Es ist kein Wahnsinn, was Recht ist

I feel no remorse for what I have done. I am not sorry for what I am doing. I ask no forgiveness for what I shall do. But nevertheless, through it all I apologize.

[laurxlle]

Mr. Mike:

She was too kind, too nice, too… human. He could hardly maintain any semblance of sardonic facade - but perhaps that was unnecessary. As she spoke he realized quite how hungry he had become and began, with careful motions calculated to maintain courteous etiquette, to consume to food lain before him. 

One comment gave him cause to pause the chewing and glance with a jerk. He didn’t have to, she said. He didn’t have to? Of course he had to. What else could he have done? Leave her there? No. No. He was not just some abstracted messiah standing in divinity removed from the mundanities of humanity below. He was a human tasked with responsibilities beyond his species and yet for precisely those obligations every opportunity to help fell under the oppurtenances of his assigned jurisdiction. So he had to help, in principle. And even if he was no messiah, he would have - as a human.

This, he thought, as he dropped his eyes before they showed the acerbic reaction, and while the train of cogitating wound about its inevitable convulsions he found he had finished the - rather wondrous, honestly - meal the miniscule angel had prepared. Seeing this, she spoke with concern, somehow doubting the quality of her own artful craft. How? How could she not know? He smiled and offered a sincere, if unoriginal, expression of gratitude. It was certainly warranted; the richness still coursed through his tongue.

Then came the question. That question. Inevitable, of course. He masticated with empty mouth a moment, perturbed. He heard a whisper but responded with a mental hush before it could grow. He considered. He had burdened her. She had proven a minimum degree of trustworthiness. Enough to earn an answer, certainly. Still, he had to tread cautiously - there was yet much to be learnt about the mysterious incarnation of benevolence who was seated before him. So he offered the closest he dared provide anyone, since - well, since many years ago. He knew the number but did not bother to recall. He could not afford the pain. But it was years ago he was last called by his true name. No reason for that to change now. Unfortunately? Who knows? Whatever. He cleared his throat and met her gaze with hesitant eyes. At least the phrasing, he could use. He would not mislead her - directly.

“You can call me Mike. And it’s not every day I find myself in precisely those circumstances myself.” A strained turn of the neck, grimacing, indicating his bandaged shoulder. “That’s probably for the best.” He looked again at her. “And you? If the question isn’t too much, I’d like to be able to thank you properly, with a name.” He bit his lip as his eyes wandered for a single breath. Should he? Probably. She seemed astute enough. Another hush of the questioning whispers. He had this under control. He would. So he spoke again. “Especially someone like you. There’s something in your eyes. If I may be permitted the presumption, I consider myself moderately perceptive in this regard. There’s more behind your pupils than the average brain.”

┠ ▏▔🌟▔▕ ┫

                ❝Mike… It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mike. Allow me to formally thank you for saving me, now that I know your name.❞

A bow of her head, hair slipping over her shoulder before the mimic raised her gaze. Deft hands removed the empty tray, handing the dirty dishes onto Scrafty to take to the kitchen. A gentle smile of gratitude to the Pokemon before he tottered off and her attention soon returned to the man in her bed.

It was a jolt to her system at the mention of her name. Right, she had asked him for his, would it not be normal to be requested the same thing? Silence bit her tongue, hands balling into fists atop her knees. No, he had saved her, hadn’t he? Not to mention he was a clearly an adult, someone much older and experienced in life than she. This man was different than the jade hued male with a heart of steel.

It would be fine, wouldn’t it?

Alabaster teeth bit at her lower lip before a nod of her head affirmed her decision, raising caramel hues to meet Mike’s with a firm expression, as though she had come to a very serious conclusion.

              ❝I am known as Copycat. It is the generic name I give everyone who comes across my path. However, Mr. Mike, please allow me this selfish whim.

              I will indulge for a moment, my name… is Monomane Musume. I require no thanks for these minuscule services, you have done me far more. I could… Shall I say, confess that I owe you my life.❞

Hesitance strikes her when he commented about her eyes. Questioning if there really was a thing hidden behind her caramel hues, it was something the mimic hadn’t ever thought about. Confusion painted her features, an innocent cant of her head in her puzzlement. He hadn’t been the first to say this, the first to comment about what lay beneath the depth of her thought processes. But it was agonizing to continue going back to the wound that was still so very fresh, to still have it torn open again.

Why were they so alike? It was too cruel.

Still, she smiles. A bit too softly, the expression reaches her eyes.

         ❝Someone else once said the same thing as you have, yet I cannot find an answer proper enough to reply with. I am simply me, Mr. Mike; what lies behind these eyes… is nothing more than a girl who has seen many things in this world.❞

[subconsciousapology]

Oh dear. She called him Mister. That was almost too much. He grinned at the title, turning his head and feigning a contemplative stare so she might not see his expression. Definitely a princess. But his false stare caught something. Liquid reverberations of diffused light on the wall, dancing tones of a gradient. Probably reflected from the glass. The waves began to whisper an oceanic song of drywall. He blinked and looked back just in time to catch her name.

“Monomane Musume?” He had to echo. Quite the name. “An interesting combination of words. An imitator, and a daughter?” He chuckled. “What do you imitate? Ah, nevermind that, it doesn’t matter.”

He cleared his throat. Whatever she may say, words of gratitude were in order. “Thank you very much, madamemoiselle Musume. You owe me nothing. I did only my job. But you helped me with no obligation. So I am grateful.”

But the faint smile, the latter response... a mention of someone else. Seen many things? For a moment a grid of binary structure superimposed itself on her face. In a flash it was gone. The meaning was clear. Too much information... too much life. Conway’s game played out far too long in her short years. Things had not been easy. And someone had made them harder.

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Eyes are for seeing. But one has to look. I daresay you’ve looked and found things you wish you hadn’t seen.”

Looking back up he extended a hand. “I’m a little new in town, madamemoiselle. I would appreciate the acquaintanceship of someone familiar with the area and astute of mind. If that is alright with you.”

[subconsciousapology]

Memory: Friends

"I’m not going to bother asking how you’ve been.”

The man’s sharp brown eyes lit with sarcasm as a finger traced his tastefully untrimmed dark stubble. His smirk betrayed a more innocent happiness incongruous to the irony and unapologetic in its childishness. In the expression lay an unveiled euphoria at the meeting.

The guest’s eyes, too, surrendered their facade of fortification to the familiar presence. His own beard rough, clothes ruffled, and demeanor altogether unrefined, it was with no little trepidation that he had paid his friend this visit on a whim. Surely the bureaucracy of institutionalized scholarship would have worn away the same uniqueness he had found so likable? Yet, evidently not - for the tenure-track academic behind the desk seemed little changed from the perpetually cogitating classmate of years past. His unkempt, beautifully disorganized office felt welcoming. The guest spoke, pretenses discarded.

“I see you’ve taken the high road, my friend.”

A chuckle. “Please, Mikhail. Es gibt keine solche Sache.” There is no such thing. “You played quite the role in establishing that, I recall.” 

The guest’s head nodded with heavy recollection. “Es gibt keine solche Sache. Do you still read them? Our old friends?”

One hand indicated a row of worn German titles almost hidden amidst the towering shelves. “Sometimes. Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

A knowing smile. “You have surpassed them.”

“And so have you.”

“We were both fated to. Of that, there is no question.”

The guest scoffed. “Fate? You know better. Es gibt keine solche Sache.“

“Don’t hide behind the blindness you are far above being victim to, Mikhail Damirovitch Raskolnikov. There was no fate. We created it. We are the architects.”

He conceded with a bow of his head. “I’m too used to feigning obtuseness. You’re right. It’s necessary in the common crowd. The uncommon crowd. Every crowd. Only you render it unnecessary, Professor. We are the architects, yes. But more, we are the meta-architects.”

A pause of sentiment settled as each stared into a mixed abyss of the past. The professor glanced back to his guest.

“I’ve been following you.”

A dry laugh. “I expected as much. Almost hoped.”

“Almost? The crumbs you left were too obvious to be anything but. Regardless. Noble work, what you’re doing.”

Yet more laughter. “I don’t know how much that means, coming from the grand saboteur of objective nobility.”

The professor grinned. “Ah, but you know very well. I deny objectivity, and emphasize subjective creation as even more commendable. You have created. You do not follow. That is as best a definition of noble as any may muster.”

The messiah replied with appreciative eyes. “And you? Are you noble?”

