20 minutes of coherence

I write stuff. Some of it goes here.

[20minutesofcoherence]

The Keys to Rain City

            The thing about stealing stuff is that even if you manage to get the damn thing you were after, if you can’t cover your tracks halfway decently then you might as well have just mugged the poor sap you just stole from. And if you aren’t one of those types who’s good at mugging – you know who I’m talking about, big, meaty, aggressive, likes to turn your face into so much chunky salsa with his bare fists – if you’re not one of those types then you, my friend, are shit out of luck when you end up in a situation that’s on the back-alley mugging end of theft.

            Now, you might be thinking, that’s all fine and dandy, but what the hell does that have to do with me?

            Nothing at all. Nothing at all, my dear friend... unless, by some wild coincidence, you happen to be a Sleeper – just like me.

What’s a Sleeper, you might ask? Well, let’s see... the name would suggest that you sleep a lot, wouldn’t it? Okay, yeah, there are guys called “sleeper agents” and you might have thought that you’re related to them and maybe you went “aw sweet, now I can go all James Bond and shit-“ No. You’re not a secret agent. Sleeper agent. Whatever. What happened is you rolled the lucky number in the genetic lottery and you’re one of those rare human beings who can consciously unlock the door in their head. Everyone has this door, not everyone can unlock it. Why have a door that you can’t unlock? I dunno, weirder shit has happened before. And yes, I’ll tell you where it leads – not that it’ll make much sense to you yet.

Your lucky door, which you can luckily unlock all by yourself – you lucky bastard – leads to a little ol’ place that most of us call Rain City.

Ha ha, just kidding, Rain City is huge as fuck. Also, you’re not lucky at all.

We Sleepers? We’re all fucked.

Rain City is a place where every single thing that any human being has ever seen, invented, created, or otherwise been a part of, can be found. Not to mention some things that no human being in his right mind could possibly have made up. Some of your more pseudo-scientific assholes might call it the “collective human subconscious” or some such bullshit, but I can tell you right now you’ll see stuff here that sure as hell is nowhere near human.

What does any of this insane shit have to do with stealing, you’re probably wondering. Well, it can either have a lot to do with it or nothing at all. Depends on you, really.

Every person in the world has a house here in the City of Dreams. Yes, that’s another name for Rain City. Rather poetic, wouldn’t you say? Then again, I don’t know shit about poetry. So anyway, what’s this house for? Well, not much, actually. It’s simply a way in and out of the City. In most cases, people can go their whole lives without unlocking it, dreaming safely away in their own heads. Sleepers, on the other hand, can unlock these doors. If they do it by accident, without being prepared for all of the illogical weirdness that lives in Rain City, the effects can be... well, deadly. If you’re lucky. Although if you were actually lucky you wouldn’t be a Sleeper in the first place. But, I digress.

As a Sleeper, you can go to sleep, leave the “house” that is your mind via that doorway to the City of Dreams I just told you about, travel across the City, open someone else’s door, and essentially burglarize their mind. Cool, huh? You can steal people’s information, secrets, mess with their heads, and commit all sorts of otherwise reprehensible acts inside someone else’s head. The problem is that you’re in someone else’s head. This is their turf, their imagination. If you tip someone off that there’s a stranger fucking around with their mind while they’re dreaming, do you think they’ll be happy about that? As a matter of fact, they most likely won’t remember much of it in the morning, but the human subconscious is a nasty piece of work, and that thing will rip you to fucking shreds if it gets so much as a whiff of you sneaking around in there.

Last question, of course – why the hell would anybody want to risk mind and memory doing all of these dangerous, delicate, and sometimes borderline sociopathic activities? Well, my fellow Sleeper, that’s for you to decide. I do it for money. There are plenty of businessmen who will pay a pretty penny to know what their rivals are thinking. Others will pay even more to throw a wrench into their enemies’ plans, or better yet, into their very minds. On the other hand, some Sleepers do it for the thrill, for the adrenaline rush. You know, like those crazy fucks who go mountaineering in the wilderness with nothing but a knife and a jacket. Or the ones who break into old locked-down warehouses just because they’re supposed to stay out. On another hand, there are also Sleepers who want to explore the City itself. A lot of those never come back. And, on yet another hand – what are we up to now, four hands? Fuck it, we’re in Rain City, who cares – there are Sleepers who just like to vandalize shit.

So, what’ll it be? You wanna get to know this place better? Or should I just teach you to lock your door so you can live your life out in peace and safety?

There’s no going back, though. That door will always be sitting in the back of your head, reminding you that you’re not the same as everyone else. You, as a Sleeper, have the keys to Rain City...

[20minutesofcoherence]

My lips pressed gently against her soft cheek. I inhaled her scent, a subtle perfume that my inexperienced senses would never be able to identify; yet I still loved it. This was probably the closest my lips had ever been to hers. I relished that idea. I heard her quiet sigh as I drew away, sending another delicate wave of perfume through the warm summer night.

Then I noticed something. She was not happy. For a brief moment I wondered what I’d done wrong, but then I realized – she had moved her face slightly in my direction, just before I’d kissed her. Was that disappointment I saw in her eyes? I hesitated, feeling a drop of perspiration roll down the back of my neck. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and it appeared to be yellowish in the light of the streetlamp above us. I shifted uncomfortably on the hard, wooden bench. She raised an eyebrow and gave me an unimpressed stare. Her chest rose and fell beneath the thin, black tank top she was wearing. Her expression seemed to be almost yelling at me: “Are you fucking kidding me? Is that it?”

I made my decision. However, at the last moment, I couldn’t help but respond to what she had been non-verbally shouting at me.

“Jeez, alright, gimme a break,” I said as I leaned in. I felt like an even bigger idiot the moment the words left my mouth.

That thought quickly left my mind as she pounced on me, wrapping her arms around me and locking her lips against mine. I’d kissed a few girls before, both with and without tongue, and it had been quite nice. This, however, was something completely different.

On one hand, I’d known this girl for a long time, and she’d always been somewhat aggressive, but in an attractive way. She was sharp, and had a talent for snarky humor that I’d always found hilarious. I really liked her a lot. There had been years and years of belligerent sexual tension between us, with no resolution in sight. Until this night.

My mouth felt almost like someone was attacking it. I grabbed the back of her head, sliding my fingers into her hair, at the same time placing my other hand on her lower back, and held on for dear life. I could hear- no, feel her every breath. She pressed herself into me, and for a moment I thought I might melt as her lovely breasts squeezed against my chest. After a moment I realized that I was bent over backwards, our fingers digging into each other’s backs and scalps. I felt like I was about to fall off the bench. And in the middle of all of this, a tiny voice somewhere in the back of my head grumbled: About fucking time, dammit.

Finally (or was it regretfully?), she released me. Her hair was mussed, one strap of her top was hanging down her arm, and she was wearing such a smug, satisfied grin that I couldn’t help but chuckle. She gave me a sly smile and leaned back against the bench with a soft sigh, cheeks glowing.

It took me a few moments to collect myself. I tried to think of something good to say. Nothing helpful came to mind. ‘You’re a good kisser?’ Nah. That would have been an underestimation. Besides, this was so different from anything I’d ever experienced before that, quite frankly, I didn’t know what to think about it. The silence had lasted a few seconds now, and I was growing uncomfortable, so I blurted out the first true thing that I could think of.

“I’ve been waiting for that for a long time,” I said.

“I know,” she replied with a smirk.

I had a feeling she’d been expecting me to say something else, though, although I still have no idea what.

[20minutesofcoherence]

Subject JM-s57-001, Part 1

"Do you believe in prophecy, Mr. Umos?" asked Dr. Melsbach again, as they walked down the rounded, pristine white tunnel. He submitted his one good eye to a retinal scan, unlocking a large metal door and revealing another identically well-lit, white tunnel beyond it.

Commander-General Calvin Umos shook his head, regaining his bearings. I should really get that old implant checked out, he thought to himself, remembering the analysis interface he'd had installed a few years ago, it keeps shorting out and distracting me. He ran a hand over his scarred, bald scalp.

Umos noticed Dr. Melsbach watching him patiently, the lab-coat-clad scientist's dark grey right eye shining with excitement while the robotic left eye glowed an eerie green. The scientist had always addressed him as 'Mr. Umos', regardless of Calvin's actual rank. He'd gotten used to it a long time ago.

"No, Doctor," said Umos, a hint of resignation in his voice. "I don't believe in prophecy. Is that what you brought me all the way down here to see?"

"Perhaps," said Dr. Melsbach with a smirk, then turned on his heel and sped off down the tunnel at a brisk walk, Umos following a step behind.

"Perhaps?" asked Umos. "I'd expect that you of all people would be able to tell when something is a prophecy and when it isn't."

"I don't believe in prophecy any more than you do, Mr. Umos," said Dr. Melsbach. There was a moment of silence as he stopped in front of another door, this time allowing his hand and fingerprints to be scanned. "How about prescience?"

"Prescience?" said Umos, perplexed. "Isn't that the same as prophecy?"

"Not quite," said Dr. Melsbach, following yet another white tunnel, although this one slowly corkscrewed down into the earth. "Prophecy, as it is defined in the English language, comes from the Greek prophetia, 'gift of interpreting the will of the gods'. It is generally considered to be a foretelling of future events, but only due to having received such information from a divine source."

"A divine source... as in God?"

"God, gods, angels, et cetera," Dr. Melsbach waved his hand dismissively. "Prescience, on the other hand, comes from a pair of Latin words: prae, meaning 'before', and scire, meaning 'to know'. Thus the word essentially means 'to know before'. So, prescience means knowing of something before it happens."

"That still sounds impossible to me," said Umos with a shrug.

"It does, doesn't it?" said Dr. Melsbach, stopping in front of a sturdier pair of doors than the previous ones. "Although... perhaps a better term would be 'implausible'."

"I'm a military man, Doctor," said Umos, "You're the academic here. What are you getting at?"

