Vicious Cycles / Downward Spirals

“In the end
You dig yourself the hole you’re in
When you don’t know what you want
You just repeat yourself again
In the end
You just repeat yourself again
When you don’t know who you are
You dig yourself the hole you’re in”

– Gotye, Dig Your Own Hole

I feel like I’ve been lying to you.  This novel has been a convenient way for me to avoid addressing the truth, one I’ve been all-too happy to indulge.  The truth is I don’t know what I’m doing.

I’ve stagnated.  Or technically I’m still stagnant, because this is nothing new.  I have no plans whatsoever for my future, yet I write and share this novel under the happy little assumption that one day I’ll have it completed.  Only the thing is I still haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to kill myself.

We can make claims to understanding or claims to acceptance all we want, but those claims don’t mean shit all when you find yourself back in that hole.  All the understanding you thought you had, all the things you tried to accept, it all comes rushing back in and before you know it you’re buried in the ghosts of issues you thought you’d resolved, a victim of cruel irony.

I don’t see a future for myself.  I have no plans, no goals, no motivations or aspirations.  Sure, there are things I would like to see and do and accomplish, but wanting something and wanting something to the point where you’re actually willing to work towards it are two very different things.  I don’t feel like I have anything worth living for.  It’s easy to overlook that fact when you’re doing shit all, spending your days watching television and reading books and writing, but the second you’re forced to confront the idea of any kind of future you begin to realise that you have nothing worth fighting for.

I don’t know why I am the way I am, why I can’t think about the future, about anything as simple as getting a job without feeling like throwing up.  Was I born this way?  Was it something I experienced while growing up?  Is it that I don’t want to feign normality when normal is the furthest thing from my mind?  Is it that I don’t want to commit myself, to act like I might be invested in this life when most days I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if it all just ended? Or is it as simple as I’m a lazy little shit, hiding behind melodramatic and cynical excuses in denial of my true nature?

I don’t know that I’ll ever find the answer, and to tell you the truth I’m sick of looking.  The why of it may forever elude me; the only question I should be concerning myself with now is: “what am I going to do with my life?”

As much as it pains me to even think about it, as much as I want to hide from all responsibility and conflict, I need to make a decision.  And yet…

And yet this is nothing new, and this isn’t the first time I’ve chastised myself for not doing anything about it.  What’s worse is it probably won’t be the last, either.  I’m stuck in a rut I don’t know how to get out of, caught in a cycle I can’t seem to break.  If my problem is summing up the willpower to do anything then how can I solve that problem if I can’t sum up the willpower to do it?  The solution is the problem, what I need is what I lack.

Or are these just more excuses, reasons I’ve come up with so that I don’t have to try?  Am I self-aware or in denial?  Am I trying to find the source of my flaws or simply justifying them?   Do I even want to change?

I don’t know.

Part VI


The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, and as Gabriel stepped into the garden their fragrance enveloped his body like silken sheets, stopping him dead in his tracks.  He inhaled deeply, eyes closed in euphoria.  The courtyard’s walls kept most of the scent from dispersing out amongst the rest of the village, and the result was a concentrated atmosphere of tranquility.

The teen walked along the path admiring the flora, the ground at his feet littered with little pink flowers that had already begun to fall from the trees.  He came to a bench and sat down before a particularly picturesque scene, taking the opportunity to gather his thoughts.

Gabriel was a prisoner.  He’d been sent to the Government Village two months ago as a mechanic/technician, to serve at their beck and call.  Word of his aptitude for all things technological had reached the walled-off village after one of the Government Leaders his father served under mentioned the need for such a person.  His father had been all too happy to offer up his son as tribute, effectively taking him off his hands.  As a matter of fact, Gabriel thought begrudgingly, the only hard part about sending me away was having to admit that I might actually be good for something.

His father had come to him in the middle of the night, shaking him awake.

“Come.”  Knowing better than to question him Gabriel quickly hopped out of bed, hands shaking as he dressed himself under his father’s gaze, penetrating even in the dark.  He remembered thinking the time had finally come; the moment he’d always known was looming just beyond the horizon.  His father would take him out to street level, maybe walk him a few blocks away from the Cleanser housing units, and then he would put a bullet in his brain.  But it hadn’t come.

Instead they’d been met by a transporter just outside the building’s front door, engine rumbling idly in the night.

“Get in,” he’d said, and once again Gabriel had obeyed without a word.  He’d stepped into the passenger seat, closing the door behind him, and then they had pulled off.  He remembered watching his father’s silhouette slowly disappear in the rear-view mirror, and for a brief and ridiculous moment Gabriel considered telling the driver to stop, that they’d forgotten his father and couldn’t leave without him.  He’d never so much as left their apartment without his father; though it had never been explicitly stated the threat of what would come after was more than enough to dissuade him from exploring.

And now he was living on his own, was free to roam the Government Village at his leisure, and only had to answer to his mentor on the job.  At first the newfound liberty had been more than overwhelming, and he’d spent all his free time holed up in the little shed they’d given him, in constant fear that so much as a step outside without their permission would result in severe penalties.  On the fourth day his mentor had come by with a grim look on his face.

“See this?” he’d asked him, grabbing the door’s handle and making a dramatic show of opening and closing it.  “It opens from the inside too, believe it or not.  You’re free to come and go as you please.”  Gabriel had stared back at him, unsure of how to respond.  His mentor sighed, running a hand through his hair.  “Look- you’re Cassius’ kid, right?  I get it; we all know what that man is capable of, and I can’t even imagine what it must have been like living with him.  I mean shit, look at what happened to the first two.  But that’s over now.  You got out, kid!  You’re free.  Now start acting like it.”

And he had.  Slowly, ever so slowly, but he had.  Jules, his mentor, had taken him around the Village on a tour of sorts, and for the first week or so after that he’d made sure Gabriel got out of the shed at least once a day.  He’d still felt uncomfortable going out on his own, far less actually doing things when he was out, but as the days turned into weeks his mind settled into it.  It wasn’t long before he found himself admiring his new surroundings.  Even the work was engaging, not to mention he’d taken a liking to Jules almost immediately.

“Things work around here,” he’d told him on one of their walks through the village.  “It’s like clockwork.  Everyone has a job, everything has a purpose.  And no one steps out of line because they don’t have a need to.”  Jules had an uncanny ability to guess what you were thinking and answer questions before you asked them, something that came as an immense relief to Gabriel, whose conversational skills were shaky at best.

“What they’ve accomplished here is nothing short of revolutionary, Gabe – do you mind if I call you Gabe?”  Before he could so much as open his mouth to respond Jules was off again, describing in detail all the Village’s accomplishments.  “You want food?  We have more than enough.  Or we would, if production wasn’t regulated to ensure minimum wastage.  You want something to do?  Jobs and tasks are delegated based on what you want to do, provided you’re good at it, of course.  The remaining jobs are divided up amongst everyone, the system ensuring everyone does their share.  You want security?  What could be more secure than a fifty foot wall surrounding the entire northwest corner, and the Cube itself covering the southeast?”  As he spoke he gestured up towards the wall, and Gabriel’s eyes followed his finger up towards the top.  The wall was indeed impressive, and dauntingly so.  The Village had been built up in the Cube’s utmost southeast corner, taking advantage of the pre-existing security it offered.  All that had been left was to build a wall around the vulnerable side, and they had done just that.

The result had protected the Village from countless assaults from the outside, from both Rebels and gangs and even the occasional desperate and solitary Scavenger.  Many had tried to scale or blow through the wall and many had failed, their bodies littering the base before being picked off by wild animals.  Cleanser guards and Hell Robots constantly patrolled the top, watching for signs of an impending attack.

“It’s a utopia, Gabe.  A perfect society.”  Jules spread his arms wide, gesturing to all that surrounded them.  “It’s perfect.”  Gabriel watched him with a mix of reverence and confusion.  His loyalty and sheer faith in the Village was admirable, but how could he say it was perfect when just outside those walls people were killing one another daily?  When Cleansers were carrying out mass genocides – and on the Government’s orders no less?  It was then that Gabriel had realized two things: first; like most if not all of the Village’s occupants, Jules truly and wholly believed in the cause, and second; as nice as his new home may have been, at the end of the day Gabriel was a prisoner.

His mental sorting was abruptly interrupted when someone walked over and sat down beside him on the bench.  Out of the corner of his eye Gabriel determined it was a woman, somewhere in her late forties.  She wore a suit, crisp and elegant, and practically radiated an aura of importance.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, in a way that suggested she really meant it, and wasn’t simply using it as a pleasantry.  “I always try and make it down for the blooming at least once a season.  The courtyard is probably my favourite place in all the Village, to tell you the truth.”  She paused, and in the silence they watched the flowers drift down from the branches, landing ever so delicately amongst their kin on the ground.  “You’re Cassius’ son, aren’t you?” she said eventually, and once again it wasn’t a question.  “A pity, if you don’t mind me saying.  It’s a travesty that men like him even exist, to be quite frank.  Worse still is the fact that we require his – and so many others’ – services, yet the ends always justifies the means.”  And what end could possibly justify something like this? he thought, and she seemed to guess his thoughts just as Jules did, because she continued: “What we’re doing here is ugly, there’s no denying that.  It’s an awful, dirty business, but it has to be done.  It has to be done,” she repeated firmly, in a tone that sent a shudder down his spine.

