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.

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.


Part III


“Andrew?”  The young detective looked up from the cluster of papers scattered about his desk, a grin forming on his face as he spotted his girlfriend approaching.  He stood, glad not only for the chance to see her but also for the excuse to take a break from the case he had been working on for the last hour and a half.  He planted both hands on his hips and arched his body backwards, stretching the soreness from his long-stagnant muscles and bones.

“Hey,” he said when she had finished her approach, giving her a quick kiss before pulling away, holding her by the shoulders at arm’s length to study her expression.  He noticed she was biting her lip, a childhood habit she had all but kicked long ago and would only revert to when nervous or upset.  Andrew frowned, suddenly concerned.  “What’s up?  Is something wrong?”

“The Chief wants to talk to you,” she said, still not meeting his eyes.  His grip on her shoulders slowly weakened, and then released completely, arms falling back into place at his sides.  Those seven words told him all that he needed to know.  Having the Chief request your presence was never a good thing.  With little more than a handful of exceptions, it meant one of three things.  In order of increasing likelihood, it meant he either had a particularly dangerous and low-profile assignment for you to undertake, you had done something wrong to such an extent that he felt the need to address it personally, or, as was most often the case, someone close to you had died.

Andrew knew from his past experiences with the Chief that Lana was afraid it would be the first.  Almost immediately after his arrival at the Rebel base just over three years ago he had been specifically and personally chosen by the Chief to carry out a string of tasks, the details of which were undisclosed to everyone else.  Lana had been forced, time and time again, to await his return not knowing a thing about where he was or what he was doing.  Her frustrations had only been reinforced by his own unwillingness to talk about the missions, and the way he would shut himself off whenever she brought the topic up.  The tension had put a strain on their relationship, and suddenly they were arguing on a regular basis when before there had been nothing but affection, stumbling through awkward silences where before they had talked for hours on end.  The conflict came to a climax when their first dinner together in a long time, their first step towards patching things up, was interrupted by a messenger from the Chief who came to collect Andrew for a new case.  The argument that ensued resulted in their living quarters being completely trashed, and left Lana standing amidst the wreckage alone, crying into her hands.

Three days had passed without his return before Lana finally realized something was wrong.  The Chief, who was holed up in his office, denied her requests for a meeting and made no move to explain things to her, other than sending a messenger ‘on his behalf’ who told her that the Chief was busy and would see her as soon as possible, and that Andrew was fine.  Naturally, this only served to make her even more furious.  On the eighteenth day a second messenger approached her, with dark tidings wrapped up neatly in the guise of good news.  He told her that Andrew was back, and it was only when she asked eagerly where she could find him that the messenger admitted he was in the base’s hospital.  After making her way there and franticly questioning several flustered nurses, she found his room.

He had been shot twice, once in his upper left abdomen and the other passing clean through the muscles of his left arm, but stranger still was that much of his body was covered in unusual lacerations, and two of his fingers, one from each hand (thankfully not his trigger fingers), were gone; nothing left but a neat cut where the joint between bones had been separated, not even the smallest of stumps to attest that there had ever been fingers there.  None of the staff could (or would, as she suspected) tell her anything about how his injuries had been contracted, although one nurse had taken her aside from the others to confide that based off of the clean cuts they were certain his fingers had been removed intentionally, not through some accident.  Lana had stayed at his side for seven days while he lay unconscious, getting friends and coworkers to cover her shifts.  She hadn’t been particularly worried about the lack of information; she had been angry, certainly, but not worried.  She hadn’t even considered for a moment the possibility that Andrew might not tell her everything when he woke up.

He awoke while she was resting, her head in her arms, folded on his bedside.  Sensing his movement, she was immediately roused from her light and restless sleep, the bags under her eyes holding back none of the excitement that shone within them.

“Andrew?” she had whispered, fatigue and awe contributing to her soft voice.  If she had been tired then he was absolutely drained, as though the past three days had not been spent in an unbroken sleep.  She saw his eyes darting from side to side in fear, yet he barely seemed capable of keeping them open.  “Andrew, it’s me.  Lana, Andrew.  It’s Lana.”  His attention turned to her, and she watched as the fear literally drained from his face, replaced with an exhausted relief.  It was one of the saddest and most beautiful things she had ever seen.  With a weak smile in acknowledgment of her presence, he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep, but not before shifting his hand to rest atop hers.

For several weeks after the incident he was a quiet, hollow shell of his former self.  At first he had faded in and out of consciousness with alarming regularity and inconsistency, and was disoriented and incoherent even when he did manage to stay awake.  Eventually he got better, staying conscious for longer and more consistent periods of time, but as a result Lana could no longer kid herself about the extent of his psychological damage.

He scarcely ate or talked, just laid in bed staring off into the distance at something only he could see.  Through it all Lana stayed by his side, feeling his pain almost as vividly as he did, and watching him suffer silently, helpless to do anything more than be there for him.  His recovery had been gradual, in a way that made it seem to have taken forever and yet have happened overnight, although to anyone paying close enough attention the signs of his improvement had always been there.  It had been unbearable for Lana to see her boyfriend in that state, and she had begged, pleaded that he would never put himself in that degree of danger again (although she never did find out exactly what degree it had been, as he never divulged to her or anyone else as far as she knew the details of what had happened).  His responses had been vague, skirting around the question and avoiding giving a direct answer while remaining reassuring, and she had pretended not to notice; he had still been suffering from emotional trauma after all, and she hadn’t wanted to start an argument or distress him anymore than he already was.  But now, for the first time since that fateful, mysterious task, he was being summoned once more.

“I’m sure it’s just a check-up, Lana.  You don’t have to worry.”  They looked into each other’s eyes and he saw that she was on the verge of crying.

“If it’s another one of those… those assignments, please, please promise me you’ll refuse it.”  He looked down at his feet and was silent for a moment.

“You know I can’t,” he started, moving to put a hand back on her shoulder, but before he could continue she suddenly reached up, swatting his hand aside and storming off.  “Lana!” he cried after her hopelessly.  Several people looked up from their work to see what was happening, and he glared at them through tired eyes until they looked away again, shamed into minding their own business.  Sighing again as she disappeared from view, he headed towards the Chief’s office.

The station’s first floor was known as the archive, and it was where they kept all information pertaining to their primary objective of making the city safe.  Although unrequired, most Rebels would often record notes on certain cases, specifically ones which might reappear later on or that included information that might prove helpful should a similar situation ever arise.  These included information on gangs and groups they often clashed with, important notes on certain locations they found themselves in, and all other unresolved or ongoing issues, most notably of which was their conflict with the Cleansers.  They recorded every last piece of information they came across whenever there was a run-in with the Cleansers, including what weapons they used, battle tactics, and anything else.  Other documents contained in the archive included maps, often highlighting areas considered to be high-risk or safe heavens, marking the locations of all five hospitals in the city, and showing Cleanser strongholds, storage buildings, etc.

