When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical may be madness. To surrender dreams, this may be madness. To seek treasures where there is only trash...Too much sanity may be madness, and maddest of all is to see life as it is and not as it should be.
- Miguel De Cervantes
This page is set up different from the rest of the site, well, just because really. I first heard of Nanowrimo a good week or two back but had no ideas what it was (and never bothered finding out) until a chance reference on it on a http://www.nocturne.org/world/ mailing list I mostly lurk at and followed the link from there on the 26th and figured I'd give it a shot. So far 4 other people have agreed to give it a try at a IRC channel I frequent on irc.esper.net (#Game1). We'll see what happens. At the very least, it should be great fun. Currently have a synopsis done, a few character sketches and a basic plot lined up. So far, it's untitled but the genre is urban fantasy.
In world ruled by literal voodoo economics, a city where cash flows and the people are often morally bankrupt, the politicians rule from skyscrapers stretching into the heavens while the middle class lives a life of enforced plenty and somewhere, down the Gutters, everyone else tries to live and forget what the world was once like. In the gutters, city workers are getting fired and an experiment in “controlled anarchy” to “help balance the economy” has been planned by the mayor. Basically, let them kill each other off and improve the economy by bulldozing the area. With a nuke.
Desperate to return the city to a golden age, one man has begun to write the Great Novel to change the world, only to find it seems to be writing itself in his sleep and the pages are being stolen by a man calling himself Noone, who wants to use the secrets of the Novel Code to summon up a greater demon to destroy the mayor and restore Justice to the city again.
Against this backdrop of magic and mundane warring a few brave, foolhardy souls are trying to live their lives. Taylor, the unemployed dog catcher; Kallie, who is engaged in a life of death struggle with a business rival trying to find the Holy Grail; a homeless messiah unable to explain his resurrection to the IRS; and a mother searching for her lost daughter.
Now to wait for the first.... impatiently :)
1.11.2003Here is the world, sound as a nut, perfect, not the smallest piece of Chaos left, never a stitch nor an end, not a mark of haste, or botching, or second thought; but the theory of the world is a thing of shreds and patches. Taylor Hilyard woke to find five words written on the fridge, in either blood or ketchup from the looks of things. Of course, he’d been awake for over an hour. Well, his eyes had been open and he needed a new alarm clock and the shower had been very cold, which helped. He regarded the frigde for a long moment, reading the note carefully. ‘Another day, not another dollar.’ He wiped it out with the dishcloth with a growl, noting that it was in fact blood. Of course, Dean was at work by now, so it would have to be brought up later. Preferably before supper. Taylor wolfed down the eggs and bacon quickly, trying not to pay attention to the fact that it was the last edible food he had. Dean would spot him for a while, but - always a but. Being in debt to him any further would be worrisome. Pausing to count to 30 in Latin, Taylor shook his head. “Brain, this is Taylor. We need to wake up. The sun is out. And we saw it rise.” He paused to let the horror of that fact sink in, then padded through the hallway to the door and swore, softly. Taking a breath of the fresh morning air, Taylor sat down outside to wait for the paper to actually arrive. Two hours later he curled up in his favourite chair, the one he’d told Dean he’s bought at an auction sale. It was brown and probably the ugliest chair around, having been reupholstered over 10 times that Taylor could recall offhand. Only the metal frame was new, and from the ominous creak as he plopped down in it, that might have to be remedies soon as well. He sipped his cold coffee and glanced at the front page. The Mayor had instigated a new tax system for business owners, rumours that the Wild was returning to the slums prompting promises of using the funds to improve welfare and make the City look pretty. Taylor snorted, and flipped past the editorials which he’d been told were ghost written by the Mayor anyway. Maybe literally, but no one would admit to knowing that. The classifieds, the object of his quest past of the home improvement and travel section were reassuringly large, until he realized that most of them were people advetising that they wanted work, not looking to hire. Joys. Taylor sipped the coffee again and began reading. Dogcatchers wanted. Good pay. City job, union dues.. Nice. They didn’t wait around. For a second, Taylor contemplated asking for an appointment. “My qualifications? I did this job before you fired me for putting Kerry into crutches for stacking animals in the truck. Stacking them, alive, and then driving as quickly as possible.... so I took his head and shoved it through the side of the truck and some very angry small dogs bit it repeatedly.” No, it didn’t sound much better at all. He flipped the page, scanning the columns. Meat processing plant. No, they did blood tests. Security guard for ... empty field? Who hires someone to guard empty fields. Wait, an empty field in the City? Taylor grinned for a second. Cemetery, most likely. I wonder how you convince dead people to remain in it if the clause included letting no one in or out after midnight. Best not to find out.... Taylor glanced out the window and saw the local trans go overhead, leading to the skyscrapers. Which one.. Oh, yes, The Dome. Which meant it was time to be looking for a job. Taylor ripped out the next page, figuring there would be something useful on it, and hurried outside. The City is never easy to understand, even if you’ve lived in it for most of your life. Taylor walked quickly down the street, his own home one of the many run down two story buildings that had stood the test of ages mostly by leaning against each other and hoping the City never hired a wrecking crew that wanted to play dominoes. There was technically a road, but it had mostly given way to vines and pot holes, some of which Taylor had found strays in, and once even a family of five immigrants to the City who’d found one of the larger holes and camped out in it. The sidewalk was mostly a worn rut between the houses and the road and the sky was a dull orange-gray overhead, meaning that the sun was out somewhere where people could actually see it. Here down in the Gutters, the most people ever saw was the dawn before the sun rose and was hidden behind the many tall buildings that served as employment for anyone in the ‘burbs. The skyscraper itself stood out in the west alone and very tall. It was said that even from the offices one couldn’t see the famous dome that gave The Dome it’s name except on a very sunny day. The next streets were pretty much the same, really. Taylor had been a dogcatcher for over five years in the local area and knew them all rather well, mostly for where small animals liked to hide, and a few places where if they hid they’d never be found again because the owners would end up cooking them. Few people were out and about at this hour, but 10 am in the squalls wasn’t too bad, really. Taylor grinned, imagining Dean’s reaction to that, and finally reached one of the unkempt roads, Route 23, and paused to wait for one of the buses to actually arrive, likely not on time, but it was public transit. And given the public most people were lucky it ran at all. There was only two people at the bus stop, both women dressed all in black. One of them was sitting, and calmly knitting. She was also fat, which was rare in the squalls. Most of us ate when we could afford to and saved the rest, or spent it on drugs, drinking and debauchery. The 3 D’s, as the old joke went. The other woman was whipcord thin, her dress harshly plain, and was stroking a black cat. Taylor watched the black ink coming off on her hand for a few moments, before she looked up and regarded him with pale gray eyes. “My cat doesn’t like you,” she said in a strange croaking whisper. Taylor shrugged slightly, not bothering to reply. “I don’t like you either. You had better just watch yourself. We've hunted men. I have the death sentence on twelve.” Taylor blinked, then said “I’ll be careful.” The fat one chuckled, her voice exactly the same, and didn’t look up from her knitting. “You’ll be dead!” Taylor didn’t move. Maybe 10 am in the squalls actually wasn’t safe. Fortunately, the bus chose that moment to arrive and Taylor turned his attention to it. City buses were double-decker steel monstrosities capable of driving through small buildings and other vehicles without any problem at all. He’d even heard of someone making one real once and using it to hunt down and kill people, but Christine was generally considered a fable. The City didn’t have enough buses to have one go off inventing its own route and killing potential customers. The Bus came to a halt, spiked wheels grinding into the asphalt with a sound that reminded Taylor of the last time he’d seen a man tear off his own arm. The two women got on, calmly ignoring him, but the cat gave a soft hiss and Taylor noted that under the black dye the cat had black fur. The bus was empty as he walked up the steps. The driver turned and said “Hurry up!” and Taylor stopped and shivered at the palpable menace in the voice and stared into a tall, broad shouldered... his gaze took in horns, red scaly skin and the smell of sulfur underneath Eau De Toilet after shave. The demon was wearing shades, and a hat that his horns pocked through, but the sheer alienness of his nature was something few of them could disguise. Taylor paid and sat close to the front, bracing himself as the bus bounced over several pot holes, then ventured: “New on the job?” The bus driver glanced at him, then said, “Yes,” its voice sounding like the last whimper of a dying puppy. In spite of himself, Taylor shivered. The bus driver smiled slightly. “The drivers quit. The usual reasons. Witches, weres, whatchawecallthems. The union contract meant we had to take over. Our legal department is now busy selling Good News pamphlets to militant atheists in competition with ninja Jehovah Witnesses as a result, but the rest of us still have to drive the buses.” Taylor studied the driver, then grinned slightly. “Illusion spell?” The driver gave a half-shrug. “It works rather well. And having a cold helps with the voice. Does it seem demonic?” Taylor gave his own half-shrug in reply. “Never met a demon before, but it sure sounded evil. Do you have any openings?” The bus swerved even worse than normal, and the driver stared at Taylor, looking at him for the first time. Pale blue eyes, a faded black t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. But he had been willing to wait at the stop with those two .... and shook his head. “No, afraid not. None you’d want. It’s getting harder every season to just stay alive.” Taylor studied the illusion carefully, but it was well made. Somehow the eyes did manage to look rather desperate behind the shades, and he nodded, then sat back and waiting, watching the city go by. The first place he looked was a small seedy nightclub called Andy’s which was off the main route, but the managed told him they weren’t hiring. Something about losses due to having Retro Week and no one showing up. They were planning a Disco Revival next. The manager did ask if he could play music since they were looking for bands who could mix hymnals with death metal for an alternative to alternative music night. He passed. The second was close by, in a small one story home that looked well cared for and had even been subjected to a coat of paint around a decade ago. Since it now looked like a diseased checker board, subjected was probably the best word. He opened the gate and walked up the steps, pausing to knock on the door. A small, piping voice on the other side demanded he say the words suffering succotash. Taylor studied the door, wondering what kind of people hired in this City, then repeated them. Three times. The voice told him to come in and Taylor entered, noticing the smell of death - at least 3 days ago, if he was any judge, but no blood. Heart attack, most likely, given the place had the immaculate housekeeping of the elderly. The small yellow bird sitting on top of the bird cage regarding him above the body was something else all together. “Close the door!” it piped up urgently, and Taylor did, studying it... well, at least it hadn’t killed the old lady, but how it had put an ad in the paper and paid for it was anyone’s guess. Taylor waited, and finally said. “I assume you want the body removed?” The bird blinked at him, shocked. “NO! Granny is sleeping!” Taylor looked at the body, then said. “You should fix the look on his face, and her neck, then.” The bird cheeped, then said. “You’re not very agreeable for someone looking for a job!” Taylor sighed. “My apologies...?” “Tweety,” said Tweety. “I want to hire you to protect me from the black cat!” “The one the two ladies at the bus own?” “What?” Tweety looked perplexed. “Never mind, then. Would have been a strange coincidence, and I don’t like those, Either the universe is trying to tell you something, or laughing at you.” Tweety: “His name is Sylvester, and he wants to eat me!” Taylor closed his eyes, and counted to ten, then said “And the rate of pay?” calmly. Tweety bird: “I have a store of umbrellas you can have, and her home!” “I don’t want her house. Sorry.” The bird nodded, looking dejected and scared. “If I see a cat, I’ll tell it to go away, all right?” Tweety meeped softly, then said “She’s not dead, you know. Just sleeping. And with strange aeons even death might die.” Taylor left the house slowly, watching the bird land on the body and study an eyeball and shivered, looking at the paper. Fast food. Anyone can get a job in fast food.... he quickened his pace when the bird began to sing ‘I summon you back from the unending shore I summon you back, for you are mine. I summon you, Granny, I summon you, And with my feathers draw the Yellow Sign.’ | Length of Entry: 2,132 |
2.11.2003| Three times lucky is another lie, like the stories about stepping on cracks, or speaking Hastur, or the bloody Mary bit with mirrors. Taylor exited the fast food franchise quickly, his face pale and drawn. There was something wrong in there, something beyond smell. He shoved his hands into his leather jacket, not really surprised to notice they were trembling and wondering just what in the name of the gods they used for meat. The sky was shading to a pale yellow overhead through the shadows from the offices and the ‘scrapers as he walked down the road, ignoring the bite of the wind, and thinking. One dud, a job that didn't pay and one he wouldn't have accepted if he'd been dying. This was going to be one of those days. He found a street corner inhabited only by an early rising prostitute wearing a fur coat - and tail. Okay, maybe it wasn't a coat. She gave Taylor a quick, hesitant smile that almost reached her eyes. He responded with a formal nod, and dug out the paper. Telemarketer. No. The Knort school of war. Taylor smiled thinly; Knort hadn't been seen in a good five years so that was out. Death insurance? He skimmed the ad, then shook his head slowly. He's heard of it, a few times. Go to someone's home and get them to pay you not to kill them. Very stupid, but it did work sometimes. Exotic dancer? Maybe not. Non-exotic dancer? Well, he could pull that one one off at least. Taylor sighed, flipping the page over. Moving company; best not to ask what they moved. Medical testing. Medical testing insurance. A lost and found store? Taylor skimmed it quickly, then nodded. Finding things wasn't that hard. Five years of finding small animals proved that, and it was just two blocks away. Maybe. If the street signs were behaving. Kallie Jax studied the tall, swarthy man in the doorway, taking in the slight tremor to his hands, the tick under his left eye and the desperate gleam barely visible under dark bags as he leaned over the desk, his dirty fingers digging into the wood. “I told you, we find lost things.” “I need you to find it,” he said, his tone close to a whine. She shook her head. “The outcome of a bet is not one of the things we find.” The man straightened, slowly, his expression resigned, then screamed “I need it!” She was standing even as his fist pounded the desk, stepped backwards even as he raised it. “Mr. Levy, I am not telling you again. Leave my office.” Levy looked around quickly, taking in the faded wood paneling, the cheap and peeling wallpaper and the one open, grimy window. “Maybe you can't help, then,” he said, his voice shaking. “But you moved before I raised my fist. You moved.” Kallie met his gaze. “Gifts of the goddess are not to be squandered, or used for simple things, if they even can be. There are -” “Don't patronize me!” he screamed, clenching his fists. Kallie knew nothing would happen, but even so the confused hatred flowing off of Emile Levy caused her to take an unconscious step backwards. The sudden knock on the door startled both of them, and she called out “Come in, I believe I'm done here,” even as she saw Levy reaching into his coat. The man who entered the room was tall, and unfashionable thin. Kallie took in newly-pressed jeans, the fake leather jacket and clean shoes quickly, looking up to study his face. He was lean and angular, with a shock of thick, long red hair, a dash of freckles and pale, almost colourless blue eyes that took in the situation quickly. Levy stumbles even as he drew the gun, fumbling for the safety as the stranger dropped a piece of paper and grabbed him, shoving him into the walls quickly. “I believe she said you were done?” he said very quietly. Levy dropped the gun, then shoved the man, pitching him over her desk almost effortlessly. Kallie side stepped, startled, then said “Emile Levy,” in a low, carrying tone . Names have power. Levy looked up from scrambling for the gun and she saw the demon on both shoulders, digging it's claws into the poor man. She wasn't quite sure what he saw - she never was - but Levy stood up with the gun, his face filled with anger. “Put it down,” her erstwhile rescuer said, his voice cold. Kallie, her eyes on Levy, heard him dusting off his jacket. Levy froze for a moment, then abruptly turned and half ran out of the office. Kallie closed her eyes with a sigh and walked over to close the door. When she turned back, the stranger bad righted the chair and was giving her an amused look. “Is this normal, or should I apply somewhere safer for a job?” Kallie raised an eyebrow. “What., you don’t like throwing drug-addled idiots out of offices?” “I don’t particularly like drugs,” he said mildly. “I’m Kallie Jax,” she said, holding out her hand. He shook it. “Taylor, Taylor Hilyard. Former dog catcher, currently unemployed.” His grip was firm, but didn’t seem like his. Kallie let go, studying him frankly, but no images came to mind. “Why did you lose your job?” “A coworker was mistreating some of the animals. I told him not to,” Taylor said, his voice bland. “I see.” Kallie sat down behind the desk, motioning him to the seat Levy had shocked into the wall. She watched him take in the faded wood panels, the peeling wallpaper and grimy window. “And you think that makes you a good finder?” His eyes stopped roving the room as Taylor studied her carefully, then shook his head. “I’m good at finding things, mostly by tracking, or luck. But no, I don’t have the finding talent.” he paused a beat. “Do you?” Kallie restrained a smile and shook her head. “No, I’m a seer.” she flipped up the computer monitor, adjusting it until the crystal was showing clear light. “Taylor.. Hilyard. Living in the Squalls?” He nodded. “Interesting computer screen.” “Hmm? Oh, yes. Flattened crystal ball. Works wonders compared to other monitors, and it doubles a scrying tool. Fitting the power cord into it was the hard part.” Kallie studied the screen. “Tell me something, Mr. Hilyard. Are you dead?” Taylor stared at her nonplused for a second, then said “No, I think I’d know if I was.” “Don’t be too sure,” she said absently. “Let’s see. Undead? Hmm, no. Unliving ... no... but we do have a death record for over a century ago in your name. No birth records, though.” “Oh, that. I was born in the wild, according to my family. I think it was really some legalities over the hospital bills and them not wanting to pay up.” Kallie nodded slowly, accepting the lie at face value, then brought up the bank balance and made a snap decision, printing off a picture and some business cards. “Welcome to Lost’n’Found, Mr. Hilyard. You’re first assignment will be to find courage for this man.” She handed him the picture and the shocked look on his face was worth all the half-glimpsed futures she could see. | Length of Entry: 1,195 |
3.11.2003My opinion is that [universities] don't stifle enough [writers]. There is many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher. The Writer woke up with a start, sitting up from the desk with a groan followed by a gasp at the shooting pains in his hand. Carpal tunnel, again. Wherever it was, whatever it was, it kept hitting him. Maybe trains came out of it in the night and drove through the veins in his hands. He’s never asked the doctor what it was when he was diagnosed, hoping that if he ignored it then the nagging pain would go away. It had worked for his wife, after all. He lit a cancer stick and looked in the bottom drawer for his usual pain remedy only to find that it was missing. The writer furrowed his brow, then looked at the notebook and realised he’d filled it half full - in his sleep. That was new. He normally never did that even during deadlines, and after his last article on ‘The City as the Macrocosm in Microcosm and Entropy as Developed by Departmental Neglect of Sewage Treatment Facilities and the Breakdown of the Bicaramel Mind.’ He began to reread and realized that, much to his delighted astonishment, he’d finished the entire first chapter. The meaning of life, The Truth begin the great facade that was the modern world, the answers to the questions of slavery and war and famine in a land of plenty. It was his masterwork, the Great Novel that would change the world. Unfortunately, just as it began to reach the meaning of life and the truth behind the cosmos his writing got severely cramped. If the Writer hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn he was writing in another language. He frowned, then read aloud “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh ...” Christ on a Crutch, either his spelling had deteriorated overnight or he had been writing about a throat infection. The Writer studied the notebook, oddly ill at ease, then shrugged, and decided he had been writing Tolkein Elvish. It’s the only possible explanation. Of course, he did write it in his sleep and it’s always possible that malignant alien forces has used him as a conduit for some dark, unholy power, but part of being a writer was having an imagination too big for your mind to contain so he ignored it as he had the idea that his dog had been replaced by an alien creature that hailed from Tindalos, according to the letters addressed to it from parts unknown. His wife leaving has just been hard on Buttercup, that was all. Mind you, her naming the Doberman Buttercup must have been hard in and of itself. Surely the time he’d chased that poor delivery boy who’d been babbling about being chased through time was just his natural behaviour asserting itself. Mind you, he’d still thwacked Buttercup hard on the nose for ripping off the boy’s head. .. Carter? Connor? Conner? John? Whatever his name was, something about a net in the sky. Well, this wasn’t getting any work done, but he did feel tired, as if something had sucked the life right out of him. Writing while sleeping must be harder than he’d thought. The Writer got up to feed buttercup and then crawled into bed to sleep, dreaming of Chapter Two but stuck on sex, drugs and hitting people with rocks, likely a holdover from the meaning of life. The Writer fell asleep with the words ‘That is not dead which can eternal die, And with strange aeons even death may lie’ running through his head and thinking that it was the stupidest thing he’d ever come up with. Bertha had been a bag lady for a long time. It had started with bags under her eyes from staying up with her younger siblings, then bags around her hips as she ate to deal with stress, then under her armpits and how, many years later, the bags were still under her eyes, but she was thin, and old, and her breasts were baggy now but she carried a lot of bags with her as well, the contents of which are best left a mystery. She liked being thin she’d found, even if her bones ached in most weather, but most of the girls in the City now worried her, in a motherly way. They were thin like sticks. Anything size 3 or less wasn’t a woman, it was a boy with breasts as far as she was concerned. Like that one running out of the apartment .... oh, wait, that was a boy. Fashion these days ... she sighed and shoved her cart over a crack, breaking the back of a young mother on the other side of the City unawares. Nathan Provis ran down the stairs, drawing air into his lungs and gasping as he shoved the door open and fled, his face chalk-white and eyes almost impossibly wide as he ran, and ran, and ran. A few people turned to watch as the sun was setting, some of them thinking they were seeing a ghost, others looking tired and sad and a few scornful smiles from those who had already walked through the flames and carried the ashes to prove it in their dead, empty eyes. Nathan saw nothing, not the buildings crumbling like Swiss cheese as he ran, getting more and more ruined and decayed, as if the City was giving a special showing of: Erosion: The Sightseeing Trip. A small, lonely voice inside his head screamed “You have to go back!” and he let out a low moan and half stumbled, almost falling. He staggered to his feet, wiping the stinging pain in his pale, uncallused hands on the jeans and left smears of blood behind as he staggered ahead, his breath coming in short, painful gasps as he finally staggered to a halt and collapsed against a wall, sobbing for breath. The sound of feet scraping gravel made him spin around wildly, fists clenched, but the oly person there was an older man with gray-white hair and a scraggly beard wearing clothing that looked as if it had been slept in for decades. Nathan stepped backwards, warily. “Leave me alone!” The old man gave him a sad half smile and Nathan mentally lowered his age by a decade. Or two. 50? 60? He couldn’t tell ... and, as Clarence had told him, it might not be really a man. “I could.” Nathan started at the calm, soothing tones. “What?” “I could leave you. But there are three children of the night following you, probably a vampire soon as well.” He stared into Nathan’s confused expression and sighed. “They’ll kill you, boy. If you’re lucky.” “And you won’t?” Nathan said, but he couldn’t bring anger into it. The old man gave him a shocked look, then laughed, a warm and friendly sound that weakened the horror a little bit. “Oh, no. I won’t kill you, or hurt you save in the ways people always hurt each other, I suppose.” He frowned, then shook his head. “No matter. The creatures will leave you if you’re with me, I have a certain reputation here.” Nathan’s back hit a wall and his mouth was dry. “What - what kind?” The old man’s smile widened. “I’m a Jess Ninnin.” He studied Nathan’s face. “I need better P.R., that’s what I need. Look, Nathan, I can help you. I might even do so. They won’t.” Nathan shook his head. “Stop.. playing with my head! How do you know my name!” Jess studied him for a long moment, then smiles wanly. “I’m not trying to play with your head. It’s just what I am, and your reaction to it.” “What are you?” Jess shrugged slightly, looking tired. “You prayed, I’m an answer. I am a messiah.” Nathan shoved his fist into his mouth, trying to hold back the horrible urge to giggle, then met the gaze of the other man. For a brief, terrible moment he saw the gods, around him, above him, their deeds and works, of how all things connected and that every thing, from a simple thought to what he would wear outside to turning a corner to blinking when he sneezed. It all mattered, all had purpose, planning, intent. He saw that it all mattered, that every little thing was terribly, fundamentally important; saw that the universe moved closer to death when he was unkind; saw that the flame of love flared and died and the end moved closer still; saw glimpses of patterns and stories and truths and lies in one orgasmic epiphany that left him clinging to the wall. He heard a strange, whimpering noise from some small animal and realised it was. his voice. A hand brushed his and the memory faded slightly, the world returning to the normal terrors he could at least deal with. He looked up, wondering if the very looking was destroying a star or dooming him to have gray hair before he was 30, and refused to meet Jess’ eyes, whispering “What ... what do you want?” “You called. I was here.” “I - I want.....” he stopped, painfully aware of what any want, any need, any desire could do, what watched and judged, what was moved and moving, and the only important thing was to stand and be and .... and ... Jess practically peeled him off the wall, helping him stand. “It’s all right.” “N - no, it’s not, it -. Clarence? Clarence....” “Shhhh.” Jess held him up. “It will be okay, Nathan. You can heal.” Nathan looked up, meeting deep, unfathomable eyes. “Can you heal him?” Jess stilled for a moment, something Nathan couldn’t understand flickering across his face, then shook his head. “The dead are beyond my power to raise, I am afraid. I can give you peace, though, for a time. Shelter, from the coming storm.” Nathan blinked. “Wh-?” and darkness fell. “-at are you thinking?” “That our chances of surviving this trip are somewhere around 50% since you opaqued the windows, to say nothing of the sound coming from the engines or the fact that the driver is on shrooms and will likely begin seeing pink elephants reciting the vedas and being interrupted ever 8 minutes by commercials about hair care products for Llamas in about ten minutes.” “.....” “Well, maybe not Llamas. I do hope we land soon, though. Where are we going?” Taylor shrugged. “You did say you wanted Lost’n’Found to find you your courage again.” Long pause. “Yes?” “Good. It shouldn’t be too hard. Oh, one minor thing: did you pay up front?” Longer pause. “Yes. I think I’m going to regret that, aren’t I?” Taylor shrugged again, his body language giving nothing away. “Being alive to be able to regret is generally a good thing.” Knort turned towards him, dark eyes studying Taylor and he shivered slightly, unable to escape the feeling that the other man was looking right into him, or though him. “Sometimes surviving is the cowards way.” Taylor blinked. “You’d rather have died?” “No, I’d rather have lived.” They passed the rest of the ride in silence, save for occasionally baaing from the driver in front. The cab stopped just as he was breaking into song: “The elephants are here, and they’re pink and they’re weird and they’re singing about john, and I need to be one, and the llamas are here, they are everywhere, something-something cheer, they are fixing up their hair!” “Victor?” “Yes, Thomas?” “I don’t think it was a suicide.” Victor Dillon turned towards his partner, then said very slowly. “You know what? I think you might be right.” Thomas gave him a worried smile and Victor ignored him, looking around. The apartment was a large bedroom, basic kitchen and a small living room. The kitchen was clean and used regularly, judging by the fridge. Not much in the way of dishes in the shelves, but a lot to drink and eat and most of it was non perishable. The bedroom was homey, clean and, as Thomas as said when he found the handcuffs, well-used. Victor walked into the living room, studying the old couch, and frowned slightly, sitting down beside the end table. It was .. ah. He touched it lightly and blinked as it moved slowly, and the computer came out of it. Well stored, hard to find ... and likely illegal, this being the gutters. “Thomas,” he called out, and Thomas came back in from examining the bathroom, blushing. Thomas was tall, gangling, trying to grow a moustache and almost desperately trying to fit in. Rookies could be like that, sometimes, but for all his obviously moronic comments he took in the computer without surprise. “There’s a small camera in the bedroom. I guess it’s wired into this, sir.” “It’s Victor. We’re partners. Anything else?” Thomas looked uncomfortable, then said “Knives, in the bathroom. And, ah, lots of medical things. I think they, err, did shows, sir - victor.” Victor blinked, studied the computer, then said. “You get into this. I’ll call HQ.” He returned twenty minutes later, swearing softly under his breath. “I don’t believe this. I don’t ... tell me you found something, Thomas.” Thomas looked up from the screen, his face pale, and nodded. “Something is - is right, Victor. Our victim -” “Clarence.” “Right, well, the other person with him, young man, long blond hair, feminine face. He could probably pass as a girl, if he wanted ...” “And?” “Clarence cut him, Vic. In these videos. Badly, sometimes. And ... this is the edited stuff. If there is original, it’s not on this machine.” The rookie looked back down at the screen, as if drawn to it. “We have a name, from some of the logs. Nathan. Recent friend. None of this is over three weeks old. Suburb kid, Victor, hands are too neat.” Victor nodded slowly. “That’s the best news all day.” Thomas looked up, shocked, and Victor raised a hand. “If we get a blood sample, they’re all on file. If he went home, we’ll find him. If he didn’t, we’ll know why he left.” Thomas shut the screen off, abruptly, then nodded. “Okay, sir. But what ...” Victor walked over and smiled. Thomas stood quickly, nervously. Victor was older, balding, a little fat, but that smile was downright spooky. “You’ll want a piece of the kid who did this, Thomas?” Thomas nodded, hesitantly. “It - it might not have been him, though. I mean, he looked ... scared to death. Did the autopsy say anything?” Victor continued to smile, turning the computer on and skimming pictures. “There isn’t one.” Thomas blinked. “But he was human. He looked human. He wasn’t a vamp, or anything.” Victor continued to skim pictures, flicking the noise off. “The hospital thought so, too. At least until he got up off the table and walked out. The usual method of walking, at least, but it does mean we need to find this Nathan boy, and quickly.” “The neighbours?” “They