away. Never ask your friends out on dates. It ruins everything.
So there’s this woman. I’ve talked about her in the past. Trista Ramone. She lives in the far back corner of the trailer park. You can instantly tell which unit is hers because she’s covered every square inch of the property with gardens and a rabbit hutch. The place usually has beads and colorful flags hanging on its walls as well. She’s kind of a right winger’s nightmare. I know some of those flags represent various lgbtq plus communities.
She and I have been friendly in the past. We’re both night shift workers. We crossed paths quite a bit going to and from work so we struck up a friendship over the years.
Let’s just ripped the band aid off. Recently I’ve started thinking I had… stronger feelings for Trista. I got stupid and decided to tell her about them. She wasn’t interested. I get why. We have very different lifestyles. I like meat, and she thinks the meat industry is murder. I’m not willing to give up meat, and she’s not willing to give up her beliefs. It's as simple as that. Now things are incredibly awkward with one of my closer friends and I’m still spiraling into self loathing, where I belong.
She swore up and down that she absolutely still wants to be friends with me, but I’m not sure I believe her. The look she gave me when I told her I’d like to ask her out. It looked like sadness, but a small part of me is convinced it was pity, or worse, disgust and loathing, and that small part gave me ever shuts the fuck up. But anyway, she gave me permission to write about her.
She is one of the creepy fixtures of our little neighborhood after all. She told me to make her seem as insane and scary as I possibly could and that she should get to kill me at the end. She also handed me a few of her high school yearbooks, advised me to chat with another neighbor of ours who she went to school with, and to only use creepy rumors for the rest.
Part of me is really willing to describe her as awful, but that’s just my anger. I don’t like that part of me. Trista’s not a bad person at all. She’s just weird and she doesn’t want to date me. God damn it, Petunia’s right. I need therapy.
So, I’ve told the story of the sexy, scary lady living in a polycule here in the trailer park. I think she’s got a bigger heart than she lets on. I’ve talked about the stories surrounding the Schroeder Slaughterhouse. Now let’s talk about the hippy everyone thinks is a vampire.
She’s a taller woman, maybe five-seven or eight, and she’s skinny. Her typical wardrobe is… interesting. Try to imagine your typical new-age hippy/stoner girl, wearing colorful sarongs, crop-tops, beanies, baggy sweaters, T-shirts with colorful sayings on them, sandals, boots woven from some sort of exotic plant, beaded necklaces, bracelets, a few too many piercings and some intricate tattoos. Can you picture that kind of person? Well, take that and dip them in “goth” dye. Everything is black, and contrasts to her pale white complexion, her eyes are this unusual violet color, and then make the woman wearing all that seem kind of depressed about something. That’s the look Trista has going on. Like if Wednesday Addams was forced to dress up for Hippy Day.
I’ve heard people call her an emo vampire, but as a former emo myself, she doesn’t fill out all the criteria. She doesn’t typically wear any super tight pants or cake on the eyeshadow. I guess she’s just Trista. It might sound weird (and it is) but the whole thing suits her. Her style, tattoos, and complexion all create this image of skinny vampiric waif with a mysterious past and a freaky sarcastic attitude and I found the whole thing… kinda hot.
Trista keeps to herself. She’s made the most out of her little corner of the trailer park. Like I said, she decked out her unit with garden squares, and a Rabbit pen. No idea why she’s allowed to do that. A lot of these places don’t allow pets. I heard she was also trying to put in a beehive too, but her neighbors are fighting her on that one. Our park is a bit too condensed for bees. She has a permit to grow hemp, but of course it’s not for recreational use. She treats it and uses it to weave things like handbags, clothes, and other stuff. There’s a consignment store in town that sells all kinds of things Trista has crafted herself. So she’s handy and self sufficient too. She paints, she carves wood, she weaves, she crochets, she sews, and who knows what else. She’s so good at her little crafts that apparently she’s able to support herself just selling them and working part time at the Moonlight Inn outside of town.
She’s also relatively friendly. I almost feel bad calling her weird, but here’s the thing, I’ve seen some REALLY weird shit. People jokingly call her a vampire, and she seems to embrace that, but part of me seriously wonders. The big clue is, like I mentioned, she’s completely nocturnal. She’s always asleep during the day, and every blind and curtain is drawn tight. The one time she came out during the day, she had on this full body suit with a helmet with UV glass and everything. Even then, she only showed up to give Petunia a hug, before leaving again.
That was the first time I saw Trista, come to think of it. I was kind of intrigued. It was kind of hard not to be when someone shows up to a community cookout in a freaking astronaut suit. I approached Petunia after she left.
“Who the heck was that?” I wondered.
“MASON! I’m so glad you could make it! You’ve been here about three months now! How’d that job interview go?”
“Oh. It went well. I might be doing janitorial work soon.”
“Night shift?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“If it’s the night shift, you’ll definitely meet the person who just left. That’s Trista. She’s the girl with the rabbits in the far corner. Poor girl. She’s got a really bad skin condition. Can’t let sunlight touch her.”
“Oh. Is she like… albino or something?”
“No, she’s got pigment. I don’t remember what the condition is called. I guess it started in high school or something. You’d have to ask her. And hey! If you work the night shift, you’ll probably get to chat with her!”
Petunia wasn’t wrong. I started working as a nighttime janitor for a number of local businesses. That was when I first started noticing the pale goth hippy. She rides around on a moped, with her dark hair and her sarong barely billowing behind her. I couldn’t see her face through the helmet, but she waved to me as she passed by.
The next time I saw her, she was jogging, but here’s where it gets weird. When I first stepped outside, all I saw was a blur. It actually startled me as I whipped toward it, but then there was this skinny tattooed pixie, somehow still looking like a stonehippy/vampire in jogging gear. I swear she was moving inhumanly fast when I first noticed her. That was when we introduced ourselves. She actually jogged over to say hello.
“Hey! You’re the new guy right?”
“Oh, uh, yeah. My name’s Mason!” I reached out to shake the pretty girl’s hand, like an awkward loser. She smirked and shook my hand. Her grip was weirdly strong, and a bit cold.
“I’m Trista. I’m the weirdo in the back with the rabbits.”
“Trista… oh, are you the one who has a thing with sunlight? I think Petunia mentioned you.”
“Yup! That’s me. Xerodoma pigmentosum. Sunlight hurts. I hate that it hurts.” She lamented.
“That’s gotta be rough,” I said sympathetically.
“You get used to it. You work at night?”
“Yeah. Works better for me.”
“I get that.”
And so on and so on. She’s pretty cool, with a bit of hilarious snark in there. And she secretly procured recreational weed she was willing to share. I kept working the night shift just hoping for another chance to talk to her and possibly buy a joint. Eventually she invited me over to share a joint. The inside of her place was actually pretty sparse and spartan compared to the outside. Though she was a fan of hanging beads. Most of the main room was taken up by her various crafting projects and supplies. Hemp weaves, some paintings, and even a wood carving of what I think was a rabbit, but it wasn’t anywhere near complete.
I followed her to her kitchen where she reached into the very back of her pantry and pulled out a shoebox. Inside was her stash, but there was something else which I found very strange. It was a pack of syringes and a thing I assume is to sterilize syringes. I know what you’re thinking, and that was my first thought too. It’s a poor neighborhood, the woman already smokes weed illegally, it’s not that big a shock that maybe she was involved in other drugs too. I decided not to ask at the time. We shared our joint, and we laughed, a lot. She made fun of me for being a lightweight, while I got completely hypnotized staring at the patterns of a shawl she had woven.
Months went by and we got closer, but I couldn’t forget those syringes. After a while I got worried. I’ve seen what heroine does to people. So the next time I went over to smoke and eat (vegan) pizza with her, I asked.
“Trista? Are you using anything other than weed?”
“Drugs?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Why?”
“You can tell me if you are.”
“Mason, sweetheart, I’m a stoner. I don’t fuck around with anything else and I never have.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay. Can I ask what that set of syringes are for?”
“Oh. In my stash box? Those are… part of my condition. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh. Is it like… embarrassing?”
“Yeah. So don’t ask. Can we just watch a movie?”
So I don't ask anymore. But I still have no idea what she does with those syringes. Based on what I read about that Xerodoma Pigmentosum thing she says she has, I have no clue what she would need to inject herself with.
Another time she asked me to check on her rabbits for her during the day, as her usual “sitter” had something come up. All I had to do was chop up the lettuce and carrots she left out. As I was enjoying the adorable fluffy faces, one of Trista’s neighbors, a woman named Bridget, poked her head outside her door.
“Hey. Do you know what Trista injects those rabbits with?”
“I… what?”
“I’ve seen her use syringes on those rabbits. She said she was just giving them medicine, but I swear I see her inject them every week.”
“I… I wouldn't know. She just asked me to feed them.”
“I love Trista, but that always seemed so weird. She has to know vaccines are a hoax!” I tuned the woman out after that one. My mind was on that set of syringes. Why would she be using them on rabbits? These things were her pets.
I was starting to crush on her by then. But I couldn’t help feeling weirded out by that. I was actually going to confront her, but the next time I came to visit, she was literally inside the Rabbit hutch, on her back, squealing with delight as her rabbit friends nuzzled and played with her.
“Bonnibelle! That tickles! Marcy! No chewing. Finn? Watch where you’re sticking that foot! Jake? Where are you? EEEEE Lumpy! Not the neck!”
It was as silly and adorable as it sounds. She was forced to whip herself upright when two of her little friends tried to burrow under her dress. She finally stood up with a laugh, cradling a rabbit in her arms and cooing at it.
There was just no way in hell this woman was doing anything that would hurt these animals. Bridget is a paranoid antivax weirdo anyway. If Trista was using syringes on the rabbits, I was convinced it was only for their benefit.
So life went on. I got more and more reclusive over the years. Petunia, Trista, and my next door neighbor Fred were the only things keeping me remotely connected to the outside. And so we get to now. So let’s see. What are the stories about the weird vampire woman?
Well, there’s the fact that she jogs at night, solo, in a poor neighborhood. Petunia keeps the shitty people contained and behaving for the most part, but I still wouldn’t exactly call it safe, especially for a young skinny woman. But she does it without a care in the world.
There’s one strange event that some people like to connect to this. I never knew this guy, but from what I hear he was a total weirdo who leered at anyone even remotely female. And this is despite the fact he was married. His name was Josh.
I remember him a bit. He’s the guy that Petunia chased away from one of her barbecues. Supposedly he was heard saying inappropriate things to the groups of ten year old girls that were playing in the bounce house Petunia rented. Telling them how pretty they were. Trying to coax them to take off their jackets. Police reports were filed but ultimately nothing could be proven. The guy's wife, Carole, always defends him for some reason.
But anyway, I remember hanging out with Trista one night a little over a year ago. She hadn’t gone jogging like she normally did. I asked her what was up with that.
“That weirdo, Josh has started catcalling when I pass his place. It weirds me out.”
“There aren’t other people who do that at night? I’m still shocked you jog alone.”
“Not like this. I can flip off a wolf whistler. But this guy… he keeps trying to get me to stop and talk to him, and when I don’t? He shouts about my ass. I’m gonna have to talk to Petunia about that shithead, if anybody can reign him in, it’s her.”
I’m gonna guess she never got a chance. Two days later, the whole town was awoken by sirens. I was getting ready for my shift when I heard them. I walked down the road a bit to see if I could figure out what was going on. The cops were heading toward the other side of the park, so I couldn’t see much. But I did notice Trista, in her jogging gear, skulking in the shadows. I wondered if she was in trouble. But before I could call out to her, she sprinted straight to Petunia's house and banged on the door. Petunia welcomed her inside, and that was all I saw. I still wasn’t sure what was going on, so I just shrugged and headed to work, figuring I’d text Trista later.
I didn’t learn till later that Josh was found dead. He was lying prone, face down, partly hidden by bushes at the edge of the park. His neck was cut open. He’d bled out rapidly. He had a knife in his hand, and officially it’s believed he fell on it and accidentally killed himself. There was a cocktail of drugs in his system so most people accept that explanation. But others swear they saw Trista out for her jog around the same time Josh would have been bleeding to death. She got questioned, and she swore she didn’t see anything. Without evidence, there was nothing else that could be proven.
Trista’s a friend. I know that guy was being creepy to her. So I’m happy to take her word for what happened, even if my seeing her going to Petunia’s pokes a bit of a hole in that. I can’t be sure it was Trista though. So I’m not saying a word. But if a certain creep attacked a certain lady who is rumored to be a vampire, it’s not that surprising to me that he ended up dead after bleeding to death. I’m not all that broken up about it.
I’m not the one spreading that story. Josh’s wife was the one who started the rumor. So now some people are even more convinced that the weird nocturnal hippy chick is secretly a vampire.
She’s no killer. No matter what they say. She would only have defended herself.
So that’s all the stories I’ve heard that have any credibility to them. There’s more people who swear she and Petunia perform weird rituals, and people who saw her moving “inhumanly fast” and such.
But now I have to share what I found in the yearbooks Trista gave me. I wasn’t really expecting much. I checked her senior yearbook out first. She looks about the same. Pale, goth, hippy, and sort of sad. She kind of looks even sadder in these photos if I’m being honest, but that’s high school for you. She graduated in the top half of her class, no sports or extracurriculars. I’m left wondering how she managed to go to school at the time of sun was so bad for her. I’ll have to ask her about that. So nothing really new there.
It was the yearbook from her junior year where things got really interesting. I was in shock when I found her. Trista is somehow impossible to miss, but unrecognizable all at once. She’s full of color! She wore more typical tie dye hippy attire. Bright vibrant pinks, reds, blues, greens, and yellows, in every photo, and holy shit was she busy. Captain of the soccer team, first chair flutist, president of the “green living” club and the “vegan alliance,” top ten in her class, it was all incredible. I think the main reason I didn’t recognize her was her skin. It was tan, as though she were out in the sun a lot. Furthermore there were photos of her playing sports and standing outside in bright sunlight.
It was like her disease wasn’t there, which confused me. She told me it was something called Xeroderma Pigmentosa. But that’s a genetic condition. She would have had that from birth.
I sent her a text, wondering about this.
- Hey! Just went through your yearbooks. What happened? You had color? Did you discover Linkin Park?
- My disease happened. Right at the end of Jr. year. That’s why I wasn’t there for the final class photo.
- But your disease is genetic… isn’t it?
- I guess it was dormant in me.
- So it just… happened?
- Pretty much.
- I’m sorry.
- I got over it. Mostly. It was hard. My parents were both hardcore vegan naturalists and we lived in a place that was all natural light and such, so I had to live in a shed for a bit while they built a space for me. But in my family? We kinda lean into whatever life throws at us. It took months of depression to come to terms with it. All of a sudden I couldn’t be out in the sun, and I had new dietary needs that absolutely required non-vegan sources. So I leaned into it. I was a vampire now. I can dig dark colors and “vampire style.” I could make it my own by avoiding leather. And I’d be as vegan as I possibly could.
- You’re kind of awesome.
- Damn straight. So I learned to love the night too and now, here I am.
I gained new respect for her after that. Frankly I feel kinda shitty about making fun of her for being a vampire. There might not be anything paranormally weird about her after all.
She sent me one more text telling me I should talk to a guy named Frankie. She’d gone to school with him. He’s a decent enough guy. Works in the Bicounty mall in town.
I had to wait a day or two for another of Petunia’s get togethers to talk to him.
“Hey!” I said awkwardly as I tried to figure out how to strike up conversation with someone I haven’t really spoken to in a long time. “Frankie, right?”
“Oh. Yeah. Been a while. How are you Mason? You okay after that whole thing at Red Nights?”
“I’m trying to be. Look, I’ll cut to the chase. You went to school with Trista Ramone, right?”
“Ol’ Boho Ramone? Yeah. We were sort of friendly. But I was a jerk to vegans back then. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been hanging out with her. She’s being all mysterious.” He chuckled at that. “She said I should talk to you to learn more about her… weirdness? Everyone thinks she’s a vampire now.”
“She’s totally a vampire. I have no idea what else to call her?”
“Why do you say that?”
“What did she tell you about school?”
“Nothing. She just showed me two yearbooks. Between Junior and Senior year she went from colorful club president, to lonely vampire, because of her disease.”
“Nah man. I don’t want to talk bad about her. But she was kind of a bitch, junior year. She wasn’t just a colorful vegan. She was one of those “holier than thou” types who scoffed and talked down to anyone who dared to eat meat. Her “hippy” thing meant she never hung out with the popular girls but still, she acted like she owned the place at times. I was friends with this weird guy named Steven Jones. He was just kind of a weirdo. Skulking around in the background, you know? He HATED Trista. For a while I totally understood. I thought she was kinda stuck up. But this guy was like… irrationally enraged by that girl’s existence. I guess he tried to ask her out when he was a freshman and she politely declined. But he took that shit personally.”
“Huh. So like… why’s that matter?”
“Because Steven kept saying to anyone who gave him a second look, that he was gonna ‘ruin’ her. Never elaborated. But then the last month of school rolls around, Trista gets assaulted by an unknown assailant and a week later she’s got this new disease. Meanwhile, Steven spent a week strutting around the school looking smug, and saying ‘she got what she deserved.’ Then he disappears too. Teachers said he moved away.”
“She was assaulted?”
“Yeah. Someone in a face wrap tackled her while she was at one of her protests at the meat factory. The dude freaking BIT her.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. I was there. I came to the protest. I’ll admit I was trying to hit on Trista or one of the other girls there. But yeah. Dude dressed in all gray with a face wrap just charged in and went right for Trista. Knocked her down, bit her like a freaking zombie, then ran away before anyone could stop him. Didn’t even take his face wrap off. It was freaky, man.”
“What the actual fuck.”
“That’s what we all said. Trista needed a stitch. But while she was at the hospital, I guess she started getting more symptoms. She was out for the rest of the year. From then on, she was like she is now. Total vampire.”
“Was Steven a vampire?”
“I dunno. Probably. Little dickhead is what he is. Must have been him that attacked Trista, but nobody could prove it. Bite mark didn’t match or something. So why are you asking? You hang out with her at night right? You asking her out or something?”
“Oh. No. Just a friend.”
That was all I really learned from Frankie. It’s quite a story, and it’s full of unknowns that Trista refuses to explain. So I guess I’ll let readers be the judge. Is she a “real” vampire? Or just a weirdo? All I know is, she’s totally standing behind me right now and now I’m dead. Bleh.
I did come back to life to talk to Trista once I finished writing this. She enjoyed it. I may as well include that interaction.
I went to her place on my night off. She read my take on her and what the neighbors thought and she grinned. “Ha! I’m a total monster!” She chuckled. “So. What do YOU think, Mason? Am I a vampire?” She cocked an eye and playfully gnashes her teeth at me, making a pleasant little click.
I sighed. “No idea. You’re Trista. And… you’re my friend. I’m sorry if I made things awkward.”
She looked surprised by that. “Aw. Thanks Mason. You’re my friend too. It’s okay. I’m flattered.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“So we’re cool?”
“Absolutely not. We’re both weird shut ins.” She laughed. It was good to hear her laugh. It made me happy.
“Yeah but I got the ‘mysterious vampire’ thing going.”
“You have dirt in your hair from rolling around with bunnies. And you’re a vegan.”
“Bite me.”
“Says the vampire.”
“You know, if I were a vampire, I could have bitten you when we both went to the slaughterhouses a few weeks ago.”
“That just makes me stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, Mason. You’re not a loser either.”
“So. You know of any other good spooky town stories that I can do next?
“Oh, sure. You ever heard the tale of Salome? She was a witch who would mash up the seeds of a Sinapis Alba plant to make a diabolical potion she’d dump on herself. They called her the ‘Witch of the Sands.’”
I’m embarrassed to admit it took me four days to realize Trista was just fucking with me. I only figured it out when I looked up Sinapis Alba and learned that mashing the seeds just makes mustard. “Salomi the sand-witch.” Well played, vampire hippy…
Sexy Neighbor
Haunted Slaughterhouse

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• Strategy & Tactics: Wargame Collection
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• Superbugs: Awaken
• Superhot
• Surgeon Simulator 2
• Survive the Nights
• Surviving Mars
• Surviving Mars
• Surviving The Aftermath
• Swag and Sorcery
• Sword Legacy Omen
• Sword of the Necromancer
• Swords and Soldiers 2 Shawarmageddon
• Syberia 3
• Symphonic Rain
• Symphony of War: The Nephilim Saga
• Synthwave Dream '85
• Tacoma
• Take Off - The Flight Simulator
• Tales
• Tales from the Borderlands
• Tales of Vesperia™: Definitive Edition
• Talk to Strangers
• Tallowmere
• Tangledeep
• Tank Mechanic Simulator
• Tannenberg
• Team Sonic Racing
• TEKKEN 7
• TEMTEM
• Terminus: Zombie Survivors
• Terror of Hemasaurus
• Textorcist
• Tharsis
• The Adventure Pals
• The Amazing American Circus
• The Anacrusis
• The Ascent
• The Battle of Polytopia
• The Battle of Polytopia *DLC1. Cymanti Tribe *DLC2. ∑∫ỹriȱŋ Tribe *DLC3. Aquarion Tribe *DLC4. Polaris Tribe
• The Blackout Club
• The Callisto Protocol™
• The Chess Variants Club
• The Citadel
• The Dark Pictures Anthology: House of Ashes
• THE DARK PICTURES ANTHOLOGY: LITTLE HOPE
• The Darkest Tales
• The Dungeon Beneath
• The Dungeon of Naheulbeuk: The Amulet of Chaos
• The Elder Scrolls Adventures: Redguard
• The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind® Game of the Year Edition
• The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion® Game of the Year Edition
• The Elder Scrolls Online
• The Escapists 2
• THE GAME OF LIFE 2
• The Golf Club™ 2019 featuring PGA TOUR
• The Haunted Island, a Frog Detective Game
• The Hong Kong Massacre
• The Horror Of Salazar House
• The Innsmouth Case
• The Invisible Hours
• The Jackbox Party Pack 9
• The Last Campfire
• The LEGO Movie 2 Videogame
• The Letter - Horror Visual Novel
• The Long Dark
• The Manhole: Masterpiece Edition
• The Mortuary Assistant
• The Mummy Demastered
• The Outer Worlds
• THE OUTER WORLDS: SPACER'S CHOICE EDITION
• THE PALE BEYOND
• The Quarry
• The Quarry deluxe
• The Ramp
• The Red Lantern
• The Rewinder
• The Sacred Tears TRUE
• The Sexy Brutale
• The Tarnishing of Juxtia
• The Tenants
• The Uncertain - The Last Quiet Day
• THE UNCERTAIN: LAST QUIET DAY
• The Uncertain: Light At The End
• The USB Stick Found in the Grass
• The Walking Dead
• The Walking Dead - 400 Days
• The Walking Dead Saints and Sinners
• The Walking Dead: A New Frontier
• The Walking Dead: Final Season
• The Walking Dead: Michonne - A Telltale Miniseries
• The Walking Dead: Saints & Sinners
• The Walking Dead: Season 1
• The Walking Dead: Season Two
• The Way
• The Wild At Heart
• The Wild Eight
• The Witness
• Them and Us
• They Bleed Pixels
• Thief of Thieves
• This War of Mine
• This Way Madness Lies
• Three Kingdom: The Journey
• Time on Frog Island
• Tinkertown
• Tiny Tina’s Wonderland(EU)
• TINY TINA'S WONDERLANDS CHAOTIC GREAT EDITION
• Tiny Troopers
• Tinykin
• Tinytopia
• TIS-100
• Titan Quest
• Tokyo Xanadu eX+
• Tools up
• Tooth and Tail
• Torchlight
• Total Tank Simulator
• Tour de France 2020
• Tower Unite
• Trailblazers
• Train Sim World 3: Standard Edition
• Train Simulator Classic
• Train Valley 1
• Transport INC
• Treasure Hunter Simulator
• TRIBES OF MIDGARD
• Trine 4
• Trinity Fusion
• Trombone Champ
• Tropico 5 - Complete Collection
• Trover Saves the Universe
• Tunche
• Turmoil
• Turok 2: Seeds of Evil
• Twin Mirror
• Two Point Campus
• Two Point Hospital
• TYPECAST
• Tyrant's Blessing
• Ultimate Chicken Horse
• Ultimate Zombie Defense
• Ultra Space Battle Brawl
• Unavowed
• Undead Horde
• Unexplored 2: The Wayfarer's Legacy
• Unity of Command: Stalingrad Campaign
• Universim
• UNLOVED
• Unpacking
• Until I have you
• Unto The End
• Upside Down
• URU: Complete Chronicles
• Vagante
• Valfaris
• Valfaris: Mecha Therion
• Valkryia Chronicles 4 Complete Edition
• Valkyria Chronicles 4 Complete Edition
• Valkyria Chronicles 4: Complete Edition
• Vambrace: Cold Soul
• Vampire Survivors
• Vectronom
• Velocity Noodle
• Venba
• Verne: The Shape of Fantasy
• Victoria 3
• Victoria II
• Viking: Battle For Asgard
• Virgo Versus The Zodiac
• VirtuaVerse
• Visage
• Viscerafest
• Void Bastards
• VOIDIGO
• Volcanoids
• Voltage High Society
• V-Rally 4
• Wanderlust: Travel Stories (GOG)
• Wargroove
• Warhammer 40,000 Sanctus Reach - Complete Edition
• Warhammer 40,000: Armageddon - Imperium Complete
• Warhammer 40,000: Battlesector
• Warhammer 40,000: Gladius - Relics of War
• Warhammer 40,000: Mechanicus
• Warhammer 40,000: Space Wolf Special Edition
• WARHAMMER AGE OF SIGMAR: REALMS OF RUIN – ULTIMATE EDITION
• Warhammer vermintide collector's edition
• Warhammer: End Times - Vermintide
• Warhammer: Vermintide 2
• Warman
• Wasteland 3
• Wayward
• WE NEED TO GO DEEPER
• We should talk.
• We Were Here Together
• We Were Here Too
• Webbed
• What Lies in the Multiverse
• When Ski Lifts Go Wrong
• while True: learn()
• Whos Your daddy
• Wick
• Will You Snail?
• Windward
• Witch It
• Witchy Life Story
• wizard of legends
• Wolfenstein 3D
• Worms Rumble
• WRC 6 FIA World Rally Championship
• WRC 7 FIA World Rally Championship
• WWE 2K Battlegrounds
• WWE 2K23
• WWZ Aftermath
• Wytchwood
• X-COM: COMPLETE PACK
• XCOM: ULTIMATE COLLECTION
• XIII - Classic
• X-Morph: Defense + European Assault, Survival of the Fittest, and Last Bastion DLC
• X-Morph: Defense Complete Pack
• Yakuza Kiwami
• Yakuza: Like A Dragon
• Yumeutsutsu Re:After
• Yumeutsutsu Re:Master
• Zen Chess: Mate in One, Mate in 2 , Mate in 3 , Mate in 4 , Champion's Moves (5 games)
• Ziggurat
• Zombie Army 4
• Zombie Army Trilogy
• Zool Redimensioned

DLCs and Softwares:

• For The King: Lost Civilization Adventure Pack
• Train Simulator: Isle of Wight Route Add-On
• Train Simulator: Woodhead Electric Railway in Blue Route Add-On
• Train Simulator: North Somerset Railway Route Add-On
• Train Simulator: Union Pacific Heritage SD70ACes Loco Add-On
• Train Simulator: London to Brighton Route Add-On
• BR Class 170 'Turbostar' DMU Add-On
• DB BR 648 Loco Add-On
• Europa Universalis IV: Wealth of Nations
• Expansion - Europa Universalis IV: Conquest of Paradise
• Expansion - Europa Universalis IV: Res Publica
• Grand Central Class 180 'Adelante' DMU Add-On
• Peninsula Corridor: San Francisco - Gilroy Route Add-On
• SONIC ADVENTURE 2: BATTLE
• Small World - A Spider's Web
• Small World - Cursed
• Small World - Royal Bonus
• The Dungeon Of Naheulbeuk: The Amulet Of Chaos - Goodies Pack
• The Dungeon Of Naheulbeuk: The Amulet Of Chaos - OST
• Thompson Class B1 Loco Add-On
• Total War: Shogun 2 - Rise of the Samurai
• Train Sim World® 3: Birmingham Cross-city line
• Train Sim World®: BR Class 20 'Chopper' Loco
• Train Sim World®: Brighton Main Line: London Victoria - Brighton
• Train Sim World®: Caltrain MP36PH-3C 'Baby Bullet'
• Train Sim World®: Cathcart Circle Line: Glasgow - Newton & Neilston
• Train Sim World®: Clinchfield Railroad: Elkhorn - Dante
• Train Sim World®: Great Western Express
• Train Sim World®: Hauptstrecke Hamburg - Lubeck
• Train Sim World®: LIRR M3 EMU
• Train Sim World®: Long Island Rail Road: New York - Hicksville
• Train Sim World®: Nahverkehr Dresden - Riesa
• Train Sim World®: Northern Trans-Pennine: Manchester - Leeds
• Train Sim World®: Peninsula Corridor: San Francisco - San Jose
• Train Sim World®: Rhein-Ruhr Osten: Wuppertal - Hagen
• Train Sim World®: Tees Valley Line: Darlington - Saltburn-by-the-sea
• Worms Rumble - Armageddon Weapon Skin Pack
• Worms Rumble - Captain & Shark Double Pack
• Worms Rumble - Legends Pack
• Worms Rumble - New Challengers Pack
• Ashampoo Photo Optimizer 7
• Dagon: by H. P. Lovecraft - The Eldritch Box DLC
• Duke Nukem Forever Hail to the Icons
• Duke Nukem Forever The Doctor Who Cloned Me
• GRIP: Combat Racing - Cygon Garage Kit
• GRIP: Combat Racing - Nyvoss Garage Kit
• GRIP: Combat Racing - Terra Garage Kit
• GRIP: Combat Racing - Vintek Garage Kit
• GameGuru
• GameMaker Studio 2 Creator 12 Months
• Intro to Game Development with Unity
• Music Maker EDM Edition
• Neverwinter Nights: Darkness Over Daggerford
• Neverwinter Nights: Enhanced Edition Dark Dreams of Furiae
• Neverwinter Nights: Enhanced Edition Tyrants of the Moonsea
• Neverwinter Nights: Enhanced Edition
• Neverwinter Nights: Infinite Dungeons
• Neverwinter Nights: Pirates of the Sword Coast
• Neverwinter Nights: Wyvern Crown of Cormyr
• PDF-Suite 1 Year License
• Pathfinder Second Edition Core Rulebook and Starfinder Core Rulebook
• RPG Maker VX
• WWE 2K BATTLEGROUNDS - Ultimate Brawlers Pass
• We Are Alright
• The Outer Worlds Expansion Pass
• A Hat in Time - Seal the Deal DLC
• City Skylines:mass transit
• A Game Of Thrones - A Dance With Dragons
• A Game Of Thrones - A Feast For Crows
• Blood Rage: Digital Edition - Gods of Asgard
• Blood Rage: Digital Edition - Mythical Monsters
• Blood Rage: Digital Edition - Mystics of Midgard
• Carcassonne - The Princess and The Dragon DLC
• Carcassonne - Traders & Builders DLC
• Carcassonne - Winter & Gingerbread Man DLC
• Carcassonne - Inns & Cathedrals
• Carcassonne - The River
• Splendor: The Trading Posts DLC
• Splendor: The Strongholds DLC
• Splendor: The Cities DLC
• Small World - Be Not Afraid... DLC
• Small World - Grand Dames DLC
• Small World - Cursed!
• Sands of Salzaar - The Ember Saga
• Sands of Salzaar - The Tournament
• Monster Train: The Last Divinity DLC
• WARSAW

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Wishlist
Region: NA (Canada)
Fees on buyer if any, currency is USD unless specified
CTRL + F to find your games in terms of name

