OligarchBox2 - Wanderers' Sandbox 2

OligarchBox2

An odd Way to another realm: very very spooky portal

Hi. I am Oligarch. These are my works in progress. Read them and weep. Steal whatever you wish, so long as you can do it better than I.

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How to Critique, an Introduction

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How to Critique, an Introduction

ABSTRACT:

This guide will serve as a practical resource for anyone who wishes to provide a competent critique on the WL I&A forum. Note that this artform of review is, and always will be, entirely subjective—yes, it is indeed an art, and an art I have practiced for some time. Many users wish to critique well, but require guidance. With this guide, you will learn to critique similarly to the way you would learn any other creative skill. Use this guide how you wish! It is a primer; it is an introduction. A seasoned critter will not find it as useful as an up-and-coming one may. It aims to be, to use the beleaguered term, semi-comprehensive in scope, but simple enough to be easily understood.

To critique, there are certain objective pillars one must hold. When critiquing on the WL, there are several more to consider. Firstly is the fact that written works live and die by their quality alone. If an established author on the site produced a trashy, low-effort article, it would not survive. Like begets like: a poor article reciprocates a poor response. Luckily, established authors don't produce trashy articles, and that is because of the critique process. Authors are striving constantly for the upmost standard of writing in every work they submit. Collectively, as individuals become better writers, the community achieves higher and higher standards. Understand, then, that critique is paramount to an author making par: without us critters, the standard would not only be far lower, because two minds are indefinitely better than one, but would also be near unreachable to new authors. Imagine the Wanderer's Library like a mine for precious minerals: a ruby is found, extracted from the Earth, and brought to us critters for refinement. To clear away the dust and impurities, and to sand away the edges. To make the ruby shine like the sun when held in the palm of your hand. To place upon it our seal of approval, and give that little extra authenticity to the author. To help them be the best they can be. Critique is not so much writing over mistakes for the author, as it is showing them the areas in which they have not yet met their glorious, infinite—though tragically Promethean—potential.

Critique is a priceless step in any creative process. Your obligation in life is, arguably, to be of aid to your fellow man. In no insignificant manner, the criticism you give on this site can be part of this, your cosmic goal. To do so, you must first uphold the tenet that everyone, including yourself, is a critic. You have lived a beautifully complex and entirely unique life, with your unequaled soul to offer a perspective from. You, therefore, are entirely capable of giving crit regardless of what you think your qualifications are or are not, simply by the very virtue of being alive. But, to do so effectively, there are some steps I follow in order to get my perspective across in a competent manner.

CONCRETE:

Step 1: Analyze
Step 3: Annotate
Step 4: Synthesize

So you want to be a critter? 'Tis a long and glorious tradition. Allow me to offer a formula to an unformulaic paradigm. In truth, anything numbered or listed cannot truly help you in this regard; there is no quadratic you can table variables into to find the correct critique to give at any given moment. Again, it is an art. Nonetheless, these are three steps I follow when writing a crit which have been helpful in my "career" on the site.

Step One:
You must firstly understand the living, breathing organism that is a critique request. For some, it is nerve-wracking to submit even a single request to the forum. For others, they brazenly submit eight works at a time. Each request's response must, then, be tailored to fit the needs of the author. Newer, less experienced authors will require more tact, whereas more forward critique is warranted for a veteran. That is not to say that in any circumstance one should offer a puny, sugar-coated critique; nor should one berate, insult, or act untoward to any author. Instead, a measured response must always be had, and as a rule the critter must be polite always.

The work itself may also range in quality or refinement. It may be that the author simply wants the stamp of approval, and the piece is in great shape already. It may be, often from newcomers, that the work is simply untenable. And so there is a mental woodworking metaphor I like to use in situations like this: a piece is either in the shed, on the workbench, or on the wall. A piece that has one or two of the components of a coherent story, but those components are neither put together or refined, is in the shed. A piece that has multiple components of a coherent story, and those components are working together in being refine, is on the workbench. A piece that has refinement, cohesion, and quality is likely on the wall already. Of course, there may be a spectral mixing together of each category, but generally I find that these are the works commonly submitted to critters on the WL. A critter must, therefor, be able to offer critique on each in its own regard.

ECOFASCISTO-PAGANISM
esoterics handles the pagan, priestly duties

It is 2097. There are only two truths.

THE BLACK DRAGON REIGNS

THE BLACK DRAGON MUST BE SLAIN

In the McDohrnii building’s lobby there was a large statue of St. Michael thrusting his lance into the head of the Serpent. It was the first thing anyone entering the building would see. Seated on a bench to the left of it, a man named Mikhail by his mother and Pietre by his father scrutinized the stony visage silently. Standing, Pietre was close to two meters tall, but was in no way intimidating. He wore a frumpy, double-breasted black wool coat and simple dress pants. He was perhaps once crowned by soft black hair, but what remained was more an ambiguous smudge of matte which shoddily painted the backmost half of his head. He wore square, horned glasses and a permanent look of displeasure on his face, both accompanied by a well-maintained beard. His eyes were blue.

The angel was old and strikingly out of place: probably saved after the destruction of Rome and transferred here at the request of some Intellecti. He once had wings, as evidenced by the too-smooth blemishes above the shoulder blades. The organic stone body didn’t fit in with the rectangular architecture of the lobby. Some air of his original artistic intent remained, despite his lacking of flight, which clashed drastically with his stark environment. He wore a slight smile on his lips; his spear, splitting the snake’s head in twain, was entirely bronze. In some ways, he symbolized the Polity’s values. In some ways, he directly contradicted them. His eyes were gray.

Pietre knew of the Catholics. He wasn't sure there were any left to care that their statue was being metaphysically abused in such a way. Religion was inefficient and sluggish. So when Pope Whoever III issued a papal bull opposing the Polity, no one was surprised when the Vatican was sacked. No one was surprised when the same thing happened in Makkah. . Pietre was called out of his contemplation by the shrill voice of the receptionist, “Mr. Pietre? Dr. Erstwhile will have you now.” He wondered if she said it in that way to conform to presuppositions one might have of a receptionist. She was probably an assassin.

The lift was large. About the size of a tennis court. It was primarily used for cargo transport to any of the hundred subterranean floors. There were only four floors above ground, so the engineers decided that it would be easier to just extend the lift upwards instead of installing personal elevators. It was empty today, and Pietre felt… alone as he ascended. Which was true in more ways than one.

Management was a dreadfully normal-looking floor. The dull red carpeting and beige walls gave it the appearance of a reputable hotel. At the very end of the hallway was Erstwhile’s office. Inside was Erstwhile. Mikhail cautiously approached and entered the room, opening the door as quietly as possible. It was not as if making a sound would get him shot. Pietre was polite, first and foremost, even when he wished not to be.

"Mikhail," said the doctor amiably, "please, come in!"