Teeth bit a dry lip. “You know me. I don’t get my hands dirty. I lounge about and merely think all day. Not so noble.”

The guest’s eyes lit. “No! No, that’s just as noble! You free the mind. You showed me the way. You may practice nothing more than theory, but only by those efforts is reality enabled! You’re my partner in mind. My master.”

Another pause. “You flatter. I gladly share my mind with such a master of thought as you.”

A strong nod. “We will change the world together.”

“No, you will. I’m just helping along for the ride.”

[laurxlle]

Stranger in the River:

When he opened his eyes it was there. A little fluffy creature with impermissibly large ears, smiling at him. Where was he? Why was this adorable chinchilla-like fuzzball bouncing around an impeccably-kept room? He presumed it was the princess’ abode, a suspicion confirmed as the petite Cinderella herself walked in with a tray of food. He groaned inside. He hated when this happened. He hated being a burden. This was probably her bed, too. Uncertain, he suppressed the discomfort he felt as a stranger and watched her set down the meal. She sat on a chair beside him, speaking the kind words and petting the tiny critter, still absurd in its excitement.

He sat up to alleviate some of his vague embarrassment, running a hand along his bandaged shoulder. Showing, in full, the humility he felt, he glanced at the girl and inclined his head in gratitude. Eyes down to his lap, he spoke in quiet calm.

“Thanks, kid. I feel better than I have in a while.” He looked back up at her and his brow furrowed. “But you didn’t have to do all this,” he continued, gesturing at the platter set before him, “really. I’m sorry for dropping down on you back there.

┠ ▏▔🌟▔▕ ┫

                       ❝Think nothing of it, it was the least I could do to repay your kindness in keeping me safe, even if it was only by coincidence that it happened. You could have very easily left me there, but you did not, so I am grateful.❞

Calmly she sat still, continuing to run her hand gently across the top of Macchiato’s head, allowing him peace to eat as he pleased. It was only after a while, where the silence became a bit too heavy, did the mimic raise her gaze to meet him. It seemed he had given in, eating his fill to where the plate was cleaned. A pleasant smile, a tilt of her head.

              ❝Was it satisfactory? I apologize that it was not anything fancy; had I known I was having a guest, I would have prepared something nicer.❞

A slight pause in her tone, a hesitant hand stopping its motion of praise atop the Minccino’s head to where it muttered a soft whine of disapproval. A soft hush, the baby scooted off her lap to toddle over to the man sitting in her bed. If she wasn’t going to give him attention, maybe the man would, a splendid and logical idea to the young pocket monster.

                                        ❝I assume… You have a name, sir? If I may be curious, who were those people? It is not every day you find a person nearly unconscious by the riverside, especially not here. Pardon any intrusive inquiries.❞

[subconsciousapology]

She was too kind, too nice, too... human. He could hardly maintain any semblance of sardonic facade - but perhaps that was unnecessary. As she spoke he realized quite how hungry he had become and began, with careful motions calculated to maintain courteous etiquette, to consume to food lain before him. 

One comment gave him cause to pause the chewing and glance with a jerk. He didn’t have to, she said. He didn’t have to? Of course he had to. What else could he have done? Leave her there? No. No. He was not just some abstracted messiah standing in divinity removed from the mundanities of humanity below. He was a human tasked with responsibilities beyond his species and yet for precisely those obligations every opportunity to help fell under the oppurtenances of his assigned jurisdiction. So he had to help, in principle. And even if he was no messiah, he would have - as a human.

This, he thought, as he dropped his eyes before they showed the acerbic reaction, and while the train of cogitating wound about its inevitable convulsions he found he had finished the - rather wondrous, honestly - meal the miniscule angel had prepared. Seeing this, she spoke with concern, somehow doubting the quality of her own artful craft. How? How could she not know? He smiled and offered a sincere, if unoriginal, expression of gratitude. It was certainly warranted; the richness still coursed through his tongue.

Then came the question. That question. Inevitable, of course. He masticated with empty mouth a moment, perturbed. He heard a whisper but responded with a mental hush before it could grow. He considered. He had burdened her. She had proven a minimum degree of trustworthiness. Enough to earn an answer, certainly. Still, he had to tread cautiously - there was yet much to be learnt about the mysterious incarnation of benevolence who was seated before him. So he offered the closest he dared provide anyone, since - well, since many years ago. He knew the number but did not bother to recall. He could not afford the pain. But it was years ago he was last called by his true name. No reason for that to change now. Unfortunately? Who knows? Whatever. He cleared his throat and met her gaze with hesitant eyes. At least the phrasing, he could use. He would not mislead her - directly.

“You can call me Mike. And it’s not every day I find myself in precisely those circumstances myself.” A strained turn of the neck, grimacing, indicating his bandaged shoulder. “That’s probably for the best.” He looked again at her. “And you? If the question isn’t too much, I’d like to be able to thank you properly, with a name.” He bit his lip as his eyes wandered for a single breath. Should he? Probably. She seemed astute enough. Another hush of the questioning whispers. He had this under control. He would. So he spoke again. “Especially someone like you. There’s something in your eyes. If I may be permitted the presumption, I consider myself moderately perceptive in this regard. There’s more behind your pupils than the average brain.”

[laurxlle]

Stranger in the River:

┠ ▏▔🌟▔▕ ┫

                           It was similar to a movie being set on repeat, the events were so scarily similar the mimic swore that if she blinked even once, the person in front of her would shift and she would be right back to the beginning where it began. That instant in front of her home where that connection had been made. Her attention remained focused solely on him, the would arrive soon, he didn’t want them to see her. An instruction, she was to hide in the trees. A nod of her head and she was off, taking cover within the small grove closest to the riverside. It was merely seconds before the group that had followed the man came into view, barely enough time to hide herself away. The imitator watched, waited; the atmosphere made her breath shorten, her heartbeat rapid in her chest. It was all too similar.

Her eyes met his, found his face, read his expression. He was smiling, he called himself a madman. A madman indeed, he was her only life line at the moment. Were all men this crazy? The mimic was starting to think that the myth was truer than people let on. However, his stare was still on her, seeming to search for something. The imitator nodded, as if she were agreeing, giving him permission to do what needed to be done. Not like he needed it, it simply seemed like what he wanted to hear from her.

He was off, only a few feet away from where she had tucked herself away, safely positioned behind his own tree. The bullets sounded like fireworks in her ears, deafening her momentarily. The mockingbird peered from where she hid, she was no stranger to this scene, no stranger to chaos. One of the men met her stare, almost said something, he was dead before the words could get out. A shot to the head, he fell into the water. The mimic didn’t wince, her expression never changed, her stare fell back to man who was her only lifeline. Once more their eyes met, he was searching for something, thought she didn’t know what. She only stared, her features never shifting, no fear to be found, a stone set determination pressed within those caramel irises. If he was searching for her approval, it wouldn’t be there, but there was understanding and acceptance.

This was the way things had to be. She didn’t know the reason, she only knew the outcome.

Another round of fire, she covered her ears to it. Yet the entirety of it, she watched. The mimic engraved it into her vision, allowed it to seep into the crevices of her brain. She watched him descend to a different area, away from her, closer to them. He wanted this over, he would do whatever means to achieve it, the imitator would watch. His history would remain in her memory, perhaps that is what he was after. For someone to see it, to remember it. Whatever the true answer was, it wouldn’t matter. The end was to come, his crazed words gave truth to that.

She watched as he fired, hit two until they fell, the third blew blood and brain matter all over, a grotesque sight. He spoke words of girls who had experienced torture, horrors that the imitator could create vivid pictures within her mind to. She empathized with them, felt their pain, clutched her chest. The man was a savior, it seemed he knew of it, he yelled it out to them in clarity that even she could hear from where she was hidden.

The imitator questioned why he was looking at her so many times, as if he felt her speaking to him when she hadn’t said a word. If he wanted to make sure she was safe, she had already agreed to scream if he was needed nearby to her position. She would fight if she had to, she knew a little self-defense, how to disarm a person. A grab of the hand would break the wrist when bent back far off, she only needed the speed to do so. Yet there was something within his stare, a mere instant of a flicker within his eyes, she caught it with ease. He was questioning himself, finding something in her gaze that made him second guess everything he was doing. He was an open book to the mimic, pages begging to be read. She skimmed them, understood it in an instant.

He was reeling from a swirl of emotions he was unused to, it was like a reflection. Another had been in his same position, that person had been there as well. It had ruined him, dragged him to hell and back before dragging him through hell again. She knew it, it showed in her stare that he could see. He questioned it, she wouldn’t answer. He had a job to do, so when he kept his eyes focused on her, she pointed to the remaining group.