“The village is incredible and wonderful, to be sure, but it’s not enough.”  She balled her hands into fists, a motion Gabriel was not entirely sure was done consciously.  “We need to expand.  We need the rest of the city, and that can never happen so long as the broken remains of that old society remain.  Those remnants cannot be allowed to endure, to continue spreading their violence and corruption from one generation to the next.  Like a disease,” she said, the word laced with venom and contempt.  “A disease that must be cured.  Cleansed, if you will.”  She gave a thin smile, but Gabriel found nothing amusing about the word.

“And of course we cannot do it ourselves, and not just because we don’t have the numbers.  To taint our citizens with that disease, with that taste for violence and evil, would be to doom our civilization just as so many others before ours were.  No, it cannot be us.  It has to be them.”  She took a deep breath, and for the first time since sitting beside him she turned to face Gabriel.  “So you understand now why we tolerate men like your father, why his kind are an unfortunate necessity.”  For a moment Gabriel was lost, but then it clicked: she was apologizing to him!  Or at least as close to an apology as she could manage, which happened to be more of an explanation, and a shoddy one at that.  He considered telling her this but held back, and not just because he wasn’t good at confrontation.  He knew better than to jeopardize his already precarious position.  He had to tread carefully, and if that meant silence then at least it was familiar territory.

She was still staring at him, apparently expecting a response of some kind, but before long she gave up, once again turning her attention to the trees.  “Did you know the courtyard was designed specifically to contain the cherry blossoms’ fragrance?  The walls keep it from dispersing amongst the rest of the village, so visitors are gifted the full effect of the beauty they have to offer.  Inside these walls you feel relaxed, feel safe.  It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”  She inhaled deeply, just as Gabriel himself had done upon first walking in.  “Beautiful.”

She stood, looking down on Gabriel with that thin smile again.  “I hope to see more of you as we move forward, Gabriel.  I expect great things from you.”  And then she’d left, leaving Gabriel to the trees.  He looked up at the courtyard’s walls, thinking about what she’d said.  Inside these walls you feel relaxed, feel safe.  And yet…

And yet it was all an illusion, because just outside those walls the rest of the village was scentless, deprived of the beauty the blossoms had to offer.  The entire village was an illusion.  A good one, mind you, but an illusion nonetheless.  They could sit around pretending the whole world smelt like cherry blossoms all they wanted, but just beyond those walls the city was in chaos.  They tried to hide from it, to keep their hands from getting dirty, but dirt had a funny way of getting where you least expected it.

And Gabriel was not looking forward to being on the wrong side of the wall when it did.

Part V


Celia walked through desolate streets, bordered on both sides by the timeworn remains of buildings long since abandoned.  It was quiet; even the city birds flew from rooftop to rooftop with little more than a gust of wind to mark their presence.  She walked with a careful confidence, boldly marching through while keeping an eye open for anything out of the ordinary.  The quiet may have unnerved others, but Celia thrived in it.  It gave her a strange sense of power, being the only one who not only dared to break the silence but did it without so much as an attempt to cover it up.  She studied the buildings as she went along, looking for one in particular.  Things had changed since she’d last been there, vines of various plants entwining the concrete and forcing themselves into even the smallest of crevices, pushing pieces apart as they grew.  They would break the buildings, and yet it was those very same vines which kept them together after they were broken.

Yes, things had changed, but Celia was certain she would recognize her building as soon as she saw it.  And she did.

Expecting some sort of change, she almost overlooked it, but did a double take and stopped in her tracks right in front of the doorway.  Like its neighbouring buildings, the never-resting vines that seemed hell-bent on covering the entire city had snaked their way around its front, covering some of the wall and slipping through empty window panes and chips in the wall, but other than that there had been no apparent change to the building she had once called home.  Breathing heavily, which she assured herself was a result of the backpack’s weight on her shoulders, Celia began walking towards the gaping hole in the wall where the front door and a window had once stood.  Ducking under a jumble of thick iron rods, long since aged with rust, she stepped over a cluster of concrete debris from the remains of the wall and entered the first floor.  It was, aside from the coating of dust that now covered every available surface, and the vines once again making their presence known, exactly how she, how they, had left it.

She trailed her hand across a table where they had lain one of their friends when they’d been forced to extract a bullet, walked on the floor where they had sat in a circle planning for the future, stepped into a large empty room where they had practiced hand-to-hand combat with one another, all a lifetime ago.  As she made her way through the building, reminiscing on times lived and lost, she kept one goal in mind; the goal that had driven this trip down memory lane in the first place.  Glancing around doors and checking every hiding spot she could remember, she did her best to find him, drawing the line at calling his name aloud.  The silence that she had been queen of moments before was now smothering; it was a sleeping beast she dared not wake, a delicate object she treaded around lightly lest she break it.  It would have made things too easy, ended her search too soon.  If she called his name and received no answer, it would be indisputable evidence of his absence.  She found it easier to let herself down slower, one floor of the building at a time, gradually using up all her hope until she reached the top.  That way, she reasoned, if she did not find him at least it would not come as a huge blow, all at once and overwhelming.  As she continued on, with no luck in finding any signs of recent human activity, the sadness and the nervousness gradually gave way to simple rapture at being able to relive the memories, both good and bad.  She almost completely forgot her original purpose, so enthralled as she was in her reminiscences.  A broken railing that Andrew, in a fleeting moment of immaturity, had decided to slide down made her laugh aloud, and a shattered windowpane only a few floors from the top had her holding back tears.  Finally though, the anticlimactic conclusion to her travel through time came when she pushed open the rusty, stiff hinges of the door to an empty rooftop.

The wind gently tugged at her clothes, a soothing, calming feeling coursing through her veins trying to combat the sudden feeling of emptiness that was now making its home in her heart.  She picked her way around several dry bushes that had sprung up through the gravel covering the ground, making her way towards the billboard that stood tall and proud over the city on the roof’s edge.  What it had once advertised there had long since faded, beaten into submission by the weather’s elements, and now all that visibly remained was a dark purple collage of various shades, plaster peeling away in several areas to reveal the brown board beneath.  She climbed the ladder to the platform two rungs at a time, and stood on the edge for a moment, watching over the city, over her city, with hands on her hips in a dominant, proud gesture before sitting down with her back resting against the board and her legs swinging over the edge.  She closed her eyes and imagined a star filled sky, a warm body sitting next to hers, a hand in her hand.  When she opened her eyes she was utterly alone.

Celia climbed down from the ladder, and made her way back down through the building, two steps at a time.  Andrew would be getting antsy, and she still hadn’t gotten to the real purpose of her detour.

The rumours were well known around the base; she was certain if Andrew had known the location he would have put two and two together, but thankfully she’d managed to keep that little piece of information to herself.  A serial killer, almost certainly male, was said to have ‘claimed’ the street, using it as his culling grounds.  Naturally the Chief had sent sentries to look in on the stories, whose origins despite efforts were never pinned down, but nothing came up conclusive and they were shortly withdrawn for more productive assignments.  After all, Rebels were in as short supply as they were in great demand, and manpower could not be wasted.

“As unfortunate as it is, I have more pressing issues on my hands at the moment,” he had said in a brief meeting to address the matter.  “Mainly those which actually pose an immediate threat to Rebel lives, Cleansers being the most significant.”

Which, of course, Celia understood.  She and the Chief may not have seen eye to eye whenever they met, and they often locked horns on certain issues, but at least she understood him.  Agreeing with him though was another matter entirely.

She had always been an instinctive person, and her instincts had told her there was more to the rumours than the Chief believed.  The fact that he had issued a warning to any Rebels considering undertaking a personal investigation outside of the base, and that this had immediately bristled her rebellious personality, had had nothing to do with her decision to do just that.  And even if it had, what was the point of being a Rebel who couldn’t rebel?

The story about the building falling and obstructing the path hadn’t been made up to give her an excuse to go; rather it was the excuse she had been waiting for since deciding to check the area out.  You couldn’t get out of the base without a valid reason, meaning approval from the Chief, and it wasn’t like sneaking out was an option.  She wanted to get more out of her job, not lose it.  So, as much as she hated it, she was forced to be patient for some time.  And then the building had come up, mentioned by chance by Garry while working on an explosive in the base’s lab, or as he liked to call it, the garage.

“Where is this?” she had asked immediately, recognizing the street name from studying the map of the area.

“Codaline Street, I think?”  It wasn’t the one where the murderer had been rumoured to be, but it was close enough for her to take a detour without it taking a suspicious amount of time out of her schedule.

“I know that area!  Hey, if you want, Garry, I could go check it out for you.”

“Well… I don’t know…” he pulled at a wire, his eyes averted from her own.  In their time together he had apparently come to learn that eye contact brought him one step closer to submission.  “I mean, shouldn’t the Surveyors do that?  It might be dangerous for you.”

“You haven’t reported it to them yet, have you?”  This was met with more wire-picking.

“No…” he admitted eventually.

“Well, then great!  I’ll just swoop down there quick as a wink and check it out for you.”