Pietre was already inside the room, and so this order seemed somewhat redundant. He nonetheless sat down on a plush leather chair and was offered a cigar by Erstwhile. This would have been considered taboo if Dr. Erstwhile was not, in fact, Dr. Erstwhile. But, being himself, this sort of behavior was absolutely expected and indeed welcomed by Pietre. It meant that he was still in good standing with the man who governed the world. Even though Dr. Erstwhile had an office in McDohrnii, that did not mean he visited often or even did any work in the building: every public building whether it be a library or a restaurant was required to have an office for Dr. Erstwhile, ready at a moments notice.

"Tell me, Mik, what have the Intellecti proposed will slay the Dragon today?" He raised a cigar to his lips.

Pietre was used to getting straight to business. It was his only job, and he preferred it to small talk. "Yes," he began, clearing his throat, "the pharmaceutical department is still at work on their new drug, which is showing promise. They have called it Saturn."

Erstwhile chuckled to himself, as if hearing of, for the first time, some rebellious yet humorous action his child had taken against a malevolent school teacher or bully. The type you might hear reported on the internet, but probably has no backing. The mood quickly left his face however, replaced by a ponderous look. Then, back to amiable. This is not to say that Dr. Erstwhile was an easily read man. His features were bony, and that was the greatest illustration of him. His whole body seemed to be devoid of muscle entirely. Pietre doubted locomotion, not to mention emotion. Gaunt, with thin skin like smooth paper, his features were nonetheless not unpleasant. He did not look like he was starving.

He tugged each blue suit sleeve with precision, and smiled.

"The technology department is reporting no new projects in the works. Their only directive as of now is upkeep and brainstorming," continued Pietre, "and the esoteric department has, as usual, not made much progress."

"Do not be dismissive of that department, Mik," laughed Erstwhile, "It can seem like they get up to nothing, but matters of the occult often lead to advances in science, how ever indirectly."

Pietre responds with trepidation. He is allowed to speak his mind, he simply prefers not to. "Of course, sir," Erstwhile coughs with some difficulty, "but the overall productiveness is… lacking, Doctor. We are not where the projections had us last year. Twenty points down, by some calculations. And those are comprehensive, sir, even taking into account societal reconstruction."

Dr. Erstwhile sighs, shaking the most valuable head in the world slowly, emphatically. "No, Mik, the reports are wrong. Sleep easy, they are not taking into account a rather secret project I have allocated resources to that shows great promise. But please, as my assistant, would you check up with pharma? I want a report typed on these… Saturn drugs."

"Yes sir, of course. If I may?" Pietre says, in reference to the ash tray. A nod and a chuckle dismiss him, and bid him close the door behind him. Contemplation was kept at bay. Today was work. The Polity's dictates taught that a hard worker must have an aim, not a nebulous goal.

The Autumn trees, wrapped in matte, orange-red liturgical garb, stretched out their appendages to worship the receding sun — which above them dully shone without the strength of the recently interred Summer — and to offer benediction to the sloping glade called by more names than Orpek could remember as they sang their baritone chorus. The melody was sour, like freshly hewn sap, and yet marvelous. Nearby, the brook and birds joined in polyphony. The music of the earth framed the glade's golden wreath — Nature herself composed this wonderful prayer, and the stalwart Manor Radiant stood firm in the glen as the alter to the sacred sunset. It was square, tall, and resplendent; it was a fortress of stone cut from the nearby cliffs, draped in banners flapping subtly in the crisp wind. A red and white lozenge field with two flaxen eagles abreast the center adorned nearly every face of the large, rectangular keep. The battlements around were similarly bedight, and, somewhat pulled from the view by the thought, Orpek wondered how the fortress flourished despite being so exposed in these dark times. He would find the answer soon enough, but that was not his goal.

He came to the gates only out of necessity. Not least because it was so soon to be night, but also because he was wounded. A knife, yet lodged from a scuffle with the bandit some yards back, stuck from his hide at an awkward angle. He dared not remove it, for fear of exsanguination. It was a rat's knife, large, and very likely poisoned — knowing his kin. So, stumbling on and thanking fortune that he was not yet dead, Orpek yet again approached a gate tall and foreboding. He would have to stop visiting these sorts of fortresses: they were not designed to be welcoming. It was, regrettably, his only option for shelter, or a medic, in miles.

The unfortunate nearby burrow had been entirely flooded, and stones were set against the entrance. There at the blocked-off hole, a little town he knew from some cartographer's charts as Sokein, Orpek was attacked. Highwayrats caught him unaware, and were it not for his swift nail they would have beat him to death. He had been victorious, however. Now directly in front the gate of the Manor, he stopped, and, as one about to begin a strenuous day's work, he knocked on the massive oaken doors. No one from the battlements or the portcullis cried out, no rodent or marsupial shouted down at him; instead, a smaller door inset into the larger ones opened, and a tired, elderly rat peered out from behind the door.

"Ah, ye are not whom I expected, young rat," she said, "who are ye? What be your business here?"

Orpek responded, wincing, "I am called Orpek, and I mean no trouble," he said, inclining his head in respect of her years, "but…" Orpek turned his body so that the aged rat would see his ailment. The elder gasped.

"I pray, enter young pilgrim! Your wounds will be healed, it is certain." And, stumbling, Orpek entered the Manor Radiant. It was not, as most fortresses were, built into a defensible part of the land; no tree-stump, crevice, or knoll was the Manor. Instead, it seemed to rise from the earth by pure stubbornness. Built of stone cut by hubristic masons, timber felled by ambitious cutters, and all manner of crafty trade besides. It was a beautiful entrance, and the portcullis above lent an air of safety to the Manor. How so much had been achieved, Orpek did not know, but he had little time to ponder this before pain curved his spine and darkness suffocated his vision.
— —

Of all the cities in the world, Limehaven was a jewel. It was unlike many of the burrows or stump-forts Orpek had seen, and were he a younger rat it would have seemed resplendent. The town existed in a place that could have seemed uninhabitable, but which instead provided apt defenses for a diverse cast of creatures: the sandy border to the ocean. Limehaven was, on the surface, a golden castle of sand. Underneath, homey tunnels extended like roots, where lived Oldfields and small reptiles alike. The waves slowly beat the shore, and Orpek looked out at the blue expanse, leaning on a grainy embrasure and pondering. It was a beautiful view.

Nearby, the tide pools provided apt fishing opportunities, and plenty of insects buzzed about the sands. Nothing breached the high sand walls, however. The citizens of the city lived under a competent government and had an esteemed volunteer guard. Were Orpek a younger rat, he might have considered settling down on the beach. But he was not a young rat, and he was bound elsewhere. In all ways but one, Limehaven was a wonderful place to live.

In all ways but one.

Orpek's visit to Limehaven, transitory as usual, had been fraught with whispers of a Devil. A terrifying evil that stole children in the night and coughed fire upon fishermen. A drake, clambering in the undercaves. The thought puzzled Orpek. He was in the market, mulling over whether or not there was anything he could do, when he met the Knight of Limehaven.