                   Stop looking at me… Your target is them. I am fine.

He looked at her again, a final time, she stared in return until she noticed something on his arm. Her gaze diverts slightly, red running down his arm. How does he not feel it, the adrenaline? The drugs he’d administered before? Her mouth moves, she wants to tell him and yet he was already facing the last few before she could. The final pops of his weapon, there were no more. The girl looked around, heard the silence of the wind that stilled the trees. Nature would not mourn them, no one would mourn them. Slowly she emerged from her safe haven, skidded down the slope until she was at his side. He’d smiled at her, asked if she was unharmed. She opened her mouth to speak, though all that came out was a gasp of surprise when the man almost immediately lost consciousness and began to fall forward. Instinct took over and her arms extended, catching him in her grasp despite how his weight made the two of them fall. A disgruntled noise, a scrap of a rock against her ankle. It was no matter, the imitator scoffed.

               ❝Am I damned to this fate? How many times am I going to see this scene…? It terrifies me how similar the two of you are…

                                                  Dodrio, come to me.❞

From her waist, the Pokeball containing her guardian flashes, the creature emerging with a shrill sound. It knew of the battlefield that had taken place, had seen it from its confines. It had been ready to protect her, same with the other two guardians who had been trained for combat. The mimic motioned to the unconscious man at her side, signaling that it was to take him to their home. The pocket monster obliged, lifting the man by his shirt with its beak before hoisting him onto his back. Luckily they were close to home, so it took nay very long to reach the destination.

It was quick and easy, setting the man up in her bed before the girl dressed the wound on his shoulder. A pat to Macchiato’s head as the darling little child looked on with worry.

                                                ❝There, there, Macchiato. I have a very important task for you, you must watch him until he awakens. Let me know when he does, hm? Stay with him, now, make sure he is comfortable.❞

A salute as best as the young Pokemon could manage, intently staring at the sleeping stranger as the girl left the room to tend to chores. It was only after several hours passed that the young creature felt a stir from the man, despite how the baby Pokemon had begun to nod off into dreams of its own. It jolted away, large pupils intently focused upon him as his eyes groggily opened to stare into its face. A curious expression from the young pocket monster before it smiled widely. It’s target had awoken!

The young Minccino rapidly began to wave its arms, happily squeaking its discovery until the mimic’s head popped into the room. A glance up and down his frame still glued to her bedspread and the mockingbird smiled as she entered the room with a tray clutched in her hands. Easily she went to the bedside, setting the tray down before taking a seat in a chair as the baby Minccino hopped into her lap and eagerly grabbing her hand before placing it atop its head, demanding approval for its job well done.

                           ❝Ah, so you are awake. You have been asleep for several hours now, though you look well rested. Good job Macchiato, you may have a treat later. I made something for you to eat, there is tea as well. I dressed the wound on your shoulder, so you should be fine now. How are you feeling? Do you ache anywhere?❞

[subconsciousapology]

When he opened his eyes it was there. A little fluffy creature with impermissibly large ears, smiling at him. Where was he? Why was this adorable chinchilla-like fuzzball bouncing around an impeccably-kept room? He presumed it was the princess’ abode, a suspicion confirmed as the petite Cinderella herself walked in with a tray of food. He groaned inside. He hated when this happened. He hated being a burden. This was probably her bed, too. Uncertain, he suppressed the discomfort he felt as a stranger and watched her set down the meal. She sat on a chair beside him, speaking the kind words and petting the tiny critter, still absurd in its excitement.

He sat up to alleviate some of his vague embarrassment, running a hand along his bandaged shoulder. Showing, in full, the humility he felt, he glanced at the girl and inclined his head in gratitude. Eyes down to his lap, he spoke in quiet calm.

“Thanks, kid. I feel better than I have in a while.” He looked back up at her and his brow furrowed. “But you didn’t have to do all this,” he continued, gesturing at the platter set before him, “really. I’m sorry for dropping down on you back there.”

[subconsciousapology]

Critical Mass

“Now don’t get me started on the old boss man, lemme tell ya.”

The barely-intelligible words slurred through unsteady lips flushed with disgusting inebriation and made their way, staggering through the musky air, to Mikhail’s attentive ears. The speaker’s eyes almost rolled around the bar, crowded with an evening attendance of regular drinkers. He was pathetically out of control, a feeble mind unable even to muster the minimum of intellectual prowess it might nominally have been capable of. Of course, this was to Mikhail’s advantage, but that knowledge did not make suppressing the utter contempt from his already unamused face any easier, nor was it with small effort that he adopted the patronizing expression appropriate to a sycophant seeking to leech the words he needed from the dirty mass of mindless anthropomorphized vermin sitting beside him. The stupefied rat continued, voice rattling.

“I dunno how much more shit he can get away with, man, you get me?”

The little rodent was breaking down, Mikhail could tell. Defenses collapsing under a thick wave of ethanol, the barrage of intoxication had worn down cautious inhibitions and exposed the sea of gossip. He was obviously not experienced, a child of early twenties giddy on his membership in... what? Mikhail needed to know. He nodded and forced a chuckle, the gesture evidently convincing enough that his target grinned in obvious satisfaction that the hint had entertained. Now the mousy figure huddled over his fifth - was it sixth? - beer and try to suppress the smile, feigning loss of interest. Bait. Mikhail rolled his eyes. He had to bite. He needed the information. He returned the grin, sipped from his whiskey.

“So this boss of yours, he, uh, he does a lot of crazy shit?”

Determined to impress, the man stared down the final portion of his thick lager and only permitted a smirk to show he was pleased as his head wobbled from the alcohol. He snorted and shook his head - at least, so Mikhail thought. The parkinsonian movements obscured any intentional gestures. The mouse only offered a creaky drawl underlined by the happiness of a man drunk beyond his awareness, eyes looking through the bottom of his glass.

“Yeah, man, yeah...” He hiccoughed. “Boss man, I tell you, he’s great but he’s crazy. You don’t even want to know.”

Mikhail raised his eyebrows. More bait. This was too easy. He bit, preparing to pull the unsuspecting fisherman under.

“Come on, you can’t just leave it there. Now I have to know.”

His target finally turned to look at him again, the grin having returned, broader than ever. Mikhail was not sure whether the eyes staring in his direction still possessed any modicum of useful vision. The man chuckled - if that was what the strange noise escaping his mouth was. He gladly gave himself to the shark he believed was caught.

“Alright, man, alright.” He raised a finger in half-serious warning, smile still widening. “But you can’t tell this to anyone, yeah?”

Mikhail nodded, filling his eyes with as much subordinate eagerness he could fabricate in the moment. It worked. The drunkard’s eyes twinkled with egoistic excitement.

“Good, good... so let me start two weeks ago man, yeah? We were doing some regular shit, the same old deals, making our rounds, then he comes out one day all fancy like, rolls up in his Maybach, got at least two new guards with him, weird stuff. So he says, ‘we’re going into Charlie’s land today.’ And Charlie, well, everybody knows Charlie, you don’t mess with his dealers, so we say, we tell the boss, ‘why would we fuck ourselves so bad, boss? Why would we do that?’ And he just smiles and he looks at us and he says, ‘motherfuckers, we’re taking down Charlie, I got us some friends and they’re big, so we’re taking down Charlie.’ And none of us believe it, how can we take down Charlie? Yeah? How can you take down Charlie?”

The rat paused and nodded, prompting. Mikhail turned his thoughtful squint to a grin of interest and responded, shrugging. This would be his chance to turn the tables, pull on the line, reel in the fisherman.

“I don’t know, I’m not even from here and I know Charlie, I know how big he is. But word is some shit went down and nobody’s seen Charlie in a couple weeks now. His guys seem to be falling apart. But that’s just what I heard.”

The rat nodded, pointed in affirmation, almost squealed in delight that he was known. So Mikhail had said the right thing. The information was coming. The man finished his lager and set it down with triumphant force, then looked again to Mikhail with eyes somehow wider and perhaps more conscious. Mikhail took note. The man spoke.

“So you know, yeah? That was us, man! That was the boss man and his crew, all of us! We’re doing big things! He always said we would and we always believed him but, you know, sometimes we wondered., yeah? But it doesn’t matter now, it happened! His crazy plan worked and we’ve been doing more mad shit since! I’m telling ya, we’re starting something new.”