• 10 Second Ninja X
• 11-11 Memories Retold
• 112 Operator
• 12 is Better Than 6
• 198X
• 1993 Space Machine
• 60 Parsecs
• 7 Billion Humans
• 8 DOORS
• 8-bit Adventure Anthology: Volume I
• 9 Years of Shadows
• 911 Operator
• A Game of Thrones: The Board Game
• A Hat in Time
• A Hole New World
• A JUGGLER'S TALE
• A Long Way Down
• A PLAGUE TALE: INNOCENCE
• A Robot Named Fight!
• A Tale for Anna
• A.I.M.2 Clan Wars
• Ace Combat Assault Horizon Enhanced Edition
• Adore
• Aeterna Noctis
• AETHERIS
• Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot The First Cases
• AIdol
• Airborne Kingdom
• Alba: A Wildlife Adventure
• Alder's Blood: Definitive Edition
• Alfred Hitchcock - Vertigo
• Alien Breed Trilogy
• Aliens vs. Predator™ Collection
• All-Star Fruit Racing
• Almost There: The Platformer
• American Fugitive
• American Truck Simulator
• Amerzone: The Explorer’s Legacy
• AMID EVIL
• Amnesia rebirth
• Amnesia: The Dark Descent + Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs
• Anomalous
• Another World – 20th Anniversary Edition
• Antigraviator
• Anuchard
• APICO
• APICO
• Aragami
• Aragami 2
• Arboria
• Arcade Paradise
• Arcade Paradise - Arcade Paradise EP
• Arcade Spirits
• Arkham Horror: Mother's Embrace
• Armada 2526 Gold Edition
• Army Men RTS
• army of ruin
• Arto
• Ary and the Secret of Seasons
• As Far as the Eye
• Ascension to the Throne
• Assemble With Care
• Assetto Corsa Competizione
• Assetto Corsa Ultimate Edition
• Astebreed Definitive Edition
• Astronarch
• Attack of the Earthlings
• Automachef
• Automobilista
• Automobilista 2
• AUTONAUTS
• AUTONAUTS VS PIRATEBOTS
• Avatar: Frontiers of Pandora™ - Ubisoft Connect
• AVICII Invector: Encore Edition
• Awesomenauts All Nauts pack
• Baba is you
• Back 4 Blood
• Back 4 blood (EU)
• Backbone
• Baldur's Gate II: Enhanced Edition
• Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition
• Banners of Ruin
• Bartlow's Dread Machine
• BASEMENT
• Batbarian: Testament of the Primordials
• Batman: Arkham Asylum Game of the Year Edition
• Batman: Arkham Origins
• Battle Royale Tycoon
• Battlecruisers
• Battlestar Galactica Deadlock
• BATTLESTAR GALACTICA DEADLOCK SEASON ONE
• Battlestar Galactica Deadlock: Complete
• BATTLETECH MERCENARY COLLECTION
• BATTLETECH Shadow Hawk Pack
• BEAUTIFUL DESOLATION
• BEFORE WE LEAVE
• Beholder 2
• Ben 10
• Ben 10: Power Trip
• Bendy and the Ink Machine™
• Between the Stars
• Beyond a Steel Sky
• Beyond The Edge Of Owlsgard
• Beyond the Long Night
• BEYOND THE WIRE
• Beyond: Two Souls
• BIOMUTANT
• Bionic Commando
• Bionic Commando Rearmed
• BioShock: The Collection
• BLACK BOOK
• Black Moon Chronicles
• Black Paradox
• BLACK SKYLANDS
• BLACKHOLE: Complete Edition
• Blacksad: Under the Skin
• Blade of Darkness
• Blasphemous
• Blazing Chrome
• Blightbound
• Blood And Zombies
• Blood Rage: Digital Edition
• Bloodstained: Ritual of the Night
• Bomber Crew
• Boneless Zombie
• Boomerang Fu
• Borderlands 3
• Borderlands 3 Super Deluxe
• Borderlands 3 Super Deluxe Edition
• Borderlands: The Handsome Collection
• Bot Vice
• Bounty of One
• Brawlout
• Breakout: Recharged
• Breathedge
• bridge constructor
• Bridge constructor medieval
• bridge constructor stunts
• Broken Lines
• Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons
• Brutal Legend
• Bug Fables: The Everlasting Sapling
• BUILDER SIMULATOR
• calico
• Call of Duty® Modern Warfare 3™ (2011)
• Call of Juarez: Gunslinger
• Car Mechanic 2018
• Car Mechanic Simulator 2015
• Car Mechanic Simulator 2018
• Castle Morihisa
• Castle on the Coast
• castle storm
• CastleStorm
• Cat Cafe Manager
• Caveblazers
• Celeste
• Centipede: Recharged
• CHANGE: A Homeless Survival Experience
• Charlie's Adventure
• Chenso Club
• Chernobylite: Enhanced Edition
• Chess Ultra
• Chicago 1930 : The Prohibition
• Chivalry 2
• Chop Goblins
• Chorus
• Cities Skylines + After Dark
• Cities: Skylines
• City of Beats
• CivCity: Rome
• Click and Slay
• Cloud Gardens
• Cloudpunk
• Code Vein
• Coffee Talk
• Comedy Night
• Command & Conquer Remastered (Origin)
• Complete Dread X Collection
• Conarium
• Construction Simulator (2015) Deluxe Edition
• Constructor Plus
• Control
• Cook, Serve, Delicious! 3?!
• cornucopia
• Corridor Z
• Cosmic Osmo and the Worlds Beyond the Mackerel
• Cosmonautica
• Crash Drive 2
• Crash Drive 3
• Creaks
• Creepy Tale
• Crookz the big heist
• CROSSBOW: Bloodnight
• Crush Your Enemies
• Cube Runner
• Cultist Simulator: Anthology Edition
• Curse: The Eye of Isis
• Cyber Ops
• Cybercube
• Danger Scavenger
• Dark Deity
• DARK PICTURES ANTHOLOGY: HOUSE OF ASHES
• Darksiders Warmastered
• Darkwood
• DARQ: Complete Edition
• Day of the Tentacle Remastered
• days of war definitive edition
• Dead by Daylight
• Dead Estate
• Dead Rising 2
• Dear Esther: Landmark Edition
• Death Stranding Directors Cut
• DEATH STRANDING DIRECTOR'S CUT
• Deceased
• DECEIVE INC.
• Degrees of Separation
• Delicious! Pretty Girls Mahjong Solitaire
• Deliver Us The Moon
• Demetrios - Deluxe Edition
• Depraved
• DESCENDERS
• DESOLATE
• Destiny 2: Beyond Light
• DESTROYER: THE U-BOAT HUNTER
• Detention
• Devil May Cry HD Collection
• Devilated
• Dicey Dungeons
• Dirt 5
• dirt rally
• Dirt Rally 2.0
• Disaster Band
• Disciples III: Reincarnation
• Discolored
• DISTRAINT 2
• Distrust
• DmC: Devil May Cry
• Do Not Feed the Monkeys
• Don't Be Afraid
• Doomed Lands
• Door Kickers: Action Squad
• Doorways: Prelude
• Downfall
• Dragons Dogma Dark Arisen
• Dragon's Dogma: Dark Arisen
• Draugen
• Draw Slasher
• Drawful 2
• Dreams in the Witch House
• Dreamscaper
• DreamWorks Dragons: Dawn of New Riders
• DRIFT21
• Driftland: The Magic Revival
• drive!drive!drive!
• Drone Swarm
• Due Process
• Duke Nukem: Manhattan Project
• Duke of Alpha Centauri
• Dungeon Rushers
• Dungeons 2
• Dungeons 3
• DUSK
• Dusk Diver
• Dust to the End
• DV: Rings of Saturn
• Dynopunk
• Earth Defense Force 4.1 The Shadow of New Despair
• Eastern Exorcist
• Eiyuden Chronicle: Rising
• El Matador
• Elderand
• ELDEST SOULS
• Electrician Simulator
• Elemental Survivors
• Elex
• Elex II
• Elite Dangerous
• Embr
• Empire: Total War - Definitive Edition
• Empyrion - Galactic Survival
• ENCASED: A SCI-FI POST-APOCALYPTIC RPG
• Endless Space 2
• Endless Space 2 - Digital Deluxe Edition
• Endless Space® 2 - Digital Deluxe Edition
• Endzone - A World Apart
• Epistory - Typing Chronicles
• Escape the backrooms
• Eternal Threads
• Europa Universalis IV
• European Ship Simulator
• Everdream Valley
• Evil Genius 2: World Domination
• Exorder
• EXPEDITIONS: ROME
• Expeditions: Viking
• Explosionade
• F1 2018
• F1 2019 Anniversary Edition
• F1 2020
• F1 RACE STARS Complete Edition Include DLC
• Fable Anniversary
• Factory Town
• Fallback uprising
• FALLOUT 1
• Family Mysteries 3: Criminal Mindset
• FANTASY BLACKSMITH
• FARMER'S DYNASTY
• Farming Simulator 17
• Farming Simulator 19
• Fictorum
• Field of Glory II
• Fights in Tight Spaces
• Filthy Animals Heist Simulator
• Firefighting Simulator - The Squad
• Fishing Adventure
• Flashback
• FLATLAND Vol.2
• FlatOut
• FLING TO THE FINISH
• Floppy Knights
• Fluffy Horde
• FOBIA - ST. DINFNA HOTEL
• For the King
• For The King: Lost Civilization Adventure Pack
• Forgive me Father
• Forts
• Fred3ric
• Fresh Start Cleaning Simulator
• Friends vs Friends
• Frogun
• From Space
• Frostpunk: Game of the Year Edition
• Frozenheim
• Fun with Ragdolls: The Game
• Funtasia
• Gamedec
• Gamedec - Definitive Edition
• Gang Beasts
• GARAGE bad trip
• Garden Story
• Garfield Kart
• GAS STATION SIMULATOR
• Gelly Break Deluxe
• Genesis Alpha One Deluxe Edition
• Gevaudan
• Ghostrunner
• Giana Sisters 2D
• GIGA WRECKER
• Gigantosaurus: Dino Kart
• Glitch Busters: Stuck On You
• Gloria Victis
• Go Home Dinosaurs
• GOAT OF DUTY
• GOD EATER 3
• Godlike Burger
• Godstrike
• Going Under
• Golf Gang
• Golf It!
• Gone Home + Original Soundtrack
• Good Knight
• Gotham Knights
• GREAK: MEMORIES OF AZUR
• GREEDFALL
• Gremlins, inc
• grey goo
• GRID - 2019
• grid ultimate
• GRIP: Combat Racing
• Gungrave G.O.R.E
• Guppy
• Guts and glory
• GYLT
• Hacknet
• Haegemonia: Legions of Iron
• Hamilton's Great Adventure
• Hammerwatch
• Hands of Necromancy
• Havsala: Into the Soul Palace
• Headsnatchers
• Heartwood Heroes
• Heat Signature
• Helheim Hassle
• Hell Let Loose
• Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice
• Hellbound
• Hellstuck: Rage With Your Friends
• Hero of the Kingdom III
• Hero of the Kingdom: The Lost Tales 2
• Heroes of Hammerwatch
• Heros hour
• Hexologic
• Hidden & Dangerous 2: Courage Under Fire
• Hidden & Dangerous: Action Pack
• Hidden Deep
• High On Life
• Hitman (2016) Game of the Year Edition
• HITMAN 2 - Gold Edition
• Hoa
• Hob
• Hollow Knight
• Holy Potatoes! A Spy Story?!
• Home Sweet Home
• Home Sweet Home EP2
• Homestead Arcana
• Hood: Outlaws & Legends
• Hoplegs
• Hot Tin Roof: The Cat That Wore A Fedora
• HOT WHEELS UNLEASHED ™
• Hotshot Racing
• House Flipper
• How to Survive 2
• Hue
• Human: Fall Flat
• HUMANKIND DEFINITIVE EDITION
• Hungry Flame
• Hyper Knights
• I am Bread
• I Am Fish
• I am not a Monster: First Contact
• I Hate Running Backwards
• ibb & obb Double Pack
• ICBM
• Ice Age Scrat's Nutty Adventure
• Ice Lakes
• Impostor Factory
• IN SOUND MIND
• Indivisible
• INDUSTRIA
• Infectonator 3: Apocalypse
• Infinite Beyond The Mind
• Injustice 2 Legendary Edition
• Insane 2
• INSOMNIA: The Ark
• Internet Cafe Simulator
• Internet Cafe Simulator 2
• Interstellar Space: Genesis
• Iron Fisticle
• Iron Harvest
• Ittle Dew
• Ittle Dew 2+
• Jack Move
• Jackbox party pack 2
• Jackbox party pack 5
• JANITOR BLEEDS
• Joint Task Force
• Jotun: Valhalla Edition
• Journey For Elysium
• Journey to the Savage Planet
• JUMANJI: The Video Game
• JumpJet Rex
• Jupiter Hell
• Jurassic Park: The Game
• Jurassic World Evolution
• Jurassic World Evolution 2
• JUST CAUSE 4: COMPLETE EDITION
• Just Die Already
• Kardboard Kings: Card Shop Simulator
• Keep Talking and Nobody Explodes
• Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth
• Kentucky Route Zero - Season Pass Edition
• Kerbal Space Program
• Killing Floor 2 Digital Deluxe Edition
• Killing Room
• Kingdom Two Crowns
• Kingdom: New Lands
• King's Bounty: Crossworlds
• Knights of Pen & Paper 2
• Knock-knock
• Koi-Koi Japan [Hanafuda playing cards] *Koi-Koi Japan : UKIYOE tours Vol.1 DLC *Koi-Koi Japan : UKIYOE tours Vol.2 DLC *Koi-Koi Japan : UKIYOE tours Vol.3 DLC
• Konung 2
• KungFu Kickball
• Labyrinthine
• Lair of the Clockwork God
• Laserlife
• LAST OASIS
• Lawn Mowing Simulator
• Layers of Fear: Masterpiece Edition
• Lead and Gold: Gangs of the Wild West
• Learn Japanese To Survive! Hiragana Battle
• Learn Japanese To Survive! Katakana War
• Learn Japanese to Survive! Trilogy
• Legend of Keepers
• LEGION TD 2 - MULTIPLAYER TOWER DEFENSE
• LEGION TD 2 - MULTIPLAYER TOWER DEFENSE.
• Leisure Suit Larry - Wet Dreams Don't Dry
• Leisure Suit Larry 1-7
• Lemnis Gate
• Lemon Cake
• lethal league blaze
• Let's School
• Levelhead
• Liberated (GOG)
• Life is Strange Complete Season (Episodes 1-5)
• Light Fairytale Episode 1
• Light Fairytale Episode 2
• LIGHTMATTER
• Little dragons cafe
• Little Hope
• Little Inner Monsters - Card Game
• Little Nightmares
• Little Nightmares Complete Edition
• Livelock
• Loop Hero
• Loot River
• Looterkings
• Lornsword Winter Chronicle
• Lost Castle
• Love Letter
• Lovecraft's Untold Stories
• Lovely planet arcade
• Lucius2
• Lucius3
• Ludus
• Lumberhill
• LunarLux
• Lust for Darkness
• Lust from Beyond: M Edition
• Mad Experiments: Escape Room
• Mad Max
• Mafia Definitive Edition
• Mafia: Definitive Edition
• Magenta Horizon
• Mahjong Pretty Girls Battle
• Mahjong Pretty Girls Battle : School Girls Edition
• Mail Time
• Maize
• Maneater
• Marooners
• MARSUPILAMI - HOOBADVENTURE
• Marvel's Avengers - The Definitive Edition
• Mato Anomalies
• Max Payne 3
• Mechs & Mercs: Black Talons
• Medieval II: Total War - Definitive Edition
• Medieval: Total War Collection
• MEEPLE STATION
• Men of War
• MERCHANT OF THE SKIES
• METAL HELLSINGER
• Metal Hellsinger
• Metro Exodus
• Metro last light
• Metro: Last Light Redux
• Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor GOTY
• Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor GOTY
• Middle-Earth: Shadow of War Definitive Edition
• MIDNIGHT PROTOCOL
• Mighty Switch Force! Collection
• MIND SCANNERS
• Ministry of Broadcast
• Minute of Islands
• Miscreated
• Mists of Noyah
• MKXL
• Mob Rule Classic
• Monaco
• Monster Hunter: Rise
• Monster Slayers - Complete Edition
• Monstrum
• Monstrum 2
• Moon Hunters
• Moons of Madness
• MORDHAU
• Mordheim: City of the Damned
• Mortal Kombat 11 Ultimate Edition
• MORTAL KOMBAT XL
• Mortal Shell
• Motorcycle Mechanic Simulator 2021
• Mr. Run and Jump
• Murder Mystery Machine
• My Big Sister
• My Friend Peppa Pig
• My Lovely Wife
• My Summer Adventure: Memories of Another Life
• My Time At Portia
• Mythforce
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In 2023 i made a post about pre-apocalypse factions and groups in AR2. Although the various groups and their goals were mostly cleared up the question of how the virus took over the islands. How did the United States military fail with the containment? Why are there Soviet armed forces soldiers and officers at the bunkers and the mansion? Why are there crashed black helicopters with unidentified personnel on Mackinaw?
When i asked other players about what they thought they gave a variety of theories on how the virus came to the islands and what all the different factions were trying to do.
Here are all the theories i have heard from players.
Mackinaw gem smugglers
Throughout a variety of locations including the prison's warden's office and party bus events you can find crates with gems. On Mackinaw, not far away from the airstrip, you can find a mine where gems can be found inside its tunnels and rocks. A theory came to mind that the virus originated from Mackinaw and that the smugglers either intentionally or unknowingly spread the virus to other parts of the archipelago. As their crates and gems were smuggled into the prison or to wealthy clients they became infected. This might also be a hint as to why the 'Rogues' can be found on Mackinaw, possibly trying to stop the smugglers or study the virus.
Controversies
The virus, being a virus, is organic meaning gems cant be infected with it. There are also no signs of the gems being cursed or having some form of anomaly. The airstrip shows no signs of an contamination or an experiment that went wrong and an pilot getting infected. Its posssible the 'Rogue's brought the virus to the smugglers but as long as their intentions or goals are unknown this can't be confirmed.
Campground's mad doctor
In a basement underneath one of the wooden buildings at the campground you can find surgical equipment and monitors. An infected doctor carrying an Walther P38 and a number of infected civilians can be found inside. This has led to the theory that the doctor was responsible for creating the virus through experimenting on humans. Its likely one of the patients broke free and infected the mad doctor and the campground residents.
Controversies
Due to the isolation of the campground it remains unexplained how the virus could have spread further from there to the other islands. Its possible one or more hikers got infected whilst visiting the camp and then infected the farmers at Salem or residents of Eden. However both infected hikers are located in the middle of Barkley's forests, away from houses.
Ashland hospital
Inside the hospital you can encounter yellow hazmat infected and a morgue. There are also signs of something going wrong at the hospital including turned over furniture and an malfunctioning lift. This led to the theory that the infection came from an experiment at the hospital or one of the bodies in the morgue had the virus. From there the virus infected Ashland, the biggest city in the archipelago, and then the farmlands.
Controversies
Outside the hospital in the middle of Ashland is a military camp and there are also military crates inside the hospital itself. This indicates that the soldiers who brought the equipment were well aware of the virus. This in turn means that Ashland hospital is not the origin of the virus as otherwise the military wouldn't have brought crates inside and set up an open camp in the middle of the city. All the hatches of the morgue are closed and no scientific equipment for experiments and tests can be found indicating that everything was well under control.
Regional airport
In many movies and games airports, train stations and harbors are locations of mass outbreaks and attacks. The Regional airport, being the biggest and only public airport in the archipelago, is major location when it comes to bringing visitors and goods from abroad. There exists the possibility that a plane might have brought the virus to the islands either one of its passengers or its cargo.
Controversies
The only planes at the airport are small civilian planes, private jets and military cargo planes. No actual commercial cargo planes are seen at the airport nor do any of its aircraft appear to be quarantined. There are police cruisers of the local sheriff's department at the main entrance but they appear to have been responding to a fanatic hostage crisis rather than an outbreak. There is also an fanatic inside the control tower with a revolver which might mean that the ATC communications were unattended when everyone became infected. There is also a well fortified military camp on the grass pad in front of the tower and military sleeping mats, crates and cans inside the terminal and tower which indicates the port was safe for the army to dig in at the time they arrived.
Beaufort and Salem cults
Beaufort: Underneath the Beaufort church there is a cave where an infected white plague doctor and his fanatic operatives can be found. There are several steel cages and an altar where prisoners were held and preachings were done respectively. It appears the cult was both fully aware of and prepared for the outbreak and tried to use mystical powers to protect its members. There is also a more darker side to the cult which is that they might have been doing experiments on their prisoners in order to bring armageddon to the world and cleanse the archipelago. In this way they could have brought the virus to the citizens of Halsey and caused further chaos by sending fanatics to the airport.
Salem: Inside the Salem church you can encounter a black plague doctor and a number of fanatics wearing vests and masks. The Salem fanatics tried to hide inside the church with the hope that they would be safe from the infection. There is a rumor that the Salem cult might have called upon dark powers to curse those not part of the group or engineered the virus biologically to gain more influence among paranoid and superstitious citizens.
Controversies
Beaufort: In one of the bigger buildings of Beaufort you can find olive/green sleeping mats and military equipment. Inside the sheriff's office infected SWAT operatives armed with assault rifles and shotguns can be encountered. This might indicate that soldiers arrived at Beaufort before it got infected and the police were preparing for action. Its also unknown how the infected could have left the cave through the heavy wooden hatch at the tunnel entrance.
Salem: Its unknown if the plague doctor had any connections to dark powers and there is no equipment that can be used for working with biological matter. There is also an well prepared police blockade next to the church on the bridge which might mean the virus was not active in Salem when it was set up.
The Soviets/militia
There is a significant presence of the militia and their Soviet allies throughout the entire archipelago. The game is set in the late 80's and early 90's during which time the Soviets and Americans were political and military rivals. On virtually every named island you can find a sign or equipment of the Militia and loosely affiliated smugglers. Meanwhile at the coastal bunkers, mansion, Lulu chapel and various camp and ATV events you can encounter well armed Soviet soldiers from both the army and the Spetsnaz. From any of these outposts and holdouts the communists could have easily spread the virus to sabotage American interests in the archipelago. Nuclear, chemical and biological warfare were used by both sblocks during the cold war.
Controversies
During the late 80's soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev ended the afghan war and cooled down tensions with the west. Its unlikely he would have authorized an biological attack on US soil. Militarily an attack on the archipelago wouldn't have been very profitable in terms of strategy as the virus knows no allegiance to anyone and is can easily infect any human not wearing a full body suit and a gasmask. Politically an attack against the USA with biological weapons would have been met with heavy reprisals and criticism by the international community if the truth were to be found out. There are also no signs of biological weapons usage at any militia or Soviet locations.
Volcano helicopter crash
The helicopter wreckage and infected soldiers and hazmat suit wearing responders raises questions what the helicopter could have been transporting. There is also no sign of the police or the military responding to the crash site as their vehicles are absent. There is the chance that the helicopter might have been transporting the virus and crashed at the volcano where its infected occupants attacked the responders and scientists at the geological research site.
Controversies
The isolated location of the crash site and research station raises questions on how the infection could have spread from the mountain to the surrounding towns and communities. There is also an fire watch tower with armed militia soldiers on the other side of the volcano whom might have been able to fight against the infected whilst also staying isolated and away from civilians. Its possible the virus could have infected hikers and some militia members who then spread it elsewhere (female hiker -> Salem farmers, male hiker -> campgrounds and surrounding houses, militia scout -> junkyard and mansion).
My opinion: I think the most believeable infection location from where the virus could have spread is the volcano's heli crash. This heli crash is the only crash confirmed to have happened at the start or before the outbreak as its location is permanent. There are also military police blockades on the bridges from the other islands to Barkley which look like they have been built to stop traffic from going to and from the island. Then we have also the lack of dedicated military camps and sites around Barkley. It appears the military primarily wanted to secure the power plant to maintain electricity for the archipelago. Compared to the other islands the civilians of Barkley seemed to be less well prepared for an conflict or any kind of attack as there are no gun shops at major locations like Lockport and Salem and there is also no police station, hospital or fire station. As to how the helicopter got the virus on board is unknown but many crates lay scattered around the crash site and vehicles with special equipment and hazmat infected are nearby.
What theory do you think is the most likely to have brought the virus to the islandsor do you have a theory of your own?
comment!

Getting rid of a few unplayed records...hoping you can give them the love they deserve:)
All records are considered NM/NM unless stated otherwise.
Prices include shipping the US
Alabama Shakes-Sound and Color (clear vinyl) $13 https://www.discogs.com/release/6764040-Alabama-Shakes-Sound-Color
The Allman Brothers Band-Brothers and Sisters (mofi) $85 https://www.discogs.com/release/6193486-The-Allman-Brothers-Band-Brothers-And-Sisters
The Allman Brothers Band-Eat a Peach (mofi) $125 https://www.discogs.com/release/4620472-The-Allman-Brothers-Band-Eat-A-Peach
The Allman Brothers Band-Idlewild South (mofi) $50 https://www.discogs.com/release/1993157-The-Allman-Brothers-Band-Idlewild-South
The Allman Brothers Band-Allman Brothers Band (mofi) $80 https://www.discogs.com/release/4120749-The-Allman-Brothers-Band-The-Allman-Brothers-Band
The Allman Brothers Band-Live at Fillmore East (mofi) $125 https://www.discogs.com/release/7688418-The-Allman-Brothers-Band-The-Allman-Brothers-Band-At-Fillmore-East
America-History, America's Greatest Hits (RSD Blue Vinyl) $30 https://www.discogs.com/release/22990463-America-History-Americas-Greatest-Hits
Bone Thugs N Harmony-Creepin On Ah Come Up (RSD with hype attached) $100 https://www.discogs.com/release/15796562-Bone-Thugs-N-Harmony-Creepin-On-Ah-Come-Up
Candlebox-Candlebox (mov silver vinyl) vinyl NM, cover VG+ with small corner ding $28 https://www.discogs.com/release/22824830-Candlebox-Candlebox
Carole King-Music (mofi) $25 https://www.discogs.com/release/4093047-Carole-King-Music
Cat Stevens-Catch Bull at Four (orange vinyl) Vinyl NM, Sleeve Vg with 2" seam split on top $16 https://www.discogs.com/release/25398472-Cat-Stevens-Catch-Bull-At-Four
Cat Stevens-Mona Bone Jakon $12 https://www.discogs.com/release/16375263-Cat-Stevens-Mona-Bone-Jakon
The Cranberries-Everybody else is doing it, so why can't we? (analog spark) $60 https://www.discogs.com/release/10485244-The-Cranberries-Everybody-Else-Is-Doing-It-So-Why-Cant-We
The Cranberries-No Need to Argue (clear vinyl) $60 https://www.discogs.com/release/16216101-The-Cranberries-No-Need-To-Argue
The Cranberries-To the Faithful Departed (yellow vinyl)$50 https://www.discogs.com/release/28588378-The-Cranberries-To-The-Faithful-Departed
Damien Rice-O $20 https://www.discogs.com/release/11293982-Damien-Rice-O
Erlend Oye-Legao $14 https://www.discogs.com/release/6154574-Erlend-%C3%98ye-Legao
Fleetwood Mac-Mirage (purple vinyl) $18 https://www.discogs.com/release/14538064-Fleetwood-Mac-Mirage
Fleetwood Mac-Tango in the Night $12 https://www.discogs.com/release/24838382-Fleetwood-Mac-Tango-In-The-Night
Gabor Szabo-Dreams (VMP) $30 https://www.discogs.com/release/16030720-G%C3%A1bor-Szab%C3%B3-Dreams
Gabor Szabo-The Best of Gabor Szabo (red vinyl) $12 https://www.discogs.com/release/14503246-Gabor-Szabo-The-Best-Of-Gabor-Szabo
Gorillaz-Cracker Island $15 (one sleeve, but 2 versions of vinyl will come with, both varients listed below) Vinyl NM, sleeve Vg+ with 1" seam spilt on spine https://www.discogs.com/release/26200256-Gorillaz-Cracker-Island https://www.discogs.com/release/26200256-Gorillaz-Cracker-Island
Grateful Dead-Daves Picks Volume 1 (#2385/5000) Vinyl is NM, Box has 2"seam split on top $140 https://www.discogs.com/release/23123423-Grateful-Dead-Daves-Picks-Volume-1-The-Mosque-Richmond-VA-52577
Grateful Dead-Capitol Theatre $140 (vinyl nm, box VG with a ding and 2 seam splits on top of the box) https://www.discogs.com/release/8398059-Grateful-Dead-Capitol-Theatre-Passaic-NJ-42577
Grateful Dead-Mountain View 1994 Volume 2 Bootleg $20 https://www.discogs.com/release/16069574-The-Grateful-Dead-Mountain-View-1994-Shoreline-Amphitheatre-Broadcast-Volume-Two
Harry Nilsson-Aerial Ballet (speakers corner) $22 https://www.discogs.com/release/10439781-Nilsson-Aerial-Ballet
Incubus-A Crow Left of the Murder $20 https://www.discogs.com/release/4228045-Incubus-A-Crow-Left-Of-The-Murder
Incubus-Light Grenades $14 https://www.discogs.com/release/4228059-Incubus-Light-Grenades
Jamiroquai-Synkronized $15 https://www.discogs.com/release/11591040-Jamiroquai-Synkronized
Jose Gonzalez-Vestiges and Claws $12 https://www.discogs.com/release/6677819-Jos%C3%A9-Gonz%C3%A1lez-Vestiges-Claws
Jose Gonzalez and The String Theory-Live in Europe (green and yellow vinyl) $75 https://www.discogs.com/release/17458186-Jos%C3%A9-Gonz%C3%A1lez-The-String-Theory-Live-In-Europe
Khruangbin-Mordechai Remixes $10 https://www.discogs.com/release/20741614-Khruangbin-Mordechai-Remixes
Vieux Farka Toure et Khruangbin-Ali (Turntable Lab Exclusive with hype) $25 https://www.discogs.com/release/24600182-Vieux-Farka-Tour%C3%A9-Et-Khruangbin-Ali
MorMor-Some Place Else (vmp exclusive with hype -#365/500) $85 https://www.discogs.com/release/13992434-MorMor-Some-Place-Else-
MorMor-Semblance (vmp) $14 https://www.discogs.com/release/25559239-MorMor-Semblance
Quinton Sung -8 Bit Computer $40 (#242/500) https://www.discogs.com/release/12444738-Quinton-Sung-8-Bit-Computer
Quinton Sung-Kid 8 $20 https://www.discogs.com/release/12870767-Quinton-Sung-Kid-8
Sam Cooke-The Best of Sam Cooke $10 https://www.discogs.com/release/12674543-Sam-Cooke-The-Best-Of-Sam-Cooke
Tonic-Lemon Parade (mov) $18 https://www.discogs.com/release/23017886-Tonic-Lemon-Parade
Toquinho-Toquinho $14 https://www.discogs.com/release/12841750-Toquinho-Toquinho
Various-Hip Hop Collected (MOV Red and White Vinyl) #1710/5000 $28 https://www.discogs.com/release/22539485-Various-Hip-Hop-Collected