won’t tell us anything. Close it off, though. I’ve got a friend I’ll have look through it, and then open it up after. With any luck, Nathan or Clarence will come back. He shut the computer off, still smiling slightly. “We’re going to get something to eat, and brainstorm.” Taylor watched Knort carefully, studying the older man for some hint, some outward sign of his claim to have lost courage. But saw nothing. he could smell fear, though, but it was buried under an almost supernatural self control as Knort walked beside him, an ornate sword at his side. Knort was tall and whipcord-lean, with warm and friendly brown eyes and light brown hair in a simple buzz cut .He looked to be about 40 or so, with wrinkles, but there were students of his students training people in the city. Then there was his walk: relaxed, confident, the kind of ease you’d expect from a cat, the kind gained by being aware of his surroundings. Knort regarded Taylor in turn, and just said “You’re not armed.” Taylor nodded and kept walking, focusing inward. Knort studied the other man, noticing the wariness behind this confident air and his own instinct of keeping his sword between them, even though it struck him as useless. Curious. He shrugged and looked around, frowning. The area they were entering was empty, but didn’t feel deserted. The homes were old, even for the City, and rather plain. The streets were empty of vehicles and lights as if no one had walked here in centuries. And there was a smell in the air, of fresh air, trees, a wild smell that he figured the wilds must smell like, but queer too, fading in and out as if it was a ghost of this place. Knort paused, frowning, and stepped closer to the buildings, noting they looked them same still and paused, moving to the sidewalk. there was a small fence running along the grass, which was brown and very short. The fence had rotted away for the most part, but he could see a few posts. It had gone around the properties. All of them. He turned back to Taylor, who was studying the road sign, and walked over. Something in his walk must have altered the other man because Taylor turned. “Yes?” “These are suburban homes. They had picket fences, didn’t they. White ones.” Taylor just nodded, unsurprised. “Where in the name of the gods are we?” Taylor half shrugged, but he caught a glimpse of humour in his too-pale eyes. “Roanoke Flats,” calmly, as if discussing the weather. Knort stopped at that, and Taylor drew back at his expression. “I said you to find my courage, not take me to my death.” Taylor just stared at him, then said “Facing death is what gives us courage, holding on that extra moment, against the odds - ” Knort cut him off harshly. “What do you know of odds, boy? I was there. For 10 years, my men and I held Fiat Lux against the darkness. Alone. With no aid. Nothing could reach us, pretty soon no one tried. Most of my people died there, and none of us made it out whole.” He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them Taylor saw the horror lurking inside them. He stepped back, slowly, the humour gone from his eyes. “Even so. We can’t find it unless you’re willing to make the journey.” Knort stared at him, then said “And why do you think I paid this money, then?” “For a good excuse for when you fail,” Taylor said, hampered somewhat by avoiding a sword thrust to the chest. Pain lanced through his hand as Knort drew the blade out, his expression ugly, and needing. Taylor caught the other man’s scent and moved, without warning. He got two blows in before Knort’s blade when snicker-snack and he half-stumbled back, his left leg buckling. Knort took two steps towards him and coughed, falling to the ground and holding his throat. Taylor studied the body carefully, looking tired, then froze as 5 dark, dead trees changed, flowing beneath the dim light coming through the clouds and becoming thin, creatures with glittering eyes under dark bark, oozing sap as they walked. Taylor swore, softly, as the asphalt hisses under their steps and knew he was in trouble. One, or even two he could take. But five... five was bad. He stepped towards them slowly as they began to spread out, then took a deep breath and shrilled, the battle cry ringing over the empty streets flatly, causing no echoes. There was no answering cry in reply so Taylor leapt at the closest, breaking it’s neck with a quick, well-placed kick. He was turning towards the others even as it fell, and managed to avoid the second. They were fast, almost as fast as he was, and he was alone. Taylor smiled at the four then, his expression almost feral. “Come, then, creatures of the fear.” The song inside him answered, singing to the sky, and the stars, and moon and he leapt, dancing with his death as he moved in and out with gay abandon. A second fell, but his arm was burning and the song faded slightly for a moment. Taylor stopped, moving back from the remaining three, but they weren’t going ot let him get away, or give him time. He reached inside them, but nothing answered and the five bark-men came closer, feeding on his sudden fear. Then there were two. And before they had time to react, there were two. The land froze as Taylor moved, and Knort’s sword cut once, twice, and was sheathed with no wasted moment. He studied the trees carefully, then walked over to his own body and regarded it, then Taylor. “You killed me.” Taylor nodded. “You’re better than I thought.” Taylor nodded again, then smiled slightly. “I wasn’t sure if whatever is here could copy us, but it seemed safer to play weak.” Knort just grunted, then looked curious. “How did you know?” Taylor shrugged his hurt arm. “Your smell changed.” Knort looked down at the body, then said “My sword has silver in it, earth, moon and sky all wound together.” Taylor nodded. “It was quite sharp.” Knort stopped moving for a second, and his scent changed. Taylor froze as it changed back, looking shocked. “How - ?” Knort grinned, but it failed to reach his eyes. “I had a finder on me, once. I had to evade him.” Taylor stared at him, then said “You .. changed your nature? That’s not possible.” “Smell is easier, but still hard.” Knort’s smile reached his eyes. “The finder thought so, too, until I ran a sword through his chest. I can do anything I have to.” Taylor gave a half bow, but looked tired. “You have to get courage again, if you lost it at all.” Knort blinked, then said “I didn’t get it,” very mildly. “But ... you took on three of those. Alone.” “I knew they’d win, if I wasn’t fast enough. That’s not courage, it’s suicide.” Taylor stopped walking, and looked at him. “Maybe for someone else. But if you think you don’t have it, we will have to continue.” Knort looked taken aback for a moment. “Your arm?” Taylor shrugged, wincing. “It will heal,” but he knew Knort picked up the unspoken I think. Knort gave a half-bow in return. “Good call, by the way. Second generation teacher?” Taylor nodded. “Janeen.” Knort looked surprised. “You must have impressed her, for a dog catcher.” If Taylor was surprised at that, it didn’t show. “We can’t remain here.” Knort nodded and fell into step beside him. “You’re rather skilled.” Taylor snorted, surprising them both. “Skilled? Compared to you? Most non-humans aren’t as skilled as you.” Knort chuckled, then, and continued to walk. “Come now, I’ve never claimed to be human.” and left the other man to fall behind as he walked towards the heart of the empty place, humming cheerfully. | Length of Entry: 3,833 |
4.11.2003| Moonlight limmed the clouds like lace, satin and not satan beneath the pale clouds, hand wrapped in cloth the land not yet sated, but hungry, it’s voice a dry whisper of crackling leaves edged with diamond. In the stillness between pale eyes meet dark eyes, bodies moving in an unrehearsed dance. Every moment is known, thought comes before action. Cause, and effect. They dance with the moonlight and fear of living and dying, drawn together by unshared knowing they make no peace but wait for courage and then death. The Fear comes from the normal homes, from the perfect places that hide everything that is wrong, but everyone knows them and no one will speak. The Fear takes from their minds, half-buried terrors of childhood, irrational dreams of suicidal leaping into marshmallows, carnivorous tomatoes and the hidden things that children see but never speak at all. Things forgotten the Fear showed; truths buried beneath memory; dreams lost and hopes tarnished; and all those things unsaid to the living and to the dead. The pale-eyed man broke first. Moonlight and song twinned themselves in a cry but Fear is not afraid. The sword still sheathed the dark eyed man Met Fear with bitter scorn, and for all his aches and all his pain, he’d never not be born. For a moment be hung between midnight and the morn then reached a hand and stepped away as though his heart was torn. The pale-eyed man let out a cry and this I tell you, it’s no lie, the very trees in Roanoke the very trees did sigh and some little fears, they died And the pale eyes looked inside and did not run, nor did they hide. The Fear rose up and showed them truths as bitter as can be And can tell you that those visions would kill you or me. But each one stood because the other did and pride’s a sin they say But they managed to turn and walk and live another day. Their eyes with dark and bitter things, and both bled somewhere deep inside but courage is standing up for those who do the same for you, and if they spoke or what they said, there’s not a one who knows but they left Roanoke together beaten but not broken and what they left of themselves inside, why that no man has known but some say new fears are living there and others that hope took root as well when moonlight limmed the clouds. Kallie Jax stood with a sigh, shutting the computer off, and walked outside, taking the stairs to the roof for some fresh air. The clouds seemed to have a silver lining under the moon and she studied them for awhile, looking for omens or messages of some kind, then concluded it might rain tomorrow and there were too many suggestively shaped clouds for her liking. You’d think divinities would have something better to do with their time than turn scenery into pornography. The city is quiet, at least. from the rooftop. The Dome is visible, at least the lower parts below the clouds, and 4 Freedoms to the north. She deliberately didn’t look towards Fiat Nox to the south, not quite trusting herself to not try and see things about it and not trusting herself to survive that kind of seeing. She’d heard it had once shone brightly, but the City changed and the Mayor’s father allied the 13 ‘scrapers together to unify the city. Fiat Nox was first breached a year after his becoming mayor of the City and he had died a week later, on his birthday. The Mayor had tried to hold it after, and Knort and his chosen few held it for 10 long years before the survivors came out ... she remembered the look in his eyes when he’d first come into her office five years later, haunted by his own demons and desperate for aid. Five more it had taken him to admit what was lost, and she’d sent Taylor out with him on a whim. No, not a whim, there was more to him than there appeared to be, but there was more to everyone than others ever saw. People are complicated, and seers knew that perhaps better than anyone else save sensitives. Kallie shook her head slowly, studying the cramped back alleys and run-down tenements and sighed. This was getting her nowhere, and so .... The City changes, everything changes. To those who have eyes that will see. A few can perceive that everything is illusion. There is only the present. There is the here. And sometimes, the now. Here/Now. To the seer it runs deeper. Future and past mingle like drunken dancers. There is the present. Cause, and effect. Motion, and commotion. Song, and silence. What was, what will be. There is always what is. This we have, is ours. It is an undiscovered country in itself. The business of the gods, if there is such a thing, is to ensure the natural order of things, as they understand it. To make sure that like is attracted to like, that things end, and other things begin, to open a door and close another, that effect follows cause. It is not an easy thing, maintaining a universe. Gods are tired, and hungry, and blood an sustain some of them, the ones that run the universes. Loa, we all these spirits. Leave of absence, lack of attention, level of authority, life of agony... and, perhaps, Kallie thought wryly, list of acronyms. Strange indeed are the names we give to spirits and gods, and stranger still their war against us. We’re always seeking the easy way, forgetting that the easy ways are what make rivers crooked, forging links between the future and past and worlds that never were in our heads and hearts and words, What wonder, that, that the gods grow tired, and angry, and petty. We draw them down to our level, and then we remake them in our image. Tit for tat. Kallie sighed, shaking her head, dismissing visions and dreams with a soft prayer to the goddess who watches over all and went back inside. More reading, then the search will begin, and she would see if a woman could succeed where a man could not and find the holy grail. Victor Dillon looked around the room carefully, taking in the old hole in the yellow wall that had once in white and the grey-brown tiles that looked as if the dirt embedded in them would never come out and said “Coffee. No food,” briskly. Thomas Stratton rolled his eyes when he thought Victor wasn’t looking - someday soon Victor would explain that a police officer must always be looking - and apologized to the young waitress, who just took his order and left. Victor turned to his partner as he got out his notebook, and said “Momma’s Pit Stop. Again. Why do you like this place?” Thomas shrugged. “It has atmosphere.” “It probably has things living in the atmosphere we don’t want to think about.” “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.” “If I dared you, would you go into the kitchen?” Thomas paled slightly, opened his mouth, closed it, coughed, then said “Some things are best left as mysteries,” stiffly.. Victor kept a straight face and just nodded, then looked at his notebook as the coffee arrived. “All right. Cases. We’ve got the murdered dead body that walked away, the pirate wanting us to find a parrot he claims his crew and .. ” “A vampire kitten.” “A what?” “Well, it’s white, flies and apparently flew off with a, err, small dog.” “Who called it in?” “Anonymous tip. HQ gave it to us.” “I’ll have to talk to switchboard. Vampire kittens are urban legends, Thomas.” “Even if it has a name?” “A .. .name.” “The anonymous informant said it was called Erwin.” “.... how did our anonymous friend know that?” “... maybe it was the kitten?” Victor coughed, almost spilling his drink, and glared at Thomas, who began to pick at his fries and finally looked up with a grin. “Yes?” “Ask HQ what the voice sounded like.” “You’re not serious, are you?” “Yes, Officer Stratton, I am. And if they give you any grief, ask them how the hell that idiot looking for his parrot -” “Drake.” “Yes, ask how his damned boat ended up on fourth avenue, not just how it got impounded.” “Uh, right.” “Before that, let’s go over the murder. We’ve got one dead body, that walked away, and also made illegal porn videos of his boyfriend and himself. And cut up his boyfriend - what was the name on the video?” “Nathan,” said Thomas, looking pale, but he did continue to eat the fries. “Right. So, say our suburbanite snaps and kills him ...” “Doesn’t explain the look of horror.” “No, it doesn’t. And there are no wounds.” “Magic?” Thomas said hesitantly. “Let’s not complicate things. We know he’s human, if he’s from the ‘burbs .The gutter doesn’t change someone that fast, normally. So maybe be offered someone something, and got our dead friend killed.” “His soul?” Victor sipped his coffee. “Okay, say he did, then why would the dead body get up and leave?” “Maybe he gave it to the demon?” Victor blinked, then stared at Thomas. “Nice idea, but the hospitals ward themselves against that sort of thing these days. And I don’t see Nathan being able to work around that. Of course, the demon might have been minor and not known. It could have gone for the soul in the hospital and been unable to get it...” Thomas grinned. “And that would live Clarence’s soul in the body to walk it around and look for revenge?” Victor nodded. “It might work. Either than or someone else came by and they botched the job. Either way, Nathan is in trouble and we need him found. But we also need to sleep sometime this night, so.....” he put his notebook away and dug out his cell phone, punching a number in. “Jack? Vic here. Yep. She’s fine. Uh huh. Okay. Yeah, just a kid. Nathan, burbs, here for three weeks. Uh huh. Yeah, will have you added ... oh. Well. You sure you’re to - uh huh. Yep. Yep. Yeah. Sure, no that works too. Has she done it before? For you, when - oh. I wondered about that. No, no, it’s fine. Just a missing kid after all. Yeah.. You, too. Night.” He hung up the phone. “A PI friend of mine is going to have his ex look into it.. we can give them 2 days before we can officially put him down as missing. He’ll look at the scene tomorrow morning, and then it’ll be unlocked in case our boy returns, or the dead one does.” He finished his coffee, then says “Can you hurry? I’d like to go to the washroom, and the one in this place is probably condemned.” | Length of Entry: 1,840 |
5.11.2003The story - from Rumplestiltskin to War and Peace - is one of the basic tools invented by the human mind, for the purpose of gaining understanding. There have been great societies that did not use the wheel, but there have been no societies that did not tell stories. “I’m going to tell you a story, my dear. I know, you’re getting a bit old for this, and you don’t want it, but this story is different. You see, unlike the story about the 747 dragons or the mad wizard Oppenheimer or even the three fat little pigs that were eaten by the starving wolf who was supposed to be on weight watchers - and a vegan. No, not Vulcan, vegan. Oh, I suppose the vulcans don’t eat meat as well, but they’re fictional. That means someone made them up and made lots and lots of money selling stories about them to others. The tape recorder? Oh, that’s just in case we sell these stories, too. “What? No, we won’t be sharing profits. You’ve been talking to your uncle Bill for a bit o much, I think. Now, listen to be. This is a story about a girl and a boy who loved each other very much. And about their children, and their enemies, and even a ghost. Oh, there has to be ghosts in stories, just so we’re sure they’re stories. Now, shush. “Very well. A long time ago there as a king named Arthur. He ruled over a fair land that stretched from sea to shining sea and had a wife named Jennifer, just like you. Now, Arthur gained his throne by deceit and treachery, sleeping with Jennifer while disguised as another, her rightful husband, Urther. There had been a greet conclave held, and Arthur cheated and pulled votes from stones, and under rocks, and out of thin air with the aid of his knights, and Merlin, who was his publicist and spoke newspeak and doubespeak but never, ever lied. “Oh, a sword in a stone? No, that was a stone named Monica and the sword was Clinton. Never mind. I’ll explain it when you’re older. “Now, as I said, Arthur wedded Jennifer, us, and - yes, I do mean us. He wedded the land, because of his skills in having the last name of his father and knowing how much people can take before they snap, and pushing it. He redrew lines, and anyone who thought knew he’d lied yet few did anything. Perhaps few of them thought at all. “Now, the king had many sons in many lands, ones that the kingdom had trained over the years and neglected or betrayed. One such was a ghost, stolen from a bard long past who might not have been the bard and could have been a queer spy, a queen, an earl, the man who brought tobacco to England or even a “learned pig.” The ghost had bin dead for a long time, but was not dead, or even a ghost, except perhaps the spectre haunting arthurianism, the spectre of justice. “Of course, justice doesn’t exist, but neither does love - such is the result of psychological opacity, much like crime being caused by psycho-socioeconomic factors, according to Arthur. Men never like to take the blame for when things go wrong, so he blamed Jennifer when she began to see a new love, Lancunlot, un for short, because the poor boy spent most of his time grunting and never doing - what? Oh, sorry. Arthur? My fault. I was thinking of my acceptance speech. “Now, then... ah, yes. Lancunlot... he was a metrosexual, so some thing that he was playing both sides of the fence with Arthur and Mordred. Mordred? Oh, no, not a goth, dear. He was a child of Arthur by Jennifer, really. A child of us, and he rose in rebellion and Arthur made war on him for things done by the ghost who has bin gone for a long time. What? Yes, longer than when this story began. “And so it came to pass that they met on the fields of war, and Mordred died several kinds of death, some of them real, but Arthur was slain as well for now even the word-magic of Merlin could save them, for Merlin was enraptured with Nimue, of the news, who trapped and pinned his magic and forced him to say things that were not true, but still not lies.. And Arthur? Oh, he sailed away to Avalon which has never existed. To sleep and wake again when needed. “Why? Because sometimes, darling, the world needs people to do what must be done, and sometimes to be saved it has to be lied to. And sometimes there are no heroes, just villains who have yet to show their true colours. And sometimes there are just people. Good night.” It is not easy to find happiness in ourselves, and it is not possible to find it elsewhere.Morning came to the City, bathing the skyscrapers in a pale amber light reflecting off a few windows where the industrious were already hard at work, or had never slept. Outside the city it bathed the suburbs, reflecting equally off every building as the designers had intended. The only people awake were those who could not sleep. The sunbeams went down the skyscrapers, passing through clouds to be a pale haze in the darkness of the gutters, but still brought with them a kind of silence as dreams and nightmares slipped away into the ether or closets or even the subtle worlds, waiting for darkness to free them once again. Dawn found one man in the gutters wide awake, cigarette dangling from his mouth and typing one handed, the other clutching his salvation and rubbing his fingers along it’s smooth coldness. He raises the hand and took a long drink from the whiskey bottle, pressing it against his eyes to counter the achy feeling behind them, and lowered it to the ground to join the other discards. Taking a deep breath, the writer began to fill another page, the words seeming to pour out of him in a torrent of disjointed images, half-recalled words. He’d changed pens, but it didn’t matter. Whatever he was writing was coming out of some deep place in his mind, and was demanding to be written down. It was like the time he began channeling Hemmingway, but less arduous, less like he’d write for pages and pages about the same subject with no pause, about the sun over the dappled hills and the gray skies at noon reflecting the tumultuous waters in the soul of .... The Writer whimpered, dropping the pen. No, not that again. This was better, even if the words kept changing on the pages... anything was better... anything at all... The church hasn’t always been a church, the Acolyte II realised when he found the dead moose hanging in the closet. It was shrink wrapped and someone had put a bow tie on it a long time back. The live goat was shivering in the back and making little noises, but was still alive. at least. He knew that his predecessor, the Acolyte I, had lost his job for bringing in the first black goat in the trunk of his car, and forgetting to allow it to breathe. II hadn't made that error, but what he was going to do with a trunk with holes punched through it hadn't really occurred to him yet. It didn't matter. When the stars became right, the Great Old Ones would fix everything. And maybe upgrade his engine. He left the closet, reaching the kit - holy Sanctuary to see the Master putting the three chickens in the oven, and desultorily spreading the ashes of the Acolyte I over them, chanting to himself, or was it herself?. The Master turned and the Acolyte II shivered slightly at the gaze that bore its way into him, then spoke: “I am here. I am here. Here I am.” “That here you are, that here you are. I do not like here you are! Do you have the goat?” “I do, I do have it, here I am. I do have the black goat for you.” “Would you bring it out to me? Would you bring it to your house? Would you bring it with a mouse?” “I do not like the black ghost. Here I am. it is here.” “Did you, did you put it in a box? Did you paint it neon black?” “I did not, did not, paint your goat.” “Would you, could you, in a car?” “I could not, would not, in a car.” “How about a boat?” “What?” “A pink one.” “Master?” The Acolyte VI looked at the collection of black goats frozen in the freezer and wondered if, perhaps, this was not going to be an easy job . He entered the kitchen, coughing at the amount of dust (ash?) in the air. The figure somewhere in the middle, seeming to look both squamous and gibbous at the same time, turned towards him and said: “Do you have the damned thing?” He nodded. “Good. Bring it in here.” He nodded again and left to get the goat from the truck, hoping and praying to the Great Old Ones that the dye wouldn’t run - at least now he knew where all the black goats in the City had been. “Victor?” “Yes, Thomas?” “We have another one.” “Case?” “No, caller.” “And?” “Writer. Says someone is stealing pages from his book.” “What, ripping them out?” “No, from it as he’s writing it. In pen. In his notebook.” “Thomas, this is going to be a very long week. Hang up on him, and go back to trying to find out who is stealing goats from the petting zoo.” “It gets worse. Someone broke in and stole a small miniature last night.” “A miniature goat. Black?” “No, white. I think they’re out of black.” “Check to see if anyone reports a theft of paint cans then.” “Right.” | Length of Entry: 1,610 |
6.11.2003| Kallie wrapped the shawl tighter around herself and shivered, picking up her pace. Three hours so far, and all she’s gotten for her pains was the potential of a cold and the name Sangreal, apparently a reclusive sort who knew where it was. Shw shoved a few wispy strands of hair out of her face, scowling, and sighed. She needed the money, but clients without identities putting money in her bank account to find legends was more than a little silly. At least it was a good sum of money, and things were slow while everyone waited for winter to come. It was the figure in the alleyway, raggedy and wraithlike, that caught her attention. Kallie half turned, and it became a full turn hen she saw the two men behind her. They were tall, likely weighed twice what she did at the least and had rather wicked, ugly knives in their hands. Kallie spared a moment to wonder what they went in under as employees and faced them calmly. “You know, Christof never ceases to amaze me.” The first man scowled but the second one smiled. “I don’t know who you are talking about,” he said pleasantly. “We’re just here to give you some advice.” Kallie smiled. “I suppose then, that those knives are to be your sharp tongues?” The first man growled and advanced. “What, nothing about giving me sharp?” Kallie stepped backwards. “I do have to admit that Christof knows how to hire stereotypical goons...” The first man leapt forward, aiming to cut, left arm, upper bicep, tricep, something like that. Kallie waited, then took two steps the left, turned, avoid, stepped, avoided. The second would do nothing, she knew. It was her, the hands, the knife - oh, knives. Four half-steps, spin. She tangled one up in the coat, palmed the taser.... it worked, didn’t work, turned into a green hippo and danced away ... she hesitated, pressed. Nothing. Spin, leap, stumble over garbage, step ... need to get cut... in, out, hesitation, surprise... her hand met his throat, blood tricking down her left arm ... The second man stared at her, no longer smiling. Kallie smiled brightly and met his gaze. “I assume Chris wants me to not look for the Grail?” He nodded, not bothering to deny, and stepped forward. “No,” she said, and he stopped. “Listen to be, Benjamin Keele. If you persist in your current line of work, you will die within 48 hours.” He stepped backwards, his expression frozen somewhere between terror and disgust. “Witch.” Kallie shook her head. “Hardly, but it is the truth. You can ask your friend with the annulment on to verify it if you want. I don’t lie; I have better things to go with my time.” Ben paled slightly, his eyes flickering to her left, then reached for his gun. Kallie hesitated for a moment, not sure why .... Oh. Making her decision, she spun and ran into the alley to her left. She had time to hear his startled shout, and that of the invisible .. woman, it sounded like .. and ran, turning right then right, twice more.. and of course ending up .... Kallie stopped. Well, this being the City ending where she had began was unlikely, even after running around the building, but a camp of Roman Legionnaires was a bit much. Dead ones, at that. Playing strip poker. She closed her eyes from the image and heard a strange hissing as a few turned, having noticed her. There were smiles. Kallie blanched as the smell wafted her way and managed a smile back.: “Sorry, I didn’t bring any cards.” One of them chuckled. “Don’t need cards,” in rasped. “Ah, and I forgot my purse at home,” she said, backing up slowly. “We need more chips,” a few whispered in a strange chorus. Kallie saw the knives, saw the victims, and bolted back the way she’d come, with the dead legion shambling after her slowly. Poker with the dead was one thing, being skinned alive to be turned into poker chips something else altogether. Kallie passed herself coming, or going, or perhaps it was from last week. She made a mental note to start wearing different colours each day and headed back to the office, whistling to herself. Of course, it was turning out to be one of those days, which was why three ghosts trailed after her looking for a Christmas to be ghosts of and a vampire in an angel costume ran into the sunlight screaming “Sam I am!” accompanied by the smell of burnt flesh and singing amazing grace painfully off key. Being a seer, she stopped to warn two people about not getting married unless they rather liked the idea of strangling each other with silk rope that was really the intestines of her father. Being Kallie, she was rained on from below by a rather drunken rain god who kept giggling and saying “Are you singing in the rain yet?” for a good 10 minutes. Fortunately, the rest of the trip was quiet and Christof’s goons didn’t show up again. She shook out her pants on the welcome mat and opened the door, giving a relieved sigh as the warmth struck her face, then realized it was too warm and stopped, considering leaving again. The last thing she needed was a demon for a client. Or maybe Christof was desperate. Kallie grimaced and stepped inside quickly, wondering what she’d fine, or be found by. There were wards she knew, a few invocations, but nothing that would stop a demon. With a soft curse, she opened the sight wide.... and blinked, as she saw nothing ...... and wards, cold and thin, hard and well made... deep barriers, in the mind, in the aura. Demons don’t ward themselves..... do they? She paused to put her coat in the closet calmly and stepped down the hallway. The door was half open and she could hear the faint clink of a glass and something being poured. She entered quickly, shoving the door open and wishing she’d remembered to bring a weapon and stopped, seeing Taylor looking at her from beside the desk. He looked as startled, then said “You do remember me, right?” “Those are my private bottles,” she said, referring to the port in his hand. “How did you find them?” Taylor gave a half shrug. “You hired me to find things, remember? I just got some use out of it. And besides, the stoers are closed at this hour. It’s ... “ he frowned “two hours after dawn. I know why I’m still up at this ungodly hour, but why’re you?” “I woke up early. And it’s not ungodly.” “You’re telling me there are gods for the hours just after dawn?” “Yes.” “What do they do, demand worshippers give them caffeine?” Kallie shook her head. “Hardly, and it’s not wise to speak ill of any gods.” “Not even Starbucks?” “I thought it was a coffee chain.” “Coffee chain, God, not much difference. It’s everywhere as well, and it makes you feel good, and it’s more expensive than it should be.” Kallie stared at him and Taylor gave her a tired half-smile. “It was a long night.” “How did it go?” Taylor shrugged, then pointed to an envelope on the table. “He gave a bonus, and found courage. And if we ever need some help, he’s willing to give us a discount rate.” Kallie stared at the other man, surprised, then said “What did you do?” “Well, I took him to Roanoke flats, and killed him. After that, it was just a matter of meeting what was there and going back home.” | Length of Entry: 1,281 |