"That's a rather fine nail, mister," said a young lass as Orpek bent down to examine a fruit, "you're the wanderer."

He straightened, glancing in her direction. "Am I?"

She, a petite mouse with caramel fur and a scrappy appearance, looked at Orpek and his gear with gleaming eyes. Then, with a prideful swell, she uttered softly, "It is almost as incredible as mine." She then pat her hip, where hung a dagger in an engraved wooden scabbard. She was far too young to be carting around such an instrument, and to her it must have seemed a wicked weapon. To the larger and more… acquainted Orpek, it was not much more than a knife.

"Swords are not as incredible as you think," said Orpek, trying to be wise as he began picking up the fruit again. He paid for it and had it bagged for later. He would be leaving town and would need provisions. Best to be frugal, as money was scant these days…

She extended her little hand to shake with a look of suppressed giddy. Orpek took it and shook, bemused. "I am Tynn-Al," she said, "what is your name? What are you doing? How long are you staying? Could you teach me?"

"I am called Orpek. I am a traveler, not a swordsrat," he sighed.

She huffed. Orpek must have come off as dismissive to the little mouse. "Well. I've gotta save my home from the Devil. And I need your help to teach me because I'm not very good yet. Well, I'm better than the others, but not good. Yet. But you'll teach me, and then I'll be good."

Orpek again sighed to himself, tilting his head as he considered what to do. He was principled, and while violence was not beyond him, teaching a little girl how to swing a sword would probably just get her killed. But there was something in her eyes that told him she wouldn't stop either. A drive to be stubborn for stubbornness' sake. Orpek recalled an image of himself as a child, but bit his cheek and stuffed the memory back down. To no avail, as she still did remind him of himself. Well, only one thing to do then.

Orpek, after handing Tynn-Al over to the authorities, walked back to the market. But he would not stay there long. There was a reason he had gone so far out of the way as to visit Limehaven.

"A soldier's appurtenance have you," muttered the elder snail, "Come to save, or come to burn?" The other snails lounged in the sauna, paying no heed to Orpek or his conversation with the old mollusk.

"Great Elder," Orpek said, "I require your prophesy."

"Oh, Rat so bold, why ye accost me yet so old. I have none to say to a rodent's steel, lest he slayest the Devil-Eel," uttered the snail, brown-grey head swaying as if to music. The snails lived on the outskirts of Limehaven, near the sandy tide-pools on the beach. Here, hot coals boiled and steam filled the air. All about the place gastropods lounged and whispered. "Seeking past-sense, lookest thee, over ground and under tree. Burrows in thine memory; but sealed, enclosed, and death to ye. Ahhhh, yes, yes. This hast been thy prophecy! Now, turn tail off 'way from me."

Orpek inclined his head, half in disappointment and half in curiosity. "Devil-Eel? Is this the drake they have spoken of, Elder? What of it?"

Another snail, perhaps entranced as well, cries, "Promise! Contract, in thy soul not in thy hands, sign to end its life, and what you seek shall come to you, Simple-Toothed Son. Enjoin to save these, your brethren of sand and hope. Seekest the engineer, Murinaecus, where he sleeps atop the bastion."

pre-splinter dynamics:
BARRON, CERVANTES: CICADA
THESEUS, JASON: PLATO
WATCHERS: ZAGREUS
post-splinter dynamics:
BARRON, CERVANTES: Deceased?
THESEUS: HIMSELF
JASON: THE COMPACT
WATCHERS: ZAGREUS
LIBRARY: THE OTHERS

Dramatis Personae:

THE HEROS
Detective Barron/Phobos — Psychic Paradetective, often hired by special interests; occult past.
Rosalyn Cervantes/Deimos — Freelance journalist, worked for P.P. before a falling-out.
Milo Strand/Theseus — Caught up in the waves; never wanted this in the first place. Reborn.
Johan Jakal/Jason Dal/etc. — A man of many names. Has replaced many features with biotech; thaumaturge.

THE VALIANT
Yusuf Dyer — Friend to Barron, a fellow Paradetective. Skilled in analysis.
Rex "Vinny" Alders — Friend to Cervantes, a fellow journalist. "Has his fingers in a lot of plumbs."
Regina Alders — Friend to Cervantes, sister to Rex.
Duke Alders — Brother to Regina and Rex, skilled in espionage.
Kale Trigilo — Compatriot to Jason. Has eyes to see.
Xai Miro — Compatriot to Jason. Has ears to hear.

THE SYMPHONIC
Harmony — Ancient leader of the Symphonic. Ally to the Watchers.
Chorda — Talented inventor; creator of Zagreus.
Dissonance — Antagonist within the Symphonic, but misunderstood.

THE VILLIANS
Mainframe-7: "Plato" — One of 12 living Nodes of the abominable Amalgamaton. Feasts on knowledge, hoards information.
Zagreus — Shard of the Library; activated in times of intense need. Outdated, violent.
"Deadman" — A half-faery intent on causing mischief. On the side of the Library, in all things.
Stephan Pollux — Technomancer and former friend to Johan. Sought to release Amalgamaton before realizing his mistake.
Ethyline Montgomery/Castor — Technomancer and associate to Pollux. Disciple of the Cult of Chaos.
Kyle Elsewulf — Journalist for Planasthai, and disciple of the Cult of Chaos.
Adrian Strand/Minos — Grandfather to Theseus. Leader of the Cult of Chaos.

THE JAILORS
Director Oliver Brandt — Intelligent, foolish, conflicted.
Agent Markus Krees — Dangerous, belligerent, kind.
Dr. Boyle — Obnoxious, prideful, generous.
Agent Franz David/Icarus — Adventurous, stubborn, open.

THE OLD GODS
Amalgamaton — A ghost in the shell of the Machine; was once far more powerful. Seeks to be so again.
Chaos — A myth made manifest by its own cult's worship. Adolescent, impotent, destructive.
The Cicada — A terrifying monster from beyond the pale. Was once, but is no more. Unless…
Vibralex/Panacea — A well of power, drawn upon by many in times of need.
The Serpent — Needs no introduction.

THE TRANCENDANT
Malcolm Albrecht — Blue-suited man with a terrible affinity for stagecraft.
Olivia Brandt — The Black Swan.
WIP

I am an enforcer.

People often ask me who I am. I do not remember my childhood, but I have been told that I have indeed always been an enforcer. Or at least I think that I have been told so: my memory has been streaked and pounded like taffy by Saturn-7yK life-prolongment drugs. Unintended side-effect to living for as long as I've been required to. Time gets messy after you go on so long. To preserve my sanity, I refuse to focus on the blurry rearview mirror; today I am alive and must look only to the road ahead. Not in reverence for some stoic pillar, but only for myself and my team. An agent of order, a contractor for the Compact, I fulfill my cosmic purpose. I am a believer, however jaded, in our tenets. 'Liberty, security, justice. Known to none, saviors to all.'