The second floor was directly beneath the first, and it contained the armoury and engineering rooms; the third floor consisted of the kitchen, food storage and cafeteria; fourth was the infirmary; and fifth and sixth were the housing floors, where the Rebels had assigned living quarters.  The second floor had hundreds of tunnels branching off in different directions, all of which opened up several miles from the station in hidden areas, to make it harder for unwelcome eyes preying on the movements of Rebels coming and going from the base on their various excursions, effectively revealing its location.  In the event of someone actually finding one of the secret entrances, they were all fitted with cameras, their feeds constantly being monitored back at the base, and a trio of guards was positioned at both the beginning and end of each tunnel.

The Chief’s office was located at one end of the archives, raised above the ground level on a platform so that the room’s window wall overlooked the rest of the floor.

“Girlfriend troubles?” someone called out as Andrew passed by, and without needing to see the person Andrew knew they were addressing him, and that the speaker was Jeffery Nar.  Jeffery was a soldier stationed near Andrew’s desk, near enough at least to have noticed the scene with Lana granted he was eavesdropping, a completely reasonable assumption for anyone who knew him to make.  He seemed to have as many enemies as he lacked friends, a result of his pretentious and aggravating personality.  Surprisingly enough he seemed to enjoy his infamy, and toyed with his least-favourites as often as possible, a group to which Andrew was affiliated for reasons impossible to guess, if existent at all.  The coworkers nearest Nar’s station were known to bring earplugs to work.

“Not now, Nar,” he said without stopping.  “Just… not now.  I’m not in the mood.”

“Ah, I see.  You’ve been shut out.  Denied access.  Abandoned in the desert.  Stuck in the ol’ proverbial dog house.  What did you do now?  Certainly something big, to have the pearly gates shut in your ah, nose.  Must ‘ave been awhile now, too, to have you in such a tizzy.  What, two, maybe three weeks, with no candy for Andy?”  By now Andrew had started back towards Jeffery, fists clenched and gait determined, and Jeffery stood at his desk in anticipation.

“I will kill you Nar.  Do not ever refer to my girlfriend like that again.  In fact, don’t even mention my girlfriend again.  Ever.”

“Boy, she’s really locked you out then, hasn’t she?  Must have, to get you so hormonal.  You’re usually so… in control of your testosterone.”  He grinned, in eager anticipation of the climax, as those around them watched with equal anticipation, if not for the same reasons.  All had been pestered by Jeffery at one point or another, and all were more eager than could be considered healthy to see him get his comeuppance.  A few were actually planning on sneaking in a few blows themselves before more responsible Rebels (otherwise known as Rebels not yet introduced to Jeffery either personally or by reputation) closed in on the brawl and got it under control.  Thankfully, in never came to that.

A hand rested on Andrew’s shoulder from behind, stopping his advance gently but firmly.  “Leave him; he’s not worth it.”  Turning to face their arbitrator , he saw a man that looked to be maybe eight or nine years older than him.  He had black hair, and sad, light grey eyes.  It was immediately apparent that he was void of any hostility, and was acting purely out of pacification.  Andrew felt his tension unwind, the muscles in his arms relaxing and his fists unclenching.  He took a moment to compose himself, and even managed a smile, albeit weak.

“Yeah.  Yeah, you’re probably right.  Thanks.”  Still standing at his desk, Jeff regarded the stranger with a cold curiosity, but said nothing.  The others, sensing the fight was off the table, lost interest and turned back to their work, some with reproachful glances at the man who had ruined their hopes.  Andrew held out his hand.  “I’m Andrew.  Fetcher,” he added, feeling the need to say more.  The stranger shook it, studying his face carefully, and nodded.

“A pleasure.”  He then turned to Jeffery without, Andrew noticed, introducing himself.  “Jeffery Nar, I presume?”  Jeff nodded, suspicious.  “You’re coming with me.  You’ve been assigned to my team.  We have to go to the northwest corner to investigate a missing Rebel and possible murders.  The other two are already at the tunnel entrances waiting.  Maybe if you spent more time doing your job and less time flirting you would have noticed the notification sent to you ten minutes ago.  As it stands we are now late, thanks to you, so hurry up and come with me.”  Jeffery blinked, mouth open but clearly unable to formulate a response.

“Yeah, alright,” he said finally, sputtering, “but I need to go to the weapons room first.”  The stranger shook his head and tossed Jeffery a pistol, which he fumbled, only just managing not to drop it.  Andrew snickered, and Jeffery shot him a hateful look but said nothing.

“Well, nice to meet you Andrew,” the man said, and walked off with Jeffery in tow, flicking through his Digifile, presumably checking for the notification he had missed.

“Yeah, nice to meet you too…” Andrew said, trailing off as they walked away.  Then he remembered he had an appointment with the Chief, someone who did not like to be kept waiting.  He continued on through the orderly chaos of the floor, and soon arrived at the Chief’s office, knocking on the door and waiting there for permission to enter.  It came seconds later and he opened the door, walking in and ensuring it closed behind him.  The Chief was sitting at his desk, going through some papers.  Andrew took the seat facing the desk, and waited.  After many antagonizing minutes of nothing but the sound of papers shuffling (which Andrew felt sure was revenge for taking so long to come), the Chief put the papers down and looked up.

“Andrew, good to see you’ve completely recovered from your incident.”

“Well, not completely.  I’m still missing my fingers,” he said with a wry smile, which the Chief did not return.  Andrew cleared his throat to break the awkward silence.  “Umm, Chief?  I… To be honest, I don’t think I’ll be able to continue with our arrangement anymore.”  The Chief remained silent for a moment before speaking again.

“Do you know why I chose you to take on this extremely important and dire task all those years ago?” he said finally.

“Yes, because I owed you for-”

“No, no.  That was why you agreed to do it, not to mention why I was able to… let’s say… persuade you into agreeing, but why did I choose you?”

“With all due respect sir, I’m not entirely sure.”  This time the Chief did smile.

“I chose you because you’re smart and analytical, something that, as you’ve hopefully already discovered, is quite important for what you have to do.  I could have chosen someone better at combat and action than you -like your sister, for example- but I chose you because those people are unpredictable, rash, and far more concerned with shooting first and completely bypassing the questions -like your sister, for example.” Andrew rolled his eyes, knowing he was right.  “Don’t get too excited, there are still a few people here smarter than you who probably could have done a better job, but in the end I decided I trusted you most, and wanted to give you a chance to both prove and improve yourself.”  Andrew held up a hand, frowning.

“Sorry, not to be rude, but what’s your point?”  The Chief stared at him thoughtfully.

“Is it that you don’t want to continue, or you don’t think you’ll be able to continue?”  Now it was Andrew’s turn to stay silent.  “See, we already know the answer, Andrew.  This is my point.  You are perfect for this job because you are inquisitive and curious, but you know how to go about it safely and cautiously.  You care about your work, Andrew.  Really care.  You’re involved, you’re passionate, and that’s something I can’t say for a lot of your colleagues, unfortunately.  Admit it Andrew, you couldn’t just up and leave this assignment even if I gave you permission.”  Andrew’s face was flushed red, but he managed a nod.  “Tell your girlfriend that she doesn’t have to worry though, because I won’t be needing you to do anything concerning this case for a while.  Things have gotten very intense, and you won’t be able to investigate for some time.  I’ll wait for things to calm down a bit before sending you in to find out what’s happening.”  Andrew sighed with relief, happy enough to accept the temporary solution.