7.11.2003| “You went to Roanoke. Right. That was it?” she asked sarcastically. “Well, on the way back we ran into Gehenna.” “You.. ran into Hell?” “Huh? No, street sanitation service.” “.. named after hell?” “Knort asked them. Apparently it’s really a reference to a burning trash heap, so was used to describe hell. The trash is thrown in, impurities burned away. Utter destruction, as it were.” “I’ve never heard of them before.” “You won’t again. Knort asked them how burning trash could apply if they burned tires since tires don’t burn and they got al fanatical on us. The usual ‘thou shalt not covet winter tires in summer’ and ‘tires are sin’ comments. So he killed them.” “Please tell me you’re joking.” Taylor grinned. “Well, about the commandments part, yes. They actually decided we were trash, or took exception to Knort’s sword - no idea really.” Kallie nodded, then said “Who taught you warding?” If he was surprised by the change of subject, Taylor didn’t show it. “An old friend. She’s dead now.” “And you use them to ...?” “Not be bothered by people,” he said evenly. “And if I asked?” “I won’t tell you.” “There is nothing wrong with not being human,” Kallie said gently. Taylor looked down, as if surprised he was still holding the glass, then owned the port in one go. He looked up at her, and there was a pain in those pale eyes she couldn’t meet, something lonely and very, very lost. “The problem isn’t not being human, it’s not knowing what I am,” he said, very quietly. “I could See, if you want.” Taylor shook his head. “The one who taught me wards tried a seeing. It nearly killed her.” Kallie studied Taylor carefully, then nodded. “Well, time is money ... catch some sleep, if you can, and go to the Downs, over by Parker Drive. My ex called about a missing person he’d like looked into. Name of Nathan, unknown parents, likely from the ‘burg. He could be in trouble...” “Well, no doubt about it, boy, you are in trouble.” Nathan woke to pale sunlight filtered through the clouds and a musty smell of old sleeping bag under him, blinking in confusion as he dug himself out of the nest of bags, struggling to hold back a yawn. He was sure he’d been holding something, for warmth, but his hands were empty so Clarence must .... oh. Jess Ninnin watched the expressions play over the young mans face and shook his head slowly. Nathan blinked up at the messiah, startled, then said “I slept in your ...” he studied the pile of sleeping bags and clothing “.. bed. I’m sorry.” “Why? I put you in there.” “But where did you sleep?” Jess smiled slowly and saw the look of sudden horror on Nathan’s face followed by a struggle for a polite expression. “I didn’t.” Nathan stood slowly, looking pale. “But -” “I meditated. You slept.” “Oh.” “You’re disappointed?” “No!” “Why not?” “Clarence -” “Is dead. Clinging to the past won’t help you. And I am a messiah, after all.” “So you say,” Nathan said, starting to look angry. “If you knew anything about messiahs, boy, you wouldn’t ask me for proof.” Nathan met his gaze and held it. “Prove it,” he said softly, a reckless gleam in hs eyes. Jess stared at him then laughed abruptly, and very softly. “Not today, Nathan Provis. If you seek your death, do so on your own time.” Nathan blinked, looked about to reply, and just stared at him. “I see in your heart. Yes, your first love has died, but there will be other loves. and, if you are lucky and live to be very old and forget everything, you may have a first love again, Or every week, as the case might be.” “But ... he loved me.” “And your parents didn’t?” “No,” one word, flat and final. “You’d be surprised, I think. Love takes many forms, and pure love is rare, and never lasts.” “They wanted to sacrifice me on an altar to a demon.” Jess hesitated a moment, then said “Perhaps because they loved you? You’d be amazed how many years of tuition you can get for the price of a soul.” Nathan’s jaw dropped and he stared, stunned. Jess saw the question in his eyes, and gave a half-shrug. “Only three of four. Inflation rates don’t apply to souls.” Nathan managed to close his mouth with a snap.” “Oh, and the police are going to want to ask you questions, so you may want to return home.” “What?” Jess sighed. “To whatever apartment you were living at. Answer questions, point out the real killer, hire a lawyer...” “A - but I didn’t kill him!” “And the police will believe you ... why?” “Because I didn’t!” Jess stared at him. “I didn’t!” “I never said you did.” “You could tell them for me!” Jess shook his head. “The police and I don’t get along. Minor matter of a miracle involving whipping cream, the blind mice, a black cat, a Mormon tabernacle choir from hell, and pictures of the chief’s grandmother in - never mind. It’s probably best you don’t know. I am certain he’s no longer an atheist, though.” “The police are looking for you?” “No, they stopped that after shooting me a few times in a back alley and killing me.” “.....” “I got better. But the police are not your friends. I know what evil lurks in the hearts of men, and most of them - well, positions of authority attract those who like to abuse them. And they get big guns. You do the math.” “Aren’t you a bit cynical for a messiah?” Nathan snapped. “I have a right to be. The messiah of some no-name desert god invented by people suffering from heat stroke gets to die and return before hundreds, but I got shot to death in an alleyway. And for all my talents, the tax collectors are still after me, probably inventing new forms for someone who dies then comes back and wants his house again.” Nathan just stared at him. Jess Ninnin sighed, then said “It’s up to you, boy. But you have nowhere to sleep, very little money, no clothing and you’re from the ‘burbs. I’ve put a blessing on you, but it won’t last forever.” “A .. blessing?” “Yes, you remind me of my daughter.” Nathan stepped back as if he’d been slapped, his face burning and then it was simply too much. “It’s not my fault!” “I never said it was,” said the messiah evenly. “I was supposed to be like my brothers. Rugged, handsome. No one knows what went wrong...” “Some thing always does,” Jess said, but Nathan ignored him. “My parents hated it, didn’t know how to deal with me. They had things done to me because they never wanted me. Volunteered me, for things. And there were drugs, and tests, and people. Poking and giving me cards, and asking what I thought of stupid paper with ink blots on it, and my parents realising they had no choice but it was too late, and I knew them too well.” He finally looked up at Jess, the pain in his eyes at odds with the bland expression and emotionless delivery. “Then they were angry I wasn’t what they’d expected.” “They made you who you are,” Jess said carefully. “No. I do that. I’m not a - a toy, a thing. I don’t belong to them. I belong to me!” “Ah. And you told them that?” Nathan stepped passed Jess, walking towards the door. “No. I told them I forgave them, because they’d been hurt, because they hadn’t really lived, and because if I didn’t I’d never forgive myself.” The messiah watched the young man leave, then laughed, a soft and ugly sound. “I wonder if you’ll ever know how easily you destroyed them, boy.,” he said quietly. “Ripping the scales off of people’s hearts without even knowing it, throwing truth at them when all we want is a nice, comforting lie. If I had known, I would not have blessed you. “Forgive.... some things cannot be forgiven, should not be forgiven. You’ll learn that, but still forgive, if you survive, if you have aid.” He shook his head slowly. “But I promised to not hurt you, save in the way everyone hurts each other.” Jess Ninnin walked outside, smiling slightly, and calmly announced “Love hurts,” to the world at large. | Length of Entry: 1,417 |
8.11.2003The lowest depth to which people can sink before god is defined by the word “journalist”- Kierkegaard Kyle Aimsley surveyed the crowd, noting amusement, bitterness, boredom, coldness, cynicism, disgust, dislike, and even distrust. He would have noticed disapprobation, displacency, disrelish and odium as well, if he had known what they were. As it was, he was having disturbing images of the podium as a kind of gallows as he shuffled some papers and waited for the crowd to quiet. It was his favourite part of the briefing, waiting for the press to shut up. Eventually, they did. They almost always did, which was why he’d brought tums. And pour a lot of gin in his water bottle. The sea of expectant faces with pens poised reminded him of a ravenous beast waiting to devour him: I dub thee .. paparazzi! Perhaps staying up all night to polish the speech had been a bad idea after all. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he said into the waiting, hungry silence, “The Mayor has asked me to present you a briefing of his plans for the City in the coming weeks.” He paused to allow them to realise how privileged they were to be getting this information, but there were no awed gasps. If they’d seen the things he’d seen... “The Mayor has great plans for the city in the coming week. The budget remains balanced.” Easy to do if you threaten to sick astral disco parasites on the financial planners. “Petro gas stations are doing very well in the suburbs and expansion into the rural areas is preceding as planned.” “Kyle, what about the rumours of animal sabotage?” Figures, it was Anne. Sleep with a journalist and she thinks she owns you. Bitch. “I believe they are rumours, as you said. We see no need to deny or confirm or even address such issues. Animals are not sentient, nor do they protest urban development. If they did that, they would be having protests outside farms and urging people to go vegan.” There were a few dutiful laughs and Kate glowered at him, looking like a humanoid hippo. Perhaps she was one; it would explain her asking about the rumours. He waited, glaring at the crowd, preparing his repartee, though why he had to re-part his hair he wasn’t sure. “Mr .. Aimsley, what about the unconfirmed reports that the City has been forcibly relocating citizens from the wilds into the gutters?” “The underdeveloped urban areas are not “gutter” as you call them, and an unconfirmed report is a rumour.” “Maybe we can’t confirm it because our reporters keep getting killed.” “Then maybe you should join them?” Kyle asked sweetly. The reporter glares up at him, adjusting his glasses. “That is in very poor taste.” “It’s the only kind of taste you understand, I’m afraid.” “Mr. Aimsley, how about you answer a question instead of attempting to use your wit.” “It would help if you asked one,” Kyle snapped. “Oh, right. So, you’re parents were siblings, weren’t they?” Kyle stared, counted to ten, then said “Mr Kent, was it? I’m afraid we’re going to escort you off of the property. Now.” Kent smiled coldly. “So is that a no comment, or a confirmed rumour?” Kyle blinked, then said. “This is a press conference. I’m sorry you’re too stupid to understand that, but I think I’m sorrier for myself for having to listen to you. If we wanted this sort of crap from the press, I’d have asked security to squeeze a few heads when you came inside.” Kyle waited until Mr. Kent had been escorted off the scene, then adjusted his stack of paper. “Now, then, if the children are going to stop, we can continue. As I was saying, The Mayor is pleased with the reclamation of the wilds and is hoping to re-open Alpha Complex to the City shortly. Brigitte, our financial adviser, will explain this in more detail at a later date. A plan is also underway to begin re-developing the more run-down urban areas.” “How do you propose to do that, Mr. Aimsley?” asked Kate, again. She was smiling like she knew something he didn’t, but given her IQ that wasn’t likely. “Re-location of ciizens and agressive urban renewal:” “What, like bulldozing buildings at two in the morning while people are sleeping?” Kyle gave a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “No, I am afraid not. This administration does not adhere to the draconian policies of the previous one. Besides, it would lower the tat base.” he smiled, then continued, after glancing at his notes. “Over four score years ago, the previous administration united the skyscrapers to make the City whole, an alliance conceived in liberty for all and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. We are now engaged in a great internal war, a war of values, testing whether this great citgy of ours can endure in these changing times. The Mayor -” “Wait., so you think all men are created equal?” This from some snide flunky with the Weekly City News, a tabloid rag. “Yes, I do. It is part of the City charter and-” “But people aren’t equal. Maybe the bureacrats are, but they’re not people.” “Oh, so they are, how did your paper put it ‘souless machines contrloled by The Mayor with all the invididuality sucked out of them’ I believe it was?” Kyle said, looking amused. “Actua;lly, that was last week. This week we think they’re a hive mind,” the boy said with a straight face. Kyle considered several replies, then said “I believe I made my strance on rumour clear earlier.” “The truth is always a rumour, Mr. Aimsley, until it is dragged to light from under darkness,” the little snot said earnestly. “Very poetic. Now, if you don’t mind?” “But I do mind. People, real people, are not equal. You must have a very low opinion of the people if you think that they are really your equal.” Kyle held his gaze until the boy began to squirm, and imagined how he’d squirm if a ral tape worm was placed inside his stomach and began eating everything inside him, even his memories and courage, leaving him to rot away inside. Something of it must have shown on his face because the boy turned a pale shade of green. “If you truly believe that the city charter is invalid, you can take it up with The Mayor later, or the courts.” Kyle studied the members of the press, noting with no small amount of satisfaction a few worried expressions. He began to whistly softly. The snake had been kind once, a bringer of rain, but much had changed, even the rada. He noticed Kate pale slightly and gave her a friendly smile, then said “The Mayor appreciates you all coming and hopes that you will agree with him and help try and make this city safe for everyone.:” A few of the journalista looks confused, but none of them were sensetives in evne the basest sense - you couldn’t do what they did and be open to the world, save in simple areas of intuition. “The City needs to be saved from itself; the fate of Fiat Lux reveals this to anyone. The Mayor is willing to save it, and to aid it. Remember: each of us comes with a person of his own, the angel inside and the deeper one; we ca all choose the greaer good over the lesser, and The Mayor has chosen the greater. The City will prosper, and the people be fed.” He smiled benevolently. “You can’t get much work done on an emty stomach, after all.” Kyle Aimsley turned away, leaving the press to look confused and begin to file out. But the power was still upon him and he feltthe WCN boy watching him, and heard him whisper ‘if work were a good thing, the rich would have grabbed it a long time ago, wouldn’t they?’ but continued to walk, inwardly cursing himself. Not only was Noone out there, but a servant of Legba among the press. He would have to be dealt with. The problem is not that there are problems. The problem is expecting otherwise and thinking that having problems is a problem. Kallie Jax sighed, and began to try and deal with the City, focusing on the here/now and hoping for luck. The Grail was here, somewhere. Anything could be found in the City, if you looked hard enough. She figured she could even make a road lead to it, but her reluctance against the hired goons made her decide not to. Some instinct was telling her to save it and she tried to listen to her instincts. Avoiding the bug-a-boo was easy enough, and the three tails only a bit harder as she meandered through the warren of back alleys, seeing people - and other things - scattered around, eyeing her warily. So far, she’d gotten the name of one St. Greal and precious little else, not even where to find him, or if the saint was male, female, or something else altogether. And had been told Lucifer might have a key to it, but she wasn’t being paid enough to go seeking after myths. Kallie growled something under her breath and turned, saying “Trust me, you don’t want to do that. Mannequin or no, she’ll tear it off,” to the stunned young man behind the packing crates and looked at her watch. Three p.m., and the witching hour ends at 3 am so... she opened herself to the city, freeing the Sight. The words “Tim tim” rushed out of her, accompanied by the taste of dry wood; she heard drums at the edges of perception, made from the skin of babies marinated in a rosé sauce; a dog was ripping apart a fat orange cat, growling; A reporter was writing in a notebook in runes learned in the island below the waters... “Manman pa janm mode pitit li jouk nan zo.” He looked up and met her gaze, and the land was fire around them, and his voice was old and twinned by his shadow when he whispered: “Pwason genyen konfyans nan dlo e se dlo ki kuit li..” and smiled at her, his eyes deep with sadness and worry. “The fish trust the water, and in water the fish is cooked.” And he wound have said more, needed to say more, but their was a pillar, and veves on it, cruel letters that burned and writhed before the eyes.. Pineapple, pieapple, pinecone: symbols of chaos, and darker things at the edges of being. But she was a seer, and trained, and even when all became present and the barriers fell, she could stand, the midnight sun burning in and through her as she hung, hanged, waiting... into the silence she spoke, and there was power in it, and wisdom. “Before we can obey, we must understand, O Gods. Teach me.” And there was fire, and smoke, and flames that burned around her, inside her and to the flames came a voice: PURITY IS ASHES and she drew back, tracing a sign in the air between them and them fire crackled with laughter. REAL POWER, REAL POWER IS THIS, and the sign changed and became something, not a veve or rune, or anything she’d heard of, but it was deep and terrible and burned in her mind like a living star. THE LIVING ARE RULED BY THE DEAD. RISE ABOVE YOUR DEAD SELF, AND KNOW. And the other world was gone and Kallie stumbled, shaking from a fever that left her cold and empty inside except for the terrible light of the sign, and a hand holding hers between spindly, fingers. She drew back, shocked, but the hand didn’t release her and she fond herself looking at a small, child-sized figure swathed in tattered rags. Her(?) hands with thin, pale things under turn gloves and a ragged hood concealed any features, though Kallie had a strong urge to not look. “You .... brought me back?” She said, her voice almost steady. The person let go of her hand, quickly, and stepped backwards, then nodded, and the rags shivered, falling apart like a dirty rainbow coloured rain and were gone. Kallie looked around slowly then said “Thank you?” in a bemused tone, and decided to head back to the office. The ‘net might have more information, and was definitely safer than trying to make sense of the City. | Length of Entry: 2,052 |
9.11.2003| Jack Daniels looked around, absently running his callused hand over his square jaw bristling with whiskers and scowled at the room, waiting for some sort of clue to manifest, and wondering why he’d agreed to do this for Kallie when he really could have been back at the office waiting for a sultry blond or red head to come in and ask about a case. Not that it had happened to him yet, but he was waiting for it, a voluptuous secretary, and a drinking habit involving things shaken and not stirred (probably his brains by hired goons if he didn’t pay his bookie off soon). At least he had his trusty colt .45 and tan trench coat, though he’d had to order it in special. Stupid fads for black trench coats and sunglasses. He shook his head and lit a cigarette, absently shortening his life expectancy, but not as much as marriage to Kallie had. Okay, we have this kid, Clarence. Drops dead, walks off autopsy table. Nathan, from the ‘burbs, who ran away. A computer with lots of perverted videos that seemed consensual and a bedroom with enough knives and handcuffs to serve as an impromptu dungeon. Jack took another drag, and sighed. He hated cased like this: too many damned clues., and none of them explaining how Clarence had died. He sighed and flicked the computer and began studying the videos not on the site, most of them being of taking before sex, mutilation and ..... eating supper. Okay, something was definitely not right about this. Having someone turn you into a walking tic-tac-toe board during sex was, well, something he’d never considered, but having supper afterwards was either very masochistic or downright stupid, if there was even a difference. Come to think of it, the bathroom didn’t even have any really strong pain killers. He stood up and walked towards the bathroom to check when the door opened. His hand went for his gun and drew it before he’d even had time to think about it (it had been one of those years) and Nathan, dead body, vampire, were, ghost (wait, ghosts don’t use the door), shadows - and then it opened. Then man standing on the threshold was tall and unfashionably thin, with long red hair, a few freckles and pale blue eyes that looked at the gun in amusement. “I’m Taylor Hilyard,” the other man said calmly, as if Jack wasn’t pointing a gun at his chest. “I work with Kallie, for Lost’n’Found, and I’d really like to not be trying to find my spleen on the floor, if you don’t mind.” Jack stood down, lowering his gun and putting it away. “Jack Daniels, PI.” he shook the other mans hand, noting that it wasn’t hairy. Oh, what the hell, maybe he just had a death wish of some kind. Taylor nodded, and Jack caught a flicker of disgust in the other mans eyes as he saw the marks on his neck. Jack stared at him until Taylor looked away, then said “the computer videos make for interesting viewing, and are really our only clues.” Taylor nodded absently and began to pace the room, looking at everything intently, then looked at the spot where Clarence had died, then said “What killed him?” “No one knows. Hard to have an autopsy when the corpse walks away,” Jack said laconically. Taylor flashed him a quick smile, then studied the ground again. “So no sign of a struggle?” Jack shook his head and watched curiously as Taylor walked around the whole room slowly, then into the bedroom. He came out a few minutes later but Jack couldn’t read the expression on his face. “They had a girl here as well, for a long time. I think.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you know that ... how?” Taylor gave him a slight smile. “Trade secret.” “Try telling a judge that. Look, I don’t think this Nathan kid did it, unless he’s a were. But if he was, they’d surely have videos of it and he’s from the ‘burbs so we’re stuck assuming he’s basically human and not a necromancer or some demon trafficker.” “Could he have learned how to on the ‘net?” Jack frowned. “We can check the logs here, but I doubt it. The signal to noise ratio is insane on the ‘net.” “Unless something wanted him to learn it. It could have been an angel called for self defence,” said Taylor with a shrug. Jack should his head and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small compass with the numbers one to a hundred etched into it, and a needle shaped like a finger.. “This is a mana counter. Cheap, store bought, but it does work and it’s not giving off anything special.” Taylor nodded slowly. “Okay, then. Do we have anything on who used this apartment before them? I -” he stopped and froze, cocking his head sideways and frowned. “I just heard.... something,” in a puzzled tone. Jack absently set the silver bullets as the clip and said “Like what?” Taylor. “Something...” he blinked once, looking utterly shocked, then spun towards the door with a low growl. The door didn’t open so much as implode in a shower of metal as if it was made of wood. Jack raised his gun, then just ... stared. The thing in the doorway was six feet tall of battered chassis and beeping lights, a dull gray person he’d have considered male if not for the female line of the reinforced jaw and the one real, green eye on the human left side of her face, and long hair that was either real of strands of pale metal. There was nothing sexual about it - her - except for the feeling of danger and menace around her as she stared at both of them, confused. The thing just stared at both of them, then said in a scratchy, but human voice, a female voice, “Where is she?” Jack stared at Taylor, about to ask - then stepped backwards. “She died,” Taylor said, his voice terribly gentle. The cyborg turned quickly, quicker than Jack had thought any of those things could move. Taylor stepped forward slowly, all expression draining from his face, his eyes bleak and cold. Say what you will about cyborgs and loss of humanity, this one wasn’t stupid. Something glowed in her fingertips and Jack dove for the floor even as Taylor was spun around by a burst of energy and hit the wall like a rag doll. The cyborg turned and stared down at Jack, her voice as cold and angry as machines could make it. “Where is she?” Jack could never quite say what happened next, only that the Cyborg reeled backward with a scream of pain and the air was full of something musky and wild. She recovered even as Taylor crashed into her, barely staggering her, and she threw him into the wall. Jack was rising but a foot hit him and he barely managed to roll with it. “No!” And Taylor was there, again, faster than the eye could follow. There was light, and the cyborgs scream hit a strange, horrid squeal as circuits shattered and then it was gone and out the door, the floor shuddering under the heavy steps. Taylor hauled Jack to his feet and Jack noticed he looked unharmed but there was something wild and inhuman in his eyes. ‘Stay here,” he almost hissed. “I’ll deal with that.” Jack felt his bowels give way and fought an urge to grovel in fear even as he heard the front door give way below. Taylor let go and Jack was left to stare as a small red-brown fox darted out the door and was gone. He had time to think “that scared me?” even as people began to enter the hallway, confused and wary. The private investigator limped out of the room, thinking that there was something good to come out of psychotic cyborgs trying to murder him, and said “Excuse me? That was someone asking about Clarence. Rather insistently. She left me to ask you a few more questions, if you’d like to answer them. Or she’ll come back.” And people say that people in the Downs won’t talk to outsiders. Hah. “The Mayor’s press conference went off with only one minor disturbance, Kyle Aimsley explaining the proposed recommendation for the revamping of the less well-off areas of out city. Police chief Melissa Sand said that efforts to keep the ‘burbs clear of problems have been largely successful, but the new ‘net spammers haven’t been as easy to stop. The chief urges citizens to ignore advice about stakes and garlic, as vampires are obviously just a gutter street gang. “In other news, the Alpha Complex ‘scraper is slated to reopen in two weeks, barring more computer failure. The Gulag ‘scraper has been hiring construction crews and working round the clock to build an underground additional jail system for lifetime criminals. The CEO of the Gulag, Ilik Payne, has said that costs to taxpayers will become irrelevant once the stars are right, perhaps meaning they plan to run it using solar power. “The prominent Martha Stewart ads on the radio are being removed, having been put up as a hoax. The Society For the Prevention of Unnecessary Fucking Expletives Used on Children has protested the use of “Deep ones” as an obvious sexual reference. The commercial, entitled: Martha Stewart Cooking With the Deep Ones, contained the sounds of people getting out pots and pans and Martha’s voice explaining how high to set the oven to cook for 12 hours and that “you'd me amazed what you can find to cook in your home. Why, there is you, for example! The Deep Ones would love to eat you under the water!” City officials said it’s obviously the work of some very bored children, and noted psychiatrist Dr. Feelgood said that the references to a father dragon and mother hydra clearly mean that the writers of the commercial have been abused by their father and likely have gone through a succession of step mothers. “66.6 FM would like to thank the many callaes who have reported in about the missing gravestones from Cypress Cemetery, but we’d like to stress that the idea that someone would rob gravestones to turn the names and letters into gematria is neither amusing nor proper. If we continue to get calls of that nature, the situation wil be left for the authourities to deal with. “The trial of the so-called Queensburg Stalker hit a snag today as the courthouse burned to the ground. The Stalker has allegedly claimed that Satan was directing his hands in killing pretty, dark-haired and skinned woman as “descendants of eve” and the prosecution was planning to deal with that foolishness by asking Satan to testify today. The fire department said it was a faulty gas main that caused the fire and nothing else. Rumours that there was diabolical laughter in the air were refuted by the fire chief asking “how did they know it was diabolical?” in impatience. “St. Sebatians Reformatory for Wayward Children will be having a bake sale tomorrow at 3 p.m. to showcase the talents of their baking classes. We ask that no one bring any sharp knives to the sale. “And in other news, a City Times poll revealed that 99% of workers are happy with their jobs. More after this, but first a word from our sponsor...” “I hate my job.” There was no one in to answer her so Kallie just sighs and stood, stretching slightly to relieve the kink in her back and shook her head. The ‘net was messy at the best of times, but Cthulhu spam was new... She shook her head. “’Come have cybersex with the tentacles supreme...’ sounds like a horrible hentai super hero. But this isn’t getting work done...” And so Kallie went out into the city again, and did not leave just before the phone rang but it did ring six minutes and forty three seconds later with Jack Daniels leaving a mostly incoherent message about cyborgs and foxes on it. | Length of Entry: 2,065 |
10.11.2003| It was night when she left, but she saw no death or even pain in the near future - evidently Christof wasn’t paying his men enough to try and follow her after dark. She was unarmed, but a seer, and anything that could hide from her perceptions would also know her other talent, and likely stay far away from her. At least, that was the theory. She seldom liked to put it in practise, but the ‘net wasn’t a good enough source of information, and that... thing ... burning inside her mind needed to be dealt with as well, whatever it was. Kit would need another seer, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. The City was a strange place by night, brightly lit streets filled with pale, terrified children huddled together as they tried to prove their bravery to each other. But they were not foolish enough to be unafraid, and Kallie called that courage. It was strange, though, to see them entering and leaves the dark, brightly lit bars as if thinning numbers would protect them, and not that the light of their humanity would draw predators that much more quickly. Kallie had heard that some mathematician named Arthur Dane had actually worked on calculating the proper crowd size and ages needed to ensure you wouldn’t become a meal for the darker things in the City. According to the latest rumours he’d either been swarmed by faelings or killed by a vampire convinced it was an angel. The latter seemed unlike, but the City did tend to attract the strange and sometimes those who were almost too normal. It made for an interesting time at least. A few boggarts and bodaches whached her, and even an Anthropophagi eyeing her hungrily from the top of a roof but never made a move to approach. It didn’t take long for Kallie to find the people she was looking for, the very poor are easy to find, the kind of people no one notices, who are almost extensions of the City, symbiotic parasites, or something like that. Oddly, they actually talked to her, which was a change. It didn’t take as long as she’d expected, following old roads that probably only the homeless knew, and quite probably no one else could even find anymore. Kallie didn’t bother to try and figure out what went where and settled for walking quickly through the warrens. Roads that went in directions that would have made Escher burst a few blood vessels trying to grasp them, dirt paths that reeked of horse manure and some strange, silver road that smelled of blood. At least there was no emerald road, she thought wryly, keeping her goal in mind, and walking. The buildings got strange, looking as if they were made out of steel and honeycombs then abruptly segueing to small houses of wood and straw she could hear pigs speaking from, plotting the death of their holier-than-thou brother. Somewhere above the clouds she could feel the dim pull of the stars and shook her head slightly as the world shimmered around her as if rain was obscuring everything. She walked on. Somewhere during the walk she forgot her name, and it was cold and dark and hot and burning and there was salvation in the air mixed with ashes from pyres and childrens voices singing hymnals in pure, piping voices that she count weird snatches of, like stuttered truths drifting on the wind. “The past can be forgotten, that is the gift we crave As we dance naked outside plato’s dreary cave.” “Memories fail, bodies die, paper burns by and by And with strange words even truth will die.” “We all come from the Goddess, and to Her we shall return, like a drop of rain, moving to the ocean.” “It’s midnight in the garden And no one’s learned to weep, But Eve is sitting all alone And Adam’s fast asleep.” “I had a dream of heaven, Of singing all the time, Of praising the Name Forever and again In endless metered rhyme. Oh, how I wish it was given By Satan down in hell And not angels who mean well But even neutered without dicks Still act like hopeless little pricks.” “Away in a manger, no crib for a babe, Little lord Cthulhu lays down his squid head. The stars in the night sky turned right as he lay but little Cthulhu’s mommy no crying she makes And that is a fact, oh, that is a fact Even as he gobbles up her intestinal tract.” The rest of the hymns were fortunately lost to her hearing, as were the actual identities of the singers. Kallie began to wonder just what kind of short cut this really was and stopped. “I have the tatterdemalion’s favour,” she said quietly into a strange, waiting silence. The voices flattered for a moment, then one sang, softly, insistently, half-chanting. “To us the father is the god But he would not spare the rod And his daughters and his sons, Oh he takes them one by one. Tell me, what is it that he fears From whence came his salty tears? Was the pain of the innocent What he really must have meant? Tell me if you can, O Seer, Why they wanted him to appear. Tell me why they love him still If you can and if you will.” Kallie paled slightly. “That’s what you all are?” The voices turned into a chorus again, happy and terribly bright. “We were there and we are here But nowhere is left for us, I fear.” Kallie shook her head slowly, a helpless sorrow welling up inside her. “I don’t know. I can’t answer you.” “You have been hurt as well, These are things that we can tell,” the chorus sang and Kallie shook her head. “Everyone is hurt, everyone takes pain. We can rise above such things. Otherwise they win.” She looked into the shadows, but could make out no faces, just flickering etheral forms. “Mabye then we want to lose Harder by far it is to choose, We have nothing left to use Except our words that can confuse.” Kallie stepped forward, to reply, to speak, but the City changed again and she was standing beside a tree in the middle of one of the old parts of the city, heside a small brook. A tall, lean man with greasy grey-white hair and a beard that looked as if it had lost a fight with a lawn mower. He turned towards her, unsurprised, and she met bright, lively eyes that seemed to burn right into her. There were no words for it. Her talent, magnified a hundred-fold, a thousand-fold, as if someone had dropped a star right onto earth, but odd dark places wherre it could not reach, could not act.... Kallie drew back, throwing up mental barriers with an effort that left her drained and shaking. The other man looked amused, more than anything else. “So, you are seeking the grail,:” he said in a a warm, calm voice. Kallie didn’t ask how he knew: asking what he didn’t know would have been more productive. She straightened and met his gaze with pride in her own eyes. “Yes.” He nodded slowly and stepped away from the river. “You could be more than a seer, you know.” “No,” came out of her, harsh and cold, like a spontaneous abortion. The other man look startled, then said “As you wish. I am Jess Ninnin.” “The messiah? I’ve heard stories...” He nods. “They’re all true. Except the one about the drunk elephant.” She stared at him, then managed a wan smile. “If I believe that, I’d start running and never look back.” The messiah didn’t smile and there was a sadness in his eyes that took Kallie’s breath away. “It is far too late for that. Power calls to power, life to life, male to female.” “Not always,” she said, surprising herself with the anger in her voice. He shook his head slowly, looking tired. “Everyone had the male and female in them, everyone plays roles, everyone binds and looses, is controlled and is a controller. Things come together, things fall apart.” “The centre cannot hold?” “Nothing holds,” the messiah said quietly. “Nothing lasts, not forever.” “And the Grail?” “The cup the Christ drank from? The feather of the phoenix? Knowledge? Wisdom? Immortality? Those things wil endure as long as we do, and probably longer. Which grail do you want?” Kallie stared at him, then said “The real one.” “What is real?” Kallie closed her eyes and counted to ten, then stepped forward and kneed the messiah in the crotch. He dropped like any other man, his expression shocked and she smiled coldly. “I don’t have some for games. Where is it?” The messiah stood slowly, smiling slightly. “Very good. Truly, you would have made a poor prophet.” Kallie took a deep breath and said “Well?” Jess studied her and she stepped back involuntarily. “You will not find the Holy Grail while The Mayor wields his dark arts and changes the City.” “That was.. forthright.” The messiah shrugged slightly, then said “Consider it a favour you have already paid.” Kallie gave him a blank look, wondering if this was how most people felt speaking to her, and then left after a formal farewell, still feeling shaken. The messiah had not blessed her but even the children of the night prowling the rooftops avoided her instinctively and she walked home quickly, avoiding the office because Christof had 3 men looking at it right now. | Length of Entry: 1,601 |