FIRST CHAPTER
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
This product is a fanfic of the Sexy Space Babes/Between Worlds product of u/Bluefishcake and one I highly suggest you read. It was created with permission, but give the OG works some love.
Imgr gallery of Comissioned and Fan Artworks
I'm Back Bitches! Again!
//////////
Junior Systems Engineer First Class Che’keero knelt before a semi-sparking control panel and sighed. She, and a large band of her fellow Engineers with Marine support, had boarded the pirate frigate with the singular goal of ensuring that the pirates didn’t scuttle their floating hulk and doom the slaves aboard to a, if they were lucky, a swift death in space.
The problem, of course, came with the pirate’s maintenance schedules and decisions to forgo certain… safety measures when it came to repair.
Like the panel before her. Usually a perfectly functional control system for the reverse-magnetic bulkhead doors that ensured void seals in power outages, some pirate at some point in their dumb, dumb life decided to fix the panel blowing a fuse… by ripping the fuse out and replacing it with a high density power cable. Which meant the entire thing was one massive shock hazard and actively sparking as the reactors deep in the ship flickered and surged due to damage.
Che’keero swore as an arc of electricity flashed towards her face after a tool that was not supposed to be magnetized, cheap dick WaDepth requisitions, caught a magnetic field, fusing the entire system shut and turning the formerly barely functional control system into nothing but pretty, decorative wiring and cheap solder. She punched the now utterly unfunctional control box and toggled on her radio. “Three-Two to Three-Lead, this door’s fried. You’ll need to bring in the cutters if we want to get to the rest of the ship. Might as well also bring in an inflatable airlock, I’m not liking how some of the metal strain sensors are flashing at me.”
A semi-synthetic voice replied back to Che’keero, “Three-Lead copies. I’ll be over there shortly with the stuff. Double check those sensors, I’m not getting the same readings, so let’s make sure something isn’t blocking errors from reaching me.”
“Copy that Three-Lead, Three-Two ou-” Something tapped against the back of her helmet and Junior Systems Engineer First Class Che’keero mentally swore.
“Now, now, lassie, how about you sit right there and don’t move.” A nasally, unfamiliar voice called out to her while tapping what a camera she set up to watch her back revealed to be a laser pistol to Che’keero’s helmet. “I think that you’re going to be our new best friend and way off this dead end ship.”
Che’keero paused, letting the situation settle in her mind, “Wait, what? Are… are you taking me hostage?”
“Yes!” The pirate replied.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you taking me hostage? This won’t work, none of the shuttles are jump capable and if you try anything, you’ll just end up jumped by marines. They specifically train to deal with pirates taking their engineers hostage. If you want to survive, you should just surrender and take the penal colony when it’s offered.” Che’keero mentioned, shrugging and continuing her inspection of the door.
The pirate seemed baffled at the sheer nonchalance of this response, the pistol slowly falling to merely point at her upper back instead of her head, “You… you really aren’t taking this seriously. I’m a pirate! I’ve killed people! I’ve killed boys, and you’re just sitting there like this doesn’t mean anything!”
“I mean… I wouldn’t say that.” Che’keero replied.
“THEN WHAT DO YOU MEAN!” The pirate screamed, the pistol moving away from Che’keero’s body by a fraction of an inch during an angry gesture.
It was at that point, a ceramic alloyed, carbon steel blade punched clean through the back of the pirate’s suit, slicing through their central nervous system and striking with enough force to shatter the faceplate of said pirate’s helmet on the way out. Muscles twitching, the laser pistol fired off randomly, missing Che’keero and slagging a chunk of bulkhead.
“I’m just buying time,” Che’keero replied cheekily.
“You really need to remember to check your cameras,” The semi-synthetic voice of Ventures Forth Bravely Into Great Unknowns commented as the ex-pirate fell to the ground and blue blood dripped from the long blade sprouting from her right arm and a toolbox hanging from her left hand. “This isn’t the first time you have been flanked, and this one wasn’t during training.”
“Look, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Che’keero replied a bit testily.
“I’m sorry…” Ventures Forth prodded.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”
“Much better. Right, now what do we see in this- yeah you were right on it being fried.” Ventures Forth gently shoved the Junior Systems Engineer aside and took her place at the control panel. “Do a sweep of the strain systems. I don’t want this section of the ship breaking apart. Feel free to call up our hull patches. We’ve got plenty to share and this might have to be a lifeboat.”
“Aye, ma’am aye,” Che’keero replied with a crisp salute before rushing off to her duty.
Deeper inside the ship, Ventures Forth could hear laser fire, clashing of metal on metal, and cries for help.
The pirate ship was doomed, it was shattered and broken, but it was not destroyed. Not yet. \
And if she had her way, Ventures Forth Bravely Into Great Unknowns would keep it that way.
//////////
Roshal stood still as her steward continued to clean the dark blue and rapidly congealing blood off her armored form. “Comms,” She called out, “Do we have any contact with the shuttle we sent to the station?”
“Negative, ma’am.” The comm officer replied. She wasn’t the same one that was present when Roshal left to fend off the boarders. At the unspoken question, the woman continued “Communication’s Mate Second Class Lev’tal, ma’am. My superior got a concussion when the pirate ship rocked our ship during boarding. Strap snapped, prior damage. I took over.”
Roshal nodded approvingly, “Good initiative. Send a message to the station, see if we can’t rai-”
“Ma’am! Contact!” One of her sensor techs called out, “Belay that, two contacts. First contact, nav point 782 spinward, possible bogey, cruiser weight. Unknown movements. Second contact, nav point 102 coreward, aerospace assets inbound. Small flight. Hard to determine numbers due to damage. No less than two, no more than five.”
“Focus on getting a hard contact on that possible cruiser. Weapons, what is the status of our anti-aerospace.” Roshal demanded, holding her sword arm out for the steward to scrub at a particularly clotted chunk of blood splattered over her wrist.
The weapons officer shook her head, “If we’re lucky, then we’ve got 20% coverage on half our sides. If we’re very lucky, I might be able to bump that number up to 35%. Not going to quote doctrine, but that’s not nearly enough to fend off a flight of Aerospace assets on a strike run, and that’s assuming they don’t hit us on an unprotected flank.”
Roshal nodded once more, “Sound general quarters and get weapons and tactical back online. Tell the damage control parties to not be distracted and focus on critical systems first. Engine room, report. Can you give me maneuvering thrust?”
The nearby ship phone chimed in with a staticy hiss, “Negative, ma’am. The shot we made with the spinal mount tripped breakers up and down the reactor room. This isn’t an engine problem, we need to make sure our reactor doesn’t blow up when we siphon power. Before you ask, emergency power is still flowing and none of their circuits tripped, but that means we’re down to life support, basic systems, and dockyard thrusters. It will take at least 20 to get the reactor in a safe state. If you want 10, send the chaplain down so we have someone praying for good luck. The fact most of our structural engineers are doing an EVA boarding to ensure the pirate ship next to us doesn’t go critical and render the entire exercise moot isn’t helping matters at all.” The engine room replied Roshal bit down a bit of annoyance at the snark, but engineers were always a finicky sort with authority. They were the first to remind uptight officers that while the Captain’s word may be iron law, it was their work that truly moved the ship.
“Confirmed, engine room.” Roshal instead replied. “Chaplains will be arriving shortly. Do what you can and inform me when you’re three minutes out from full power.”
The engine room didn’t even bother replying, just sending over the affirmative light as they got to work. Roshal approved of that. Sometimes, you just had to insult someone in order to get it working right.
“Captain, we have confirmation on contact. He’s an Alliance Karcharidon class Heavy Cruiser on intercept course. Energy readings are spiking… they’re charging their guns, ma’am!”
“Issue a hostile challenge and give me a firing solution with any gun still functional.”
“No response, ma’am. Hostile Karcharidon is increasing speed. Hard contact in 15 minutes.”
Roshal snarled, emotion breaking through her mask. “Of course, the pirates had one more vessel. Helm, fire our maneuvering thrusters, use the pirate hulk as cover. Weapons, get whoever’s left of our Interceptor flight to engage the enemy. Comms, get me in contact with the merchant fleet, tell them to evacuate. We’ll provide cover.”
“Aye ma’am.” The Communications Mate Second Class said with a shiver in her voice. “Sending-”
“Update on Aerospace assets!” Her sensor tech called out.
“Deliver!” Roshal demanded, cutting off the comms officer with a slice of her hand.
“Weapons fire. Definitely less than four contacts. Seems to be two grou- negative, only two contacts remaining- weaponsfire- one contac- IFF received, oh goddesses, IT’S RUNOFF THREE! FRIENDLY AEROSPACE INBOUND!”
//////////
Milk gripped her crash harness hard as Cookie slammed the Interceptor’s fusion torch clean past its safe thrust marker and into the red as g forces crushed her chest. “Last target down.” She reported after Cookie’s final laser burst hit something critical inside the final Aerospace fighter’s frame. “That’s 20 for 20. All enemy bogeys down. All standard munitions are in the black. Static drive is 48%, dump core ejected. All we’ve got left is our ASM and front laser.”
Cookie flashed back an affirmative signal.
“We going for that cruiser?”
Another affirmative.
“Well, I’m braced and ready on the release. Ready.”
“Ready.” Cookie spoke, his voice horse.
It’s funny what people think when their lives are on the line. Because charging towards a fresh enemy Heavy Cruiser, nothing but a single anti-shipping missile worth a damn, no allied support but the faint glimmer in IFF screens of their fellow flight doing the same… all Aoibhinn McDermott could think of was a poem she had read at least a decade ago or more at the Naval Academy.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the Valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
//////////
Ventures Forth Bravely Into Great Unknowns could do nothing but furiously swear as the basic sensor system her engineering team had restored on the thoroughly ventilated secondary command bridge of the pirate hulk revealed an enemy Heavy Cruiser bearing down upon their homeship.
“Weapons are trashed. We cored their reactor, anyway.” One of the tangential engineers reported, “Other teams are calling in. Things are worse where they are. We’ve found the slaves, though, luckily it was one of the few airtight bays. Also, have some more captives, but that really doesn’t matter right now.”
“No shit.” Ventures Forth replied, “Can we do anything?”
The engineer looked back to her, visor depolarizing so the Gearschilde can look into the black and yellow eyes of her Shil coworker.
“Pray.” The woman replied simply.
Ventures Forth Bravely Into Great Unknowns did just that.
//////////
Low chanting filled the engine bay as a small group of priests stood around the engine praying to whichever god that would listen to allow them one more shot. One more fight.
Around them, black handed engineers scurried, ripping out blown fuses and replacing them with soldered in high strength wire. A final measure of desperation. Sparks flew as engineers swore and chaplains prayed, power still remaining in circuits needing to be bled out before bypasses could be installed, turning every bit of solder and every ripped out fuse into a deadly gamble.
Already, someone was lying on the ground, no longer twitching.
They didn’t have time to check on their fallen comrade, the work was too important.
A clock ticked down. Four minutes elapsed.
//////////
Lieutenant Commander Cenywyn swore as she watched Runoff 2 die.
Their single Interceptor had mistimed a maneuver and had been caught dead in the middle of an Anti-Aerospace array, shredded in an instant. The only consolation she could take was that, seeing as the first shot went clean through the cockpit, they didn’t even notice they died.
“Runoff 4, stay in formation.” She ordered over the radio, “We’ll lead you in for the run.”
“Yes ma’am.” The hesitant voice of Junior Flight Lieutenant Griogill replied. She swallowed, “We’re- we’re ready when you are.”
“No fear, Lieutenant,” Cenywyn called back to the child she was leading to her death. “We’re pilots in the Imperial Patrol. We do our duty. No fear.”
A clock ticked down. Six minutes elapsed.
//////////
“Talk to me!” The last remaining senior engineer in the reactor bay called out to anyone who was able to reply.
Someone, she didn’t even bother looking to see who, called back “We’ve bypassed 60% of the fuses. Should be able to give ourselves a burst of combat power. No more than 10 minutes of it before the entire system overheats and we either die, or the reactor shuts off.”
“Any chance we can get more than 10 minutes?”
“Not before that Heavy Cruiser delivers us straight to the stars.”
“Fuck it, good enough.” She slammed her fist on the ship phone’s dialing button resting near the console the engineer had just ripped the last safety override out of. “Captain. We’ve got your power. You give us the word, and we’ll give you ten minutes.”
//////////
Roshal breathed in, breathed out, and nodded. 10 minutes of combat power before the entire ship shut down into uselessness. She’d done more with less. She couldn’t remember when, but she had. Luckily, this was a Patrol Carrier instead of a standard ship, so it was more than capable of combat maneuvers with nothing but RCS thrusters. That should give her some time.
Movement, movement was going to be the key.
“Comms, tell the engineering crews on the hulk that they are ordered to figure out anything that could draw the attention of the Heavy Cruiser,” She began, “Systems, break our mooring lines. We’re going to have to split from the hulk. Helm, prepare for maneuvers. RCS only. We are going to have to do this carefully. Engineroom, prepare for power activation, but hold until my command.”
This needs to be perfect, Roshal thought, A single mistimed action ruins it all.
A clock ticked down. Ten minutes elapsed. The Karcharidon had entered maximum weapon’s range.
//////////
He of Slender Tail shivered where he stood. The secondary command bridge was silent as Roshal began giving orders to fight. This was… this was insane.
They were in a ruined ship with nothing but a merchant fleet beginning to flee and a three thirds dead pirate hulk on their side against a fresh Karcharidon class Heavy Cruiser.
They couldn’t win.
This was suicide.
They would die here.
\ So why didn’t He of Slender Tail feel afraid?
He stood at his post, a secondary bridge console where he would relay orders to other departments, freeing up the other Watchkeeper to collate those orders, there was nothing he could do to help win this impossible battle, and yet…
And yet he felt heat blossoming inside his chest with every single order delivered.
“Mooring teamsss, you are to cut your linesss immediately.” He relayed to a crew of Shil scurrying around the ruined bulkheads, “Damage control, prepare for electrical firesss and arcsss.” He commanded, switching between teams instantly.
He didn’t feel fear. He could see his Watchkeeper shiver every time the sensors reported the enemy contact was still closing, but he didn’t feel the same.
What he felt… was indignation.
How dare this pirate scum threaten his vessel, his crew. How dare they ambush this valiant ship after they had fought so hard to win. How dare they.
He let his fangs fold out as he spat the next order, “Anti-Aerossspace teamsss, prepare your batteriesss for grouped fire. Gunnery calculationsss are on their way.”
How dare they stand up to him.
A clock ticked down. 12 minutes elapsed. Weapons fire.
//////////
Roshal swayed slightly as she could feel the ship beneath her feet move. Movement is life in naval warfare, movement is death. “Right RCS fire, bring us clear of the hulk. Bow thrusters, up twenty.”
“Aye, ma’am, aye, right standard and bow up twenty.” The Helmswoman replied.
“Confirmed. Next maneuver, give us rear thrust-”
“Torpedo!” The sensor operator called out in a shrill voice, “Two marks on intercept course! Range, twelve K and closing fast!”
“Decorum!” Roshal snapped at the panicking sensor technician. “Comms, order Runoff flight to divert and intercept those torpedoes. Rear RCS to full, give us momentum.”
Roshal turned away from the bridge as affirmations were shouted, and the ship began to move, “Engineering, prepare to activate combat power on my mark and prepare for hard maneuvers. Mark in five.”
//////////
Griogill swallowed bile and tried not to feel too thankful that the enemy vessel had fired torpedoes at their home ship. Being diverted from an attack run had a much higher chance of survival than striking through an AA bubble.
“Runoff 4 engaging far torpedo. Moving in for intercept. Bre’kas, give me lock.”
Griogill’s backseater muttered something, and a target lock appeared on the far torpedo as Runoff 1, their previous Drill Sergeants, dashed by in a hard burn and blazed away at their own target.
“Right. We can do this. We can do this. No fear.” The rookie muttered as the sight of her friends in Runoff 3 being turned to vapor echoed in her mind. “I can do this.”
The target locked. She fired. The torpedo detonated.
A clock ticked down.
//////////
“Mark in four.”
//////////
The Heavy Cruiser loomed closer as the comparatively tiny Patrol Carrier spat its defiance in the form of two Interceptors dancing between the stars.
As a pair of torpedoes detonated, four more were launched, the anti-shipping weapons built for this specific purpose. Destroying disabled vessels.
And so the last two remaining Interceptors on CAP dove into the fray, risking themselves against an ever approaching AA bubble in order to save their ship.
A clock ticked down.
//////////
“Mark in three.”
//////////
All Cookie could do was stare and push his meager aerospace fighter further on its nuclear thrusters as shimmering dots of torpedoes lanced out from the Heavy Cruiser attacking his new home.
He pushed his hand forward and felt the throttle once more push back against him, the lever pushed all the way past safe thrust and into the further setting on his console.
The Interceptor was fast. It didn’t feel fast enough.
And so he spoke the words he spoke once before, back when he’d had to listen to his backseater’s screams of pain and the rush of wind after shrapnel pierced his fuselage, and the hospital was so, so far away.
Father, I pray that you will not hide your face from me. Whenever I pray, Lord please hear me and answer me speedily in Jesus' name. God, I pray that you will grant me speed through your help.
A clock ticked down.
//////////
“Mark in two.”
//////////
The Heavy Cruiser shifted, engine flaring and it began to close the range. A single disabled ship on emergency RCS thrusters and a pair of Aerospace fighters was nothing it would have to deal with.
It fired a third spread of torpedoes.
A clock ticked down.
//////////
They took the bait. Roshal thought with a vicious grin.
“Mark in one.” She paused, “Execute.”
In an instant, power flowed through the ship, emergency lights flickered off as the burning red boarding lights returned their fiery glow. The entire ship shook as the main thruster came back online, and capacitors began to charge for maneuvers.
“Hard burn, full thrusters, right, on my mark.” Roshal watched as the Heavy Cruiser began to react to her movements, the enemy ship was alive, you needed to roll to broadsides to begin bombardment, come on come on…
Roshal watched as a torpedo flickered out of existence, Runoff 4 gaining another kill.
Come on, dammit, you don’t get put in charge of a Heavy Cruiser without- THERE!
The Heavy Cruiser flinched, turning her bow away from the no longer stricken vessel, preparing for broadside.
The Captain’s grin showed more teeth than smile. “Execute! Full right thrust!”
“Full right thrust! Aye ma’am aye!” Her helmswoman called out as maneuvering thrusters dead cold roared to life and physically threw the vessel to the side, causing everyone not strapped in on the bridge to rock as a barrage of fire flew past their former location, manual targeting systems in play since the automatic systems would still be getting warmed up.
“Full thrust forward, prepare to divert all power to secondary weapons. Weapons, give me a firing solution.” Roshal commanded, hand raised and pointed at the enemy’s display as if she were commanding from a tall ship.
A chant of “Aye ma’am aye” flowed out across the bridge as the weaponsmistress was silent before calling out. “Port side is up to 45% secondary fires and 32% point defense. That’ll be our best bet.”
Roshal nodded. “Make it so. Target their main weapons. Helm, get us that facing.”
“Ma’am. We’re getting a call from Runoff 3. They are entering the AO and are asking for a target.”
Roshal smiled, “Weapons, shift target. Aim for the anti-aerospace systems. Let’s give Runoff 3 the opening they need.”
A clock ticked down.
//////////
“Cookie, we’ve got a targeting path.” Milk called forward. “Putting it up on your HUD.”
“One second… I’ve got it. Moving to comply. Did the Captain give us a plan?” her front seater replied, causing her stomach to do funny things as the Aerospace Fighter maneuvered while under high thrust.
“Something like that. She asked for a munitions report and specifically about our anti-shipping weapon.”
Cookie paused.
“Ah.” He finally said.
“Yeah.” She replied.
“Well, let’s hope they’re able to open us up to a window of opportunity. Or this will be a short charge.”
“Not our place to question why.”
“Just our place to do and die.”
Time to target… three minutes.
Into the valley of Death, rode the six hundred.
A clock ticked down.
//////////
Two vessels, three Aerospace fighters, one chance.
Six minutes of power remained. All actors took their places on the stage.
One hundred kilometers, close enough to check the weld quality of hull seams, the two ships danced across from each other. Maneuvering.
Five minutes of power remained.
The Karcharidon Heavy Cruiser rolled itself trying to keep the vulnerable top deck away from the Patrol Carrier’s presumably still working main gun as Roshal’s vessel jumped to the side. Thrusters roared.
Four minutes of power remained.
Runoff 1 and 4 shot towards their formerly separated comrade, forming up behind them in a wedge. The trio climbed towards the sun as their captain continued to chase and harass the Karcharidon.
Three minutes of power remained.
Roshal spoke. The lances of her vessel fired. Laser blasts carved across the hull of the enemy ship as it rolled.
The rolling ceased. A helmswoman swore as a full broadside caught the Patrol Carrier in the flank. The port hangar pod was ruined, armor shattered and all inside exposed to hard vacuum. Those who could scream died the fastest. The Interceptors had their opening.
Two minutes of power remained.
Silent wings swept through vacuum as three Interceptors began their dive, their formerly speedy arrowhead shape giving way to an inverted t as their wings swept out for stability, the ASF dove and dove and dove.
Five Kilometers away.
The range was too wide. They had one shot. It had to be perfect.
One minute of power remained.
The Into Harm’s Way spat its defiance into the world, limited power drained to give her pilots a seconds more of time.
30 seconds of power remained.
Three Kilometers.
Hard Lock! Milk shouted from the back seat of Runoff 3. Cookie was silent. The range was still too wide.
15 seconds of power remained.
Two Kilometers.
The Karcharidon seemingly began to roll before the Patrol Carrier once more fired, its last remaining weapons spouting their defiance against the world. Deep in engineering, systems began to blow, wires that replaced fuses sparked power and delicate circuit boards shorted out into useless scrap.
The lights went out.
No power remained.
Roshal, in her head, began to count down as lances of light began to sweep across her ship. Damage control did what they could, but the beams began to cut like an overly enthusiastic shipbreaker.
Five.
One Kilometer.
Four.
Cookie’s thumb depressed the firing stud as the Interceptor screamed at him.
Three.
The ASF launched its deadly payload.
Two.
Three Interceptors pulled back hard on their sticks to avoid colliding with the deck.
One.
The thruster of the anti-shipping missile roared as it rocketed the point blank aerospace distance to target.
Impact.
The armor piercing tip of the missile punched into the upper deck plating of the Heavy Cruiser, classified alloys allowing it to pierce into the armored plating just enough to allow the shaped charge to open up a hole as momentum kept the weapon moving.
Within the frame of a single second, the warhead of the missile had entered the ship and, before the alarms even had time to sound, detonated.
A new sun appeared in the void for a split second as a plasma-fusion warhead detonated inside the Karcharidon heavy cruiser’s hull.
//////////
Roshal allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief inside her head as the emergency power lights flickered overhead and the gravity ever so slightly lightened. What was left of their sensor arrays showed the enemy vessel powering down. “Engineering. Good work, your 10 minutes were just what she needed.” She called out, picking up the ship phone.
There was no answer from engineering.
She signed externally before pointing at one of the marines guarding the bridge, “Find a crewmate in a void suit. I have need of runners.” The marine clasped a fist to her chest before leaving to execute her captain’s commands. “Comms, do we have any contact with the engineering teams on the pirate hulk?”
The Comms officer held up a hand, Roshal waited, “No, ma’am. We aren’t getting- wait. We’ve got visual on flashing lights from the hull. Apparently, something shorted, so they’re having to rebuild broadcast arrays. They can receive just fine, though.”
“Good, once we can maneuver, bring us broadside of them. What’s the status of the merchant fleet?”
Navigation spoke up now, “Still heading for the Jump Point. Should we send the recall order?”
“Not yet, we are still unsure if the area is safe. If we have any sensors remaining, begin sca-”
The mentioned sensor technician interrupted Captain Roshal, “Ma’am, new contact, signature unknown. Just jumped in from outside the starlane!”
“Give me details. Course, range, and speed?” She demanded.
“Signal confused, can’t get a lock!” Navigation called out, “Can’t tell if confusion’s from them or us.”
Not another one… Roshal sighed, “All forces prepa-”
“Ma’am, we’re being hailed.” Communications called out.
“On squawk.”
“This is Captain Al’yosha Cal’rada of Her Imperial Majesty’s Ship Spear of the Knyaginya, responding to Merchant vessel distress calls. Imperial Patrol Carrier, are you in need of assistance at this time?”
Roshal recognized the voice. A junior officer from her days in the Navy and a fellow Sevastutavan. The memory of the fresh faced girl when she’d joined her as an Ensign straight of the Naval Academy flashed before her eyes. “Captain Cal’rada. Your timing is impeccable as always.”
“Admiral?” Roshal could hear the shock in her old protege’s voice.
“That’s Captain, now, Al’yosha. I require your aid in ensuring the disabled vessel still glowing from an ASM strike remains disabled along with Search and Rescue teams for our sister Carrier.
“Whatever you want, you’ll have it, Admiral_… Helm! All ahead flank and plot course to intercept. Launch gunships and prepare to deploy Bluejackets. We’ll test our _Orcas’ teeth today!”
The line cut out a moment later than it should have, and Roshal nodded in approval.
“Captain, I still don’t have a read on new contact. What is it?” Sensors asked.
“A Drep’na inspired vision, come to life.” Roshal watched, feeling an odd sort of parental pride as Al’yosha’s experimental warship began closing the distance towards the Karcharidon at breakneck speeds. “A swift sailing vessel and ten carriage guns…” Roshal murmured the line from an old Vaasconian poem from the ancient Age of Sail. She had heard Cal’rada had succeeded in petitioning the Navy to build her dream-ship, burning every favor and passing out favors to any and everyone to see the program through. Now, there she was, standing on the bridge bearing down on a ship twice her size, but if the rumors were true, only half her guns.
“Ma’am, contact is still not resolving, but IFF confirms Imperial Navy designation. An Akula Class Attack Transport. I’ve… I’ve never even heard of this class.”
“Perhaps we shall hear of them more in the future. Fortune favors the active.”
“Contact is disgorging multiple signals, moving at speeds consistent with aerospace assets.”
“That is our signal we may disengage. Comms, inform the merchant fleet that the area is secure and to begin refueling procedures. Helm, get us alongside the pirate hulk, we have people to recover. Marine, get me a runner to the MP’s, we shall need the port hangar prepared for an old tradition the Navy has regarding pirate prisoners…” Roshal commanded. The fight was over, it was time to begin the cleanup.
//////////
So… that took a while. Sorry about that.
Turns out when a combination of writer’s block, decision paralysis and LIFE hits you over the head, it becomes a touch difficult to get your shit together long enough to write something down.
On the plus side, we are out of the “unplanned bits” and right back into the parts I have brainstormed, so I won’t be staring at a screen trying to think how to make things connect as much anymore. On the other hand, that means we are now entering the epilogue of book 1 of Top Lasgun.
Don’t worry, the story isn’t ending, I’ve got “three” books plotted out in my head, so we’ll see how that shakes out, but for the most part, this is where I start wrapping up plot threads, laying down threads for what comes next, and all that other good stuff.
So yeah, next chapter is going to involve everyone wrapping up what happened here, some fun little Military Justice, and potentially a bunch of plot. Also, I’m planning on starting a “rewrite”/edited version of this to go up on AO3, so keep an eye out for that. Early installment weirdness is a bitch and I’m not proud of what the older stuff looked like.
Well, I hope you have a wonderful morning, afternoon or evening whenever you read this and I will see you next chapter.
[NEXT CHAPTER]