“But Celia-”

“Garry, it’s okay,” she soothed.  She didn’t want to work him into a panic; he would occasionally get frustrated and start acting out, more often than not inflicting harm on himself.  “It’ll be fine.  I’ll be fine, Garry.”  He had balled his hands into fists and they were now raised up to his temples; not a good sign.  “Garry, listen to me.  Garry.  Are you listening?”  He still wouldn’t look at her, but he managed a nod.  “It’s okay.  What are you so worried about?”

“I don’t want you to get into trouble with the Chief again.”

“You know I won’t get in trouble with the Chief.  I’m too smart to let that happen!”  This earned her a quick laugh and a second of eye contact, but he shut back down right after.  “Garry, why would I get in trouble with the Chief?  What I’m doing isn’t bad, it’s good!”  Finally he lowered his hands from his head, resting them on the table.  He looked into her eyes, but suddenly she found something about his gaze unnerving.

“I know you, Celia Fletcher.  I know you, and I know when you’re up to no good.”  She faked a perplexed smile, trying to hide how his words had shaken her.  Garry was always doing things like that; you thought you had him all figured out and then he would pull the rug out from under your feet by saying something completely unexpected.

“Garry, what on earth are you talking about?”  At this he had looked back down to the explosive’s parts, arranged on the table before them.

“Don’t talk to me like you’re one of them.  You promised you wouldn’t talk to me like one of them.”

“You’re right,” she said after an uncomfortable pause.  “I did promise.  And I’m sorry.  But I won’t get in trouble.  I promise.  I’ll be extra careful, just for you.”  It was then that he said something which scared her more than anything in recent times had scared her before.  His eyes had met hers, and she’d felt the severity of what he was about to say before his mouth even opened.

“Celia, I have a bad feeling.  A bad one.  If you go looking for the seeing man, something bad is going to happen to you and to everybody else.”

There was a moment where neither of them said anything, Garry seeming to study her face to gauge the effect of his words while she herself tried to puzzle them out, doing her best to push aside the inexplicable cold feeling they had left in her heart.  She had opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, and that was when her Digifile had pinged with a notification.  Relieved at the excuse to pry her gaze away from his, she murmured an excuse me before reaching for the device.

“I’ve been assigned a recon mission with Andrew,” she had said, whispering without noticing.  “We’re going to check on a possible Cleanser building.”

“Don’t go, Celia.”  She looked up in surprise.  Somehow Garry’s presence had escaped her attention.

“It’s a direct order from the Chief, Garry.  Whatever it is, it must be important.  I can’t just ignore a direct order from the Chief.  Not if I want to avoid getting in trouble, like you said I should.  Besides, it’s nowhere-” she had been about to say “it’s nowhere near the street with the collapsed building”, but just before she did she read the location and noticed that it was in fact more or less on the route there.

“Nowhere what?”

“Ah- nothing.  Look, I’ve got to go.  Don’t finish this thing without me, okay?”


“I have to go, Garry.  Andrew’s probably already waiting.”

“Celia!”  But she had kept walking, ignoring Garry as he called after her and ignoring the stares of the other Rebels in the garage.

The visit to the building had been another happy coincidence; she had of course been aware of its location, forever imprinted in her memory, and had subconsciously sensed as she neared it, but she had refused to admit to herself that it played any part in her decision to travel there.  It was simply on the way, and she had taken the reasonable opportunity to revisit it.

But now she meant business, and forced herself to focus.  All other thoughts and feelings had been set aside for the time being, allowing her to put her undivided attention towards finding the killer.  It wasn’t a question of whether or not he existed -she could feel in her gut that the rumours were true- but rather of whether or not she would be able to find him.  After all, the sentries had already come and gone, turning up nothing in the two days they had investigated the area, and she would only have a matter of minutes, at most half-an-hour.  Any more than that and Andrew would know something was up.  Not that he would ever rat her out to the Chief, but he would be extremely angry if he found out, and it would take him weeks to forgive her.  Sure, he would forgive her eventually, but it was still a long time, and if she had the option to avoid it altogether, which she did, then she would.  So, unrealistic time limit it was.  Thankfully there was one card up her sleeve; something that the sentries had almost certainly lacked.  She was alone, small in stature, and appeared to be unarmed, all of which would, if everything went according to plan, make her irresistible to a murderer.  Celia wasn’t planning on finding the killer.  She was planning on having the killer find her.

She turned right at the intersection, supressing the urge to turn back and give her building one final glance, and found herself passing a street sign that read ‘Web St.’  She stopped directly before the white line that seemed to indicate where one street ended and the next one started, the toes of her shoes lightly kissing the paint in a tempting, almost taunting display of indecisiveness.  Celia stood there with the whole world ahead of her and the whole world behind her, and the whole world was nothing more than one long stretch of road, and she felt insignificant.  She felt alone.

She felt powerful.

Right foot first, she stepped over the line and walked onto Web Street.

A strange feeling overcame her, and it took her a moment to realize that she had been expecting some sort of change once she took the first steps, but nothing happened.  It was just another street, not unlike any other.

Except it wasn’t.  Not if the rumours, and her instincts, were to be believed.

The trick would be to get the killer’s attention without scaring him into hiding.  A murderer didn’t get to be the source of so many rumours by being stupid, and he would have almost certainly perfected the art of caution.  If she began firing off rounds into the sky and screaming her head off chances were he would stay hidden, and reasonably so.  On the other hand walking through undetected would be just as ineffective.  Her hopes were currently sided with the probability that he would be watching the street for passersby, the apparent preferred method of catching victims amongst the serial killers that had run-ins with the Rebels.  If that didn’t work she knew she would have to improvise, meaning a delay that she couldn’t afford to have.  Her tour of the building had already taken up more time than she had planned; any longer and as much as she hated to even contemplate the notion she might have to call the whole thing off, if not for a later date.  Her brow furrowed at the thought.  No.  It wouldn’t happen.  The fact that things had worked out so well for her in getting the chance to not only get out of the base but to also be given a time limit-lenient assignment, so close to the location, was proof to her that this had been meant to happen.  Proof that it wasn’t all for nothing.  Proof that something would happen here, and the matter would be closed.  For Celia, it was as good as physical evidence.

She felt so full of energy that for a moment the thought actually occurred to her that he might somehow see it in her and stay hidden, and she forced her shoulders to slump into what she hoped would convey a more defeated, vulnerable state.  After all, it wasn’t that ridiculous to assume he would be able to read her body language.  Not in a place where it was the first and potentially last source of information for determining if you were dealing with a friend or foe.  People lied; it was as simple as that.  Lying was something Celia knew a lot about.  People lied, but very rarely did their bodies.  Their actions conveyed more than they wanted or even knew.  Not to mention more often than not you wouldn’t even get to the discussion part of the encounter to give them a chance to lie.  One of the unspoken rules of the city was shoot first, ask questions later.  Using someone’s body language to interpret their intentions, behaviour, or even a general idea of what kind of person they were was an invaluable, if not necessary skill.

She was now almost halfway down the street, and had yet to see any sign of life.  Shit.  She was drawing to the point where she would have to take more involved action in drawing the killer out.  That would mean making noise.  Which might draw in more than one killer, likely more than she would be able to handle.  In the ensuing chaos she might be able to kill whoever it was along with her target, at the very least escaping with her life, but it wasn’t something she was looking forward to.  This was partially untrue; some part of her craved the chaos, and it was no small part either, but rationale convinced her it would be best to stick with the plan, for once.  Something about the day had unsettled her.  She felt strange, as though the ground beneath her feet was slightly angled and she had only just realized it.  It took her a moment to identify this sensation, because it was one she was quite unfamiliar with; she felt uneasy, vulnerable.  Celia felt cautious, for the first time in a long time.  In that moment it didn’t occur to her that this was a result of Garry’s ominous warning, which was exactly what it would turn out to be.  Part of it, at least.

She was passing by an alleyway a few feet before the first intersection of the road when she heard the noise echoing out from its walls.  It sounded like metal knocking against metal, but faint and somehow hollow.  She stopped directly in front of the space between the two buildings and stared down into the passage.  The sun’s rays were angled to its left and as such only the top of the right hand building was illuminated.  The rest was shielded from the light, shadowed but still visible.  The alleyway itself was cluttered with various unidentifiable things, their details smudged out by the darkness.  A fire escape clung to the wall of the building on her right, the stairs descending from the top floor and opening up into a platform at every subsequent floor’s emergency exit.  Its final platform stopped just before the last floor, the ladder to connect this final stretch to the ground hoisted up in its track and folded across the platform’s floor.  With only subliminal interest she noticed something bunched up on the platform next to the ladder, pieces of whatever it was hanging off the sides and seemingly through the grating, but she paid it little attention.  The noise came again, seeming louder, although she suspected that was only because now she had been listening for if not expecting it.  With cautious motions, her eyes surveying the area as her feet seemed to glide through the air crossing over one another and stepping over the gravel without a sound, she walked towards the alleyway stopping just before its entrance where the light gave way to darkness.  She would later remember having a distinct feeling of no, of this is wrong.  A distinct feeling of danger.

But hand in hand with this warning instinct had been one of inevitableness, one of unavoidable consequences set in stone.  She felt like her future was already written out for her, and that there was nothing left to do but play on in her preordained role.

She stepped into the alley.