Mikhail took the elation, absorbed it, produced from it a smile almost as genuine as the one he was offered. The information was in his grasp. Just a little more. Just the right tease.

“Really? You? No way, you can’t have. You can’t be the ones who took down Charlie. How big can you guys be?”

The rodent chortled and again shook his head, exuding an aura of superiority with the motion somehow majestic despite his absurd blood alcohol level. Looks like the words worked. He was about to reveal it all. Somehow the man let his eyelids sink into casual indifference.

“Well, you know, the boss man really did get us some friends. I can’t tell you who they are, his orders, he said there would be people asking around so I can’t tell you. But they’re serious. They’re so big, people are too scared to talk about them, so nobody even knows. People talked about Charlie. Nobody talks about these guys.”

Mikhail feigned an impressed nod, and opened his mouth to prompt, but the man continued unbidden.

“It’s a great story man, how we did it, but I can’t tell you. Boss man said there would be people, folks coming into town and asking questions. And we can’t have that. We can’t have them fucking this up. We...”

As the rat’s voice trailed off his eyes seemed to regain even more of their focus, and Mikhail saw them narrow a fraction. There was more consciousness. This was concerning. The target shouldn’t be aware. But the man spoke.

“Hey... man... what was your name?”

Despite the abrupt shift in subject, Mikhail maintained his composure and answered without pause.

“Anton. I’m Anton.”

The man nodded slowly, pensive, squint growing sharper.

“Anton, yeah? And Anton, you said you ain’t from here?”

Shit. Mikhail felt the air collapse around him. He fucked up. The voices resonating throughout the bar, the incessant chatter he had managed to block out, flooded his temples and pounded his skull, demanding entry to the brain upon which they sought to wreak havoc. His grip tightened on the shot glass and he blinked. He managed to force away some of the pressure. Not even a second passed. Maybe the guy didn’t notice. Regardless, Mikhail answered.

“Oh, uh, no. No I’m from out of down, I’ve only been here two months.”

The squint remained.

“Two months, you say? What did you come here for, man?”

Mikhail had to improvise. But he was good at improvising. He chuckled and shrugged.

“A job at one of the factories, you know? I needed money, this was the best place for me.”

Still an analytic gaze. What the hell? How could someone pierce with eyes drowning under all that beer? Enemy or not, that was impressive. The man’s lips curled with disapproval. He leaned back in his chair.

“Ain’t nobody that comes here for a job in the factories. People always leaving because the work is shit and they’re always hiring local, man. Nobody wants to work at the factories, you only go there if you live in our ghetto. And you look like a smart guy. You ain’t here for no factory work. No.”

Was he sweating? The beads were probably forming. He had to maintain the facade. He couldn’t let his nervousness show. The voices twisted. Were they laughing at him? They were mocking him. He fucked up. They mocked. All the glasses clinking in united derision, they would not stop, he knew. Stop. Stop. Humidity multiplied tenfold, he could only breathe with effort, his face was flushing, the man kept squinting, damn it, he had to act, he was better than this, take control, take control. He managed an appropriately defensive snort after what he hoped was an acceptable moment of hesitation.

“Nah, I’m serious, I’m here to work in the mills. I know it’s shit but I need the money.”

Appropriate or otherwise, his response failed to appease. The rodent leaned forward and raised a challenge with his brow. A drunken sneer spread across his stubbly face.

“Yeah, man? Which mill? Which mill you working at? Tell me about it.”

He searched his mental store of names. There had to be one. He found an unreliable vaguety of a memory and seized at it, proceeding as outwardly unperturbed as he could manage.

“It’s the Stuhler brothers, I’m in their mill, it’s just off the east side.” He offered an ambiguous direction with his finger.

Still unsatisfactory. His opponent’s eyes narrowed even further, the sneer grew to preposterous proportions, he was drowning in the suffocating humidity, the sound deafened, everything spoke against him from the walls. What now? How did he screw this one up? The man spoke.

“Stuhler brothers? You sure? That’s where you work at?”

Surely that meant it was a mistake. But he was too far committed now. He nodded and pushed his facial falsification to its limits. He thought he looked confident. He did not feel confident. He hated his nerves with thick self-loathing, and he hated the voices with manic furiosity. 

“Yeah, that’s right. The Stuhlers.”

The man scratched his stubble and made a noise of apologetic skepticism.

“Hey man, I hate to tell you this but, uh, we run those bastards. They ain’t hiring except by our orders. And we never told them to hire any ‘Anton’.”

The rat’s body seemed tense, preparing for something. Mikhail was in check. He needed to act before the mate. The voices were pounding now, breaking through his skull, he had no time, he had fucked up, he had to act, he felt the overwhelming rage, he was being mocked, they knew he messed up, they laughed, he had to do this now. He scanned his surroundings with discreet movements. The little man would need to be eliminated. He knew too much. Mikhail couldn’t risk his escape, the man couldn’t be given a chance to warn. He set down his glass and sat straight, waving his arms in apology.

“Dude, I’m just here to -”

Mikhail cut off mid-sentence just as his hands got into position close to the rodent. With one swift motion, before the other could react, he grabbed the man by the back of his head and rammed it down into the edge of the bar’s counter, crushing the nose in with a spatter of blood. Before the flailing hands - or had they gone limp? - could counter, he pulled back the head and rammed it again, this time breaking the man’s forehead in on the same edge. He let go and the rat collapsed to the floor, unresponsive, as the rest of the bar turned to look at the spectacle.

They were pointing, gasping, yelling. Mikhail stood up. He could not understand their words, there were too many, too many all at once, too much for him. But he knew, he knew they were laughing, he saw in their eyes the antagonization, they wanted to destroy him, they were all against him. They formed a circle, all of them, the bouncer was approaching, he couldn’t stand it, the wrong, he couldn’t. He was just doing his job and now the world was against him again. They couldn’t understand. They never would. He could only hear their laughter in the air (how were they laughing without smiling?), supported by the echoes of every wall, by the simultaneous silence, it was all too much. In his mental agony he noticed one still seated, distant, in the corner. A young one, tall, green, watching, scrutinizing. He was laughing more than the rest of them, he could tell, those eyes did not lie, they were all enemies. Before the bouncer could reach him, he pulled out his pistol, disabled the safeties, and pointed around. Today it was his father’s 1911. It would vindicate him. The bone, only the bone handle, only it spoke his support. He had one friend at it was the gun. He screamed.

“Stay the fuck away you inebriated half-wits! Don’t you fucking get close to me, I will pulverize your soft tissue like a tank of lime!”

The circle stirred, a few backed away, the bouncer tried to raise his hands and calm but his words made no sense, the laughter wouldn’t end, the laughing, the anger, the red, it wouldn’t go away, he was being wronged, they didn’t understand. His twisted face continued in shrill screaming, he pointed the gun at random targets in turn.

“I swear if you don’t back off and leave me alone I will destroy all of you! It is by the grace of people like me that you moronic vermin are permitted to live! If I were to see my duty done none of you pathetic mindless cretins could contribute to our rotting genetic composition! You are beneath understanding, you are beneath knowledge, you are simply beneath and so you should not be! I am the messiah! Do you understand? I am your saviour! And I do not ask for appreciation, I demand cooperation! So get your disgusting faces out of my way!”

From behind the crowd, he saw the green one raise an eyebrow.

[laurxlle]

Stranger In The River:

┠ ▏▔🌟▔▕ ┫

                          The mimic’s hesitance was waning, the cloth having been replaced from where it was retrieved upon his obvious denial of wanting to accept it. It was fine either way, the imitator’s fearful expression had relaxed into something far more of concern rather than terror. Whatever medication he had taken was seeming to take its effect, strongly enough with how badly he was stumbling about. The girl could only assume that it was plainly stupid of him to take such strong medicine when he had just crawled from the depths of hell in the form of rushing water. The river was a lot more vicious downstream than from where the two stood, after all.

The girl remained where she was as she watched him falter, crumble slightly as his hands took hold of his knees to keep himself upright. A step forward, a small one to decrease the space. It was clear he was having far more difficulty remaining on his feet than he originally thought, the mimic wouldn’t think twice to catch him before he connected to the ground. If it made her dirty, then it wouldn’t matter. She was already filthy enough, or so her mind’s workings often tormented her with such dreadful thoughts.