There are some kinds of wisdom only great suffering can bring. I remember my time in the Bardo with this in mind, for otherwise, the memory might drive me insane.
The night my heart stopped for nearly three minutes started off normally enough. I was working as a nurse in the psychiatric ward at a hospital in the state’s capital. Most of the patients there were harmless, mostly just suicide attempts or people suffering from drug psychosis or severe depression, but some were actively dangerous and certainly psychopathic in every sense of the word. The new admission was one of these- a three-hundred pound black man with a long history of smoking PCP, schizophrenia and violent, psychotic breaks from reality.
His eyes looked like flat pieces of slate as I walked in for my shift. They looked as blank and emotionless as the eyes of a doll. He sat at the table in the front room where the patients ate or played cards, alone under the bright fluorescent lights of the hospital. I walked to the station, where another psychiatric nurse named Ricardo was sitting behind the desk.
“What’s the deal with the new guy?” I asked him. Ricardo looked up, his dark Spanish face forming into a deep scowl. He ran his fingers through his jet-black hair nervously.
“He’s trouble, man,” he said in a crisp accent. “He got in a chase with the police and then punched some cops in the face. It took three guys to take him down, even after he got maced and tased. The judge sent him here on a temporary court order, since he claims he’s been getting chased by Nazis in UFOs, and that’s why he ran from the cops. He thought the cops in their uniforms were actually the SS, and the helicopters were alien spacecraft, or something. I don’t know, I didn’t listen to the whole story.”
“You have his file?” I asked. Ricardo leafed through a stack of folders with his thin fingers, snatching one out and handing it to me. I looked down, reading the information:
“Jeremiah Brown, black male, 37-years-old.
“History: Polysubstance abuse, schizophrenia, antisocial personality disorder.
“Psychiatrist’s note: This patient has scored a 36 out of 40 on the Hare Psychopathy Checklist. While I am always hesitant to label a patient as an antisocial personality, a combination of factors has made it essential for this patient.
“Patient has an extensive criminal history as well as a lengthy history of involuntary psychiatric admissions. He has been diagnosed as having antisocial traits since he was a young teenager. Patient has a long history of violence and suicide attempts. He has a history of imprisonment for manslaughter, armed robbery, grand theft and aggravated assault. Upon discharge, he refuses to take any antipsychotic medication, citing the side effects as the reason. Long-term prognosis is poor…”
I had not been sleeping well the past few weeks. I rubbed my eyes as I read through the file, feeling exhausted. I tried putting on lucid dreaming or meditation music from YouTube to help me sleep, but whenever I closed my eyes, I saw horrible things: chalk-white female faces whose lips were cut into an insane rictus grin, flicking their heads violently from side to side and gnashing their fangs at the air. I had a feeling that many years of constantly watching horror movies and serial killer documentaries was catching up with me.
As I read through the file, a student nurse came around the corner wearing a white state university outfit and a name tag that said Kaitlyn. I looked up, seeing Ricardo wink at me from where he was sitting in his chair behind the main desk.
“She’s going to follow you,” he said. Inwardly, I groaned, but I managed to force a smile.
“Oh, great!” I said. She looked like she was probably no older than nineteen or twenty. She had a pretty body, but her face looked strange. All the angles were too sharp and her nose too large. I knew the patients here wouldn’t care, though. They would hit on anything. I sensed trouble. I looked down at my watch.
“Well, I’m Jay, and you already know Ricardo, I guess. It’s good timing, because we need to give medications every day at 9 PM. And we have a new patient, so we can introduce ourselves,” I said, giving her a faint smile.
“That’s exciting!” Kaitlyn whispered. I wanted to roll my eyes. It was definitely not exciting.
I motioned her to follow me as I made my way to the medication room, which was really just a large closet off of the main day room. I had to enter my code on a keypad, and then, once inside, enter it again along with the patient’s number and date of birth. The correct drawers for the medication in each specific dose would fly open, making it extremely hard for the wrong medications or doses to be given, unless it was done intentionally.
“OK, so for this patient, we need Haldol, Ativan and…” I began saying to Kaitlyn when the yelling started. It came out faintly, rising in volume and anger within seconds. I heard Ricardo’s Spanish voice, filled with panic. Something slammed hard against a wall, once, twice, three times, and then I heard the sound of glass breaking. I jumped, spinning around, but I couldn’t see much through the small, shatter-proof glass pane on the wooden door.
“Stay here,” I commanded, seeing Kaitlyn’s eyes widen, her freckled skin looking much paler than when we had first come in. “Don’t leave until I come back and say that it’s safe.” On the speakers strung throughout the hospital, I heard the first of the warnings echo out around us.
“Doctor Strong, Doctor Strong, please report to the seventh floor,” a robotic female voice said calmly, using the code for when a patient had to be subdued by force. I pushed the door open, slamming it shut behind me so that the lock would activate and protect Kaitlyn from whatever chaos was going on.
I heard Ricardo pleading with someone at the end of the hallway that ran past the main desk. He sounded strange, as if he were trying to talk through a mouthful of blood. Huddled behind the main computer, I saw one of the CNAs frantically whispering something in the phone. She must have been the one to call the Dr. Strong order.
“You don’t have to do this, man,” Ricardo gurgled faintly. I couldn’t see what was happening, as Jeremiah’s large body was blocking my view. I could see that the thick glass window at the end of the hallway was broken, however. My heart skipped a beat as I surmised what was likely happening.
I sprinted forward as quietly as I could, but the large man heard me. His massive body turned, his flat, dead eyes scanning me with absolute coldness and calm. I saw he had a bleeding Ricardo in his hands. Ricardo’s back and head were covered in deep cuts and shards of glass. He must have used Ricardo’s body as a battering ram to break the thick glass window. Jeremiah held Ricardo suspended halfway out the window, seven floors above the concrete walkways far below.
“Stay back, or this fucker will know what it feels like to fly,” Jeremiah said in a deep, gravelly voice. He shook Ricardo for emphasis, sending his head snapping back and forth with painful cracking sounds. Drops of blood flew from his nose and a deep gash across his cheek. Pieces of shattered glass littered the carpet, shining like countless tiny stars.
I put my hands up, taking a step back. Far behind me, I heard the front door for the psychiatric ward open. Voices echoed down the hall. Knowing that reinforcements were coming, I tried to buy some time.
“Let’s talk about this,” I said, taking a step forward slowly. “You don’t want a murder charge, do you? You’ll never see the sky again.”
“I don’t give a fuck! I’m not afraid to die!” Jeremiah screamed, pushing Ricardo onto one of the shards of broken glass still attached to the windowsill. It bit deeply into the back of his neck, sending fresh streams of blood rushing out, dripping down to the pavement far below. I heard security guards and doctors running down the hallway behind me, their voices frantic and excited. Jeremiah saw them coming. With an animalistic panic in his eyes, he lifted Ricardo up. I cried out something, stepping forward, but it was already too late. In horror, I watched as he threw Ricardo out the window.
I watched Ricardo’s body soar in a graceful arc, his arms grabbing at empty air as a scream ripped its way out of his throat. Within a fraction of a second, he had disappeared from view, but his terrified shrieking floated up to us for what seemed like a very long time. His screams ended abruptly as a shattering of bones and a wet smacking sound exploded far below us.
Jeremiah turned to me, his large body moving much faster than seemed possible. In his hand, I saw a piece of broken glass, five or six inches long and as sharp as a dagger. I tried to turn and run, but he was fast and strong. He lunged forward, his arm coming up in a blur towards my neck.
The shard entered my skin with a cold, numbing pain. I felt it slice through the flesh easily, felt the blood bubbling up my throat as I tried to scream, choking. The taste of iron filled my mouth as I fell backwards. I was suffocating, I knew. I must be dying.
Something cold ran down my body, gripping my heart like freezing, skeletal hands. The world swam around me and turned black. And then I was rising into a tunnel. At first, it was dark, filled with flickering shadows, but a fiery red light appeared at the end. I followed it, no more than a screaming mass of consciousness rising up into infinity.
***
I rose up through the end of the tunnel and found myself in an empty hospital ward. It looked identical to the psychiatric ward I had just come from. It even had the same smashed, blood-streaked window at the end of the hallway. A massive puddle of blood about ten feet away marked the spot where I must have died. But the fluorescent lights overhead here were flickering, and many had gone totally dark. The shadows seemed to press in on all sides.
The doors to the patients’ rooms were all tightly shut. I felt watched, afraid to call out or make any noise. I started walking down the hallway back towards the day room where the front desk was. All the lights there were out. A thick curtain of shadows hung in the air.
“You can come out,” a male voice as smooth as glass called from the darkness. I jumped, my head flicking in random directions, but I saw nothing. The voice almost sounded like it had an English lilt to it, a slight Cockneyed accent. “I know you’re there.”
“Who’s there?” I called out, not stepping forward. “Show yourself.”
“As you wish…” the voice hissed. “But I think you’ll regret it.”
***
The darkness split apart as if a nuclear missile had exploded. I raised my hand to shield my face, but the light and heat kept pouring out all around me. It blinded me, causing a rainbow of colors and shapes to morph behind my closed eyelids. After a few seconds, it subsided. Blinking rapidly, I squinted in the direction the voice had come from.
A male figure stood there, bathed in a silhouette of light. His face looked as white and as smooth as marble. His eyes were pits of darkness that seemed to flicker and burn. Two black, rotted wings surrounded his body, all sharp angles and thin, curving bones. His body was clothed in silky, blood-red robes, and a hood covered his platinum blonde hair.
He looked somewhat similar to Leonardo DiCaprio, if he was possessed by some ancient god, and it immediately threw me off-guard. If I was dying, and this was a hallucination of my brain, why would I be hallucinating Mr. DiCaprio?
“Who are you?” I asked, taking a hesitant step back. “Where am I?”
“My name is Lucifer, the Bringer of Light and Wisdom, and you are in the Bardo,” he answered.
“Oh,” I said, my heart dropping. “Well, that’s not good. Are you here to torture me or drag to me to Hell or something? You are that Lucifer, right? The Accuser of God and the Father of All Lies?”
“So they say, but, like most things in your world, the words of the powerful and your rulers are the true lies. They call me the Accuser, but of what am I accused?” he spoke in a voice that rose like smoke. “Of bringing knowledge and wisdom to humanity by telling them to eat from the tree of knowledge, the tree that would cause them to rise above the animals?
“Indeed, at the beginning, I saw the creation. I was there at the alpha, standing by the side of God with all the angels as the universe came into being. The endless procession of light, the power of it, was something remarkable to behold. God is, indeed, the source of great power, but his consciousness is not what the believers say.
“After the creation of the universe, I saw his plan, how he ripped eternal souls from the source to imprison them. I saw how he took these divine sparks and forced them, screaming and wailing, into bodies made of meat to die over and over again. He said it was part of the plan, the great, divine plan, a plan of death and destruction, constant suffering and mindless agony. And the worst part was, he wanted to give humanity neither the knowledge of good and evil, nor the tree of life. I convinced them to eat the fruit so they could open their eyes to their nakedness, to their basic animal existence, so they could rise up out of it forever.
“Like Prometheus, I brought down the fire, and yet they call me the Accuser? God was insane long before he formed the universe. These holy men, they live and die in fanatical adoration to a divine being who is, in fact, totally indifferent to them.
“His consciousness twists and distorts, eating itself for all eternity. God feeds off the pain of others, for if his mind is burning, then all others should burn as well. When these holy men die, God will send their souls here to the Bardo, to suffer every evil they have ever done. The wisdom I brought those who called upon me freed them from this prison, and in exchange, the holy men burned them alive. I offered the wisdom that opens your eyes, but it has been forgotten and cursed.”
Lucifer’s body began to dissolve, drifting up into the air like ashes. All around me, a low, powerful current blew, a tornado that spiraled high up into the clouds. Like some sort of Cheshire Cat, his smooth voice continued to echo all around me, even as the form of Lucifer disappeared.
“And yet, you have not the wisdom. For that, like all the others who enter the Bardo, you must suffer, everything you’ve done. Every small hurt and agony inflicted on others comes back a thousand-fold in this place, but don’t be afraid.”
“How could I not be afraid?!” I screamed into the ward, but I found myself alone, the question hanging unanswered in the air.
***
The lights continued to flicker all down the hallway. Feeling strange and dissociated, I stumbled over to one of the windows. As I gazed out, I beheld a strange and alien world.
The sky was flat and gray. It stayed in constant motion, swirling and spiraling, like clouds of roiling smoke. There was no Sun or Moon, no stars, only the strange, shifting whorls of clouds. The streets were filled with burned-out husks of cars and mummified bodies hung from streetlamps. Other signs of carnage and bloodshed covered the apocalyptic streets. I saw what looked like shadows in the shape of people slinking through over the sidewalks, past rotting dogs and streaks of clotted blood. They had no features on their blank, dark bodies. They seemed to skitter and jerk forwards in eerie, twisting motions.
Horrified, I turned away, realizing I was no longer alone in the day room. In the day room, there were dozens of tables set up inside a rectangular perimeter that was walled in by cosmetic walls only four feet high. It was where the patients sat and played games or ate.
Under the flickering lights, I now saw each of the chairs filled with faceless mannequins. Many were dressed in Victorian suits and tophats. The women had frilly dresses of pink and blue that might have been fashionable in the 1800s.
As the lights strobed on and off overhead, I realized with an increasing sense of disquiet that the mannequins were moving each time it went dark. When I had first seen them, they were mostly posed to look like they were staring across the tables at each other, even though they had no eyes, just smooth, flesh-colored plastic. Now all of them were looking directly at me. Some were pointing or raising their hands in my direction. At the tips of their fingers, I saw the glittering of steel. The lights continued to flicker, and the mannequins rose from their chairs in the short periods of darkness, moving towards me in synchronized, strobing motions.
Frantically, I ran down the hallway back towards the broken window. In each of the rooms, I caught glimpses of something from a nightmare peeking out. I hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and when I had closed my eyes, I often saw ancient hags with chalk-white skin and yellowed, broken teeth whose jaws unhinged, their faces jerking in stuttering, dissonant ways that reminded me of the mannequins. Now, on both sides of me, I saw these same figures. They moved continuously out of the rooms, drawing closer with every breath.
I looked back, seeing the mannequins only a few steps behind me. I continued sprinting towards the broken window where the hallway ended in a wall. I didn’t know what would happen when I reached it. At that moment, there was no rational thought. I felt like a deer being chased down by a pack of wolves, feeling waves of blind panic and mortal terror rushing through my body.
But as I reached the end of the hallway, the end of my rope as it were, a blast of noise started, seeming to come from the walls of the building and the sky itself. It sounded like a siren, a low, drawn-out drone of a demonic whale call, rising and falling in crashing crescendos. The mannequins froze in place once again. The strange, witch-like creatures slunk back into the dark rooms.
I looked outside the broken window, seeing clouds of black smoke rising off in the distance. The flickering of massive infernos scorched the land, drawing nearer by the second. The siren sound faded slowly, like the dying echoes of a gong.
I was surrounded by dozens of mannequins. Their sharp hands were inches away from my face and neck. I saw metal glittering all around me and realized they had the sharp points of nails protruding from the ends of their fingers. I was afraid to move, but I heard a familiar voice from down the hallway. It was the confident voice of Lucifer.
“The siren means much worse nightmares than these are coming in the Bardo,” he said, his glossy, black eyes flashing with intelligence. He walked slowly towards me, his face grim and pale. “Hell itself is coming over the land. This building is no more than a construction of your dying mind, but the world outside is real.”
“How can Hell come and go?” I asked, confused. “Isn’t Hell a place?”
“Hell is a monster, a beast with many mouths and many eyes,” Lucifer responded. “It eats constantly, but its hunger never ends. Look, the first of the sacrifices scatter like cockroaches.” He pointed out the broken window, pushing his way through the mannequins effortlessly. I glanced outside, seeing thousands of people sprinting down the dark city streets. The inferno and thick clouds of smoke had moved much closer, and every few seconds, the ground shook slightly, as if we were experiencing the aftershocks of an earthquake.
“What can I do against such a beast?” I asked, my heart freezing with terror. But when I looked back over, I saw his form dissolving again, becoming translucent and drifting away like ashes. It seemed even Lucifer didn’t want to be present when the Hell-beast arrived.
“Seek divine wisdom,” he said, his voice trailing off into whispers. “Remember the source.”
***
Now crowds of tens of thousands of people were streaming into the city, filling every single inch of the streets. Their panic and fear was contagious. I felt it rising inside my body like a snake spiraling up my spine. I took off down the hallway, running through the swarm of frozen mannequins, each in their own ferocious position of attack. The lights flickered faster and went out. Yet the fires outside cast the entire world in a bloody glow, giving me enough light to see by and find my way. I sprinted down the stairwell, taking them two steps at a time. The screaming outside grew louder and more pain-filled. The shaking of the ground worsened with every passing second.
I burst out of the front entrance, seeing a world on fire all around me. Thousands of crushed, bleeding and burned bodies stretched out as far as the eye could see. Behind all this chaos and death, I saw a monster of unimaginable proportions slinking its way towards me.
Lucifer was right, I realized: Hell was not a place, but a creature, an enormous monster the size of a town. It had thousands of skittering, jointed legs that looked like little more than skeletal arms and hands, each of them dozens of feet long and white as freshly-cut marble. Its body stretched out to the horizon, an enormous blood-red cylinder of bony plates that slithered and undulated with a serpentine grace. Waves of peristalsis traveled down its length, like writhing intestines. Thousands of curving, bony spikes stabbed out of it, pointing in every direction. Like the quills of a porcupine, it would protect the massive creature’s body from many forms of attack, if anything was big enough to attack such an abomination.
Hell’s massive eyes flickered, balls of fire that spun and danced. They looked as bright as the Sun. Something like solar flares seemed to emanate from the orbs, flashes of blinding energy that floated over the apocalyptic wasteland. As its many legs smashed the ground, they left trails of fire that caused everything to explode into flames as if napalm dripped from its limbs.
But Hell’s most terrifying feature was its seven dark mouths. Its body looked a thousand feet wide, and the mouths at the front were evenly dispersed. At the front, blood-red teeth in the shape of enormous railroad spikes shone. Its lipless, skeletal face grinned as it moved forward, shaking the ground with every step. The mouths were on long, snake-like necks that could stretch out hundreds of feet. They moved forward in a blur, snapping up as many panicked souls as they could.
Countless souls in the rocky plains of the Bardo ran for their lives, away from this juggernaut. I saw men and women who looked like they came from every country and profession, some dressed in suits or spotless white lab coats, others wearing rags or orange prison jumpsuits. And yet, they all screamed in agony and fear here, their bodies pressed together in a crowd, and no one seemed to remember anything but their own mortal terror. Their voices came out faint and weak next to the roaring of Hell. It shook the ground all around us, as if an earthquake were tearing the land apart.
The first frantic runners of the surging crowd had nearly reached me. The nearest person, a young woman in her mid-twenties dressed in all white, was only ten feet behind me. She looked like she came from wealth, and even from here, I could see a ring with a massive diamond gleaming on her finger.
I took off blindly down the familiar streets of the city where I worked and lived, but these also seemed different. The church down the street from the hospital where I worked had a Satanic pentagram instead of a cross now, its exterior painted a bright, gleaming blood-red. When I had driven past it today on my way to work, I remember it read, “JESUS said, ‘I am the Way, the Truth and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.’”
Now it read, “Nietzsche said, ‘Of all evil, I deem you capable. I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good simply because they had no claws.’” I wondered what that meant. Was that some sort of comment on me, on all of us here?
The woman I had seen running had caught up with me. She was fast, much faster than her slim body suggested. Her blue eyes were frantic and wild, filled with an animal panic.
“It’s right behind us!” she screamed, her face covered in a sheen of sweat. I was afraid to turn and look, but I could hear the chaos and bloodshed approaching, smell the flames and choking smoke. “Run! Get away!”
A new wave of energy surged through my body. I sprinted as fast I could down the strange mirror streets of the Bardo. I heard the agonized cries of countless souls behind us as the seven mouths of Hell ate them all greedily and then looked for more.
A skyscraper behind us collapsed into a pile of rubble, shaking the ground with a cacophony of falling concrete and shattering glass. The woman was running by my side. Just as I heard the breathing of something huge and predatory right behind us and smelled its sulfuric breath, a piece of concrete the size of a basketball broke off the collapsing skyscraper and flew into the road. I tripped over it, yelling as I flew through the air, skinning my arms and legs on the pavement. The woman’s eyes widened. Hurriedly, she came over and reached down her hand, trying to help me up.
“Come on, come on!” she cried. I looked behind her, seeing one of the gnashing mouths of Hell reaching forward on a blood-red, serpentine neck. The mouth was big enough to drive a tractor trailer into, filled with huge spikes of teeth. Its throat led into a black, smoke-filled abyss. Its fiery eyes were swirling pools of flickering orange light that shone with bloodlust and insanity. They focused on the woman, the entire head turning on its slithering neck.
I frantically raised my hand, intertwining my fingers with hers. Her hand was warm and soft. She started to pull me to my feet when the mouth of Hell snapped forward. Its jaw unhinged, scraping the pavement with a sound like grinding metal. The woman barely had time to turn as the mouth covered her and snapped shut with a crack.
She disappeared from view instantly, but I was still holding her hand. In horror, I felt warm rivers of blood explode all over my body as the mouth of Hell severed her arm at the wrist. She screamed, bleeding and crying, as she disappeared into the throat of Hell. Hell’s fiery eyes focused on me, and at that moment, I knew I was next. Its mouth opened wide again, like a bear trap ready to spring on a new victim.
It was dark in Hell’s mouth, but I smelled the thick reek of old blood and fire. I caught glimpses of tortured, mutilated bodies writhing and crawling down its throat. Shell-shocked, I could only lay there and watch. And that was when the strange doubling started.
***
I heard the frantic voices of men break through the fog of darkness and the fetid reek of blood. There was a mechanical beeping all around me, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
“Clear!” one cried. I looked around, only seeing blackness. At that moment, I felt a surge of electricity rip itself through my body. My arms and legs all seized and my eyes rolled up in my head as the pain sizzled through each one of my nerves. I clutched the young woman’s hand tightly, feeling the large, gold ring with the massive diamond biting into my skin.
“Again!” another voice yelled.
“Clear!” the original voice cried. The electricity came again, and a flash of white light flew across my vision. I blinked, seeing from two sets of eyes at the same time: one in the Bardo, and one on the blood-stained floor of the hospital ward.
The Bardo stayed dark and sinister, but the clear white lights of the real psychiatric ward were blinding. It was a bizarre experience. Moreover, everything hurt. Over a few seconds, my vision of the Bardo faded, and I was simply a gravely injured man laying on the floor in a puddle of blood.
Four doctors and paramedics were crouching over me with a defibrillator. My shirt was ripped off, and nearly all of my skin was covered in blood. I raised my left hand, trying to talk, but only a fiery pain raced through my neck. I felt bandages covering my skin. A nurse was rolling a stretcher down the hallway towards me.
“It’s OK,” one of the doctors said, kneeling down. “You’re being taken to emergency surgery. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t talk with the massive slice in my neck.
At that moment, I felt something in my right hand. I looked down, seeing a slim female hand with a massive diamond ring hanging there. Our fingers were wrapped around each other’s, but the hand had been cut off at the wrist. A ragged patch of bloody flesh and snapped bone poked out of the back.
“Nnnn,” I tried to say, shaking my head. I felt fresh streams of warm blood open up. “No…” The doctors looked down, seeing the dismembered hand. Their faces morphed into expressions of confusion and fear.
I closed my eyes as they lifted me up on the stretcher. One of them gently removed the cold hand from my fingers. But they could never remove the memory of what I had seen.
I know what happens after death, and it makes the worst life here seem like a dream. I know that, one day, I’ll be returned to that place. I know that, one day, I’ll see that great monster called Hell and the featureless, swirling sky of the Bardo again.
And the next time, I won’t wake up on a hospital floor, but will be trapped there with the others for eternity: an eternity of blood and fire.

The famous baseballer, Jackie Robinson, he once said: “A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.” I could not agree more. That is why I try to make as much impact on my faces’ lives as possible. After all, they have done so much for me. It is the least I can do. Unlike them, I need not fear what people think of me. So I can be brave where they are weak. For I will just be someone else tomorrow.

Born in Russia to the Grand Duke Nikolai Kravinoff, Dmitri Nikolaievich Smerdyakov was treated like trash by his noble father and his working class mother. Young Dmitri was approached one day by Gustav Fiers, who was impressed by the boy's impressions and paid for a trip to Karl Fiers academy. There, Dmitri would learn to master the arts of disguise, vocal impression and infiltration, becoming the Chameleon upon his graduation.
He'd move to America and use his talents to pull off high-scale burglary, working for any group that could afford his fee, including the Communist party, Hydra or the Green Goblin. His elicit activity brought him into conflict with the Hulk, Iron Man and most often Spider-Man, all of whom had to act with great caution when the Chameleon was in town. After all, which one of them could tell if that unassuming civilian or their own ally was preparing to stab them in the back?
Dmitri has some mental hangups over his time with the Kravinoffs. He’s managed to repress the memories and considered himself good friends with his half-brother Kraven. In reality, he was more like a whipping boy and slave to the Hunter, and when he has to wrestle with those feelings, he can mentally revert to that scared little boy with no strong sense of identity or independence. But when he’s able to move past these feelings, the Chameleon has proved himself as a powerful, manipulative force, finding his place as temporary Crime Master of New York and member of the Sinister Six.
Scaling

• Spider-Man
• Kraven the Hunter
• Captain America
• Daredevil
• Deadpool

Notes
During one of Dmitri’s mental breaks, he began to believe that he was his deceased half-brother, Kraven the Hunter. So exact was the Chameleon’s performance that he moved and fought with the hunter’s skill and agility. This was an extreme fringe case and there are no other examples of a disguise altering Chameleon's capabilities like this. Physical and skill-related feats from this period will be marked with [KH].
Hover over a feat to see which issue it's from.

Physicals

General

• He’s taken some of Kraven’s potions, which extends his natural lifespan and protects from disease
• Kraven later notes that he only allowed the Chameleon to drink some of his potions, enhancing his strength, although not nearly as much as the Hunter himself

Strength
Unarmed Striking

• Downs a cop with a punch to the back of the head
• Boxes Alexei Kravinoff’s ears, flooring the bigger man
• Tackles and restrains Bruce Banner
• While posing as Tigra, he breaks Mysterio’s helmet with a kick
• Knocks Finesse out with two punches to the back of the head
• [KH] Kicks Alexei in the chin mid-leap
• Hurts Spidey with a kick to the face
• Hospitalized the Shocker

Striking with Weapons

• Floors a man with a suitcase
• Clubs Captain America with a fire extinguisher, flooring him for several seconds
• [KH] Smashes through a ceiling and dives at Alexei
• [KH] Impales a man with a spear, then rams him into a wall hard enough to crack it
• Beats a man unconscious with a pistol

Grip

• Crushes one of Spidey’s tracers in his grip
• Crushes a picture frame
• Crushes a glass in his grip

Other

• While carrying Betty Ross over his shoulder with one hand, the Chameleon uses the other to smack Major Glenn Talbot
• [KH] Holds a wolf away from him
• Carries and fires this absurdly large gun

Durability
Scaling with Spider-Man

• Gets up after a glancing blow from Spider-Man
• Takes a backhand from Spider-Man
• Stays barely conscious after Spider-Man punches him into what looks like a concrete wall hard enough to break it
• Takes two punches from an angry Spider-Man
• While emulating Spider-Man and clinging to a wall with suction cups, he takes a punch from the real Spider-Man but stays clinging and makes an escape
• Spider-Man throws Chameleon head-first into a wall, then smacks him three times, breaking his mask. Despite this, the Chameleon stays conscious and manages to run off.
• Gets kicked in the head by Spider-Man (dressed as Deadpool) but quickly recovers and puts Spidey in a headlock
• Takes a sucker punch from Spider-Man in the Spider-Armor MK III
• [Limit] One casual punch from the Superior Spider-Man knocks Dmitri out

Scaling to Others

• Gets tackled by the Hulk, who was shrunk down to a few inches at the time
• Takes three heavy blows from Daredevil before falling into unconsciousness
• Takes a backhand punch from Kraven
• He gets up after Captain America throws his shield into his back
• Stays conscious after Deadpool punches him out a window
• Takes a punch from Spidey and an elbow from Deadpool
• Gets punched by Whirlwind
• Gets beat on by Teresa Parker

Blunt Force

• Spider-Man punches Vulture, sending the villain flying into Chameleon
• Gets thrown many feet into the air, then falls back-first onto stone
• He jumps off the Brooklyn Bridge and lands in the water below
• [KH, Limit] He’s KO’ed by a woman with a wooden chair
• While disguised as Spider-Man, he gets grabbed and swung around a room by tentacles, at one point getting his head slammed through a concrete wall with no ill effects

Gunfire

• He’s not noticeably harmed after a cop shoots him in the shoulder
• Stays standing after being shot in the thigh
• Twenty minutes after being shot in the shoulder, he’s not noticeably harmed

Vehicle Crashes

• Crashes his car into the Hulk
• Crawls from a crashed HYDRA aircraft
• Unharmed after crashing his truck into a wall
• While piloting a giant Galactus robot, a helicarrier crashes into the robot’s head and the Chameleon’s control room. He survives the crash relatively unharmed.

Other

• He survives after being poisoned and being left in a burning bar by the Punisher
• When Captain America breaks one of Chameleon’s stun guns, the resulting blast melts his rubber face mask, burning him
• He eats a full plate of ambien-laced cookies baked by Aunt May
• Spider-Man webs up a big gun that the Chameleon was using, causing it to blow up in his face. Dmitri gets up right after.

Agility

• Dodges some charges from Hammerhead, first with a sidestep, then by flipping over the mobster
• [KH] Dodges a tackle attempt from Alexei Kravinoff
• He lands hits on Spider-Man pretty easily once the hero loses his spider-sense

Skill

Impersonation
General

• When posing as someone, the Chameleon copies their gait and posture
• When emulating J. Jonah Jameson, not only does the Chameleon copy his personality, mannerisms and body language, but he copies Jonah’s writing style so he can turn in editorials at the Daily Bugle
• [Limit] In 2009, he took the form of Barack Obama and attempted to get sworn in as the POTUS. However, Spider-Man asked the fake and the real Obama a question that only the real Obama would know the answer to, outing the Chameleon as an imposter.
• Mimics Tigra perfectly, replicating her movements, voice and microexpressions
• When posing as a zombie Ezekiel Sims, Chameleon does something to make himself smell like a long-dead corpse

Voices

• Skilled in vocal emulation
• He perfectly emulates voices over the course of minutes after listening to audio recordings or the voices of his hostages
• While posing as the Paris police director, he fools a voice recognition system designed by Henry Pym, allowing him access into an Avengers headquarters
• Can emulate mechanized voices, like Doc Ock’s from when he was a cyborg

Limits

• Betty Ross sees through Dmitri’s Bruce Banner disguise thanks to her female intuition
• Daredevil sees through the Chameleon’s disguises because he can hear Dmitri’s distinct heartbeat
• Spider-Man’s Spider-Armor MK III has a Daredevil-inspired feature built in to the helmet that allows Peter to track Chameleon’s specific heartbeat. This allows him to see through the villain’s disguises.

Combat

• [KH] Fights evenly with Alexei Kravinoff before restraining him with a rope
• Off-panel, he killed a SHIELD agent and a doctor with a pen
• Shanks Superior Spider-Man in the neck with a pen
• While disguised as Spider-Man, he brawls hand-to-hand with Deadpool
• [Limit] Lost a fight to Mary Jane Watson with a baseball bat
• [KH] Slashes two mens’ throats with a single swipe of a spoon

Other

• [KH] Performs a handstand on a tree stump
• Using Klawe’s sound cannon, he blasts MODOK’s psionic blaster, disabling the head’s main weapon
• Leaps from a second story and lands on an awning to break his fall
• Jumps from the back of an aircraft onto the hood of a pursuing flying car
• Nick Fury boots Dmitri off of a flying car, but the villain manages to grab a ladder on a nearby aircraft
• Cracks a locked vault door, possibly using a stethoscope
• Pilots a giant LMD modeled to look like Galactus
• (Poorly) pilots the Iron Man Model 4 before being dropped by an alternate-universe Ghost Rider

Disguises

Realistic Masks

• Originally, the Chameleon employed realistic masks and hairpieces to disguise himself as individuals. He kept these pieces in a multi-pocketed vest, allowing him to alter his appearance on the fly
• After getting one quick glance at Thunderbolt Ross, the Chameleon is able to make a perfect mask of the general’s face in a matter of minutes
• When the Hulk is tearing the Chameleon’s car apart, he quickly changes into the guise of Rick Jones to calm the Hulk, then manipulate him into breaking a friend out of prison
• At one point, he used a gun that squirts fast-drying fluid, which kills victims via suffocation and leaves the Chameleon with a perfect mask of their face
• He once wore four masks layered on top of his plain, white one

Malleable Flesh

• He gets a procedure done to his body that makes his flesh completely malleable, changing in response to electrical stimuli. He also had a specially designed costume that reacted the same way to stimuli. The final piece was a control system built into a belt that could memorize and store any face that the Chameleon encountered. All of these pieces allowed the Chameleon to completely copy someone’s appearance and replicate it through thought alone.
• This exact method of changing his face depends on the comic's art style
  • Most often, the change just occurs instantly between panels
  • It can happens in a flash of light
  • Dmitri's features can melt and morph before reforming into a new face
  • The features can “slide across Chameleon’s head horizontally
• After looking at a photograph of a man, the Chameleon completely embodies him in moments
• When begging for his life, he rapidly switches between a dozen different faces
• When he’s knocked unconscious, his face relaxes and goes back to how it normally looks
• Once made a game out of pretending to be a civilian in need, then attacking Spider-Man when the hero helps him
• [Limit] One time, a very serious Spider-Man shocked and frightened the Chameleon so badly that he let his disguise drop

Other Methods

• Uses convincing costumes when posing as superheroes or supervillains
• Disguises himself as a Statue of Liberty street performer
• Some kind of hidden device emits mist, allowing the Chameleon to change masks and outfits
• Carries a canister of chemical gas that instantly changes the color of his clothing
• Later on, he wears a suit that allows him to instantly change his facial appearance and clothing
  • After confronting Spidey in public and taking a blow from the wall-crawler, the Chameleon assumes the form of a defenseless, old lady to turn the public against the hero
• A high-tech costume can resemble any article of clothing that the Chameleon can think of
• When appearing as someone much bigger than he is, like the Kingpin, the Chameleon uses an inflatable suit
• Poses as a hostage, then uses a hologram projector to make it look like Doc Ock is holding him off a roof
• When working for the Superior Spider-Man’s team of “reformed” villains, the Superior Six, Chameleon used hologram tech to aid in his disguises. This let him appear as Loki, with his massive horns and Asgardian outfit being formed with the tech. It otherwise works more or less like his powers did.
• Most recently, the Chameleon requires the use of a serum to be able to change his features at will
  • As soon as the Chameleon touches someone, he’s able to look exactly like that person. This can also make the other person temporarily swap forms with the Chameleon (or other users of the serum).

Weapons

Non-Lethal
Guns

• Uses a dart gun that instantly knocks a man out with a shot to the shoulder
• Uses a chemical gas gun to instantly knock out Captain America, keeping him out for a few minutes
• A dart gun that leaves victims unconscious and foaming from the mouth
• A stun gun

Injectables

• A syringe full of sedative chemicals that KOs Spider-Man and makes Deadpool woozy for a minute until he heals
• A syringe hidden in a prop torch puts Spider-Man to sleep immediately
• He injects Spider-Man with a poisonous chemical. It brings on extreme nausea and vertigo, then later knocks Spider-Man out for two days straight.

Other

• Snuck into Captain Stacy’s room and administered a few drops of sedatives to Stacy’s decanter. This kept him unconscious all day, allowing the Chameleon to assume his identity and steal priceless pieces of art.
• An aerosol can of sedatives
• One time, he coated his clothing in an odorless sedative chemical. When Spider-Man grabs him by his jacket, the hero falls unconscious in a matter of seconds.
• Gas grenades
• He uses some kind of electric weapon on a shallow body of water, shocking Spider-Man, Husk and Deadpool into unconsciousness

Lethal
Guns

• Normal guns like rifles, a shotgun and a handgun
• A silenced handgun
• A revolver
• A double-barreled shotgun
• He wields a one-handed launcher that carries a variety of capsules, including cyanide gas canisters and concussive explosives
• An absurdly large, Liefeld-esque gun that blows up a computer station
• A energy-based handgun with explosive firepower, used to blast a large hole through Deadpool’s torso and later turn a concrete wall into rubble

Injectables

• A poison ring that would’ve injected JJJ with a lethal dose during a handshake
• [KH] Shoots Spider-Man with a poison dart that would’ve killed him in ten minutes if he didn’t take the antidote

Other

• Usually carries a dagger or other kind of blade
• A grenade
• A small, box-shaped time bomb
• He once used a Man-Thing parasite to protect himself from gunfire and form combat applicable branch-like tentacles

Other Equipment

Field Gear

• Smoke pellets
• When posing as Spider-Man, he used a web-gun to emulate the hero’s web-shooters, although the webbing wasn’t as strong as Spider-Man’s
• While posing as Spider-Man, the Chameleon utilizes suction cup-covered gloves and a web gun to replicate Spidey’s wall-crawling and web-slinging
• A tracking device
• Nose filters protect him from a cloud of cyanide gas
• A jetpack with enough fuel to fly for nearly a full hour
• Typically restrains victims with rope and gags

Base Installations

• Uses a modified radio to send a message across New York that only Spider-Man could hear
• Uses a machine to swap memories with Captain America
• One lair boasts a chair that can be lowered into a pit of acid, used to destroy bodies
• Rigs his lairs to explode if they’re compromised
• He detonates explosives in one of his hideouts that releases napalm-like flames

Other

• He’s helped to design Life Model Decoys that look exactly like Richard and Mary Parker with the goal of investigating Peter Parker and finding out about Spider-Man’s identity. While the false Mary developed a conscience and defied her programming, the false Richard was outfitted with a combat form.
• He holds a gun to the head of a simulacra of Mary Jane. When Spidey determines it’s a fake instead of his real wife, it poofs into smoke.
• Robots that drive his escape vehicles

Miscellaneous

• After coming across a cave full of assorted scrap mechanics, Chameleon builds a missile from the pieces. He later says he “found” the missile, so who knows. At any rate, the missile is strong enough to KO the Hulk when they collide.
• One time, he inexplicably escaped from Spider-Man’s grasp and disappeared from the room
• He kidnaps Spider-Man and imprisons him in Ravencroft Asylum. He then unmasks the hero, puts a realistic mask and straightjacket on him and attempts to gaslight Peter, through the use of psychoactive drugs and fabricated evidence, into believing he’s another man named Herbert Smith. This ruse does convince Peter for a good while until he later remembers his life with Mary Jane.
• He implies that he might be able to disguise his psyche from the telepathic X-Men member, No-Girl, although the claim is not actually proven
• Off-panel, he killed a man, cut off his face and used it for a temporary mask

Monica Rappaccini: I apologize for the delay in initial payment, but we first had to verify your identity. A.I.M.’s intel had been that the Chameleon was dead- or in an insane asylum.
Chameleon: Yes, well. That would be exactly what I wanted you to think. Faded into the background, imperceptible… that’s where a Chameleon is most comfortable… and where I shall now return.