The change in temperature was immediate and obvious, and she pounced upon the opportunity to accuse it as the sole source of the chill that suddenly caused her body to give an abrupt shiver.  Now that she was out of the light and her eyes had adjusted Celia could make out the items in the alley.  A large dumpster, filled with the useless and decomposing remains of a civilization long since faded from living memory, several rusting machines of unidentifiable purpose, stacked up against one another in a careless heap, a pile of what appeared to be nothing more than rubble from the ruins of buildings that had been worn down by time, the pile itself reaching almost up to Celia’s waist.  The items continued down the list only adding to the peculiarity of this miscellaneous and seemingly random collection, all of which only had one thing in common: they all distracted and diverted Celia’s attention, as they had with every other unfortunate and now deceased soul who had found themselves walking that very same ground, towards the very same sound which had first caught their interest.  She found herself unconsciously studying each thing, wary of hidden dangers, still searching for the source of the noise, or perhaps simply conditioned by the world she had grown up in to simply be aware of her surroundings, to always be on the lookout for things that could be of use or present a threat.  Regardless, as such her vision rarely left the things to her direct left and right; despite her slow, cautious pace she was still too preoccupied with studying every item carefully for her eyes to absorb the information before she had only just walked past each one.  Her sight, aside from a few fleeting glances to confirm the absence of an immediate threat, did not study what lay ahead of her in the alley.  This was the exact intent that had been in mind when those items had first been collected there several months before, and this seemingly innocent slip-up was her undoing, just as it had been the fatal flaw of the ones before her.

She was below the fire escape’s platform now, and her eyes did a double take as she noticed an object at the base of the right side wall.  It was an effigy, the evidence of its longevity and neglect etched across its surface in the form of cracks and chips. What remained was propped up against the wall to balance its broken base and keep it from sustaining injuries from another fall, of which it appeared to have endured many, now barely holding itself together.  As if in ignorance (or spite) of this fact, the face of the knee-height statue was a childish display of superiority, its protruded tongue and sneering grin seeming to mock Celia from where it rested at her feet.  Something about the statue annoyed her, even upset her, possibly more than it should have, and she felt the sudden urge to quell her repulsion with a swift kick to its head, or perhaps a good stomp or two.  Before she could decide the best way to wipe that smug expression from its face, she heard the noise a third time, this time from directly above her.  Instinctively, just as the others before her had, and just as had been planned, she looked up to its source.  Hanging down from a string that looped around the grates of the fire escape platform were two rusty tin cans, empty and open at the top.  A faint breeze passed overhead, and they rattled once more, clanging against one another in such a way that it seemed as though they were almost asserting their innocence.  Look, Celia, we’re nothing more than two tin cans, blowing in the wind.  Nothing ominous here.  She continued to stare at them, almost transfixed, unknowingly taking a step closer.  The tins rattled again, and suddenly there was nothing innocent about them; the sound was that of bones rattling against one another as they hit the ground, the faint whistling as wind passed through the cans a scream in the dark.  Celia took a step back, and that was when she activated the snare trap.

At first her eyes shut reflexively, although she wouldn’t have been able to make sense of what had happened even if they had stayed open; everything moved too fast for her mind to take in.  When she did reopen them her vision swam, the image swaying and moving before she could discern what she was seeing.  Her body was in pain but she could not tell where or why; a confused and overall ache seemed to dominate her senses, a distinct feeling of being constricted, of something pressing against her body everywhere.  She felt like she was being smothered, being squeezed.  Vomit rose – or did it rise?  Who could tell what was rising and what was falling? – in her throat and she quickly swallowed it back down with a grimace; she knew, just as she had known there was a real danger on Web Street (ha-ha, joke’s on you now, isn’t it Celia?) that if she threw up now she would drown on it.  The panic had not yet settled in; it was trying desperately, she could feel it at the back of her throat just like the vomit, ready and eager to bubble over and drown her, but she swallowed that too and forced her mind to settle, to think clearly despite the insistent and urgent ringing of warning alarms.  She closed her eyes to block out the motion sickness, and waited until she felt her body’s swaying motions slow to a rest before opening them again.  After a moment for her vision to adjust and absorb what she was seeing, she was able to piece together what had happened.

She was looking through a black mesh of strings crossing over one another in an endless sea of X’s, and through the holes in the net she could see the ground of the alley several feet below.  Craning her neck to look upwards, she moaned in dismay and horror as she saw how horribly wrong her body was twisted up in itself, crushed in the tight net.  She felt sure something was broken.  Her left arm in particular seemed bent at an unnatural angle, and she hesitated to move it but sighed in relief when she did and felt nothing more than a dull ache.  Above her she could see where the net tied off, the rope then feeding through the grates of the fire escape platform’s floor.  Shifting her body into as comfortable and ideal a position as she could manage, she tried to reach up for the tie-off, intending on trying to untie or loosen it, but she found she could not reach it.  Her arms were too tightly pressed together, and her weight pulled on the net making it taunt and impossible to manipulate or stretch in her favour.  She groaned in frustration, hating the feeling of being immobile even more than the thought that she had fallen for something as obvious as a trap.

Something was digging painfully into her lower back, and she shifted again to try and ease the pressure, so focused on relieving the pain that she did not even stop to think what the source could be.  She squirmed, carefully and decisively at first, but growing more and more frantic as her efforts were met with failure.  She began to thrash around violently, biting her lip to keep back the screams of frustration (and yes, she might as well admit it, of fear) until she began to bleed, the warm liquid filling her mouth with its unmistakable metallic tang.  The thing beneath her continued to pierce her back.  Pierce.  She repeated the thought with a sudden clarity, and grinned despite the pain and fear.  Shifting once more, this time onto her side as best she could, Celia bent her arm behind her back and tried to reach the place where her knife was tucked in its sheath, on the left side of her lower back.  Certain she would dislocate her arm long before any progress was made, she fought to not only ignore the complaining ache of her joints but to push the limits even further.  When her fingers brushed the leather-wrapped hilt of the kukri she gasped in surprise, so convinced of the futility of her situation that she had thought the knife to be nowhere near within reach.  As she inhaled her arm was pulled back and her hand drew away from the knife.  Realizing what had happened she quickly emptied as much air from her lungs as possible, and with astounding effectiveness her fingers once more found themselves pressing against the knife.  Still holding her breath out, she began to fumble for a grasp on the hilt, which proved to be the most trying part of her ordeal.  It seemed the miracle that she was able to reach the knife was nothing more than a cruel tease; one final joke, played on her.

Eventually she could hold her breath no longer: her body screamed for oxygen, lungs burning and chest constricting.  She inhaled deeply, sucking in the air with bittersweet relief.  Immediately her fingers began to once more draw away from the knife, almost theatrically so.  She tried to get her breathing back down to a regulated rhythm, one she could use to prepare for holding her breath again, but her body was still recovering from the oxygen deprivation and her breaths were deep and long, impossible to slow.  She was forced to wait for almost a minute as her body calmed and settled back into its regular rhythm, and each agonizing second felt like a minute in itself, knowing her time was short.  You didn’t just set up a trap and leave it.

Someone would be coming for her.

Fucking Like

Alright, so I’m not going to lie: the lack of feedback on my novel has been disappointing, which really sucks because the feedback that I have received has been incredibly helpful.  I feel it’s important to establish that I wasn’t looking for glowing reviews and unending praise.  I mean obviously that would have been nice, but what I really wanted was some sign that it was anything other than unremarkable.

An artist’s worst fear isn’t rejection; it’s indifference.  The sole purpose of art is to provoke a reaction in its audience, be it admiration, fear, awe, disgust or anything else.  To have your work accepted without a sound is like having the word “unremarkable” written across your forehead.  Unremarkable.  Not good, not bad, just… unremarkable.

Whoever invented the “like” button clearly wasn’t an artist, because no artist in their right mind would ever settle for something as curt and hollow as a “like” in response to their work.  “How does it make you feel?”  Like.  “What do you think the message is?”  Like.  “What does it mean to you?”  Like.

Like.  Like, I liked it, but not enough to go into depth about what I thought of it.  Or, yeah, I didn’t really like it, but to say that would be rude, so Like.

And what’s so wrong with saying you didn’t like it?  That’s good!  It means there’s a reason you didn’t like it, and once you tell them they can address the problem!  Can you imagine if no one gave constructive criticism?  If schoolteachers simply gave all assignments back with a “thumbs-up” stamp on the front?  We would never learn from our mistakes!  We would never be able to fix what’s wrong, to grow as individuals.

I feel kind of stupid complaining about this, but I created this blog so that I could have somewhere to unload my thoughts, and this has been bothering me for a while now.  I’m so sick of people biting their metaphorical tongues just because they’re afraid of offending someone.

Before all this I felt alone, stranded on an island with only my thoughts to keep me company and no one to share them with.  I had all these things I had to say and no one I felt I could say them to, so when I found this place and these people you can imagine the relief I felt in my heart.  I’d finally found somewhere I could speak my mind and have other people do the same, a place where the silence didn’t exist.

Please don’t take that away from me now.