11.11.2003
Mankind has become so much one family that we cannot ensure our own prosperity except by ensuring that of everyone else. His neighbours could hear him pacing the apartment, occasionally talking loud enough to hear through the walls. “Who uses hitherto anymore? And aeon when eon is perfectly respectable?” Pace. Pace. Smash shin on coffee table. “Felucent, leperous, squamous, dilapidation, luxuriant..” Pace. “And what in the name of all the gods is retrogression, and who used armigerous anymore?” Pace. Pace. Glare into corner. “reticulated ... what kind of .. network. Why not just use network? and armigerous ... bearing arms.... Oh, yes! I’m going to have some squamous dilapidated entities of uncertain ancestry of twisted, gnarled plebeian hoi polloi whose facial geometry evokes an ambiguious feeling made all the more piquant by their exoteric armigerous shotguns... gods!” The Writer stopped, glaring red-eyed at his manuscript on the floor and wondered darkly if he could include hunky-dory in it, or jubilant .... “The perky, peppy ethereal horror shambled in a side-splitting parody of YMCA as it tickled the homecoming queen to death...” He shook his head and sat down at the battered old type writer he’d dug up from storage doe to hand cramps from trying to write this novel out by hand. He’d have preferred his computer but it kept showing 3 yellow hooks or something on the screen as a permanent screen saved he couldn’t get rid of so he’d given up. Right now he felt like he was writing a dummies for dummies book but he couldn’t seem to stop and lack of sleep was causing him to hallucinate that Buttercup had glowing red eyes and was talking to a dog that lived outside of space-time .. he wondered if tindalos was the name of a new doggie treat, distantly. The manuscript was getting dark and terribly wordy, enough that he’d snuck in the possessed cheerleaders who go around saying “We want to rock ‘em, sock ‘em” and proceeded to kill most of the jocks in gruesome manners involving pom-poms in every possible orifice, some of them edged with metal blades. It almost felt like an anime, except he seems to have some instinctive aversion to adding tentacles ... but it as just a dream after all. Even so, he couldn’t seen to write the word down, and the aversion seemed borne of his repressed fears about his uncle Ebert. Or something like that, he was sure. He’s taken a psychology course, after all. Or maybe it had been theology. He couldn’t remember, but it wasn’t important. The novel was important. He was writing the Great Novel even though it often felt as if the novel was writing itself. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Lots of authors had their characters speak to them, though he had the strange feeling he was translating a language he couldn’t understand, but that was just silly. He put some more paper into the typewriter, trying to recall where he was .... oh, yes, the real meaning behind the world. He’d need catch phrases. Arcary, Rene le Chateau .. Rene the castle . Or it could be renne, to plunder... plunder the castle, the real meaning of Rene le Chateau; they don’t have secrets about God, they wished to storm heaven and take them! And Baudelaire was French and had lines about “Ah, race of Abel, your fat carcass / Will enrich the reeking soil! / Race of Cain, your hard work is /Not finished in spite of all; / Race of Abel, here your shame lies:/ sword lost to the hunter's rod! / Race of Cain, mount the skies /And down upon the earth cast God!” It was perfect! Would need more references to the Merovingians, perfect! “All the universe and all time’s length / Must be wound into a mystic crown for my brows” - Baudelaire was their preceptor or a prophet of the future. It made sense. It made so much sense it was amazing no one else had discovered this before, but he didn’t let that worry him. After all, genius comes by seldom. Chauncer, Shakespeare - such genius is almost magical, inexplicable, for their ability to peer into the hearts of diverse types of people and understand the human condition. It was no wonder he would someday be counted among their number. And so the Writer wrote, word count forgotten, florid, turgid, obese prose forgotten, and waxed eloquent, his luminous, shibboleth clichés danced across the page like drunken spiders weaving a web that seemed to be more than three-dimension, to evoke a certain feeling of uncertainty, even in the Writer, but still .. he wrote. The Prior de Sion, the burning of The Bank of America, the masons, the freemasons, the shriners, the stone masons ... all truths poured from his fingertips like a bouquet of roses behind held to the world, to reveal the truth, if they did not wither first for lack of water. He wrote like a man possessed, desperate to save the world from itself, the word of Leary rushing through his mind in a kind of dark chant: Think for yourself and question authority. He would save the world, show it the precipice it was standing at the brink of, the unholy dance they had begun, with nations squandering rights and freedoms. He would show them freedom, anarchy! Mankind would become free and wild and beyond good and evil, in the real of Zarathustra, laws and morals thrown aside (for a law should be obeyed because we wish to, not because it is imposed externally), and mankind would shout and revel in joy and the liberated Old Ones, our grandparents, would teach us new ways to shout and kill our fear and revel! Holly Franklin sat at the table and glared at it. Dad had already warned her what he do if she shouted at them again and she rolled her eyes when he wasn’t looking. God, she was tired of them trying to control her life. If only she could be free to revel in life and do what she wanted and not grow up to be stodgy, boring lumps whose idea of excitement was to watch the news. They were stifling her, trying to make her normal, and she had no way to fight back, except by little acts of rebellion. From the icy glare her father was giving her, Charles Franklin did not approve of using his camera to shoot nude model pictures of herself. Like it was her fault he’d taken the film in to be developed and the people at the store began to ask questions and the police came over. He knew she’d been using it, and it wasn’t like he’d develop her part of the film for free and he was mad at her. Parents. It’s not like they were good to her as it was. Amy got to stay up as long as she liked and even drink, but no, she gets stuck taking care of the dog, or baby-sitting her cousins or even being baby-sat by Aunt Sophie, who likely just wanted to get into her pants. And mom keeps saying “We trust you, really,” and they never actually do. And they’re always treating her like she was a kid. Holly gave them her best glower. Hell, even if she did decide to have a party here with some friends, it’s not like wrecking this place would do much, and mom keeps saying she wants to repaint the living room and get rid of that furniture that was older than Holly, for Gods’ sakes. “Are you even listening to me?” Charles snapped, jarring her out of her reverie. Why ask when you know the answer, duh? For a second, Holly thought she’d said it aloud as her fathers fat face turned a bright red, but it wasn’t like his usual ranges where he’d huff and wheeze and get out of steam quickly. For the first time, she was glad her dad was a couch potato. “I had to go into the office and explain it to my boss,” her father said, but didn’t rant about how Mr. Fineran always made him do too much work. Holly might not have had good grades in school, and had always thought of herself as tough, but something seemed really wrong here. Dad was going through the motions, but he just didn’t seem really angry. “Are you okay?” Olivia Franklin (née Nee) gave her daughter a startled look, trying to recall the last time Holly had called Charles father or her mother and failing. Dad and mom were even rarer, unless she wanted money. “You nearly get me thrown in jail, and now you ask that question?” “Well, sorry for caring,” Holly snapped. “Since when do you care about us?” Charles roared, coming to his feet. “You eat our food, sleep free kin the bed, and won’t even do your homework! We brought you into this world and we can take you out of it!” “Charles!” Oliiva exclaimed, shocked. Holly stood quickly, her face a dirty shade of snow white. She opened her mouth to reply and stormed for the door, fists clenched and holding back tears with anger. Her thoughts seemed to roar through her, scattered by some windstorm touching down. He didn’t mean it .,. wow, I really pissed him off this time ... damn him ... why me ... damn her ... I hate them all ... “Get back in here this instant,” Charles snapped. Holly spun around. “Or what, you’ll kill me you fat fucks?” she screamed. Olivia froze, the naked hatred in her daughters voice pinning her hands to the table as she tried to stand. For a moment, delirious, she looked down and expected them to bleed like Christ had, her own stigmata. Charles strode towards the door, his face filled with a cold rage she’d never seen before and Olivia had time to remember what Alice Coorlie had told her once, about self-inflicted stigmata and it being a fashion accessory for the psychotically pious, since tying themselves up on crosses was a bit difficult and crowns of thorns were hard to make without turning your fingers into modern art. She was bemuedly trying to decide whether rose thorns would work and if being burned alive was a sign of faith, or just a sign of not wanting to pay a gas bill. She remembered, vaguely, in a desperately detached manner, that Alice had once told her that being lit from within by one’s own faith was nothing, but being able to express that to others was everything. Mind you, that had been shortly before she doused a church with gasoline and set everyone inside on fire. Charles grabbed his daughter and Olivia was running for the front door, a scream welling in her throat and froze, as her daughter moved past her and bared her way. Broken eyes met dead ones and Olivia prayed, for the first time in decades, to any god that would hear but Holly smiled, and behind it was nothing. “We love you,” she said, and Olivia felt Charles grab her from behind but it was a distant terror as her daughter reached out a loving hand and began to eat her soul, her personality, taking it into some dark, empty place without light and her last conscious, desperate thought, was a prayer to her daughter hurled into the uncaring heavens. The Franklins sat down to dinner calmly, the way a family should. For the first time in years, Olivia and Charles talked about having another child, to be a proper nuclear family. Holly ate all her peas and went upstairs to do her homework and a man saying be came from Baron Samedi came to the door later, and took the souls from Charles, who went back inside to sleep, none of them aware of what they had lost, but each aware at some deep level that the were lost. | Length of Entry: 1,983 |
12.11.2003| Steel girders gleamed in the flickering watchlights over the construction site like the scaffolding of the gods. Beneath them runs the fox and woman. Like a modern fairy tale brought to life, hearkening to the first stories of blood and death. The cyborgs face was female-shaped, and the skin and bones on the human side of her face pale against the flickering of lights on her body as she ran without pause. She could hear the fox behind her but was getting no telemetry on it, except that it was a fox. Which was just cracked. No fox manages to get through her titainum-mithril alloy bare-handed. Even now her systems were showing 96% efficiency but her chest stil had a warm, tingling sensation in. Or maybe that was an alien trying to claw its way out. She snapped a monofilament net out behind her and heard a pained yelp, but the thing kept on coming. And so, the cyborg ran through the unbuilt towers and offices, hoping for some reading to kick in, and soon. Supernatural or no, most things died when they ran through diamond-edged wire laced with silver, but it was still coming like some miniature demon. No matter. She spun and leapt two storeys onto scaffolding that groaned under her weight but held and sprinted at 86.42% efficiency. Scanning. There. Chickens. Want chickens. Juicy, plump chickens. Running under the moon. Dappled in raindrops. Fox runs. The raindrops are high-velocity seeker bullets. Fox dodges, playing a game with metal person. Air smells of woman-metal scent branded into fox-mind. Fox remembers remembering, but so long, but must follow; was freed to follow, under the moon song; fox whines and limps, sore from wire. Fox has no hands. Not outfoxed, not by killing creature. Foxes are tricky, old. One trick, only one trick, but one enough. Taylor rolled away from the strafe of gunfire, leaping to the first story of scaffolding, and smiled grimly. He’d nearly lost himself that time, and there would be questions by Jack, and Kallie, but that could wait. The cyborg couldn’t. Eight years, and she just waltz’s into an apartment building. He jumped up, scrambling up quickly under more bullets, and waiting. Nothing dangerous, yet. Surprising, but maybe she’d forgotten him. He’d give her reasons to regret that. Human again. She sighed slightly, the sound coming out like a bass rumble, and reminded herself why she’d been told to avoid the Gutters. Mind you, silver and sunlight deterred most threats. Ripping heads off tended to deter most others. And she was in seek mode, so - there. Taylor hit the girder rolling, shrugging out of his jean jacket and managed to retrieve his gloves and the knife from it. A flame thrower. Well, better than napalm at least. He braced himself as the next rush of bullets tore past, far too close for comfort. Cyborgs had modes, that much he knew. Obviously she wasn’t in some kind of war mode because he wasn’t a pile of ashes and she mad been searching for someone, so search and destroy, minus the destroy. He shimmied up more scaffolding and deliberately reined his anger in. He was mostly unarmed, against a cyborg killer who could pulp - Taylor stopped, studying the knife, and shivered. The knife had been a gift from the magus who’d taught him binding and wasn’t intended for throwing so he tossed that idea out. It was old, though, and from what Eliose had said it was as much curse as blessing but he doubted he’d get to do the light trick again and so ... The cyborg blinked her human eye and tapped the side of her head. Nothing. Telemetry was dead, inoperable. What in the name of the great programmer was this man? She cursed softly and moved, up and over, relying on simple thermal scans now. Telemetry wasn’t going to be operational for hours, vocal systems still damaged from that strange silver light he’d had in his hands. At least her weapons were working, body was at peak capacity. It would be enough, for one person. Surely. But he was following her.... The cyborg ran, and Taylor sprinted after her, the knife feeling heavy and cold in his hand. The moon song was dim and replaced by the need to kill flowing through him like a tide, demanding utterance, and pain, and blood. The factory floor was cold and empty, filled with the smell of sawdust and oil. A few scattered machines and rusty tables littered the floor as Taylor ducked inside, ignoring the Kilroy Was Here sign painted in canary yellow on the door, following the smell of the cyborg, and barely ducking some energy weapon fired over his head. He dove to the ground, rolling, and the next blast hit the knife, and turned into a steam of light then simply ... went away. The cyborg froze on the walkway, her expression incredulous, then shifted into combat mode and leapt down, the floor buckling under her landing, a few switches lighting up the area dimly, and then they met, a blade humming out of her arm to slash downwards even as Taylor dove to the side, attempting to circle her. The knife hummed through his mind, digging into bindings, and he barely avoided the next cut, breaking the blade with his own knife. The cyborg didn’t even hesitate but rushed him, and his arm raised the knife to meet her on it’s own, wanting death. Taylor spun aside, feeling something crumple in his left leg as she kicked out and slashed the knife sideways, cutting through the metal as if it wasn’t there. The cyborg made a shocked noise and her fist caught him in the side. Taylor meant to dodge, to move, but the knife was swinging down and punching into metal and digging. He yanked it out, forcing a binding into it, and raised it to kill even as the Cyborg shifted her weight and caught him, hard, in the chest. Taylor attempted to roll, but his body crumpled like a drunk accordion Stand, he commanded it, but there was no response, no feeling. The cyborg moved towards him slowly, sparks flickering, leaving his limited range of sight. Taylor took a deep breath, remembering other promises, and bound the knife with death, and white fire, and to him .... no one should. Pain. Stronger, in his neck. Stabbing, tearing. Oh, gods, his head. She was going to rip off his - Kallie rubbed her forehead with a sigh and shoved the chair back from the computer. She hadn’t been able to get ahold of Jack, and according to the police he wasn’t at the apartment in the Downs and they were about to take off the police tape anyway before someone stole it as a souvenir. From the sounds of it, they were having enough problems trying to figure out who did what without her adding in a cyborg looking for some woman, and Taylor turning into a fox, which wasn’t any of their business even if the cyborg might have been. Of course, now she was withholding evidence from the police but she couldn’t see the cyborg having anything to do with them, yet. And hell, perhaps the cyborg had gotten the wrong address for all Kallie knew, but Jack seemed to think Taylor knew her which was a complication she didn’t need right now. Most of her contacts in the information trade industry weren’t answering any calls, which meant Christof had gotten to them, which meant she was going to have to make time for a long talk with him soon. She found almost nothing about the messiah save that he’d humiliated the police over something and they’d killed him. Not that the paper came out and said that, bit it seemed to be the gist of what had happened. For a dead man, he seemed rather robust, but likely bitter given the court testimony she found where his home was repossessed by the bank. The Mayor was a cipher, like always, and Kallie had no desire to begin really looking into his affairs. If the rumours of voodoo were true it would be suicidal, and even if they weren’t his political clout was second to none and he was rather ruthless. A ‘net query probably wouldn’t net much, but she could get Taylor to ask in the Squalls. People there didn’t really care about The Mayor much and weren’t afraid of speaking their mind to locals. That’s assuming he comes back, of course. The cough from the doorway got her attention and Kallie looked up, then looked down rather quickly and said “No glamours, and you can come in.” There was a pause, then the woman in the doorway nodded. Kallie looked up into hazel eyes that seemed to burn with an inner light, took in the impressions of darkness and need and stood, holding out a hand. “Kallie Jax, owner of Lost’n’Found.” The vampire glided across the room and smiled, showing fangs and acquiring dimples in her ample cheeks that looked like potholes. She was short, fat and rather dumpy looking with long, thin strands of black hair, inexpertly applied red lipstick (if it was lipstick) and teeth that could have used serious dental work. She was dressed entirely in a severe black dress designed to hide her weight but looked more like she was smuggling cantaloupes in her chest. A small piano or family of dwarves could have been hidden under the voluminous dress for all the seer knew. Unable to help herself, Kallie glanced down and saw the vampire was even wearing black high heels that she still managed to move silently in, a jarring reminder that this woman really was a vampire. “Helga Wimbush,” the vampire said, her handshake firm. A glint in her eyes dared Kallie to comment. Kallie gestured to the sea and sat herself, ordering her thoughts. “As you may or may not know, Lost’n’Found generally finds things for people. The flyer there gives our basic rates. No predictions, fortune telling, or tarot or magic. We just find things.” The vampire nodded, clasping her hands on the table together, with her thumbs trying to pin each other down unconsciously, looking nervous. “I need something found,” she said quickly and Kallie nodded, waiting. Helga hesitated, then pressed on. “I want to know something.” Kallie frowned slightly, about to head her off, but the vampire continued quickly. “I need to find the meaning of death.” “Don’t you mean the meaning of life?” Kallie asked. The vampire shook her head. “I already know that. The living die all the time. But if the point of life is to die, what’s the point of death?” Kallie shrugged then said “Life is said to be a circle. One dies, one is born. The grandparents last breath gets mingled with the wail of a newborn grandchild. -” Helga shook her head impatiently, interrupting. “Not for me. I have no children, and I take. It’s what we do. We give sometimes, but we take all the time,” and there was a look of quiet sadness in the vampires eyes that surprised Kallie for a moment. “Yes, you do. But it is death that gives life meaning, the final taking, the final good bye. Living implies that it’s not forever, that everything will come to an end..” “So death has no meaning in itself, nothing to make it ... special?” Helga asked. Kallie hesitated, then said “I don’t know. I don’t think so, myself. The meaning of death is that we get buried below the ground, that our life is over. If there is anything after that, our bodies aren’t part of it.” “Sometimes they don’t die. What then?” “I don’t know. I can’t find that kind of thing out for you. You could ask a medium, but most of them won’t deal with vampires.” Kallie smiled slightly. “I have enough trouble trying to decide what the meaning of life is to worry about the meaning of death, but for me the point of my life is to do something that gives it meaning, and that my death wil in some way be worthy of my life. That’s all. The meaning is all individual: it’s about being alive, or existing, or undead. We’re here to experience that.” “But we take it from others as well.” Kallie nodded. “Everyone does that. Not to the extent vampires do, but in our own little ways we take and give and try to find a balance between them.” She shrugged slightly and stood. “But aside from rambling, I can’t give you answers. It may be that no one can. It could be that the meaning of life is living, and the meaning of death is dying.” “And what of being undead?” “You get front row seats to watch the other two acts?” The vampire gave her a hard stare, and said “I did not come here for amusement,” very softly. Kallie met her her gaze. “No, but it has been said that life is a poem. Perhaps it is also a laugh. Listen.,” she snapped, as Helga looked about to speak, “sometimes it’s not about finding answers. There is always going to be mystery, and real courage might lie in accepting that there is no answer, no test we’ll be quizzed on, that we exist for reasons we’ll never know.” “You believe that?” sand the vampire, standing and moving to the doorway. Kallie shook her head. “No. I believe there is a reason, but I also believe that there is nothing anywhere that said that life or death is fair and that we may never know what the reason is.” The vampire nodded politely and left, neither giving nor taking and unsure that the mortal knew what a gift that was. The Writer opened the drawer again and stared at his manuscript, but it had not grown during the night, no elves had come by to finish it, and he’d left 5 pairs of little shoes in it just for them. It was getting harder, to focus, to make sense of what he was writing. He didn’tg even have a title “Icon For Dummies” just didn’t feel right and the romantic scene he’d planned simply wasn’t coming out properly. Jeanette goes into the woods to find Tyler, who is really a clone of her long lost half-alien brother Hubert but Tyler is looking for a clone of Jeanette named Jean that was really him meeting Jeanette at the bar one night while she was drunk and her other personalities came to the fore. Tyrone, the ruthless land developing druid who was planning to sacrifice Hugh’s daughter on the night of the full moon (who had been impregnated by a passing werewolf and gave birth to a baby tulpa without knowing about it) was currently believed dead after having been run over by a semi driven by his ex-wife’s daughters uncles best friends mistress in disguise as his ex-ex-wife’s son’s best friend Bob. It was going so well until they ended up in the woods, but then Titania and Oberon showed up and proceeded to turn people into piles of slashed and torn flesh and rip them new assholes with claws and teeth and plan to sacrifice the baby not on the full moon but when the stars were right and Hubert was really channeling someone named Carl who moo’d a lot and was planning to sacrifice them all to the Greek letters of gamma mu but was being foiled by a mad cultist, the real Bob. He’s been trying to rewrite it but each attempt came out even worse and there was some French fellow looking for a cult in Florida and ranting about the “deep ones” in the ocean, obviously referring to atlanteans but the Writer hadn’t planned to introduce them for a good two chapters and why was this detective scared of them? And then there were the twins who were evil, and good, and just watched everything with their pure black eyes and had a habit of changing into a black dog named Old Snuck when they had sex, and then devouring their partners. So he put the manuscript back in the door, and waited for inspiration to strike. The messiah stood in the middle of the alleyway and watched the storm overhead, admiring the lightning striking down at various trees in the distance. He half turned at some unseen presence, then turned back to eye the tree, and river. Lightning forked downwards from the clouds, missing the tree. The air around him seemed to become crisper and for a moment one could see a building, wooden and home made, a woman ... then the present reasserted itself. If he had even noticed. the messiah gave no sign and just continued to stare at the tree, and looked about to speak but was silent, as he always eyes. He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked up at the moon, the clouds parting before his gaze. For a moment he raised his hand, as if he’d reach up and pull it down, then spoke quietly, to the world, or someone else. “It has begun, Goddess. The seeking of the grail, the walls between worlds starting to fall. I don’t know if you are a goddess, but only a woman would be so cruel as to have a messiah and never appear to him. Do I do Your will? Who was I, before I was yours? What was I, before I was born?” As always, the night was silent and there was no reply. “I can feel them, older than time, deeper even than I, hovering at the edges of reality, perhaps of creation itself. I blessed the boy, though some day I mean to destroy him, and the Seer has been kept in the dark. I can feel other players on the board, but their goals and aims remain hidden from me. For all my talents, I am not a true seer, perhaps not a true anything anymore. I do wonder, though, if I were to oppose this, if I let them in, would You reveal Yourself to me? It is a passing fancy, but it grows with the years and deaths and rebirths. If - if You do even exist....” For a moment the messiah was still, then remembered Nathan standing before him, trying to look angry, and defiant, and saying “prove it!” and he smiled slightly. “No, I know better than that, I think. But my faith wears thin, in myself, in you .... how much of this is blessing, and how much curse?” The messiah waited a long time, then nodded once, unsurprised at the silence. He turned slowly and walked back into the City. Something cold and ugly was rising in him, and he walked towards Fiat Nox slowly, power answering power, and for a moment it shone again as it had years before, bright and glorious, then it returned to darkness, and shadow. Demons were sent them, and myths, and angels. They were armed with terrible weapons and the screams of the dying but what met them was deep and ancient, destroying them with mind-numbing ease one after another as he walked, the storm trailing along behind him like a tame dog, the occasional bark of lighting smashes an errant being to the ground. He’d gone perhaps a thousand meters when he stopped, abruptly, as if listening to something, then said “No. More strain on the walls isn’t worth the amusement,” and walked away. The surviving vanguard sent to stop him made no attempt to follow. Jack Daniels followed the spider up the wall into the corner, watching it curiously, then stood and absently swatted it down with a bill ,putting the dead spider inside and sealing it. That was the phone bill done. He sighed and shook his head slowly, staring at the pile and imagining a nice, bright bonfire, preferably one taking the house as well, and probably most of the block for added effect. He stood abruptly, dropping a bill, and walked from the kitchen to the living room where he began to pace back and forth, recalling the day again. Whatever Taylor was, Kallie didn’t know, which somehow didn’t surprise him at all. He had told her what he’d learned, for the cheque. That Clarence had lived there for over 3 years, and lived mostly alone save for occasional dates that the neighbours thought were hired prostitutes, which could have been truth or jealousy. But they could have been boyfriends anyway, prostitutes had to date someone. Nathan had been a runaway of some kind Clarence had taken in, but they didn’t know much else about him save that he was nice, which was an odd way to describe anyone and seemed to be a universal assessment, even by people who didn’t look like they’d ever been nice in their lives and probably couldn’t even spell the word. And that had been all he’d gained, even with the threat of a psychotic cyborg returning to the building. He smiled grimly and wondered what would have happened if he’d reassured them by saying a fox was chasing her. “You’re happy for a bills night,” he heard and spun, reaching for his gun out of habit. She handed it to him with a slight smile and he scowled. “You know I hate it when you do that.” Helgas smile widened to include fangs. “And it’s why you love me,” she said mildly, but Jack met her gaze and shivered slightly, the world seeming to become the blue-green shade of her eyes. Desire met desire as they came together in a slow kiss and as he felt her run fingers over his neck, he heard her whisper “Maybe it’s that there is no meaning at all, no point to anything” softly just over his low moan and before he could wonder, if he could have at all, blood flowed and the world was lost to raw urges, teeth gnawing on flesh to squeals of joy and his blood shuddering through his veins as she took more, and more, and the world went away in an orgasm of mutual need and pain that turned their voices into the howl of one creature, naked and needing, as it fell to the floor in a quivering mass. | Length of Entry: 3,743 |