“Thank you, Chief.”

“You’re very welcome, but I’m not done yet.  I also called you here because I need you to investigate a building in the northwest corner.”  Andrew recalled the stranger saying he and Jeffery had an investigation in the northwest corner as well, but said nothing.  “We’ve reason to believe it’s currently undergoing construction and is soon to be the permanent location of a Cleanser stronghold.  They’re expanding again, and as you already know, Block 3 is their strongest location.  As it stands they’re only a few more of these strongholds away from completely securing the Block.  If that happens we will lose all of our influence on events in and around its borders, and the upper hand they will have achieved in the long run could very well spell the end of our fight.  We can’t let that happen.  I’m not trying to scare you, you understand.  Nor am I trying to say the fate of the whole war rests on this building and your investigation.”

“It’s okay,” Andrew assured him.  It wouldn’t be the first mission of its kind he would participate in, and he was more than aware of what was at stake.  “I get it.”  The Chief nodded.

“Good, good.  Of course you do.  It’s to be solely an investigative assignment; if it does turn out to be a Cleanser building you are not to engage the enemy in any way.  Ensure you remain undetected, but make certain of the results.”

“Yes sir.  Will this be a solo expedition?”

“I’ve made arrangements for your sister to accompany you.  With that be… satisfactory?”

Andrew wasn’t too sure how he felt about that.  He had been on assignments with his sister before, but still couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or not.  Although they got along fine most of the time, and were, as corny as it sounded, best friends, they were complete opposites in most if not all aspects of their personalities, and as such opinions and decisions would clash often.  He liked working with her because it gave him the opportunity to look out for her, but sometimes she drove him crazy with her instinctive and rash decisions.  He realized the Chief was waiting for a response, probably thinking that he would be grateful for the chance to spend some time with his twin.

“Yes.  Yeah, that’d be… that’s great.  Thank you, again.”  The Chief dismissed this with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t mention it.  The coordinates will be sent to your Digifile, if they haven’t already.”

After being dismissed Andrew went over to his sister’s desk but found it empty.  Soldiers did not have as much use for their desks as detectives did, because in general it wasn’t necessary for them to make or keep notes on any assignments.  He paused for a moment, noting the desk’s disorder with a shudder, and racked his brain to think of where she might be before settling on the second floor armoury.  Lately she had started spending more and more of her free time there, working with their resident mechanic Garry on various weapon projects.  As to when she had developed a taste for mechanics he could not say, although the fascination with weapons had certainly been around for a long time.  At first he had suspected she was actually sneaking off to meet with someone, but had ‘happened by’ on several occasions and determined her interest was both sincere and undivided.

Celia was extremely attractive (most would say intimidatingly so), and it was far from uncommon for men to throw themselves at her feet wherever she turned.  Despite being the same age, ever since childhood Andrew had felt the need to protect his sister, and that included protection from anyone he did not deem good enough for her.  Celia hated that he still felt the need to approve her relationships at 29, and she gave him hell for it.  Admittedly he knew his concerns were misplaced; she was more than capable of taking care of herself, even if it she did occasionally go out of her way to convince him otherwise for nothing more than the pleasure of watching him squirm.  Even so Celia had only had one real relationship in her life, and aside from frequent uses of her looks and devious charm to manipulate men into doing her favours, she showed no intention of getting into a new relationship anytime soon.  Still, that relationship had been a disaster, and if that man was any indication of the sort of guys she would have a tendency to get involved with then as far as Andrew was concerned he had every right to be protective, no matter how much she detested it.

“Looking for someone?” a voice behind him asked, one he instantly recognized.

“Hey sis.”  He smiled, turning to face her.  “Where were you?”  The resemblance between them was striking; gender difference aside, they were identical.

“Oh, I was with Garry.  We were working on this new explosive when I got a notification.  You and I have to go investigate a possible Cleanser stronghold, although considering you’re here I’m guessing you already know about it.”  Andrew nodded.

“Yep.  But we’re only investigating.  The Chief said not to make any form of contact, even if we do find they’re Cleansers.”  He emphasized this part, knowing from past experiences that his twin’s headstrong demeanor often prompted her to ‘forget’ the rules.  The Chief himself had once told them, after a particularly messy case, that if she hadn’t been such a capable and valuable soldier he would have exiled her a long time ago for unnecessarily endangering herself and other Rebels.  She had taken it as a compliment, Andrew had considered it a warning.

“Yeah, yeah.  Anyways, so considering I was already there I grabbed some weapons before I left so we wouldn’t have to go back.”  Andrew looked past his sister and saw a backpack on her shoulders.

“Some weapons,” he echoed, his skepticism evident.  “Alright, open it up; let’s see what you have.”


“Open it.  Now.”  With an infamous roll of her eyes, Celia removed the backpack and unzipped it, revealing her kukri knife tucked away in its sheath, two pistols, an energy gun, a pair of binoculars with infrared capabilities, a steel ball whose function Andrew could only guess, a detonator, and enough volatiles to blow up a house (not to mention several boxes of ammunition).  Andrew’s face was that of someone who’d just been shown a ticking time bomb, which really wasn’t far from the truth.

“What?” Celia said, handing him one of the pistols.  “Oh, I almost forgot.”  She grabbed the forearm-long blade and reached behind, raising an eyebrow in concentration as she clipped the sheath to her belt, before slinging the pack over her shoulder.

“Okay, you do know this is just a recon mission, right?”


“Do you even know what recon means?”

“Calm down, Andy,” she said, placing emphasis on the nickname he so passionately loathed, a fact that did nothing towards getting her to avoid using it and everything to give her reason to do exactly that.  “This is, you know, just in case.  To be extra safe.  You should be happy I’m listening to you for once.  You’re always telling me to have a backup plan and not to be so rash.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.  All that stuff will just slow you down and make you tire faster, assuming something doesn’t misfire and kill you.”

“I have my reasons, okay?  A building collapsed a few days ago, and Garry thinks it may have blocked off a route that had been previously shown on his Digifile maps.  It’s more or less on the way to the building we’re investigating, so he wants me to pass by and check it out, then I can let him know if he needs to change his map.”

“We have an entire branch of Rebels for plotting maps.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s on our way, so why waste manpower on sending out more than necessary?  Do you want to endanger some unfortunate Surveyor’s lives by sending them out unnecessarily, just because you were too lazy to take a quick detour?”

“I’m not lazy!  Look- I just think that-” he trailed off into a sigh, exasperated and unable to think of a retort.  The arguments had already started, and yet he had known something along the lines would happen; when they were together they always did.  “Alright, here’s what.  We can go do what Garry asked, but we’re not bringing all those weapons.  You are not bringing all those weapons.”  Celia glanced down, digging the toe of her shoe into the ground.

“Well, the thing is, apparently the area is kind of dangerous.”

“Dangerous?  Dangerous how?”

Celia shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.  It’s just a rumour, really.”

“A rumour?  Celia, what the hell does that even mean?”

“Look, it’s nothing.  But… if you’re really worried about it, I can always go by myself, and meet up with you later down the path before we get to the building.