"Impossible means not possible," said Dr. Melsbach, fixing Umos with an unusually serious stare. "Can't happen. Against the laws of reality. Yes? Yes. Implausible means not plausible. Unlikely. Hard to believe. However, it maintains a healthy margin of open-mindedness, allowing that, perhaps, under the right circumstances, it could happen."

"Fine, then," said Umos, "Implausible. Unlikely, but it could happen. My question still stands."

"Behind these doors is an..." Dr. Melsbach paused, visibly considering how to phrase his thoughts. "...anomalous subject. Very unusual. Requires very expensive support and... restraint equipment. Most of the objects in the room are one-of-a-kind. Including the subject.Especially the subject. In case you're wondering, yes, this is exactly where most of this station's funds go."

"So you're showing this to me in order to justify the massive amounts of money you've dumped into it?" said Umos flatly.

"Yes," said Dr. Melsbach, allowing a small syringe to extend from a panel on the wall and take a sample of his DNA. "Trust me, you will not be disappointed," he added with a smile.

The doors opened. Inside was a large well-lit room, with pipes, wires, and tubes covering the walls, running from hundreds of machines and containers, all manned by lab-coat-clad personnel, to a single massive, metal device in the center of the room. The device looked vaguely like some sort of large vat. Or maybe one of the metal wombs where BlueGate's legions of super-soldiers were grown. In front of the massive vat was a large, arc-shaped computer console. Dr. Melsbach nodded a greeting to a few of the other scientists and walked into the middle of the arc and touched a few commands on the holoscreen. A strangely primitive-looking green dialog box popped up.

Dr. Melsbach turned to Umos. "Subject JM-s57-001 has foretold approximately 500 events so far, of which over 250 have been confirmed as true, and another 200 are confirmation pending. The remaining events have yet to occur. The current record for longest temporal difference between the Subject presenting its knowledge of the event and the actual occurrence of the event is 50 years."

Calvin Umos wasn't sure what to say. "Are you trying to tell me," he said slowly, "That this... this thing you have here-"

"Subject, Mr. Umos," corrected Dr. Melsbach, "Not 'thing'."

"-that it can tell the future?" finished Umos, ignoring the scientist's correction.

Dr. Melsbach sighed and bit his lip. "That does seem to be the implication, Mr. Umos. We still have no idea how the Subject does what it does, but it has yet to be proven wrong."

"And you've had this... Subject, for at least fifty years?"

"Over two hundred."

Two hundred years. Umos glanced back at the vat. This thing was almost as old as the Final War.

"And this... record-holding event you mentioned," asked Umos quietly, "What did it concern?"

"Do you remember Operation Mongoose?" asked Dr. Melsbach.

"Of course I do, I was in command of the entire op-" started Umos, then choked on his own words. "Wait, it foretold that?! Fifty years ahead of time? That's fucking impossible!"

"Implausible, Mr. Umos," said Dr. Melsbach gravely. "Implausible. And yes, it did. Allow me to pull up the transcript for you..." He tapped a few more commands on the holoscreen and words appeared in the primitive dialog box.

WHEN THE MEN-NOT-MEN GROW WEARY OF THE CHASE AND WHEN THEIR QUARRY, AN AGILE AND LITHE SERPENT, REFUSES TO TIRE OF HIS PATHETIC ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE HIS PURPOSE, FROM AMONG THE PUPPETEERS SHALL A LEADER BE CHOSEN, A MAN-CREATION BORN OF FLESH BUT MARRIED TO MACHINE, A LEADER OF MEN-NOT-MEN. THE MAN-CREATION SHALL CRAFT OF MEN-NOT-MEN A MONGOOSE, A CREATURE TO DEVOUR THE SERPENT, AND THIS MONGOOSE SHALL STRIKE AT AN ANTHILL, WHEREIN THE SERPENT HIDES. YET THE SERPENT IS EVER UNDERESTIMATED AND SHALL STRIKE UPON THE MONGOOSE A DEADLY BLOW BEFORE ESCAPING, NOT ONLY WEAKENING HIS ENEMIES BUT ALSO GROWING IN POWER HIMSELF, ALTHOUGH THE ANTHILL SHALL SUFFER THE WORST FATE OF THIS BATTLE, CRUSHED BETWEEN THE HAMMER AND THE ANVIL.

Umos looked over at Dr. Melsbach, having read the message. "Is it always this... metaphorical in its descriptions?"

Dr. Melsbach shrugged. "That would be one of the more obvious foretellings, actually. Most of the other events are foretold in an even more obscure manner."

"But how exactly does this relate to Operation Mongoose, though?" asked Umos.

"I thought it was obvious," said Dr. Melsbach, slightly surprised. "The 'men-not-men' are BlueGate's vatsoldiers, which is actually better explained in a different, although not yet confirmed foretelling. The 'serpent' here appears to be something, or someone, that you were chasing - without success, it seems - and happened to be hiding in Denver when you wiped the city-state off the face of the planet. Also it apparently escaped and dealt a heavy blow to your forces, which may help pin down its identity. The 'puppeteers' are BlueGate. An apt description, wouldn't you say? And you, Mr. Umos, are the 'man-creation married to machine', again an accurate description, what with you being nearly 50% cybernetic and so on. The 'mongoose' metaphor means a creature that devours serpents, which fits with the previously established 'serpent' metaphor, and also happens to perfectly match the name of your operation. So, you made a special 'mongoose' task force of vatsoldiers to 'devour' this 'serpent', which happened to be hiding in the 'anthill' which is - or was - Denver. As I said earlier, the 'serpent' did a lot of damage to your forces, grew stronger, and escaped, and Denver was utterly annihilated. Does the foretelling make more sense now?"

"Yes..." said Umos thoughtfully, "Yes, it does."

[20minutesofcoherence]

Nine Laws

Garth Tenel sat at the Adept's Desk, in the large Hall of Examination. A few strands of his black hair fell across his eyes, slick with sweat. He brushed them out of the way with a gloved hand. To say he was nervous would be a bit of an understatement.

Next to him sat Ilvé, his mentor's lovely bondsprit. She gently patted his arm and gave him a reassuring smile. Garth glanced at her and smiled back, noticing that her Sunday best still did nothing to hide her supple curves. The dark dress complemented her straight, blonde hair quite nicely as well. He could tell that she was more nervous than he was, though. There was a gritty tightness to her jaw that never appeared when she was truly relaxed.

On the other side of the aisle, to Garth's right sat Meld, the man who had not only trained him, but also influenced a large part of Garth's upbringing. Meld was wearing his usual faded green coat and dark gray pants. His thick but closely-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard contrasted sharply with his shiny, bald head. Meld adjusted his pince-nez glasses and furrowed his brow.

In front of Garth was the Examiners' Bench, where five serious-looking, black-robed Necromancers sat eyeing him. One from each Ancient Blood. Because Garth had been raised by his mentor, the Examination Committee had been assembled in order to ascertain whether or not Garth was properly prepared for life as a Necromancer.

Chief Examiner Romanov, the thin, slightly wrinkled central Examiner and also the man heading the proceedings, stood up and glanced at a piece of paper. Everyone else in the room stood as well.

"This hearing is to determine whether one Garth Tenel, an orphan who has been found to be of Cheshire heritage, is trained adequately for the requirements of Necromancy," said the Chief Examiner. "Vouching for him are Lord Thomas Meld of the Ancient Blood of Falcone, and the aforementioned Lord Meld of Falcone's bondsprit, Ilvé Falcone." He stopped and looked around the room, making sure everyone had heard. "Let us begin," he said, and struck the small bell on his desk with a tiny hammer. Everyone took a seat.

"Lord Meld," began Examiner Geiger, a plain, brown-haired woman who appeared to be the youngest of the five examiners, "Under what circumstances did you first meet Tenel of Cheshire?"

Meld stood, his thick clothing hiding most of his stringy figure, and looked Examiner Geiger right in the eye. "Examiner," he said, "I first met him when he was no more than four years of age, in the town of Hearth-wood. His mother was a farmgirl from a nearby village, and was selling vegetables in the market. Ilvé recognized him as possessing a Tether, and I approached the boy's mother. She agreed to apprentice young Garth to me, so that I could train him."

Examiner Geiger nodded and Meld sat back down. Garth heard his mentor's old bones creaking, and did his best to suppress a grimace.

Next, Examiner Cheshire, a blonde man with an oily smile, spoke up.

"Ilvé Falcone, how long have you been bonded to Lord Meld of Falcone?"

Ilvé stood and bobbed humbly. "Thirty-six years, Examiner," she said.

"And during this time you have served him loyally?" continued the Examiner.

"Yes, Examiner," Ilvé replied. "I am proud to have served him since his graduation as his primary bondsprit."

"Did you take any part in the education and training of Tenel of Cheshire?" asked the Examiner with a smirk.

"Er... yes, Examiner, I did," said Ilvé. "I educated him on the hierarchy of Spirits, as well as the geography and physics of the Spirit Realm. I also acted as an assistant during his magic training in the Prime Discipline of Mind."

"And he was untrained when you and Lord Meld of Falcone found him, is that correct?" continued the Examiner.

"Yes... Uhm, yes, he was untrained, Examiner," said Ilvé nervously.

"Ah, I see," said the Examiner. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes at Ilvé. "Did he command your mind as any part of his training?" he asked, still smirking.

Ilvé stuttered for a moment, but Meld stood before she could say anything. "Objection, Chief Examiner," he said. Physically frail as he was, his commanding voice still boomed out across the Hall. "As Garth Tenel's mentor, I feel I would be better suited to answer Examiner Cheshire's question."

Examiner Cheshire glared at Meld, who ignored his gaze, staring directly at the Chief Examiner. Ilvé swallowed. Chief Examiner Romanov scratched his chin. "Very well then, Lord Meld of Falcone," he said, "Did Garth Tenel of Cheshire command a mind during his training?"

"No, Chief Examiner, he did not," replied Meld coolly. "I educated him in the required theory for removing mental commands from a mind, as well as delving, extracting, and multiple aspects of repairing within the Prime Discipline of Mind."

Chief Examiner Romanov smiled. "Does Lord Meld of Falcone's answer satisfy your curiosity, Examiner Cheshire?" he asked.