Part IV


Detective Mike Maloney looked around the room and sighed.  He turned a concerned eye to his companions, two soldiers whose faces were blanched a sickly shade of white.  The man, a youth named Jeffery Nar, was cradling his stomach in one arm.  He had the look of someone who was only now realizing the magnitude of what they had gotten into.  The woman’s name was Penny Sapp, and in the little time spent with her Mike had determined that her most striking and impressionable feature, her fiery red hair, was also an eerily accurate reflection of her personality.  The room had had a sobering effect on her though, as it had for all of them, and like a wet blanket thrown over a flame she seemed smothered, weighed down.   She was clearly making an effort to put on a brave face, but slight tremors of hand and pale complexion betrayed her discomfort.

“Hey.”  At the sound of his voice Penny looked up, jumping a little, and Mike winced inwardly.  “You might want to loosen up.”  He gestured with one hand towards her weapon, and her eyes followed his motion, resting on the source of his concern with surprise; she held the automatic in an evidently unconscious death grip, the skin on her hands even more pale than that of the rest of her body from clenching the gun.  She quickly removed one finger from the trigger, which Mike noticed with dread bounced back up as soon as she let it go.  “We wouldn’t want you squeezing off any rounds in here.  There’s enough blood as it is without you going and adding more.”  Sapp nodded, red in the face with embarrassment.  With almost morbid cheeriness, Mike decided the flush was better than no colour at all, and in fact seemed to go quite well with her hair and freckles.  This thought he (understandably) kept to himself.

The last two members of his small party had stayed outside to stand guard, a position his sickly companions no doubt now wished they’d taken.  His apprentice-in-training, a youth of 20 named Patrick Anderson, was one of the envied.  Mike had tried to coerce Patrick into entering the room with them, in an attempt to take advantage of the situation and use it to further his training, but the apprentice had taken no more than two steps into the area before his stomach gave way and he was forced back outside to regurgitate what little food he had eaten for breakfast.  The fifth and final member, a third soldier, also male, had stayed outside at Mike’s instruction to stand guard, an order he had been all too happy to accept.

The room was at the top of an eight story building, tucked away in the back of an apartment.  It had taken the team a good half hour to find it, after searching through the majority of the top floor’s apartments.  The scout who had first stumbled upon the room hadn’t specified in his message back to the base as to which room number it had been, and his subsequent apparent disappearance had made things all the more inconvenient for the investigation (and, if the need and/or opportunity arose, rescue) team.

The scout, who had been identified in the assignment details sent out to the team as Damien West, had been on a routine patrol of Block 1 earlier that morning.  The first alert had been sent back to the base at 8:24, and it stated that he thought he had heard screams coming from a building on Fir Street, address 10611, and was planning on investigating.  The reply, sent by whichever of the base’s responders West had connected to at the time, had ordered him to stay in place and wait for backup, and if at all possible he was to continue to covertly assess the situation in the meantime.  This was received at 8:26, at the same time that a copy of the assignment details was sent to each of Mike’s team members’ Digifiles.  It was a good eight minutes before West finally replied, and in the space between the responder sent several messages ordering him to confirm that the message had been received.  When West finally did reply, it was brusque and filled with spelling mistakes, giving the impression of having been written in distress and under pressure.  The message said that he had entered the building and followed the screams to the top floor, where after some searching had found a room filled with blood.  The responder had quickly sent an update to Mike’s team, and had asked West for more information, reminding him to remain covert.  To this the responder had received no reply, and after a second message ordering him to respond passed without an answer, they had flagged the assignment as urgent and a potentially dangerous situation.  By this time the group had organized, and at 8:54, exactly half-an-hour after the first message, the quintet set off for 10611.

The first thing Mike noted upon arrival was an apparent lack of the alleged screams, or for that matter an apparent lack of anything that might raise suspicions.  Rather than reassure them though, as it so often did the dead calm of the city unnerved the Rebels, raising the hairs on their arms like a kind of primal alert system.  The building itself had no telltale differences or unique traits, but as they passed through its empty double doorway, stepping out of the warmth of the morning sun and into the shadow of the interior, a chill that had nothing to do with the sudden drop in temperature came over them all.  A distinctly ominous feeling seemed to hang over the atmosphere, made no better by the beams of their flashlights, which only penetrated one kind of darkness.  With dread in their hearts they had ascended the stairs all the way to the top, where they began their search for the room covered in blood.

All regrets and personal definitions of the word aside, the search had been successful, more so than any of them had been expecting.  A room covered in blood was just too vague a phrase; it sounded like an exaggeration, too fluffy and casual to be accurate.  And yet what the team eventually found not only met the description of their lost comrade, it surpassed them.

The room was lit by a single amber lightbulb which hung from the ceiling, producing more noise than illumination as it steadily droned on with the unmistakeable sound of a dying bulb.  This alone broke the otherwise all-encompassing blood; these two things aside the room was visibly empty.  And with so much blood, it was almost understandable (in a hysterical reasoning kind of way) that there would be nothing else.  “Well of course there was nothing else, it was full of blood!  There was no room for anything else!  It was everywhere!”

It was indeed everywhere, or at least as close to everywhere as was physically possible.  The air itself was thick with the unmistakeable metallic scent, so much so that Mike could almost taste it.  The ceiling seemed to ripple and pulse in the light, a horrible living thing, as gravity forced the liquid to converge in certain areas before the strain grew too great, pulling the drops to the ground in a grisly red rain.  Both soldiers had already had the misfortune of being directly beneath several of these drops when their time had come, and they now had some poor (not to mention almost certainly recently deceased) soul’s body fluids matted in their hair and on the shoulders and back of their clothes.  Mike had so far been a combination of lucky and strategic, glancing upwards every few seconds to make certain he was in the clear.

The walls were equally as drenched, and the blood ran down in seemingly ceaseless streams.  Mike walked over to the nearest wall, and without hesitation he pressed a single finger into the surface.  It slid into the red just short of half a centimeter deep, and the flow began to pass around the sudden obstacle, some of it running over his finger and onto his hand.  Grimacing in both disgust and awe at the sheer volume of it all, he withdrew his finger, wiping the liquid off on the seat of his pants and ignoring the stain it had left on his skin.

The ground was by far the worst off, and understandably so.  While the ceiling and walls had the occasional patch where the blood, for no apparent reason, had drained away, leaving that unmistakeable red stain, on the ground there were no such places.  Not only was there nowhere for the blood on the ground to drain, it was also the place where the blood from the ceiling and walls came to rest as well, adding to the already staggering volume.  On level ground their shoes easily sank at least two centimeters; in places where the shed’s misshapen floor had depressions the blood pooled deeper, some of these almost deep enough to submerge the entire foot.  These were just as bad if not worse than the drops from the ceiling, the result being the trio were forced to watch both above and below when moving.

Almost as if to make up for the unsuccessful ceiling drops, as Mike walked back to the center of the room he stepped in one of these puddles, supressing the urge to cry out and quickly withdrawing the wretched foot and its now reddened shoe.  He pulled it upwards, resting the ankle on his other leg, and assessed the damage.  His shoe was leather, a rare and valuable find that had served him well for the better half of two years, and he felt certain it wouldn’t soak through to his sock.  The foot had been submerged almost to the rim though, and he could feel the blood seeping through the space between the tongue.

“Look- could you hurry up or something?”  Completely absorbed in studying his shoe, Mike looked up in mild surprise at the sound of Jeffery’s voice; since talking to Penny he had all but forgotten about the soldiers, their unobtrusive presence fading into the background.  “This isn’t exactly fun for us, and as far as I can tell the only thing you’re investigating is your foot.”  Mike’s eyes settled on his, and the hostility in the soldier’s expression immediately died down.  The last of his speech dried up on his lips, and he was forced to avert his gaze.  Mike said nothing, and after a moment he returned his attention to the shoe.

He brought his face as close to the sole as he could, perfectly balanced on the other foot.  Blood dripped down from the shoe and onto his sock, his pants leg, but he either ignored it or was completely unaware of it.  His eyes squinted in concentration, and then they opened wide, an alert and slightly triumphant glow visible to anyone who might have happened to see them.  Without taking his eyes off what he had found, he reached one hand into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a pair of tweezers.  These he positioned between forefinger and thumb, and as the soldiers watched him with something between fascination and repulsion, he pressed the tweezers into the sole and clamped down on the miniscule object lodged there.  With an inaudible change in his breathing pattern, he pulled it out and held it up to the light, placing his foot back down as he did so.  From their distance the soldiers saw something glinting faintly in the light, but otherwise it was too small for them to make out.

“You’re both dismissed,” Mike said abruptly, in a voice that was not raised and yet which seemed to command attention.  “Stand guard with the others outside.”  There was a moment’s hesitation, then they turned and filed out of the room, heads down in respectful shame and nonexistent tails tucked between their legs, like children who had just been scolded and sent to bed early.

They passed by Patrick, who was bent over in one corner of what appeared to have been the living room, still recovering from his nausea.  He raised his head at the sound of their passing footsteps, and gave them a nod of acknowledgment which Penny returned sympathetically.  The soldiers continued on through the apartment with Penny in the lead until they had passed through the front door and into the hallway.  Then she stopped, so abruptly that Jeffery was forced to sidestep her in order to avoid bumping into her back.  Without a word she turned to grab the door handle, closing it behind them before facing Jeffery.

“What the hell was that?” she hissed, looking like she wanted to push him over.  “Are you trying to make us look bad?  I mean, shit, you could have at least left me out of it.  What were you thinking?  You can’t just mouth off to our supervisor like that!”