“What?  No way!  Do you realize how risky that is?  We can’t separate when we’re out there!  Besides, you just said the area was dangerous!  Do you really expect me to let you go alone?  Celia, it’s a bad idea.”  Celia sighed.

“Yeah, okay.  You’re probably right.  Okay, I guess I’ll put some of these weapons back.”

“Thank you,” Andrew sighed again, exasperated.  It seemed sighs of frustration were as common to him as eye rolls were to her.  With a defeated pout, she turned on her heels and began walking back.

Several minutes later it dawned on Andrew that she wasn’t coming back.  He ran downstairs to the second floor, where he met up with Garry and demanded he plug in the route Celia was taking.  He complied, but by that point Andrew knew it was hopeless; she had already had an almost ten-minute head start, and catching up to her before they reached the reunion location would be impossible.  If he followed her she would be alone even longer than if he simply took the original path, letting her meet up with him there rather than having her wait.  Gritting his teeth, he realized this was exactly what she had suggested they do in the first place, and had probably been planning it the entire time.  Still, it was out of his hands now; the only thing to do was get going and hope for the best.  He would give her hell when they met up, but it wasn’t like he could report her to the Chief.  And really, how bad could it be?  They were both more than competent at taking care of themselves, if the past 29 years were any indication, even considering how dangerously unpredictable the city could be.  What was the worst that could happen?

Part II


The man walked across the street, looking both ways before emerging from his hiding place in the shadows of a building.  He took long, careful steps, his well-worn shoes padding softly against the asphalt, hands clasped tightly around his gun and eyes absorbing everything around him.  He reached the other side and without stopping began to make his way down the sidewalk, sticking close to the buildings in case something happened and he needed to duck in for a quick escape to shelter.  Arriving at a corner, he turned right and entered the second building he came to.  He’d been scavenging here for food and supplies the day before, and had managed to stockpile quite a decent haul before he was interrupted by a group of people making their way towards the building.  They hadn’t seen him, he was sure enough of that, but fearing they would enter the building and find him there he’d stashed the food in a hiding place before making a hasty retreat.  He had planned on returning later in the day, but by then it had gotten too dark for his liking so he’d resolved to play it safe and return the next morning, a decision he now regretted.  If the food was gone he wasn’t sure what he would do.

He made his way through the building cautiously, glancing about corners and around stairwells before moving forward.  It was common for gangs to claim specific parts of the city as their own, mugging and killing anyone unfortunate enough to be caught passing through.  If this block belonged to the gang he’d seen yesterday he was in trouble: not only would his food most likely be gone but chances were high he’d run into someone eventually.

Fortunately enough he found his haul exactly where he’d left it: all six cans of assorted fruits and vegetables, tucked away behind a loose ventilation grate.  This must be my lucky day, he thought, a grin spreading across his face as he stuffed the cans into his satchel.  The moment didn’t last long: as he folded the bag closed and slung it back over his shoulder he heard footsteps overhead.  Freezing in place, he looked up slowly, heart racing.  The peeling plaster shook with each dull thump of the person’s steps, shaking dust from the ceiling and into the air about his head.  Swallowing nervously he began his retreat, walking backwards with his eyes still trained on the ceiling.

Something clattered loudly to the floor at his feet, and he looked down to see one of the cans rolling away from where it had fallen from his bag.  He bent down to snatch it up, but by then the damage was done.  The footsteps had paused.  For a moment time stood still, and he knew they had heard him but couldn’t bring himself to make the first move.  As it turned out, he didn’t have to.

A muffled shout of alarm came from above, and now several feet were running above his head, presumably to the stairs.  He didn’t wait to find out, unceremoniously stuffing the accursed can in his bag as he ran towards- the stairs.  The only flight of stairs in the building, and consequently the same ones his pursuers were also heading towards at that very moment.  Shit.  He changed direction just as a pair of feet appeared on the step between floors, making quick work of descending.  There was no other way down, and he ran through his limited options quickly before making his way towards the nearest window.  It would have to do.  He slid the window upwards, offering up a silent thanks that it did not jam, and ducked his head through.

The neighboring building was only a few feet away, the nearest adjacent window slightly lower than his own.  Taking a precious second to gauge the distance, he took several steps backwards and, before he could psych himself out, dove through the window.

For a moment he was suspended in the air, two stories away from an encounter with the ground which would mean certain death one way or another.  Then time came crashing back as he smashed through the window, landing ungracefully but for the most part unharmed in a bed of glass.  Ignoring the ache in his body from impact he pulled himself to his feet, looking back to the other building.  Two men stood in the open window’s frame, looking down at him with undisguised malice.  Sparing no time to celebrate his small victory, he took off down the hall.

Chances were high the gang was already sending more men down to grab him as he emerged onto the street, and he knew he had to act fast if he wanted to beat them.  He ran past a window at the end of the hall, and without stopping grabbed the banister and spun himself around and down the stairs.  A large two door entrance awaited him on the ground floor, and he made his way for it eagerly, the taste of escape dulling his sense of caution.  About fifteen feet from freedom the door swung open, and he skidded to a stop, feet sliding against the floor as he threw his body into full reverse.

Not waiting to see the person who’d blocked off his escape, he ran past the flight of stairs he’d just descended and turned into the nearest corridor.  Heading for the emergency exit at the end of the hall, it was once again only a few feet from salvation that his hopes were dashed to pieces.  The door was shaking, and he realized someone on the outside was trying to rattle it open.  The fact that it could only be opened from the inside didn’t help him much; it served only to prolong their horrible game of cat and mouse, because while his pursuer could not get in, he still could not get out, and it was only a matter of time before the others closed in on him.

Looking around hysterically, he dove into the nearest apartment, closing the door behind him.  He ran through the living room and kitchen, then checked and rechecked each bedroom before he was forced to accept that there were no windows, and no way out.  He was trapped.

“Shit,” he swore quietly, before covering his mouth in admonishment as though controlled by two separate people.  Hands shaking, he removed his gun and opened the cartridge.  Three bullets.  Three bullets would not save him from a gang.  There were already at least four pursuers, and he was not a good shot.  No, the gun would not get him out of this alone.  Looking around the bedroom for inspiration from his surroundings, his eye caught on several coats hanging over the wall in a corner.  For some reason it looked off, and it was only after he passed the bed that he saw why: they were hanging over a door, almost completely hiding the top half, the bottom of it obscured by the bed from his previous vantage point in the doorway.  He rushed over and opened it, revealing an empty narrow closet.  Looking over his shoulder, sure he could almost hear the men ransacking the other apartments looking for him, he squeezed himself into the cramped space and closed the door.