In silence she watched him right himself, seeming to have grown used to whatever made his vision spin. He was tall, a tower to her petite frame. He reminded her so much of someone else. So much of that person. It was cruel to compare the two, to think that there was so much the same in how they had met. He had been caught in a chase as well, she’d allowed herself to be caught in that fight. Perhaps the man’s warning was something she’d ought to follow this time around. To avoid any further damage to a heart that had already been demolished more times than it could be fixed. There wasn’t much left to break, what did the mimic have to lose?

Sanity? She’d laugh at the thought.

A shake of her head, not quite understanding his voiced concerns. A pillaged prisoner offering a warning to a street rat. It was laughable. His ramblings made little sense to the girl, who had he saved? Seven of who, she wondered.

Perhaps it was best that she not find out.

                               ❝No one has treated me of royalty, I expect no praise for what is not deserved. Princesses often did become ransom bait, I am not so frail.❞

A step back was taken, the imitator had opted to listen. If there was escape, it seemed the man would give her the opportunity to take it. His hand on the holstered weapon gave proof of the fact, it seemed he wouldn’t allow her the experience those seven youths he had spoken of had endured. Whatever it was, the girl was easily able to read into the story of what he wouldn’t say. Something horrible had been seen, had been interrupted and he didn’t want her to become a part of it.

Or maybe he simply didn’t care. It wouldn’t have surprised her.

The girl bowed in silent appreciation, turning to depart from the stranger’s side when the distinct sound of a whistle rang in her ear and the feeling of something whizzing past her head made her freeze before she could get very far. The sound of splashing, the noise of messily moving bodies and voices yelling. A bullet had flown past her, causing her to cease in her departure. She grit her teeth, there would be no escape now. She was trapped with this man, slowly turning to face him as she watched shadows emerge from the rushing river below.

There was no fear in her eyes, the caramel irises clear with understanding.

                                       ❝Too late… This time, this time too… It is too late.❞

[subconsciousapology]

*zoom*

He was almost too tired to flinch, could barely glance at where the projectile ricocheted off a tree. The splinters shattered into a fractal fracture cracking the air open with sharp violence, a crack resounding in his ear drums against the shuddering throb of his mind, burning the image of destruction in before it blurred under a wave of hydrocodone. The child froze and looked back at him, departure delayed. Looks like this plane is grounded. The Sun was nearly gone. See you later, Ra. The water splashed laughter behind him, the bodies he could hear struggling against its flow would not relent. He closed his eyes for a half-second’s respite. Sighed. Fucking damn it. Not this shit again. Opened them. She couldn’t get hurt. Not an eighth. Not another one. He thought back to the mission. To the scum. They were polluting the stream with their fucking filth. No. He spoke, but the bubbling rage rendered the words into a growl.

“Get behind and away from me. Hide behind the trees, quiet. Scream if you need me. This shouldn’t take long.”

She nodded. Impressive. Not a hint of terror. Unlike the others. She really was a princess, not the pathetic facades sheltered and protected, who broke upon the slightest touch. No. This one was strong. Interesting. No time to think upon it. She glided away. So dainty. Somehow elegant. In the last moment he had to think, he raised his eyebrows to himself, impressed. She’s no Princess Peach. More Boadicea. Good kid. Another growl, to nobody.

“Alright. Round two.”

As he turned to face the worthless trash some fifty feet down the riverbank he pulled out the Glock. It was drained already, he had that much presence of mind coming out of the river, at least. Should fire fine. Safety off. The men were yelling, just making their way on to the bank. He found the one who had shot first. One next to him pulled out his weapon. Another two shots whizzed by. Fucking morons can’t even aim. Mikhail hurried to the nearest tree, took position behind its cover, raised the black pistol with both hands. He knew where they were. Only five of them, stumbling about like ogres. Not a problem. He scanned the trees, found the princess pressed against one. Good choice. She found his eyes. He smirked in sarcasm. They messed with the wrong madman, his smile said. She only stared. Something in her eyes. He thought back to the place. To the hell. The others. The rage finally surfaced. He felt his face contort. Even the hydrocodone was giving way. The bark behind him screamed. Do it. Do it. Destroy them. He heard the leaves rustle in agreement. This was happening. He would destroy the fuckers. He peeked from the tree and aimed the gun level, steady. Found three out of the water. It was time. The blood flooded his face. He had to keep steady.

*crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack*

Shots fired, he screamed, fury ringing through a green still echoing from the percussion of six bullets.

“Do you pieces of shit know who I am!?”

Despite the exhaustion, despite the hydrocodone, his skill remained. He was not known in the gun clubs for nothing. He had gotten at least one on each of the scum on the bank. The first collapsed, clutching at his heart. He’s gone. Asshole’s dead. The second seemed to launch himself down and was writhing. Red spurts shot from beneath his hand, where a lucky bullet had grazed the carotid. That one’s not going anywhere. The third yelled in agony and scrambled behind a tree, his shirt staining over his abdomen. That one might be trouble. The last two were still clambering out of the water. They sent a few desperate shots in reply, missing pathetically. Little assholes think they’re so great. He would show them. He’d blow their brains out. He didn’t need to get back behind the tree. He glanced over at the princess, still there, watching him with an impenetrable expression. She’s safe. Good. He ran down the incline and found cover much closer, hardly thirty feet from the bastards. They still could not place their shots while he ran. As he neared the tree he screamed down at them with melting fury.

“I will turn you worthless fuckers to pulp!”

He got behind the wood just as a bullet bounced off the other side. They were getting better. He had to be careful. The two just out of the water passed the one bleeding from his abdomen and struggled to find cover. The treeline was further up, too close to Mikhail. He could hear them scrambling on the leaves and wet rock, yelling at each other. They were a mess. They probably thought the close shot had bought them time. He’d obliterate them. He took the chance and swung out again.

*crack-crack-crack-crack*

One of them had been trying to climb up a ledge. The first bullet went right into his back and he crumpled in agony. The other piece of shit dodged the second and fired back, but took the third in his pelvis. Incapacitated for a moment, he was helpless to avoid the fourth - and he was the closest, so Mikhail made sure to aim well. The skull stood no chance against his hollow-points. Red and gray bits scattered across the green. Some of the pieces made it into the water. Shame, he thought. Fucker’s mind had to end up in the water. Hope the fish like rapist brain. He stepped out to inspect the others, his screams turning to restrained speech.

“You better hope I make this easy for you worthless cunts. You didn’t make it easy on those poor girls.”

Mikhail could see the asshole who had taken it in the neck. He had stopped squirming and lay splayed, surrounded in his own blood. Definitely gone. Another had his heart blown out. Nothing to check. The one hit in his abdomen was still grunting in pain, and the other shot in the back was struggling to right himself. He disarmed both with ease and dragged them under a tree, muttering furious profanities. He stood in front of them and scrutinized both, pistol held at his side. The growl returned.

“I should make both of you feel the pain you’ve inflicted. You deserve it. I’m sure you know that.”

Bleeding abdomen guy was in too much pain to offer response but the other whimpered. He seemed to have been paralyzed waist-down. Lucky shot in the spine, apparently. Poor fucker had shit himself. Mikhail felt something. What was that? The trees murmured. Was he pitying? No. No, he couldn’t be. He shook his head. To who?

He holstered the gun, pulled out his pocketknife, and squatted down, still squinting at the bastards. Running his fingers along the blade, he watched their eyes follow. He felt something else. Something wrong. He didn’t feel right. But this had to be right. There was no room for empathy. They deserved it. He tried to clear his head again. He was stronger than this. The two looked on, almost resigned.

A movement caught his eye. He looked back up the hill. Boadicea stood up there, looking at him. Something in her eye. What was it? He didn’t know. But the face. The wisdom and simultaneous innocence. It reminded him. He remembered himself. This was wrong. He felt it again. It was disgust, he could remember now. He looked down at the ground. Another feeling. Shame? He put away the knife, stood up, looked from the bastards to the angel, and back. He had to do something. But he would do it the best way. A la Darwin. He retrieved his gun again. The assholes whimpered and he shrugged, half-apologetic.

“You guys screwed up. You fucked those girls. You let them be fucked. You make a living out of producing filth. You’re detrimental to the well-being of our species. I’m just doing clean-up work. I’m the fucking janitor of this cesspool. Just doing my job.”

He raised the pistol. Looked at the child again. Her eyes were still impenetrable, though they flickered to the side in moments of concern. What was she looking at? He returned his gaze to the men. The throbbing rage had given way to that... that other feeling. His feeling. His emotion alone. He looked each of them in the eye. Yes. This was his duty. Just one thing to do.

“You see... I’m the messiah.”