"Yes, Chief Examiner, it does," replied Examiner Cheshire unconvincingly and nodded. Meld and Ilvé sat down. Garth heard Ilvé sigh quietly with relief next to him.

Next was an elderly, raven-haired woman, whose aged face was betrayed by her powerful, youthful eyes. Examiner Sauvageot.

"Lord Meld of Falcone," she said, "Do you vouch for and guarantee Garth Tenel of Cheshire's ability in Spellcrafting, such that he is trained and skilled in the duties required of Necromancers: forging his own Deadiron, binding a Spirit, traveling to and from the Spirit Realm, and defending himself and others from Cursed Spirits and Rogue Necromancers?"

"Yes, Examiner," replied Meld after standing up, "I do guarantee and swear so upon my own mortal spirit, may I be bound to eternal servitude if I do not speak the truth."

Examiner Sauvageot nodded and Meld sat down. She then turned to Garth.

"Garth Tenel of Cheshire," she said, "Do you have your own Deadiron knife?"

Garth stood. "Yes, Examiner, I do," he said.

"Did you craft it yourself, without any additional magical assistance beyond the required shard-binding?"

"Yes, Examiner, I did."

"May I see your Deadiron knife?"

Garth took a deep breath. Deadiron was made by shaving off a sliver of your own soul and binding it within pure iron. Anyone who got their hands on Deadiron made with your soul could theoretically do some very nasty things to you. Or find things out that you probably wouldn't want them to know. On the other hand, Deadiron could also be unbelievably powerful in the hands of its owner, especially in the Spirit Realm.

"Yes, Examiner," said Garth. He drew his Deadiron knife from the sheath lying across his chest and laid it on the desk in front of him. Examiner Sauvageot Crafted a small spell of Space and Force, and the Deadiron knife floated through the air, stopping in front of her. She rotated it, briefly Crafted an analytic spell of Blood, Metal, and Spirit, then sent the knife back over to Garth.

"It is well-crafted," she said as Garth was returning it to its sheath. That was not a required part of the ceremony. Examiner Sauvageot was giving Garth a genuine compliment! And quite a grand one, too.

"Thank you, Examiner," said Garth, smiling slightly despite himself.

Examiner Sauvageot, still stony-faced, nodded. Garth sat down.

Last was Examiner Falcone. He was a moderately young-looking man with thick, curly brown hair and very thick glasses.

"Garth Tenel of Cheshire," he said, "Do you have a bondsprit?"

Garth stood again. "No, Examiner, I do not."

Examiner Falcone shrugged. "Very well then," he said with a nod. "No more questions."

Garth sat once again.

Chief Examiner Romanov finished scribbling a few notes on one of the extra pieces of paper that had been provided for him. He looked up at Garth.

"Garth Tenel of Cheshire," he said slowly, "Have you upheld the Nine Laws of Necromancy?"

Garth stood up. "Yes, Chief Examiner," he said. "The Nine Laws were the first thing Lord Meld of Falcone taught me."

"Very good," said the Chief Examiner. "Do you know the Nine Laws by heart?"

"Yes, Chief Examiner," replied Garth. "Shall I recite them?"

"Please do," said the Chief Examiner with a nod.

Garth cleared his throat and began.

"One," he said. "Do not use blood not your own.

Two. Do not bind a mortal spirit.

Three. Do not command the mind of another.

Four. Uphold every bargain agreed upon.

Five. Do not allow an unbound Spirit to influence the Mortal Realm.

Six. Do not allow an untrained Necromancer to live.

Seven. Do not touch the Deadiron of another without consent.

Eight. Do not attempt the arts of space-rending.

Nine. Do not tempt a mortal into the Spirit Realm."

"Yes," said Chief Examiner Romanov, "And do you swear to continue to uphold the Nine Laws, both until and beyond death?"

"Yes, Chief Examiner, I do swear so," replied Garth.

"Objection, Chief Examiner," said Examiner Cheshire. "Lord Meld of Falcone has broken the Sixth Law of Necromancy."

"How so, Examiner?" asked Chief Examiner Romanov.

"Garth Tenel of Cheshire was found by Ilvé Falcone and Lord Meld of Falcone, with a Tether. As he posessed a Tether, he was, and still is, a Necromancer. He was untrained at the time, as Ilvé Falcone has stated," said Examiner Cheshire. "Thus, he was an untrained Necromancer. The Nine Laws require that Lord Meld of Falcone should have killed Garth Tenel of Cheshire immediately."

The Hall was silent.

"Examiner Cheshire, the Laws say nothing about killing," said Meld, standing to meet the Examiner's heated glare with a cold, piercing gaze. "The Sixth Law expressly states: Do not allow an untrained Necromancer to live. I have followed the Law. The boy standing before you, Examiner, is a fully-trained Necromancer. If you doubt my words, you may test him personally and find out for yourself. I guarantee you will not be disappointed."

"A technicality," growled Examiner Cheshire.

"As is your objection, Examiner Cheshire," said Chief Examiner Romanov sternly. "Nobody in this chamber has broken any of the Nine Laws. Are you trying to uphold the letter or the spirit of the law, Examiner?"

Silence.

"Very well then," continued the Chief Examiner, and stood up. "Does the Examination Committee find one Garth Tenel, an orphan who has been found to be of Cheshire heritage, to be trained adequately for the requirements of Necromancy?"

"Aye," said Examiner Geiger.

"Aye," said Examiner Falcone.

"Aye," said Chief Examiner Romanov.

"Aye," said Examiner Sauvageot.

"...Aye," said Examiner Cheshire, having dragged out his silence almost, but not quite long enough to be considered rude.

"Then it is decided," said Chief Examiner Romanov. "I hereby proclaim, by the power vested in me, Garth Tenel of Cheshire to now be known as Lord Garth Tenel of the Ancient Blood of Cheshire, and thus a full-fledged Necromancer, with all the duties and rights that such a title entails."

[20minutesofcoherence]

Part Four

It worked.

Dammit all to hell, it worked.

I mean, it's not like I was hoping, per se, that it wouldn't work, but damn. I get really creeped out by this shit sometimes.

So, what happened? Well, I went to sleep. Obviously. It was a few days after my first quote-unquote 'date' with Zan. I hadn't really been trying to do anything in my sleep, but that one night I conked out pretty quickly. I'm pretty sure I remember thinking something about... crystals? Crystalline buildings of some sort? It was a vague, half-remembered image from that first dream where Zan and I met.

I found myself walking across an immense, flat expanse of snow. It had a thick, frozen crust on top, so my feet didn't sink in any further than a few centimeters. The sky was that sort of wintery grayish-white, and I could see huge crystals of clear floating around up there, almost like clouds made of glass.

I kept walking. I don't remember feeling the cold, so I must have been wearing something appropriate to the weather. Or maybe dream-physics decided to fuck it all and skip a day of work? Who knows.

After some time, I don't know how long, I saw some sort of white, crystalline construction in the distance. Time doesn't really seem to follow any sort of rules in those dream-places. All I know is that it took me a while to notice the tip of the tallest ice-spire in the distance, but after that I arrived there pretty quickly. I don't remember going inside, either. It's almost like my brain fast-forwarded until something interesting happened.

Inside, it was sort of like a castle, or at least a tower belonging to someone very rich. Everything was in whites and light grays, and felt like it was made of warm ice. Warm, non-melting ice. There was even a fireplace in the chamber with a long dining table. And Zan was standing next to the fireplace, peering in. She looked like she'd also just got here. She was wearing a puffy winter jacket in that dark violet color she always wears, snow boots, and black winter pants.

"Well, then," I said.

She straightened and turned around to smirk at me. I don't think I've ever seen anyone look as smug as she did in my entire life.

"Here we are," she replied with a grin, and raised her eyebrows. "Toldja so - if we can do it once, we can do it again."

Did I mention Zan has very expressive eyebrows? I still haven't decided whether it's cute or just comical.

"Yes," I said, rolling my eyes, "Yes you did. Yadda yah. You win, et cetera." I walked past her towards the spiral staircase at the other end of the room.

Zan snorted. "I didn't win anything. Jeez, you're so competitive," she chuckled, following me up the stairs.

Just for the record, I'm not really that competitive. And I told her that.

"Yeah, yeah... Mister Testosterone," she said, with a grin that I couldn't see but could definitely hear in her voice. I really didn't feel like dragging it out any more, so I let her win that one as well.

We reached a dark, heavy door at the top of the staircase. I pushed it open, and I found myself standing next to Zan at the very top of the ice-spire, on a sort of plateau. It was perfectly round and flat, apparently paved with some sort of white stone blocks that were cut into squares. The wind whistled in my ears, and I started to feel a bit cold standing up there.

In front of us was a large mechanical device that looked like a cross between one of those world war II artillery guns that you sit on and aim by turning cranks, and a huge astronomical telescope. It seemed to be made entirely of gold, and it was humming quietly. As I approached it, I noticed that it was giving off heat. Not so much as to be painful to the touch, but it was definitely quite warm.

"What is it?" asked Zan.

"I have no freakin' clue," I replied, running my hand along the device.

"Well," said Zan, a bit hesitantly, "In case we wake up suddenly or something, let's arrange right now to meet next Friday at Alf's Books, what do you say?"

"Sounds good to me," I said, pausing my examination of the device to look over at her. "5 PM work for you?"

"Yup," she replied. "Uh... see you there," she finished with a nervous giggle.

I turned back to look at the device again. It was definitely meant for sitting on, but what did all these levers and switches do? I wasn't entirely sure trying any of them would be a good idea.

As I was considering whether or not to start toying with the device, I noticed something lying on the ground next to it. I picked it up. It was a small token, about four centimeters across, in the shape of a pentagon. It was colored a sort of silvery, marbled blue-gray-teal, and had what looked like two black fangs engraved into it. I turned it over in my hand and saw the black, yellow-eyed wolf's head insignia on the other side.

And then I woke up.