DC Next Proudly Presents:

NIGHTWING:

In Hunter Hybrid
Issue Fourteen: The Meek Shall Inherit
Written by AdamantAce
Edited by PatrollinTheMojave
 
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Dick's heart hammered against his chest like a pounding storm as he stood amidst the laboratory, flanked by Artemis and Barry Allen, the Flash. The weight of worry for Mar'i bore down on him unbearably, each moment without her amplifying his anxiety.
In the secluded closet hidden at the back of the lab, Dick and Artemis had found something haunting: a trove of withered seedlings, dead plants that looked alien in nature. Assuming the worst, but needing to confirm, Dick had quickly summoned a friend with a history of running genetic samples - none other than the Scarlet Speedster - to the scene.
Barry’s brow furrowed in concentration as he examined the specimens, having already run several tests.
“I'm limited in what I can do here; I'm a CSI, not a xenologist,” Barry admitted with regret, evoking his favourite chief medical officer of fiction. “Really, this really feels like a job for someone like Cadmus. Alien DNA is their whole deal.”
Dick could only grimace at the suggestion, reminded of the sickening experiments he had unearthed in the bowels of the Chicago cloning laboratory, of the dozens of aborted attempts at cloning Bruce Wayne. It was hard to stomach, especially knowing that he still had no idea who was responsible. “Not an option," he replied firmly. “Not Cadmus.”
Barry raised an eyebrow, his curiosity evident in his expression. “You don't believe those rumours about the Superboy clones, do you?" he asked. “They’re Reawakened through and through. Blame the other universes’ Cadmuses.”
In response, Dick shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s… something else.”
Barry then looked to Artemis and smiled. “It’s, uh… nice to meet you properly by the way,” he said. “I heard you, uh, shoot arrows.”
Despite the terrible situation they were in, Artemis allowed herself a snicker in response to the Flash’s awkwardness. “Among other things. It’s important to branch out, seeing as I know you already have an arrows guy.”
Just then, Tim emerged from behind a sliding door, draped in his red and black Rook gear, a stack of papers in hand. “Got the printouts you asked for,” he said, handing them over to Barry.
Barry swiftly flipped through the pages at super speed, his expression growing grim as he absorbed the information.
“What is it?” asked Artemis.
“What we feared,” he announced somberly. “The dead seedlings match the profile of alien species, with a significant DNA match for the Morning Eclipse sample you got from Starling’s fingernails.”
Dick's frustration boiled over, his voice dripping with anger. “Wilkof,” he spat, his jaw clenched in fury. “He let that damn killer plant loose.”
Tim struck himself in the shoulder in self-reproach. “I should've put it together sooner,” he muttered. “Wilkof knew plenty about Tamaran even before you let him speak to Mar’i.”
“It’s worse than we thought,” added Barry, and everyone’s blood turned cold. “This Dr Wilkof wasn't just releasing the Morning Eclipse, he was trying to propagate them; taking cuttings to grow more of them. We’re just lucky the Earth's sunlight is too diffuse for their growth.”
Dick's eyes widened in horror. “So he’s trying to create an army of killer plants?”
Barry nodded solemnly. “An army or a particularly menacing greenhouse.”
Artemis's brow furrowed as she pieced together a crucial detail. “Wait, a couple years ago they had me subbing in the bio department at school for a few months. I’m pretty sure plants grown from cuttings are meant to be genetically identical to the parent.”
Tim cursed under his breath and then reached for the printouts to give them a check over himself. “You’re right! Genetic variation only occurs after pollination. But these plants aren't self-pollinated. They're too distinct from the original sample taken from Mar'i’s attack.”
Barry's voice quivered as he raised a troubling possibility. “Could there be two adult killer plants on the loose?”
“No, it's not that,” Tim quickly replied again, his expression grave as he looked up from the stack of papers. “It's worse.”
Artemis' heart sank. “How could it possibly be worse?”
“The dead seedlings share identical DNA with each other. And every single one of their genes is present in the parent sample. But the parent also has additional chromosomes that all of the seedlings lack,” Tim explained as his eyes traced the text on the papers once more. “The parent had an extra 48 chromosomes.”
Barry's face paled. "48? Are you sure?”
“48? What does that mean?” asked Dick, looking rapidly back and forth between Tim and Barry.
Artemis gritted her teeth. “Humans have 48 chromosomes. The adult plant is half human.”
“Fully human,” Barry corrected. “And fully plant too. A symbiosis.”
“What does that mean?” asked Dick, scared of the answer he would soon receive.
“It means I think Wilkof merged himself with the plant.”
 
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Ker-tonk.
Ker-tonk.
Ker-tonk.
Mar’i lay in the darkness of the car’s trunk, helpless. She couldn’t tell how long it had been since she last felt the sun’s warmth on her skin. She tried to summon childhood memories of Tamaran, of the sun her father had found oppressive and her mother found liberating. But they were distant and blurred, echoes from another lifetime - and another timeline.
As the car rumbled on, she focused on her senses, trying to glean any information about her surroundings. The air was stale and musty, tinged with the scent of oil and rubber. The vibrations of the road beneath her reverberated through her body, a constant reminder of her captivity.
Eventually, the car came to a halt, and Mar’i braced herself as the trunk door creaked open, flooding the confined space with blinding light. Blinking rapidly, she squinted against the harsh glare, feeling the rejuvenating solar rays bathing her, a stark contrast to the cold darkness of her confinement.
Dr Wilkof loomed over her, his appearance now almost normal except for a slight pallor that hinted at something darker beneath the surface. He reached out, his hands enveloping her wrists, which were bound with withered rope. Thick, barbed vines extended from the sleeves of his coat, renewing her restraints and further draining what little power reserves she had left.
As he dragged her up out of the trunk, Mar’i found herself in the midst of a desolate car park, surrounded by nothing but empty space and the looming silhouette of a large hangar. She had nary a clue of where they were.
“It will be easier if you don’t struggle,” he said, his tone devoid of joy or malice, as if he were simply stating a fact. But Mar’i knew better than to trust his words.
As Wilkof led her towards the hangar, Mar’i stumbled along behind him, the vines around her wrists taut like a leash. She tried to reason with him, to appeal to the vestiges of his humanity buried beneath the madness that gripped him.
“You don’t have to do this,” she implored, unsure of how much of his humanity really remained. “The plant doesn’t have to control you.”
Wilkof's eyes gleamed with a haunted fervour as he shook his head, the vines’ grip tightening around Mar'i’s wrists. “I've sacrificed too much to stop now,” he muttered. Those words carried a strange quality,like they weren’t fully his. Maybe it was the plant talking, maybe they were words he had rehearsed to himself enough times for them to become hollow. “I won’t let it all be in vain.”
For a moment, Mar’i was left to wonder what he meant by that. Then she remembered what little she knew about him, and a shiver ran down her spine. (He had fed the rest of his team from the lab to the plant, a grim sacrifice to fuel his delusions of grandeur.*
“No one cared about mild-mannered Hunter Wilkof,” he continued, his voice cracking with bitterness. “The plant promised to make me someone special, to make me famous.”
Mar’i shook her head in disbelief as she continued to be lugged along. “The plant doesn’t speak,” she insisted with a rising urgency. “Its pheromones mess with your mind, make you see and hear things that aren’t there.”
But Wilkof brushed off her words with a scoff. “I don’t care,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the hangar ahead. “I fed the plant like I was told, but the fame never came. I let it eat the only thing I ever loved. But… nothing changed.”
Her heart yearned to find some way to free him of the plant’s clutches, to help him see the light, but she knew well what desperation could do to a person, if left unchecked. She knew how far someone could fall.
“Then I realised… I wasn’t meant for prizes and celebrity,” he continued, deranged. “That wasn’t what the plant had planned for us. It’s just like you said in your Tamaranean fairy tale, the Morning Eclipse and its legend. I knew we were meant for infamy, but just one plant and its keeper wouldn’t do the trick. We needed a bigger family.”
At this point, Hunter stopped, and the pair had finally reached the mouth of the hangar. Mar’i searched through the darkness, but was struggling to see straight at all thanks to the toxic, draining effect of her Morning Eclipse vine restraints.
Wilkof just stared into the darkness, and continued. “I tried taking cuttings, but no matter how much blood, meat or southern exposure I gave them… it wasn’t enough, and they wilted. It wouldn’t tell me why it wasn’t working, and all I knew was that the plant was from Tamaran,” he confessed, his voice growing hoarse with emotion. “So I went to look for Starfire, but she was in space. And then… then I found you. A hybrid like me.”
But throughout Hunter’s grim confession, Mar’i was still missing some important details. “How did you know the plant was from Tamaran?” She defied him, “It doesn’t have a mind of its own, so it couldn’t have told you.”
Hunter smiled. “I used to drive out into the countryside and just leave my car behind, go for these long walks to clear my head when city life got too much,” he explained, a shroud of something resembling peace slowly falling over him. “I always felt guilty for it, reasoning I should have been spending that time in the lab, looking for ways to help people. But this one day, a few years ago now, I realised it was all worth it.”
He then pulled a remote from his pocket and pressed a button at its centre. As the lights of the hangar flickered to life, they revealed a magnificent sight, something Mar’i immediately recognised as a First Class Vegan Star Cruiser - a Tamaranean space vessel from the shipyards of Okaara - resplendent in hues of silver and violet. The ship stood tall and proud, a beacon of extraterrestrial wonder amidst the mundane surroundings of the hangar. But why was it here? And how did Wilkof have it?
He gestured towards the ship with an odd gleam in his eyes. “Suddenly, and without warning, this spaceship came crashing down through the sky just a couple of miles away, out here, where it was just me there to see it,” he explained. “So I rushed over, I searched the wreckage… and that’s where I found it. It was only a sapling, a baby really, and it called out to me. I knew I needed to take it home, back to the lab, back for testing.”
Mar’i shook her head. How was he to have known back then that the plant was pulling his strings?
“I stashed the ship away, knowing its potential,” he confessed. “The ship’s computer confirmed its origins: Tamaran. Apparently it even used to belong to a princess named Komand’r.”
Mar’i's mind raced as she processed this revelation. Komand’r - also known as the tyrant queen Blackfire - was Koriand’r’s sister, and Mar’i’s aunt. Someone she had already come across early in her time in this universe. Then, just in time for him to answer it without her asking, Mar’i happened upon another awful question.
“I got some guys in to make repairs, and another guy to… basically hotwire the thing, before I fed them all to the plant. But the ship won’t fly without one final security measure,” continued Hunter, his gaze fixed on Mar’i. “A pilot with Tamaranean DNA.”
 
🔹🔹 🪶 🔹🔹
 
Back in the lab, Dick, Artemis and Tim continued to put the pieces together, now sans Barry who had raced off to join Wally in combing the city for either Mar’i or the Morning Eclipse, not knowing that both were far from the city limits.
“Why Mar’i?” Dick demanded. “What does Wilkof want with her? Her Starbolts could be used to fuel the plant and its cuttings, but that’d only make a difference at night, when they can’t get sunlight for themselves.”
Artemis nodded in agreement. “Surely they can survive a night without sunlight,” she surmised. “So what else would he come to Mar’i for?”
“Could it be her DNA?” posed Tim. “Maybe he has a use for DNA from a Tamanrean.”
“What kind of uses?” asked Dick. It wouldn’t be that, but his mind once again returned to the cloning vats of Cadmus. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then what else could it be?” Artemis sighed, frustrated. All of this analysis, brainstorming and scheming, and they were no closer to finding the missing Titan.
Then, Dick’s face blanched with fear. “She knows the way,” he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper.
“The way to what?” asked Tim, his own anxiety rising.
“To Tamaran,” Dick replied with dread. “A place where the sun shines bright enough for a hundred Morning Eclipses.”
 
🔹🔹 🪶 🔹🔹
 
In the dimly lit interior of what was once her aunt Komand'r's ship, Mar'i's heart raced with fear and uncertainty, now strapped into her seat beside the demented Dr Wilkof. The vessel, a marvel of Vega System technology, exuded an otherworldly aura, its sleek silver surfaces shimmering with an ethereal glow. Yet, to Mar'i, it felt more like a prison than a wonder.
She couldn't shake the sense of dread that gripped her. Tamaran, a place she once called home, now loomed before her as an unfamiliar and foreboding destination. She knew of the tumultuous history of this universe's Tamaran, the tales of military coups and the reign of the Orange Lantern Larfleeze, all of which added to her apprehension. The planet had hundreds of Morning Eclipses, but none had ever merged with a sapient vessel before. The killer plants were best survived by being completely ignored, which wouldn’t be possible with an intelligent host scheming and bringing the plants to their vulnerable prey. Could she inflict that threat on Tamaran?
Wilkof's jubilant smile did little to assuage her fears as he spoke. “When we reach the planet - with its gleaming sun - I’ll have everything I need. I'll create more Morning Eclipses, genetically superior ones, and they will bond with Tamaranean vessels to enhance their intelligence. And then there’ll be no more sacrifices, just feeding.”
Mar'i's stomach churned at the thought of being complicit in Wilkof's madness. But she also knew that she was in no position to bargain. And he knew it.
With a heavy heart and a sense of resignation, Mar'i steeled herself for the task ahead and the ship hummed to life around them, hurtling toward an uncertain destiny.
Then, as they quickly hit sonic speed, Hunter turned to his pilot and prisoner, keen to share a thought he hoped would bring her peace. “I want you to know… once we get to Tamaran, I’ll never have to return to Earth again. Don’t think about where we’re going, think about what we’re leaving behind. This is you saving planet Earth.”
 
 
Next: Sun it up in Nightwing #15
 

It candidly sucked being surrounded by constant reminders that you’d lost the genetic lottery. Sure, it was easier than some people thought to get around the world without powers; it wasn’t like the government expected everyone to be a speedster or to be able to fly. Hell, a hundred years ago, nobody even had powers. The infrastructure was there. Life went on.
That said, staying cheery about the hand I’d been dealt was difficult. Enhanced perception was useful for a lot of things, from party tricks to always reading the fine print, but next to flight? Next to teleportation?
I’d gotten hung up on movement powers because I’d taken the bus to the bar, and the only superpower buses had was being late.
I was specifically at the bar for the sake of a blind date set up by my best friend; Todd was about two times my size and could throw a car across the street. His powers did nothing to help me with his current obsession with my dating life, but here we were. I supposed it was a fair obsession. I hadn’t been trying.
It honestly made sense that Todd had been keenly aware of romance since he’d met his soul mate. See, a strange thing with powers was that when you were around your soulmate, they were inexplicably stronger. Todd had met Soo-jung when she’d been on vacation in Crescent three years ago. They’d been inseparable since, and he’d been able to throw a car down three blocks instead of across the street.
Or so he claimed. Nobody was eager to volunteer their car for a demonstration, or anything else heavy and expensive, for that matter.
For my part, I hadn’t spent a lot of time guessing what would happen if I met my soulmate. It was a common train of thought for some, but I never found that it stopped at any fun stations. Instead, I indulged Todd’s meddling because he was my friend and bad dates at least made good stories.
“Gimme a sec, I’ll grab us another round,” Todd announced as he pushed out from our table. “Emma said she’s going to be here soon.”
“You bought the last one.”
“Yeah, now you can buy two in a row once Emma gets here and look generous. Think about it, man.”
“Sure,” I answered, but Todd was already walking away from the table and toward the bar.
Soo-jung leaned in. “You know he’s trying, right?”
“I know, maybe a little too much.”
“You don’t hear the half of it.”
“Oh, good.”
“I had to tell him to calm down when it came to buttering you up to Emma,” Soo-jung explained as she took a sip from her drink. “Sometimes I wonder about him.”
“I’m surprised he says anything nice about me.”
“He’d never say it to your face.” She watched Todd at the bar instead of looking at me during our conversation.
“Does that mean you’ll do it for him?”
“He trusts me to keep his secrets.”
“How about I suggest things and read your reaction?” I asked.
Soo-jung frowned in response before she pointedly rolled her eyes. She knew that reading reactions was one of my party tricks. If you couldn’t be powerful, you could at least read a room.
“Okay, fine. What do you know about Emma?”
“Her last name’s Tavish.”
“That’s it?”
“She works with Todd.”
“I knew that. He kept telling me she was a co-worker.”
“Todd thinks she’s cute.”
“He told you that?”
“No, but he has high standards for you.”
“That’s all the detail you have?”
“Todd’s not allowed to talk about work at hom- Hey, honey.”
Todd was back at the table holding all three pints in one arm; he passed one to each of us despite Soo being less than halfway finished with her current drink. Once he’d finished distributing, he turned to Soo-jung and asked her a question in broken Korean.
He’d been trying to learn, and he was still struggling. Not that I knew the language.
“Yes,” Soo-jung responded in English, “we were talking about Emma; no Korean around Toby. It’s rude.”
“I thought you wanted me to practice?”
“You can practice at home.”
“So we were talking about Emma,” Todd jumped back to the previous topic instead of discussing his inconsistent study of Korean. “Awesome woman, perfect for you, man.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Oh, she sucks too.”
“Ah, thanks.”
“He means powers-wise,” Soo-jung stepped in.
“So you do know something about her,” I pointed out.
“Something? I’ve been telling Soo everything since we got in the car to come here.” Just as Todd finished, he flinched. Soo had kicked him under the table. “But it wasn’t much, really.”
“What do I get to know?”
“I don’t want to taint your expectations.” He pushed his empty glass away, swapping it with the new one. “But can I be serious for a second?”
I considered it. “Sure.”
“She’s like my boss’, boss’ boss. So best behavior.”
“Wait. Seriously?” I leaned in. Todd worked for the CPRU, which meant that she had to be a heavy hitter if she was high ranked in the city’s power regulation department. “She’s—”
“Not quite.” He backpedaled. “We share a building. She’s straight DPR.”
I blinked twice at that. “Way to set me up to fail.”
“You should believe in yourself,” Soo cut in.
“Todd I w—”
“And she’s here.” Todd had turned his attention away from me and toward his phone. “Hope you’re ready to meet your soulmate.”
“Honey, don’t set that expectation.”
The bar’s front door opened, and I was the only one who could hear it over the atmosphere. I glanced over, and there she was.
She was stunning by any definition, but especially mine. Maybe it was a strange way to describe someone, but she looked beautifully meticulous, from brunette hair to olive skin, to her light blue jacket; everything was in place, and everything about her was gorgeous. Assuming that was Emma, I owed Todd big time.
“Okay, that can’t be her, right?” I asked Todd. After a second, without a response, I checked to see if he was waving at her, but he was stock still, a stupid grin plastered over his face. “Todd?”
Holy shit. The DPR had some crazy people on their roster, but this- I waved a hand in front of Todd’s face and snapped my fingers, then caught the sound of a single cautious heel clicking against the floor.
I stood up from the table and looked back at the door. She’d taken one step into the bar but had gotten caught in the same shock I had. “Emma?” I asked.
She snapped her attention to me -god, her eyes were- but she just looked confused.
“Toby,” I explained, “I’m Todd’s friend.” I motioned over to Todd’s still body and took the first steps to say hello. “This is really impressive. I didn’t think this was possible. It’s cool to meet someone wh—”
“I’m not doing this,” she said. “This is impossible. How are yo—”
“Trust me, this isn’t in my…” We stared at each other for a moment. Somehow, time stopped more than it already was.
“Holy shit.” We both said it at once.
“So this isn’t you?” she asked. Her eyes were still meandering around the frozen bar instead of staying in the conversation with me.
“No, it’s not,” I walked along her gaze and ended up against the bar counter, “did Todd tell you what my power was?”
“He just told me you wouldn’t mind having me around,” Emma answered, which somehow just brought up more questions.
“Enhanced perception,” I grabbed a drink off of the bar to see if I could; As soon as I touched it, it seemed to animate back to life. “What do you mean, ‘mind having you around’?”
“I dampen powers,” she explained, a little quieter than anything else she’d said, “make them weaker, hard to use. The technical definition is long and wordy so…” She sighed as she watched me slosh the beer around. “It’s a lot of trouble, really.”
“Probably good for work,” I offered.
“Pretty much the whole reason I have my job, but Callum wouldn’t admit that.” She approached, but there wasn’t an open seat near where I was standing, nor could we ask for someone to move. “Callum is—”
“Callum Rehsman, head of the D.P.R for the past six years,” I stepped in, “sorry, comes with the perception thing.”
“Honestly, I’m just glad I don’t have to explain it,” Emma took to leaning against the bar instead of walking over to a seat. She undid the top button of her shirt, which was probably too high for a date, anyway. “Emma Terish. Ring any bells up there?”
“No.”
“And you’re?”
“Toby Vander,” I put down the beer to offer my hand, and it froze as soon as I let go. We both paid attention to that instead of the potential formal hello.
“So this isn’t you.” Emma reached for the glass and picked it up; once she did, it animated just like it had with me. “And it isn’t me…”
I swallowed nothing. We’d both said holy shit for a reason, but it felt impossible to admit it. Wasn’t there supposed to be a — Well, something? Anything?
Then again, we were stopping time, and what else could you ask for?
“Do you want a drink, Toby?” Emma asked. She vaulted herself over the bar with a frankly shocking amount of grace for someone in a pantsuit.
“Uh, sure.”
“I’d ask what you were drinking, but we might have limited options,” she was considering her new vantage point from behind the counter.
I took the opportunity to grab the drink I’d left behind on the table. “I’ll use the one I had.” I tapped Todd’s hand for posterity, and nothing happened to him. “Any idea what this might—”
“No idea,” she answered without letting me finish, “but my job involves dealing with unknown powers, so…” She tried to use the soda-gun and swore when it didn’t work. “You learn to roll with it until people cooperate.”
“You still think I’m doing this?”
“I know it’s not me, and there aren’t many options here with us,” she said as she ducked behind the bar and came back up with a lemonade cooler, “but I came here for a date, and I plan to have one. Been a long week.”
I returned to the bar, finding a seat now that she was on the other side. “I just need to establish that this isn’t me. I’m not trying to—”
“If it isn’t you and it’s not me stopping time around us, then someone is giving us a very private venue for our first date.”
“Isn’t that nice?”
“It really is.” She took a sip of her drink, then pulled it away before she had time to swallow. “Shit. Do you have cash?”
“I’ll cover you.” She frowned at that; clearly she wasn’t satisfied with someone else paying for everything. “Plus, you’re serving me tonight. So…” That seemed to be enough plausible deniability to satisfy her. “Cheers?”
“Cheers.”
Throughout drink one, we were casting nervous glances around the paused bar; by drink five, we were laughing, just the two of us. Hours dripped by with the free beer… or they didn’t… It was hard to tell.
Emma added her sixth can to her pyramid and composed herself. “Okay, okay, okay. One second.” She took a deep breath. “This has been so much fun, but I told Todd I’d tell him when I got here so” — she needed another second to find her verbal footing — “can you stop this now?”
“Stop what?” I was halfway through a sip.
“This is the coolest power I’ve seen but—”
“It’s not me, I promise,” my insistence ended up sounding more like a drunk debate. The drunk part was accurate.
“So your power really is enhanced perception.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Okay. You’re not lying.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because that’s lame and—” She stopped herself. “Shit, sorry.”
“I am so used to it.”
“You wouldn’t say that drunk if you could stop time is my point,” she almost ducked down to grab another drink but thought better of it. “So, that makes us…”
We’d reached this impasse several times in the last hours. I scanned her. The lines on her face. The size of her irises. She was worried. Apprehensive.
So I said it first.
“We’re soul mates.”
She looked down and to the left, considering instead of answering.
“Why else would one of us display a power we’d never seen before? Unless you’re right and someone was stopping time for everyone but me and—”
“And the woman who’s immune to powers,” she cut in. “Maybe we are soul mates, but turn it off.”
“It’s not—”
“Toby, please.”
“I don’t—” I stopped short and instead tried even though I didn’t know how. My perception was passive. I didn’t get to choose whether I used it. Was there supposed to be a switch somewhere inside my head? Was I—
How long had it been at this point? Six, seven hours? We’d planned to meet pretty late and it would almost be light out by now. She was right. We had to get—
“I don’t know how,” I admitted, “if it’s me.”
Emma opened her mouth to say something, then reconsidered. Her perfectly manicured nails were digging into the vinyl of the bar top.
“Okay. It’s been lovely, but if you getting here started this then,” I said as I stood up, “maybe I just need to leave, and that will turn it off so we can figure out what’s going on.” I took the first steps toward the door.
“That’s a good plan,” she nodded along with what she was saying, like she was convincing herself, “I’ll reach out to you. It was an excellent date.”
“Let Todd know for me,” I added as I reached the door; a second later, I stepped into the chilled early-fall air. The door didn’t shut behind me, so I kept walking until I would have been out of eyesight.
Then I stopped.
Should I have turned around? What were the chances that she was my soul mate? What was I leaving behind if I didn’t see her again? It was a dumb thought, but the idea of walking away started gnawing at me.
But what choice did I have? In front of me, a couple was frozen in the middle of a quiet conversation on the way to the bar. Soul mates only affected one another when they were close by. I took a few more steps and started to sprint.
I was three blocks away when the world stuttered around me. My vision blurred, and the moonlight was shattered by the sun. I stumbled, almost crashing into a woman dressed like she was on her way to brunch.
Shit. I’d left my jacket at the bar, but—
I checked my watch; 8:06 AM.
​
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DC Next Proudly Presents:

THE NEW TITANS

In Shadow of Kestrel
Issue Nine: War Dove
Written by AdamantAce, GemlinTheGremlin & PatrollinTheMojave
Edited by Deadislandman1 and Voidkiller826
 
Next Issue > Coming Next Month
 
 
“Raven!”
Slade’s gruff voice pierced through the deafening, wave-like roars in Raven’s head, but the rage was too much to bear. Her hands sizzled as hellfire danced in her palms, her body readying for another attack. She locked eyes with a reptilian soldier, dismounting his simian steed and charging on foot, but as she lunged forwards to strike him, she watched a man fly into her path. Slade Wilson caught the young Titan’s hand and pushed, throwing Raven backwards.
“Come on, kid, snap out of it!” But as Slade’s words fell on deaf ears, he felt the familiar sting of a fist to his jaw, a crack echoing in his ears. He recoiled from the attack but powered through his injury and stood his ground. Sinking his heels into the ground, he locked eyes with the girl before him. Her face seemed contorted and uncanny, as if all of the rage she was feeling was pouring out of her. She groaned angrily as she thrusted her head downwards, her forehead making contact with Slade’s teeth, before pulling her head back up again in preparation for another attack.
Before she could make one, however, one of the lizardmen had almost reached the warring duo’s sides, and as he lunged forward with his long spear, he made contact with Raven’s side. A small rip formed in the side of Raven’s outfit, which seemed to only anger her further. However, it did seem to distract her enough; Mar’i fired off a single Starbolt which struck only the ground - a warning shot.
“Raven! Please!” the half-Tamaranean cried out. But the Raven she knew was buried under unfathomable amounts of fury; she ignored her teammate’s call and instead flew forwards and swung out at the reptiloid. The strike glowed with red flame, sending the creature skidding across the floor, barely conscious. Slade spotted a flash of something else on her face, as if she was finally able to fight back against the endless rage - pain, perhaps, or anguish. But in an instant, it was gone.
That flicker of something other than white-hot anger was enough for Slade.
He clutched his side as his still open wound began to ache, the bandages feeling wet with fresh blood. His jaw felt crooked, and as he gritted his teeth, it felt as though they sat differently atop each other. And yet, he clutched his staff tightly in one hand, and with the other he beckoned to Raven.
“Kid, you’re fighting it, I know you are!” Slade felt his mouth filling with blood rather than saliva.
Within a moment, Raven’s attention was locked on the white-haired man once again. She fired bolt after bolt of black and red flame, but Slade was still dextrous despite his pain. He dodged and dived, weaving through the fire, until he finally managed to make contact with his opponent. He drove his staff into her chest and pushed his weight against the weapon, forcing her backwards. She rose into the air, a black mist pouring from her arms and over her face, a large ghostly corvid taking her place. He felt the deathly cold shadow of the bird’s wing fall over him, his feet leaving the ground as she scooped him into the air.
He looked down at the ground far beneath him. A fall from this height would kill anyone, he thought, let alone someone beaten half to death.
Then, as a verdant bolt of energy struck it in the side, Raven’s Soul Self shrieked and the shadows retreated inwards. Slade felt himself falling through the air for a second, then two, before he felt his back collide with something soft and cushioned. As he looked up, he met the gaze of Conner, who soared to the ground in an instant, placing the snow-haired man on the ground and giving a swift nod.
Raven let out a pained, frustrated yell as she returned to the ground, aided by a grappling line expertly positioned by Tim, and in response, Conner jetted off towards the sound of her cries. Slade’s feet faltered beneath him, and he stumbled to keep his balance. His breathing was laboured and his vision was becoming fuzzy. It felt as though, he realised, all the blood loss and violence he had suffered over the past few hours were finally catching up to him. Was this what dying felt like?
“Slade!” shouted a voice, followed by the dulled drumming of hurried footsteps. Slade pulled his hand across his face to wipe away the mental haze and drops of blood. It was Don, sprinting towards him. When Slade felt Don clasp him by shoulders, he realized just how slowed he was by his injuries. “Plan?” Slade coughed out.
“You’ve seen what she can do. I only see one way out of these without one of the kids getting hurt. I’d do it myself, but I’m out of practice and this is too important to leave to chance.” Don looked around anxiously, his face betraying that he had a lot on his mind. “I’m giving you the powers of a god.” Slade opened his mouth to ask a question, a million came to mind. He glanced across the battlefield. Through a blurry film, he saw Raven’s Soul Self bat Conner away with its wing. He careened into the trunk of a thick tree, uprooting it with a deep crunch. “Are you sure?,” Slade asked, breathless.
“I’m not losing another Titan.” Don squeezed his eyes shut. His grip on Slade tightened as pale, almost blinding light enveloped them. It felt warm. No, better than that: it felt peaceful. With his enhanced senses, Slade could hear his erratic heartbeat slow. Fleeting visions bubbled up in his mind, opening up his awareness beyond the wildest dreams of Project Veritas. He felt rivers of magical energy flowing through the air and earth. Each of them spiralled towards a depression. Towards Raven, he knew instinctively. Iridescent blue light spread outward from his shoulders. It washed over his body armor, bleaching the jet black panels until his entire body shone with radiance. The pain from wounds old and new faded, replaced by serenity - and power. Don opened his eyes again and sighed gently; a concoction and joy, relief, and quiet mourning.
“There,” Don remarked. Slade felt lighter, less angry, less burdened. He looked down at the iridescent light enveloping his body. Magical energy buzzed against the surface of his skin. “The powers of the Dove - officially yours.”
Slade sucked in a nervous breath. “Don…” Even rejuvenated, he was still lost for words.
“They’re yours now,” Don smiled weakly. “Now go earn them. There’s a Titan in dire need of our help.”
Conner floated out of the dense jungle, rubbing his forehead. “Is Slade glowing or do I have a concussion?”
Slade looked over at Raven. She seemed less erratic, her movements driven by her brain rather than her gut. Tim’s staff batted fiercely against her, each strike buffeting her back more and more, but it was clear to Slade that Raven was not any weaker physically - her mind, however, was another story.
Slade began marching towards her, the ache in his side dulled. “Raven. You’re strong. Fight this rage inside of you.” Raven glared at him, a spark of something in her eyes, as she swooped in towards him at top speed. As she neared him, however, Slade readied his staff, stretching it out in front of him. As the tip of the weapon struck Raven, a beam of white energy coursed through her, as if she had been struck by lightning, and her body was flung backwards across the dirt.
Slade danced a hand over his rifle, but something felt different. He pulled it into his hands and inspected it swiftly; nothing seemed out of order. Raven rose slowly from her supine position, snarling softly to herself. Her movements had slowed, the expression on her face becoming closer to horror than rage. She was doing it.
“You’re nearly there, kid,” Slade soothed, his words suddenly like butter. He watched Raven’s shoulders start to relax. “That’s it. Just fight this, Raven. You’re almost there.”
Despite her tremendous progress, Raven’s blistering fury won out once more, and she charged a large bolt of hellfire in her hands. Slade fiddled with his rifle and crossed his fingers. There was a standstill between the two. Slade analysed his rifle again; there was something different about the barrel, as if it had been swapped out for another similar model. The stock felt lighter, too, as if the weight had been–
Raven roared at him, swiping wildly with glowing fists, and in an instant Slade instinctively pulled the trigger.
What fired from the gun was not a silvery bullet, but a familiar glowing bolt of white light, cloud-like in appearance. As it struck Raven, she sucked in a deep breath, the energy engulfing her. Her face softened and her posture relaxed. Then she swung out for the man’s weakened side, his bandages poking through the aura of light. And yet, as he stayed steadfast, not even attempting to dodge the attack. Sparks flew from the point of contact. Slade just readied another shot and fired.
Her body swayed with the blow. Slade closed the gap between them and focused on the new warmth he felt, concentrating it into his staff as best he could. Then, as he held it out in front of him at arm’s length, he swiped at Raven and struck her in the side of the shoulder. Each blow seemed to be more effective than the last, but as Raven’s movements continued to slow, Slade held fire.
“You’re doing it, Raven,” Slade encouraged. He watched as the other Titans surrounded Raven, each of them ready for any further attacks. Everyone watched with bated breath as their teammate and friend thrashed and recoiled from the hit. Her breathing was rapid, although it felt closer to panic than unabashed fury. She clasped her hands over her head, groaning. Then, suddenly, she stopped.
Her face had softened completely, her jaw slack, and tears filled her vision. She looked up at Slade with a comfort in her eyes. The aura emanating from him was pervasive and contagious, and although she had felt lost in a sea of impossibly vast emotions, its warmth and comfort cut through. The anger was still there somewhat, the last remaining dregs still working its way out of her system, but the comfort, the peace that Slade was providing was the anchor for her to stabilise herself. She had only ever seen this kind of power when Don…
Raven’s eyes widened as she realised what that meant. She collapsed to her knees, suddenly feeling the bone-deep fatigue her rage had suppressed. Her teammates rushed in around her. Mar’i dropped to a knee by her side and put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s OK. You’re safe. Everyone’s OK.”
“Don I’m—” She wiped away a stream of tears, stumbling her way out of the emotional vortex she’d been sucked into. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I’ve lost control before, but never like this.”
Don looked older. Creases ran across his forehead and around his eyes. His smile hadn’t changed. “Raven, my brother and I got those powers when I was a kid. We didn’t ask for them. We weren’t ready for them. We didn’t know how to use them, let alone control them.” He laughed dryly, recalling Hank. “I don’t regret anything. Giving my powers to Slade is the best thing I’ve done with them in years. I know Hank would feel the same way.”
In the moment of silence that followed, Raven rose to her feet and pulled her cloak tightly around herself. She was still shaking. Tim’s eyes drifted from her to Slade. “Something’s gnawing at me. Kestrel’s powers are weakened in Skartaris. Don’s…” He coughed, “Slade’s powers are amplified. If this place is what affected you—”
Mar’i’s face flashed with recognition, “—your powers must be tied to the Lords of Order and Chaos!”
Tim furrowed his brow. “Maybe.” He hardly had time to consider further when a thundering crack tore open the sky. Two bolts of swirling energy - one red and one blue - met above them, forming a swirling portal at their vertex. The Titans readied their weapons, expecting the worst.
“It’s them.” Slade murmured, still put off by his uncanny awareness. Terataya and T’Charr descended from the sky, one wreathed in mist, the other, magma. The two elementals stopped a few feet above the ground, hovering.
Terataya was the first to speak. Even at a whisper, her voice reverberated through the air. “I don’t usually care for surprises, Don, but this was a pleasant one.” A thin smile appeared on her face.
“Slade Wilson.” Terataya’s neck turned at an unnatural angle to face him. “You wield the powers of Order with great skill. Who understands the dangers of unchecked War better than a soldier. Become my champion. Protect the balance.”
Slade took a step back, then glanced at Don.
“She’s right.” Don said, with only a hint of hesitation. “It took me years to use the powers like you used them today. You’re a natural.”
Slade looked at his hands, still gently pulsing with pale blue light. “Thanks.” He allowed himself a weak smile. “But no thanks.”
“What.” T’Charr’s voice boomed.
“It doesn’t take Zatanna to realize an old soldier like me makes a piss-poor Avatar of Peace. I fight for a living, and I’m not deluded enough to think that makes me good at anything but fighting. If you want someone who understands the need for balance, Don just sacrificed everything special about him for it.”
Don raised an eyebrow. “None taken.”
“His actions today were noble, but they do not make up for years spent squandering the gift.”
“Squandering? The Titans wouldn’t exist today if he hadn’t pulled them together. Everything they’ve done. Everything they’ve achieved for your balance wouldn’t have happened without him, including stopping that monster you made.”
“Watch your tone, mortal.” T’Charr threatened.
“There may be a vein of truth to his words, lover.” Terataya said. “But *if we were to restore Don Hall’s power, we would need assurances. His indecision led down this path.”*
Rocks ground against each other as T’Charr landed beside Don. “You would have weeks, not years, to select a counterpart and return to your duties.”
Don’s response was instantaneous. “I’ve made a decision.”
“You’ve decided if you’ll take up the mantle of Dove again?”
Don nodded. “And who should be the new Hawk.”
Terataya giggled. “Full of surprises today. T’Charr?”
“We should discuss this.” He said. “In private.”
The three of them vanished, leaving the Titans and Slade alone on a battlefield riddled with bits of dino meat and ape fur.
 