I peer at the Simulacri embedded in my forearm, as the arcane crystal is spinning at a menacing pace. The containment rig for it effectively replaces the radius and ulna of my right arm, which felt strange until I adapted to its utilitarian cool. It is my canary in this coal mine I live in; the Simulacri connects me to Compact databases and communication units. It, optionally, interfaces with the Compact Q-AI 'Gilgamesh,' but I prefer not to rely on machines more than I already do. My team and I are on mission to FH8-OL4: a planet which is the only one of its star. Due to its massive size, the two bodies orbit in a bizarre binary pair. Constant equilibrium. This only makes FH8 all the more dangerous: one half of the planet a scorched wasteland, the other a frozen desert. The weather is volatile and not generally suited to life.

Our shuttle, lovingly called the Lifeboat, lands on the icy surface. My two companions are already kitting up in the hanger, launching at each other the usual banter. They, like this planet, are tidally locked. Opposites, and yet two halves to a whole.

Kale Trigilo, burly, short, but with arms like titanium cable, sits against the wall on the bench, cradling a man-sized hammer. He coos and purrs, treating it like a baby. He is bald, but most of his body is covered in tattoos anyway, including the crest of his head.
(MORE CHARECTER AND DIALOGUE)

I am Jason Dal, and these are my Argonauts. We're the best this universe has. I myself am hulking, brooding, ugly. To me, scars and burnmarks have become a second skin. Tissue replacement therapy is not advanced enough for my case, so my flesh is mottled and mangled. Both of my femurs have been replaced by bio-mod metal shafts. Ribcage gone, metal plates remain to keep my organs in status. An augmented spine to support the extra weight, and to connect to Neuralhooks. Even my name has been replaced. I was once another man, but no one has known me i
n years — excepting the quarry we now go to neutralize. A figment from a past I'd rather supplant.

We are contractors for the Compact. Whenever a significant threat should pose itself to life or the "omniverse," the Compact is there in the shadows. My team deals with the smaller threats, but still more than Jailors or otherwise would usually deal with. Outside knowledge of the compact is virtually non-existent. We operate in every corner, always willing to give up our lives for the cause.

"Boss, suit up," says Miro, perhaps observing my inner thoughts. Her preternatural abilities would certainly allow her to, and even though she swore she would never breach our trust, my inherent paranoia would beg to differ. Her tone betrays that she at least has a cursory, likely plain old psychological, understanding of my state. She's a powerful telepath, which is helpful in a lot of interrogation situations, but somewhat unsettling. If only she wasn't also mentally ill in the… dangerous strain.

"Right," I rumble as I slide into the freestanding Enviro-Protective Receptacle. It is a rather bulky suit, just shy of being an exoskeleton. It has been retrofitted to sync with our Simulacri, and provides a heads-up display as I turn on the gear. Negative 100 Celsius outside: a wonderful summer temperature. Time for a picnic. My armored digits flex, and I grab my weapons from off the rack. One is a smaller, more compact, SMG. The other is a gruesome gun, at least as long as Miro is tall when uncollapsed. One must be prepared for any particularity.

The others are already fully suited, and KT has even brought his massive war-hammer along. Special occasion, I guess. I sense the need for a statement, so I roughly embark to oblige. "Right. Time to save. We do what we do, not for praise," the thump of boots, "not for money," another stomp, "and not for ourselves."

Crack go their feet against the metal of the hanger floor. My tone rises to a grizzly crescendo, but I cannot help feeling false. I keep quiet, usually, and despite my younger years refuse to be verbose. I was taught to save words that might otherwise give bad actors too much insight on ones personality, and bad actors are always around. Therefor, I tend to prefer brevity and simplicity to eloquence, regardless of — and indeed denying — what the fantastical side of my brain may conjure. I bellow, "We do this for the omniverse: everything and everyone. Notum nulli!" I raise my fist.

"Salvators omnis! Rah, rah, rah!" Their boots resound like continuous thunder. They whoop like hounds and I walk towards the hanger door. It opens when I plant my hand on the closure pad, vomiting us out onto the freezing landscape before us. If I had nerves left un-overstimulated, I might have felt the slight twinge of cold prickling my skin, even through the EPR. Instead, I only feel in my mind, and gut, capsizing. This mission hits close to home. I step out onto the ground and walk a few strides before stopping again.

I communicate through the coms units in the Simulacri interface, untraceable. "Right, simple plan. Acquire package, deter, and extract. Az will pick us up with the Lifeboat after the fact. And I don't think I have to remind you to stay in your EPR. Questions?" Neither raises a hand. Determination. I couldn't ask for a better crew. "Our goal is about five klicks off from the LZ, so we have a walk ahead of us. Right, move out." Our footprints will stay frozen in the ice behind us. Further back, the hanger door closes and solemnly awaits our return.

It takes just over an hour to make it to our target: a small biodome compound and the only sign of life in this icecap world. It is home and base of operations to one Stephan Pollux, a would-be doomsday villain and old friend of mine.
[…]

Or… not. KT finds the doomsday device in an anterior room, already inert, and we easily dismantle it. Anticlimax, that's for sure. Those other two obviously had our same agenda in mind. It's a strange, arcane work. We can't tell if it was ever activated, but since no one is dead it seems fine. We give a shrug and head out. Hey, we're contractors. Az sends the Lifeboat around to pick us up. The shuttle lands top of the biodome and extends its emergency lift down, smashing through the glass. We quickly load the limp bodies into the lift, to protect them from freezing.

Then we examine the visitors' shuttle to determine motive or ID on our unwitting allies. Inside are two living compartments, a dining space, and the cockpit. We sweep for traps. All are surfaces are either covered in stickers, or obscured — but probably still covered in stickers — behind potted plants. Luckily there don't seem to be any tripwires or bombs in the ship. Homey… the boy's room is notably lacking for stickers, but just as notably holding a satchel full of curia. A spherical object which looks like it might be a grenade, a salt-scored, half-drunk thermos of coffee, and some water-damaged maps with smudged lines intersecting. Leylines. I touch these gingerly, sensing their past.

My crew and I are all somewhat peculiar. My particular brand of 'magic' is that of paper: I can make it reveal secrets to me that it might reasonably know, and I have some control over its geometry. Specifics are not important. The things I gleaned from the boy's possessions are. And they are… odd. he was a Wanderer of the Library, like I was a lifetime ago, and lived there for some time. He had some pure mission: something to do with the leylines, something to do with Freedom. What got someone like him caught up in all this? The rest of the spartan room and its items are uninteresting to me, so I pocket the sphere and leave the rest. It could be a weapon — they won't be needing it anytime soon, and something about it seems important. Important in a way that compels me to take it. Perhaps Pollux will know, technology is his field.