“Did you see his eyes?” the younger soldier cut in, completely disregarding all of her concerns.


“His eyes!  It was like…”

“Like what?”

“It was like he was staring into my soul,” he whispered, almost to himself.  There was a moment of silence as Penny regarded him suspiciously, trying to decide whether or not he was pulling her leg, and then she burst into scornful laughter.

“You’re joking, right?”

“I’m serious!  They were like ice.”

“Well you certainly know your cliché’s.”

“It’s a saying for a reason, you know.  They were blue and cold.  And sharp.  Like ice.”  He raised his hands, palms up, as if presenting his case in point.

“I’ll tell you one thing; you’re about as good with descriptions as you are with first impressions.”

“Fine, screw you too.  But I’m telling you, there’s something off with that guy.”

“You’re one to talk.”  Penny turned to leave, and Jeffery grabbed her upper arm.

“Wait- listen.”  She turned, giving him another glare, and he released her arm quickly, unaware of just how close he had come to having his fingers broken.

“What?” she snapped.

“Do you know what his name is?”


“His name.  The detective.  Our superior, not the” – he gave a dismissive nod of his head in Patrick’s direction – “other one.”  Penny frowned, but it was in thought this time, not anger.

“I… don’t know.  I can’t remember.”  She paused, and Jeffery waited respectfully.  “You know, this is going to sound weird, but I don’t think he introduced himself at all.  Why?  Didn’t he introduce himself to you?”

“No, he didn’t.”  Penny hesitated, and then her expression stiffened.

“Well, I’m sure it simply slipped his mind.  You know how some of these detective types can be.  Eccentric and all.  Just check the assignment details on your Digifile.”

“It wasn’t in the assignment.”  This time the hesitation lasted longer, and Jeffery could almost see the doubt growing in her mind.

“Ridiculous.  Assignments always contain the team supervisor’s name.”

“This one didn’t.  Just his ID number.  Or didn’t you notice?”

“I- no, I didn’t.  That’s… not possible.”

“Don’t believe me?  Check.”  She reached into her pack, her hand hesitating over the Digifile, almost afraid of what she would find, and then she pulled the handheld device out.  Jeffery looked away respectfully as she entered her eight-digit code, and then watched her expression carefully as she opened the most recent assignment, received just over an hour and a half ago, and read through it.

“It’s not there,” she said finally, still staring at the screen.

“I told you,” he said softly, but there was no trace of satisfaction in being right.  Indeed, he almost sounded regretful himself, as though he had been hoping she would find something he had missed.

“It was probably just a mistake.  Some fault in the hardwiring.  An error in the system that prevented it from replacing the ID number with the name.”

“I’m not a detective, so I wouldn’t know, but don’t they say something along the lines of ‘there is no such thing as coincidence’?  What are the chances he forgets to introduce himself to both of us, at the same time that faulty programming causes his name to be excluded from the assignment details?”

“You’re right,” Penny replied, and Jeffery recognized the flash of anger just before it was too late, “you’re not a detective.  And unlike a detective, you’re not getting paid to stand around and think all day.  You’re paid to listen to your superiors, and right now your current superior told you to stand guard.  So if you’re so hung up on what his name is, why don’t you just go ask him?  Whatever you decide to do, keep me out of it.  Some of us actually plan on following the rules.”  She stayed just long enough for Jeffery to offer a response, and when he didn’t she stormed off, walking to the end of the hallway before stopping and assuming position to stand lookout.  Jeffery stared after her for some time, and then he too turned away, staring out the window and searching the horizon for something he didn’t want to find.

Mike’s fingers slid along the floor, unseen beneath the surface of the blood puddle, searching and probing.  Every now and then he would graze another piece of the broken object in passing, and his fingers would double back and calmly research the area until they found it again, gently but firmly grasping it between his thumb and forefinger and extracting it from the liquid.  Whenever this happened he would take the piece he had discovered and hold it up to the light, pinched between two fingers, and examine it for a second or two before dropping it into the plastic evidence bag held by his other, unoccupied hand.  Soon he had gathered an impressive collection of the pieces, so much so that the bag had been filled up to the halfway mark.  They ranged in size and shape, but most were indistinguishable from the first piece found in his shoe.  When his search had extended well outside of its original perimeters and he still had yet to find another piece, he stood up and wiped his bloodied hand on the seat of his pants before sealing the bag shut.

He gave the room one last lingering look, and had there been someone else there to see his eyes they might have registered sorrow in his gaze.  Then it was broken, and he walked outside with the bag still in hand.

Patrick was standing off to the left in the living room, leaning against the wall and inspecting the fingernails on his right hand.  Mike took a moment to survey the apartment, noting that the front door had been closed and the three soldiers were absent.  He walked over to Patrick, who remained fully absorbed in extracting the grit from beneath his nail until Mike was standing directly in front of him, at which point he looked up, doing a double take and dramatically placing one hand over his heart.

“Shit, Mike, you scared the hell out of me!”

“Feeling better?”

“Not anymore!  Jeez, you almost gave me a heart attack!  You can’t just go sneaking up on people!”

“Are you done?” Mike asked, raising an eyebrow.  Patrick gave him a look of reproach and sighed.


“Good.  What do you make of this?”  He held out the bag, and Patrick took it, pinching the corner between two fingers.  He raised it up to eyelevel, looking revolted.

“Do I even want to know what this is?”

“I was hoping you could take a guess.”

“Where did you even get it?”

“Come on, Patrick.  It’s covered in blood.  Where do you think I got it?”  Patrick made a face.

“Don’t tell me you were searching through that.”

“Suffice to say I’ve been through worse.”  The comment came off nonchalantly and might have been taken for nothing more than a comeback, but something about the way he said it made Patrick think he was telling the truth.  “Come on, take a guess.  Remember what I said; start with analyzing it.  You don’t need to jump straight to a conclusion.”

“Right.”  He peered at the bag’s contents.  “Well… whatever it is, there’s a lot of it.”

“You’re not wrong, I’ll give you that much.  Come on, you’re supposed to be learning.”

“You’re supposed to be teaching.”

“I am teaching.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m teaching you the only way I know how to teach.  This is how I learnt.  There was no one there to give me the answers when I first started.  There was no manual, no textbooks, no tests.  There was no one to tell me if I was right or wrong.  There was just a need.  And right now the need is to determine what this is.  Lives may depend on it.”

“Lives?  As in plural?  How do you know that?  Well, I suppose that much blood couldn’t have come from just one person.  But how could you know it’s urgent?  A mess like that doesn’t usually leave survivors.  Unless you think whoever did this is going to strike again.”  Mike gave a small smile, and while Patrick wouldn’t have gone as far as to call it unpleasant it was clear his face was unaccustomed to the expression.

“I didn’t ask you to analyze my words; we’ve already established that you’re well-versed in that respect.  Right now we’re focusing on evidence.”

“Okay, okay.”  Patrick returned his attention to the bag, clearly pleased and revitalized by the hard-earned compliment.  “Let’s see… well, they’re clearly pieces of the same object.”

“Clearly,” Mike echoed quietly to himself, his eyes unfocused.

“And whatever it is… well, it’s kinda hard to tell with the blood, but it looks like metal.  Lightly coloured though,” he added, just as Mike said the same thing.  They exchanged a glance, and Patrick shuddered.

“I think I’ve been spending too much time with you.”  Mike gave two sharp, dismissive waves with his hand.

“Keep going.”

“Okay.  Well, other than that, there’s not much else I can really see.  I mean, if we could put whatever it is back together that would certainly solve all our problems, but…”  He scoffed.  “Like that’s ever going to happen.  Right?”



“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

“What?  Put it back together?”

“Yep.”  Mike began walking to the front door.

“You’re joking, right?”  Patrick started after him, still holding the bag. “You’ve got to be joking.  Mike, look at this thing!”  He held it up, waving it back and forth.  “I mean, even if you did manage to get all the pieces, which is hard to believe, they all look the same!  How are you going to figure out which parts connect to which parts?  Hell, how are you even going to keep them together?”

“We’ll find a way,” he responded without slowing.

“Now wait a second.  I asked how you were going to figure it out; there was no ‘we’ mentioned whatsoever.  I did not asked to be included!  This is going to take forever.  You know I have a short attention span.”  Mike kept walking, the thin smile on his lips unseen from behind.

The apartment was in the northwest corner of the building, meaning that from the front door branched off two hallways, or rather one hallway bent to travel the width of the building, the apartment’s front door located where the hallway made its turn.  When this was factored in with the fact that the floor’s fire escape was located directly beside the room, even Patrick was able to see that it was no coincidence that specific room had been chosen.  But what had quite possibly benefitted the culprit now posed an issue of security to the team, namely a matter of guarding all three routes.  It wasn’t so much that they couldn’t; after all there were three soldiers.  The issue was that in order for them to each guard their respective routes far enough away from one another that they could raise the alarm in time to give the others a decent heads up they needed to be out of one another’s sight.  What made it worse was the fact that in a building, particularly one that large, it wasn’t exactly difficult to hide from a five-man team who had only searched the top floor, and not even the entire top floor at that.  The amount of possible hiding places was intimidatingly large, and separating was almost not worth the risk.  Unfortunately, if the entire team were to be caught off-guard all crowded into the same corner their chances of survival would be less than that of the alternative.  So as far from ideal as it was, it was also their best option.