13.11.2003We are shaped and fashioned by what we love. Nathan walked quickly through the darkness and tried to resist the urge to run or fall in a quivering heap on the ground in fear. It wasn’t so much what he saw, but walking insects and crawling (slugs, we’ll call them slugs) and hungry, all those things needing and wanting, He felt like a walking meal, but not the happy kind, and tried to ignore it by remembering. He’d come here for the same reason everyone else did: there was nowhere else to go. The Gutters were where you ended up when you’d past the nowhere signs and gone somewhere past them, even if just in your head. He’d been lost, and scared, then found by Clarence, who’d taken him in and, maybe, really loved him. Then he’d been lost again and was terrified this time. Because now he knew what was out there, Nathan reflected. They said the City was malleable but here in the gutters the past and future mingled together and things borne of dreams and nightmares walked the streets. You could find anything, and anything could find you. The feelings made it worse, knowing what some of those things would want him for, to steal his fingernails for a ship, eat his liver, or his heart, or blood, or wanting just someone normal to know, or ... Nathan shook his head and tried to ignore it. Imagination, fancy. That’s all it is. But there was more to it than that. The way the messiah had stared at him, the creatures that moved out of shadows then recoiled abruptly. He’d been blessed by someone that scared things that ate souls, or music, or even peas, and he didn’t know why. On a sudden impulse he turned towards a small figure and handed him (her? it?) the candy-wrapped from his pocket. The figure made a surprised sound and one grimy hand grabbed it and swallowed it with a muffled “nk ou:” Nathan continued to walk, wondering why he’d known ... then looked around with a sigh and began walking randomly, trying to find landmarks, something he could recognise. Another hour passed before he finally found the apartment. The building was tall, and in decent condition for the Gutters, excepting for the fact that the front door was hanging on its hinges as if something had ripped it in half from the insane. Nathan shivered slightly at the sight and hurried inside. Bertha watched the boy go inside and remembered her own son, dead for long enough that the hurting was reflex more than reality. The same coltish skittish look, eyes taking in everything in some strange look that seemed both bravery and fear, the same androgynous figure.... For a moment, she almost went over, to try and warn, to offer hope, to be there for the madness, but there was something else around this boy, a warning, a subtle feeling of danger. Someone or something had placed protection on him and she avoided it instinctively, trying to decide if it would stop her. Bu the time she made up her mind to try he’d slipped through the cracks inside and was gone. And he still looked like he needed a few decent means in him. Nathan was surprised to find the apartment hadn’t been looked but the door was currently a sheet from the bed and a few strands of police tape. Oh, my god. He stopped, frozen. The police would want answers, want to know who had done this, or why, or maybe even blame him. For a moment he looked towards the door, but - but this was his home. He belonged here, Clarence had accepted him. It was the least he could do. He walked through the apartment slowly, realising how much he’d been to clean up, then stopped in the bedroom with a funny expression on his face. The bed had been piled up with rope, handcuffs, other things. He looked up towards the far mirror, staring into the thin, delicate, pretty face with sea green eyes framed with long blond hair currently hiding his burning ears and wondered what they’d made of it all. The thought jarred him from his reverie and he turned quickly, hurrying into the living room and turning the computer on. Clarence had showed him how to check. They’d been in here, in the videos. Fuck. He sat back, staring at one of the videos with a sad smile. “Clarence, I -” But Clarence wasn’t here. He’d seen that thing and died, and it had turned towards Nathan and been s angry and - and Clarence was gone. Dead. He shut the computer off with a trembling hand (girly-hand, Richard had called it) and blinked the room looking fuzz (“Real men don't cry, boy!”) and began sobbing softly, helplessly. He barely heard the sheet being moved aside and looked up in case it was the police, or a neighbour who “You’re dead,” a voice said, high and cracking and “I know,” said Clarence, and he looked afraid. “But I had nowhere else to go. Nowhere at all. Please?” Jack was never sure what woke him and got him off of the bed. A sound, or the absence of one, instinct. He reached around Helga for his gun, struggling out of the bed. The figure in the doorway watched in silence, then said “Where is she?” and the cyborg stepped inside, moving slower than he’d remembered but still looking very deadly. Her one real eye was filed with a hatred that froze Jack in place for a moment and she used it to shoot him in the foot. He dropped with a cry of shock. The cyborg asked something else, angrily, but he never heard it as Helga was simply there, between them. Fire exploded between them and Helga screamed, falling back. The cyborg stepped past her, ignoring her, and hauled Jack to his feet one handed. Some part of his mind noted that her other arm was moving slowly and had likely been damaged and that she was limping, then she shook him, hard enough that he felt feel shatter. “Where is she?” “I don’t know who you’re talking about!” She dropped him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. “Why were you there?” Jack struggled through the pain and managed “Man died there. Was looking for some other kid, Nathan...” The cyborg stepped past him to the bedside table and opened the folder. “The one who looks like a girl.” It wasn’t a question but Jack nodded anyway. The cyborg looked down, then said. “Thank you,” and the world went away. Helga made it back inside, her face a mask of ugly scars slowly healing, and stopped. It was gone, but Jack was lying there, and dead. She knew death, she’d caused enough of it, but she still dropped down beside the body and felt shock rush through her, and pain. Dimly, she was astonished. She’d really loved him, but it was too late. “No,” she said, trembling with rage. “I loved you!” She grabbed the body, holding it to herself, and cut her wrist, mingling blood, willing the change, using him as she never would have as he never would have survived when alive, willing him to return, to heal, to join her on the other side. She only stopped when the sirens were too loud to ignore and left the house slowly. The cyborg had left no trail, but she would call in favours, and the bitch would die. It was that simple. An eye for an eye, a heart for a heart, a life for a life. “I didn’t know someone could do divination with hearts,” Kallie said as she knocked on the open door, pausing to look around. The shop was small and cozy, consisting of a large ornate steel table with a small crystal ball on it, 3 antique chairs around it and a sitting area with Cassandra’a small white cat, Oedipuss, sitting on one of the two couches. Cassandra looked up from the other couch and smiled warmly. “Kallie, it has been far too long,” the older woman said, standing slowly. Cassandra Elkan was a tall, plump woman with curly white hair and a smile that seemed to literally warm the room. The two women embraced and Cass pushed her back with a frown. “You look tired.” Kallie took a seat with a sigh, and nodded. “Trying to find something that is getting more complicated than I could have expected, and I lost my employee.” “Lost?” Cass raised an eyebrow. “Taylor Hilyard. He used to work for the city as a dog catcher in the Squalls. I hired him because he seemed competent, and knows bindings. However, I have no idea how to get ahold of him - his phone seems to be off the hook - and he chased after a cyborg who tried to kill him and Jack earlier this evening.” Cass stared at her, then said “What was he looking for, the holy grail?” “No, I’m looking for that. He wqs just trying to find a missing kid named Nathan.” “You’re not joking are you?” “I wish I was.” “Okay, then.” Cass gathered up the deck of cards from the coffee table and put them away. “And you want me to find him for you?” “If you can. It not,” Kallie nodded towards the crystal ball. Cass sighed then said “his name and a place works. Do you have anything for Nathan?” Kallie handed him the picture Jack had sent her and Cass raised an eyebrow. “Well. Is he really wearing a studded collar?” Kallie made a face. “We took it off the net at the place he was staying at. Long story.” Cass smiled, then reached into her shawl for her real cards, and handed them to Kallie. “Just run your hands over the deck for a moment. And remember, don’t-” “Try to see anything,” Kallie finished with her, and grinned, touching the cards. Cass nodded and shuffled them quickly, dealing them each 7 cards. “Go fish.” Kallie drew one, then placed a red card on the table. “Blood, not a good beginning,” said Cass, placing three white down. “Healing.” Kallie nodded and placed 2 black, drawing. more. “Darkness, of a kind.” Kallie tossed down another black card, using the red and black. Cass responded with 2 white. and destroyed it. “Light still can win.” She placed a red, green, blue and black down. “The world.” Kallie tossed down a card. “Tremor.” She shook the table. Cass frowned, then said “Flying raiders, multicoloured.” Kallie frowned, then threw down 3 green cards. “The wild.” Cass threw down 2 cards. “The heroes.” Kallie banished one, then tossed down her last card. “Cataclysm.” Cass threw down a card. “Counter” and tossed her last white down. “And the light wins.” Kallie nodded and threw 7 more cards into the centre. Cass flipped the first over. “Plague of boils. A death.” She took the deck and pulled out a random card. “White. A death reversed. Someone shall come close to dying soon, or has.” She flipped over the second. “Red.” and drew one. “Water.” and another “sand. Someone died, and the repercussions are still being felt.” Then the third. “The wild,” draw “chains, so it is not free” draw “white, so they are a choice” draw “the moon.” “So you flip 4 and then 4 to figure it out next?” Cass frowned, then nodded. Flip. “The world, which shook.” She drew a card.. “The sun.” Another “covered in darkness” another “a lighthouse” another “in a storm” Cass; “For the fifth we have “The hanged man, reversed; a fireball; a white wall, goblin, the child; orcs, the parents; a red wall. “Six is red; we draw water; land; swamp; fire; mountain; and a lenged. Balancing, somehow. “The seventh is .....” Cass stared at the card, her expression unreadable. “Blank.” she took a quick breath. “We draw white, a spirit warrior; water, a pond; free mana, an untried; black, the dead; red, evil; time, halted; the stars....” she looked up “in a row, and this deck has no stars in it.” Kallie stared at her, then said “What does it mean?” Cass pulled her gaze away from the deck. “Mean? Nothing means just any one thing. I use these because Tarot means too much for any real reading unless one is very gifted. I go by instinct, and what feels right. he is not dead, he doth not sleep.” “Taylor?” “And others, I think. And death is over all, and the world shook, or will shake. Fiat Nox glowed earlier tonight, for a moment.” “And you believe the cards predicted that?” “Or caused it, for all I know.” Cass stood slowly. “That was the strangest reading I’ve ever given, and I once consulted for a deity. Most of those cards weren’t in the deck, the wild one couldn’t decide to be fox or wolf, the untrained one ...” she frowned. “No fee for this, Kallie. If you find the untrained one, someone in need of lessons in the Art, send him my way. And I would like to meet this Taylor fellow, after you’re done.” “So we’ll win?” Cass looked at her and for a moment Kallie saw fear in her eyes, then it was gone. “I’ll meet him in this world, or the next. Or the one after that, if it comes to that.” She pushed Kallie’s hand away. “No scrying, no seeking, no other reading. Not from me or anyone else, you hear me?” fiercely. Kallie stared at her, then said “How bad is it, Cassandra Elkan?” Cass didn’t reply for a long moment, then said “Name tricks don’t work on me, Ms. Jax. I do not know what is going on, but I do know that some of those cards don’t exist in the deck.” “Maybe it was an expansion pack?” Cass stared at her, the said “This isn’t something to joke about!” Kallie sighed, and shook her head. “Cass, I do appreciate the help, and the reading.” “But you’re going to ignore it, aren’t you?” “Life is too short to take seriously.” Cass didn’t smile and said “Death isn’t.” Before Kallie could reply, she led the seer to the door and shoed her outside very quickly. Kallie stayed in time to hear 4 bolts click home and began to walk back to the office, staring into the symbol in her head and thinking she’d need to sleep over, and perhaps camp out there. Other thoughts tried to intrude themselves but she ignored them. She’d deal with them later, she decided, and opened the door, walking inside quickly. | Length of Entry: 2,446 |
14.11.2003| Nathan stumbled backward quickly into the wall and stared as Clarence stopped just inside the doorway. “But - but -but you .. you died,” he managed to get out. Clarence didn’t move, then just nodded. “This is the City, though, Nate. People come back, sometimes, like ghosts or zombies or me.” “And what are you?” Nathan demanded weakly, not moving towards him. “I don’t know,” said Clarence slowly. “I died, but I didn’t leave my body, not really. Something held me back, a black goat, and blood, somewhere, changing balancing, laws...” he trailed off slowly, looking confused, but when Nathan looked up there was something alien, something ... not Clarence ... in his eyes, a distance, an empty gleam ... that made him pale. Clarence didn’t move. “I had nowhere else to go. No one would accept me, or take me in. Everything has changed, and nothing is certain, Nathaniel.” Nathan stared at Clarence. He’d heard people saying their bowels turned to ice, but he’d never felt it, never dreamt ... “You know?” Clarence me this gaze and smiled his wry, private smile. “I’m dead, or something very much like it. A zombie with a soul, but still dead. I see .... more than I did.” “Oh.” Nathan looked off into the distance for a moment, then said “how much of this is because you know it’s what I’ll respond to?” Clarence took a half-step forward and stopped, the air in the room acquiring a cold bite it hadn’t had a moment ago. His face was so still and empty that Nathan shuddered, but his voice was Clarence’s, and hurt. “You believe ...” He stopped, then said “I don’t know,” abruptly. “I just know I can trust you, and there is no one else I’d say that about.” Nathan gave a startled laugh. “We’ve know each other for three weeks, Clarence!” “You’re good at keeping secrets. Are you implying I can’t trust you?” “Don’t.” “Don’t what, perchance? “Withdraw.” “Then answer.” “I don’t know if I’m worthy of it.” “Few people are worthy of anything,” he said, and it was a very un-Clarence statement. Nathan moves forward from the wall slowly, looking scared, then just nodded. “I can do secrets. And I - I can try to be. But I lied to you,” he said quickly, before Clarence could say anything else. “I did those videos to make sure my family wouldn’t come for me, not to hurt them.” Clarence nodded. “Everyone lies, though. It keeps us apart from others, private.” “I suggest you don’t lie about this,” a man growled from the doorway. Clarence spun around even as Nathan looked past him. A tall, painfully thin man was standing in the doorway in ripped jeans and a t-shirt, barefoot, and holding a knife in one hand. It was his eyes that got Nathan’s attention, a pale, almost colourless blue, but filed with a cold rage that caused him to step backwards, the blood draining from his face. The mans red hair was hacked off at the back and his freckles stood out on his own pale face as he stared at both of them. “About what?” Clarence asked, his expression unreadable. “You’re the dead one?” The man stared at Clarence curiously, then said “A cyborg was here, while I and a private investigator were looking for the police to find Nathan. She was looking for a woman, and tried to kill us. I followed her, and we ... fought. Now I will get answers.” Clarence stepped towards him. “I’m already dead.” The man smiled and lifted up the knife. “This will still hurt,” he said very softly, and something entered his eyes that caused even a dead man to hesitate. Nathan closed his eyes, taking a few desperate breaths, and tried not to faint. When he opened them Clarence was straightened slowly, his expression cold. “My body doesn’t feel pain.” The other man continued to smile. “But you did double over when I kicked . The body remembers, and reacts, even if there is no pain.” He held up the knife carefully. “And this will cut anything, and kill, if I’m not careful. I’ve never killed a dead man before.” The temperature in the apartment plummeted, and a cold, dry, wind seemed to flow through it. Nathan could almost see shapes in it, and pain. “It is not easy,” Clarence said, and his voice was deeper than Nathan had ever heard, and echoed. “Stop this,” he managed to get out. “Stop this now!” The living and the dead turned towards him at the same time but the living man scared him more, and the knife seemed to pull at his gaze, cutting something inside him. “There’s no need for this,” he said carefully, like he had to Richard over a month ago, and the man stilled for a moment. “Belt. And something to wrap this in,” in a strained voice.” Nathan threw him his without a word and the man wrapped the knife up and tied it to his waist, relaxing slightly. “Eliose was right,” he said to himself., and the knife stopped drawing Nathan’s attention. Then he looked up. “Answers, now. Who was she, and who was she looking for.” Clarence just stared, then said “We have no reason to trust you.” The man smiled again, and even without the feeling of the knife behind it, Nathan knew he could kill them both and not care at all. “I haven’t killed you yet.” “I’m dead.” “We can make it a little more permanent of you want,” the man said cheerfully, and silver light seemed to coalesce in his hands. He flicked a hand and Clarence recoiled form the light with a hiss of pain, looking shocked. “A lot more, if you insist. I just want answers.” “You want to kill her,” he said. “She tried to kill me first, and she killed someone I had sworn to protect once. I’m returning the favour.” He looked at Nathan carefully, the said “She could have mistake you for her daughter.” “I’m not a girl,” Nathan said, his voice so cold Clarence looked surprised. The man smiled slightly, the cold rage in his eyes easing a little. “I never said you were. Your parents wanted you to be an actor?” “No,” so flatly the man looked surprised. “Fuck,” Clarence said, looking tired. “Leave him alone. It was my mother.” The man blinked, then frowned slightly and sniffed, as if he had a cold. “Your mother is a cyborg?” “She wasn’t always one.” “That’s good to know.” “She became one in jail after murdering my father.” “.... and people complain about prisoners getting cable TV.” The man shook his head. “It was a government program.” Clarence said, a trifle cooly. “Mister...?” “Hilyard. Taylor Hilyard. What was her name?” | Length of Entry: 1,134 |
15.11.2003| “Amy Oxwell.” Taylor Hilyard froze, his expression one of shocked horror, then said faintly. “Was her mother named Sara?” Clarence nodded warily. “She married her cousin, Bart. Or maybe he was a second-cousin, I’m not sure.” Taylor just stood there, then made a sound that might have been a laugh and stared at Clarence for a long time. “She doesn’t know, does she?” The dead man shook his head. “She killed my father, left me alone. I - I did what was right for me.” Taylor shook his head slowly. “She’s insane. Do you know what she’ll do?” “No. But I’m sure she won’t rest until she’s found Clarice,” Clarence said slowly, as if tasting something bitter. Taylor nodded once and walked over to the phone. “Yes. Daniels, Jack. Home number. Out of service? Since when? I see.” He hung up and walked towards the curtain, saying “She got to the PI, I imagine. I suggest you two not be here tomorrow.” Before either of them could respond he was gone and a small, red fox darted out the doorway. There was a moment of silence, then Clarence said “I was afraid of that?” Nathan looked up from the couch, his arms wrapped around himself and trying to stop shivering. “I was. If he’s one of the good guys, I don’t want to know what the bad guys are like.” “She’d not bad,” Clarence said, looking angry. “Not bad? You said she’d kill you!” “She was in jail for fifteen years. She let them make her into a cyborg in the Gulag ‘scraper. I think it just ... pushed her over the edge.” “Being mad doesn’t excuse things,” Nathan said evenly. “Are we having a fight?” Clarence asked, giving Nathan a surprised look. The other man flinched as if struck, then said quietly “I don’t want to, I don’t like fighting. But madness is just an excuse, Clarence, not a reason.” “She was justified in her own mind.” “To hunt down her lost daughter and kill people?” Nathan stared at him incredulously. “Justifications are excuses, too.” “What isn't, then?” Clarence snapped. “Taking responsibility for your own life. Accepting yourself.” “Accepting yourself?” Oh, that’s rich, Nathaniel.” Nathan paled. “Is slumming in the Gutters accepting yourself? What kind of acceptance is living with someone you’ve known for three weeks and asking them to add cuts and abuse to videos just so your family will find them on the net?” Nathan bit his lip and looked away. “You talk big, Nate, but I don’t see you acting on it. You ran away.” Nathan refused to look at him, but managed to say “It was the only choice I could make,” as he fought back tears. Clarence looked disgusted. Rationalizations are no different than justifications. They’re the sound of half a mind thinking, so don’t get so on a soapbox about me, got it?” Nathan stiffened, and turned, about to speak, then visibly fought words back and looked away again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have -” “Damn right you shouldn’t have!” “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know her, and I was wrong, okay?” Clarence actually smiled. “How often have you said that?” Nathan looked up, surprised, then grinned sheepishly. “First time.” Their gazes met and Nathan stood, hugging Clarence tightly. The dead man returned it hesitantly and Nathan let go, surprised, smelling formaldehyde. “You’re.. so cold.” “I’m dead.” “I almost forgot.” “You have a strange idea of compliments.” Nathan looked confused for a second, then glared at Clarene, his expression stern. “I’m not saying sorry again,” he said, but looked up with a sad smile of his own. “The world might come to an end.” Clarence lifted a hand, then let it drop. “I’ve got the couch. Tomorrow we leave. I don’t trust the city tonight.” Nathan nodded once, and that naked, open expression Clarence saw so rarely faded along with his smile. “A storm is coming,” he said distantly, and walked to the bedroom. The dead man watched him leave, stared at the door for a long moment, then fell onto the couch with a muffled curse. Kallie hung up the garlic on the wall calmly, glad for 24-hour stores, and looked towards the doorway and gave a muffled curse as the hammer caught her thumb. She dropped it and began to suck on it when she Saw, and turned, removing it. “Good evening.” Helga Wimbush stood in the doorway, her smile cold and a burning rage lighting her eyes. “You knew,” hard, flat. Kallie stared at the images around the vampire, looking sick. “You .. and jack? He’s....” She closed her eyes, then opened them. “I never saw,” she said slowly, the hardest admission for any seer. The vampire relaxed slightly and the anger went inside, leaving her preternaturally calm and still. “Who is the cyborg?” Kallie closed her eyes, then said “Someone looking for a girl, named Clarice. Her daughter. Jack and Taylor, my employee, met her in the apartment in the Downs he was at. Taylor apparently chased her away. I - I’m guessing she must have killed him, then gone after Jack.” “Guessing, seer?” Kallie stared at her, then said “No sight is perfect, no future is definite, Helga Maryann Wimbush.” The vampire smiled slightly, then entered and sniffed the garlic. “No, I would guess not.” Kallie stared, the sight hitting her full force, then said “You’re -” Helga looked over, smirking, and nodded. “Jack made me, and he’s dead. I will have my revenge. Now, where is she?” “I don’t know,” Kallie said, looking tired. “I’ve tried, but all I get is her anger, not where she is. And she’s very angry. She’ll be in a clinic, tomorrow night. Looking for a doctor.” “Which clinic?” Helga snapped. “I don’t know,” Kallie said. “I wish I did, or that I’d been able to warn Jack or ....” she trailed off, shaking her head, looking very tired. “Please, just go.” Helga picked up one of the garlic buds, looked about to speak, then was gone as if she’d never been there. Kallie sat down in her chair and stared off into space for a long moment, then reached into the bottom drawer of the desk against her will and pulled out a small photo album labelled ‘Our Honeymoon’ and stared at it, never opening it. Holly Franklin opened the door quickly and dad nodded to her and got into the trans, waiting for her to follow. Holly stepped inside, feeling the strange tingle from the scanner, and took a seat beside Charles, looking around avidly. He trans was silver, with plush royal blue seats. The other passengers were all wearing grey and black suits and sat in rows, few of them looking out the window. After a few minutes the immaculate trans bored her and Holly looked out the window at the City. The ‘burbs were outside the City proper, all walled and neat and orderly. Hers was one of the more upscale suburbs, so Holly watched the tall, 20’ tall white picket fences decorated in electrified barbed wire pass by below with a sense of pride. The trans went over some of the most distant office buildings and Holly caught a glimpse of some of the other ‘scrapers: Skyreach, said to so tall planes went around it, and 4 Freedoms, the first tower, home of The Mayor and Parliament. Unbidden, the 4 Freedoms resounded in her mind: Freedom of speech, Freedom to worship God in our own way, Freedom from want, and freedom from fear: the promises of The Mayor to the people, engraved in the very walls that would last until the City was no more, and men no longer dreamed of worlds that never were, or refused to accept parts of the world they lived in. Her mother had told her once that the City had been home to those who did not fit into the rest of the world, but n it accepted everyone, even normal people like her and mom and dad. She peered down from the Trans but the infamous Gutters weren’t visible except as the occasional glimpse of a roof or smoke from a burning building. But they were being improved, of course. The Mayor was planning to allow it self-government as an experiment, some kind of “controlled anarchy” idea by moving the government workers to areas where they could be useful, which was good since the Gutter did nothing for the economy, or so Mrs. Ferkovich said. But she’d also said that we were all slaves to the economy but that no one actually knew why it did what it did and it might crash on us and we can’t predict that but we should be happy, so she wasn’t sure if Mrs. Ferkivitch was right. Maybe she’d just been joking, like when she said that all our freedom is fake and that it’s what we’re free to not do that’s important, not what we’re free to do. Hollys speculations were cut short by the trans arriving at the skyscraper her dad worked at. Building: the skyscraper. It was a tall, square building where, as dad used to say “all the real work gets done.” But that was then, and this was now, and he was working the night shift to be able to catch up on paperwork and had asked of Holly wanted to see it. She’d been so happy! The Trans stopped at the thirty second floor and everyone shuffled off, to enter or make other connections. Holly stayed closed to her father, because she was worried she might misplace him in this crowd of suits and never find him again. A silly image, but she couldn’t quite dismiss it. The interior of Building: the skyscraper was the same colour as the suits, all grey and black, with the occasional shade of brown to liven things up. The employees walked quickly to their cubicles with no wasted motion or conversation, working quickly and efficiently. She entered her dads cubicle and was proud he had a large one so she could actually fit in it as well. Her dad began typing quickly, filling the screen with text, and finally looked over after an hour as Holly just sat and watched like a proper daughter should. “I’m doing taxes right now. The Gutter makes it hard, since some people claim they’re vampires and keep coming back, and want to inherit their own money. And there’s people coming back from the dead who say we shouldn’t have cancelled their bank accounts.” Holly nodded, listening. Her father went on for an hour as he typed, explaining the intricacies of the system and leaving his daughter vaguely confused and believing that the tax laws were changed daily by little elves in accounting for some reason. Of course, he might have been joking but dad didn’t joke much anymore. Work took up too much time. A few people passed like grey wraiths, changelings dreaming strange thoughts. Dad’s boss came, and Holly thought he was a vampire masquerading as a human, he seemed so much like a hunter in search of a reckoning she was reminded of weres and the apocalypse they planned after blowing up the moon. A woman even came down from the skyscraper proper, wearing a white suit, and daddy said she was from Alpha, and a high programmer. Holly just knew she looked really pretty. Then daddy was done, and saying something about “let’s see him miracle his way out of a foreclosure.” and then they left the office and for some reason the grey skies seemed nicer outside, but she never wondered why and went home with daddy so he could catch some sleep before returning to work tomorrow morning. And everything was right in the world. Victor Dillon studied the phone expressionlessly as it rang, then picked it up slowly. “If it is about a weretiger robbing a 7-11, hang up now.” There was a quiet pause, then “Excuse me, Dillon?” Victor sighed. “Sorry sir. It’s been a long day and we’re trying to figure out who killed that private investigation living in the ring.” “Ah, the homes built off the trans over the gutters?” “Yes, sir. So far our suspects include his vampire lover and a cyborg.” “Anyone else?” “Unfortunately, no.” “Right. Keep me posted.” Victor stared at the phone, then hung up. “Keep him posted, he said.” Thomas gave Victor a worried look. “Are you all right?” Victor closed his eyes and sighed. “I don’t know. We’re getting weird cases, but that’s not a problem. The problem is that they can’t be solved. You don’t put APB’s out on vampires and expect to catch them. And The Dome makes and has most cyborgs, so they won’t give us anything.” “The Gulag has built a few, I think. Experiments.” “I’m sure they’d tell us if one was let loose among the population, Thomas.” “Even if it was in the Gutters, Victor?” “Good point. Call them tomorrow. I’m going to ask more people about cyborg sightings and hope we get lucky.” He stood, then growled as the phone rang. “Dillon here.” He paused. “What? Calm down ,sir.” He looked at Thomas. “Line 3. This one is yours.” Thomas just took the phone and nodded, wondering why he didn’t change to some simple job, like killer bee exterminator or were veterinarian. The Writer sighed with relief as the phone as answers and said “I’d like to report a crime. It’s my novel. Surely you’ve heard of it? Well, no, it’s not titled. I’m calling it Lowered Expectations. What? No. It’s not about sex, it’s a metaphor for how we relate to the world and how people have changed and that the future is no longer seen as a good thing and that progress is not good, merely inevitable and ... oh, the crime? Someone is stealing pages from my book, as I type them. I put the manuscript in my drawer for the elves to finish and - pages are missing! What? No, the elves didn’t even finish it, and I left them slippers! Matching sets! Do you know what this has done to my word count? I have one in the negatives now since I’ve lost pages! All those words and wisdom, just gone! Gone, I say! Taken and stolen by someone else! Proof? Pages 15 to 25.3 are missing! Gone! My entire third chapter on breaching the dimensions to achieve inner peace was stolen! What? No, it’s not like the Celestine Prophecy. What? Well, of course people won’t turn to energy, thought it might be good if they did since being human is an evolutionary dead end. Once the stars are right we’ll all be eaten and that is that. Shame, really. I do hope I finish chapter nine before then. Hello? Hello?” The Writer hung up the phone, confused, and shook his head. Here he was, a taxpaying citizen, and the police hung up on him. Maybe they were in on it. No one wants the truth, they all prefer cheap lies. And he was willing to offer the truth, the self-help book to end help, the real path towards inner peace and acceptance of our fates as little more than playthings for the Great Old Ones, which was, in his humble opinion, one of the best metaphors ever to grace the printed page. And now it was getting stolen by the illuminati so that he’d been unable to illuminate the world. Well. We’d seen about that.... no one was going to take away from his word count. The Writer looked up and stared into space, right as the invisbile hound of tindalos Buttercup was talking to in canine and the look of small-minded righteous fury suffusing his pallid features caused the hound to whimper and run away with its tail between its legs. The Writer didn’t notice. “No one takes this from me ... this is my novel, my master piece, my ticket to the big times, my blockbuster movie that will trivialize the novel into trite, sentimental sound-byte sludge. And no one, no one was going to steal it from me!” His mind made up, The Writer went for a nap, then to freshen up and buy a home security system. Imagine how important death must be to have a prerequisite such as life. Taylor Hilyard stood outside of his house, studying it. Small, run-down, barely patched up over the years except to keep neighbours from coming to lynch Dean last year when he started playing the drums inside. Not much, really. If it all burned down tomorrow there was almost nothing in it he’d miss, and the only tears he’d shed would be those caused by ashes blown into his eyes from the winds. For some reason, the thought depressed him immensely. So long a life, so little to show for it. He felt worn, weighted down by years and mysteries and oaths. His head had been ripped off, and he had not died. And all he felt was afraid, afraid that he could not die, that there may well be nothing that can kill him, if he wanted an ending. Or needed one, if he lived too long, and the years began to press down and there was no relief, no real ending. Just living over and over.... He rubbed his neck absently and sighed, then walked up, the steps and inside, hearing faint notes from a guitar and blinked, surprised dean was still up. The sound of the guitar hitting the floor was even more surprising as Dean practically barrelled into him. “Where were you?” Taylor shoved him back with a hiss of pain that made Dean jump, surprised. dean was a short, stout young man with thick, dark hair and permanently tanned skin, a legacy of his grandmother. Warm brown eyes studied Pale blue ones as he frowned, running his hands over his now non-existent beard with a worried look. “What happened? The wards just - died.” Taylor looked surprised, then just shrugged, his eyes unreadable. “I had a run-in with a cyborg. I managed to survive, but got myself on the knife.” he nodded to his waist. “I can fix the wards.” Dean growled, something dark glittering in his own eyes, “I was fine. It wasn’t the full moon. I was worried about you, though.” Taylor grinned. “I was worried about me too, for a bit.” Dean stared at him, but knew he’d get no answers. It had been amusing five years ago when he’d first met Taylor, but wasn’t anymore. “Maybe you could tell me the whole story, for a change?” Taylor looked at him, and for a moment Dean smelled fear and saw a brittleness in his eyes that scared him, then shook his head “Sorry. I don’t understand it yet myself.” Dean almost let it go, but said “You’re scared.” Taylor looked at him and Dean gulped. “What if I am?” “You don’t have to be,” he managed. Taylor shook his head, looking tired. “I can’t. It’s not fair to you.” “I can be the judge of what’s fair to me, Taylor.” “You’ll want more than sex, and I can’t give that.” “You won’t, you mean.” “Fine, then. I won’t. I was married, once. I loved her. I’m not going to love someone else, like that.” “You wouldn’t,” Dean said dryly. “I’m not a woman, for one thing. Damn it, Taylor, you can’t keep hiding.” Taylor actually looked hurt, for a moment. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to betray her.” “She’s dead. You told me that the night we met, when you were going to cut your heart out what that damned knife, remember? The dead stay dead, Taylor. If she really loved you, then she won’t mind you finding it again.” “With you?” Dean stepped back as if Taylor had slapped him. “Maybe not. But with someone. We can try, at least. Please, for your sake...” “Not yours?” Taylor said with a cruel smile. “No,” Dean said quietly, with a dignity that caused Taylor to recall himself. He looked away, then said “Good night,” and walked to his bedroom. Dean stared at the door in silence for a long moment, hoping.... then sighed and went to his room, and didn’t sleep. But no one came in | Length of Entry: 3,377 |