Waiting there in the dark with no sense of time passing, his breathing sounded dangerously loud to his ears, matched only in volume by his accelerated heartbeat.  He tried to listen through the wood for any signs his pursuers were nearby, but whether because they were being quiet or simply because there was no one there, he heard nothing.  Rather than ease his fears, this thought only served to make him more nervous.  At one point in time (he couldn’t say how long after hiding), he heard someone searching the room, shifting things aside urgently.  His breath caught in his throat, and he readied the gun, pointing it towards the door lest it open.  In their hurry they must not have noticed the door, just as he hadn’t, because soon the sounds faded and he allowed himself to relax again, at least to a degree.  Still, he waited for what felt like another two hours before turning the door’s knob and pushing on it.  For a terrifying moment it resisted, and his first thought was that he was locked in and would starve to death, a victim of cruel irony.  As he pushed harder and it budged, his second fear was that his pursuers were on the other side, trying to barricade him inside.  Starting to panic he pushed harder, and to his immense relief it slid open with a grating sound, still resisting somewhat.  Sipping out, he saw that the room had been ransacked, the bed pushed up against the door.  He forced a nervous laugh at his own folly, and climbed over the bed to get to the door.  Walking through the empty apartment, noticing the overturned furniture with mild interest, he made it to the front door and as he reached for the doorknob heard a voice on the other side.  Stopping himself just in time, he strained to listen, readying the gun just in case.

“Where the hell are you Tyler?”  The voice sounded off; mechanical and fuzzy.

“I’m back at the second apartment building,” a second voice replied, startling him.  It was far clearer, not to mention louder, and he realized the man, presumably named Tyler, was talking with someone on a two-way radio.  “I just wanted to give it a good once-over.”

“We already turned that place upside down,” the man on the radio barked.  “There’s no way we missed him, and he’d be a complete idiot if he came back.  Everyone else is searching far off from there; what the hell are you doing without a partner?”

“I’ll be quick, Ned,” he argued, sounding determined to stay.  “I just have a feeling, y’know?”  Ned said something he didn’t make out, but he must have consented because Tyler thanked him profusely before signing out.  Recognizing his chance and deciding to take full advantage of it, he opened the door.  Tyler was still fiddling with his radio, his back turned to the man, presumably switching it off so his presence wasn’t revealed by a sudden call while searching, but he looked up as the door’s rusty hinges complained.  He turned, eyes wide and completely unprepared, as the man pistol-whipped him across the side of his head.  He went down immediately, and the man pounced atop him, beating at his face and head with his fists.  When he was sufficiently beaten beyond posing a threat, the man reached into his satchel, removing a long coil of rope.  Straining to see through the swollen skin around his eyes, Tyler began to whimper, his eyes widening in fear when he saw what the man was doing.

“Shut up.”  He said it coldly, giving no indication that only a moment ago he himself had been afraid of ending up in a situation much like this, their roles reversed.  “I suppose I should have started with this.”  Resting the rope aside, he removed a roll of tape, proceeding to tear a piece off which he then plastered roughly over Tyler’s mouth.  He shook in protest, trying to cry out, but it was hard enough for him to remain conscious much less put much effort into resisting.  Soon it was too much for him, and he fell under.

When he stirred his captor was pulling him to his feet, hoisting him by the rope that was now tied around his waist, doubling around to the back and tying off his arms before coming together and making a sort of leash, which the man was now lifting him by.

“Come on, up now.  I appreciate you knockin’ out so I could tie you up; that was good.  But now you gotta wake back up, cos I ain’t carrying you, and we got a-ways to go.”  Tyler’s muffled voice protested, but he managed to steady his shaking legs long enough to stand, mostly to relieve the way the rope twisted at his arms, digging painfully into his skin.  “Now,” the man said, turning Tyler to face him, “I’m only gonna ask you once, and I ‘xpect an honest answer.  Are your friends coming back here?”  Tyler shook his head quickly.  “Good, good.  Where are they at then?  Are they thataway?”  He pointed, in the direction he had come from.  Again, Tyler shook his head, to which the man frowned.  “You’re sure about that?  Cause if you’re lying to me and we run into any trouble, I’ll waste you right there and cop.  You can bet your sorry ass I’m not gonna trouble myself with keeping you alive if I need to run.”  A nod this time, just as fervent as his previous.  The man relaxed, satisfied.  “Good.  Now, turn around, an’ let’s go.”  Obedient in fear, Tyler did so, and they began walking.  True to his word, they met with no opposition, and although Tyler collapsed often, aside from this delay their journey was uneventful.  Whenever this happened the man simply responded violently, kicking at him while pulling on the rope, and he would get back up every time.

The sun had passed its midday mark by the time they stopped at a building, indistinguishable from all the others.  The man looked at it with a sense of pride, but it was interrupted by a sudden chill.  He immediately recognized it; a sixth sense of sorts, developed by almost everyone who lived in the city as a result of the constant threat of danger.  It told him there was someone watching him.  Sure enough, the silence he had been reveling in before had taken on a sinister atmosphere; it was the silence of someone who was purposely making no noise.  Looking about he saw nothing worthy of suspicion, but a window on the second floor of the building opposite caught his eye for the same inexplicable reason he had felt someone watching him.  There was nothing off about it that he could see, not even anything unique.  Still, the feeling persisted, getting stronger than ever.  Suddenly feeling quite vulnerable standing there in the open, he tugged on Tyler’s leash, prompting him to keep walking.  Tyler’s reaction was purely automatic; he had passed the point of thinking or even feeling long ago.

He ushered him inside, walking into the very first room on the right and leading him through it until they reached a bedroom tucked away in the back.  It was well-lit; sunlight filtered through the window overlooking the street outside, and the layer of dust that covered all surfaces suggested abandonment and neglect.  Tyler wavered in the center of the room, and the man noticed with a faint start, shaken from another moment of what appeared to be bliss.

“Ah, you’re probably wonderin’ about the state of the room, huh?  I don’t stay here, see.  This room’s for somethin’ else.  My own room’s a few floors up.”  In truth Tyler hadn’t even discerned that his surroundings had changed, but the man continued rambling as he tugged him aside, off of the large rug that occupied most of the floor.  As he talked he stooped down, lifting one of the rug’s corners.  With a flourish he pulled it back, and as the sunlit dust cloud cleared from the air, Tyler finally took notice.  His eyes widened in the terror of realization as he noticed the trapdoor recessed in the ground at his feet, previously concealed by the rug.  With a muffled cry he tried to run, but in a morbidly ironic twist of fate his legs finally failed him, and he collapsed in a broken heap on the floor.  The man turned his upper body towards him, an amused look upon his face.  “If you really wanted to get away, you should have tried that a long time ago, friend.  It won’t be that bad, y’know.  I take good care of my pets.  I keep ‘em well fed an’ give ‘em lots of exercise.”  As he spoke he lifted a chain from around his neck, revealing the key it held.  He pressed the key into the trapdoor’s lock, twisting it with a faint resounding click.  Grasping the trapdoor’s indented handle, he gave one sharp turn to the side and pulled it open with a grunt.  The door swung upwards with a grating screech, catching midway in the air.

The darkness from inside seemed to reach out, spreading menacingly towards where Tyler had collapsed, paralyzed in fear.  Like watching an accident unfolding before him in slow motion, he could not tear his eyes away despite every instinct in his body telling him to do exactly that.  Looking down into that darkness, he knew with a certainty that filled every cell in his body until they were all screaming out in unanimous protest that if he entered that hole in the ground he would never see the light of day again.  It would swallow him up, and he would vanish from the face of the earth forever.  Something snapped in his mind, and he began to kick against the ground, pushing himself away with an urgency unmatched by his limited progress.