We were lucky this time. I breathe, and finally notice that I've been shot. My metal-clad fingers grope the wound. That boy's aim struck true! The coin-sized hole in my armor probably didn't do much damage to the tissue, but still. I cannot be walking around in a compromised EPR. I'm sure whatever muscle near the blast is frostbitten to the bone by now. It's painless, but I haven't felt pain in over a decade, which may or may not be a curse depending on how you look at it. Living as long as I have, and with my work? It's a boon.

But physical pain is not the only type. In the back of my mind, I recall my true mission. I sit in silence as we travel back to our main craft, the Argo, and a memory swims hazily into motion-picture. I close my eyes and watch.

"You're late," he mock-snaps in a hushed tone as I stride to my chair in the lecture hall, playful and scornful at the same time. His ability to be both ironic and serious simultaneously is extremely grating at times, but today it is a welcome reprieve. "If you're tardy to one more class, you're going to get expelled."

"Right," I reply, "and you wouldn't have anyone to cheat off of anymore."

My name is Johan Jakal, and I am a liberator.

It is the first semester of my schooling at the college of Lymina, and I am terrified. Not of anything academic, but simply of the idea of life. Stephan Pollux, my good friend, does not share this fear. He — and he especially — should, but nonetheless his nonchalant attitude is a welcome antidote to the student body, seemingly entirely composed of ostentatious morons. My delinquency is noted by the professor by a short beat in her speech. A squat stump of a woman, with a kind, laid-back demeanor, her name is one I can never remember. Nobody seems to. Some curse? We resort to using her room number, Four-Thirty.

"Ha, ha," whispers Pollux in response to my jab. The notebook in front of him entirely blank.

Class ends and we head to the outer grounds to discuss and eat lunch. Trivial matters, mostly; how entirely burnt out we are one week into the semester, parties, women, philosophy, how to avoid the RA. The common university tropes. The conversation turns around to thaumaturgy, something be both have great natural skill in. "You won't believe what I've discovered," says Pollux superciliously. I say, in return mock, that I really can't.

He takes a graphing calculator from his pocket.

"What," I ask, "did you install Doom?"

A haughty scoff. "No no, my friend! I have done something far more competent. Incredible, one might say." He turns it on and shows the screen to me. It seems to be connected to the feed of a camera… which, were it not for his technomancy, would be impossible. Even for his magic, it is admittedly impressive. I tilt my head.

"Is that the teacher's lounge?" I laugh, "No way. No way did you somehow get footage from the teacher's lounge."

"Not footage, my friend! It is 100% live. Welcome to the sitcom we'll be watching for the rest of the semester."

I look at his stupid smirk and pose a question. "Why only the rest of the semester?"

"That's when they change the cameras out," he explains, deflating only slightly, "and the only reason I was able to pull this off was a one-time-lightning-in-a-bottle-lottery-winning-stroke of good luck. Fortuna smiled, et cetera, et cetera. But it couldn't have been done without substantial, and death-defying, work on my end, lest you doubt my prowess."

He pets his toy lovingly. I raise my eyebrows, "You've improved your technomancy, Stef. I commend you heartily, though perhaps I wonder as to the applications ones so devious as yourself has in mind." He is too mischievous for his own good. Likely, he'll be expelled again and we'll have another student "transfer" from another school, conveniently matching his description entirely. Pollux comes from an affluent family, though affluent by what exactly I don't know — something to do with white-collar crime, I'm sure, but that's of little consequence to me.

His shit-eating grin coerces me into making a choice I had been discerning.

"I have something to show you, then. I think you'll be equally amused." I take him to the old pine tree where I made my discovery last week. It stretches up, up, up to the clouds. It's the tallest tree on Lymina's grounds, and as such is besmirched with many engraved initials, enhearted. He looks at me with eyebrow upturned in incredulity. I shake my head and take off my shoe, placing it at the base of the tree. Then, I pull of a box of matches from my back pocket.

"Bad practice, keeping those there. You're such a hard-ass they might accidentally — "

"Shh."

I light one and flick it into the shoe. With a heavy crack, the tree splits down the middle, and instead of more forest on the other side, it's a glimmering Way into the Wanderer's Library. When I discovered the Knock, written down on a slip of paper in-between the pages of an ancient textbook, I dared not enter. But to have a Way? Infinite knowledge at one's fingertips? Well, such a power would make classes a breeze, and give plentiful opportunities. My shoe catches fire, so I quickly grab it and shake it vigorously, looking sheepishly behind me at Pollux's shocked half-smirk fade to half-gape.

"Shhhhiiiiit," marvels Pollux. This is big.

The Argo's hull needs repairs. It is far too big for the skeleton crew that consists of KT, Miro and I to handle. Luckily, the sapient AI Azorus manages the vessel's primary functions. That is not to say that we three do not do our fair share of work, but three can only do so much. I patch myself up in the medbay designed for a platoon of soldiers, and in this vast space feel alone among the spirits of the dead. On the bed next to me, a mother lost her husband to a bullet-wound. A brother lost his sister to exsanguination. A child lost their only protector to a shield-burn. The Argo has traded hands many times, each time resulting in the previous keeper's hands being cut off. I plan on keeping her until dismemberment — when that will occur, I do not know.

Our prisoners are in the brig. Stephan is bound for… hell. Or worse. The other two are much more of a puzzle. One is a wanted criminal, and leader of a drug-smuggling syndicate, while the other is really just a boy. As far as we can tell, at least. He has little to no data on him, but seems to be from a world not unlike my own. I feel sympathetic. That's the reason I don't have Miro interrogate him.

"Right," I say, entering his cell, "this is your olive branch."

He is not peaceful. He refuses to meet my gaze out of what I can only describe as pure malice. I ask him his name, he says nothing. I ask him where he's from, he says nothing. It is as if he is mute, or deaf. I have a two-way translator installed in my head, so it's not like he cannot understand me. But he says nothing. I know nearly every sign language and he just looked at me like I was insane when I tried them all. The cells on the Argo are comfortable, probably larger than what he had on that ship, and it's not like I tortured him. I didn't even threaten to.

"Boy, I may well be your only shot at freedom."

At that word, he looks up, smiles, and tries to spit at me, missing dramatically. "Listen," I make my appeal, not wanting to throw away this boy's life, "your friend — the one you came with, the squid-looking lady? She's a criminal. That means I have reason to suspect you are as well. So there's little reason for me to let you go. If you want your freedom, which, frankly, I want for you too, you'll — "

He speaks, suddenly, cutting me off. His voice is husky tenor; young, betraying. I realize he can't be over fourteen years old… I thought him 20 at least, but no. The aura shatters, and his entire person seems all the more tragic in that instant. He speaks, but I can't make out the words. The meaning, sure, but not the specifics. His lips move but no sound penetrates my ears. Some… curse? I'd heard of things like this happening to incautious warlocks or foolhardy mages, but a boy?