16.11.2003| The Acolyte XIII stood by the altar and shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. She knew she shouldn’t have answered the ad in the store window, but she needed work, and all she had to do was say when the stars lined up outside. It should be easy. It would have been easier if she hadn’t lost her glasses to that stupid black llama she’d had to sacrifice earlier. The Master had said he didn’t want to be distracted but maybe pointing out she couldn’t see across the street without her glasses would be considered more than a distraction. But, given that she didn’t know what had become of acolyte’s one through twelve, maybe not. So she sat, and waited, and decided to settle for guessing. At the very least, she wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. Taylor crawled out of bed at about nine a.m., mildly surprised that Dean hadn’t left some coffee out and made some, waking up around ten or so with a few more yawns, and a glance at the local paper. Fiat Nox glowed bright last night, cause unknown. Knort refuses to comment. City task force refuses to clean up remains of angels from the streets. Mayor refuses to acknowledge allegations of using zombies as scab labour. Astrology buffs predict special alignment of stars and planets, a ‘once in a lifetime opportunity’ not to be missed. Man credits ballooning weight to surviving shotgun blast to the chest, citing obscure d20 laws relative to his level vs. static damage from a shotgun. City services to the Gutters suspended indefinitely in attempt to promote self-governing controlled anarchy. Taylor studied the headlines, shook his head, and threw the paper in the trash, then went outside and locked the door, making sure the bindings were steady again, then sighed. He knew he’d been abrupt last night, and unfair. It had just been too much, and he should have confided something in Dean, the man wasn’t stupid after all. He considered several options carefully then walked down the road and to the edge of the Squalls. Dean played the lunch time crowd at Eaters of the Dead, one of the few clubs open near the Squalls and the only one open 24 hours. The owner, a retired policeman named Lance Christensen, had a reputation for dealing with any trouble in a generally permanent manner, much has he had dealt with the previous owner, a neurotic vampire known as Artimus. Eaters of the Dead was a large, friendly building painted canary yellow that had once benea rather large mansion before being converted to a restaurant and bar. The door was open, as it always was when things were calm, but Taylor stopped a good hundred yards away, his ears picking up the sound of Dean singing inside, alone, with his guitar. “I told him that I loved him But he does not love me, I told him that love's not a sin And that we could be free. But he just stared, then walked away And left he standing there. Was he hurt? He would not say, And could not meet my stare. And the hardest part of loving Ain't telling them you do, It's standing there and waiting To learn if they do too. I told him that it didn't matter, All those secrets he'd not share Or how rare was honest laughter - Just wanted him to know I cared. I just wanted him to know That I'd love him if he'd have me, That even if he just said no A friend I could always be. And the hardest part of loving Ain't telling them you do, It's standing there and waiting To learn if they do too.” Taylor stood there in silence, listening without expression as the song played through a second time, to the voice woven through the notes and the complete silence inside the bar as the people listened. He took an unconscious step towards the door, then stopped, and whispered “Damn you,” and walked away. Kallie sighed and lowered the gun, staring at the body dispassionately. They never learned, did they? “I told you you’d die,” she said quietly. “You should have listened, not tried to hide in the hallway like an amateur.” She heard a surprised sound from the doorway and didn’t turn. “If you could take him outside, I’d appreciate it.” “Is this a regular occurrence?” Taylor asked as he walked into the room and picked up the body. “Oh, not really. Only when Christof takes it in his little head to wipe out the competition the old-fashioned way. Sometimes we find things, other times they find us.” Taylor nodded and took the body out the hall and to the back alley, throwing it among the trash, then walked back inside. Kallie had put her gun away and cleaned off the desk. “Tell me about yesterday,” she said firmly. For a moment, she thought he’d refuse, then Taylor just sighed and dropped into the chair, looking at her, then spoke in a quiet monotone. “I went to the apartment, no one was there except Jack. We talked. A cyborg came in looking for her lost daughter and tried to kill us. I followed it and it put me out of commission for a time. I went back to the apartment, thinking she would have returned there, but only found Nathan and the dead dead fellow, Clarence. Then I tried to call Jack, figuring out the cyborg was after him, got no reply, went there and saw the wreckage, and went home to sleep.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then said “I am sorry for your loss,” formally. Kallie didn’t reply for a few moments, just studying him. He looked bad. Stressed and far too close to the breaking point. “I told Helga where the cyborg would be today. I could see that much at least.” Taylor looked up. “That’s the vampire that was there?” She nodded. “What does the cyborg want, Taylor?” Taylor sighed, then said “Her name is Amy Oxwell. She wants to find her daughter, Clarice.” He smiled slightly, barring his teeth. “Apparently she killed her husband and became a cyborg in jail, to reduce her sentence. Three or so years or so,Clarice undertook an operation to become Clarence, our corpse. Walking corpse, that is,” he amended. “And our boy Nathan is Clarence’s lover, nothing more. I think.” “You think?” “Well, I’d like a simple answer but somehow I doubt it’s really that simple.” “Jack mentioned videos.” Taylor nodded. “I think they’re edited in. They didn’t strike me as the types to really go into cutting each other. Nathan was scared of me when I was there, but he would have stood up to me if I had really hurt Clarence. He’s never really been tested, and if he’s lucky he never will be.” Kallie nodded. “A statement from him would be good.” “Might be hard to get, I told them to leave. In case dear mummy came back. I have no idea what knowing her daughter was now her son would do, but I don’t think either of them should be around for it.” “Good point. And now?” “Now, I need the information you gave the vampire,” Taylor said calmly. “Why?” “It’s personal. I’ll take the time off if you want.” Kallie stared at him, shivering slightly at his implacable stare, then said “Again, why?” Taylor gave her a rueful smile. “I need to protect her from the vampire. It’s an oath I made to someone, once.” “You know her, then.” “I know the scent. I’m sure it’s her.” Kallie knew it wasn’t her business, but she’d always been curious, and she could see how close he was to cracking. “What did she do?” “She killed a relative of mine I’d sworn to protect.” “And so you’re protecting her?” “It was eighty years ago. I need to know if she’s done it yet, so I can kill her,” Taylor said, as if that made all the sense in the world. Kallie stared at him,then said “She’s searching out medical clinics. I’m guessing the medical ones, for records of her daughter. I’m not sure which one she’s at, but they’re close.” Taylor nodded to her and stood. “Thank you. What of the grail?” “I was told by a messiah that I wouldn’t find it while the mayor worked his dark arts in the City.” Taylor gave her a surprised look. “Please tell me you’re not getting paid enough to go against him.” Kallie gave a startled laugh, then said “I doubt there is that much money in the world. But the way I see it he can’t he working his arts all the time.” “Noon to three p.m., then.” She nodded. “I’ll find the grail then, and go that route.” Taylor stood, and said “Thank you,” and walked out the door to begin hunting. Kallie sat there, watching futures and images trail in the air around her and shook her head slowly. The messiah should know where the grail was, if anyone did. She stood as well and left the office, locking it, and ignoring the strange foreboding that she’d never see it again. Dillon looked around the apartment, then said “Someone was back.” Thomas look out from the bedroom. “Someone slept on the bed.” He paused a beat. “No blood.” “Did you find out about the door?” Dillon asked. “Would you believe psycho cyborg?” “The one who killed Jack?” “How many psychotic cyborgs are running around?” “I don’t think we could sleep easily if we knew,” Dillon said. “All right. Cyborg comes here, destroys the door, leaves. Finds Jacks place, and wants answers from him, and kills him?” “Excepting that a small red fox chased the cyborg out the front door and Jack told the people the cyborg was with him and would give them bit problems if they didn’t answer his questions. Maybe a double cross?” Dillon shook his head. “No. Jack was just really good at making use of the weirdest situations to get information. I remember one time he got some gang members to give him information by claiming he was Satan. Though, come to think of it, he never told me how he’d convinced them of it.” He look his head slowly. “Anything else?” Thomas shook his head. “Well, there were two people. Someone slept on the couch as well. With luck, it wasn’t the dead body. But better than the bedroom, I suppose.” Thomas turned a pale shade of green. Dillon grinned wickedly, then said “Anything odd at Jacks we need to know?” Thomas shook his head, skimming through his notes, then said “Oh, damn. Constable Vulpinus said he saw a small fox at the scene. Mentioned it because animals aren’t allowed in the ring, something about them accidentally scampering up into the trans system. Happened once with a whole case load of ferrets, I heard.” Dillon frowned. “Fox here, fox there. Time to go fox hunting them, since it’s our only clue. How many were foxes are there in this city?” Thomas shrugged. “I can ask around.” “Do so. In the meantime, I’ll get Gulag to tell us about that cyborg if I have to pull out a court order to do it.” “How do you do it?” “What?” “Breathe. I man, you are dead.” Clarence stopped, then shrugged. “Habit, I think.” “Oh.” Nathan continued walking. The Master’s voice was a loud hissing that seemed to fill the air as The Acolyte XIV (or XIIII, he forgot which) watched. Words in eldrich tongues never meant to know the light of day echoed and gained voices of their own, mingling into a cacophonic chorus of sybaritic sounds, causing The Acolyte to wince with pain mingled with some hideous ecstasy as the voice of the Master filled the room that seemed far, far larger than euclidean geometry could allow. “Phnazg'nglui durbatulûk mglw'nafh ash nazg'Cthulhu gimbatul ash nazg R'lyeh wgah hrakatulûk'nagl agh burzum-ishi fhtagn-krimpatul,” the voice chanted. Over. And over. And over. Abruptly, it stopped, and the Master spake thus: “I have summoned you with blood, I have given you pain, I have killed for you, who wait beyond. I have lain with things that do not sleep, spoken words of power. Now comes the time, the destiny, the hour!” And from a hole that didn’t exist, from a blur in the air that hurt then eyes, a small, polite voice proclaimed: “Actually, you’re not quite on time.” The Master paused, and said in a more normal voice “Excuse me?” “And Llamas? It’s black goats.” “I didn’t have any,” said the Master, and The Acolyte IV shuddered in fear at the words. “And your ‘goat’ wasn’t harvested beneath a full moon.” “How does one harvest goats?” “Look, mac, we didn’t make up the rules, capeesh? We just make sure you you follow them. What of the sacrifice made three days after the stars are right?” Silence, then “But that would be after I summon you.” “It must be before.” “Do you know how long it takes for the stars to come right? I may not be here the next time!” “Well, yes, there is that. So sorry.” “I will do this, little creature. I will open the way for the Old Ones.” Small sigh. “Oh, fine. Be a fanatic. See if I care when great Arbegla’tnatnuocca smites you down. You do need the human sacrifice, for verisimilitude.” The Master turned away from the voice and The Acolyte IV froze, something inside him uncoiling but his body wouldn’t move. The Master took him by the arm outside and smiled, but there was nothing behind it. “We can have fun, before the sacrifice. Thirteen did, but she died. Men are stronger.” “No,” and Davey, no longer an Acolyte, ran .. and screamed, and died as dark magics licked around the smoking bones and charred flesh. The Master stared for a long time at the body. “So dead, but still pure. But there is no time” and went inside, and phoned a number. Shirley needed the money, so the creepy guy who wanted her to dress up wasn’t a problem. She said the words he asked, and even looked interested. She was good at looking interested, and lively. It’s what she was paid for. Even the tying of the blindfold and chanting strange words. She never even protested when he took her out to the garden and they did things to a corpse of burnt skin and bones that felt far too warm. She’d done worse before, she told herself, for less money. She was lying, but she sold it to herself as she’d sold herself many times before. He was paying good money, she reminded herself, even as he began to touch her, then. His fingers were hot and cold, and they seemed to peel her skin off of her, and her muscles, and even bones and marrow to expose the soul belief, so fragile and pretty. And he kissed it, with his lips, and tongue, and teeth, and drew her out of her defences with terrible ease, darkening even it, and was inside her, with a hand not his, a girl’s, and she writhed as he stripped her of illusions with cold words and brought her past where pleasure becomes pain again and again, and it was so horrible she was sobbing but felt so damn good as her body betrayed her that it was almost a relief when the blade cut into her stomach; it was a lesser pain, at the very least, as he opened her up literally., with consummate skill land a precious borne of long practise and love and placed the hearts of the others inside her womb and sealed her up and spoke words of darkness in the candences of a hallmark greeting card and she died, oh, how she died. The Master stood over the body and almost smiled. “A sacrifice made freely, but the young are still better...” And words were dancing through his head, whispering in her voice from very far away, and he went inside, humming to her words. It’s midnight in the garden And everyone’s asleep. Sweet reason dreams sweet passions keeps And all the world’s asleep. When good is evil and evil good We sow what we reap And our voices cry together Twinned under the briny deep. The moon is hidden behind clouds, I will your secrets keep: In the garden, under the trees, My corpse lies as if asleep. There were no clouds in the sky and it remained calm and peaceful and serene. “We’re lost, aren’t we?” “Isn’t everyone?” “Ha. You’re dead, though.” “It doesn’t come with a direction sense.” “What does it come with?” “You’ll find out. Someday.” “Cute.” Nathan stopped and looked around. They’d been walking for what felt like hours, following the banks one one of the small rivers that wound it’s way through the city and heading vaguely south. and west, into the quiet, still areas where you tended to find few people, most of the homeless and more extensions of the City than actual people. The buildings had begun to take on a uniform grey coarseness and were falling into disrepair, even by Gutter standards. The few things living in this labrynthine warren knew either to avoid the dead or were too weak to risk facing two people so Nathan and Clarence were largely unmolested and free to wander. Nathan dug out an energy bar and began to eat it as they walked before stopping, and grabbing Clarence’s arm. He was cold - cold and empty.The world around him was a faint grey mist and everything looked flat and lifeless, as if the colour had been sucked from everything. Even the simple feeling of wind in his face had become a remote, distant impression and not a reality. Nathan let go and stumbled back. “I -” He tried again, “I don’ think we should go that way.” “Why not?” Clar - the dead man - Clarence asked. “It doesn’t feel good,” He said lamely. Clarence smiled at that, and said “I can protect you,” and began to walk. After a time, he looked over. “Do you know what it’s like to be dead? You - you burn, you glow. But everything else is faded, and bleak. It happens when the lights are turned on, as well. Our eyes see colours better, bleach things. I wonder if pouring bleach in my eyes would help?” “I don’t think so?” Clarence smiled at Nathan’s expression.”Nor do I. But it does fade. I can’t recall green, or red. Everything is becoming surreal. Soon, it will be unreal.” He wasn’t breathing at all, Nathan noted with a thrill of fear. “I’m not even sure why I see you.” “That’s easy, boy.” They both turned towards the new voice, Clarence shoving Nathan behind him. Nathan felt the world grow dim at the touch and gasped. Clarence gave him a surprised look, then let go, looking hurt for a moment. “Why is it easy?” Clarence asked, his voice like stones grinding together. The Messiah stepped out between two buildings, looking tired. “Because you love him, you fool. Or at any rate, he loves you. As much as kids are capable of real love Puppy love.” Clarence took a half-step forward then met the eyes of Jess Ninnin and fell back, shaken. He messiah smiled thinly. “The dead neither scare me nor can harm me. I am a messiah, after all. But I have been one for a long, foolish time and seeing young people, in love, with so much for them....” He turned towards Nathan, who drew back, feeling suspicious, and pulled a small stone from around his neck, and handed it to Clarence. “I said I could not raise the dead, but I never said I did not have the means to. Wear it well.” Nathan shook his head. “Don’t accept -” But the messiah had simply vanished as if he wasn’t there at all. A dead hand closed around a green, unremarkable stone and Clarence expelled a breath,m his eyes wide. “The colours are coming back.” Nathan looked about to say something again, then saw his face and just nodded, biting his lip. After a time, Clarence looked at him. “What is it?” “I don’t know. I just don’t trust him.” Clarence nodded. “We should move away,” he said, putting the amulet on. Somewhere during their walk south, they held hands again,and Clarence’s seemed warm. It was noon when exhaustion claimed Nathan and the slept in a cold, desolate place that once held factories. He woke when night was falling, his body cocooned within Clarence’s, and Clarence stirred, life in his eyes, and smiled. “Evening, sleepy.” Nathan opened his mouth to question but a hand brushed his lips and Clarence whispered “Don’t spoil it,” and kissed him. | Length of Entry: 3,483 |
17.11.2003| Olivia Franklin kissed Charles as he came through the door. “Welcome home, dear.” Charles nodded, looking tired, but gave her a warm smile in return. “Thank you dear. What’s for supper?” “Macaroni and cheese. Homemade, of course.” “Hello, Dad,” Holly said from the doorway. “I was just doing my homework.” He nodded. “That’s my girl.” “Can you set the table, please?” Olivia asked. Holly nodded and did so, quickly. Charles went to the master bedroom to change and came out, relaxed. “Another busy day at work. But we’re getting things done, getting all the paperwork caught up for the first time in decades, I think. It’s nice to have everyone finally being efficient.” The family ate quickly, Charles and Holly thanking Olivia for the meal, and saying how their days went to her. The three of them did the dishes and Charles helped his daughter out with a math problem. Soon it was dark out and they considered going to sleep, but felt like staying up. They were waiting, eyes glancing towards the phone, but none of them knew what. In the other houses in the suburbs people sat in their clean, sparkling homes and waited for the phone to ring, or for a knock on the door, but none of them knew why. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Greg Kingsley. Most of you already know me, but for those of you who don’t, I work down in marketing. Recently, The Mayor asked us to conduct a poll to figure out what the population thinks of his current policies. We undertook it after the last group failed, mostly due to over zealousness - hmm?” Greg looked up as someone coughed, face darkened by shadow. A woman’s voice, trying to disguise itself said “What did they do?” “Oh. I thought the story had made the rounds.” Greg adjusted his glasses nervously and managed a pasty smile. “I guess not, given the way things, ah, currently are. Well, then. The Mayor contracted the polling out to Heimlich Group, who strove to get very, uhm, accurate results. In order to make sure people were telling the truth they, ah, tortured them. And, well, they found that even supporters of The Mayor seemed to change their views while being, well, deep fried.” “Deep fried?” said another voice. Hendricks, from HR. “Yes, I understand it’s a new fad. Deep fry people and see how long they, well, take to cook. Except they, err, did it on very low settings. And made very creative use of common household implements. Mostly to stick them inside the people they were polling and turn them on. Electric mixers....” Greg turned a dirty shade of white at the memory and the room was silent as he recovered. “Well., suffice to say it sufficed them to say to the mayor that the were sufficiently .... where was I? Oh, right. Well. As I said, they ended up concluding that that no one liked The Mayor since everyone was cursing him. Well, them more often, but they were his agents. “The Mayor, needles to say, thought that the idea was a tad preposterous and asked us to look into it in a more informal, man on the street, sending out letters way. We discarded the most virulent responses (relatives of the deceased that were recently polled, no doubt) and came to the inescapable conclusion that The Mayor is not well liked.” There was some dry, hesitant laughter that quickly trailed off into a nervous silence. “This in itself is not surprising. Indeed, the Mayor was expecting it since most people do tend to blame authority figures for problems. ‘We put them on pedestals so we can smash them down, like a reverse pinata,’ was how he put it. However, we believe that he is understating the problem, and that something must be done.” “What kind of something?” asked Hendricks waspishly. “Well, 50% said The Mayor was doing a good job. We reduced that to 10% since most people are liars, especially when being asked potentially dangerous questions. 15% seemed to flat-out hate him, no matter what their responses, and there is probably at least another 5% added to that from the previous poll. Most alarmingly, most of the dislike of The Mayor came from the ‘burbs and not the gutters.” There were a few surprised sounds at that, but Greg ignored them, in his element now as the master of statistics. “Much of this stems from The Mayor’s very public and admitted use of voodoo and the darker arts, though younger viewers said he wasn’t, err, cool enough and didn’t have enough street cred, whatever that may be. A surprising amount of young women seemed to think he was sexy but we’re assuming that was mostly hormones speaking. Indeed, most of the teenagers polled were discarded on the basis that it was the hormones talking rather than a real person. “The problem does remain, however unlikely it seems. A large portion of the population seems to fear The Mayor , and it is likely that this fear may well translate into open insurrection at some point. There comes a time when fear is no longer a luxury and people will break, in some form or another.” “Why have you brought us here?” Another voice asked. “So that we may make plans. We are not in charge of our respective departments and divisions. We are the ones who really get things done, the people who remain when the bosses have been promoted or fired. Unfortunately, many of us are also the public face of the current administration and are more likely to have the wrath of the masses fall down upon our hears. We must protect ourselves against this.” There was a low murmuring, snatches of various conversations in muted tones. He let them speak, savouring the moment, drinking their fear. ‘But it is too late.” Heads looked up at that, sharply, the murmurs louder, worrying, like the steady rush of the sea. “You came, in your pride and arrogance, to hear these words.” Figures stood, now, rushing for the door, but it did not budge. “You came, and sought a way to absolve yourselves from The Mayor. So few, though, out of the many asked. Perhaps the others were more wary, or trust The Mayor. We do not know,” Greg said, his voice becoming a strange chorus. “Perhaps the next poll will find out.” Then the screaming began, sweeter than any wine and he drank it in, and laughed a long, long time as he killed them with his bare hands and cleaned the room meticulously, lapping up all the blood and leaving the room spotless and clean. Truly, this was a sacrifice well given. Night fell over the City slowly like rotting molasses, the light pooling between alleyways or glimmering at the top of buildings as if reluctant to give way before the darkness. Shops were closed, or opened, or closed themselves. The shadows seemed deeper and longer and people and other things stirred and woke. The ‘burbs began to close and the gutters were filled with people moving carefully in groups or alone hunting for stranglers through warrens and back streets and roads that only existed when they wanted to. There was magic in the air, if one knew where to look, and darker forces as well. Dreams were given birth to and the unwary pulled from the times they knew into other eras and places. Anything can be found in the City, but after dark anything can find you. The best of things, the worst of things (often the same thing, really), the light, the darkness. Poets spoke of it as a primal darkness, of the time before there was any light, but all poets lie and muses are capricious things at the best of times. Children were pulled inside by parents, some to be eaten, others to do the eating, others to be protected against the darkness that seemed to lap up against walls and buildings: old fears and old sorrows come home to roost. The poets claim the City is the apotheosis of cities, that it is where we go when we dream, the place where the dead go to die and never know it, that is all we wanted to be and can’t become, that our dreams are born there and die there, that it is the source of all magic, and that it takes magic from other places to feed its unholy existence, that it is purgatory, or hell, or limbo. A few even say it is the City, and leave it at that. Ah, but poets often utter great and wise things they do not understand. Perhaps the City is a poet. Or perhaps it just is. But it shall not always be. Kallie Jax followed visions of her future selves, walking along behind them, focusing intently so as not to lose herself in the shifting realities that made up the City. She followed herself, stories, and hunches about the Grail through streets that tried to loop or fade away, through places that never had been and one or two streets no one had walked in decades. One of them had been so happy it had followed her for half an hour, desperate to feel people on it again. it took longer than she’d thought it would, but not as long as it would have. “I’m amazed you haven’t found it yet,” he said quietly, eyeing Fiat Nox from the south. “Why is that?” she asked coldly. Jess Ninnin turned and looked at her. “Because you found me, and I didn’t feel like being found today.” “You know where it is.” “I know where a lot of things are,” the messiah said blandly. “I know where November of last year is, and who won it in a game of poker. I know the eighteen charms the all-father learned, and nine others he never sacrificed to learn. I know the true name of the god without a soul, what cats do with baby breath they steal, what happens when you run Windows on 666 megs of ram, the 333 ways one can die innocent, the secret names that words call themselves when no one can listen. I know the word that birthed a universe, over one hundred and fifty ways to cook kraft dinner and have it edible. “I know the words of the first language from before there were languages, I know the tongue of the Great Old Ones but I do not utter it, I know that nothing is true and that everything is permissible, I know what furniture the yggdrasil was turned into when it was cut down for lumber, I know the secret name of the dice the gods play with. I even know how to make a mean marsh mellow and jello sandwich.” Kallie stared at the messiah in silence, then said “That made no sense at all.” “Oh?” “Besides, it all depends on whether you use miniature or jumbo marsh mellows.” For a moment she thought she’d crossed some line, but Jess smiled slightly. “Very good.” “Yes, well. Where is the grail?” “I do not have it.” “I never said you did,” she said patiently. “Who has it?” “I am not sure. I do know who knows but I am not sure they know that they know, now that I think of it.” “That makes no sense.” “Very little does, if you stop to think about it.” “I try not to. Who knows where it is?” “You already know him.” “Do you want me to kick you again?” “Taylor Hilyard.” “... he never said he knew you.” “I don’t believe he does, but word gets around.” “So he knows where it is but doesn’t know?” “Maybe. You’d have to ask him yourself.” Kallie stared at him. “You’re playing with us, aren’t you?” “Excuse me?” “You’re using us.” “Everyone uses people,” the messiah said, his voice implacable. “To what end?” “You could just go home.” “He’s going to get involved even if I don’t, isn’t he?” Jess gave her a long, considering look, then nodded. “Well, he is my employee. For now. So I’ll go and ask. But after this is over, we’re going to have a very long talk. I don’t like being used, not by messiahs or anyone else.” The messiah’s smile was a private, sad thing, and for a second Kallie Saw a figure, terrible and splendid, a memory not his, a curse.... She shook her head and looked up to see him staring down at her, his face rock-hard and pale.. “What did you see?” he demanded, and his voice drove her to her knees. “You ... don’t know?” she managed to get out, Seeing and reaching her talent... He squashed it without effort, and even closed her sight. “Tell me!” “You really don’t know,” she managed, her voice distant and wondering. For a moment, the messiah looked suddenly, terribly human, his face twisted with rage .... then it was gone and he was no longer there. Kallie stood up slowly, making sure her gifts were still hers, and shivered. She had an edge over him now, something she could blackmail him with, or barter with .... but she doubted she’d survive long if she tried. For a moment she stood in the shadow of the scraper, eyeing Fiat Nox, then sighed and opened her sight to the present, and began to look for Taylor. At least all this walking would keep her in shape. Doctor Karlos Kevorkian had never been famous and, thanks to that other bastard with the same last never, never would be. He’d become resigned to it, and to the occasional diatribe from people assuming he killed people for a living. Rubish. He was a doctor and knew euthanasia would never be legal anyway. Of course, he’d never considered the fame of being a martyr, or of making the 6 o’clock news as a murder victim. Though he supposed he’d also qualify for a Darwin Award of some kind for not having borne any children. Filthy things, anyway. Just snot and tears and whining. Of course, he was currently whining and crying and his nose was running, but the latter was a result of crying thanks to tear ducts.... oh, yes, and dangling about three feet off the ground, or one meter. Something like that. He was recalled to himself with a jolt of pain as a metal hand ground into him and made a whimpering noise. “You don’t like children?” the voice said, all static and buzz, but somehow terribly human beneath that. “I - I never...” “She came here. My daughter. I followed the data trail. Where is she?” “Don’t know.. what you’re talking about...” There was a strange squeal noise, then the voice continued, fading in and out. “Damned... systems.” Abruptly he was dangling in the air by one hand, the cyborg calmly opening up her neck with the other. The arm holding him was trembling, and he thought he could break free, if he had to ... but what he’d do after that was a blank, and would be a literal one if she killed him. The cyborg spent 3 minutes fiddling with wiring, then closed her neck and took him in that arm, holding him without problems. “Much better,” in a voice that could have passed for human. “Her name is Clarice Oxwell. She came to your clinic three years ago. I want to know why, and where my daughter is.” Karlos thought fast, then screamed as she bent one of his fingers back with a snap, absently. “Where is she?” “We never got anyone by that name....” “Under Jamis, then?” “Oh ....” Karlos hit the ground as he was dropped. “Oh what?” the cyborg asked, then lights flickered and a few beeps sounded as she looked around, her one human eye widening in something close to shock, When she spoke, her voice was almost pure static when she spoke. “Did she have an abortion?” For a moment, Karlos’ mind went blank and she repeated it twice. And it was too much, insane cyborg slaughtering staff, breaking him, worried.. he began to laugh, hysterically, unable to stop. The cyborg picked him up roughly and shook him until he felt teeth jarring loose and was able to stop. “N - no. She ...” he hiccuped a laugh and she shook him harder, something in his arm breaking (the ulna, it felt like) and managed to control himself. Psychotic cyborgs make excellent sources to ground oneself in reality. Or a rough facsimile of it, at any rate. “No, shi had an operation,” he managed. “What kind?” “Shi ...” “She what?” He managed to gather together the tattered remains of his profession and met her gaze. “A sex change operation. To a man.” Karlos Kevorkian hit the ground with a thump as the cyborg just dropped him and didn’t move. He froze as well, terrified., Somehow, under all that there was a mother. And she looked down, through the one human eye, and her expression was so confused and lost that he found himself having sympathy for her, for a wild moment, even given all she had done. “We .. we have pamphlets, if you want to know more?” The cyborg didn’t move, save for the occasional whine of machinery, then said “No,” in a dull voice and turned away, walking through the wall very slowly as if she was a sleepwalker. Karl managed to get up, slowly, through the pain and looked around. The office was a write-off, his staff dead. She’d kill the police, he was sure, but he was just as sure she wanted to die, and he was a law abiding citizen. He made the call. | Length of Entry: 2,970 |