“Oh come now,” the man said, and he sounded hurt.  “I just wanna take care of you.  Look, I’ll introduce you to my other pets.  It’ll be fun, you’ll see.  Don’t you want to meet them?”  Tyler crawled faster than ever, dreading the moment he would inevitably be stopped but unable to deny his natural instinct for survival.  It came regardless; the man grabbed the rope, pulling him back towards the hole.  “Enough,” he snarled, his patience gone.  “The naughty ones get their legs taken away so they can’t run.”  He hoisted Tyler to his feet, spinning him around to face him.  “And the very naughty ones—” But Tyler would never learn what happened to the very naughty ones, because that was when the bullet ripped through his captor’s temple.

It happened faster than Tyler could follow, and all he saw was his captor suddenly fall aside, his head snapping violently to the right.  No longer held up by the man, he fell as well, managing to twist in the air so that he landed facing his captor’s body.  His body was still, but even so it was only when the blood began to spread with alarming speed that he realized what must have happened.  He looked around half expecting to see his saviour standing nearby, their gun still raised in the air, nozzle smoking dramatically, but the body and himself not included, the room was empty.  The stillness became unnerving, and certain he could hear the pool of blood crawling across the ground, making its way to where he’d fallen, he tried once more to free himself from his bounds.

Clyde shifted the sniper rifle, looking for the fallen man to make certain he had not missed.  The body was obscured behind the windowsill, but it didn’t take long for a small red splotch of blood to spread into view, and he raised his head from the scope, satisfied.  Deep down inside he’d known his aim had been true, but you had to be sure.  If he let himself get into the habit of assuming, one day his arrogance would kill him, because that was how the city worked.  If you allowed yourself get comfortable, get into a habit, you would die.  It was as simple as that.

Slinging the gun over his shoulder, he grabbed his possessions and headed down the stairs, taking them one at a time.  He was in no hurry.

He’d been tracking this one for three days now, ever since receiving word that several Scavengers in the area had gone missing.  In a city where dozens were murdered on a daily basis, not to mention all the unfortunate souls who simply vanished and were never heard from again, disappearances like this were so common they’d been widely accepted as a fact of life a long time ago.  The only reason Clyde had even looked into this particular case was that several of the victims had belonged to a powerful gang in the area, and their leader had hired him to do something about it.

Clyde was an assassin, one of few in the city for the simple fact that it was incredibly dangerous.  And it wasn’t just the fieldwork that presented danger; in fact finding and dealing with clients was often far more risky than carrying out the actual assassinations.  His clientele consisted of powerful and dangerous gang leaders, ruthless mercenaries, and worst of all, Cleansers.  Even so Clyde made it work, most of which was possible thanks to the simple fact that Clyde was damn good at his job.  His reputation preceded him, and his name was whispered in even the highest of circles.  He’d come to command a certain degree of respect, made up of equal parts admiration, fear, and curiosity.  Few dared test him because he was such an invaluable asset to anyone on his good side, and a dangerous threat to anyone on his bad side.

The gang leader who’d commissioned him for this particular job was known simply as “Atlas”, and it was well known he had a flair for the dramatic and a reckless streak.  His unpredictable nature made him dangerous, and Clyde usually stayed away from men like him for that very reason.  Unfortunately resources had been scarce as of late, and he’d been forced to take the job.

The target had been easy to track, but difficult to find.  Clyde knew his kind well: they were like rats, darting through shadows like cowards but voraciously ripping through anything that slipped down into their domain.  Picking up his trail took time, but Clyde had experience with his type and knew where to look.  So long as you knew what to look for you could trace them back to their lairs easily: in the end, all creatures of habit were victims of predictability.

Clyde exited the building, looking both ways before crossing the street.  He stepped through the doorway with a blade in each hand, wary of the prisoner.  Just because he was the apparent victim in this case did not mean he was harmless; in fact Clyde had learnt from experience just what people were capable of when cornered and afraid.

As he took his first steps into the room he noticed there was one less body on the ground than there should have been.  He wondered briefly if the captive had somehow managed to untie his bounds and escape, but as he walked further in he saw the trail of smeared blood leading under the bed.  Slightly impressed with his train of thought if not his attention to detail, he made certain the hostile was dead before reaching both hands under the frame, lifting the bed onto its side.  The man was curled into the fetal position, and he looked up at Clyde with unsettling indifference.  He tried to hide his grimace as he crouched down beside him, pulling the gag down from over his mouth.  The man gave no reaction, but seemed to study him more carefully.

“You’re safe now.  I killed him.”

“He’s dead?”  His voice was hoarse, and louder than Clyde felt was safe.  He tried not to wince, nodding reassuringly.

“Yeah.  Yeah, he’s dead.”  The man seemed to take a moment to consider this before talking again.

“He was going to tuh- tuh-” the man’s face crumpled in on itself, and he broke down in tears, sobbing quietly as he turned his face into his arm, away from Clyde.

“I know.  But it’s okay; he can’t do… he can’t hurt you anymore.  You’re safe.”  The man continued to weep, and Clyde considered patting his back in support, but decided against it.  He knew with painful certainty that the last thing he needed now was someone touching him, however good their intentions.  Instead he gave him some time to vent, silently checking through his options for later.  When the man’s crying finally trailed off and he seemed composed enough to take care of himself, Clyde untied him, making sure to tell him before doing so.  He flinched at his touch, but did not panic, which he took as a good sign.  He was certain the man was not a threat; not in this state.  When he was done Clyde helped him to his feet.

“Okay, do you think you can get yourself to safety on your own?”

“Y- yeah.  I think so.”

“Alright.  Good.”  The man started to walk off, limping in pain, but stopped before the doorway and turned to face Clyde.

“Th- Thank you,” he said, his tone suggesting he recognized how strange and hollow it sounded.  Clyde waved his hand dismissively.

“Don’t mention it…”

“Tyler.  My name’s Tyler.”

“Don’t mention it, Tyler.  No one should ever be put in a situation like that in the first place.”  He seemed to contemplate this for a moment before nodding uncertainly.

“Well, yeah, I guess so, but I still was, and you saved me.  So thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”  He offered him a tired smiled, which Tyler attempted to return with pitiful results.  He turned to go again, but hesitated once more.

“What… what are you going to do?”  Clyde’s expression darkened.

“You should go now, Tyler.”  Tyler’s eyes flicked past him to the trapdoor in the ground, and he nodded, his head bobbing up and down one too many times.  Clyde waited for a moment before following to make sure he left, then doubled back and made his way to the trapdoor.  Taking a deep breath, he reached down for the handle, the end of the key still protruding from the lock, and pulled it open.  The stench hit him immediately, the unmistakeable reek of death, decay and human discharge.  He pulled his bandana up over his nose a moment too late, gagging as he swallowed the urge to vomit.  His eyes watering, he wavered over the hole, debating whether or not he would descend.  The nightmares would plague him for at least a week after, making his already irregular sleep habits restless, but if he did nothing he knew his conscience would make it just as hard for him.  He had seen enough beforehand for one lifetime, that he was sure of, but he couldn’t risk leaving anyone down there to starve to death.  The dark hole seemed to taunt him, indifferent towards the death of its owner.  It practically screamed danger, and all of Clyde’s natural instincts for survival told him to stay away, even without factoring the stench into the equation.  Whatever awaited him down below was evil; there was no going back once he exposed himself to it.  He shifted his glance to the right, to the body of the man responsible for whatever acts had tainted the very atmosphere there.  The right side of his face was mostly gone now, blown apart by the bullet’s exit wound.  You did that, Clyde reprimanded himself.  Lying there on the ground he looked far less dangerous.  Peaceful, even.  Clyde forced himself to absorb every detail of the man, his face contorting as he did so, and before his newfound determination could fail him he began his descent into the darkness.