[20minutesofcoherence]

The Quiet

The halls were crowded with high school students, everyone trying to squeeze past everyone else. Here and there groups of students clustered together at a locker or outside a door, like islands in the seething sea of adolescent sweat, breath, and hormones. After considering his surroundings for a moment, Dirk decided the traffic in the hallway was actually more like a river. Whitewater rapids. But then, if he considered the students to be a river, the island metaphor wouldn't fit. He shook his head, filing the issue away to be dealt with later, and ducked just in time to avoid being accidentally smacked in the face by someone's elbow.

Dirk once again reached into his strange memory and located the room where he was to have his next class. Room 207. English Literature. Excellent. He felt like he was really getting the hang of this unique method of remembering things. He still had no idea where it had come from, or why, but for now he was content with the fact that it was working much better than what appeared to be the standard amongst his fellow students.

Classes went by in a blur. He sat through nearly all of them on autopilot, his memory perfectly recording every tidbit of information he encountered and spitting it back out for him whenever he requested. Even the things that others might consider useless were fascinating to him, and he enjoyed going back over them during the duller parts of the day. The way the sun's rays hit a certain girl's hair, making her usual dark brown appear to be a gingery chestnut color. The sound of a boy from three or four periods ago rapidly scribbling a note. Small things, but essential. He found that he had trouble retaining experiential memories for longer than a day or so. Nearly all of it would revert to raw information every time he went to sleep.

This morning he had come up with the idea of keeping a sketch diary. He had discovered in himself a significant artistic talent a few days after his... well, he referred to it as his 'Awakening'. Yes, with a capital A. It felt like the right term. Dirk decided he would buy a thick, blank sketchbook after school today; it wouldn't be able to record all of the sensations that he lost every night, but at least it would be something. Humans are very visual creatures, he thought, so being able to record images would be a significant improvement over words. Besides, he had no need to record words.

The final bell rang, and Dirk pushed through the river of students towards his locker. He seemed to be going against the current no matter which way he turned. After a few minutes, he finally managed to reach his locker and retrieve his jacket. He left his textbooks in the locker; he already knew them all by heart anyway.

After leaving the main building, he headed towards the lunch yard and cafeteria to take his usual shortcut. It was perfect for someone with an aptitude for climbing and a complete disregard for school safety policies. Since Dirk possessed both of those qualities, and the main exit was in the opposite direction, he thought it quite unlikely that he would ever be caught climbing around on the cafeteria roof.

However, as he rounded the corner into the lunch yard, he saw something... strange. This was something new. Five teenagers - fellow high school seniors, by the looks of them - were standing under the overhang. As Dirk approached them, he got a better look at what was going on. Four boys and one girl. One of the boys, dressed in a black leather jacket and neat, black jeans, was holding another boy by the shirt with one hand and menacingly shaking his other fist in the boy's face. The girl was standing near the first boy, looking slightly impatient. Her blonde hair spilled down her back, ending in a bunch of ringlets. She was wearing a skirt short enough to make Dirk wonder if he should actually think of it as an unusually wide belt instead. The other two boys were dressed somewhat similarly to the first and stood off to one side.

"...and if I EVER catch you looking at my girlfriend like that again, you disgusting dork-" the first boy was saying as Dirk got within earshot.

"Hey, asshole!" one of the other boys said to Dirk, "Get outta here, this isn't the county fuckin' fair for you to gawk at!"

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at Dirk.

"I can see that," Dirk responded, but didn't move to leave. "What exactly is going on here?"

The obvious leader of the group glared at Dirk. "It's none of your business," he said. "Who are you, anyway?"

Dirk eyed the two toughs, particularly the one who'd been swearing at him. Indeed, he thought, quite intimidating. However, observations formed in his brain, the extra information unrequested but certainly not unappreciated. These particular bullies were obviously used to intimidating smaller, isolated prey. It was unlikely that they had ever actually been in a proper fight, and Dirk was suddenly utterly positive that they would immediately back down from anything approaching a fair fight.

He glanced over at the leader's girlfriend. She was wearing a very flattering top, the kind that was cut to show as much skin as she could get away with. However, aside from those other... assets, she did have a very pretty face. A very pretty face which was currently set in a very bored pout.

About five seconds had passed. The tension was thickening, and the leader looked about to order his followers to pummel Dirk into the ground.

"Who am I?" asked Dirk, feigning surprise. "I, ah, I take it you just want my name? Not an in-depth description of who I exactly am, yes?"

"You know what? Forget it," said the leader, and nodded to the toughs. "Shut him up, get him out of here. He's irritating me." The other boy had tried to slip away in the meantime, but the leader maintained an iron grip on his shirt.

Well, that went about as well as expected, thought Dirk, and turned to run.

[20minutesofcoherence]

Bluegate//Demon_Project:Stress

Peter briefly examined the large metal door in front of him. It was a sturdy steel and titanium construction, the perfect door for blocking the entrance to a bunker. However, its placement this deep into the Bluegate/Demon Project subterranean research compound suggested that it was actually meant to keep someone... or something from getting out rather than getting in.

He glanced at the door terminal to his right, a podium with a hologram interface. It was currently grumbling faintly, and periodically flashing white and orange. Thea, his team's hacker for this mission, had broken into the compound's network from a terminal just inside the main defenses, and was currently tearing through the door's security. According to the information she had gathered shortly after breaking into the system, their target was supposed to be right behind this door.

Behind Peter, his assault platoon guarded the corridors leading away from their position. Five teams of five soldiers each, for a total of twenty-five heavily armored, well-armed, and disciplined killing machines. Another twenty-five man platoon was back near the top of the compound, protecting Thea. Her physical body was utterly helpless as long as her mind remained jacked into the network.

With a quiet whirr, the podium's interface hologram turned blue and displayed Bluegate's symbol. The large bunker-door lifted up, revealing a sinister-looking laboratory. The three semicircular desks were small and well-organized, their built-in monitors displaying some sort of biological readouts; most of the room was taken up by eight strange, transparent canisters full of thick, multicolored chemicals. In the middle of the far wall was a large cylindrical tank, filled with a bubbling green liquid. Inside it floated the man they had come to rescue, completely naked except for a breathing mask strapped to his nose and mouth and a Medusa-like mess of electrodes and IV tubes connected to various points on his body. That man was Operative Lucas "Junior" Jameson.

One five-soldier entry team followed Peter into the laboratory. Thea had already broken into the lab's systems and started the draining process. Peter and his team walked over to the tank, opening it and disconnecting Lucas as soon as the fluid had finished draining out.

"This is Spear Platoon, we have the target," Peter radioed to Thea. "Proceeding to rendezvous with Falcon. Over."

"This is Shield Platoon," responded Thea. "Copy that, Spear. Removing traces of our operation here, will then proceed to rendezvous with Eagle. See you back at base. Over and out."

Lucas woke up groggily as the platoon's medics examined and clothed him. He mumbled something unintelligible. Peter lifted the visor on his helmet and walked over.

"Hey, Junior," he said, "I'm here. We got you. We're getting you out of here. Don't worry."

Lucas only seemed to vaguely recognize him. "No..." he mumbled. "Can't... can't go. Leave me... here. I... I'm dangerous. Can't fix..."

"Just rest," said Peter. "I'm sure we can fix whatever they did to you once we get back to base. Just relax and let us do the work."

"Can't..." groaned Lucas, "Can't fix a monster..."

The platoon hurried towards the exit. They were 5 floors underground, and the locks Thea had set, holding most of the Bluegate soldiers inside their barracks, would only last for a few more minutes before someone hacked through. They reached the cargo elevator unimpeded, but Peter got a comm signal from Thea as they passed the third floor.

"This is Shield Platoon, floodgates are down," said Thea. "Repeat, floodgates are down. We are at rendezvous point with Eagle, but we can't lift off properly with this much incoming fire. Will try to sap power from compound generators to recharge dropship defensive systems. Be on your guard. Over."

"This is Spear Platoon," replied Peter, "Copy that, Shield. We will head over to reinforce your position. Over and out."

Lucas continued to mumble something to himself, supported by two of the three medics in Peter's platoon. The cargo elevator stopped at floor 0, ground level. Just as the doors opened, Peter ordered his platoon to flash and smoke the rooms leading towards the exit, switching his visor to thermal-vision along with the rest of the soldiers. The five soldiers wearing Titan-4 Armor Enhancement Suites deployed mobile barriers just as a hail of gunfire poured into the cargo elevator. The Bluegate soldiers had finally broken through Thea's locks, meaning Peter only had a few brief minutes before his platoon would not only be outgunned, but also outnumbered.

The Titan-4 soldiers pushed forward, their barriers soaking up enemy gunfire; meanwhile, the rest of Peter's squad did their best to lay down cover fire. Round after round slammed into the Titan-4 barriers, yet they continued to inch forward. A couple of Peter's soldiers, armed with grenade launchers, cut a swath through the Bluegate soldiers, but it wouldn't last for long. The smoke and repeated flash grenades made it difficult to see anything, even with the soldiers' thermal-vision active. The deafening noise of the gunfight only made things worse.

As they reached the halfway point between the cargo elevator and the surface exit, the barrier on one of the Titan-4 soldiers crackled, spat out a shower of sparks and smoke, and failed. He was riddled with bullets almost immediately, and the soldiers he had been protecting fell soon after. The other four Titan-4s' barriers were weakening, too, and the fall of one Titan-4 had allowed the Bluegate soldiers to concentrate more fire on the others' barriers. Another one fell. Peter swore in frustration. They were so close to the end, and already he had lost ten men.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Lucas was standing behind him, wearing a pair of shorts and a wifebeater. But something was... wrong about him. His eyes had a strange, predatory glint to them. And vertical pupils. His stance was not the slightly slouched, relaxed pose Peter had always seen him in. Lucas looked like he was itching to tear something apart, and only just barely restraining himself. He was also far more muscular than Peter had remembered.

"Leave... them... to me," growled Lucas in a strange, guttural voice that Peter had never heard before. "And... stand... out of... the way."