18.11.2003| Taylor growled softly to himself as he paced the streets, white fire dancing in his eyes before he managed to calm himself. He’d found five clinics so far, all of them looking like a small army had entered and engaged in a free for all attempting to demolish as many body parts as possible and scatter them all over the rooms. The handy skeletal charts had made identifying them disturbingly easy as well. He’d have to thank her for the anatomy lesson, provided the police weren’t bringing in tanks to blow her to pieces by now. He tried to catch her smell, but it had been buried beneath the smells of death and he had at least three ghosts trailing him to make matters even more frustrating. He was seriously considering going home to apologize to Dean or back to the office to get a more detailed seeing when he saw the small figure in the alleyway beckoning him into it. For a moment he hesitated - this was the City after all - then shrugged and crossed the road, figuring if he could survive someone ripping (don’t think about it, damn it!) he could deal with this. The figure was childlike, clothed in tatters and rags of every possible colour and wearing a hood. The hands were either gloves or very pale, but at least her feet touched the ground. Taylor waited, then said “Nice night, isn’t it?” A soft, female voice whispered “Maybe.” He caught a glimpse of a ghost behind it, or ghosts, within it’s shadow... and heard a lone voice, singing “This is the song of my silence winding its way between the ashes of things that are and the tears of what they mean. “This is my creed, my story, said in pain and done but I wish that I could have had a different one.” Then another voice, almost a chorus: “She said that she would never Touch us there again forever Left for work and we’d wait Hoping that she would be late. We’d wait at the front door Hoping she’d come home no more We’re always hurting, always sore, Don’t want to play those games no more. We lay in the bed where we had lain And vowed to never feel again And wondered why we ever Thought that hope could last forever.” Taylor paled slightly, then said “I have done many things I’m not proud of, but surely none to anger you, tatterdemalion.” “How would you know,” her soft voice whispered. “You don’t even know what you are.” “I know who I am. That is enough.” The tatterdemalion laughed, a soft and precious sound. “Perhaps, little fox. I know of the one who seek.” “Why tell me?” “For a favour. Your fire, for the children.” Taylor caught his breath, then said “If they wish it...” “Later, after this night. There may be no need, for the night may never end.” “.... What?” “A darkness gathers from outside of time, hungry wolves gnaw at the edges of reality. A door is opened where once was wall.” “Could you please make sense?” Another soft laugh, like falling petals. “I have tried, but people listen to the cryptic truths more.” “Where is Amy Oxwell?” “Your great granddaughter, Hilyard?” “Yes, her.” “Near the place where it all ends, one way or another.” “Where?” he demanded. Silence descended on the alley, and the tatterdemalion looked up.. for a moment, he thought he saw eyes under the hood, but her voice was very soft. “You will not raise your voice to me, man. No one does that again. Not to me, or to us.” Taylor stared back, and white fire danced around his fingertips. “I apologize. But I would have my answer.” If the tatterdemalion was afraid, she showed no sign. “The ACME warehouse, long abandoned. It’s been used at a church by other religions, before the City was there.” “ACME warehouse?” “I do not joke, Taylor Hilyard. I have not for a long time. It lies in the shadow of Fiat Lux.” “It’s Fiat Nox, now.” “To you, perhaps. But to me it still glows.” Taylor knew he was treading dangerous ground, but “It is covered in darkness.” “Not to me,” said the tatterdemalion softly. “There is more darkness in me than in it. I still see it’s light. It warms me, on colder nights.” Taylor closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened then. She was gone, and the alley empty, but somehow it felt more empty than it should have. Taylor looked around, then closed his eyes and white fire flared around his hands, lighting the alley for a brief moment. “Be cleansed,” he said to it, and left, wishing - and not for the first time - that the fire he called could cleanse him as well. More dreams are destroyed in bed than are ever found there. It was night when Nathan woke again, Clarence curled up warmly beside him, and alive. He shivered slightly and sat up, noticing the stone was missing from Clarence’s neck. “Clarence?” he said softly. Clarence opened his eyes and looked up, then said “It went inside me, to finish. I’m alive again.” He grinned at Nathan’s relieved smile and sat up, wrapping his arms around him. “It’s cold here, isn’t it.” Nathan just nodded. Clarence looked at him, as if about to ask a question, then kissed him and left it unsaid. Nathan returned it, hesitantly, as if to a stranger, and then they made love in the cold, winter and under the light of falling stars. Snow fell around them, but not on them as they met, binding and loosing, loving and being loved. It was like nothing Nathan had dreamed, and it scared him, because dreams don’t become real, but he was unable to resist and finally, after what seemed like hours, they slowly untangled and put clothing on. Nathan never knew what it was. Something in the way Clarence dressed, something in the way he looked over out of the corner of his eye, but when he stood and faced him, Nathan managed to seem calm. “I have to go now.” “I know.” “I - I am sorry,” Clarence said slowly. “But I cannot remain here.” “I could come with you,” Nathan said, almost angrily. Clarence just stared at him and there was something dead in his eyes that caused Nathan to draw back. “You do not know what it took to love you, the pain it caused .... no matter. I cannot do it again. I cannot stay. I was changed.” “Clarence -” “No,” But Clarence didn’t come closer, as if he could not. “I will live a long time, now. I will ... be something, be someone special, be unique..” “Why?” “Because it is a price of returning, that we can no longer walk the worlds we used to. Because - because the colours don’t reach as deeply, because there I something in me that has died, and I cannot bring it back.” Nathan wrapped his arms around himself, to avoid going closer, and just nodded. Clarence looked about to say something else, but the sudden naked pain in his face never reached those distant, uncaring eyes. “Good bye.” He walked away. “I love you.” Clarence froze, for a second, and even the snow seems to slow, then he made a noise, or perhaps Nathan imagined it, and he was gone, swallowed up by the cold and the night. Nathan stared into the snow, his eyes burning and finally whispered “was it worth it?” when he was sure Clarence was gone. There was no reply and he closed his eyes, shuddering, and let the tears fall. A poem was borne in his head and he stumbled through the snow, the world blurry and unreal, whispering the words of it like a reverse prayer, cutting himself with them over and over as he stumbled. through snow and ice and darkness, his steps taking him through back alleys and a small, tattered figure watched, and listened. “I told you that I loved you, It was all that I could say. I told you that I would be true Come what must and come what may. I told you what I'd always do And my heart beside you lay, I said it 'til my lips were blue - You left it lying there anyway You walked away from me, it's true, On that cold winter day But I'd told you that I loved you: What more was there to say?” He was picked up by the dead as he fell, hands touching, whispering things in their private language no living person knows. and he stirred, scared of it, of them, and moved on, stumbling through his own darkness and wishing, for once in his life, that he could stop crying. The three seedy brats lounging by the lamppost that hadn’t worked for years studied the short, at woman in heels coming toward them and began making jokes to pass the time, and because kids are kids.. She was short, and fat, and rather ugly even without her makeup. The boldest of the youths, drugged out on Resurrection, had just died and come back, which was the ultimate high these days. Temporary extinction, the dealers called it. Everyone else thought it was just cool. His catcalls got her attention and she walked over to them, and asked questions about the clinic next door and didn’t like their answers. The first youth died in a very non temporary manner. The other two tried to flee, but failed, because Helga was very hungry, and more than a little angry. She tossed the lost body aside like a hacky -sack and looked for witnesses. There were four subies at the bus stop, likely slumming in the gutters or they’ come for abortions or tattoos or something. She moved towards them, one with the night, and tripped about 10 yards away from her victims-to-be. To her shock, one of the ‘burb people came over and helped her up. “It’s a disgrace, the way they keep these roads,” the girl said. Helga nodded, agreeing. “Especially with older people not watching where they’re going and tripping. You could have broken something,” the girl continued on, blithely unaware that she was approaching the Titanic of conversations. Then she hit the iceberg. “I mean, you were lucky you had all that fat to pad you, of course but...” Helga broke her neck with a practised twist of her hands. The other three looked over, surprised, but didn’t move quickly enough. A few moments later, surrounded by dead bodies and feeling vaguely pleased in a pseudosexual way, Helga remembered she’d been hoping to ask them about the cyborg. She shrugged and bent down, drinking, then drew away, shocked. Their blood was thin, weak; they had nothing she could take, nothing to nourish her. She’d heard of people in the ‘burbs being soulless but she’d always assumed it was a metaphor. Now she wasn’t so sure. At the time, she’d thought it was luck. Afterwards she could never be quite sure what had pulled her attention to the bus but she looked at it when it went past, possibly because the driver was a troll of some kind. Then she saw the passengers go past, and one of them was the cyborg. On the bus. Helga paused, saluting her enemy for being brave enough to use public transit, and drew the darkness up around her, and leapt onto the roof, watching her fingers change into claws of shadow and darkness and ignoring the little thin girl voice inside her asking if that wasn’t maybe a bit redundant. A cold, shucking void flowed around her as she drew upon her vampire nature. There were startled cries from below as the vehicle ground to a whimpering halt and she smiled, then stopped smiling as a small red fox jumped up onto the roof and sat down, regarding her calmly. Warning bells went off in her head, but that also made it rather difficult to think through the noise, so she ripped one of the layers of roofing off and threw it at the fox, which avoided it effortlessly and then turned into a man. For a moment, Helga froze, thinking it was Jack. But no, he’d only dressed up for yiffing, he hadn’t really been a fox. Taylor blinked in surprise as the vampire’s face was suffused with a terrible rage and she leapt at him. He avoided her barely in time and shoved her off of the bus, leaping down after her. She was on her feet and claws sliced into his stomach but Taylor ignored the pain and hit her, hard, right in the face. The vampire hissed in pain and drew back, a mad light gleaming in her eyes. Something clicked in Taylor’s brain and he dove to the ground as Amy’s laser flashed through the hair and Helga screamed and grabbed her face with a wail of pain. The cyborg came through the side of the bus without pausing, and Taylor had time to dive aside as the ground where he had been standing became a new pothole. Thoughts rushed through his mind quickly, but none of the scenarios worked. (“Hi, I’m the guy you killed, but I’m on your side now.” “I need to know if you’ve killed your grandmother yet. If you have, I can kill you now.” “Can’t we all just get along?”) Helga moved, vampire fast, and the Cyborg’s left leg didn’t respond quick enough. They went down to a sound with a crunch as pavement gave way under the cyborg. Taylor cursed softly and leapt onto the vampire, yanking her off. He had time to catch his breath for a half a second when “I’m no toy for either of you,” came from below him and he was thrown back by several bullets punching through his body as if it was a practise dummy. He managed to hit the ground rolling but by the gods it hurt. Helga was giving them an astonished look, then leapt at Amy, who had regained her feet and responded with solar flares that caused the vampire to recoil for a moment. Taylor got to his feet and focused, white fire lancing into the vampire, who screamed as if mortally wounded. He froze for a second, and the Cyborg gave him a confused look, then launched some incendiary bomb into the vampire, who promptly exploded messily eve as bullets cut through where she’d been. Taylor blinked, surprised, and stared at the 3 police cards.. A man’s voice bellowed. “Fox! Come out with your hands up! We know you killed Clarence!:" Taylor stared, the froze as then cyborg spun around but something in his face must have convinced her because she was gone, dropping a smoke bomb and moving with a terrible speed right through one of the cars as if it wasn’t even there. Taylor dove to the ground as bullets ricocheted off the cyborg and the bus, then stared in confusion as the sudden crowd of suburbanites coming down the street right into the free-fire zone. A second., older voice was using the bullhorn and demanding they return to their homes, to no avail. Taylor shifted and dove under the bus and out the other side, changing back even as the bus began to drive again, as quickly as it could with a new door in the side. He had time to jump out of the way even as someone landed on the ground beside him, rolling awkwardly and Kallie stood up, slowly, picking up a young suburban girl she’d shoved out of the way of the bus. The girls eyes looked dead and empty of anything that mattered but as he stared he could see reason and feeling return to them in a surge that caused her to crumple into a heap. He turned to Kallie slowly in the sudden, queer silence as the police stopped firing and the crowd continued to move silently only to meet a hard ,angry gaze as his boss glared at him and said “Where is the grail?” The whore is despised by the hypocritical world because she has made a realistic assessment of her assets and does not have to rely on fraud to make a living. “All right, you can have one story before you sleep, but just one. Last time I told you about Arthur and Modred, so this time I can tell you about the Holy Grail itself. The Grail is why Camelot fell. All those knights riding out looking all over England for a cup Christ drank from. And Christ married Mary Magdalene, as well, so that explains everything really. Except for the things it doesn’t explain, like when Jesus became a SEAL and some other things. “What? Yes, of course I’m joking. What does it explain? Well, the knights went out armed with the swords and lances and looked for the holy grail as a cup. Obviously looking for the female, and to get laid by the goddess. I’ll explain it when you’re older. But they failed, because of their transcendental materialism. “Of course, that’s just one grail, and likely a Freudian one at that. The sangreal occurs in many myths and many legends, and quite probably never existed in the first place. Not that that really matters. What? Well, does love exist? Find it then. Grind up the universe into dust and find me a molecule of love. Things do not need to exist to be real. What else... “Oh, yes, the grail. Well, it’s also the power of the light bringer, who was cast out of heaven for doing the wil of his God and rebelling. It’s said the grail was an emerald that fell from his crown when he fell and was the source of his power, which is very silly, but also typically male. I’m surprised it wasn’t a wand, really. Or a rod. Or staff. Or his own personal ICBM. “Or perhaps it was just a normal rock that fell to earth and became really important and was eventually worshipped as a god. It really doesn’t matter, dear. At the heart of mystery there is always other mysteries. We have our gods, they have their own gods, and so on. So what is the grail, I know you’re wondering. The grail is mystery, the unreachable goal. It is symbolism symbolized. “The Grail is what we seek simply because it does not exist. except as a goal. Immortality, revenge, the power to heal all ills. It can do anything, and can be used by those it chooses in the legends. And it is a tool. and men like tools that can be used, which is why it’s a woman, and why it’s a cup, or a stone, or even a sword. “The Grail is the power of a god, and purity, and innocence. That is why men seek it and that is why it is almost never found. Good night, dear.” | Length of Entry: 3,145 |
19.11.2003>Nothing worth doing can be achieved in a lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope. Nothing that is true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith. Nothing that we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love. “No, cant’s have my precious words. They must go to my word count, yes, go to my world count. Not for you. Filthy hands, filthy little thieving hands, taking my words away, yes, yes. I know youse guyses is doing it, taking my words, stealing my pages. Mine. My pages! My word count Yes. Yes. Yes!” The Writer continued to mutter, heading down the deep, dark, desolate (and, dare we say it, deranged) slide towards depravity and a lot of things not starting with the letter d as he wrote on the computer. He’d been told he was burning his candle at both ends by his ex-wife but he’d tried that for light and it never worked. The Writer decided that it didn’t matter that his opus was being stolen as he wrote it, or that rent was three weeks late, or the phone had cut off or Buttercup vanished or that he’d eaten his bed sheets last night while dreaming about a real meal. None of it mattered except getting his story written, making sure the truth was known, getting it out to the world, and changing it. The world needed changing, and less annoying landlords who would put rent due now signs under the door in bright red. Didn’t she know how important his work was? Didn’t she know that he was going to make the world a better place, a safer place, a place where the great old ones and humanity would cavort together and sing Christmas carols, a world where people wouldn’t have to lock their doors, where a mans world was his bond, where a firm handshake still meant something, where smiles were honest and where children could play freely in the parks and old people were treated with respect, all those great old ones given their due. He’d show her. He’s show them all. Burroughs hadn’t begun really writing until he was 40, after all. He’d been useless until then as well. He would blossom tonight when he wrote the last words, shed his chrysalis and emerge as the Modern Writer, the Renaissance Man. He would change the world, by the Gods, and heaven help anyone who got in his way! But first, he would needed more paper. And more paper. And he’d out the real truths that no one could bear to know, that it was all fake, that everything was real, that reality was a creation of our senses, that if we peeled it back we would see chaos and void and nothing else. That when we die our bodies become food for the worms, that there is nothing save emptiness, that the whole point of life was to speed up the heat death of the universe, that men could breast feed babies as well, that there was no Creator, that there were many creators, that we created the world every second, that the world had been created 5 seconds ago and nothing existed before them, that the dinosaur bones where a joke we hadn’t gotten yet, that if gods exist then there was nothing we could create, that if the were real then nothing matters, that everything mattered because it had to, that forgiving wasn’t forgetting, that margarine was not butter, that there is no I, that there is nothing else besides me, that the child;s perception of being the centre of the universe is one we do not escape, that I am the only sane person because I am the only thing I know that exists, that objective reality is seen subjectively, that all is subject. That I am not here and you are not there but I am everywhere. That everything is connected and we will know this when the stars turn right and the world changes, that I will find my novel and follow the trail of the thieves who steal it from my brains, my own gray matter, mine, not theirs, mine to use and kill with alcohol and reruns of Gilligan’s Island. He would follow his novel and find it, find the thief and take it back, eat his brains and become a true Writer, devour ideas and become as unto a god. He would bathe in the tree of life and destroy the tree Adam and Eve ate from, for good and evil are just names, and not realities, and his truth would become the truth, and mankind would be saved from itself. Or something to that effect. But this was really too long for a back cover précis. He began to rewrite, waiting for his hands to write where the thief was, getting his special fountain pen ready, and he would destroy writer’s block once and for all and his word count would be his again! “In the chapel, the unholy chapel, the cult conjures tonight. In the chapel, the darkening chapel, the cult conjures tonight. In the city, the unholy City, the cult of one conjures. In the city, the darkening City, the cult conjured tonight. Hush my sacrifice don’t fear my sacrifice, the cult conjures tonight. Hush my sacrifice don’t fear my sacrifice, the cult conjures tonight.” The Master continued the ritual, drawing the six-rayed star with her intestines, speaking words that had been forgotten when Atlantis sank beneath the ocean. Other words were whispered. “A-weema -weh, a-weema -weh, a-weema -weh, a-weema -weh,” they said, echoed through the chapel in ways that words should not echo. Sometimes they hurt his ears, even now, but he continued, drawing symbols and words into the chapel, willing the fabric of reality to rend, and tear, and wondering why the fabric was plaid, but only distantly. The Master continued to chant, though his face was pale and his eyes had the look of a man who had gone through madness and would not return, who had leapt off the cliff of reason and was playing tag with teletubbies when not confusing them for meals and eating them. He had been told once, in another life, that those who truly have religion know that the symbols are just how they express it. God, goddess, heaven, the undying lands. All symbols, for words suggest the experience but cannot encompass it. These symbols encompassed their experience, drawings of the black mother, of the harps that Azathoth dances to, of the thousand shapes of Nyarlathotep, soul of the gods. He had begun his goal when he’d found the words of the writer, the dummies guide to the necronomicon, and seen a way to save the city from The Mayor, from the fall of Fiat Lux, but now he had begun to know doubt, wondering if this cure was worse than the disease, if the world would be saved by darkness, if a dark age was necessary for them to know what they’d had and lost, so tat they could know that freedom and peace were not gifts. He had begun this as a revolt, against the City that would not accept him, but now he was scared, and he had not known fear for a long save, save when he looked into the eyes of the children and wondered if they loved him as much as he loved them, wondered if they understood that he couldn’t let them live, wondered if they forgave him. ‘Revolutions never end.’ his brother had told him once, a long time ago and a world away, ‘It’s why they have the s on the end. People die, but the world goes on. Nothing changes, because people don’t change.’ He’d thought it foolishness then but now he did not know. He did know that he couldn’t stop, that more pages appeared when he finished with the old, that he had begun this and now would finish it no matter what he wanted. The Old Ones were there, somewhere, beyond the edges of things, and they wanted, for everything wants. And he would give, because .... because he would. “A-weema -weh, a-weema -weh, a-weema -weh, a-weema -weh,” he whispered, and there was regret in his eyes, but dead children, and goats, and the sacrifice on the floor. What use was regret when it couldn’t fix anything. Better to go on, even if the ending would be worse than even you deserved. “How would I know where the grail is?” Taylor asked, dodging another suburbanite walking down the road. At least the police were busy with them. “Because you do?” Taylor stared at his boss, then said “I don’t really need this. We’re surrounded by walking zombies, the police believe I killed a dead man I’ve talked with, and I’ve fought a cyborg then been attacked by the cyborg while trying to save her from a fat vampire. I really, really don’t need this.” Kallie met his glare with her own. “The messiah said you did. Or,” with a crooked grin, “that you might know you did but not know it.” Taylor closed his eyes, then sighed and opened them. “I don’t. I don’t even know if it really exists. If I did, I would likely have tried to throw you off the scent or given it to you or left the city. Something like that. Who’s she?” Kallie looked down at the girl who still hadn’t woken up, then shrugged. “I don’t know. She was going to be hit, so I intervened.” Taylor frowned. “You pushed her out of the way, but it was as if she moved before you touched her...” Kallie met his gaze. “And you become a fox. You tell me your ticks, I’ll tell you mine.” Taylor smiled slightly. “Point made. Which messiah?” “Jess Ninnin.” “You went to meet him?” “Well, I’ve heard rumours....” “I’m amazed you survived. He’s not known for being nice, even among people who aren’t nice people.” “Are you a nice person?” Kallie asked. Taylor Hilyard didn’t return her smile. “No. I don’t think I am.” He frowned. “Did your messiah say when I’d know where the grail is?” “When?” “Well, if you find it, then I’ll know where it is.” Kallie stared at him, then said “The bastard. Carry her, we’ve got a messiah to catch.” “Zombies roaming the streets, cyborgs, and now hunting a messiah.” “They’re not zombies,” Kallie said, as he picked the girl up and slung her over his shoulder. “Not in body, perhaps. But I really doubt anyone in home in their heads.” Kallie grinned at that, then nodded. “Something took their souls, somehow.” Taylor gave her a startled look. “But this girl?” “I helped her, and the shock of the vehicle did as well. The messiah can help them, at least, and give us some answers.” “Ah., Kallie. He’s a messiah. I don’t think he has to:” “What’s he there for then?” she demanded. “I don’t think anyone knows, actually. Maybe just to scare people.” Taylor sidestepped another zombie. “Can you find him?” “Let’s find out,” Kallie said, and walked into the closest alleyway. She took a deep breath, and then shivered as if cold., then turned white and chanted in a queer, childlike voice “It’s falling down. Falling down, falling down, all that is is falling down. All that is is falling down, our fair City.” Taylor stopped, put the girl down, and said “Kallie?” She didn’t reply, half-singing now: “Take a key and open it up, open it up, open it up. How can we hold it up, hold it up, hold it up. How can we hold it up, our fair city” she continued in a deeper, choral voice: “Bind it up with fire and will, fire and will, fire and will. Bind it up with fire and will, if you can.” her voice changed, again, almost hers. “Fire and will, I have none, I have none, I have none. Fire and will, I have none, so I can’t..” The chorus was deeper now, and darker. “Build it up with sight and will, sight and will, sigh and will. Build it up with sight and will, our fair City.” “Kallie?” She turned slowly, as if almost seeing him. “Sight and will bend and break, bend and break, bend and break. Sight and will bend and break, in our City.” She turned paler still, and the voice was that answered from her was cold and hard and old. “Build the world with stone so strong, stone so strong, stone so strong. Heal the real with iron will, iron will, iron will.. Fire and will and stone and sight, heal our City.” Kallie cried out and doubled over, shuddering. Taylor stepped forward but her voice, harsh and low, stopped him. “I can’t find him. Something else is happening, something bad.” she straightened slowly. “We need him, now. And a few gods. And miracles.” “It’s.. that bad?” “Reality is falling apart,” Kallie said in a dull, lifeless tone. “I can see it coming unwound, slowly, but it can’t hold. Not forever.” Taylor nodded. “Can you allow others to see it?” Kallie shook her head. “Sometimes, but not now. It took much of my strength to get Holly free.” Taylor just nodded, then said “How do we find him, then?” as he picked Holly up again. “I saw something once that he’ll want an answer to.” “.... You want to blackmail Jess Ninin?” Taylor asked incredulously. “Well, if you put it that way ... yes.” “He’s a messiah, Kallie. He’s possibly the most powerful person in the City. You don’t blackmail people like that unless you’re insane.” “Then we find the tree he liked.” “And where is it?” “North.” “....” It was cold as they walked quickly. A few children of the night drifted close, and one minor demon, but Taylor just looked at them and they found something else to do in a hurry. “You seem to scare them,” Kallie remarked, half-jogging to keep up with his pace. “It’s the fire,” he replied absently. “What is it?” “I don’t know. It seems to burn anything, though, and once gave a conscience to a sociopath somehow. I don’t know what it is, or the why and how of it. Just that I call it and it comes.” Kallie nodded, then looked around. It was cold even for the coming winter, the buildings around them mostly mod thatched huts covered in frost and empty of habitation. She shivered slightly, feeling sad for no reason she could put her finger on when Taylor stopped, looking surprised. “She’s waking up,” he said, putting Holly down carefully. “And?” Taylor sniffed the air, frowning. “And someone... familiar, and someone almost... ah. Wake her,” he said quickly, and vanished in the snow. Kallie growled something under her breath, then studied Holly. The girl was young, 18 at the most, and wearing no makeup, her hair in a bun, loose fitting jeans and a plain white winter jacket. The look on her face when she looked down was priceless, a sort of horrified awe. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in this.” “Technically, you weren’t;” said Kallie. The girl looked up. “You .. you got me out of it. I was... I was...” “You were without a soul. I’m Kallie Jax,” Kallie handed her a business card because, the night wasn’t quite surreal enough yet and Holly nodded. “I’m Holly Franklin. I .. Oh, god. Mom. Dad. They - he ... they’re still walking.” “Do you know where you were going?” The girl shook her head. “Damn it. We’ll need to find them, then.” “I can. I can still ... feel them. Where they are. In my head.” Kallie gave Holly a long, considering look, then nodded. “Why are we waiting?” She asked, impatiently. “Taylor Hilyard, my employee, was looking for - ah.” Taylor stepped out of the snow, pulling a young man behind him. Kallie stared, then said “That’s Nathan Provis, right?” Taylor nodded, his smile a barring of teeth. “It’s an interesting night, it seems. He was with Clarence, our dead body, and Clarence isn’t there anymore.” Nathan finally looked up at that, as if being dragged. He said nothing, but his eyes had a wounded look Kallie knew far too well. She stepped forward without thinking about it and hugged him. The young man shuddered slightly and returned it desperately. Taylor quietly introduced himself to Holly as Kallie pulled away. Sea green eyes studied her from a pale, pretty face as Nathan said “Thank you,” very softly. Kallie nodded, then said “He left you.” Nathan flinched for a moment and she saw a gaping chasm in his eyes that left her feeling utterly numb. Then it was gone and he just nodded jerkily. Taylor just stared, looking uncomfortable, then said “You can come with us. I believe we’re about to go look for zombies.” Nathan stared at him, then said “Zombies?” “They watched too much TV. Now they can’t think for themselves.” “What?” Taylor grinned. “Gotcha.” Nathan froze for a second, confused, then managed a smile. “Good. You’ll be fine,” Taylor said briskly. “Holly?” She frowned, then pointed south. “South, and west a bit. They’re in a hurry, I think. Being .. pushed.” Taylor nodded and began to walk quickly after her, then said “You made that song up, Nathan?” He blinked, then just nodded dumbly. “It was good. Remind me to ask you for the words later., I have a friend who could make it into a song.” “Oh. I’m sorry.” Taylor stopped. “Hmm?” “Your friend. He ... loves you?” “Excuse me?” “It - it was in your voice. You sounded ... strange ...” “He might,” Taylor said. “Do you love him?” Taylor stared at Nathan, his expression cold. “Perhaps.” “But you love someone more?” he said, a slight lit making it a question. “Yes,” he said, biting the word off. “And she’s dead.” “How do you know that?” Taylor asked, his voice mild. Nathan stepped back, looking terrified. “I don’t know. It just came to me!” “Hell.” Both men turned to see Kallie, her expression disgusted “I am going to kill Cass. Never mind. Taylor, don’t ask questions. Nathan, shut up and walk.” Nathan blinked. “You.” Kallie stared at him, and said “I said shut up, Nathan Silas Provis.” Nathan froze. “Knowing things is a talent. Knowing when to shut up is a gift,” she continued, in a kinder tone, and began walking again. Taylor drifted closed, and whispered. “What is he?” Sensitive,” Kallie replied. “I think that’s obvious.” “No, a sensitive. Psychic. Definitely empathy. Telepathic too.” “Oh. I’ve never heard of them.” “They’re rare. Most of them die at childbirth, from knowing or feeling or sensing things no one else can or will. I assume his power was curbed, somehow, and began opening in the gutter.” “Then got broken?” “Not entirely. He’s sane, for now.” Taylor nodded, then said “How bad is reality?” in a louder tone. To his surprise, Nathan answered “It’s hurting,” in a distant voice .”I can hear it screaming, even from here.” Holly grabbed his arm “Nathan?” “Oh, Hell,” Kallie said again. “He can feel it.” Taylor was there, almost to fast to be seen, and grabbed his arm, white light flickering around his fingertips. Nathan screamed and jerked back from the touch as if Taylor had been crushing his arm, his eyes wide in pain. “Deal with it,” Taylor said coldly, harshly. “If you’re psychic, we’ll need your help, untrained or no.” “I can’t -” “You have to,” Taylor cut him off. “Think up a new song.” “I never have before,” Nathan said. “One about the corpse, then.” “He wasn’t a corpse!” Nathan said angrily, his fists clenching. Taylor stared for a moment, looking stunned ,then laughed softly. “I see. How about a different song, then? ” “I don't know any. ” He looked at Kallie who shook her head and at Holly, who was looking ready to continue without them, then shrugged. “I wrote one once, on a dare from Dean. He writes them a lot.” He closed his eyes, then recited quietly: “I couldn't think of a song to write So I fucked my muse instead Whether it was wrong or right I still got her in my bed And we fucked like rabbits in heat And it was really swell And I realised I was leet ‘Cuz I got a poem after all.” He opened then and grinned at their expressions. “I believe I was drunk at the time. Now, shall we?” He nodded to Holly and caught up. Nathan followed, looking confused, but the pain in his eyes had retreated. Kallie shook her head slowly, looking amused, and followed them all, letting her sight come when it would and calling her talent up, slowly and intently. They were going to need more than they had to stop this, if it could be stopped. She could feel other forces in the City, slowly holding it together, but none were close enough to whatever place the opening was, and most of the powers of the city were bound to it. It was going to be them, or none at all.... | Length of Entry: 3,500 |