Part I


Victoria awoke to the sound of someone screaming.  Sitting upright in a panic, her head immediately began to throb as disorientation kicked in full-throttle.  Putting her hand reflexively to where it hurt, she pulled back quickly when the pain seared through her skull and down her spine, the skin swollen and bruised, sticky with blood.  It was only when she blinked that she realized her eyes were open, yet she could see nothing but darkness.

She felt about her face for a blindfold, fingers tentative as they searched, coming back down empty.  The darkness was so complete that it occurred to her she might have been blinded by the blow to her head, and as her heartbeat escalated the screams that had woken her resumed.

Disoriented and afraid, she forced herself to regulate her breathing and gather her wits.  She pushed the screaming into the background, a difficult task made even harder by the proximity of its origin.

“H-Hello?” she managed, with considerably more effort than should have been required.  The huskiness of her own voice startled her, and for a split, terrifying second, she thought someone else had spoken.  Clearing her throat and finding even that hurt, she tried again, louder.  “Hello?  Is anyone there?”

“Quiet!”  The voice was so close that Victoria jumped back, almost crying out.  “Do you want to get his attention?”  It was a male, sounding as though he was talking through gritted teeth.  She took a moment to collect herself again.

“What the hell is going on here?  Where am I?”

“The real question is where are we?”  This was a different voice, a female’s, coming from somewhere to Victoria’s right.  “You’ve been kidnapped,” the woman said gently.  “Just like the rest of us.”

“Kidnapped?  By who?  Cleansers?”  There was a pause, and Victoria pictured the woman shaking her head, forgetting that she couldn’t see her.

“No,” she said finally.  “Or at least we don’t think so; as far as we’ve been able to tell it’s only one person.  A man.  Not to mention our accommodations aren’t exactly up to Cleanser standards.  Do you remember what happened before you conked out?”  Caught off guard by the sudden change in topic, Victoria quickly racked her brain for a response, glad for the unspoken excuse of possible head trauma inhibiting her memory.

“I- I was looking for food, I think, and I was digging through a cupboard, and I guess that’s when I got hit… from behind.  I don’t really remember much else.”

“Mm hm.  That sounds about right; most of us were taken in more or less the same fashion.”

“What’s going on here?  Where are we?”

“Are you really asking us?  How the hell are we supposed to know?  In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the same jam as you.”

“You shut up.  She just woke up; go easy on her.  You remember what it was like when you woke up, don’t you?  She’s scared, just like you were.  And I’ll say this much, she’s taking it a helluva lot better than you did.”

“Hey now-”

“Quiet!” she hissed, a sudden urgency in her voice.  “Listen.”  They stopped, the sound of their breathing the only audible thing.

“I don’t hear anything,” the man said eventually.

“Exactly, you idiot.  The screams have stopped again.”  The man’s response to this was silence, and it was evident he now realized its implications as well.  They waited, the tension seeping in from the air and sending a shudder through Victoria’s body.  Up to that point her eyes had still failed to adapt to the darkness, and she was beginning to think they wouldn’t.

There was a faint click somewhere to her right, followed soon after by the sound of a door opening.  Someone scurried past coming from the direction the sounds had originated, knocking against her as they did so.  She fell back just as a faint light spilled into the room through the doorway, just enough to silhouette the figure who had stepped in.  At first the grotesque size and shape threw her off, details hidden in the darkness, but then the figure shifted, separating into two bodies.  She saw that it was a man, carrying a smaller body limp in his arms.  The man stooped, unceremoniously dropping the body onto the ground at his feet with a muffled thud.  Victoria gasped, instinctively shuffling back, kicking out against the ground.  The man straightened, head turning about the room.  His gaze settled on Victoria for a moment, and though his face was veiled in the darkness she recognized the unmistakeable chill of being watched.  Then he was gone, the sound of the door closing confirming his departure.

There was a moment of prolonged silence as footsteps faded into the distance before someone moaned, breaking the silence.  She heard the others rushing over to tend to the person the man had brought.

“What happened?”

“Is that the only thing you know how to say?”

“Her wrists have been cut.  He- our captor, he’s been taking us one at a time and… and bleeding us.  Cutting our wrists.  This is the sixth.  Here,” she said in a lower voice, addressing someone else, “put pressure on this rag here.  Do not let go.”

“How many of… of us are there?”

“Thirteen.  You were the tenth to wake up.  We were afraid you and the last two had been hit too hard and were in comas.  Hell, we’re still worried about the other two.  You were lucky.”  Victoria took a moment to let this sink in.  She didn’t feel lucky.

“How does he see anything in this?” she asked suddenly, the thought now occurring to her.  “How could he possibly find us, far less the ones who haven’t been cut yet?”

“Night vision goggles,” the man sneered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  “He’s got a mask on and everything, the cowardly little fucker.”  Victoria flinched at the pure malice in his voice, and for a moment wondered if their captor was the only monster they had to worry about.  Shaking this thought out of her head, she tried to change the subject.  One problem at a time, she thought grimly.

“Can I help with anything?”

“Yeah.  Here, try to follow my voice.  Just be careful, try not to bump into anyone.”  Victoria obeyed, crawling on her hands and knees while trying to navigate through the darkness.  Occasionally her hand would brush against someone’s clothes, but she would pull back before making contact with them.  She was close enough to where the girl had been dropped that the trip did not take more than a few seconds, but in the dark carefully treading around the lying bodies of the other prisoners, it felt longer.

“Okay, hold your hands out,” the woman said as Victoria shuffled up to where she knelt before the wounded girl.  Complying, she felt a scrap of clothing pressed into them.  “Take this,” she said, gently cupping Victoria’s hands in her own and guiding them over, “and press it… here.”  She felt a warm, sticky dampness spread through the cloth and to her hand, fully soaking the cloth in no time at all.  The speed at which the blood was flowing alarmed her, but she forced herself to press harder on the wound, glad at least that she couldn’t feel where the skin had been torn.  The girl whimpered, and she hesitated.

“No, you can’t loosen your grip,” the woman said, as though reading her mind.  “It’ll hurt, but if you don’t press hard enough she’ll lose too much blood and die.”

“Why is he doing this?  Why doesn’t he just kill us right away?”  At first no one responded, and her words seemed to echo around the room, a plea that would go unanswered.

“I don’t know,” the woman said finally, and Victoria knew without having to see her that she was shaking her head.  “I just don’t know.”