Before Peter could react, Lucas tensed, screaming like a man being tortured to death. His muscles swelled, bulging, and his clothes burst, falling away in rags. His head warped, elongating into a reptilian, almost dragon-like snout, complete with a double row of teeth. A long, powerful tail sprouted from his lower back. His hands and feet stretched and grew, forming massive, sharp talons. His whole body grew a short, thick coat of red fur. At some point during the transformation, Lucas' tortured screaming had turned into a guttural roar, a deep, gravelly war-cry that touched the most primeval parts of Peter's brain. Every fiber in Peter's body was begging him to run away. Away from this artificial apex predator, this unnatural monster.

Is this... wondered a tiny voice in the back of Peter's mind, is this what Demon Project has been working on? Turning people into monsters? Demons?

With another terrifying roar, the demon charged and leaped over the Titan-4 soldiers. The gunfire had briefly stopped due to Lucas' screaming and roaring, but the Bluegate soldiers started firing upon the demon as soon as it burst through the last of the smoke. It was too fast. Unnaturally fast, said the tiny voice in Peter's head. The demon took a handful of rifle rounds to the flank and tore into one group of Bluegate soldiers, quite literally shredding them in a matter of seconds. It didn't even appear to notice the wounds. The Bluegate soldiers deployed their own Titan-4 AES, but the demon charged up and crushed it between its powerful talons and jaws as if the barrier had been made of wet paper. The demon charged through the Bluegate soldiers, toward the exit, leaving a trail of gore and carnage in its wake.

After a few seconds, Peter realized why the demon had been able to ignore all of those gunshot wounds. Each wound on its body was gone by the next time Peter managed to get a good look at it. The demon was healing at a rate that would have been considered physically impossible by any biologist Peter could think of, and yet there it was, shrugging off rifle fire like so much rain.

Peter finally recovered slightly from the shock of what he had just seen, and hurried his platoon toward the exit. They barely slowed to finish off the few Bluegate soldiers the demon had left behind, but the enemy was broken and disorganized now. It was like crushing insects on the sidewalk. Less than a minute later, Peter and his platoon reached the exit, where two dropships were warming up to lift off. Any Bluegate soldiers that had been outside were now dead, torn to shreds or riddled with gunfire. Thea's platoon had also taken casualties, about as heavily as Peter's platoon had.

They were all staring at an unconscious, human Lucas. He was lying on a pile of gore and carnage, surrounded by the mutilated corpses of his enemies. Peter had never seen anyone sleeping so peacefully before.

[20minutesofcoherence]

Stan sat down at a table in the window of the coffeeshop. He'd ordered a large... whichever coffee was cheapest. And a scone. While he was waiting for his order to be ready, he retrieved his sketchbook and pencil from his bag. He looked out at the quiet winter scenery of the small city, drinking it all in.

He started off with a few lines of poetry. He didn't consider himself a poet, he just liked to write things down as he saw them. A sort of 'literary sketch', he liked to call it.

The square that he was looking out upon was sizeable, but not particularly big for a city. Stan remembered being out there for a concert of one of the local rock bands. About 200-300 people had showed up then, and there had still been room for booths and a bit of parking. The music had been thoroughly mediocre, but Stan had gone there primarily to hang out with friends, not listen to indie local rock. Right now it was empty aside from three... four cars, and a handful of trees and benches. The snow was nearly untouched.

Someone at the counter called out his name, and he went to get his coffee and scone. Upon returning to the table, he spent a few minutes munching on the scone and sipping his coffee. He then turned a page in his book and sketched a few pictures.

Across from the coffeeshop was a bakery. Stan noted in his book that they made excellent croissants and other French pastries there. There was also a small clothing store, and a bookstore. Near the corner of the square, some 20 meters down from where Stan was sitting, there was a bus stop. As he was sketching, Stan saw a person walk over to the bench nearest his window and sit down, facing the coffeeshop. It was a girl. Stan didn't recognize her. He wasn't sure what she was waiting for out in the cold, but he flipped to a clean page and made a quick sketch of her.

The girl was wearing a black-and-red striped beanie with a red pom-pom on top, a thick, fuzzy, purple winter coat, black pants, and tan winter boots. The boots were that tall slip-on kind without laces. She had a red scarf, and black... or maybe navy blue gloves. It was hard to tell.

From what little Stan could see of the girl's face, she was very pale. She had a dash of freckles across her cheeks and small, ever so slightly turned-up nose. Her hair was a thick, dark brown bunch of curls that spilled out from underneath her hat. She had light eyes, although Stan wasn't quite sure what color they were at this distance. They could have been anything from gray to blue or green.

As Stan sketched her, the girl would periodically look at her phone. It seemed she was waiting for someone. About fifteen minutes later, when her cheeks were already quite rosy from the cold, Stan had finished his coffee and sketching for the day and was getting ready to leave. He walked out of the coffeeshop and their eyes met for about two seconds. For an instant, Stan considered saying something, maybe walking up to her. But then the moment passed and he figured he'd rather just go home. Whoever the girl was waiting for, they would surely show up soon.

[20minutesofcoherence]

Part Three

The girl in the bookstore. Right. Her name's Suzanne. Zan, for short. As for how I ended up talking to her... Well, I pretty much just walked up to her. She saw me coming and gave me this weird smile. Like I was being funny but she wasn't sure if it was on purpose or not.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi."

"Jake." I held out my hand. She shook it.

"Zan," she replied.

"Wanna get coffee sometime?" I asked.

"Sure. How about now?"

"Sounds great."

So we went out for coffee. And although I might make it sound like I was oh-so-smooth and stuff, it really felt hella awkward at the time. At first we pretty much just talked about regular stuff... I guess you could actually call it 'first-date' stuff. Standard first-date stuff. I mean, not that I do dates or anything like that. That's the kind of stuff regular people do. Sorry, I'm getting off track. So yeah, after some boring talk, eventually she just couldn't stand it anymore (or something, I guess) and just blurted out:

"I know you."

"Yeah," I replied. I mean, seriously, what else was I supposed to say?

"And you obviously know me."

"Doesn't make sense to me, either."

She gave me this weighing-and-measuring look. I realized that she actually had dark blue eyes.

"So..." she said, "In that case, why?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Why-slash-how-slash-what the hell happened?" she continued. "If this was a coincidence, I have to say it would be the WEIRDEST coincidence ever."

"What, you think it means something?" I said skeptically.

"I... have no idea," she said, starting to smile, "But isn't it cool?"

This I was not expecting. "Cool?! How is it cool?"

Now she was totally grinning. Man, she has a great smile. "How is it not cool?" she said. "If people can share dreams, do you have any idea of what the implications are? The possibilities?"

"But what if it's a one-time thing?" I asked. I just can't help being skeptical all the time. Especially about this kind of stuff.

"Alright, then," said Zan. "Let's see if we can arrange another meeting. Through our dreams. I'll bet you another coffee date that it'll work."

"Whoa, whoa," I said, "Hold up. I don't do dates."

She rolled her eyes and snorted. "Sure you do," she said with another grin. "You're doing one right now."

[20minutesofcoherence]

"Run, dumbass! Get the fuck off the tram!" Mr. Nightmare's voice suddenly exploded in my head. I had been spacing out, and he'd been pretty quiet all day, so I was caught completely unprepared when he seized control of my body. He focused my attention on three empty-gazed, nondescript men moving towards me as he had my body push through the other passengers and pull the emergency break. The crowded tram stopped with a violent jolt, knocking a few people down, including my pursuers. Mr. Nightmare had me yank the doors open and jump out onto the sidewalk.

By now I had recovered most of my wits, so I tried to wrestle control back from Nightmare, but he just handed it over without a fight. He stayed in "shotgun" position, though, ready to intervene if he thought it was necessary. That he didn't argue with me or even crack a joke was what alerted me to the fact that this situation was deadly serious.

I took off down the sidewalk, dodging around and weaving between other pedestrians when necessary. I made a few quick turns in the alleyways, trying to put as much distance between myself and the tram as possible. The men were close behind me, though, and a few more people had joined them, increasing their number to about ten or twelve. I didn't have time to get a good look.

Who the hell are these people? I asked Mr. Nightmare in my head.

"Just keep running," he said.

I ran. I found a narrow alley where they would have to slow down in order to fit through, one or two at a time. It put a bit of distance between us, and I charged around a corner and up a fire escape before they could catch up to me.

I was just reaching the roof when I heard something like an explosion from down below. A bolt of blue lightning flashed up past me, singeing my jacket and a few hairs on the back of my head.

Okay, I asked again as I climbed up onto the roof, what the FUCK was THAT?!

Mr. Nightmare was quiet for a moment, then mumbled, "Brainstorm."

What on earth is a 'Brainstorm'?

"Not what, who. He's... sort of related to me."

Fucking. Brilliant. I guess it was to be expected that there would be more guys (or maybe things) like Nightmare around, but now that I was confronted with one for real, I felt about ready to crap my pants. And the first blank-faced guy had just crawled onto the roof. I sprinted up to him and kicked him in the neck just as he was getting up. A fleshy CRUNCH and he limply fell back off the roof. I peered over and saw the others hurrying up the fire escape, paying no attention to their colleague that I'd just killed.

I backed away from the edge and looked around for some sort of weapon. I came up with a piece of rebar somewhat less than a meter long. Two more of the "empty people" had climbed up by now, and their eyes were glowing bright blue. I dodged just in time as a bolt of electricity materialized somewhere in between them and lashed out at me. I felt Mr. Nightmare reach out and clamp down on the nearest one's mind, and I immediately followed up with a deadly strike to the base of the skull.

I am a fighter. I beat the shit out of people for money. I was armed with a solid piece of metal, a lot of adrenaline, and a vicious psychic "shadow-personality" who can reach out and turn your brain into fried eggs. The second guy didn't stand a chance.

Or he wouldn't have, if two more of his friends hadn't just climbed up after him onto the roof and started firing more mind-lightning at me. I flowed between them as more and more joined us on the rooftop, dislocating joints, cracking ribs, and generally doing as much damage as I could. They barely seemed to notice. Mr. Nightmare seemed to be holding back. I'd seen him do a lot more than just stun or slow people before. Then I realized what he'd been waiting for.