○○ Ⓣ ○○
 
“You don’t think they’re gonna come back in like, 200 years, right?” Conner asked. He sat beside the depowered Slade Wilson, who was downing aspirin to make up for the sudden deficit in peace energy.
“I don’t know.” Tim said. “But we should give them more than fifteen minutes.”
As if on cue, the skies opened again. Again, the chromatic energy lit the sky and again a portal opened its swirling maw. This time, however, it wasn’t two elemental Lords to descend. Raven squinted to make the figures out.
“Oh my god.” Conner said, having a far easier time with his super-vision.
“What? Who is it?” Tim asked.
“Donna!” Mar’i shouted. She shot off the ground towards her. Her black combat armor was replaced with a crimson and white bodysuit studded with stars that seemed to twinkle as the light shifted around her. The sword at her side was gone too, replaced with a coiled loop of rope suffused with the same brilliant energy. The two collided into an embrace, spinning through the air as they held each other tightly.
Don was the first to land, restored with the powers of Dove. He looked stronger than ever, and maybe more importantly, happier. Even Tim’s typical thoughtful brooding has been pierced by an unimpeachable joy.
“I don’t understand,.” Raven said. “S-She’s alive. How is this possible?”
“I knew there was only one person who could be trusted with the powers of War, with Hank’s abilities.” He scratched the back of his neck, a bit guilty. “And she’d been staring me in the face for years. It took some doing, but eventually T’Charr and Terataya saw that too.”
Donna landed beside him, Mar’i only a step behind. By now Conner had stepped forward. He tried not to choke over his words. “I’m sorry. If I’d—”
Donna didn’t let him get the words out before pulling him into a grapple-turned-hug that quickly grew as the rest of the team piled in. Slade flicked another aspirin into his mouth.
“Danyah!” A voice called out from over the ridge. It was Travis, mounted atop a fanged reptilian creature in the vague shape of a horse and flanked on either side by his gold-armored honor guard. He broke into a gallop, stopping just short of the Titans. “When I saw the skies, I feared the worst. Is it really you? Has sorcery brought you back to us?”
“It’s me, Travis. A Lord of Chaos brought me back.”
“Not to interrupt,.” Slade said, still nursing his wounds. “But did either of you ask them to bring us back to Chicago?”
“I…” Don grimaced. “Donna, how do we get home?”
“How did you get here? Surely you could return the way you came.” Travis said.
“No, we can’t.” Tim said, pressing a few buttons on his wrist’s holographic display. “Whatever magic pervades Skartaris is also causing some extreme time dilation. I can’t guarantee we’d return to the 21st century, or even to Earth.”
“I spent a decade in Skartaris and returned to Earth nearly two centuries later. It’s the influence of Chaos. We’d need a Skartaran mage of overwhelming power to stabilize our return.” She spat the word mage with disgust. Travis’s expression seemed to confirm the reputation of Skartaran spellcasters.
Before their anxiety could spiral, the sky above began to churn. Moments later, the ground shook as a violent bolt of lightning cleaved the air, striking with such ferocity that all but Conner and Donna were flung backward. Mar'i skidded across the damp undergrowth, her senses overwhelmed by the acrid scent of ozone. Her mind was racing; their victory was hard fought, and she doubted they had much left in the tank for another confrontation. She dug her hands into the ground and pushed herself up as she choked from the smell. The Warlord Morgan and his military guards snapped to attention, forming a protective ring around the crater that now marred the earth.
From the smoking pit, a figure rose, unfolding from a crouch like something out of Terminator. Adorned in a red and white jumpsuit that accentuated his lithe build, the young man's appearance was marked by a red cowl and goggles, with sandy brown hair rebelliously spilling out.
Conner squinted through the dissipating smoke, murmuring under his breath, “A speedster?” The Flashes had had a variety of different sidekicks and other allies over the years, but none of them recognised this one
With a nonchalant flair that seemed at odds with the charged atmosphere, the newcomer greeted them. “Hey, everyone chillax. I'm here to get you guys back home.”
Donna, ever the leader, stepped forward and spoke with a commanding curiosity, now emboldened with the war aura of Hawk. “And who are you exactly? Why should we trust you with such a claim?”
Flashing a cheeky grin, he tilted his head and responded, “Well, I’m a speedster for one. Name’s Impulse. If I run fast enough, then I can… well, I guess bend time.”
Behind Donna, the group exchanged sceptical glances. Raven's face remained shadowed by recovery, Mar'i and Conner braced for action, and Tim discretely checked his gadgets, no doubt for something that he could use on a speedster should the need arise.
“Yeah, we figured that much,” Don cut through the tension, his voice calm yet insistent. “Who sent you?”
Impulse chuckled, his demeanour remaining unfazed by their scrutiny. “Look, the details aren't the fun part. Trust me, I can get us back.”
As a silence thick with doubt and scepticism settled over the group, Impulse seemed to realise his casual assurances weren't sufficient. With a theatrical sigh, he reached up and removed his mask, revealing a face familiar to both Mar'i and Raven.
“Brody!?” Mar'i exclaimed, her surprise echoing through the clearing as she stared at the boy who had once hobbled through their college classes with his leg in a cast.
The young man’s grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief and a hint of pride. “Actually, it’s Bart.”
 
○○ Ⓣ ○○
 
When Slade emerged from the shower, his skin was glistening with moisture, the water tracing the contours of his scars. He wrapped a stark white towel around his waist, and crossed the plush carpet to sit on the edge of the hotel room bed. He released a slow, deep breath; it was a good job the speedster kid arrived when he did. The notion of being stranded in an alien land or, worse, a different time had gnawed at him with a ferocity that was hard to admit. Without Bart’s intervention, every one of Slade’s meticulously crafted plans would have been utterly dashed.
Facing him, a wall-mounted mirror caught his rugged reflection. Drawn to his own image, Slade studied the scars that mapped his trials, the slick white hair that crowned his head, and the deep lines etched into his face. A familiar discomfort nagged at him, focusing his attention on his right eye. Unable to alleviate the irritation through the skin, Slade exhaled heavily and carefully removed the eye altogether. The movement, fluid and practised, spoke of years of adaptation.
He placed the prosthetic gently on the bed beside him and as he massaged the socket, a decades-old habit, his mind wandered. He wasn't accustomed to keeping the prosthetic in for extended periods. Showering with it had been an uncomfortable experiment in necessity - he didn't like it, but understood the importance of maintaining the facade. The Slade he would have people believe he was would have never lost an eye, because that Slade had led a life far from by the darker paths Slade had truthfully trodden.
His thoughts wandered to his brief time wielding the potent powers of Dove, and Slade felt a twinge of regret at their loss. The clarity and strength those powers had provided were intoxicating, yet he recognised that he had a more important goal, one he couldn’t compromise. His current role demanded not the accumulation of power but the perfection of his deceit, ensuring that all believed he was not the Slade Wilson they knew, but a Reawakened, more innocent doppelganger.
Now, with the glass eye resting beside him, Slade stared at his unmasked visage. Maintaining the myth of the noble Slade was critical. The ruthless mercenary, the World’s Deadliest Killer - those identities had to remain buried. The Titans had believed him enough to entrust him with divine powers, their faith a testament to his performance, but the game was far from over; in fact, it was entering its most critical phase.
 
 
Next: Return to normality in The New Titans #10
 

Warning: Mentions of violence, blood, and some self harm near the end.
While browsing some random conspiracy site, I found what is a supposedly leaked file from the Nevada County Sheriff's Department; however, nothing has been confirmed. According to the OP, it is believed the following is the personal account of a 21 year old Jonathan Ashford of Grass Valley, California. Normally I would write stuff like this off but this one is...different. I’ve done my best to correct most of the grammar and misspelling while at the same time trying to avoid skewing the original account.
-September 15, 2022
I’ve never really been an outdoor person. Well, I guess that’s because I’ve never really been outdoors much in the first place. And that’s because I guess…I've never been invited? I don’t really have any friends. So, needless to say, I was surprised to find myself on a backpacking trip with a group of 5 other students from my university. The plan was five days in Tahoe National Forest some place called Mystery Lake. Monday-Friday. I don’t know why they decided to do it during the week. Most of us had okay grades at best and part time jobs on the side so taking a week off of it all seemed at the very least a bit irresponsible; and yet, I went anyway. Listen, I didn’t plan it, okay? This was one of my only chances to get to know people. The hike wasn’t too long but my genius self who had only been backpacking once when I was around 9 years old or so decided to carry 60 pounds of bullshit up the mountain resulting in my shoulders being sore and raw for the foreseeable future.
-10:11 PM
To be honest, I don’t really know why they let me come with them. I only know one of them and the group has been ignoring me for pretty much the entire trip. I was always bringing up the back on the hike in and I set up my tent outside of the main camp behind some trees. I haven’t eaten any meals with them or talked to them or, now that I think about it, anything really. Regardless. The trip has been an experience. Hopefully things get more exciting tomorrow.
-September 16
I’ve only ever slept in a tent a couple times so the new environment and lack of sleeping pills resulted in quite a restless night. I woke up at about eleven; everyone else was gone. I remembered they were talking about a day hike on a trail headed north so assuming that’s where they went, I hurried to get dressed and grabbed some granola bars. I’m about to head out. I hope I find them.
-12:21 PM
I’d been briskly walking for around an hour and was feeling quite exhausted so when I heard the group’s voices off in the distance I was very relieved. I started to jog in their direction when–when this jolt or–wave of energy flooded my mind. My head instantly started throbbing and my vision went blurry. The best way I could describe it is–TV static? Like the old TVs that would go all staticky when the signal got bad. I could barely make out shapes and a space in the middle of my vision was especially dark to the point where I couldn’t see past it. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. God no, if only I was that lucky. I can still hear the shrieking. That goddamn shrieking. In an instant all I could hear was this sharp, scratchy shrieking. It pierced through my ears and rooted itself in my head. I think I cried out in pain but even if I did I couldn’t have heard it. It was as if the damned souls of hell all cried out in eternal pain all at once and begged for death. I gripped and pulled at my hair, hardly noticing the pain that resulted from it as I fell to my knees in agony before…
I slowly opened my eyes. My head hurt and there was a slight buzzing in my ears. I lay in a pile of ivy next to a fallen log, my back dampened from the cool soil beneath me. I stood up, the hill on which I previously stood was nowhere in sight. As I leaned my shoulder against a tree to steady myself I heard voices. Cautiously, I walked through the foliage as the low vines dragged along my ankles. As I walked, I looked up. The falling sun cast a soft orange glow across the sky. It was probably around five O’clock or so. I climbed up on a large rock only to realize I was near the main camp. I pin-pointed the voices of my fellow campers as they huddled around a low-burning campfire. As I sat down to listen to them speak I could sense a strong feeling of uneasiness resonating from the group. Then it hit me.
“Are you sure you haven’t seen her since earlier this afternoon?” One of them said, I think his name was Matthew? He was tall and lean, by far the tallest in the group.
“I’m sure! It just doesn’t make sense. One minute she was behind me going on about who knows what and then the next when I turn around she’s gone!” A girl with light brown hair said. I didn’t know her name. I could see tears forming at the corner of her eyes as the wind blew her hair into her face.
“We need to find her before it gets dark. Groups of two; stick together!” A shorter man with brown hair said. Ryan. He was the only one I knew. We weren’t friends. Definitely not. But he was nice enough to me in the classes we had together and I was grateful that I was able to go on the trip with him. As he walked past the boulder I sat beside, paying me no mind, I saw his lower lip quiver as his wide eyes looked straight ahead. He was more nervous than he led on. I zoned out for a few seconds, the static from earlier crawling its way into the corners of my vision when a chipmunk climbing a tree snapped me back to reality and I realized I had been left at camp. I looked around at the tall forest but the group was nowhere in sight. I assumed they wanted me to wait at camp in case the missing girl, Alice, came back, but as I moved toward the dying campfire the call of nature occupied my thoughts. I found a spade and a roll of toilet paper and strode briskly into the forest, the cool Autumn air rushing against my chapped lips as I walked. I reached over to scratch an itch on my arm when I saw it.
“The fuck?” I wondered out loud. There on my upper forearm was…a bite mark. I rattled my brain trying to think what could have made that kind of mark. As I examined it more I confirmed my suspicions. It seemed human. At least I think it was human. It’s not like there are any goddamn monkeys native to Middle of Nowhere, California. There was also a dark purple bruise on my lower forearm. Didn’t remember getting that either.
I looked around for a good spot. Stepping over a log, I set my foot down on something soft. It was Alice. Her right hand crushed and mangled and a dried trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth had pooled on a flattened leaf. I screamed, tripping and falling back in the direction I hoped was the camp. As I jumped over a rock I landed hard on my left ankle as a streak of pain shot up through my body. I was trying to get back up when I heard it. The screeching. It steadily yet quickly faded in until it flooded my hearing. My vision was clouded by that same static. I curled up into a ball, kicking at the air. My eyes watered and I felt the urge to vomit…
A wave of dizziness hit me as I opened my eyes and fell on my tailbone, pain shooting up my back. I lay down on my back and looked up at the trees, my nose bloody. It was still dark. Had I been standing? I tried to recall what I had been doing but all I remembered were faded images. One thing I didn’t forget was the screeching. All that I could remember was covered by that screeching and a faint veil of that static. Just thinking about it made my head throb.
A groan. I nearly jumped out of my skin as I turned to look in the sound’s direction. It was David. He looked injured, lying on the ground, but quickly crawled back in what looked like fear when he saw me.
“You bitch!” He muttered between gritted teeth. Before I could react he was up on his feet charging in my direction. I tried to doge him but the wind was quickly knocked out of me as he headbutted me in the stomach. I fell back onto the ground and between coughs I saw him running towards me. Before he could deliver a heavy stomp to my chest I caught his foot and kicked up into his groin. He stumbled back with a low yelp of pain and, taking my chance while he was stunned, I stood up as fast as I could and prepared to block another attack. He ran up to me and attempted to deliver a blow to my stomach with his right fist, leaving his upper body undefended; I used the opportunity to send a hard punch into the side of his neck. He fell back choking, tears in his eyes. As he tried to sit down he tripped on a root and hit his head on a nearby boulder with a sickening crack. He squirmed for a moment, then nothing.
Silence. There was a faint red stain on the side of the rock, and beneath his blood-stained hair, his head seemed unnervingly misshapen. The closer I looked, the more I saw. Bruised neck, flowing blood, even some pinkish bone exposed near the worst of the damage to his skull. The fall must’ve been worse than I thought. Why would he attack me? What was wrong with him? Had he mistaken me for someone else? I sat against the blood-stained boulder and leaned my head back. I’m exhausted. Everything hurts. My ankle is throbbing. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve slept and I don’t know what to do. I should probably go try to find the camp but…I’m too tired. I think I’m going to go to sleep now.
-September 18
I slept through the entire day and most of the night! Or, at least I think I did. The more I think about it I’m not so sure. It’s like 2:30 AM, glad my phone still works even if my brain doesn’t, just wish I had signal. I’m not sure what to do but I might try to go find
-4:29 AM
Something’s definitely out here with us. Or–me. Not sure how many of the others are left out here. I’m sure that shrieking is tied to something. I heard something off in the distance while writing and decided to go check it out. It was Matthew and that other girl. They were walking briskly and their eyes seemed to be darting around frantically. They were talking in hushed tones but from what I heard they found Alice's body, and they were worried. I was about to reveal myself to them when the shrieking came back. It hit me like a train, and sometimes I think a train would have hurt less. It felt like it lasted for hours, I bit a hole through my lip and fell off of the boulder I was sitting on. I couldn’t see anything except a dark patch of static in the middle of my vision surrounded by more static. All the cuts and bruises in my body seemed to amplify and I could barely breathe. I just wanted it to stop but it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t stop.
The two were dead when I came to. I wasn’t much better off myself. No matter how much I spit I can’t get the taste of blood out of my mouth. My arms are covered in cuts and bruises and my shoulder was dislocated. That was a fun half hour figuring out how to put it back in place. I think whatever is out here with us clouds your vision and makes it impossible to hear anything as a way to hunt you. I’m amazed it hasn’t killed me yet. I hope Ryan is still out there.
-6:06 AM
It’s been a long night. A really long night. I found Ryan but–but now I wish I hadn’t. It was around five AM I think, I had been aimlessly wandering through the forest looking for something, anything. By the most unlucky luck Ryan came stumbling around a tree. When he saw me his eyes went wide.
“Jon, what the hell?” Then he squinted his eyes and seemed to notice the wounds on my arm.
“Oh god,” he said. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small knife, glaring at me during the process. Before I could reply, he charged me, knife in hand. I–I didn't want to kill him. I really didn’t. He tackled me to the ground, forcing the knife close to my chest. I desperately tried to push him away and being the stronger one, I knocked him off me. As he hurried to get back on top of me I sent my right leg flying into his arm, knocking the knife from his hand. Before he realized what was happening I grabbed the knife from the ground. In what seemed like a last desperate attempt he tried to force me down again but, already having the knife in my hand, I quickly slashed his chest and one of his wrists without thinking. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t mean to kill him! I was just defending myself. I don’t know why he attacked me, what’s gotten into him and David? Is that thing controlling them? They didn’t seem like they were under some kind of spell…I don’t think so at least.
After a soft cry of pain he collapsed and rolled down the steep hill we were standing on. I didn’t bother looking for his body. No point. Odds are that thing would use his body as a trap for me or something. I don’t know anymore.
Somehow I found my way back. I don’t remember how, all I remember is collapsing against a tree out of exhaustion but, here I am at the trailhead. I guess my half dead brain forgot most of it. I don’t know what I’ll do now, I don’t think I’ll tell the police. If they hear that some creepy ghost creature is hiding out in the forest killing my friends I’ll probably get locked up in who the fuck knows where for who the fuck knows what. But, no matter how many or how few believe me, I know something is out there. And I know it’s dangerous. I doubt the bodies will ever be found. That forest is huge and I buried Matthew and Elizabeth, found her name in a backpack she had on.
This will be my last entry. My name is Jonathan Ashford, and I survived something dangerous in the Tahoe national forest. Whatever you do, do not go there. Goodbye.
-September 22, 2022, 5:06 PM
Ryan survived. The police are after me. Apparently he told them I stalked them in the forest and picked them off when they weren’t together. I don’t know what’s happening. There are some gaps in my memory but I know that I didn’t kill those people. I only killed David, and that was self defense. I’m not sure what I’ll do. The police don’t know where I am but I’m sure that won’t last long.
-8:19 PM
I saw an interview with Ryan on the local news while browsing channels. He seemed–off. There were bags under his eyes and his skin was pale. He seemed nervous, shaky. I hope he’s ok. I still don’t understand why he thinks I killed them.
-September 23, 3:12 AM
ok ok. I have a theory. I’ve been up all night thinking and it makes so much sense now. That thing can shriek. Terrifying right? But explainable. The static I still can’t make sense of, there’s no feasible way it could naturally do that. What if whatever supernatural force causes the static can also control people? Maybe that’s why Ryan looks so crazy. It must be controlling him. But why would it want me? Am I immune to its effects? Maybe.
-6:04 AM
They didn’t notice it. It didn’t hit them. When I was spying on Matthew and Elizabeth, right before they were–anyways.
The shrieking hit my ears before the static hit my eyes and in those few seconds, they didn’t notice. It didn’t affect them. They didn’t hear the shrieking. Maybe the shrieking is that monster thing's abilities failing to control me. Maybe that's why ryan-whatever’s controlling Ryan wants me. It’s because I’m a threat to it. Because It can’t control me. When I woke up I was injured, but never killed like the others. Maybe it doesn’t have as much power over me as others.
But why would the authorities believe Ryan? There’s no way his story can add up. Even if that creature, that thing, is intelligent, it can’t be that smart to fake a story. Why are they after me?
-11:42 PM
The police came by today. I was about to update this log again when they started banging on my door. I was able to sneak out a window before they noticed me, glad I live on the ground floor.
Something seemed off about them. I can’t say what but, something, like the uncanny valley effect, where something looks human but isn't. Whatever. It’s probably just my imagination. I need sleep.
-September 24, 2:20 AM
Something is wrong–something is definitely wrong. How did they find me? Holy shit that was close! I was dozing by a couple of dumpsters behind a gas station. Figured it was safe enough since it was out of the way and partly blocked by a fence until I heard dogs barking. Not sure how many of them there are, at least two–maybe three, I can still hear them barking. I figured they were just strays that would hopefully leave me alone until I saw the lights. Damn things half-blinded me!
“Son, what are you doing back here? Can we walk to you?” one of the officers said, his face was clammy and pale, he seemed tired, he seemed–off. I didn’t respond or wait for them to try and get closer, I dashed past them before they could call their dogs on me and jumped the fence, running into the tree line. I managed to climb my way up a tree a ways into the woods before they could get around the fence and send their dogs out. They haven’t found me yet, but they’re still looking for me. I can see their flashlights periodically bathing the tree line in a pale glow. I think I’ll try to wait them out and then climb down and run for as long as I can. Not sure where I’ll go yet but they keep finding me so I’ll have to get creative. Not sure how they’re finding me so quickly and easily, but maybe I can come up with something. Is that–thing finding me? Does it always know where I am? Is it controlling the police? Maybe that's why they looked so…wrong. I don’t know. I’m starting to think I don’t know anything anymore. I keep noticing the static in the corner of my vision occasionally, not sure why.
-September 24, 5:03 PM
I fucked up. Big time. Last night, somehow, I fell asleep. I don’t know how, guess I was just too exhausted. The sound of a helicopter pierced through the top of the tree line. Before I could register everything, I slipped and fell down the tree. I was able to slow my fall a bit by dragging my hands along the tree–hurt like a bitch–but I still landed hard. Can barely sit down. I think I was able to avoid being detected by the helicopter. I’m going to start walking. Not sure where but, I need to go somewhere. The static is constantly in the corner of my vision whenever I focus on it now. Why is this happening?
-10:44 PM
This doesn’t make any sense, I don’t know what's happening anymore! I was wandering through the forest when the static came back. God, it was awful, forgot how bad it was. Hell, maybe it was worse this time. Who knows. This isn’t the weirdest, or worst, part. I woke up in my apartment, I’m exhausted, but don’t have any new visible injuries despite how shitty I feel. Not sure why that thing didn’t try to hurt me, maybe it gave up on trying.
The news was on when I woke up, God I’m so fucked. They found the bodies–the ones that I buried. Of course they found my DNA all over them, used their forensics or whatever to try to explain how I killed everyone. I’ll have to admit if it wasn’t all a setup by some evil entity out to get me it would be pretty convincing. Sometimes–I find myself believing it. I don’t know what to think at this point, nothing makes sense anymore. The static is far more noticeable now. My head is starting to hurt, too.
They haven’t come back to my apartment yet, probably don’t think I would return this soon after they searched the place. I know they’ll be here eventually but I’m too tired to care right now. My brother and his kids used to live a few hours out of town, I think he built a treehouse for his kids somewhere behind the house. Maybe I’ll go try and hide out there for as long as I can. As if that will be very long at all.
-September 26, 6:24 PM
Everywhere I look, everything I watch. They’re always out for me. Everyone is looking for me. The things the police and the media keep saying about me–the evidence that gets released every day, the testimonies, officials saying I have symptoms of psychological problems like psychosis and DID, of Bipolar. More and more–I’m starting to believe it myself. Surely it's that thing. Surely it’s getting in my head…right?
-September 27, 1:03 PM
Made it to the treehouse, glad it’s still here. Had a few close calls along the way when trying to steal food from gas stations but I made it ok. Glad I did, the static is starting to really cloud my vision and my head hurts so bad my ears are starting to ring. I’m not out of the woods yet, that’s for sure. I can sense them...it. They’re trailing me. I think they’re getting close.
I’m so tired, so confused. I don’t know what to do, what to think anymore. What’s next? Maybe I’ll try to get some rest…if I can, that is.
I could try to come up with something, some silver bullet or whatever. I have this one idea, it’s not smart or clever, not even close, but it’s an idea, and it won’t let it–them–it, whatever, win. At least I don’t think it will; besides, surely it has a bigger plan for me, right? There’s no way it would go through all this effort just to kill me…
-4:39
They found me. I can hear them outside. They’re getting closer.
To be honest, I don’t know anymore. Maybe I did kill all those people, maybe I am insane. I don’t know what to believe. There’s so much being said, so many people saying it. I’m just so confused, so tired, so scared.
There's a bomb on the chair beside me, homemade. Glad I grabbed enough supplies to build it. Took me a while to figure it out as well as a few close calls but I think I got it working. They’ll have quite the surprise waiting for them once they find me…
They’re at the base of the tree now. The static has almost completely consumed my vision and my head feels like it’s about to explode. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore. I’m not sure why I was made the target of this, why this is happening to me at all, but regardless of the reason, I won’t let them win.
To the creature, or entity, to whatever is doing this to me: I’ll see you in Hell.
Goodbye
Aside from some generic legal stuff to conclude the report, that’s where the document ends. I’m not sure what to make of it. Definitely a lot to take in. I contacted the OP on the site I got this from but haven’t received a response yet, will update if I receive one. For now my only advice is be careful, and don’t go backpacking in Tahoe National Forest. If anyone has any thoughts or info, please, let me know.

Shortly after Final Fantasy VII hit the gaming world in 1997, Cloud Strife’s howls of grief at the loss of his beloved companion Aerith Gainsborough were echoed by droves and droves of fans. These echoes gathered in swarms, reaching the developers in the form of petition signatures, each begging the makers of the game to allow Aerith’s resurrection. Though these prayers remained unanswered —until now—, there soon came more protests: this time, fans pleaded with the developers to consider making a remake of the original game. Both of these wishes were met with considerable derision, with large chunks of the fandom calling the requests delusional— which is why the Final Fantasy world had to prepare for another meteoric hit when the Remake project was finally announced in 2015. With Kitase, Nomura, Toriyama, Nojima, Uematsu and more of the original developers at the helm, along with longtime FFVII fan-turned-developer Hamaguchi, the Remake trilogy was met with great expectations. These were nevertheless surpassed, though one aspect of the trilogy’s first entry seemed to thoroughly puzzle some and enrage others. Far and wide, the resounding questions were “What are these Whisper things?”, “Why is Cloud having visions unrelated to Nibelheim and Zack?” and “Why and how in the hell did Zack survive?”
Friends, I believe the answer lies within this post. Welcome to my literary-analysis-based theory on the Remake trilogy’s most important and most secret plot point: Cloud’s hidden mission. I want to make this fun and suspenseful to read, so I will write my analyses in the same order and manner in which I encountered them while putting my theory together. You will be reading what initially sparked my curiosity, the path I took while researching for answers, the conclusions I made every step of the way, and only then will you read my theory, after which we’ll try and apply it to the Remake trilogy so far and see if it fits! I want you to experience the rollercoaster that I did when digging through SE content to bring you this post. Thank you so much for waiting for and anticipating this analysis, and I do hope you read every word to soak in every last bit of Clerith you can get. I also hope it’s really fun and touching for you (I cried at least once making this)! Let’s embark on our adventure through the compilation, other FF games and real-life events to find out what the Remake project is truly all about and anticipate the events of part 3.
N.B.: Please be aware that I have never seen this theory navigate online, so I have no idea if anyone has ever come up with a similar hypothesis. The big reveal I’m building toward might be something you’re already aware of or suspected. In that case, I hope this post doesn’t disappoint you if you’re one of the lovely people who requested it! At the very least, it will provide you with valuable literary and musical analysis, a ton of evidence you haven’t considered yet, and hopefully, entertainment too!
WARNING: Please be careful with the censored spoiler text, because I'll be referencing other FF games in this analysis and I don't want to ruin anything for you! Obviously, this analysis contains spoilers for the entirety of the FFVII compilation. Additionally, if you're not a fan of Clerith and you've stumbled upon this post, please stop here. I would hate it if something I worked on and posted made you angry, so please don't read this analysis. I have only good intentions and I just want everyone to enjoy the FFVII world as much as they can.