“Where are we going?”

“To talk to the female soldier.”

“Penny.  Her name is Penny, Mike.”

“Yes.  I knew that.  What have I told you about using my name on cases with other people?”

“Sorry.  Slip of the tongue.  Besides, there’s no one around.  Why are we going to talk to Penny?”

“We are going to talk to the others as well.  She’s just first on the list, because she is by far the most reasonable of the three, and I’d like her input.  Not to mention she’s their senior, and my second-in-command for this mission.”

“No- yeah, I got that much.  I meant what are we going to talk to Penny about?”

“You know how much I hate repeating myself.”


“Well why are you asking me to tell you what we’re about to talk about when we’re about to talk about it?”  Patrick fell silent for a moment, the only sound that of their muffled footsteps on the mildewed carpet.

“That was rhetorical,” he finally countered, to Mike’s chagrin.  He sighed, and Patrick couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his mentor’s head shaking slowly back and forth.

Just like everything else in the city, which all ran off the same, massive generator that powered the Cube itself, the building still had electricity.  It certainly came in handy when exploring what would otherwise be very dark buildings, but it wasn’t always easy or practical to find the controls for places with master switches.  Even when they did a lot of the time the wiring would be corrupted, a problem only encountered in pre-Cube buildings, the ones that hadn’t been built with the new and improved non-corruptible materials.  In this case they hadn’t had the manpower or the time to locate the master switch for the floor, assuming there was one and the lights weren’t out simply because the wiring had gone.  The lights in the rooms, or at least in the room they were most concerned with still worked, but Mike guessed the hallway lights ran on a different current.  As helpful as it would have been to have the hallways lit up, they couldn’t spare anyone to look for the master switch, and it really wasn’t all that bad; the hallways had windows every few meters that let in a decent amount of sunlight.

“Look- there she is.”  Sure enough as they rounded the hallway’s corner they saw the redhead’s unmistakeable locks, almost glowing in the dimly lit space, as she ducked into one of the apartments.  “Come on.  She’s searching all the rooms.  Did you notice all the apartments we’ve passed have their doors opened?  She’s leaving them to show which ones have been searched, and to make it impossible for anyone to close them without raising suspicion.  Clever,” he remarked, sounding impressed.

“Wait.  How did you know she had come this way?”

“Lucky guess.”

“You never ‘guess’.”

“Fine.  Then you tell me how I did it.”  They kept walking, Patrick falling behind slightly, his gait that of someone distracted and thoughtful.

“Alright.  Don’t strain yourself,” Mike interrupted finally.  “You’re cluttering the atmosphere.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I can hear you thinking, and it’s distracting.”

“Tell me something.  Are all detectives full of sh-”


“What?”  He raised a hand and pointed, and after a moment of peering through the dark Patrick made out Penny’s hair, this time leaving the room she had entered before.  As Mike had said, she left the door open.  She glanced back their way in the hallway, but made no indication of having seen them and continued walking.

“You’re going to startle the female soldier.”

“Penny, Mike.”

“Right.  Don’t say-”

“Your name.  I know.  And I’m not going to startle Penny.  What might startle her though is if we walk right up to her completely silent and then say something.  You know, if you keep that up you’re likely to get shot one of these days.”  Patrick cut in front of him and called out to her in greeting, knowing Mike would say and do nothing until he was directly beside her and wanting to avoid a repeat (potentially fatal at that, given the tense, alert posture Penny conveyed, and the way she held her gun at the ready) of the scare his mentor had given him only moments before.

Penny turned at Patrick’s voice, and Mike saw her raise the gun just slightly, before her body visibly relaxed, and she managed a reasonably amicable nod.

“What’s up?” she asked when they had both made it over to her, the trio forming a circle.  “Did you get what you need?  Ready to head out?”

“Not quite yet, no.  There’s still something about the room that’s unsettling me.”

“Aside from the obvious, I assume?”  Neither of the others acknowledged this comment from Patrick, but he paid it no mind.  While it used to bother him, he had long since grown accustomed to fading into the background during more serious conversations.

“I want to stick around a while longer and see if I can’t figure it out,” Mike continued.  “Patrick and I are heading back to the room now” – at this Patrick fixed him with a look – “and I’d like you and the other two to remain standing guard.  I just wanted to give you an update, just so you know what’s happening.  I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m… still inspecting my shoe.”  Penny flushed.

“Listen, about that, I’d like to apologize for my colleague’s behaviour earlier-” Mike raised a hand, and she fell silent.

“Don’t mention it; you have no accountability over his actions.”

“Then why did you even mention it?”  Mike raised an eyebrow, and then, to Patrick’s surprise, smiled.

“A slip of the tongue.  Trust me, I harbour no ill will, to you or your subordinate.”

“Okay, well, if that’s all…”

“No.  I also wanted to ask you to keep an eye out for any disturbances in the dust.”

“Ah, sorry, what?”

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to look out for anything suspicious, but I also want you to keep an eye out for any signs that a certain area has been disturbed lately.  Places like this have been abandoned for so long that the dust builds up considerably.  So when life finally returns it’s impossible to miss.  The dust is our friend.  You should look out for a spot where there’s no dust, perhaps because until recently there was something over that spot, or perhaps a surface, like a desk, or windowpane, where the dust looks to have been swept away.  Say, by a sleeve or fingertips?  Even footprints are visible in the dust, though they’re harder to spot on this carpet.  A job like that–” tilting his head in the direction of the bloody room “–would take a lot of time.  Whoever did it would likely have had somewhere nearby where they could take breaks in between, if not simply somewhere to store their things.  And the excessive amount of it is probably an influence, but the blood still appears fresh.  It’s not crusted or dried yet, see?  Even in areas where its shallower, the blood is still viscous.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that whoever did this is probably still nearby.”  Patrick rested a hand on his holster and began looking around, as though he expected the person to jump out at them right then and there.  “At the very least they were here when the scout came by, otherwise we wouldn’t have a missing Rebel on our hands.”

“So you think he’s dead?”

“Not necessarily, but he’s most certainly been captured by someone.  It might not even be the same person who did this, but I don’t believe in coincidence.  The culprit would want to make sure they had a secure location all to themselves before they even began to embark on their massacre.  There wouldn’t be more than one hostile in this area.”

“But you’re sure he’s been captured?”

“Why else would he be missing, or neglect to respond to the base?  I’ve ruled out all other explanations.  If his radio had broken somehow he would have either waited here for someone to come and retrieve him, as is standard protocol, or he would have made his way back to the base, in which case we would have seen him on the way here or heard about his return from the base by now.”  Mike fixed her with a grave look.  “He’s been captured.  The good news is that assuming the person who did this is still here, which I believe they are, then there’s a chance he might not only be alive, but rescuable.  We’ll have to act fast though.”

“Right, of course.”

“Good work searching the rooms by the way.  Good idea.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking thrown off by the compliment.  Mike nodded, and then, with a different kind of nod to Patrick, he turned to go back the way they had come.  “Wait!” Penny suddenly cried out, stopping them.


“I, uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Phil,” Mike replied coolly, without so much as a moment’s hesitation.  “Phil Akens.”

“Ah.  Right, well, okay.  Thanks.”

“For what?  Telling you my name?  It’s not exactly a favour.”

“Right, of course.  It’s just that, well, it wasn’t in the assignment details.”  Mike frowned, the perfect image of innocent surprise.

“Really?  Are you sure?”


That’s strange.  It was probably a glitch in the software; I’ll have to let them know when we get back.  Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

“No problem.”

“Alright, Patrick, let’s go.  We still have to talk to the other two as well.”  Patrick nodded, giving Penny a small what-can-you-do smile as they left.

When they were out of earshot Patrick said, “What was that about?”


“The thing about inspecting your shoe.”  Mike shrugged.

“A misunderstanding.  Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Okay, and what about the ‘slip of the tongue’?  You never have ‘slips of the tongue’.  In fact I’m fairly certain you plan what you’re going to say several days in advance.”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Were you… flirting with her?”  The detective scoffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Holy shit, you were!  Boy, you need some lessons, because putting them off is definitely not part of the process.”

“Patrick, I can honestly say I was not flirting with her,” he said, pronouncing the word with distaste.

“Oh sure, sure.  Moving on, I figured out how you did it.  How you followed Penny’s route.”

“Go on.”

“You followed her footprints in the dust.”


“Let me guess, you knew it was her by the shoe size.”


“How is that even possible?  I mean I can barely even make out the carpet, least of all any footprints in the dust on the carpet.”

“Observance, Patrick.  I wasn’t following them the whole time, you know.  I just checked them whenever we passed by a window, to make sure we were going in the right direction.  The rest of the time I just guessed which direction she was going.  That’s a big part of detective work, you know.  Filling in the blanks, going off of what you’re given.”

“You can turn just about anything into a lesson, can’t you?”

“I’m serious.”

“Alright, alright.”  They walked in silence for a moment, until Mike sighed.

“You’re thinking loudly again.  Is there something you want to ask me?”  Patrick looked up in genuine surprise.

“You freak me out sometimes, you know that?”

“Come on, what is it?”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Patrick,” he warned.