A few moments after the last nondescript had climbed up onto the roof, a man materialized in our midst. He was wearing a pure-white suit straight out of the 20's, complete with a walking stick and a fedora. His head and hands were solid black, though, if a bit blurry. The nondescript stopped moving, and Mr. Nightmare sent me a signal to wait. I stopped, but remained ready to go back to breaking bones at a moment's notice.

"Nightmare," said the man. "We meet again. What a... pleasure."

"Brainstorm," growled Mr. Nightmare, popping into existence next to me, in his traditional cloud of purple smoke. He made a short gesture, and a plank of black wood with a nail in it materialized in his right hand.

"How have you been?" asked Brainstorm. "I do believe it's been quite a while since our paths crossed last. If memory serves me correctly, you killed somewhat more than half of my entourage and attempted to sink the boat we were on?"

"Yeah," said Mr. Nightmare. "Sounds about right. Right after you tried to fuckin' EAT ME."

Brainstorm laughed heartily. "Oh please, Nightmare," he said. "Joining the collective is a privilege. You should feel honored that I selected you to become a part of something great."

"Like I said last time, asshole, I'm not gonna be a part of anybody's damn club. All that 'the whole is greater than the sum of its parts' bullshit. I got a new host and I'm doing pretty goddamn fine on my own, thank you very fucking much."

"And a very nice host he is," said Brainstorm. Suddenly, his stern voice gained a new chill. "But I didn't spend all this time and effort tracking you down just to be insulted and have my entourage murdered again, you know. I will not be turned away this time. As much as it pains me to do so, I will take what I want by force if you cannot bring yourself to be more agreeable."

"Bitch," said Mr. Nightmare, "You did NOT just threaten me there. I will bite your goddamn face off."

"Have it your way, then," said Brainstorm.

Suddenly, I realized what Nightmare had been doing. While chatting with Brainstorm, he'd been slowly reaching out and placing a very delicate grip on each of Brainstorm's minions.

"I see your nifty new lightning trick, by the way..." said Mr. Nightmare.

"Ah yes, quite wonderful, isn't it?" replied Brainstorm. "It took me a few years to develop. And rather more than a few test subjects. A pity you are so shallow and hedonistic; if you put your mind to it, I'm sure you could have come up with something creative yourself, given your impressive power."

Mr. Nightmare finished setting up his hold over Brainstorm's minions. He grinned. He grinned a very evil grin.

"Never underestimate your enemies, Brainstorm," he said. "That's one mistake I have never made."

Brainstorm only had a split second to manage a surprised "Wha-?", then Mr. Nightmare closed his claws around the minions' minds, instantly frying their brains. Most of them began to bleed profusely from their noses, and a few even bled from their eyes and ears. With a piercing cry of rage and shock, Brainstorm flickered and disappeared. The minions fell to the ground, lifeless.

"He'll be back," said Mr. Nightmare. He sounded... tired. "He always comes back, eventually."

"When we get home," I said, tossing the rebar aside, "You're gonna tell me exactly what the deal with this Brainstorm guy is."

Mr. Nightmare smirked. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe." Then he brightened. "Hey, get a bottle of vodka on the way home! You still have some weed, we can get hammered and go set something on fire. Good plan? Good plan!"

I sighed and started to climb back down to the ground.

[20minutesofcoherence]

Johnathan Reed walked into the hidden conference room, located under a warehouse in the docks. A large, brown oval table took up most of the room. One end of the oval was flat, as if it had been sliced off, and a stool was set there instead of the high-backed chairs that others were sitting in. Johnathan took his seat and waited while more people trickled in. He observed the other people as they filled the conference room. Everyone was here because their leader had some sort of dirt on them, or maybe a hostage, or some other way of exerting power over them. Some - most, actually - had first come here because they truly agreed with him and wanted to follow the man, but he was nothing if not thorough. Every one of his followers was tied to him in some way. In Johnathan's case, he had covered up evidence of Johnathan's involvement in a large heist, but not before securing some proof for himself to keep. If he ever had the need, he could let proof of Johnathan's involvement 'somehow' end up in the wrong hands.

Johnathan looked around the room. Counting himself, there were currently twelve people present, both men and women. The stool was still empty. Johnathan recognized every single one of these people, and he knew they recognized him. Despite that, they used codenames that their leader had selected for them, based on signs of the zodiac. Johnathan was Aries.

The second door, behind the stool, opened and the leader of their group walked in. He was dressed in a blue, high-collared trench coat with black pants, boots, and gloves. On his face were a pair of wraparound sunglasses and a voice changer contained within a breathing mask. He had short, black hair and a somewhat pale complexion. He called himself Oxide.

"Good evening," said Oxide, and sat down on the stool as the others returned his greeting.

"We will start with your reports today," he said, and turned to Johnathan. "Aries."

Johnathan gave Oxide his report on the activities of the drug cabal he had been ordered to infiltrate. After that, Oxide went around the table by zodiac, receiving reports on other gangs, police activity, and even local and larger-scale politics.

"Thank you," said Oxide after they had all finished. "You have all done excellent work." He paused for a moment, usually a sign he was changing topics. "I have decided that I shall bring myself, and our organization along with its goals, into the public eye at the start of next month. As Scorpio reported, there is a political conference taking place in the Meyer Building, and we shall hijack it. It will be receiving a very large amount of media coverage, and thus my message will likely reach a large audience."

Scorpio cleared her throat. She was a rather small woman, somewhere in her mid-thirties, with wavy auburn hair. She spoke up, pointing out that if Oxide took their organization out into the open, it would likely reveal their identities, with deadly consequences for most of them. Oxide turned his gaze to her, causing an audible chill to fall over the room.

"Indeed," he said after a moment. "I understand your concern, but there is no cause for alarm. I shall be taking full credit for our actions, and as far as the public shall be concerned, I am the sole power in this organization. Aside from the small army of armed minions that Sagittarius, Leo, and Gemini will be providing for me. Your identities shall remain a secret known only to myself, as always."

Scorpio nodded and thanked Oxide for his discretion. Oxide then turned his attention to Sagittarius, Leo, and Gemini.

"Capricorn shall provide you with funding for armaments. Each of you will provide me with thirty armed and trained men, each ready and willing to accept my command. You have a two week deadline. I will give a demonstration of my power at the end of that deadline, should any of them doubt my identity and abilities."

A few of the people seated around the table shivered. They all remembered seeing Oxide use his power when their previous meeting place had been compromised. Three teams of special forces soldiers had assaulted the old factory where they had been meeting, plus a large backup force to surround the area and prevent escape. Oxide had held one team completely immobile, wrapping them in some sort of invisible force. The second team he crushed and suffocated with the same force. The third team... had exploded. Just as the second team was losing consciousness, they had burst in, only for Oxide to snap his fingers and cause the entire team's lungs to violently explode in a ball of gore and fire. Aside from the snap at the end, Oxide hadn't moved a muscle while taking down the teams. After disposing of the assault teams, he had practically steamrolled over the special forces' backup, immolating their clothes and causing their ammunition to explode. He later explained that he was gifted with an absolute control of oxygen, hence his name. Nobody had ever questioned his abilities after that, although some did occasionally voice their surprise that he still wanted armed minions for his activities despite wielding so much power on his own. Oxide never bothered to explain.

"Meanwhile, Taurus and Cancer," continued Oxide, "You will arrange for proper transport to and from the conference. A number of unmarked blue vans shall be sufficient. You will ensure that they are properly reinforced. I will use my usual method of transportation."

Taurus and Cancer nodded. Oxide stood up and looked around the conference room. "Are there any questions?"

Pisces raised her hand and asked, with just a tinge of timidness in her voice, if Oxide could arrange for her to see her child.

Oxide considered her request for a moment or two. "Yes," he finally said. "It will take me a day or two to ensure that you are not seen, but I will contact you by the end of this week."

Pisces sighed with relief and thanked Oxide. Aries - or rather, Johnathan - silently wondered what sort of situation Pisces' daughter was in that required Oxide's assistance. He could only guess that it likely had something to do with psionics, which had been outlawed by the government. Any suspected psionics were practically kidnapped by federal agents and either taken to extremely secure facilities or simply never heard from again. The psionics' parents also often suffered legal repercussions, which made any attempt to contact or visit one's psionic child practically suicidal.

"Is there anything else?" asked Oxide. Nobody said anything. "Very well then. I will see you all again at our next meeting. Expect a summons within two weeks." He stalked out of the room.

Oxide was one of the most powerful if not the most powerful psionic since their discovery less than thirty years ago. He had been a secret champion for psionic humans' rights for years, and now he was going to take the fight into the public eye. Johnathan realized, with some surprise, that he was looking forward to it.

[20minutesofcoherence]

Revolution!

Anton Teveru strode down the hallway of the Kessian Empress' palace. He was tall, wide, and very muscular. His head was bald, but not from shaving. Not a hair had ever grown on his body. A minor error in the process, he'd been told. He was also quite bright, and he hadn't needed anyone to tell him that. He was a heavy assault forgeborn soldier, created to defend his squadmates with sheer body mass and power. Anton had been liberated in one of the original forgeborn uprisings, before the revolt had properly begun. He was dressed in the red and brown colors of the FLF, the Forgeborn Liberation Front.

Slightly behind him and to his left, Julietta Kashil followed, also dressed in the FLF's red and brown, which actually blended quite nicely with her brown hair and pale blue eyes. She was a fast attack soldier. Her eagle-like vision had allowed her to spot trouble a mile off and warn her and Anton's unit on multiple occasions, and her inhumanly fast reactions had saved Anton's hide too many times to count. He was proud to rely on her.

To Anton's right was Aranael Vikkuras. Tall, spidery, and always grinning like a lunatic, Aranael was by far the most disturbing person Anton had ever met, forgeborn or otherwise. He was allegedly an experimental Spec-Ops forgeborn soldier, although Anton hadn't heard of any other experimental forgeborn. As usual, Aranael's night-black hair was hanging down, obscuring half his face above the grin, although he would be ready to flip that hair out of the way at a moment's notice to display his unnatural neon-violet eyes. Their intimidating effect was actually magically enhanced, and Anton had seen Aranael stun or even hypnotize enemies into submission with those eyes. To call Aranael slightly unhinged would be to call Anton slightly above-average in size, or Julietta slightly attentive. However, he had demonstrated loyalty to Anton and the FLF many times, so Anton was willing to turn a blind eye to some of Aranael's faults.