*crack... crack*

The leaves hardly rustled their mourning for the splattered remains upon the bark, as the piercing sound refracted across the forest’s infinite repeating polyhedra in every direction and always back into his eardrums, reminding him, affirming, a testament. It was done. He noticed a different throbbing, decidedly away from his mind. Somewhere near his neck, actually. He looked at his left shoulder. 

“Ah, shit...”

He was bleeding from above the shoulder blade. The one without the brains must have gotten him, but he hadn’t noticed. Hydrocodone. Fucking magic. The wound didn’t look too bad. More of a graze, really. Lucky. But he was still bleeding. He looked again at Cinderella. So that’s what she was glancing at. He chuckled through a grimace of pain. Little princess could’ve said something. He was distracted, though, fair enough. Now he was tired. So very tired. He couldn’t keep up with this shit. He felt his eyelids sinking, vision blurring, whispering leaves dying down. Finally, some quiet. He managed to keep his eyes on hers. His voice came out a hoarse whisper this time as he offered a faint grin.

“You alright, kid?”

If there was an answer, he did not stay conscious long enough to hear it. The last thing he felt was his knees giving way, the breeze of falling down upon his face, and the scent of earth as dead leaves sung him goodnight. But he had protected her, at least. There was no eighth, at least. He had done his job, at least. As best he could.

[laurxlle]

Stranger in the River:

┠ ▏▔🌟▔▕ ┫

                      Indeed the mimic had only seen the man for a short time, heaving for air after having crawled out from whatever hellish depths he’d escaped from. Her words had startled him, her petite frame withdrawing when she watched him reach for something upon his belt. A gun, the girl’s hands went up. His hand removed, her hands lowered and carefully did her eyes of caramel watch as he blundered up the hillside where the road met the riverbank. The imitator took a few steps back, keeping distance from her and this stranger. She’d heard him mumble, yet didn’t speak a word of it. She’d likely surprised him, albeit he had done that first.

She hadn’t expected to see a man laying in such a heap at her favorite destination. She wouldn’t allow him to get close to her, there would be space. However, for the time being, it didn’t seem he saw her as a threat, and therefore attempting to quell the fear that so blatantly displayed itself upon pale features. Her hand gripped the strap of her school bag, eyes glancing around at the surrounding area she was familiar with.

                                 ❝… I live here. This is where I come after school. You look to be… In a hurry. Here, use this.❞

And from a pocket of her bag, the mimic removes a handkerchief. Hardly enough to completely dry him off, yet enough to at least clean his face and hair. Carefully, hesitantly, she extended her hand to allow him to take the cloth from petite fingers. Her expression was firm, unreadable. She could probably out run him if she needed to. His grimace didn’t offer any consolation, yet she could allow it to pass. He looked stressed, horrendously so, and he appeared too tired to continue on much. Ready to collapse on his feet where he stood, the mimic watched him stumble. Her features shifted to concern, her hand extended a little further to offer him the cloth.

                         ❝… Are you alright? You look like you are about to collapse.❞

The mimic could only grown more worried as she watched him down medicine of an unknown origin. His twitching didn’t help his appearance, the mimic growing more worried for what exactly he had endured before her finding him. Somehow it reminded her of an entirely separate meeting, something that happened so far long ago she couldn’t remember. She had already locked it away, twice, and had allowed it to flow like the river in which she had found this man. She wouldn’t allow it to be recovered a third time, not after how much it had resurfaced only to become obliterated.

This man reminded her of it, wounding a soul he wouldn’t know of.

It didn’t matter.

She offered a smile to him, hoping to ease whatever tension that lingered in the air if only for a moment.

[subconsciousapology]

She was smiling. That was new. Well then, a princess smiling at the drenched pauper. Handkerchief to complete the picture. What the hell was this, a Disney movie? When did the omniscient animators take control of the scene and produce this folly of a storybook picturesque caricature? Was he really only just minutes ago fleeing from death? Seriously, what the hell? But she was smiling. Maybe the nonsensical metamorphosis into children’s fantasy could be forgiven. And the rest, too. Could a smile forgive the world? He pondered. Caught her eyes. They were patient. His stare flickered back to her hand.

He raised his eyebrows a moment, sarcastic. Was he suddenly the damsel in distress? Why else would Cinderella be giving him her little cloth? Did she really think it would help? He looked back at the river. Down to his white shirt, translucent from the wet and still dripping a waterfall. Up to the petite hand from which sprouted dainty fingers extended toward him, offering the trinket. The eyebrows lowered and he offered a rueful snicker, permitting a hint of appreciation to show in his tired eyes. He raised a hand in staying gesture. He felt his back give way a few inches. The ground whispered at him but he managed to keep his pupils fixed on hers.

“No offense, mademoiselle,” - he needed a heavy breath, why? - “but I’d just end up dirtying your pretty little napkin and accomplishing nothing by way of useful drying.”

He did use a wet hand to wipe off the worst of it, though. Sniffed. His back collapsed further, and he found his hands on his locked knees, torso almost horizontal. He coughed. Craned his neck to look at her. A vague haze? He felt something or another. The hydrocodone was setting to work. She had commented on his condition. True enough, he did look on the verge of falling. But that wouldn’t do. Нет. Михаи́л does not fall. Not... here. He squinted at her, still doubled over. Waved an assuring hand. Who was he reassuring?

“Don’t worry about me, anyway” - another cough - “I’m fine. Just need a little rest. Like I said, I got somewhere to go.”

A few more breaths, then he righted himself. His surroundings spun but he maintained his composure - at least, he thought he was. Fuck. Never take opioids after a run. Whatever. He blinked several times. The false movement cleared, he regained inertia, he was in the Newtonian frame again. Where was he looking? He found her eyes again, still concerned, but showing little else. She was not afraid, no. Strange. He thought he would have been scary, a dirty man with a gun scrambling out of a river. A different movie entirely. But there was something behind the brown. Deep. He thought not to bother. 

He did owe a warning, however. Breathing in with a grimace that bared his teeth, he tried to ignore the long-throbbing stitch in his side. It was fading. Good. No time for that shit here. Fuck, right. The warning. She wouldn’t stand a chance. He squinted again. Spoke slowly, modulating the breaths around the words, an architect of exhausted speech into mansions of meaning.

“You said you always come here, princess? Maybe today, don’t stay.” He tapped the holster on his belt. He knew she had seen it. “I don’t have this for nothing. I don’t know if they’re still coming, but they are not the sort to treat a pretty one as yourself quite like royalty, to say the least.” He muttered a curse. What did she even think of him? Whatever. A warning is a warning. “Fucking... seven of them, right there. Younger than you. The shit they’re forced to do... I don’t know how many I got out...” He sniffed again. Sol seemed to have dried his face. Mostly. He pushed aside the thoughts with an arm. “Anyway, child. Get out of here, for now. There may be an angry herd of swine about to wade through that same river. They will pillage you.”

[subconsciousapology]

Memory - Dialectic

“So, Mr. Raskolnikov, I’ve looked at your materials of course, but I’d like you to tell me now, why do you want this position?”

Why? He had written that. It was a useful job, fair pay, potentially stimulating and at the least more than working as a gear in some financial machine. It was fairly clear why. Nevertheless he cleared his throat, leaned forward, intertwined his fingers in front of him. The professor, in a casual shirt and jeans, looked at him with expectant eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. The clock ticked, telling him to answer. Fine. What else was there to do?

“Well, I am here as a graduate student in philosophy. My undergraduate specialization was in the existentialists, and particularly Nietzsche. Therefore, as I have teaching obligations regardless, I imagine my greatest qualifications would be in a class on his work.”

The look persisted. A raised lower lip, in consideration, and a breath through the nose. Then a slow nod. Tick, tock. Applause for the answer?

“That is fair enough. You certainly are qualified. I was impressed by your writing sample. But I also found it... concerning.”

The educator said this with a squint. Mikhail felt the Sun’s rays contorting on his arm, burning patterns of heat, caressing a cold warmth. Were they always there? The clock criticized. Concerning... his brow furrowed.

“Concerning?”

This time there was no hesitation. Just another nod. At what? His writing? Why nodding? Perhaps the answer would come.

“The ideas are innovative. The statement is bold. But the thesis is concerning. I’m not sure I want to expose my students to that thought.”

Of course. Always the criticism. At his forward thinking. They could not understand, so they explained their idiocy away with absurdities and accusations. But he was prepared. He gave a smile, engineered, faux apologetic. He would demonstrate. He scratched his nose.