It is difficult to parse, but I gleaned that he'd been trapped for most his life unescapably and, compared to that, anything is freedom; prison, death, anything is preferable. What did he do to deserve whatever is cognitively blocking me from hearing his words? Only a rough transcription in my own mind allows me to understand: the brain hearing, seeing patterns then immediately burning them. What's left is the scorch marks and the ash, and that's easy to decipher. When you see the wall-stuck silhouette of a person in a nuclear ground-zero, it's not difficult to understand what happened. This boy is the leftovers.

I ask again, hoping to get a response. "Do… you have a name, son?"

His eyes lock with mine. They are two shadows burnt into his skull, screaming for release. Fire, water, blood.

His name is Theseus.

Seems like the our young captive's shot damaged me after all. Miro is a whip-smart mechanic, so the suit is in little danger. After a medically induced eight-hour nap to speed along the recovery process, I go to see Pollux. It doesn't make me any less exhausted. I don't know if I've slept right in my last decade of service to the Compact.

"You can't understand," he's rambling to himself upon my entering, seemingly unawares to my presence, "can't you understand? Please. When will you? Hm? No? Hm?"

Not once does he look at me. "Stephan," I call to him, hoping to see one last flicker, "Stephan."

His gaze is transfixed on a particular smudge on the metal floor of the cell. It is as if his whole being is devoted to adoration of that one spot. His eyes are streaking tears, slowly, without protest. "You won't," he stammers, "kill it. Kill it? Kill it?" His tone grows in a worried tempo as he repeats the two words over and over. He went insane while he was confined to that planet, or perhaps while doing whatever it was he was doing. What can I do? He's raving. Still muttering, rocking back and forth, he raises his arms in praise of whatever god he worships. Fears?

"Stephan. I'm not — Kill what? You've got to get a hold of yourself."

"Kill it," he suddenly screams, and lunges at me me. His frail body smacks my frame ineffectually, whimpering, "it's coming! Why don't you see? See. See. Kill it! Chaos is coming! Chaos! Chaos is coming! Chaos… chaos coming!"

I sigh, setting him back down. Dealing with this is not what I wanted. "Right," I lie. No. No, this isn't right at all — He's insane anyway. He couldn't reveal anything if he tried, surely they wouldn't take a mad man seriously? I try in vain to save my friend from myself. But no, those damn journalists were after him. Or, at least they knew of him. Pollux promised never to tell anyone, and I trusted him. We both understood the weight of the situation, but if he were to crack… if anyone were ever to know…

"I'm — " the words catch, "I'm sorry, old friend."

"Chaos… chaos… kill chaos… stop it. Quick! Kill it, kill it, kill it—"

No loose ends.

I am an enforcer. Sometimes that means doing things that are evil. Objectively. I lie to the others, tell them Pollux escaped and fought. It's a scant lie, and Miro sees right through it, but she laughs anyway. She wanted to kill him, and behind that laughter is anger at me for stealing her notch. KT just stares at me, and follows what he perceives to be orders. He won't question. Neither of them will; they never do. What has their service done to them? What have I stripped them of, that murder is so easily unquestioned? Who am I becoming, who feeds lies to my friends?

We reach port and unload. Our ship flies the flag of whatever locally untouchable organization exists where we are, giving us free reign in most inhabited areas of the omniverse. As KT and Miro attend to the pressing issues, I talk again to the boy. His friend will be arrested and forgotten, but he must be handled delicately. I could have him imprisoned for shooting me, but that sits poorly with me. He's only a youth, he doesn't know any better. Or maybe it's something else. I should let him off here, but something pulls at me. Something I've ignored for a long time:

My heart.

I show him the sphere. It elicits an immediate reaction. "Look," I say, slowly, "if you want this, I'll give it to you. If you want to get off at this port and make your way, I'll let you. I think we both know how that'll end, though. We found you by mistake, and probably saved your ass from whoever's after you. Yes, I know there's someone after you; there's always someone after your type, boy."

He glares. I can tell he's been through more than I give him credit for, though, and would probably do just fine if he were dropped off here. I question my idiocy. He would just be a burden. "Or," continues the speech I planned an hour ago, "you could come with us. Be our crewmate. We'll give you food, water, a cut, work. A safe place to sleep…"

His eyes subtly soften, then are filled by consternation, then with anger again. He talks at me with what appears to be a strange mix of reprehension, confusion, and rage. I don't get the full picture. I continue, "I know it's tough, living out here all by yourself. Fighting for yourself. Living hand-to-mouth. But I'm taking pity on you — yeah, pity, get used to it orphan boy — and I'm giving you a shot." Which is really stupid of me. I look away. Why am I doing this? I don't know him.

He looks down.

"Right, this isn't procedure," I admit. "You ought'a be locked up… but I want to be better. Personally. Nothing to do with you." I smack myself mentally for thinking that I can right my wrongs by taking on this boy, but it just feels like something I should do. I can't explain it. Maybe it's something of myself, the younger me that I can't remember, that I subconsciously observe in him which makes me want to protect the urchin. Maybe its some mental residue from murdering my best friend from childhood. I don't know. I do know that whatever it is I'm doing, I'm not doing it for his sake.

I clear my throat. This might be the most I've spoken all week. "I know I kidnapped you and all. So. Right."

I turn around halfway to the door, but see him stir. He speaks, something in the realm of knowing when to accept help. "Oh," I say, lookin his direction, "Fantastic. We're lucky to have you, galley boy." I feign a smile. He doesn't reciprocate.

He stands. Walks over. We shake hands. His grip is cold and hard. I stare into his eyes and he speaks, but the words don't even register. I shake my head and he seems to understand. He looks almost as tired as me, as if our encounter sapped him of what little endurance — or stubbornness — he had. I need to rest, really rest. It's been years since I've sat down and felt at peace. In the omniverse, tranquility is slim. The Compact prefers liberty, security, justice. Peace is a dead virtue. Compromise is a dead virtue.

"This is the brig," I say as I lead him out. "To the left is the food stores. I'd send you a schematic but — " I tap my Simulacri, gesture to him, and shrug. He looks at me, unamused. I show him the bridge, the mess, the engine room, the medbay, the hanger. It's there where he stops, looking at the massive blast doors. He looks to me, smiling earnestly for once. He can fly, he mentions.

I don't doubt it.

"You should probably kill yourself."

You're standing on the edge. You look down and see the wind-torn cliffs, the jagged rocks, the flying gulls, and the waves. Those serene, rolling waves that are drawn up against this shoulder of the world like a grey blanket cast over the Earth. You can't swim, and anyhow the drop is something like thirty yards. The cold wind kisses your skin: not even your coat can hide you from the lustful gale. Green blades serrate the air, slashing every which way in futile attempts to kill something that has existed far longer than anything present. In a strange way, it's tranquil here — you, at peace? You wonder if you deserve peace anymore, then remember that you probably never deserved it in the first place.

"Long fall, huh?"

The wind wraps you up, peers inside.