Other forgeborn, all dressed in the colors of the FLF and armed with rifled muskets, followed Anton down the hallway. Some split off into groups of four or five to secure side halls and rooms. Julietta primed her Breaching Device, which was a rifle-like tool made of solid black wood and covered in red runescript. The red runes glowed brightly as she poured power from her mana reserves into the Device. She placed it against the door and pressed a glowing green circle on the handle. The massive wooden doors to the Empress' throne room exploded inward, giving the forgeborn revolutionaries time to storm into the room and kill or incapacitate the guards inside. Physically, regular humans were no match for the forgeborn, and even magic, the humans' main advantage, had a diminished effect on the forgeborn as a portion of mana from each spell was absorbed.

The scuffle in the throne room was over in less than a minute. The Kessian mages had indeed created the ultimate soldiers. The Empress of Kess remained on her golden throne, her closest two bodyguards by her side. Julietta leaned over and whispered in Anton's ear that she could see tension in the Empress' jaw, despite the matriarch's seemingly serene expression.

Anton stepped towards the dais. Aranael and Julietta hung slightly back, although still close enough to whisper advice or a warning in his ear. The throne room was utterly silent.

"Empress Kemishla Zeferi el'Akar, sole ruler of the Empire of Kess," said Anton.

"Anton Teveru, officer of the Forgeborn Liberation Front, of the Empire of Kess," responded Empress Kemishla. "State your business."

She acknowledges the FLF as being of Kess, thought Anton. Perhaps I can still hope for a peaceful solution to this.

"Twenty years ago, the Empire of Kess was at war with the clans of the Mu'ar-Lekh," he said. "Kess was fighting a losing battle against the unexpected ferocity of the spider-people, and in its desperation, it asked the Imperial Mages for a solution. Thus, they invented the forgeborn. We, the forgeborn, fought hard and died even harder for the glory of the Empire of Kess. We, the forgeborn, spilled our blood in the great forests of Lekhur Mar and died with the name of the Empress on our lips. After the end of the war with the Treaty of Korja-Zeer, most of the Forgeborn Legions were demobilized, and since that time we, the forgeborn, have been treated as little more than slaves."

"You are a student of history, then, Teveru-Ja?" asked the Empress.

"I believe it is the duty every man and woman to know the history of his or her people," responded Anton. "And we, the forgeborn, are a people. We are more than just warflesh. We are more than animals, more than slaves. We eat like humans, we speak like humans, we sleep, multiply, feel, and even look like humans! And yet we do not live like humans. We have earned honor for the Empire of Kess with our very blood. As the selected spokesman of the Forgeborn Liberation Front, I demand freedom for all enslaved forgeborn!" The forgeborn in the room raised up a cheer at Anton's words. "I demand equal rights!" continued Anton. Another cheer. "We are not inferior to humans! We demand to be treated as humankind's equals!" Yet another cheer.

Aranael waited for the cheer to die down, then spoke up in his menacing whisper of a voice. To Anton's shock, he was no longer grinning. Not even a smirk.

"And if not..." rasped Aranael, "we shall take our rightful place by force."

[20minutesofcoherence]

It was an early spring afternoon. A carriage drove down the country road, not particularly quickly but also not so slow as to get caught in the mud. It had been drizzling all week, and a thin fog had set in that morning. The carriage's two occupants were dressed very formally. The young woman was looking out the window eagerly, despite the poor visibility. She had spent nearly all her life in a city, and was quite excited to be out in the countryside. She had wavy, dark-blonde hair that would sometimes curl into adorable ringlets, and large, light-gray eyes. The Crafts-Lady Estelle was from a wealthy trade family, and the Spark had been discovered in her during her sixth year. That was 15 years ago. Now, despite being a classically-trained Arcanomancer, she was engaged to a young Necromancer. She was currently riding out with the Necromancer's right-hand man (or rather, right-hand spirit, bound in a crafted body), Jorvin, to meet the young man's family.

The older-looking man across from her was much more serious, but watched her affectionately. Jorvin had grown to enjoy the company of Master Thorin's fiancee over the course her courtship with his master, which had started at least two years ago. His hair was past graying, and his body was rather thin and sagging, but such mortal frailties did not bother him. He had pledged himself for life to the young Necromancer shortly after Thorin's graduation ceremony five years ago, and his new master had crafted a short-term body for him.

"Milady Estelle?" said Jorvin. She turned away from the window and smiled at him, raising her eyebrows in question.

"Before we arrive," continued the bound spirit, "I'd like to quickly review the Necromancer families, just to make sure you remember the basics. I know you do not need any education in terms of etiquette, but matters of blood are far more important to Necromancers than any other etiquette."

"Of course, Jorvin," said Estelle. She turned away from the window, focusing her full attention on him. She was nothing if not an excellent and attentive student.

"In these parts, we have five Ancient Bloods," said Jorvin. "There are many, many more than these five, of course, but the ones you'll be meeting or referring to are the Ancient Bloods of Romanov, Falcone, Cheshire, Geiger, and Sauvageot."

"Each originating in Russia, Italy, England, Prussia, and France, respectively," filled in Estelle. "Thorin is of both Falcone and Geiger blood, but he usually refers to himself using only the latter."

"That's right," said Jorvin. "You'll need to greet each of his parents as 'Lord Viktor Ulrich of the Ancient Blood of Geiger' and 'Lady Franceska Hevner of the Ancient Blood of Falcone' the first time you speak to them, but after that it's acceptable to say 'Lord Geiger' and 'Lady Falcone'."

"Ah... What should I call them if there is another Geiger or Falcone in the room?" asked Estelle.

"'Lord Ulrich of Geiger' and 'Lady Hevner of Falcone' are also acceptable if there's any chance of confusing them with a different Geiger or Falcone," said Jorvin. "If you meet any of their bondsprit, you should also treat Geiger and Falcone as their last names, respectively."

"And thus you refer to yourself as Jorvin Geiger, seeing as you are Thorin's bondsprit, am I correct?"

"Exactly. Although you should refer to him as 'Master Frederick of Geiger' or 'Master Geiger' after we arrive. He's not a Lord until he's married, and however highly you might think of him, the rest of the family will probably take offense if you call him by the wrong title. Aside from that, there's not much else in terms of hierarchy within the Necromancer families. You'll only be meeting Lords and Ladies today, so don't worry about it. Should the unexpected happen, I'm allowed to stay with you and brief you on people as we go, so you'll be fine either way."

"Thank you, Jorvin," said Estelle with a smile. "I appreciate it."

After a few minutes of looking out the window, she turned back to him.

"Jorvin," she said, a bit warily, "It is not... normal for a Necromancer to marry someone from outside the Ancient Bloods, is it?"

"Well," said Jorvin, "It's unusual, but certainly not unheard of. There will inevitably be some purists who are against it, but there are also plenty of Necromancers who support it or are at least indifferent. It only requires one Necromancer parent to ensure that the child will also be a Necromancer, after all. Unlike Arcanomancers, which show up pretty much randomly."

Estelle looked thoughtful, and a little bit worried. "Do you think there will be any... particular opposition to me being an Arcanomancer, Jorvin?" she asked.

"There may be," said Jorvin, after a moment of thought. "But definitely not from Thorin's immediate family. It might be wise to avoid the general topic of spellcrafting, though. Even if it doesn't seem to bother them, I'd say it's best to avoid advertising it."

Estelle smiled. "I do believe I shall follow your excellent advice, as usual."

The carriage rolled through the gates to the Falcone-Geiger estate and stopped in front of the main entrance to the manor. Thorin and his parents were standing at the top of the steps. Estelle could see Thorin's younger sisters crowding a few of the windows on one of the upper floors. She did her very best to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.

"Are you ready, Milady?" asked Jorvin.

"No," said Estelle, and chuckled nervously. "Although I feel this is as close as I shall get."

Jorvin gave her a warm smile. "You'll do fine, milady. I'm here to help you, and Master Geiger will be by your side as well."

Estelle let out a deep breath, which quelled her fluttering stomach a bit, put on her most pleasantly stoic smile, and stepped out of the carriage. Into the domain of the Ancient Bloods of Falcone and Geiger.

[20minutesofcoherence]

It was the deep end of winter. Even though it was midday, the sun was low over the horizon, and Kashlei's breath misted through her scarf in the freezing air. Only her cold blue eyes were visible through the furs she had wrapped herself in, and those were camouflaged to blend in with the snowy landscape of the ancient forest she was currently traveling through.

The air was completely still, and not a sound could be heard. Kashlei silently approached a clearing, where a few snow-pigs had stopped to root around. She raised her spear, poised to throw, when suddenly a strong wind whipped up. A bolt of orange light struck the pig she had been aiming for with a loud CRACK. The rest of the snow-pigs scattered into the forest. The stricken pig had died instantly, its steaming corpse lying in the middle of a small crater of blackened snow.

"I told you, I can do my own hunting," said the Arcanomancer who had cast the bolt. He was wrapped in furs, just like Kashlei, but he was standing on the branch of a great old tree, some 8 meters off the ground. He had lowered his scarf and grinned at her.

Kashlei snorted. "You're such a showoff, Tarkov," she said, then darkened. "And showing off could get us killed. What if there had been a spirit-sentry nearby?"

"There are no rogue Necromancers for miles, huntress," said Tarkov with a roll of his eyes. He made a few quick gestures, crafting a levitation spell of Air and Force, then stepped off the branch into empty air. He floated down to the ground, light as a feather. "I've been scanning the forest for miles, and there isn't even any magical residue. Nobody has crafted here for weeks at least, if not months or even years."