“Alright, alright.  It’s just that, well… why do we have to lie about your name again?”

“We don’t have to.  I just like it better that way.  My name attracts too much attention around the base nowadays.  I find it far more convenient if my coworkers don’t know who I am.”

“And that’s the only reason?”  Mike tilted his head to one side.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no other reason?”

“No, not that I can think of.  Why?  What were you thinking?”  Now it was Patrick’s turn to sigh.

“Nothing.  I was just wondering.  The whole thing is just kind of getting sketchy, if you ask me.”

“It’s not sketchy, Patrick.  You’re just uncomfortable lying to your comrades.  But tell me: in the grand scheme of things, which takes precedence between your comfort and mine?”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.  Please tell me you’re joking.”  Mike smiled, saying nothing.  The smile was answer enough.

They found Jeffery on the fire escape, and told him the same thing they had told Penny.  He also apologized for his actions, saying he hadn’t known what came over him, and that he believed it was just the stress and discomfort from the room.  Mike told him he forgave him, and they parted.  But when they went down the other hallway to try and find the third soldier, whose name neither of them could remember, they came up with nothing.

“Can’t you follow his footprints, like you did with Penny?” Patrick asked, his voice slightly raised in the beginning stages of panic.  “I mean, it’s not like he disappeared into thin air, right?  Right?”

“Of course not.  But the sun is on that side of the building.  There’s still light shining in on this side, but not as much.  Not enough to see the dust.  They were easier to track in the beginning, but now…”  He shook his head.  “They’ve faded.  Either he’s suddenly developed an aptitude for walking light footed, or…”

“Or?” Patrick asked impatiently when Mike didn’t finish.

“Or the dust here is less dense.”  He looked up, his intense blue eyes meeting Patrick’s.  “From having been traded on repeatedly.”

“What, you mean like someone was walking here before?”  Now Patrick’s voice was even higher than before, well on its way into hysteria.  His hand, Mike noted, had returned to the butt of his gun, like a comfort mechanism.

“More like several someone’s,” he responded, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.  Suddenly Patrick looked like he wanted to either throw up again or start shooting things.  “Look, it’s not a big deal,” he said, trying to backpedal.  “Whoever it was is long gone.  Unfortunately, so is our soldier.”  Damnit, he cursed silently.  Still not helping.  “I’m probably just overreacting.  I’m sure the soldier is just… searching rooms, like Penny.  Remember, he started before her, so he’s probably far down.  I could be wrong about the dust.”

“Well,” Patrick said, attempting to swallow some of his panic along with excess saliva, “if he is searching the rooms, he’s not going about it very well.”  He nodded towards the empty hallway, indicating all the closed doors.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, unable to say more for fear of starting Patrick up all over again.  “Listen, let’s go check out the room.  The sooner we’re done the sooner we can leave this place.”  Patrick nodded, still looking shaky.

“Okay.  Okay, right.  I like the sound of that.”  Mike gave him his best attempt at a reassuring pat on the shoulder, earning himself a weirded-out look from his apprentice.

“Maybe don’t do that.”

“Right,” he said, his arm dropping to his side.  “Alright, you go ahead to the room, I forgot I need to tell…”


“Jeffery something else.  Okay?”

“Alright, but I’m not going into that room alone.”  Mike nodded.

“That’s fine, just wait outside.”  They walked back, Mike stopping at the fire escape with Jeffery and waiting until Patrick had ducked into the apartment before facing the soldier.

“What’s up?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen your comrade recently?”

“Who, Ross?  No actually, I haven’t.  Not since we went into the room and he stayed outside.  He was supposed to be watching this corridor, actually.  Why?”  His voice dropped.  “You don’t think… something happened, do you?  To him, I mean?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe.  I feel bad asking you to do this, but do you think-”

“On it.”

“Are you sure?  I hate to send you down there alone, but Penny can’t leave her post, and Patrick’s not up to it; I can’t guarantee he’d be much of a help.  I’d do it myself, but I need to get through with this as fast as possible-”

“Man, I’ve got it.  Trust me.  Consider it an apology, for my outburst earlier.  Besides, I’ll be fine.”  He patted the butt of his gun for emphasis.  Mike nodded grimly.

“Alright.  I want your weapon out and at the ready at all times.  And make sure you have a line open on the walkie.  Be extremely careful.  We already have two soldiers missing.  I would hate for you to be the third.”

“Got it.”  He gave Mike a salute, and then, unholstering his weapon, started off into the darkness of the corridor.  Mike watched his figure as it was swallowed up into the darkness, and then, when he could barely make out his outline, turned away and headed back to the room.

“Patrick.”  He jumped at the sound of his name, reaching for his gun as he turned, but thankfully he registered that it was Mike before it was unholstered and exhaled deeply instead.  “Ready?”

“What…” he swallowed, “what do you need me to do?”  Mike took in his shaking hands, his darting eyes, his pale, sweaty skin, and made a decision.

“You just… stay outside for now.  Keep an eye out for me while I’m in there.  If I need you I’ll call, but for now, just wait.”

“Okay,” he said, visibly relieved.  “That I can do.”

Mike stepped back into the room, his shoes squelching softly as they were once more exposed to the blood.  He looked around, not sure what he was looking for but certain that it would come to him eventually.  There was just something… wrong with the room, aside from the obvious, as Patrick had said.  And that was just it, wasn’t it?  The initial impression, the shock value of the room, so to speak, was so attention-commanding, so distracting, that it was almost impossible to get over it and look at whatever it was that it was hiding.  Almost impossible.  But not quite.  He imagined the blood was water.  Still strange, but bearable.  And then he had it.

“Patrick!” he called, almost shouting in exhilaration.  “Patrick, get in here!”

“What?  What is it?” he said, rushing in, his weapon drawn.  He looked around the room, and when he registered the lack of immediate danger, lowered his weapon and looked to Mike for an explanation.  “What the hell, man?  I thought you were being killed!”

“Patrick, what do you notice about the room?  About the blood, specifically the blood.”  He was talking fast, excited now.

“I don’t know… it’s gross?”  Mike slapped him across the face.  Gently, but firmly.

“I’m serious.”

“Ow!  What the hell?” he exclaimed, rubbing his cheek.


“Alright, alright.”  The young detective in training looked about the room, examining it for the first time.  Mike watched him eagerly, barely holding it in.  “I dunno, there’s a lot of it?”

“Exactly.  Go on.”  He looked at Mike, and opened his mouth to complain that he didn’t know what he was looking for, when a drop of blood fell right before his face.

“It’s dripping from the ceiling,” he said, more to himself in awe than to Mike.

“That’s right,” Mike said, encouraging him to go on.

“If it’s been dripping from the ceiling this whole time…”

“And flowing down the walls,” Mike added.

“Then by now it should have all collected on the ground.”  Patrick was fully invested now, staring down at the ground, his eyes unfocused as they always did when he was thinking hard.

“Unless…” Mike prompted, still watching his face.

“Unless… Unless it’s still coming from above.”  Mike heard the click as it snapped into place in his head, and Patrick met his eyes.  “Holy shit, Mike.  It’s being fed in from above.”  Mike grinned.


A Better Version of You

“Cut clean from the dream that night, let my mind reset
Looking up from a cigarette, and she’s already left
I start digging up the yard for what’s left of me in our little vignette
For whatever poor soul is coming next”

– Hozier, Jackie and Wilson

The worst part about being a romantic is accepting that you’re not in love, you’re horny.  It feels dirty, you know?  Love is such an endearing and romantic concept.  Hormones are, well… gross.  Somewhere between the appeal of love and the repel of sexual attraction I lost sight of the difference.

The trick is to consciously redefine the distinction between being attracted to someone and finding someone attractive.  For most of my adolescent life I struggled with finding this line, and became convinced that I was in love with each and every pretty girl who happened to pass me by.  This resulted in countless cases of heartbreak, mostly because I was sure they deserved a lot better than shitty old me, and so did nothing to try and express my feelings.  Which, all things considered, was actually quite reasonable of me.

I wanted to be in love.  I wanted to feel like I was part of something bigger than myself, part of a special connection between two people who were destined to be together.  Of course the irony was that it was never just two people: with each fall for someone new my faith in true love grew weaker and weaker.  See, I had to believe in love.  I had to believe that when a girl caught my eye from across the room it was because there was something real between us.  The alternative was that I simply found her attractive, and as such was no better than those douchebags who objectified and sexualized women without shame.

Obviously this wasn’t the case, and I know now that admiring someone’s good looks doesn’t inherently make you a shallow chauvinistic pig, but back then it was a real cause for concern.  I had enough shortcomings and downfalls: my honour was one of the few things I had left, and I was determined not to tarnish it, however misguided my concerns may have been.

I wanted to be a better version of myself: someone who was above all that, who could rise above primal instincts and reach for something greater, for a connection that really meant something.  Of course things never seemed to work out, and when that happened I would simply do my best to bury the crush and move on to the next one.  It took me a long time and a lot of heartbreak to finally learn that what I was feeling wasn’t love; it was attraction.

I still have trouble differentiating between the two sometimes, but I’ve learnt to cope with the struggle.  I still have trouble accepting my sexuality, which will probably fester into some really great psychoses and sexual hangups later on in life, but for now I’m content to preserve my own sense of romance, however naïve that may be.