You don't throw yourself over because there's something left for you here. In a way, you wish you could. But you've never been able to leave a project unfinished, a goal unmet. If there's one thing thing the mind does, it's dream. Adrift above the ocean landscape, you imagine the aquatic depths. Even though the surface is oil-stained and dotted with still-floating shipwrecks, just underneath the rolling currents you see majesty made manifest. Thousands of fishies. Speckled and spotted and lined like pinstripes. Polyester fish, paisley fish, fish with soot for eyes, fish of colors yet undiscovered. Some fish are bright, some are big, some are belligerent. Most are all three.

None of them are inside of you. All that water — 65% of you is water, after all, but yet still no fishies… all of them are external. Swimming in the ocean, waiting to be caught and hung on a wall. Eaten? Would they like being eaten? Would you?

"Nothing really matters."

A fish swims up close, perpendicular to the line where life and death met, shook hands, and split. Really, it's not a fish. The thing is massive, to a size you cannot even comprehend; a blue whale, dancing in the dawn. Its back bursts the surface tension in a graceful arch, the pale blue surface suddenly erupting in a spray of manifold, uncountable droplets. Each takes flight, not for the first time, and lands again on that briny plane.

No, you couldn't catch that. But that's not reason not to try. You've died before — the ocean couldn't claim you. The void couldn't claim you. Hellfire tried, got close, but even she couldn't claim you. You're here for a reason, and it's to die trying to catch that whale. You've just been unsuccessful so far, Ahab.

Theseus turns his head to look at the forest cropped behind him, walking away from the cliff's edge. His golden eyes survey the misted pines. He draws his cloak around himself and waits. He was told to wait.

Jason had been radio-silent for months. After the splinter, he and his crew went into hiding. Understandable, but without him, our young hero felt alone. He couldn't blame anyone: it was his choice to stay behind, and he stood by it. But yesterday, he got a message from… well, he assumed it would be Jason. But instead it was Kale Trigilo, Jason's companion, who called. Why?

But no one was here. Theseus wondered if he had imagined it again. The visions were getting worse. He wasn't as sure of himself as he ought to be, recently. They had… won? He wasn't certain. Theseus tried to remember how life had been before this whole event. Numbers, letters, explosions and bodies rattled through his skull. But here, on this cliff, was a simple peace. Harmony. How that word was tinged with memories, not all so pleasant. So Theseus sat on a stump and waited. He was told to —

"Milo. It is so good to see you again, son," says a voice from a memory far away. It is… Minos. Theseus jumps to his feet, glimmering lance forming instantly in his hand. He is confused, and does not strike immediately. The man who claimed to be his father stands there. His skin is gilded, cracked and refused.

"You!"

He steps forward, brown traveler's poncho flapping in the gale. His crystal crown, still cracked since their defilement of AMALGAMATON, is dull. "I have come to fulfil my prophecy, Milo. It is time." What's left of his face is burnt, diagonally scarred in the path Theseus' lance took across his maw. His hands barely look like hands. He must have survived the crash somehow. How? This man, who single-handedly caused the Splinter. This man, who killed Barron. This man, who manipulated the Watchers. This man who… These are the words circling in Theseus' mind. He is still intrigued, always curious; he stays his hand.

"The whole world is set, son. It is time. The fires are out. I have failed, as was foretold." His glass eyes stare blankly at his golden boy. He walks toward him, slowly, until they are face to face. Then, he passes around and stands at the edge of the cliff. Theseus tracks him like a cat. Minos turns, and raises his arms triumphantly. "It is over now."

I know who I am.

I am far too cynical. I have either crippling self doubt or a God complex at any given moment. Am I extremely skilled, or am I extremely lucky? It seems like luck, from where I'm sitting. I know I don't fit in here, and that I'll probably never fit in here; I know I'm only suffered because everyone else is too kind. I am neither kind nor skilled; I am different. My ideals are entirely foreign from the likes of these Argonauts. My core identity is entirely enemy to theirs. How could I talk to others here about it? We are two warring species, and they do not know of my true identity.

I am a parasite.

Jason opens the door to my room, casting a splinter of light into the dark environment, and enters holding a tray of baked buns in ridiculous oven-mitted hands. The apron draped over his massive frame looks comical, and internally I laugh a cynical, mocking laugh. He stands there for a minute, staring at me sitting on the bed, measuring his words before speaking. I realize I have been crying slightly, and hastily shuffle the glinting streaks from my face with a quick brush of the hand.

The man's brutalist voice is dampened by concern, "Theseus, would you like some bread?"

I respond in the negative, but he continues to stand there. If I were looking at his face, I might have seen his conflicted expression.

"Right."

The door closes slowly, and latches with a click. I am alone again in the dark.

The Argo stops for repairs on a moon called Malhien Inferior, one of the many doomed Class-7 worlds. I step out of the Lifeboat as behind me the hull of the larger craft settles in to one of the advanced docking apparatuses. My crew come out with me, each with their own job to do while docked. This moon's planet, Malhein Superior, has been totally overgrown by the world-eating fungus Pnetylex. It is a sickly pale giant on the horizon of Malhein Inferior, just a few centuries from explosively releasing its spores to contaminate the rest of the solar system. Compact operatives have a base here, to prevent the spread to other systems when it occurs. I make a mental note to steer clear of them.

It's a simple supply run. KT goes off to order carbon for the Panifab, as well as some exotics to stock the pantry. Miro will preform checkups on the Argo with Azorus after restocking the ammunition stores. The checklist goes on. The boy and I are on a special mission. It is here where I must meet with the Detective.

The dive is rancid. I have never been a drinker, like Miro. Even she might raise a brow at this den, however. Depravity suits no man, and Lorenz Barron is no different. His sepia-colored duster is tinged with dirt at the fringes, and the hat is a bit much in my opinion. Otherwise he might be the cleanest occupant of the place. 40-something, lean of build, with caramel-colored hair and stubble, gingerly holding a pint in one hand and resting the other on the tabletop. He looks very out of his element here.

"Jason," he says, leaping up from his table, "how nice to finally make your acquaintance." He extends his hand to shake mine, then quickly detracts it, smiling decidedly lopsidedly. Both hands have… eyes. Closed, located at the center of the palm, slightly larger than a human eye might be. He looks at them dumbly, then back at me. "Sorry, I forget."

"You've met Theseus," I say, gesturing to the lad. He shuffles from one foot to the other, grey, hand-me-down jumpsuit still slightly too big.

"Yes," exclaims Barron oddly, "He — uhm, yes! We shared quite the adventure. Strange to think it was just a few weeks ago." His demeanor is probably in response to my stature. I am known to be intimidating. I try to smile, to put the man at ease. It doesn't work. Theseus gives a little nod, saying something to me about the detective's psychic prowess.

"Yes," I respond, "I can tell by the, er, manifestations."