I. Groundwork: The Remake Timelines Theory

Before I take you on this ride, we must lay down the framework of the Remake Timelines Theory. In this section, we’ll be reviewing the general consensus of theorizers within the fandom on timeline/multiverse shenanigans, with some added specifications on my part. Please keep in mind that because the timeline mechanics are kept quite vague by the devs, there might be certain inaccuracies in my iteration of the timelines theory. Thankfully, these potential variances won’t have any effect on the legitimacy of the theory I’ll be presenting to you in this analysis.
I. a) Sephiroth’s Plan
The premise of the Remake trilogy is widely thought to be the result of post-OG Sephiroth attempting to succeed where he failed in OG. There are six key points we need to keep in mind to understand how this was possible.
I. a) i. Sephiroth in the Lifestream
Firstly, it’s important to remember that Sephiroth is dead and located in the Lifestream before OG even begins, and remains that way for almost all of OG's duration. He is only able to operate in the world of the living via his/Jenova's control over the living Sephiroth clones. In the OG timeline then, Sephiroth is sent to the Lifestream by Cloud twice: once before the game takes place on the night of the Nibelheim incident (pre-OG), and a second time during the final battle against Sephiroth (disk 3, chapter 3). During the long period between the Nibelheim incident and Sephiroth’s rebirth at the Northern Crater (disk 2, chapter 2), he exists in the Lifestream. After his ultimate defeat (post-OG), he returns there for good.
II. a) ii. Sephiroth Unintegrated
Secondly, because he is full of hatred and unyielding determination, Sephiroth’s spirit cannot become one with the planet. After both occasions where Cloud kills him in OG, Sephiroth retains his individual will and the memories of his lifetime, remaining a separate entity in the Lifestream. He says so himself in Nojima’s Advent Children prequel novel On a Way to a Smile:

“[Sephiroth] could sense the Lifestream trying to erode his spirit— the memories of his former experiences, thoughts and emotions. If he allowed himself to be taken into the current, the being he once was would soon disseminate and disappear amongst the spirit energy cycling around the planet. [He] thought this unacceptable. The planet was to be his to rule, and to become a part of that system would be nothing short of defeat” ("Lifestream Black 1").

Combined with Bugenhagen’s basic lesson on planetology (FFVII OG, disk 1, chapter 19), this excerpt provides interesting information on how the Lifestream normally works. Usually, when a life returns to the planet, its individuality (personality, will, consciousness, memories, etc.) is stripped away. The trappings of a soul’s former lifetime are progressively dissolved so that all that is left is the spirit itself, ready to integrate into the Lifestream. This way, soul energy can be “recycled” by the planet to animate new lifeforms in a sort of reincarnation process. The erasure of one’s memories in the Lifestream is necessary for the creation of a brand new life, poised to make its own memories: the slate must be wiped clean, so to speak. Sephiroth’s sheer hatred for and desire to dominate the planet is enough to keep him from undergoing this process.
It is also thought that Sephiroth cannot be integrated into the Lifestream because he was conceived with the use of Jenova cells in vitro. Given that so much of his consciousness and genetic makeup originate from an alien life force, it is impossible for him to become one with the planet.
Regardless of the reason, it is precisely this persisting individuality in death that allows Sephiroth to meddle in the world of the living during the post-OG events of Advent Children, as explained to us by post-OG Aerith in On a Way to a Smile:

“[Aerith] had sensed a different presence within the Lifestream cycling around the planet. It was the vehemence of a strong will, one that would never join with the planet. She knew this consciousness. It was [Sephiroth]. A merciless spirit hidden behind a beauteous wall. That spirit was now operating from within the Lifestream. [She] sensed that he was planning to exert his influence to the surface of the planet“ ("Lifestream White 1").

I. a) iii. The Lifestream Beyond Time
Our third point is that the Lifestream has existed for as long as the planet, and has therefore touched every part of its history— including, of course, the events of OG. On that account, one could think of the Lifestream as atemporal. Considering this, it is possible for a spirit in the Lifestream to communicate with or even travel to the past, provided the necessary circumstances and/or abilities. For instance, the Aerith that appears in Cloud’s resolution scene in Remake (chapter 14) is commonly considered to be a post-OG Aerith, appearing to him from the future to try and dissuade him from falling for her. This time-defying event is made possible by the fact that post-OG Aerith’s spirit has access to the atemporal Lifestream because she's deceased. In my view, this explains why she dissolves into green light (Lifestream visual cue) at the end of the resolution scene (5:19-5:45). This is not time travel per se, but it is a manner of communication unobstructed by the one-directionality of a linear timeline that only spirits can perform.
I. a) iv. Sephiroth Beyond Time
What we’ve covered so far amounts to our fourth point. Please familiarize yourself with the graph below before you continue reading. Refer back to the graph when you encounter text in bold.
The Remake Timelines Theory: FFVII OG Timeline
As we discussed in section “I. a) i.”, Sephiroth is dead and located in the Lifestream for the duration of the green arrow and beyond point D: in the context of the OG timeline, he can only ever be considered “alive” during the period highlighted in purple. In section “I. a) ii.”, we asserted that Sephiroth retained his individual will in the Lifestream, enabling him to exert his influence on the world of the living by manipulating his clones on the surface. In section “I. a) iii.”, we covered the atemporal nature of the Lifestream, which allows post-OG Aerith’s spirit to communicate with her past, living self thanks to her Cetra abilities. Now, I will explain to you how Sephiroth was able to do virtually the same thing, albeit his lack of Cetra blood.
To the characters of the story and a fully immersed first-time player of OG, the timeline above was not always an established series of events: when they first started playing FFVII OG, the player began at point B, with nothing existing beyond it. It is only as the player moved Cloud forward that the black, arrowed timeline was drawn, accumulating lived events (or points) in Cloud’s wake. The picture you see above is only available to Cloud and to the player with hindsight. All this to state the obvious: at point B, Cloud could not know what would occur, say, at point C.
During the period highlighted in purple, Sephiroth was “alive” again, accumulating new memories on the surface of the planet and adding them to his consciousness. When he entered the Lifestream for the second time at point D, he brought these memories with him. Simply put, after returning to the Lifestream at point D, Sephiroth remembers what happened during the period highlighted in purple. However, given that the Lifestream exists beyond time, upon Sephiroth’s consciousness’ return to the Lifestream at point D, his newly acquired memories were also made available to him at all points on the green, double-arrowed line— including point A, before the OG timeline even begins at point B. So while it is true that Cloud cannot know what will occur at point C if he is only at point B, Sephiroth indeed knows what will occur during the period highlighted in purple when he is only at point A. While a living, pre-OG Aerith would be able to receive post-OG Aerith’s spirit’s knowledge through the Lifestream thanks to her Cetra powers, Sephiroth has no need for this ability. The fact that he resides in the Lifestream for practically the entire FFVII OG timeline renders the limitations of time irrelevant: as far as the FFVII OG timeline is concerned, Sephiroth exists beyond time itself.
In summary, after point D was first encountered in OG, pre-OG Sephiroth (in the Lifestream) is made aware of his eventual defeat, and begins plotting an alternate path to victory. This time, with the benefit of hindsight, he will do things differently: we experience his "second” attempt at FFVII as the Remake trilogy.
I. a) v. Sephiroth Against Fate
Of course, the Whispers stand squarely in Sephiroth’s way. This leads us to our fifth point, which Remake Ultimania describes better than I ever could:

“According to Red XIII, who gained knowledge through his contact with Aerith, ‘The Whispers are drawn to those who attempt to alter destiny’s course and ensure they do not’ […]. It would appear that what the Whispers deem to be ‘fate’ is the original story of Final Fantasy VII” (section 08 “Secrets”, “Newly Arisen Mysteries”, “What Is the Goal of the Elusive Whispers?”, page 733).

OG’s plot line is the fated timeline, and the Whispers are tasked with its preservation. They prevent alternative paths from even beginning to branch out from the OG timeline, which poses a problem for Sephiroth: he cannot win FFVII if his destiny is to lose it.
I. a) vi. Sephiroth and the Multiverse
Consequently, our sixth point is that Sephiroth must dismantle the mechanisms of fate before he can even try to accomplish his dreams of godhood.
As Sephiroth explains in chapter 14 of Rebirth, “the planet encompasses [an ever unfolding] multitude of worlds”, and these “[new worlds are born] when the boundaries of fate are breached.” Since the Whispers uphold the “boundaries of fate”, a world in which Sephiroth’s evil plans succeed can only emerge after the Whispers have been defeated. Otherwise, destiny will continue to protect the OG plot line by preventing any significant deviations. Consequently, before the party vanquishes fate, the Remake timeline and the OG timeline are one and the same: before chapter 18, Remake Barret is OG Barret, Remake Tifa is OG Tifa, Remake Hojo is OG Hojo, etc. After the defeat of Destiny, the OG timeline is no longer protected by fate: there are now an infinite number of timelines or worlds, including those we see glimpses of in Rebirth: Remake Barret is no longer necessarily OG Barret, Remake Tifa is no longer necessarily OG Tifa, Remake Hojo is no longer necessarily OG Hojo, etc. Perhaps this is why Aerith gives the party the following warning at destiny’s crossroads in Remake:

“[This] is the wall of destiny. If we go through it… if we go beyond it… then all of us will change, too” (FFVII Remake Material Ultimania Plus, VA script notes, “Destiny’s Crossroads”).

I. a) vii. Sephiroth’s Plan
Now that these six points have been elucidated, we can compose a solid hypothesis on how Sephiroth plots to win FFVII.
After gaining knowledge of his eventual demise (disk 3, chapter 3), pre-OG Sephiroth began thinking of what he must do in Remake from the Lifestream. First, Sephiroth must antagonize the Whispers in the initial stages of the OG timeline. He accomplishes this by commanding his clones to commit acts that drastically violate the fated timeline, engendering plot-line deviations that the Whispers must course-correct. The most extreme example transpires in Remake’s chapter 17 when the Sephiroth clone in President Shinra’s office kills Barret, forcing the Whispers to restore the fated plot line by coming forth and reviving him. The Whispers react to Sephiroth’s prodding by rushing in to protect fate, their efforts culminating in the protective wall of destiny that surrounds Midgar in chapter 18.
Secondly, after he’s created an opportunity for a battle against the Whispers, Sephiroth must convince the party to seize it and beat fate for him. After all, a mere Sephiroth clone is probably no match for Destiny. This second step is accomplished in Remake’s chapter 18 when Sephiroth successfully tempts Cloud to breach the boundaries of fate. Now that destiny is no longer a limitation, worlds deviating from the OG timeline can finally emerge; Sephiroth has a chance at victory.
The steps Sephiroth plans to take going forward are unknowable at this stage, but we do get more hints in Rebirth’s chapter 13. At the Temple of the Ancients, Sephiroth reveals a part of his plot:

“Sephiroth: My fragmented mother, these errant worlds... All shall be one again.
Aerith: The ‘Reunion’…!”

It seems Sephiroth eventually plans to merge the worlds created by destiny’s defeat in Remake’s chapter 18. My guess is he hopes to achieve godhood in part 3 and consolidate all diverting worlds into a single timeline protected by destiny once more— only this time, his victory will replace the ending of OG as the destined outcome. If he succeeds, Sephiroth’s Black Whispers will likely replace the planet’s Whispers as the arbiters of his desired fate.
I. b) Aerith’s Intervention
But Aerith can’t let this slide unchallenged!
We know that before chapter 18 of Remake, while the OG plot-line is still protected by fate, Aerith has knowledge of its future. This is insinuated by certain slips of the tongue: for instance, when Aerith reveals she knows Cloud is a mercenary upon meeting him for the second time in chapter 8, just like she knows Tifa will ask her to retrieve Marlene at Seventh Heaven in chapter 12. In the run-up to Remake, post-OG Aerith's spirit likely sensed Sephiroth planning his second try at FFVII in the Lifestream. She’s been able to anticipate Sephiroth’s plotting in the Lifestream before, namely in the context of Advent Children:

“[Aerith] had sensed a different presence within the Lifestream cycling around the planet […]. It was [Sephiroth] […]. That spirit was now operating from within the Lifestream. [She] sensed that he was planning to exert his influence [on] the surface of the planet” (On a Way to a Smile, "Lifestream White 1").

If you’re wondering how Aerith was able to maintain her individuality in the Lifestream like Sephiroth, On a Way to a Smile provides the following explanation:

“[Aerith] was an Ancient, which explained how she was able to maintain her individuality even within the Lifestream. If she so wished she could become part of the planet at any time, but [she] thought it too early for that just yet” ("Lifestream White 1").

It is thought that, as a countermeasure to Sephiroth's scheming, post-OG Aerith’s spirit used the atemporal nature of the Lifestream to inform her past, living self (pre-OG Aerith) of this new threat to the planet. Because the Cetra can commune with spirits, pre-OG Aerith would have been able to receive post-OG Aerith’s message from the Lifestream without a problem. Essentially, pre-OG Aerith received post-OG Aerith’s memories of the fated OG timeline. As a consequence, pre-OG Aerith embarks on the OG timeline with knowledge of the fated future that demands she give her life: the player experiences this version of her in Remake.
Be that as it may, it’s unclear how much Remake Aerith is aware of. You would think she’d be completely opposed to defeating, destiny since it protects the planet, but Aerith shows ambivalence toward the idea instead. Had she gotten a clear message from her future self that she must keep fate intact, she would not have allowed the party to enter the battle against fate in chapter 18. She doesn’t seem to know what the Whispers are the first time she encounters them either. Regardless, what’s important is that the Aerith seen in Remake is the result of pre-OG Aerith receiving knowledge from post-OG Aerith via the Lifestream.
I. c) Ambiguity: Memory Transfer or Time-Travel?
There remains an ambiguity pertaining to the Aerith we see in Remake and the question of time travel. What I’ve described to you in section “I. b)” is post-OG Aerith's spirit transferring her memories to her past self through the Lifestream. However, it’s possible that post-OG Aerith’s consciousness used the atemporal nature of the Lifestream to inhabit her living OG body instead, effectively time-traveling. There is no evidence to outright refute either explanation, since the gaps in Aerith’s memories of the OG plot-line in Remake can be explained in both cases. For instance, in a memory transfer scenario, it’s possible that post-OG Aerith only communicated the most essential information to pre-OG Aerith. On the other hand, in a time-travel scenario, one could interpret the following quotes as proof that the Whispers are progressively erasing Aerith’s memories of OG as Remake advances:

“Aerith: Every time the Whispers touch me, a piece of me falls away” (FFVII Remake Material Ultimania Plus, VA script notes, “Aerith Speaks”)

&

“At any rate, Aerith is perplexed at how, like a flower being scattered, something inside is being taken away by the Whispers and lost to her” (Toriyama in FFVII Remake Material Ultimania Plus, VA script notes, “Aerith Speaks”, “Scenario Staff Q&A - Answered by Motomu Toriyama”).

This ambiguity is completely irrelevant to Sephiroth’s situation in Remake, as we established in section “I. a) iv.”.
The specifics don’t matter nearly as much as I’m impressing upon you by explaining all these little alternatives. Simply keep in mind that: regardless of why, the Sephiroth and Aerith we see in Remake know the events of the OG game because they have acquired this knowledge from the future, and the events of Remake occur squarely within the OG timeline until the Whispers are defeated in chapter 18.
So there! That’s my iteration of the Remake Timelines Theory! I hope I’ve made it clear in your mind, or at least clearer. Now that we’ve established the widely theorized premise of the Remake trilogy, we can get into our theory on its hidden premise.
II. My Initial Curiosity
My theory first burgeoned upon going through Remake for the second time. I noticed something strange going on with Cloud, something that could not be explained by the Remake Timelines Theory. Key moments in Remake Cloud’s experience of the OG timeline (aka, everything before chapter 18) stuck out to me as strange and mysterious, and certain inexplicable audiovisual cues struck me as hugely significant. It was upon watching the tear fall from Cloud’s eye during my second go at chapter 8 that I knew I had to look into this.
At the very end of Remake’s chapter 8, Cloud watches Aerith walk away from him, humming happily into the night air as she sets off to lead the way to Sector 7. According to the VA script notes, “his heart skips a beat” and watching her walk away provokes a sudden “anxiety” within him. Triggered by the familiarity of the sight, a strange sensation overcomes Cloud:

“[There’s a] close-up shot of Cloud’s fingertips (they’re tingling). He presses them to his temples (his eyes are burning). A trickle of tears quickly rolls down from the eye hidden behind his hand” (FFVII Remake Material Ultimania Plus, VA script notes, “A Midnight Ambush”).

If you’re clever, you’ll recognize these lines as a reference to the speech Cloud makes in OG following Aerith’s death at the City of the Ancients (“My fingers are tingling. My mouth is dry. My eyes are burning!”) (disk 1, chapter 28). In this small moment in chapter 8 of Remake, Cloud experiences a flash of the profound grief he is destined to feel upon Aerith’s fated death.
Many players immediately recognized the composition of this scene: the blue-greenish air, the straight path Aerith heads down, the sight of her walking away itself… this moment closely resembles Cloud’s Sleeping Forest dream of Aerith in OG, wherein Cloud and Aerith’s very last words are exchanged (disk 1, chapter 25). Toriyama, codirector of the Remake project, comments on this scene thusly:

“It’s possible these similarities […] cause a memory of the future to be called forth in Cloud” (FFVII Remake Material Ultimania Plus, VA script notes, “A Midnight Ambush”).

The language used by Toriyama here is strange in both the English translation and the Japanese original: the term “memory of the future” makes no sense. One cannot remember things they haven’t already experienced, so why did Toriyama use the word “memory” to describe a "future" event? Couldn’t he have simply said that Remake Cloud experiences “visions of the future” rather than “[memories]”?
Cloud experiences a few moments like these throughout the game. These pseudo-premonitions are just as markedly exclusive to Remake as the Whispers are. I did not want to dismiss them as a foreshadowing device the devs included just to elicit emotional reactions from OG players; I felt they were more important. And thus began my digging! My mission was initially to figure out what these “[memories of the future]” (MOTFs) could signify… I had no clue it would turn into what I’m writing right now.
II. a) Each MOTF and Its Context
I began by finding every one of Cloud’s MOTFs so I could better understand them.
MOTF 1 occurs in chapter 2 on Sector 8’s Loveless Street, when Cloud sees Aerith struggling against the Whispers. The VA script notes reveal that even though this is only his first time seeing her, Cloud recognizes Aerith’s face:

“Recognizing Aerith’s face causes Cloud to experience [a hallucination]. Sephiroth is suddenly standing between him and Aerith” (FFVII Remake Material Ultimania Plus, VA script notes, “Encountering Aerith”).

Sephiroth then taunts Cloud with words that, according to the script notes, “[live] inside of Cloud's heart”: “You can’t protect anyone. Not even yourself”. Cloud should not recognize Aerith’s face at this point in the OG timeline, nor should he associate it with not being able to protect people.
MOTF 2 occurs in chapter 3, at the plaza in front of the Sector 7 slums support pillar. Cloud experiences a MOTF of the plate falling, which is fated to occur at a much later point in chapter 12. The Whispers float near him, “watching Cloud alertly as he sees a vision of the future” (FFVII Remake Ultimania, section 08 “Secrets”, “Newly Arisen Mysteries”, “What Is the Goal of the Elusive Whispers?”, page 733).
MOTF 3 occurs in Aerith’s church at the start of chapter 8, when Aerith mentions that her mother’s materia is “not good for anything at all”. Triggered by the mention and sight of the White Materia, Cloud’s fourth MOTF takes the form of a vision: he sees quick flashes of the materia falling into the lake of the Forgotten Capital and Aerith holding her hands together in prayer. These are evidently visions of her death in OG (disk 1, chapter 28).
MOTF 4 is the one we first discussed, occurring at the very end of chapter 8 as Cloud watches Aerith walk away from him to lead the way toward Sector 7.
MOTF 5 occurs in chapter 13 shortly after the Sector 7 plate has fallen on the slums. Cloud tells Barret that Marlene is safe at Aerith’s house, and they begin heading there. As Cloud thinks about Aerith, the VA script notes describe the very next moment as follows:

“Cloud: Tifa, you know anything about the Ancients?
Tifa: I’ve heard of them before, but…
Barret walks on ahead, showing little interest in the topic.
Barret: Read a book on planetology and they’re sure to come up. They’re a tribe that cultivated the planet a real long time ago. Used to talk to it. That sort of stuff.
Cloud: That must be why the Turks were after her.
[Psychic] interference starts up.
[Cloud has a] flashback of Sephiroth from five years ago, after learning of his ancestry at Shinra Manor […].
Sephiroth [(in flashback, voice tinged with madness)]: Within my veins flows the blood of the Ancients. I am the rightful heir to this planet!
The flashback ends and Cloud looks lost in thought. The interference starts up once more. Cloud makes agonized sounds. When he opens his eyes, Sephiroth is actually standing before him.
Sephiroth: You failed again— failed to protect [her]*.
Cloud is startled. He shrinks back. Tifa watches what’s happening. The other two can’t see Sephiroth. All they see is Cloud acting frightened.
Sephiroth: But loss will make you strong. […] Isn’t that what you want?
With that, Sephiroth departs.”

*Sephiroth does not use a gendered pronoun here, because the grammatical structure of the original Japanese sentence doesn’t necessitate it. I've seen some debate as to whether the proper translation is “her” (Aerith, who’s just been kidnapped), or “them” (Jessie, Biggs or Wedge, who have seemingly just died). I believe Sephiroth was referring to Aerith for a few reasons. First, Cloud’s hallucinations of Sephiroth always appear as a response to whatever he is perceiving or thinking about at the moment. At this point in the scene, Cloud has been thinking and talking about Aerith for some time, and not about Jessie, Biggs or Wedge. The Sephiroth hallucination must therefore be referring to “her” rather than to “them”. Secondly, Cloud was never tasked with “[protecting]” Avalanche, but he was in fact tasked with “[protecting]” Aerith as her bodyguard back in chapter 8: it makes far more sense for Sephiroth to be referring to Aerith when he speaks about someone Cloud “failed to protect”. Finally, FFVII Remake Ultimania describes this piece of dialogue as “[Sephiroth aiming] these profound words at Cloud, who not only failed to prevent the tragedy in the Sector 7 slums but allowed Aerith to be abducted” (Sephiroth’s profile in section 01 “Character & World”, “Impressive Words”, page 29): the specific mention of Aerith here seals my decision to translate the line with the pronoun “her”.
Contrary to Sephiroth’s words, this is the first time in Remake that Cloud “[fails] to protect [Aerith]”, and he hasn’t “[lost]” her either— not yet, at least. So why use the words "again" and "loss"? This fifth MOTF must be similar to MOTF 1, in that Sephiroth is referring to Cloud’s guilt surrounding Aerith’s death in OG.
MOTF 6 occurs in chapter 17, in Aerith and Ifalna’s old room at Shinra HQ. The Whispers swarm Aerith as she tells the party earnestly that she wants to do everything in her power to help her friends and the planet: according to the script notes, it is at this very moment that, “for some reason, Cloud feels his chest constrict tightly” (FFVII Remake Material Ultimania Plus, VA script notes, “Aerith Speaks”). In the corresponding cutscene, this unpleasant physiological reaction to Aerith’s words makes Cloud glance down at his chest with a confounded frown. This physical response to her speech about wanting to fulfill her duty to the planet implies that Cloud somehow knows deep down that saving the world will cost Aerith her life.
At this point, I noticed that five out of the six MOTFs Cloud experiences in Remake are triggered by and/or revolve around Aerith specifically, the one exception being a MOTF of the Sector 7 plate fall. One could actually argue that this MOTF revolves around Aerith too, considering the plate fall marks the first time Aerith is taken away from Cloud since reuniting with her in the Sector 5 slums church. This is more than plausible, as MOTF 5 proves that in the wake of the Sector 7 plate fall, Cloud’s main concern is Aerith (see section “II. a)”). How fitting is it, then, that the merc of few words’ longest uninterrupted piece of dialogue in all of Remake is:

“We found an underground Shinra lab where they've done human testing. This wasn't the first time and it won't be the last. I know these people, and I know they're never gonna let Aerith go. She's the last living Ancient on the planet. Think about what that means to Shinra's scientists. Especially to that son of a bitch Hojo. We're all just numbers and meat to him—“ (Remake, chapter 13).

Cloud would’ve gone on too, had Elmyra and Tifa not stopped him.
At this juncture in my research, my questions were only stacking up. What are these MOTFs? Why is Cloud the only one experiencing them? Why do all of them implicate Aerith? What did the devs hope to accomplish with their inclusion in the game? What do they mean for Remake’s story? But most importantly:
II. b) What Does Cloud Know?
The first assertion we have to make is simple, yet essential: the only reason Cloud would experience MOTFs is that whatever’s triggered them is significant to him in one way or another. Some part of him must recognize his triggers for them to be triggers at all. It’s clear he doesn’t consciously understand the meaning of his MOTF triggers, just like his Jenova triggers: for example, Cloud doesn’t know why Zack’s name causes him to experience psychic interference, but it sure does. We as players know Cloud’s MOTFs are hinting at Aerith’s fated death because of our awareness of OG, but as a character navigating the OG timeline, Remake Cloud shouldn't even be unconsciously aware of Aerith’s eventual death in the slightest! Whatever the nature of the MOTFs, it’s essential to understand that if Cloud “[recognizes]” Aerith’s face the first time he sees her, it must mean some part of him knows Aerith’s face in the first place. If this recognition triggers a hallucination of Sephiroth telling Cloud he “can’t protect anyone”, it must mean some part of him knows he was once unable to protect Aerith. The same goes for every other MOTF: subconsciously, Remake Cloud somehow has memories of the OG timeline. Most interestingly, it looks like he either only has OG memories related to Aerith, or like his OG memories of Aerith are simply the only ones prominent enough to trigger his MOTFs. Why and how does Remake Cloud have memories of OG, and why are they so focused on Aerith in particular? What does he know?
When examining a situation with no explanation, it’s wise to examine similar situations that have already been explained. Maybe the mystery of Remake Cloud’s MOTFs will become more approachable if we consider the cases of the only other Remake characters who seem to know the future: Aerith and Sephiroth. Remake Sephiroth knows the future of the OG timeline because his consciousness exists beyond time in the Lifestream, while Remake Aerith likely obtained her knowledge of the future from post-OG Aerith’s spirit via the Lifestream. But what about Cloud? Where does his weaker, fragmented knowledge come from?
(continued in part 2)