20.11.2003| The Master knew he was not a master, not now. Maybe not ever. The presences were there, pressed against the world like a new stain seeping into clothing, and nothing could stop them, nothing would stop them. They were the Great Old Ones, and they would come, and waken, and live again. The stars were right, and the chapel had been created. They had been waiting for a long time, they could have waited an eternity. They were not truly here, but he could feel them, their voices so low he felt them more than heard them, whispering to each other in a language that seemed blasphemous, twisted, dirty. He could feel his mind dissolving under the words, but he resisted them with his own madness, with the voices he could hear now, singing songs that tore into the place his heart might have been long and long ago. “I’m sitting here and bleeding, I’ve been left all alone. It’s not my period, it’s a sentence: Inside me something bright is dying That I never knew I owned - Is this what God really meant?” A voice sang, and it was full of pain, and questioning, and broken trust, and other things that hurt more than the Old Ones who wanted in, because it was asking him for forgiveness, and for trust, and the pure, sweet voice wanted him dead as well, and it loved and hated with a passion that was awful and awe-ful, and it humbled and destroyed him in the same moment, and it was not alone. What were the Old Ones, who took worse that the vampires, if they could not take away his sins, his pain, his shames? The city shifted, deeply. He could feel them dead coming, slowly, the will of The Mayor made manifest. The Old Ones would not bring a golden age, he knew that now, and suspected he’d always known it. But they would bring something, they would bring change. And judgement, judgement long denied. He laughed, the man at the altar, and the ghosts quailed and even the Old Ones paused for a moment, as if acknowledging him as kin, but he was Noone and had always been no one for as long as he could remember. And he could remember before the City, when there had been Avius, the lost, Desero, the forsaken. he knew why it was here, and what it was for, but he was not welcome. Before his pain, the ghosts were silent, and the voices from outside time were muted whispers. His expression was indecipherable as he continued, speaking, and being spoken to. Outside, a shape flickered and shimmered. It was young, and pale, and had died once in a garden a long time ago. It began to sing, so that she would know, so the others would know... “It’s midnight in the city When the angels come to play and there’s nothing in them of pity - We’re all sinners anyway.” The Zombies came then, instruments of The Mayor’s will, the living brain-dead. From the rents in reality things came to meet them, things that were squid, and ape and aphid and gorilla, things that were walking spider-nauts, but not. They walked, and moved, crawled and oozed, and met the dead. Things from outside time, and space, bodies defying geometry and rationality. A few of the zombies astral recovered their souls in horror, and the selfsame souls were blasted from them as they became truly aware of what they faced. The others died, and they died, and they died. Three blocks north, Holly stopped moving, not stopping dead because that would be a horribly unfair metaphor, and whispered “They’re dead. Mom and dad. They’re - dead,” in a soft, unbelieving whisper. Kallie stopped, shaking her head slowly. “It’s coming apart too fast..” Nathan just nodded, moving slowly as if in pain, his eyes glazed with shock. Taylor growled angrily and grabbed Nathan. “Show me it.” Nathan blinked slowly, whimpering, and the world - was gone. Fading dreams, echoes of nightmares, wills and sights, laws and gods ... Taylor could feel it, everything that was the city, the thin, fragile reality slowly peeling like an overripe banana and he stepped back, gasping for breath, and focused. Two sets of eyes spun towards him, both shocked. “What did you do?” Taylor’s voice was a strained whisper as he said “A binding,” to Kallie and Nathan. “You .. bound reality?” Kallie asked, her expression strange. “Keeping it together. Trying to.” “How long?” she asked. Taylor smiled, his thin face almost skeletal. “Long as I have to,” he whispered. She nodded, then said “We’ll help the dead, then. Somehow.” and hurried forward, reaching with her talent... “The door is locked,” Taylor said, somehow walking along with them. “No, it’s not,” the seer said, and her voice was hard and final. The temple was before them now. An old warehouse of some kind that had been turned into a home. Nothing special, at all, save for the dead bodies scattered around it and things moving among them, and through them. The temple shuddered slightly and the front door crashed open with a sound of thunder. The cold, triumphant gleam in Kallie’s eyes would have given pause to even Noone, had he seen it. “How?” Taylor asked, as Holly helped him move. “I don’t just see the future. I can make one happen, sometimes, if I push, if it lets me.” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t do anything else....” Taylor nodded, and for a second white fire gleamed around his body, liming it with a cold radiance, then he slumped. “I can’t... do that as well.” Holly shivered slightly, holding him, as the fire flickered through her, but said nothing at all. There was a sound from inside the door, and a man stepped out, smiling. He was normal. That was the first thing all of them, even Nathan, realized. A bit handsome, plain. Ordinary. Except they couldn’t se his features, as if they weren’t there at all. “No one,” Nathan said. “You are no one.” The man looked at them, then laughed kindly. “Oh, yes. Four of you. Is that all Jess sends?” “You did this,” Holly said, and the man smiled in a benevolent, friendly way. “Die,” she said, and he chuckled. Then the dead rose, slowly, moving towards him. “I’ll be damned,” Kallie whispered. “Try not to be,” Taylor said, very slowly. Noone laughed, and walked through them, chuckling. “They are of the city, girl. They cannot touch me, I am Noone.” “Some things the city won’t accept,” Nathan said, his voice very distant. Noone laughed. “A sensitive? And he blessed you. Let’s see your blessing survive me,” and the air changed, something cold and - Taylor stood between them, standing by an effort of will alone. “No. Not today. There has been enough death today.” Noone stared at Taylor, then laughed very softly, gaily. “His pet. You were his pet, weren’t you? And. You. Don’t. Remember.” Taylor didn’t move, though only Dean would have guessed what it cost him. The Old Ones moved slowly, behind him, and Noone was back inside. They left him be, for the ghosts would do worse than they, in the end. “What are they?” Holly asked, shuddering. “Just shadows,” said Kallie. “Not here, yet. The take, more than vampires. They take all. We tried. And we’ve failed.” “No.” Nathan looked almost paler than Taylor, and terribly fragile, but he stared at the darkness and smiled a sad, queer smile. “Take this, then,” and whispered “Clarence,” very softly. It was more than a name, in that place, with reality terribly thin and the dead standing behind. It was all he could have bee, all that should have been, the void where his heart was, a pain that would not end. It was love lost, and before it even the Old Ones quailed. Somewhere, very far away yet closer than any of them would have liked to image, the ghosts sang. “There was a time when we sang songs And dreamt about our future A time when we didn’t know - But everything has gone so wrong Nothing’s left that once was pure Did it have to be so - Some say it’s been so long But it was yesterday I’m sure when hands caressed us far below - When our eyes lost an innocent glow, When we fell, pushed so low, Can we cry if it doesn’t show?” Nathan Provis stood there, held up by pride alone, and a hand touched Kallie’s, lightly, gloved. She smelled a tree, and a summer breeze, and the tatterdemalion whispered. “Now,” and Kallie stood forward, and reached into her mind, into the place where it burned, and drew the Elder Sign. “I was praying for law But it’s gone, but it’s gone. I was praying to justice She’s not real, she’s not real. I can’t hope for love ‘Cuz it’s blind, ‘cuz it’s blind. I prayed to God But He must be gone. How can there be justice If He cannot feel? My God, My God, if man you love Then you must be blind.” Sang a lone ghost into the still silence. The door closed between worlds. Perhaps the Old Ones screamed, perhaps they did not. They had waited. They could continue to wait. They had eternity. Noone fled by the back exit, and murdered ghosts cried in pain as he passed. It had failed, but The Mayor would think it hadn’t. He had - the smell hit him first, as if someone had not showered in weeks, and not changed clothing in a longer time. A hand grabbed him, grubby and smelly, and a strange, cracked voice whispered. “My book. You took the word count from my book.” And Noone froze, and would have laughed, but it was too much, too shallow, too horrible and the silver pen stabbed into his eyes once, and twice, and there was pain, for the pen is mightier than the sword. The Writer stood over the body, and looked inside. His book was there, but he didn’t need it. He didn’t need anything now. He had his pen, and he could write a new one. It had been annoited in blood tonight. It would serve him, he knew. His muse. If not, he could always feed it more blood. He left the alley alone, and whistling. Things don't change, but by and by our wishes change. Taylor entered the office whistling and nodded to Kallie. “Morning.” She looked up from the computer with a smile. “To you. How did last night go?” Taylor grinned. “Well.” Dean was awake when he’d come in the door, pacing. The chair had developed a thick coat of fur, and Dean hadn’t been shedding in wolf form. “There was a full moon,” he’d said quietly. “I controlled myself, because the bindings here held.” Taylor had stared at his chair, his expression strange. “My couch?” “I bit it once,” Dean confessed. “You turned it into a were couch?” “It happens sometimes,” the other man explained earnestly. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find out. You love that couch.” “I love you.” “I know.” “You -” Taylor had paused, staring at Dean. “What kind of answer is that?” Dean’s grin had been wide. “One to get your attention.” “I heard the song,” Taylor had said, unable not to. Dean had frozen, his expression hurt and terrified. “I -” “And I met someone tonight, who loved, and lost. More than I ever have. Maybe more than I ever will, no matter how long I live. He’d been singing.” And Taylor had sung quietly, then: “You walked away from me, it's true, On that cold winter day But I'd told you that I loved you: What more was there to say?” After a time, he’d looked at Dean. “I won’t be able to love you, not like I loved my wife, maybe not even as much. But I can try.” “You don’t have to,” Dean had said, looking scared. And Taylor, half dead, and pale as a ghost, had smiled. “I want to.” “How well?” Kallie asked, breaking his reverie. “Well enough,” he said, a bit stiffly. Then, “I’m sorry. It’s still - so new.” She nodded at that. “I got a case in the mail today.” “Oh?” “Cat named Bast. A runaway.” Taylor nodded. “Anything else?” “New business cards, Hilyard.” She handed him one. Taylor stared at it, then said “We’ll need a larger office.” Kallie smiled. “Of course.” “And better wallpaper. Though the ghost repellent is impressive.” Kallie froze, then said “How did you know?” “That a ghost was haunting you? I didn’t. But all that peeling wallpaper made me wonder. And it is in thin strips and comes off too easily.” He shrugged. “A guess, really.” She nodded. “You found it out,” in a different tone, but her expression told him to leave it alone. Taylor returned the nod. “So, as co-owner, what do I get?” “Half the profits. Enough to live on. The rest we sink into the business. And we get a secretary.” Taylor raised an eyebrow. “We’ll need one?” “Christof removed all the competition, so yes.” “I’d heard there was a finding box, though? You put a request in it, and it found things for you.” “He found it. Wrote a note saying ‘find your death’ and put it in the finding box, then lit it on fire, I believe,” Kallie said carefully. “So it’s Lost’n’Found alone against the world,” he said thoughtfully. “It should be fun. Who will be the secretary?” “Holly,” Kallie said with a shrug. “She’s staying at my place. Jack’s will is being read tomorrow, and I should get enough to buy a decent spot close to the new office.” Taylor nodded, then smiled. “And the grail?” Kallie shrugged slightly. “I think we’ll have to say it’s a loss.” “I can answer your question now, though.” Kallie stared at him, then said “What?” in a soft, dangerous voice. “I know where the grail is.” “And how do you know that?” “Well, I took Nathan home last night, since we, uhm, don’t need the spare room anymore. I think he’s currently vacuuming years of wolf hair...” “Taylor...” “Clarence was dead. But he came back, and left Nathan.” “And the grail?” “Our messiah gave the boy a stone. It brought him back, and he seems to have absorbed it. A stone that can raise the dead.” “The grail.” “Unless it’s the cauldron of dagda as conceived by modern art, yeah, I think so. Nathan doesn’t know.” “And Clarence left him.” Taylor nodded, then said very quietly “The stone became his heart. It brought him to life, then kept him living.” “And replaced his heart...?” “Merlin is said to have lost his to Nimue. Perhaps literally, to a goddess.” “You’re saying Ninnin is Merlin?” She asked incredulously. “No, I’m saying I think that is one part of the grail, in that shape, one price. Eternal life, and no heart. You can’t die - and you’re not really alive.” “And neither of them knew...” “Nathan said he knew it felt wrong. Clarence - I don’t know. He might have, but he made his choice.” “So now?” “Now we go on. And if I ever get to meet the messiah, we’ll have a very long chat,” Taylor said, and his eyes were like dead stones. Kallie nodded once. “Cass - the fortune teller - wants to train Nathan, if he’s willing.” Taylor shrugged. “I can ask. I think he’ll need it.” “Oh. There is one other thing,” Taylor said. “The fire I use. It attracts someone. His name is Alamogordo.” “Nice name.” “Yes, well, he wants me dead. I’m not sure why but he goes from body to body, burning them out, using fire. I haven’t used it this much in a decade. I’m surprised he’s not after me yet, to be honest.” “Does he want that fire back?” “Back? I don’t know. I’m not sure he does. It’s just warning.” Kallie nodded. “We’ll deal with it when the time comes. Maybe we can sick him on Christof.” Taylor shrugged. “With luck, it won’t come to that. But we used up a lot of luck last night.” Kallie smiled slightly, then chuckled. “Surprising, really, that things turned out this well. This ... normal.” Taylor’s eyes thawed and he returned the smile. “We got lucky. And Noone, whatever he is, is still out there, somewhere.” She nodded slowly. “Who knows, The Mayor might hired us to find him.” “So you found me,” the figure said, her voice very quiet. Nathan stood beside the tree and nodded, and around them ghosts sang softly. “It’s dawn in the valley: There is music in the air. I’m dying in this alley But I cannot care.” “Why?” the tatterdemalion asked. “To - to know if what I felt....” Nathan trailed off, looking uncomfortable. “Again, why?” she whispered, and there was power in her voice, cold and intent. “You - you’re a goddess?” He asked, surprised. “But - but you’re just rags and - and wind.” “And you are just flesh and blood,” she said. “You were.” “Once,” hard, and flat, a word of ending. “The sky was the colour Of a bruise, just another Hues of red and blue and black: None of these did I lack. I wonder how we came to this Your fist and my tender kiss?” “I - I think I know. No one. The City.... the city accepts things, doesn’t it. But some things.... it won’t. It can’t.” “He hurt children,” the tatterdemalion said, her voice implacable. “He raped them. often. He loved it, and made himself think they did.” Nathan just nodded, unable to reply. “And he was nice, and friendly. Everyone loved him, even some of the children. Even some of them after he hurt them.” “There are worse things,” Nathan said, very softly. “Not all wounds are physical, and those ones hurt more.” “There is no song inside us, No truth we can speak: When all is broken and a mess What can we learn to seek?” a ghost sang, softly. “Love,” Nathan said, without looking away from the tatterdemalion. “They win, if you let them change you, let them make you into something you’re not.” “We are victims,” the ghosts whispered. “Yes, because that’s your choice.” “We cannot walk through that fire, the other side is ashes, human.” “You can make fire inside you, give it to others...” “Love? When your love killed his heart?” said the ghost, coldly. Nathan made a soft sound, then whispered “Pains worse than physical hurt, goddess, ghost. You’re causing this, and making me your victim.” The ghost stilled, and was gone. The tatterdemalion regarded him in silence for a long time, then said “You preach this, to me?” “Everyone gets hurt. But suffering is different. You can’t let them have beaten you.” “Because you didn’t, Nathaniel?” she asked, in a different voice. He stepped back as if slapped, and for a moment his face was naked with terror. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and closed it. “We learned too young that everyone lied We learned too quickly that hopes died We learned too fast that only babied cried We learned some things are always denied,” the ghosts sang. Nathan regained himself with an effort. “She’s not dead.” “No, she’s not.” “That was cruel.” “I am a goddess.” “Will you - will you give me your song?” The tatterdemalion stared at him. “I could destroy you, little sensitive, little psychic.” “I know that.” “Then - why?” “Because you loved him.” “He didn’t listen.” “No, men are like that.” She laughed, not unkindly. “And you?” Nathan met her gaze and smiled crookedly. “I’m me. It’s why Clarence liked me. I don’t - didn’t - resolve to being a man, or a woman, to him. I’m just me.” “Her name was Natasha,” said the tatterdemalion, even more quietly that usual. Nathan bit his lip and nodded. “She told me, before - before they used the drugs. And therapy. Before they killed her for good.” “Your sister, who was never born.” Nathan looked away. “I lost her. I’ve looked, but I can’t find her. But part of her is in me. She - she took a lot of the hurt, when I was younger. Before they killed her in my head. And she would have wanted to take yours.” “You are not that strong, Nathan,” the tatterdemalion said, almost sadly. “Not yet,” he said carefully. “But I can - I can hear the song. Please?” The tatterdemalion stared at him for a long moment. “She doesn’t blame you. You don’t have to. It’s my song, not hers.” Nathan wept, then, but didn’t look away. “I can carry your pain, some of it. I - I think I need to.” The tatterdemalions voice rose above a whisper, clear and heartbreakingly true: “I sang a song of laughter, None ever heard my pain, Or wondered at my tears when I Came in from the rain. Non one asked their daughter With whom she had lain, Under the too blue sky I wept alone in vain. He never heard my story, though I told it true. It never touched the glory that he planned to do. They buried me in water, Believed I was not sane, And in the storm there I did die And all there was was pain. He never said he was sorry, though I’ve made him rue. This, then, is our story: it hurts because it’s true.” She was gone when he opened his eyes to see Taylor studying him carefully from across the road. “How are you?” “It - it’s hard. She - she suffered, they’ve suffered ... when does it end?” “I don’t know,” Taylor said softly. “Someone must forgive....” “Some things can’t be forgiven.” Nathan shuddered slightly and began to cry again, dry racking sobs. Taylor said nothing and just held him until he was done. “Better?” “No,” Nathan said. “It’s all right.” “I don’t know how it can be.” Taylor was silent, then said “Because it has to be. We carry our burdens, and sometimes we let them go. Now come on, Dean wants to play your song at Eaters of the Dead.” Nathan nodded and followed him to the Squalls, both of them quiet and thinking their own thoughts. The ‘Under The Same Old Management’ sign at Eaters of the Dead got a smile out of Nathan and Taylor hid a relieved look. The kid would survive. He was stronger than he thought and, gods willing, would never have to learn that. They walked inside and He met Dean’s smile with one of his own. A few people gave Nathan curious looks, some because he looked like he was underage and most because they weren’t sure what he was. Nathan returned a few with an impudent grin learned from Dean, Taylor suspected, and he chuckled softly. It was going to be interesting, at least. And that was all one could hope for in life. Everything will be all right in the end, if it's not all right then it's not the end. “I was born here, you know,” she said, sounding wary. “I know,” he said. “Why did you want me dead?” There was a long silence, then she said: “And yet saved me.” “Yes.” The cyborg turned away from the old stone home at the edges of the City and looked right at Taylor. “I would know why.” Taylor sighed, then said “Answer me one question, and honestly.” She nodded, and waited. “Have you killed Cathy Oxwell yet?” “Yet?” “Answer it,” he said flatly, and she felt nervous. She had enough weaponry to level this block but - but she had torn his head off, and he was not dead. “You mean my grandmother, don’t you. Sara mentioned her. Said she was nuts.” “She used to dress up in a costume and defend the city.” “Oh.” Amy Oxwell was silent, then “If I have, I don’t know it. And I don’t know why I would.” “Why would you have?” “In Gulag, the did things, when they changed my body. I do not remember most of them,” the cyborg said, her voice almost entirely human. Taylor finally turned and looked at her, his own expression unreadable. “Why did you let them do that?” “I’m not sure I had a choice. It was that or -” “Or?” “A long sentence,” she said unwilling. “Never seeing my - my daughter again.” “Clarence, you mean.” “Clarice,” she said harshly. “Everyone changes,” he replied mildly but something in his eyes caused her to step backwards. “You killed her, while I was off duty. Doing other things. I hunted you, for a decade. Many cyborgs died, but I never found you. I’d assumed you had fled the City.” “You told me about it. I have no reason to want to do it, now. If I ever did.” “Which means you likely did it already. But we can’t be sure.” Taylor sighed and the tension in the air drained away. “And because you might not have, however unlikely that is, I can’t kill you. Not without changing things that shouldn’t be changed.” “Can’t?” she asked. “Won’t. Time is a funny thing. Once you know what is going to happen, you - let things run their course, as bitter as it is. You give up free will, because some things will happen. Because my memory may not change, if someone else killed her. Because then I would not be able to say I’d found her kill, and dealt justice.” Amy stared at him, and he heard weapons humming. “Justice?” “I cursed you,” he replied. “Because cyborgs can change back, because you could have gone into hiding and I’d never find you. Because I was angry, and I’d let someone down, and it was one time too many.” He smiled sadly, then whispered fifteen words, given them up to the night. “A curse on you, and may the curse be that you remain what you are.” “That is ... a powerful curse,” she said slowly. “You would have killed your daughter,” he said, “Had she told you, and I not intervened.” “She was already dead.” “He came back,” Taylor said. “You can ask Nathan sometime. He might even tell you the story. But Clarence is out there, and not dead by your hand. And if the curse remains, you will hunt him down, and kill him. I remove it, not because some things must be forgiven, but because things change.. “Nathan knew I would. I think he scares me more than Alamogordo, or even Ninnin or The Mayor. He asked that you put away your armour, become human again. And find your son. Learn why he had the sex change operation.” “I don’t know if I can,” Amy said, staring at the house. “He gave up his first love, perhaps true love, to return from the dead, minus his heart. If anyone can heal that, it would be his mother. I am charging you with this.” Amy Oxwell laughed, a low and bitter sound. “I think I preferred your curse. This is worse.” Taylor smiled coldly, then nodded. “I can’t. Not yet. It will ... take time to change. To heal. To accept.” To forgive yourself.” “And - him.” A silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken question, but they just stared at the house until dawn, silent and thinking their own thoughts. Above them, across the street, Helga Wimbush watched, and listened. What she thought about what she heard no one could have guessed if they’d been watching but after a time she moved and leapt down to the ground, and walked away, somehow looking thin and insubstantial, like a dream. She found his grave, later, before the sun came up, and what she said, or asked, no one knows. Perhaps she stayed to watch the sun rise, for it was as fatal to her kind as light to vampires, but perhaps she didn’t. Real stories don’t have endings. And somewhere, a ghost was singing softly, as Taylor called up white fire, and waited. “There are no dreams Just Nightmares Things that seem And none who care.” And it left, vanishing, as the tatterdemalion watched, and smiled. Not all went into the fire, but enough. Noone was dead, for now. And she had sang her own song, but he was not the death she waited for, and so she bowed to how, god to man, and he nodded to her, and walked away. For a long moment, she watched him, wondering many things, then appeared in the ruins of a chapel struck by lightning and charred to the ground before dawn. She never found his body, not that she thought she would, but she knew the one that she wanted to would hear this, and that it would hurt him more than anything ever had, so the tatterdemalion raised her voice and greeted the dawn in song: “I told you that I loved you, It was all that I could say. I told you that I would be true Come what must and come what may. I told you that I'd always do What you wished, that I’d never stray And even then perhaps I knew That I’d grow old and you not stay. You walked away from me, it's true, On that hot summer day But I'd told you that I loved you: What more was there to say?” A man is a god in ruins. Kyle Aimsley was scared, though he hid it well. He had been ridden by Kalfu once, and Samedi of the Ghede, and called the names of the Petro fed blood for them to answer. He had bartered with his soul for power, and spoken through fires to things best left unknown, but no matter how big you are, there are always bigger fish. He was standing in the office, because the chairs were leather, and far too comfy. “The Old ones were stopped, sir.” The Mayor nodded. It had been clone, Kyle though, but he didn’t know how close, didn’t know if The Mayor realized, or would admit, or could even believe how close they’d come to the ending. Maybe he’d planned for it, or even written the book used to open the way. No one knew, and knowledge is power. “It is well,” The Mayor said. “We are keeping a look out, for Noone, as you requested. If we find him, sir?” “Bring him here,” and nothing more. Knowledge can also be annihiliation, Kyle knew. It was a hard thing, to decide what to know, and what to forget. And what to learn, for knowledge means nothing if one cannot access it. “And the police?” the calm voice said, breaking through his train of thoughts. “Sir?” “Did that solve the murder?” “Which one, sir?” “The boy that became a zombie.” “I think they believe it was a werefox, sir. Or drugs. They got the other person in the apartment to testify. A Nathan, sir. Never gave a last name.” “And you got a lock of his hair?” “Yes, sir.” “Good. Good.” “He said Clarence wasn’t murdered. That he’d seen a ghost, and must have gone into deep shock.” “Good. Find a lock of his hair, and blood as well.” “Yes, sir.” Kyle looked down at his notes, nervously. “The people in Building: The Skyscraper, are wondering about the missing workers. We told them they were, ah, promoted.” “Not to Gulag scraper, I trust?” “No, sir. To Alpha Complex. And Parker Drive. The more - undesirable spots, sir.” “Very good. Arrange some music for them.” “What kind, sir?” “Live. Without the band.” “.... Yes, sir.” “Everything is a test, Aimsley,” The Mayor said. Kyle froze. The Mayor sometimes got into those moods, where he told the truth. Few survived the experience. “Fiat Nox is closed to us. And Alpha, for all intents and purposes. Two horns, in a sense, missing from the bull we are trying to ride.” “Ah, the head of the Keep of the 4 winds ‘scraper wished to speak with you as well, sir,” Kyle said quickly, risking anger over interrupting over death at learning things he didn’t want to. “The new one?” “Yes, sir. Alamogordo, sir.” “An interesting name.” “I guess so, sir.” “I don’t pay you to make guesses,” The Mayor said mildly. “I will speak to him later. Perhaps.” Kyle nodded. “And the hougon, sir?” “A minor nuisance. Perhaps he will be amusing. Is that all?” “Yes, sir. Oh, Brigitte, wants to know about the expense claim you sent in?” “Over the grail?” “Ah, she never said. Sir.” “Tell her to leave it open.” The Mayor stood, his own chair behind the desk hard and wooden, and smiled. “After all, it’s what we’re paying them to do. Lost’n’Found or Finders-Keepers will find the Grail. And then our real work can begin. My father’s work. Saving the City from itself, making sure the dreams stay alive. It destroyed Camelot. I will not let it destroy by City. “That is all. You may go now. And have a nice day.” Kyle Aimsley left, wondering why he felt that that was a threat as much as a promise. Left alone, The Mayor laughed, softly, and sat back down in the chair, waiting. The board had not fallen, the pieces were on it. The king cannot sacrifice himself in chess, he knew. The messiah would have to answer last night, and then - and then he would decide what stories were told, what was remembered. It had been promised. And Noone kept his promises. | Length of Entry: 5,588 |
And the ever-loving end! YAY!
And a map:
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