Barron nods. "Yes! They're quite fun, really. Strange. Once spilled ink on one," he waves his right hand in the air wildly, "and that hurt like the devil. Sure, I mean, it's been hard adjusting and all, but they do represent a large boost in my ability to — "

"Right," I interject, "your ability is spoken highly of. You can see into the past?"

He looks at his hands. "Of course! Ha, I mean, yes. I can see into the past, yes. And the future, though that is substantially less useful."

Theseus tilts his head, and asks Barron something I don't catch. Its difficult to understand the boy's meaning without being the object of his attention. I am getting better at reading lips, and he is learning sign language rather quickly. Not comfortably, but close.

Barron opens his mouth, then closes it again. "Its hard to explain. When I look at the future its like… a hot bar of metal. I know what hammer strikes would make it into an — well, a whatever I want. But I don't really know how to manipulate the hammer. I just… get vague impressions."

I look at him quizzically. "I require your services."

Barron blinks several times more than necessary. What is wrong with this man? Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, I hear a voice in my head. Miro's.

DangerBarrontoldmePlayalong.

My fingers tense.

"I see lots of things from your past," Barron says, looking directly into my eyes, as if pleading. "I see a house, in the woods. A little stream. A mighty oak."

I have visited my birthplace. I may not remember growing up, but I can certainly recall the day I found home.

A collection of poems that will never see the light of day.

By all accounts, the things you find here do not exist.

Not far from thee,
in shade and bough of
a willow tree, weeping —
weeping, not for me —
is a little carving, etched
to see.
Cliché, like birds on
telephone wires — spark! — I felt
a simple call: to leave a mark
upon the old and famed tree
that sits by the creek,
awake and free,
where pass the geese and mice and lark,
and on which love, so sweet
and stark, would surely lift
to me.

The sunbeam lamp illumed my quest,
a breezy day, yet I digress
T'was on this orange day of March,
where mine and I would simply
watch, and rest — by life.

Under cool of willow vine,
a'watching sun and moon entwine
in celestial dance, we laid and, once,
on hearing stir
the little hare, bedight in fur,
we listened too, to nature's song,
with swaying leaves and
springing throng.

It was here in lonely summer-eve,
when first in love I did believe.

The hands are closer to the heart than to the head.
The pen is an instrument of the hands; the hands must reach for either organ's approval.
But the hands are closer to the heart, and the head is higher than the pen.
This is entirely necessary to understand if you wish to understand.

I have been musing on making music lately,
and about how the process is not dissimilar to
life; being alive is like jazz —
sprinkle in dissonance like pepper
and watch as the music comes alive
and breathes.

I wrote in my journal yesterday that it
is okay to breathe.
I think some have decided it is not okay to
breathe in the air and sip, sip, sip
little fragments of life up, up, up
into the head.

My pen glides across the whiteness and
makes dark impressions.
Shadows of a desire to be loved
made manifest via the interlocking lines
of a poem.
Trees grow and die instantly, roots scrape
the dark earth mercilessly.

For all of my life there has been
nothing but pain; then again
I do seem to sleep pretty well
so maybe in that I can dwell.

But sleep is a dangerous thing!
You never know what it might bring,
since dreams and nightmares do —
like to turn into
a myriad, black, terrifying

song of despair. In this world,
there is nothing but people all pearled.
Their marv'ling antique —
In their face: hard to speak.
Twirled, undone, and unfurled.

For dancing, a'waltzing, and singing alone
do not come quite close to waking.
Letting me sleep is a cope, I think.
And lonely, my skin is a'flaking — away

as the daylight's sunbeams shone. All
they want, they the people with pearls pulled tight
like a noose, is to cut my
three life-strings loose:

My pen — my mind — my hands.
I accuse but the people are not
exactly real. I feel that they
are just constructions of my subconscious
feeling their way into reality. Phantasms of
living with eyes clamped shut like —

Clams live similarly to how I do.
"I'll shut up," they say.
But they still breathe without drowning.
And they still play the saxophone in their free time.
And even though they don't have any,

The hands are closer to the heart.
But they are marionettes disguised as free agents.
The head is the puppeteer —
But it is further than the heart.

I'm in the place with the mist again.

This time the swirling gray expanse frames a single tree-stump surrounded by a rash outcropping of intermediately sized stones between two muddy knolls. A few ferns dare to brave the cold breeze that pulses from nowhere in particular. It's more the illusion of a breeze, though; a feeling of a feeling. Like usual, then. And like usual, the one I'm meant to meet awaits, frozen and unblinking as if in a solid block of ice. This one is dressed in M43, unusually clean and well-kept, but I can see the red splotches of dismay seeping from his chest and leg. His helmet is nowhere to be found, and his bronze hair is sullied by ash and mud. I can see still fingers clutch a pair of cracked spectacles. His eyes look upward at the sky, marbled with fog and smoke. I step forward and hear the sluggish sounds of battle in slow-motion. The lethargic "Marco!" and "Polo!" moans of gunfire are heard ringing as if from inside of a fishbowl. Shouts bounce from unseen hill to unseen hill played over stereo, starting at a crisp Largo and moving to a steady cacophony as I move closer to the wounded GI. I am sure that if I focused I could reverse the sound, like on a recording. Or perhaps if I walked backwards, though I am unsure if that would be possible.

As I come up by his side, next to him, the world turns around and every smell, sound, and taste comes back to the reverie that I've invaded. All is flung into full motion now, or perhaps uncannily fast. I touch his face with my open palm, and he blinks alive with a shiver to share with me his monologue:

"I never thought, really, that it would come to this. Didn't think so," he wheezes, coughing up black phlegm. The red blot widening across his chest distracts him for a moment. He fingers the epicenter, his index slipping into a dime-sized hole in the olive fabric. He gasps but recovers quickly, and reaches into his breast pocket for a cigarette that isn't there. He pulls out a small artifact instead; a booklet with a steel plate grafted onto the front. "But that was foolish — foolish, stupid of me. I left my home. They watched me go, and I let them watch me go. 'Turn round, turn round. Don't go.' But I didn't hear. I saw, I watched, but I…" His vision skews from the booklet, eyes gone glassy. For a moment, his face drains of pink, but again he coughs and flushes again. I hear a mortar fire its deadly payload nearby.

Before he speaks, he opens the book. I admire him, for he does not weep. "'But I am a worm, and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people. All they that see me laugh me to scorn…' I knew it all. I searched for comfort but none found me. The train shuttled along and all I could thing was that everything was going to be okay. Not here. It troubles the heart to know that no matter the action, man will despise you. And for that spite; this! For me, only Death is freedom. To return, to settle like the dust from whence I came, to live a life alive, all seems like idiocy now. Death is freedom, only Death is freedom." He looks up, arms going limp to his sides.

"It is alright," he says. I do not speak — I never do. I'm not sure if I could.

Elegy

Words, pictographic,
shatter, rearrange,
bouncing, and careen
while dancing in my skull—
ink on paper pages
eagerly I mull
o'er ideation, seen
to work oft strange:
lit'rature my traffic.