Kashlei was already skinning and gutting the pig, pointedly ignoring him. "Why don't you make yourself useful and gather some wood, if you're done lecturing," she said. "Surely that shouldn't cause any problems for a high-and-mighty seventh-degree Arcanomancer?"

Now it was Tarkov's turn to snort. "I used to be a woodsman, you know," he said. "Before they found the spark in me." He pulled out an axe from behind his belt. "I can do it without crafting, just watch me."

"Men," sniffed Kashlei.

"Women," grumbled Tarkov.

It was going to be a long winter.

[20minutesofcoherence]

Transmission 21045

CONNECTION OPENED

SECURING LINK... SECURED

BEGIN TRANSMISSION

June 20th, 2528

Hey. Operative 'Junior' here. I only have a few minutes from the moment I open this connection, so I'll try to be brief.

A few things I've found this month are... particularly disturbing.

Item the first: I've stumbled across records in the Company's history dating back to the 22nd century. I wasn't able to get a good look at them without risking discovery, but I'll see if I can arrange another window of opportunity. In any case, I see two possibilities: either they're falsified or, more likely, the Company does actually predate the Firestorms. If it has indeed existed, or at least been spawned from a parent company that has existed since the days of the supposed 'north-american union' or whatever it was called... I'm afraid to think of what forgotten technologies they might have access to. This would indeed put the Company at the top of our investigative priority.

Item the second: Bluegate Manufacturing is a front. I haven't been able to find out who exactly they're a cover for, but I can tell you right now that there are at least four layers to this, maybe more, and the Company is somehow involved with Gaia Biotech. Important keyphrase #1: Operation Olympus Masque. Important keyphrase #2: The Hall of The Exalted. I don't know what these phrases refer to, but I cannot emphasize enough that these phrases are IMPORTANT. They will show up again in intercepted transmissions, so take note of them. Maybe you'll find out on your own what I can't find here.

Item the third: I might not be able to transmit again for a while. Possibly never again, period. I've caught wind of some kind of personnel redistribution going on, something alternately referred to as "re-purposing" or "lateral promotion". I don't know what it is, but apparently I'm one of the 'lucky' ones selected for it. Total personnel selected is about 500, by my estimation. I'm going to try to get out of it, but so far my perspectives are looking pretty bleak.

I think that's... wait. This just in.

Item the fourth: "re-purposing" mentioned in previous item is apparently connected to something called... "Demon Project". I have no idea what that is. First time I've heard of it. Recommend alerting all other operatives about this "Demon Project". Maybe they know something.

They're calling us. I have to go. Looks like I won't be getting out of this "lateral promotion" to "Demon Project" after all, whatever it-

CONNECTION LOST

[20minutesofcoherence]

It was morning. The early-autumn sun poked a few rays through the blinds, illuminating a rather tidy bedroom. The bedroom was apparently situated somewhere in the attic, since a large part of the windowed ceiling was slanted. The general color theme of the room was light pastel blue, with white or brown furniture. Some posters were spread out over the walls and ceiling; a few were for games, most for movies or bands. Any wall space not covered by posters was taken up by shelves and shelves of books. There was a desk near the door, and a sizable dresser and mirror were set up against the lower wall. Directly across from the desk and door was a bed, next to a window and a walk-in closet.

A young man, who had been lying in the bed, woke up. The first sound he heard was birdsong. It was... beautiful. He looked around slowly, taking in the sight of his room as if seeing it for the first time. He rubbed his face and sat up to yawn and stretch. Then the first thought crossed his mind.

"Where am I?"

"I am at home," came the answer, or rather memory. And yet it seemed... wrong. As if these were not his memories.

"Speaking of which... Who am I?"

There was no immediate answer this time, although after a few moments he managed to come up with a name.

"My name is Dirk Makowski." He said it out loud, for some reason. It felt strange, hearing his own voice. He couldn't remember ever hearing it before. He couldn't remember... anything. Dirk wasn't quite sure there even was anything to remember. As far as he knew, he had not even existed up until his waking up a few minutes ago.

He got out of bed. It was the strangest sensation. All of these sensations were strange. They were somehow both familiar and completely alien at the same time. He was in full control of his body, he knew this for sure; but he couldn't remember ever using it before. He had no memories of ever learning to walk, although he certainly wasn't having any problems with it.

Dirk walked over to the mirror and looked at himself. He couldn't remember ever seeing himself before. It was bizarre; on one hand he felt like he was looking at a stranger, yet on the other hand he instantly knew that the person in the mirror was definitely him. He was a young man, probably somewhere between 16 and 20 years old, and reasonably handsome in a sharp, lanky way. He had pale green eyes and medium-length, black hair. His skin had a slight tan to it, but he could see that he was going to be quite pale by the end of winter. He stripped out of his pajamas and looked at his body. Athletic, but more along the lines of a sprinter than a brawler. He didn't look like he would be winning many weightlifting contests, but he was willing to bet he could easily win a 100-yard dash.

Dirk put his pajamas back on and walked out of his room. He found the bathroom just down the hall and took a shower. As he showered, he looked at his hands and realized that he was farsighted. He remembered that his glasses were on his desk. Again, strange memories, not quite his own. He didn't remember putting his glasses there, but he remembered the fact that they were there. Actually, that seemed to be the heart of the matter, or at least close to it: he had no sensory recollection of anything. All he could remember were facts.

He finished his shower, and went back to his room to dress. As he dressed, he dug through his memory and came up with a few facts about his life. He was a high school senior. He was 17 years old, which fit within his initial assessment. He had apparently been very introverted in school and had no friends, having preferred to bury himself in books. He sketched and practiced free running and climbing in his spare time. He lived in the suburbs of a small city in mid-northern California.

Dirk looked at the clothes he had put on. All black. Mister 'dark and mysterious'. He dug through his drawers and tried to find something more colorful to wear, although the best he could find was navy blue, very dark browns and greens, and some white. It would have to do. He changed, and looked in the mirror again. Brown-black sneakers, dark blue jeans, a plain black t-shirt and a jean jacket. His glasses were big, rectangular things with thick black rims. Fortunately he only needed them for reading. He folded his glasses away into a hard container in his jacket pocket, and went downstairs to eat breakfast.

It was the first day of school. Dirk Makowski wondered whether it was by coincidence that it was also the first day of his life. Well, his new life.

[20minutesofcoherence]

Sweat trickled down my forehead and stung my eyes. My breath felt ragged in my throat. My heartbeat thudded in my ears along with the shouts and jeers of the audience. I also recall being dimly aware of a few bruises on my legs and chest, where my opponent got a few hits in.

I was in my element.

I'm a... professional fighter. Nothing official, you see, no "Boxing" or "MMA" or whatever you prefer. I'm a guy who beats the snot out of another guy in a warehouse while a crowd watches. Bets are usually made beforehand. Sometimes men in business suits show up, occasionally even with some silicon trophy of a woman in tow. Some kind of corporate politics can even be involved. But I don't really care about any of that. To my point of view, it's just me and the other guy. We beat the shit out of each other. And I love it.

To me, there's really nothing more affirming of your own existence, nothing that makes life taste sweeter, than throwing the strength of your own existence against the strength of another's. Because that's what this is. My life against that guy's life. Either I lose, and he walks away as the victor, more alive than ever, or he loses, and I get to feel the exhilirating rush of victory and the kind of self-affirmation that only a brush with death can bring you. Because, trust me, people can and do die in these fights. It's uncommon, but far from unheard of. I'd say one of the main contributing factors is that there's almost nothing regulated about this 'business', and everyone who's made a name for themselves has some sort of trick up their sleeve.

Take this guy I was fighting, for example. He was a goddamn bear, first of all. There's no way he could have reached that size without taking some steroids. Actually, make that a lot of steroids. Next, I noticed that his hand-wrappings were a bit... bulkier than they should be. I figured he might have some metal wrapped in there, or maybe he'd had some sort of surgery to get built-in brass knuckles. It didn't make a whole lot of difference, because in the end, a direct hit from either of those skullcrushers would've ended really badly for me. Good thing I'm such an agile little bastard.

Well, agile is only the first part. I'm a bit on the tall side, and I've still got reach on most people my height. Reach is a bigger advantage than you'd think. Basically, most of my opponents have to step into my range before they can try to attack me. And then there's my ace in the hole. He's undeniably a bastard, and he sometimes has me do the most insane and unhealthy things in exchange for his help, but Mr. Nightmare is by far the most overpowered thing anyone could bring to any fight, anywhere.

It was about this time, after I'd taken a few glancing (but oh so bruising) blows from my bear of an opponent - not that I wasn't giving as good as I got, of course - that I figured we should finish this fight.

"Hey Nightmare," I thought.

I didn't see him show up anywhere, but I felt his presence in my head.

"Wazzaaaaa'," drawled his voice. I had a distinct image of him reclining in an armchair somewhere within my psyche while chugging a beer. "How goes the shit-punchin', ma'boy?"

"Good enough," I thought, "Mind giving me a hand with this? Slow him down a bit, over-sensitize his pain regions, whatever it is you do. I want to get this fight over with."

"I can do that," he said, "Free of charge for now, since you're letting me ride shotgun this time... Although it'd be nice if you could go get tipsy or something when we're done with beef-for-brains here."

"Sure thing," I replied, "I could do with a few cold ones myself."

Mr. Nightmare's presence didn't disappear, but I could feel him reaching out of my head and wrapping his claws around my opponent's mind. There were no actual visual effects, but the slightly confused look on the guy's face was a good enough cue for me.

WHUMP. My foot connected with his solar plexus, doubling him over. Last time someone did that to me, I thought I was gonna suffocate or something. Nasty stuff.

THUNK. Perfect uppercut to the chin. I don't care how tough you are, that shit HURTS.

THUD. Just to make sure this juggernaut doesn't get back up for a while, I rammed my fist into his liver. This guy was done.

I'd like to say he teetered over and hit the ground with a crash like a falling statue or mountain, but to tell the truth, he just kinda crumpled like a wet blanket and curled into a fetal position. The cheers (or jeers) of the audience and the prize money were really just an afterthought for me by that point.

I was victorious. And that, my friend, is the best goddamn feeling in the world.