“I, ah... I believe in the university classroom, especially at the level of this course, as a constant exercise in the dialectic method without censorship. I believe in exposing students who have achieved this level of study to every important theory with neither endorsement nor condemnation, neither steering toward nor away. I believe it is my responsibility to convey equally all the positions. My own thesis will receive no special treatment, but I will present it as one of the ideas I am aware of, as one of the options my students may choose to either criticize or support. That is my duty when tasked with conveying knowledge.”

Raised eyebrows. Good. The message made it across, the clock sung his praises, the Sun danced oscillations of yellow-white acclaim on his arm. The professor was mute, it seemed, for a while. Fiddled with a pen, scrutinized him more, blinked. Nodded again. Mikhail gave a half smile, a sardonic grin, a patient smirk. The professor spoke.

“Alright. That is fair enough.”

[laurxlle]

┠ ▏▔🌟▔▕ ┫

                                        Subconsciousapology

                        ❝This river is still frigid cold from winter, even though it is this warm outside. If you keep your wet clothes on, you will catch a cold.

                                                       Do you need assistance?❞

[subconsciousapology]

Panting, footfalls heavy on the thick underbrush, overhang hiding the movements from above. He tried to hide amongst the bending trees but the mournful wood betrayed him, refusing his clothes in sharp contrast, harsh cackles against his desperation. Faster, faster. Where was he? Where were they? Not far behind, through the natural evil. The leaves laughed. Shut up, shut up. Almost out. This wasn’t the first time. He knew what to do. Didn’t he?

Coughing, wheezing. How much longer? He heard a faint roar. Alive? Was he imagining? Did he have the choice of disbelief? The leaves berating, he made way for the distant monster. Why was he holding the Glock? What chance did he have? It didn’t matter. He continued swinging it with his panicked arms. He checked his pocket with the other hand. Good. Still there.

When did he last see them? It must have been many minutes now. Were they still following? He couldn’t take the risk. He felt the soil soften beneath his heavy feet, the roar louden as the old tree trunks seemed to give way to brown flat, orange evening Sun show itself again, mocking with weary photons travelled through one hundred and forty million kilometres of vacuous indifference. He left the leaves behind. Good. Silence. Save for the roar. He saw the monster. A river. A dozen metres across at least. Not quite rapid, not too deep, but icy blue. Harsh.

“Damn it.”

A mutter to nobody. It was barely spring. No choice. The city was on the other side. He might lose them through the beast. He didn’t pause, nor holster, nor even remove his shirt. Right into the searing freeze of March waters. He followed downstream. Did he feel cold? What did cold feel like? He couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t sure of anything. Never was, when in flight.

How long was he wading? The roar grew mesmerizing, chanting to him, whispering of calming emotions he could not afford in the panic. He forgot time under its fluid spell. It may have been an hour before he completed the ford. It didn’t matter. He must feel cold. He couldn’t tell. He assumed.

He stepped onto the bank. Began the trek. The Sun warmed. Was that warmth? What did he feel? Was he thankful? Perhaps. Did that star really help him at last? Was it possible? He mused, hating Sol. The chants grew distant. He saw only forward, stumbling from what lay behind. They could not still be chasing. He made to holster, but a voice startled.

❝This river is still frigid cold from winter, even though it is this warm outside. If you keep your wet clothes on, you will catch a cold.

                                                      Do you need assistance?❞

Fuck, what was that? He turned. Turned. The ground jeered. Where did it come from? He found it. Her, rather. Higher on the riverbank, closer to civilization. She must have just come here. She was small. Young. What was she doing here? What the hell?

“Shit.”

A mumble. She didn’t hear. He didn’t think she heard. Maybe she heard. It didn’t fucking matter. Why was there a dainty princess this far from the city? She wasn’t even dressed for the wild. Why the hell was Princess Peach over here? A little nymph come for the woods? Was she even real? He didn’t understand. Did it matter? He finished holstering, safety on. They had likely stopped following. Probably. But best keep moving. He resumed uphill with lumbering steps, looking at her, squinting. As he neared he paused again, retrieving a container from his back pocket. He removed a capsule and placed it in his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed with a grimace. He looked at her again, only a few metres away now. Tried to keep the growl of an hour’s fleeing out of his voice. Was he grimacing at her? He didn’t mean to. She was being nice.

“Don’t worry about me, princess. I have somewhere to go. But what’s a kid like you doing here? This is hardly the safest spot in town.”

[subconsciousapology]

Memory - Goodbye

“Михаӣл, don’t do this. Please.”

Low fidelity, eight kilohertz of muddled voice. He bit his lip. Shook his head. She didn’t understand. He stifled a growl. The Sun beat through the glass all around him.

“Ana, I have no choice. This is better. For you.”

Why did he bother? He glanced around, over his shoulder, at the bustle of the average muggy afternoon in Manhattan, cars trickling slower than a congealed wound through the paved veins of the cursed city, thoughtless automatae stepping about the hard concrete, oblivious. To him. Nobody minds a phone booth.

“How can it be better, Михаӣл? How?”

This time he sighed. Closed his eyes a moment, rubbed his sweating forehead. The fucking Sun unrelentingly pounding the greenhouse of a booth, him an undesiring plant trapped in its stifling insides. How could he make her understand? There was no way. He could hear the tears in her trembling voice, hysterical, obstinate in reckless protection. He raised the hand free of the phone to gesture, though his mother spoke from hundreds of kilometres away.

“Ana. This will be hard however I do it. At the least this way I can put your mind at ease. As much as possible.”

This did not comfort. She did not understand. There was no respite from her verbal onslaught, now desperate, how could she let go of her only child? How could he ask her to? Why was this his obligation? Why did he feel this way? He needn’t have called at all. But he had to.

“You think it will put me at ease, worrying every night about how you’re out there doing God knows what? How can I be at ease? Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”

He licked his lips, leaned his head against the glass, resisted the force compelling his free fist to drive through the telephone. Why was she doing this to him? He didn’t have to call. He knew how this would go. He knew before he dialed the number. He’d do best to end it soon. He raised his head upward with a breath, preparing.

“It’s better that way, Ana. It’s better if you don’t know what I’m doing precisely. This won’t be easy, but it’s the least difficult way. I’m going to change the world. I don’t want to make that a burden for you, too.”

The tears gave way to sobs. He struggled to discern her words through a slur of despair. He wrinkled his nose. He did not like hearing her upset.

“Why do you have to change the world, Михаӣл? Why can’t you just be my son? Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you just stay?”

Of course she didn’t understand. He ground his teeth. Shook his head again. There was only one thing to do. End it now.

“Ana. I am the messiah. This is my responsibility.”

There was no pause in her lamentation. She didn’t understand.

“No, you are my Михаӣл! You are my child!”

End it, moron. End it now. This will get nowhere. She’s only making it worse. Only making it harder. It shouldn’t feel hard but it does. Why does it feel hard? She’s just a person. Why does he care? But he has to end it. A final, deep breath. Peace, perhaps? No. There would be time for that later. But he spoke.

“Ana. Səni sevirəm. Sağolun.”

He dropped the phone into the holder before he could hear her objections. Closed his eyes. Ran both hands up his face, through his hair, to rest at his neck. The Sun formed more beads of ineffective sweat on his temples, as though producing tears of mourning the only means it knew, bring but discomfort by the action. He pondered its cruelty a while. Opened his eyes. Pressed on the door and waded into the thick amalgamation of modern civilization. He had a telos to fulfill. She couldn’t understand.

Mom. I love you. Goodbye.

[subconsciousapology]

Memory - Tightrope

When he finished speaking, the suited committee members only looked in silence. One pushed up his glasses. Another cleared her throat. A third scratched his nose. The mechanical wall clock grew louder, ticking and tocking as though he were being walked to a gallows, each knock of percussion threatening to break through his cranium. Why did they not say anything? He had done his part. Now it was their turn. He shuffled the sheets in his hands. Looked at the title.  Jenseits von Wahnsinn und geistige Gesundheit: Einer Philosophie der Zukunft. Well? What did they think?

He watched a speck of dust, lit by the evening sun through sterile windows, as it floated across the room. Up and down, left and right, forward and back, unhindered despite gravity’s pull. His eyes followed. Eventually it settled on the bearded one’s desk. He looked up to meet the old professor’s eyes. They seemed concerned, the brow furrowed, the pupils somehow possessed of a certain... fear? He thought so. He could see fear. He always could.