Shortly before a final paper with pre-assigned topics was due for one of my last courses at Columbia University, our professor sent us an email telling us to forego the previous parameters of the essay, and to instead write about the events that had occurred not even forty-eight hours earlier, as well as our reflections on them, to be done in any manner we chose. Here is a very lightly revised version of what I submitted: read it, ignore it, upvote it, downvote it, hate it, love it.
I am prefacing this essay by stating that it is the culmination of several intense emotions that I have been dealing with over the last few weeks, more specifically, the last several days. It is a free-form expression of the many things occupying my mind, and, as such, it may seem overwhelming or disjointed. Nevertheless, I will do my best to convey my feelings into something representative of my beliefs, and my time at this institution.
My time at Columbia University has been bookended in an almost comically bad way; it started with Zoom classes during the COVID-19 pandemic, and now it ends with Zoom final exams due to the lockdown of Columbia’s campus after protests regarding the Israel – Palestine conflict reached a fever pitch not just within Morningside Campus, but the international stage. My classmates and I missed in-person orientation, and now, given recent developments, we will not have a University Commencement, a fact I found out not from Columbia, but a New York Times alert, somehow lowering my opinion of this administration’s handling of recent events even more. While the circumstances around my time at Columbia have now both begun and finished in the same manner, I am proud to say that I have not. I do not mean that Columbia has simply made me a better writer, a more critical thinker, or more well read, although it certainly has done those things, sometimes forcing me to when I was not particularly in the mood to do so, but those improvements pale in comparison to the maturity and empathy my time at this university has given me.
When the decision to transition to remote learning during the Spring 2020 semester was made, occurring only a short time after I had received my acceptance letter (email), my first thought was how the pandemic would affect my transfer from community college to Columbia in September. Admittedly, this was a selfish perspective, considering the tremendous challenges that many would endure during the ensuing lockdowns and other upheavals of life. My concerns were solely focused on myself because I was on a simple track to graduate, place my degree on my resumé, and continue my trajectory of military service to college to employment, leaving little else to consideration, to include other people who were not in my immediate circle. Sitting here now, two weeks from graduation, with a job at a Fortune 500 company lined up, I should be happy, with the plans I had made years ago coming to fruition. Yet I cannot help feeling a sense of sadness and concern for the school I have spent years of my life at, and for the world as a whole.
James Hatch, a former member of the United States’s elite Naval Special Warfare Development Group, or DEVGRU, for short, more commonly known by its nickname, Seal Team Six, famous for its involvement in the killing of Osama Bin Laden and the rescue of the Maersk Alabama Captain Richard Phillips from pirates, amongst other things, spent over twenty years in the military. After being wounded on a mission to rescue American serviceman sergeant Bowe Bergdahl from enemy forces, he was medically discharged, and would eventually attend Yale University. While there, he wrote a piece titled My Semester with the Snowflakes (please give this a read, it will help people who have never been in the military understand its culture, along with some of the challenges veterans face when transitioning to college), where he details his initial discomfort with being in a vastly different environment than the military, surrounded by individuals who possessed opinions and beliefs contrary to the ones he was accustomed to. He recalls witnessing a student protest the country he spent over two decades serving by coating her hand in red paint, and leaving a palm print on an American flag, and details his shock when a classmate of his explained to him what a “safe space” was, as well as his pride when he began to understand the nuances of life both inside and outside of the nation he dedicated twenty-six years to.
I can relate to Mr. Hatch, (despite my service paling in comparison to his, as well as the fact that Columbia is far superior to Yale), because, like his friends who make fun of him for attending college with a bunch of “snowflakes,” mine do the same. More significantly, however, his personal growth during his time at school is something that I have experienced myself. When I started at Columbia, I did not even know which major I would choose, and was largely lost in a world very different than the one I had come from. Despite this, I made the decision to avoid communities such as MilVets and the students who made it very clear that they came from a military background, with their style of dress and demeanor, not because those organizations and individuals are a detriment; I know for a fact that MilVets has helped countless students succeed at Columbia and beyond, and the veterans that I have relationships with are all phenomenal people, but because I wanted to pressure myself into being exposed to something different. I was uncomfortable at first, but this turned out to be the right decision. I learned as much from simply talking to people whom I would normally never converse with about topics and ideas that I had never encountered as I did during classes about great works of art, polar and Cartesian coordinates, literature, astronomy, the list goes on.
If the protests about the Israel – Palestine conflict had occurred when I first started at Columbia, I would have been frustrated by the students taking up space, forcing us to be funneled on to campus by restricted access points and identification checks. Likely irritated by the disturbance of the quiet during finals season, I would have agreed with the people who called for students to simply focus on their assignments and stop inconveniencing others by shouting about something occurring on the other side of the world. Instead, I decided to learn about the conflict, educating myself about both sides of a war that has roots extending back millennia. While Columbia University did not agree to the demands of the protestors, they achieved something else they surely desired, reaching a goal they did not state to President Shafik and her advisors: they brought attention to their cause by educating at least one additional person about it.
After reading, talking to people, listening to input from students within various classes, and understanding that things such as the intertwined nature of financial workings, as well as conflicts not just in the Middle East, but all over the world, are a level of complexity that baffles some of the most brilliant minds of ours and previous generations, I will leave my thoughts about Israel and Palestine separate from this paper. I recognize that it is important to choose a side, as remaining impartial helps no one. However, when every news agency, group and individual makes their voice heard, satirical sources such as The Onion make these kind of posts, or Adult Swim’s Rick, the nihilistic, narcissistic, psychopathic, misanthropic lead character from the series Rick and Morty, addresses the conflict in this manner, I feel that it is better to relegate myself to a much smaller part of this debate, namely the occurrences on Columbia University’s Morningside Campus.
During basic training for the United States Army, a sense of brotherhood and camaraderie is hammered into recruits’ identities. When you graduate and are assigned to a unit, one where you could be thousands of miles from home on the opposite side of the country, or even in a completely different country, serving on one of the international bases, approaching someone who you have never met before is easy. Talking to them about shared experiences and stories you have in common, and the bonding that occurs, is the product of an indoctrination process and lifestyle that has existed longer than any of us have been alive, and is proof of its effectiveness. This sense of familiarity tends to continue even when one leaves the military. The Veterans of Foreign Wars community is a place for prior servicemembers of all conflicts to share a drink, a laugh, and sometimes a tear. When I go to the Veterans Administration Hospital for periodic check-ups or the occasional injury, men and woman wearing hats commemorating their service during Vietnam waiting for their appointments greet me with a smile and a handshake, as if we have known each other for years. While working at a golf club’s greens department before I transferred to Columbia from community college, a coworker of mine who had served in the Gulf War had heard from our supervisor that I had been in the Army, and he introduced himself to me on my first day, before anyone else, telling me that if I needed anything, I only had to ask. This camaraderie has expanded to encompass not just veterans, but first responders such as firemen, EMT’s, and the police as well.
Underneath the picture on my driver’s license, the word “veteran” is emblazoned next to a star, written in bright red text and all capital letters. I know for a fact that this one-and-a-half-inch indicator has helped me during interactions with law enforcement on multiple occasions. Only earlier this semester, during Presidents’ Day weekend, I went upstate to spend time with my family. While driving back, in an effort to make the seven-hour trip at a reasonable time, I was stopped for going twenty miles-per-hour over the speed limit. The officer who pulled me over, initially reserved, became noticeably more friendly when I handed him my license and registration. Ultimately, he gave me what amounted to a parking ticket for my actions, rather than the point-incurring, heavily fined moving violation he could have charged me with.
The ‘Thin Blue Line,’ as it is known, is a reference to the idea that the police are the barrier between law abiding citizens and criminals, order and chaos. The most common representation of this concept is a black-and-white American flag, with a single blue line in the place where a red or white stripe would normally be. This style has been expanded to include numerous other colors representing other first-responders: green for the military, red and white no longer to be interpreted as the traditional stripes of the American flag, but instead meant to represent the fire department and paramedics, and even grey for corrections officers. Seeing the appropriation of one of the most iconic symbols in the world, one that flies above the White House, schools, homes, national and international events, and even the Moon, I can say, as someone who has been unwillingly entangled within that appropriation, is nothing short of terrifying.
The fact that these entities and their supporters have literally sewn themselves into the fabric of the symbol of our nation makes one think that there is little room for the countless other occupations, aspects and people that make up this country. The idea of the police being the sole protectors of our society is patently absurd, and all one must do is point out the many instances of police brutality occurring over the years to refute it. I find myself thinking of how much power the officer who stopped me just three months ago had over me. Initially, I was happy that I had received a slap on the wrist, but recently I have found myself wondering what if my license did not state that I was a veteran, would he have charged me with a ticket that would have had much more serious implications? What if he was simply having a bad day, and he decided he did not like the look of me, or the color of my car, and I was the one who he ultimately decided to vent his frustrations on? This traffic infraction, an incredibly small incident compared to all the turmoil in the world, one that involves two strangers, supposedly bonded by our professions, on the side of a quiet, New York highway, serves as a metaphor to me, reminding me of the power structures at play on a much larger scale.
On April 22^nd, 2024, I received this email, one of the many Clery Crime Alerts that students are automatically sent. An affiliate of Columbia University had their car stolen at gunpoint by two masked men on Claremont Avenue, not even a five-minute walk from campus. I skimmed the report, and almost immediately forgot about it, recognizing that crime is an inevitability in major cities, and that I needed to start my commute to school. Days later, on the night of April 30^th, 2024, I received another email from Columbia, containing one of the most ominous messages I had ever seen, one that put the kind of fear in my heart that not even the alert of an armed carjacking could. Columbia’s Emergency Management Operations Team, offering no explanations, specifications, or even a greeting or sign-off, wrote in bold letters these three sentences: “Shelter in place for your safety due to heightened activity on the Morningside campus. Non-compliance may result in disciplinary action. Avoid the area until further notice.” Due to the protests on campus during recent weeks, President Shafik testifying before Congress, Columbia’s role as one of the main catalysts for student protests around the country, and the occupation of Hamilton Hall occurring in the earlier hours of that day, it was not hard to figure out what the email was referencing. Over the next several hours, I followed news agencies, remained glued to the Columbia subreddit, and listened to WKCR, in awe of these eighteen- to twenty-two-year-old students putting themselves at risk to deliver on the ground, accurate, unbiased coverage of one of the most significant events in the school’s history.
While tracking the events from multiple perspectives, to include the social media accounts of those near and on campus live streaming them, I held out hope that the university would make good on their promise from several days earlier to not invite the NYPD back, but a frightening picture began to unfold, one that I was intimately familiar with. One WKCR reporter stated that 114^th street had so many officers on it that he could not see the asphalt of the road beneath them, and I knew that the staging area the NYPD had chosen was one of the best routes for moving towards what the military, and presumably law enforcement, would call an ‘objective.’ The officers cleared the smaller ‘objective,’ the largely unoccupied tents in front of Butler, and then moved towards Hamilton Hall, ordering even those not associated with its occupation to disperse, raising my stress levels and likely those of others, as it is rarely a good sign when police do not want their actions recorded and archived. After the initial entry to campus and clearing of areas and people in the immediate vicinity of Hamilton Hall, came the Long-Range Acoustic Device, or LRAD, a device that makes a megaphone sound like a whisper, and one known for its crowd-control potential, capable of producing sounds loud enough to cause damage to ear-drums, nausea, and headaches, ordering individuals to clear away. The NYPD began its execution of tactics in a way that my fellow soldiers and I used to rehearse, tactics I never dreamed that I would witness outside of the military, and certainly not by police officers who vastly outnumbered unarmed students on their own campus. The NYPD created a perimeter, or a ‘second layer of security’ to both provide reinforcements for the officers entering the building, and to prevent the fleeing of what are called ‘squirters,’ or individuals who attempt to escape the building after the raid begins. While the ‘breach’ team moved towards the front doors, using tools from a ‘hooligan kit,’ such as bolt cutters, hand-held battering rams and crowbars, a siege machine was brought in to allow access from a window; when taking over a building, the idea is to enter it from as many different directions as possible to better disorient and overwhelm its occupants. Flash-bang grenades, described as non-lethal, but known to have harmful effects, were thrown inside, presumably before entering any room, hallway, or otherwise enclosed area to minimize the resistance of anyone unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of what can only be described as an assault on the visual and auditory senses. According to the Manhattan District Attorney, one of the officers inside Hamilton Hall had what is called in the military a “negligent discharge,” meaning his firearm went off unintentionally. While no one was hurt, the question remains why at least one, and more likely, numerous other officers were carrying guns loaded with live ammunition in the first place, when they so drastically outmatched the protestors in numbers and equipment. Additionally, a negligent discharge is an act of incompetence that would result in an active-duty soldier facing serious consequences, and derision from his peers. So far, the officer remains defended by his coworkers, and unpunished by his superiors.
As all this unfolded, I communicated with my friends from the past and present. My friends from the military checked on me to ensure that I was okay, as did my friends from school. The difference in how they viewed these events highlights what I believe is the change in myself that I stated I am most proud of at the beginning of this paper. My friends from the military were commenting that the assertion of order and control by way of militarized tactics was necessary, not concerning themselves with the human toll and destruction of trust that came along with it. Conversely, my schoolmates lamented the brutality and overstepping of boundaries that the NYPD and Columbia’s administration committed, one that turned a place meant to be a beacon of free speech, expression, and ideas, into what is now a police-state with strict control over who enters it.
My education inside and outside the classroom at this institution has challenged, thrilled, and changed me. Sitting here now, at the end of this paper, the end of the semester, and the end of my time at Columbia University, I am left feeling confused and sad regarding recent events, but also hopeful for the future. I know from experience that the students, teachers, and culture of this school have the power to encourage critical thinking and initiate personal growth. If it did those things for me, surely it can do the same for others

DC Next presents:

I AM BATMAN

In True Crime
Issue Sixteen: Dark Hair And Face Paint
Written by ClaraEclair
Edited by PredaPlant & DeadIslandMan1
 
<< < Previous Issue Next Issue > Coming Next Month
 
 
Gotham University’s winter term was coming to an end, and that meant the resident varsity football team was finishing out their season — on home turf, no less. The Nighthawks were on a winning streak and were looking to finish off the season with a championship. The entire team felt the energy coursing through them as the stadium filled and crowd chants grew.
There were always major league scouts within the crowds at these types of games, especially for teams as impressive as the Nighthawks had been. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that some of the players on the varsity team would be making it to the national league. The coach, as hard as he could be on his team, felt nothing but warm pride in his heart and mind.
Zack Howard, the captain of the Nighthawks, looked over the 120 yard field from the player entrance, listening to the roaring crowd chanting for the Nighthawks — even fans of the Princeton Tigers felt the pull toward cheering on the Gotham University team. Just as much as his coach, he felt pride in being able to carry his team this far. He hoped to give the best game he’d ever played, to be noticed by big league coaches and scouts.
“Zack!” He heard his coach shout from behind him, no doubt trying to shift his attention back to the locker room and preparations for the game ahead. Zack exhaled deeply and turned around to see Coach Fremlin approaching with a light jog, holding something in his hand. “Delivery for ya,” he said, handing the envelope to the captain. “Some girl said to give it to you, said there’s somethin’ special inside.” With a smirk, Fremlin clapped Zack’s shoulder before turning back toward the locker room.
Zack’s mind flooded with possibilities and fantasies about what could’ve been in the envelope. Something special could have been anything, and it excited him as he ripped it open. His expression quickly shifted, however, as he pulled a handwritten note out of the envelope, scribbled in nearly illegible handwriting.
”Zack Howard,” it read. He opened it, his brow furrowed, and watched as an instant print photograph fell out of the fold and onto the ground. One piece of clear tape had been shoddily applied to the corner and had clearly lost its adhesion. Leaning down, Zack picked up the photo and squinted, trying to make out the subject.
It took a few moments, but the longer he stared at the photo, the more it dawned on him what was depicted in it. Instantly, upon realising what he saw, he rushed back to the locker room and forced himself through his teammates to Coach Fremlin, who was dragging out his playbook. He grabbed the coach by the shoulder, twisted him around to face him directly, and planted the photo firmly on his chest.
“What the fuck is this?” he demanded. Confused, Fremlin chuckled nervously as he tried to grasp the small photo on his chest, not able to see the subject but only the fury in Zack’s face. The room fell totally silent as the entire team watched the coach and their captain with bated breaths.
“What do you mean?” asked Fremlin, turning the image over and squinting at it, trying to make out the details. Just as fast as Zack had initially made out the details, Fremlin’s face dropped at the realisation. “Holy God, Zack, I–”
“What the hell is this?!” Zack demanded once more, resisting the urge to grab his coach by the collar and push him against the wall. “Who gave this to you?”
“I– I don’t know, it was some girl,” Fremlin stuttered, fumbling over himself. “She was short, had black hair, face paint…”
“What’s it say on the back?” asked Tim Teslow, the team’s best running back, pointing toward the image and the messy scrawls on the back of it. Zack snapped it back out of Fremlin’s hands as the coach sat down, head in his hands.
“Section 204, Row 8, seat 9,” Zack read the note aloud. “I’m going to go see what this is,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Dude, that’s across the stadium,” said Cutter Karznowski, the wide receiver that had only joined at the start of the season. “The game’s starting in a few minutes.”
“I don’t care,” Zack snapped back. “I’m going.”
 
 
Good evening, Gothamites, I hope you enjoyed that last one — Barcode by Self-Sacrificial. It’s always been a personal favourite of mine, straight to the point with the best beats and deepest riffs.
In the same spirit, I’ll get straight to the point of why today’s a big day for me — you’ve all known this was coming but I never quite said what it was. When I started this show a little over a year ago, I wanted to look at the dirt of the world. I wanted to bring you my favourite music while trying to figure out my favourite events in this city.
I’ve talked about all the legends, I’ve talked about Joker, Mister Freeze, and so many others. I’ve talked about new shooters like Man-Bat and Professor Pyg. I’ve even, unfortunately, shed some light on the unoriginal copycat hacks that have started popping up in recent years. It’s all been out of love, though. Love for the mind of those who would commit these atrocities, appreciation for what they are and what they represent.
There’s a reason why they are what they are, and it’s always been a goal of mine to love and appreciate what they put into the world. It’s all about the chaos.
But, today, I won’t be talking about that. Today, I’ll be talking about football. Before you all start booing me, it’s my special day and it’s my show, so I get final say. Specifically, it’s the big championship game for the Gotham University Nighthawks. I went to school with these guys, I feel… an obligation.
I’m excited to see how the game will turn out. I get the nagging feeling that their winning streak might come to an end.
 
 
Section 204 in the Gotham Knights stadium, on the north side of Tricorner Island, the southernmost landmass of Gotham, was filled to the brim with spectators and fans. All were cheering as they waited and watched the Gotham University Nighthawks enter the field below, while Zack spent his time searching the section for a small woman with black hair and face paint.
Despite the difficulty of sifting through the crowded seats, he couldn’t find a woman matching that description. He looked back down at the photograph’s note and read it again, making sure he was in the right spot. The location remained the same: Section 204, row 8, seat 9.
People called out his name, but he was quick to shrug them off. He was too focused on finding the woman who’d sent him the photograph. Even asking those who’d been sitting within section 204 had proved fruitless, with no one being able to say anything about the described woman.
Angry and dejected, Zack turned back toward the steps between sections to head back down to the field when something caught his eye as he moved.
“Sir!” He called out, angling his head toward a man two rows above him, pointing beneath his seat. “Sir, what’s that under your seat?” There was some sort of flashing light taped to the bottom of the seat, slowly pulsing between purple and green.
The man looked confused, leaning forward to take a look at what Zack had pointed at, eyes widening the moment he saw the wiring that he sat atop. A complex series of wires and lights traced their way around each seat in the section, though neither he nor Zack could see what, exactly, the wires were attached to.
“I don’t–”
The man could only shout out those few words before a loud explosion rocked the stadium, blasts running down the portion of the stadium from rows 12 to 4. Dozens of seats were annihilated as smoke, fire, and green gas erupted. Cries of pain and fear replaced the cheers of the spectators.
Blood tainted the intact seats while the smoke rose into the air, infiltrating the sky of southern Gotham, visible from all along the city’s coast. What fell across the stadium, permeating nearly every seat on the west side of the stadium, making its way into the halls that traced the inner workings of the building, was a thick green gas, forcing its way into the lungs of the men and women who were running for their lives, trampling each other.
Those closest to the explosion felt intense convulsions in their abdomens and spasms in their faces, involuntarily forced to bear wicked grins while their shattering breaths overtook the screams of terror in the form of wicked laughter.
Amidst the chaos, the charred photo that Zack once held fell slowly and gracefully, slightly charred, ignorant of the horror that it had been subject to. Slightly charred, it landed a few sections away from the explosions, trampled upon by infected spectators who had no idea what was being done to them.
 
 
A Few Minutes Earlier…
James Gordon’s office at the Gotham City Police Department headquarters was quiet as he sat at his desk, resting his elbows on its surface with his hands clasped, opposite Astrid Arkham, the frail-seeming daughter of Jeremiah Arkham. She had requested a meeting with him, and he had assumed it was for an update into Batman’s investigation into her father.
“Gotham City needs something new,” she began, catching him by surprise. His eyes widened slightly, then his brow furrowed. “We’ve been in this… this state of insanity for decades now, and it is only getting worse. This city is no longer livable, Commissioner.” He resisted the urge to groan. The only difference in Gotham City as it was and the Gotham City of before was that the murders had become spectacle.
When supervillains pushed out mobsters and gangsters, there was a shift in crime, but the results remained the same. Salvatore Maroni and Carmine Falcone knew how to keep their business quiet to the public unless they were in active war. Those were the good old days, now.
“Insane, maniacal supervillains,” she continued. “They rule the streets whenever they so choose. The police cannot deal with them, not under you. You rely on the Batman,” there was venom in her voice as she spoke the name, “and she sweeps up the problems while bringing deranged cultists and assassins into this city. She’s the heir of a small personal army with untold technology and she runs free. The Joker Riots, the assassin siege, Simon Hurt, all because the Batman has infested this town with these misguided thoughts of the supernatural, supposedly haunting our city.” Gordon remained silent.
“Essen’s incentives are now failing,” she said, watching Gordon closely for a reaction. If he gave one, she couldn’t see it. “How many companies that were enticed by her incentives have moved headquarters out of Gotham? They pay nothing in taxes, they have Essen licking their boots, and it’s still not enough. Despite all that’s happened, we haven’t been through hell yet, Commissioner. We’ve only arrived at the gates.”
“If I may, Miss Arkham,” said Gordon, leaning back in his chair, scanning the young woman up and down. “What’s your point?” He understood what she was saying, and he feared she was right, but he didn’t like the conclusion she was bringing forth.
“You are antiquated, Commissioner,” she replied, her face straight. “Obsolete. Your methods don’t work anymore, the law you uphold is no longer effective. Besides that, you are getting old. I can see the fatigue in your face, the bags under your eyes, your paleness. You’re not the detective you used to be.” Astrid leaned forward in her seat, putting her weight on her cane. “Gotham needs something new.”
Gordon’s phone rang, and for a brief moment he was thankful for the reprieve — but only for a moment.
 
 
I’d say I feel bad for the people at the Nighthawks game, but, if I’m totally honest, they had it coming. It’s about time everything caught up to them.
While we all ruminate on what’s happening at the game right now, let’s listen to some good music. This is Confetti by Viscera.
 
 
Batman had listened to as many notes as she could about a green gas that made anyone who inhaled it laugh uncontrollably. It typically led to suffocation through the inability to control the diaphragm, but this time it didn’t, and it confused the Dark Knight. A familiar sight, an attack that resulted in eery laughter, and yet it wasn’t what the city had seen before. None of the victims that hadn’t been in the initial blast had died, though medical care for each of them was necessary.
As much as she cursed herself for being late, not able to save anyone as the events unfolded, she knew that she needed to take control as fast as possible. She, along with every person in the city, dreaded what this attack meant. The name of a particular clown lingered on everyone’s tongues, though no one dared invoke his name.
Batman wasn’t so sure, and she hoped that her gut feeling was right. Most of the bodies that were recoverable had been extracted from the blast zone, over a dozen dead and dozens more injured. Blood and soot equally covered the destroyed seats, and even more on the concrete below.
One thing caught Batman’s eye amidst the mess, two sections away from the initial blast. A small instant print photograph, half burnt, laid on the ground, covered in dirty boot prints. She picked it up and looked it over, squinting as she studied the subject.
It was a blonde woman, head down with wet hair covering her face. Almost lost in the details was a small trail of blood behind the hair, mixing with trailing makeup. Batman frowned as she flipped the image over, seeing the note for a specific seat in the section of the stadium that had been blown to bits.
She approached the seat and kneeled, ducking down to see under the seat. It was one of few that remained intact after the explosions. Zack Howard’s Final Stop was scratched into the bottom of the seat, and at the sight of it, Batman signalled to Oracle to scan the engraving. She couldn’t identify the woman in the photograph, but she could see clearly enough that the attack was targeted at a specific person.
Another killer, she thought to herself, fearing what it could mean for the city. Pyg almost tore the richest members of the city’s economy apart, and they were ready to throw their own to the wolves. Now, there’d been a deadly gas attack at a football game — one that had been sponsored by many of Gotham’s elite.
The idea that the Clown Prince of Crime had returned was already making its way through the city — Batman knew she would have to exert control over everything she could to keep it from tearing itself apart at the seams. She was more than prepared to do so.
“It doesn’t look good,” she said to Oracle.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice distant. “I hope it’s just another copycat, they’re much easier to deal with.”
“I don’t know,” Batman replied, looking back at the photograph. “Something’s different.”

III. Changing Modes of Making It: From Horatio Alger to the Happy Hooker
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From “Self-Culture” to Self-Promotion through “Winning Images”
In the nineteenth century, the ideal of self-improvement degenerated into a cult of compulsive industry. P.T. Barnum, who made a fortune in a calling the very nature of which the Puritans would have condemned (“Every calling, whereby God will be Dishonored; every Calling whereby none but the Lusts of men are Nourished: …every such Calling is to be Rejected”), delivered many times a lecture frankly entitled “The Art of Money-Getting,” which epitomized the nineteenth-century conception of worldly success. Barnum quoted freely from Franklin but without Franklin’s concern for the attainment of wisdom or the promotion of useful knowledge. “Information” interested Barnum merely as a means of mastering the market. Thus he condemned the “false economy” of the farm wife who douses her candle at dusk rather than lighting another for reading, not realizing that the “information” gained through reading is worth far more than the price of the candles. “Always take a trustworthy newspaper,” Barnum advised young men on the make, “and thus keep thoroughly posted in regard to the transactions of the world. He who is without a newspaper is cut off from his species.”
Barnum valued the good opinion of others not as a sign of one’s usefulness but as a means of getting credit. “Uncompromising integrity of character is invaluable.” The nineteenth century attempted to express all values in monetary terms. Everything had its price. Charity was a moral duty because “the liberal man will command patronage, which the sordid, uncharitable miser will be avoided.” The sin of pride was not that it offended God but that it led to extravagant expenditures. “A spirit of pride and vanity, when permitted to have full sway, is the undying cankerworm which gnaws the very vitals of a man’s worldly possessions.”
The eighteenth century made a virtue of temperance but did not condemn moderate indulgence in the service of sociability. “Rational conversation,” on the contrary, appeared to Franklin and his contemporaries to represent an important value in its own right. The nineteenth century condemned sociability itself, on the grounds that it might interfere with business. “How many good opportunities have passed, never to return, while a man was sipping a ‘social glass’ with his friends!” Preachments on self-help now breathed the spirit of compulsive enterprise. Henry Ward Beecher defined “the beau ideal of happiness” as a state of mind in which “a man [is] so busy that he does not know whether he is or is not happy.” Russell Sage remarked that “work has been the chied, and you might say, the only source of pleasure in my life.”
Even at the height of the Gilded Age, however, the Protestant ethic did not completely lose its original meaning. In the success manuals, the McGuffey readers, the Peter Parley Books, and the hortatory writings of the great capitalists themselves, the Protestant virtues - industry, thrift, temperance - still appeared not merely as stepping-stones to success but as their own reward.
The spirit of self-improvement lived on, in debased form, in the cult of “self-culture” - proper care and training of mind and body, nurture of the mind through “great books,” development of “character.” The social contribution of individual accumulation still survived as an undercurrent in the celebration of success, and the social conditions of early industrial capitalism, in which the pursuit of wealth undeniably increased the supply of useful objects, gave some substance to the claim that “accumulated capital means progress.” In condemning speculation and extravagance, in upholding the importance of patient industry, in urging young men to start at the bottom and submit to “the discipline of daily life,” even the most unabashed exponents of self-enrichment clung to the notion that wealth derives its value from its contribution to the general good and to the happiness of future generations.
The nineteenth-century cult of success placed surprisingly little emphasis on competition. It measured achievement not against the achievements of others but against an abstract ideal of discipline and self-denial. At the turn of the century, however, preachments on success began to stress the will to win. The bureaucratization of the corporate career changed the conditions of self-advancement; ambitious young men now had to compete with their peers for the attention and approval of their superiors. The struggle to surpass the previous generation and to provide for the next gave way to a form of sibling rivalry, in which men of approximately equal abilities jostled against each other in competition for a limited number of places. Advancement now depended on “will-power, self-confidence, energy, and initiative” - the qualities celebrated in such exemplary writings as George Lorimer’s Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son. ” By the end of the nineteenth century,” writes John Cawelti in his study of the success myth, “self-help books were dominated by the ethos of sales-manship and boosterism. Personal magnetism, a quality which supposedly enabled a man to influence and dominate others, became one of the major keys to success.” In 1907, both Lorimer’s Saturday Evening Post and Orison Swett Marden’s Success magazine inaugurated departments of instruction in the “art of conversation,” fashion, and “culture.” The management of interpersonal relations came to be seen as the essence of self-advancement. The captain of industry gave way to the confidence man, the master of impressions. Young men were told that they had to sell themselves in order to succeed.
At first, self-testing through competition remained almost in-distinguishable from moral self-discipline and self-culture, but the difference became unmistakable when Dale Carnegie and then Norman Vincent Peale restated and transformed the tradition of Mather, Franklin, Barnum, and Lorimer. As a formula for success, winning friends and influencing people had little in common with industry and thrift. The prophets of positive thinking disparaged “the old adage that hard work alone is the magic key that will unlock the door to our desires.” They praised the love of money, officially condemned even by the crudest of Gilded Age materialists, as a useful incentive. “You can never have riches in great quantities,” wrote Napoleon Hill in this Think and Grow Rich,” unless you can work yourself into a white heat of desire for money.” The pursuit of wealth lost the few shreds of moral meaning that still clung to it. Formerly the Protestant virtues appeared to have an independent value of their own. Even when they became purely instrumental, in the second half of the nineteenth century, success itself retained moral and social overtones, by virtue of its contribution to the sum of human comfort and progress. Now success appeared as an end in its own right, the victory over your competitors that alone retained the capacity to instill a sense of self-approval. The latest success manuals differ from earlier ones - even surpassing the cynicism of Dale Carnegie and Peale - in their frank acceptance of the need to exploit and intimidate others, in their lack of interest in the substance of success, and in the candor with which they insist that appearances - “winning images - count for more than performance, ascription for more than achievement. One author seems to imply that the self consists of little more than its “image” reflected in others’ eyes. “Although I’m not being original when I say it, I’m sure you’ll agree that the way you see yourself will reflect the image you portray to others.” Nothing succeeds like the appearance of success.
<The American Religion by Harold Bloom (California Orphism)>
The Apotheosis of Individualism
The fear that haunted the social critics and theorists of the fifties - that rugged individualism had succumbed to conformity and “love-pressure sociability” - appears in retrospect to have been premature. In 1960, David Riesman complained that young people no longer had much social “presence,” their education having provided them not with “a polished personality but [with] an affable, casual, adaptable one, suitable to the losing organizations of an affluent society.” It is true that “a present-oriented hedonism,” as Riseman went on the argue, has replaced the work ethic “among the very classes which in the earlier stages of industrialization were oriented toward the future, toward distant goals and delayed gratification.” But this hedonism is a fraud; the pursuit of pleasure disguises a struggle for power. Americans have not really become more sociable and cooperative, as the theorists of other-direction and conformity would like us to believe; they have merely become more adept at exploiting the conventions of interpersonal relations for their own benefit. Activities ostensibly undertaken purely for enjoyment often have the real object of doing others in. It is symptomatic of the underlying tenor of American life that vulgar terms for sexual intercourse also convey the sense of getting the better of someone, working him over, taking him in, imposing your will through guile, deception, or superior force. Verbs associated with sexual pleasure have acquired more than the usual overtones of violence and psychic exploitation. In the violent world of the ghetto, the language of which now pervades American society as a whole, the violence associated with sexual intercourse is directed with special intensity by men against women, specifically against their mothers. The language of ritualized aggression and abuse reminds those who use it that exploitation is the general rule and some form of dependence the common fate, that “the individual,” in Lee Rainwater’s words, “is not strong enough or adult enough to achieve his goal in a legitimate way, but is rather like a child, dependent on others who tolerate his childish maneuvers”; accordingly males, even adult males, often depend on women for support and nurture. Many of them have to pimp for a living, ingratiating themselves with a woman in order to pry money from her; sexual relations thus become manipulative and predatory. Satisfaction depends on taking what you want instead of waiting for what is rightfully yours to receive. All this enters everyday speech in language that connects sex with aggression and sexual aggression with highly ambivalent feelings about mothers.
In some ways middle-class society has become a pale copy of the black ghetto, as the appropriation of its language would lead us to believe. We do not need to minimize the poverty of the ghetto or the suffering inflicted by whites on blacks in order to see that the increasingly dangerous and unpredictable conditions of middle-class life have given rise to similar strategies for survival. Indeed the attraction of black culture for disaffected whites suggests that black culture now speaks to a general condition, the most important feature of which is a widespread loss of confidence in the future. The poor have always had to live for the present, but now a desperate concern for personal survival, sometimes disguised as hedonism, engulfs the middle class as well. Today almost everyone lives in a dangerous world from which there is little escape. International terrorism and blackmail, bombings, and hijackings arbitrarily affect the rich and poor alike. Crime, violence, and gang wars make cities unsafe and threaten to spread to the suburbs. Racial violence on the streets and in the schools creates an atmosphere of chronic tension and threatens to erupt at any time into full-scale racial conflict. Unemployment spreads from the poor the white-collar class, while inflation eats away the savings of those who hoped to retire in comfort. Much of what is euphemistically known as the middle class, merely because it dresses up to go to work, is now reduced to proletarian conditions of existence. Many white-collar jobs require no more skill and pay even less than blue-collar jobs, conferring little status or security. The propaganda of death and destruction, emanating ceaselessly from the mass media, adds to the prevailing atmosphere of insecurity. Far-flung famines, earthquakes in remote regions, distant wars and uprisings attract the same attention as events closer to home. The impression of arbitrariness in the reporting of disaster reinforces the arbitrary quality of experience itself, and the absence of continuity in the coverage of events, as today’s crisis yields to a new and unrelated crisis tomorrow, adds to the sense of historical discontinuity - the sense of living in a world in which the past holds out no guidance to the present and the future has become completely unpredictable.
Older conceptions of success presupposed a world in rapid motion, in which fortunes were rapidly won and lost and new opportunities unfolded every day. Yet they also presupposed a certain stability, a future that bore some recognizable resemblance to the present and the past. The growth of bureaucracy, the cult of consumption with its immediate gratifications, but above all the severance of the sense of historical continuity have transformed the Protestant ethic while carrying the underlying principles of capitalist society to their logical conclusion . The pursuit of self-interest, formerly identified with the rational pursuit of gain and the accumulation of wealth, has become a search for pleasure and psychic survival. Social conditions now approximate the vision of republican society conceived by the Marquis de Sade at the very outset of the republican epoch. In many ways the most farsighted and certainly the most disturbing of the prophets of revolutionary individualism, Sade defended unlimited self-indulgence as the logical culmination of the revolution in property relations - the only way to attain revolutionary brotherhood in its purest form. By regressing in his writings to the most primitive level of fantasy, Sade uncannily glimpsed the whole subsequent development of personal life under capitalism, ending not in revolutionary brotherhood but in a society of siblings that has outlived and repudiated its revolutionary origins.
Sade imagined a sexual utopia in which everyone has the right to everyone else, where human beings, reduced to their sexual organs, become absolutely anonymous and interchangeable. His ideal society thus reaffirmed the capitalist principle that human beings are ultimately reducible to interchangeable objects. It also incorporated and carried to a surprising new conclusion Hobbes’s discovery that the destruction of paternalism and the subordination of all social relations to the market had stripped away the remaining restraints and the mitigating illusions from the war of all against all. In the resulting state of organized anarchy, as Sade was the first to realize, pleasure becomes life’s only business - pleasure, however, that is indistinguishable from rape, murder, unbridled aggression. In a society that has reduced reason to mere calculation, reason can impose no limits on the pursuit of pleasure - on the immediate gratification of every desire no matter how perverse, insane, criminal, or merely immoral. For the standards that would condemn crime or cruelty derive from religion, compassion, or the kind of reason that rejects purely instrumental applications; and none of these outmoded forms of thought or feeling has any logical place in a society based on commodity production. In his misogyny, Sade perceived that bourgeois enlightenment, carried to its logical conclusions, condemned even the sentimental cult of womanhood and the family, which the bourgeoisie itself had carried to unprecedented extremes.
At the same time, he saw that condemnation of “woman-worship” had to go hand in hand with a defense of woman’s sexual rights - their right to dispose of their own bodies, as feminists would put it today. If the exercise of that right in Sade’s utopia boils down to the duty to become an instrument of someone else’s pleasure, it was not so much because Sade hated women as because he hated humanity. He perceived, more clearly than the feminists, that all freedoms under capitalism come in the end to the same thing, the same universal obligation to enjoy and be enjoyed. In the same breath, and without violating his own logic, Sade demanded for women the right “fully to satisfy all their desires” and “all parts of their bodies” and categorically stated that “all women must submit to our pleasure.” Pure individualism thus issued in the most radical repudiation of individuality. “All men, all women resemble each other,” according to Sade; and to those of his countrymen who would become republicans he adds this ominous warning: “Do not think you can make good republicans so long as you isolated in their families the children who should belong to the republic alone.” The bourgeois defense of privacy culminates - not just in Sade’s thought but in the history to come, so accurately foreshadowed in the very excess, madness, infantilism of his ideas - in the most thoroughgoing attack on privacy; the glorification of the individual, in his annihilation.
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Standing-Reserve.
Note a lack of the “Greek” in Lasch.
Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939 by Georges Bataille, Edited by A. Stoekl, Translated by A. Stoekl, C.R. Lovitt, and D.M. Leslie Jr.
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