The youngest one spoke. But not before scratching her nose again. Her voice came, restrained from... what?

“Well, Mikhail... I think we -” she looked around at the other three “- can all agree that you have demonstrated your... passion. For der Zukunft.”

Passion? She was humouring him. He hid the glower, like he was taught. Looked across at the others. Did they have nothing to add? This was not a verdict. The clock continued to tick, and tock, enunciating its syllables. Mo... ron... mo... ron. He was not a moron. The clock could shut up. He shuffled his sheets. The bearded one, seeing the youngest failed by her words, spoke. But first he cleared his throat. His voiced felt less restrained, and yet carried a patronizing lilt.

“Yes, yes. This is certainly one of the more passionate dissertations we’ve had. And you have shown your expertise. We cannot find fault in your defense.”

Then what? That was still no verdict. Just give the shitty piece of paper. The dissertation was probably above their heads. Or too far below. There is no fault in Peano, one cannot write a dissertation on him. That was probably it. The clock was right. Stu... pid... stu... pid. If they were to reject him, why make him wait? They wanted to hurt. They all did. The bearded one continued.

“The originality, derived and yet independent from Nietzsche, is most praiseworthy. There is no doubting the quality of your work. We are impressed - “

Another cut across him, the clean-shaven one with hard-set jaw and hair that seemed to attack his forehead like a black kraken. Eyes severe, as though there was some personal affront constituted by this dissertation.

“- yeah, alright, he’s a good writer, we get it. But this is insane! The ideas here are insane! Why are we not talking about this?”

The bearded one sighed. Took off his glasses, buried his head in his hands. Insane? He already knew he was insane. How could he make progress if he was not? He wrote a manifestation of his insanity. He was a forward thinker. He did not understand the objection. The bearded one replied, head still buried.

“We are not talking about it because it is not our responsibility to judge the moral character of a dissertation, only its academic merit. And that, we cannot deny.”

Cthulhu-head was not satisfied. The tentacles swept about his ears as he gesticulated.

“But we can’t just accept this! What would people think?”

Bearded one raised his head. Shook it. The light refracted through the twisted forest of his grey hair.

“That does not matter. This is our job.”

Silence. He shuffled his sheets. What were they thinking? Did they intend to hold the madness against him? That would be true insanity. He was gifted. These were his insights. The clock had shut up. It learnt its lesson. He was no moron. The Sun shone waves. Redemption? The young one cleared her throat again.

“Then what do we do? Do we accept this?”

He looked at the bearded one. Eyes widened. Eager, hungry, desperate to get out. He would destroy the Sun. It dared offer him redemption? He was the redeemer. At last the geriatric answered.

“Yes.”

[subconsciousapology]

Memory - DSM-5

He analyzed the fractal-esque pattern of light illuminating the leather chair beneath lazily open blinds. Scaly, vaguely like skin, the brown melted into bright white under the Sun’s merciless burn. He blinked. His place, further from the window, lay in comfortable shade. He breathed in the hum of electric air conditioning behind his head, cool against his coarse hair, an oasis in the wretched summer. He scratched. Was something in the vent? He thought he heard rats. Shrugged.

The one in front of him, strict business casual. Unoffensive black blazer on white top. Formal skirt. Boring as hell. He hated it. Scrutinized her fingers, twiddling a nondescript pen as she squinted at her notes. Back and forth, the ballpoint went. His eyes followed. He felt it inside. Closed his eyes. Deep breath. It’s just a pen. Just a pen twiddling like a grandfather clock, like a pendulum of eternity, ticking away every second of his life, counting down to the end of time itself, mocking him with cruel indifference. Just a pen. They all mocked. Why is the air conditioning telling him to grab the pen? Imaginative rats, he supposed.

She finally looked up. He was glad the bitch stopped twiddling that fucking pen. She stared. Like she was surprised. Like he wasn’t supposed to be here. He glared. The fuck did she want, the bitch and her pen? Then he remembered he was supposed to be nice to people, like they taught him. He tried to replace the frown with a grin. Maybe it worked. She gave a weak smile, opened her stupid little mouth. He glanced at it, looked away before he saw too much of her disgusting insides. How long has that weird guy been there in the corner by the door? He thought this was a private session. He only afforded a short look at the figure. Masked, like one of those actors, milk white smile of porcelain covering the face. But the clothes were black, hood, robe. Like a wizard. He really does belong here. Crazy.

“Well, Mikhail, I think we can call it, more or less.”

We, she says. He blinked. He hated it. Shut up. He hid the growl. She looked, expectant. The fuck did she want? He nodded. That should satisfy the bitch. Nod and they’re all satisfied. Agreement on a hinge in your spine, silencing question with submission. Fucking magic. And why the hell isn’t the air conditioning shutting up? Of course he wants to strangle her but you can’t just do that. Fuck off, he wanted to tell the rats. The wizard cackled. Abracadabra, motherfucker, you’ll have your turn with Ms. Propriety.

“Like we thought - like you said - I guess we should be glad we got it, but it’s not going to be easy.”

Get to the point, you little mutt. You’re just dragging this out as torture. They all do it. Hurt. The Sun pounded. Why does it light the leather like that? Infuriating hexagonal non-polygons tessellating imperfectly across the nauseating curvature. Her pen is twiddling again. Grab it. Into the skin, up her trachea. We’re playing surgeon now, bitch. Harry Potter laughed even more. The air conditioning seemed to cheer. He blinked. Be nice, now. 

What was that behind her? The bookshelf. Right. With all the pathetic self-help pseudo-psych books. Please. Not even a single proper journal. How the fuck did she get her license? Masked Dumbledore glided to it. Pointed. What was that? A Nietzsche? He blinked. Sing me a new song: the world is transfigured and all the heavens are full of joy. The words came pouring in his cranium, churning, cleansing. The magician disappeared. The air conditioner lulled. The red cleared. He looked at her and noticed she had stopped, a concerned furrow in her brow. Rubbing his eyes, he mumbled.

“Sorry, go ahead. What’s not going to be easy?”

She paused a moment, then broke into a relieved smile. There. Bitch is happy now. Will you get to the point? She gestured to her notes, pushed up her glasses, cleared the smile a bit to permit to adopt whichever expression was likely most appropriate for the coming words.

“It... it looks like you’ve got paranoid schizophrenia.”

He blinked. Was he surprised? He couldn’t tell. What does surprise feel like? And when did Gandalf come back? He was laughing now, like a madman, like the deranged shaman he was. The laughter reverberated across every wall, magnified in it diffusion pattern into constructive interference at his either ear, colours of terrifying purple tempest in the air accumulating, pounding at the eardrums. She blurred, waves distorting her head into murky overwhelmed vision, the laughter washing away any hint of a face, expressionless oval bent into dimensions incomprehensible. The air conditioning hummed, too, louder and louder, revving without restraint, screaming, telling him to do it, to just do it, but to do what? Through the tsunami of red noise assaulting his brain stem the ventilation managed a whisper.

“You, schizophrenic? That’s insane!”

He blinked.

[subconsciousapology]

Memory - Мама! Пожалуйста!

The sounds, sweet and homely, coming from her mouth. They lifted the clouds, yet he could not understand. Only a word, here and there. Why would she not teach him? A blurred stream, why would she not filter? Why did he have to try, himself? He could not understand.

She put the phone down. Sighed with that ever-strange smile. He thought of home, he did not know why. He crawled closer and pulled at the skirt.

“Мама! Пожалуйста!” Mom! Please!

She started. Looked down at him. Smiled. He wondered why she looked hurt. How can she smile and look hurt? She shook her head. He pleaded.

“Пожалуйста, мама! Научи меня!” Please, Mom! Teach me!

She sighed a laugh. How does one sigh and laugh? He could not understand. She shook her head again.

“Не могу, Михаи́л.” I can’t, Mikhail.

He felt it again. What did she call it? He thought the word was “frustration”.

“Почему, мама? Научи меня!” Why, Mom? Teach me!

She bit her lip. Shook her head again.

“Не могу. Извини.” I can’t. I’m sorry.

He watched her walk away. Why did she go so quickly? He sat, trying to recall all the words he had heard. But which ones were words? Why did she go so quickly? Why did she leave him to his welling tears? He could not understand.

And why did he fail? He had practiced. Why couldn’t he say the words? Why was he too terrified to utter them in her presence? Would she not be proud? He looked down. Picked at a spot in the carpet. Muttered to himself.

“Ana... lütfən...” Mom... please...