Over the hours, which passed by unchecked and impossible to gage in the dark, Victoria learnt the first woman’s name was Regan, the man’s Clement (given begrudgingly and only after a direct order from Regan), and in turn introduced herself.  Some of the others introduced themselves as well, names she did her best to remember but which were increasingly difficult to pair with voices rather than faces as the numbers increased.

The girl’s bleeding eventually stemmed off enough for them to remove the sopping old rags and tie over fresh ones.  The blood on Victoria’s hands had begun to dry, feeling sticky and unpleasant on her skin.  She longed for some water to wash it off, and found herself chuckling with more than a little cynicism at the realization that clean hands were the least of her worries.  She figured the others were probably reassessing her sanity; to be laughing in such a situation was a sure symptom of the descent into madness, and she tried to transition the laughter, passing it off as a coughing fit.  Regan asked if she was okay, and Victoria managed a nod before remembering she could not see her, offering up a vague confirmation in its place.  Crisis seemingly averted, at least for the time being, Victoria closed her eyes (which made no visible difference; the darkness with her eyes open was just as unbroken as the darkness with her eyes closed) and tried to think.

An indiscernible amount of time later she found herself waking from a sleep she couldn’t recall falling into, and before she had a moment to readjust to her surroundings she felt a hand grasp her leg and begin to pull.  Someone cried out in alarm, and the effect was that of a stone being dropped in water, the ripple of panic and fear spreading through the room like wildfire.  She began to kick out in an attempt to free her leg, but the grip was firm and unyielding.

“Let her go, you bastard!  Haven’t you had enough?”  She heard a scuffle from directly in front of her, punctuated by the occasional grunt of effort.  The arm that held her leg began to shake as he was attacked by at least one of her fellow captives.  She began to kick harder than before, taking full opportunity of the distraction her peers had provided.  With a sharp cry from her assailant her foot somewhat unintentionally made contact with his body, and the hand wrapped around her ankle loosened its grip.  Giving one final kick, she shook the hand loose completely, wasting no time in scurrying back away from her assailant once she was free.

The green lenses flashed in the dark and Victoria imagined she could see the rage behind them.  The struggle between the captor and the captives continued, and she could hear the muffled grunts and curses as they fought.  She considered re-entering the struggle and was about to go back when her world was suddenly filled with pain.  The second thing she registered after the pain was white: searing white light that filled her vision and made it impossible to see anything else.  Her ears were ringing with a high pitched sound that seemed perfectly in synch with the light; constant, unbroken and painfully intense.  Underneath the pain she only faintly registered the cries of agony from her companions.  A flash grenade, she thought, before a hand grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her forward.

The person pulled her around and out of the room, practically dragging Victoria as she stumbled in vain attempts to catch her footing.  The white had gone, or perhaps she had simply moved away from its source, regardless her senses were no longer assaulted by whatever had caused it, although she still suffered the repercussions: her vision was still thoroughly impaired by flashes and blotches of light and there was still a faint ringing in her ears.  The source of the light, which she suspected had been a flash grenade of some kind, had caused detrimental harm to her sensory system, all the more damaging considering the sensitive state it had been in after being kept in the dark for so long.  Only on a subliminal level of awareness did she hear the door being closed behind them.

She fought against her captor’s grip knowing it was hopeless but unable to stop herself; she had gone into survival instinct mode, acting without thinking.  She was blind and, to a lesser degree, deaf, and her body was reacting accordingly in the hope of being able to retreat to somewhere she could recover.  Once more she was only dimly aware of what was going on around her, and of what was being done to her.  Her captor led her forward, and she felt them turn and change direction several times, but when she tried to memorize their route she found her thoughts were still too scrambled and dazed to organize into coherent memories.  Her legs gave way several times but her captor did not stop, instead heaving her by the wrist, her knees dragging painfully against the floor until she managed to regain her footing.  Gradually her vision came back as splotches of the white faded and soon she was able to blink the remaining blurriness away.  By this time her captor had slowed and she soon saw why.

They had entered a room, empty save a large table in the center flanked by a hospital tray.  It was dimly lit by two torches standing in opposite corners of the room, but after being kept in the first room for so long she hardly noticed what it lacked in light.  She blinked, her disorientation not yet completely faded away, and took a tentative step forward at which point she slipped and fell to the ground, the man releasing her wrist as she fell.  Her face hit the floor with a sharp smack and her palms followed, but even then she did not register what was wrong.  It was only as she pushed up from the floor, turning her head as she did so, that she saw the blood drip from her face and return to the pool that coated the surface of the ground.  She scrambled back, finding with horror that her palms and chest were also covered in the dark red liquid.  The man looked down at her through his goggles and she looked back at him for the first time.  His face was covered by a black mask that wrapped around the night vision goggles, the result being that she could see nothing of his features.  He was large and powerfully built, his body shape revealing his gender without uncertainty.  After a moment of regarding one another the captor reached down, once again grabbing her by the wrist.  This time she did not struggle as he hauled her up to her feet and pulled her towards the table.  As she passed the tray her eyes flicked over to the surgical tools that lay there.  She was most concerned with the bloodied knife.

The man grabbed Victoria by the tail of her shirt and hoisted her unto the table, face up.  As he strapped her arms and legs down she considered struggling, but in the end decided against it.  Her captor gave one final tug, and the last strap dug into her wrist with painful thoroughness.  She looked up into his face, and even through his goggles Victoria could tell they were making eye contact.  In the corner of her vision she saw the knife in his hand, saw him hesitate as he moved it over her arm.  He seemed to question her silently.

“Do it,” she said through gritted teeth.  “Do it, you sick bastard.”  And he did.


Somewhere in the city a faceless clock acknowledges the passing of another minute, and machinery whirls into motion with a speed that is unburdened by the many decades spent abandoned in the dark, cold environment it calls home.  It is lonely here.  The last beating heart to pass through these walls did so over a century ago.  Here the silence is that of the absence of life, the silence of stale air and a dead atmosphere.  Like years of sedimentary buildup, hardening and forming layer upon layer, the quiet has become so thick and overbearing that even if it were to be disturbed now the feeling would remain.

The only noises are those of the machines, and while they are loud and harsh they do nothing to break the mood, for they are lifeless and hollow.  Their purpose is one of extreme importance, the magnitude of their significance rivalled only by the complexity of their systems.  The ones who created these machines are all dead now, have been buried and forgotten decades ago.  Only their legacy remains, the legacy of their mechanical children.  And what a legacy it is.

Data are exchanged, variables considered, calculations completed, triggering action in the other machines.  On the eastern wall several hundred miles away, microscopic pixels are activated.  Each one is so small that on their own they are virtually invisible to the naked eye, inconsequential and indistinguishable from the dark screen.  But as more and more of the pixels are activated, their matching pigments bringing them together while their differences in shade and colour shape the masses and give it structure, the screen comes to life.

Thousands upon thousands of miles wide, this testament to something thought lost long ago stands before an empty city filled with empty people who are blind to the sheer significance of the marvel that screams down over them.  Their eyes have been plucked out, have washed down deep beneath the earth where the artificial sunlight cannot penetrate through the cracks in the ground.  They have been washed down to the sewers, where they feed the only things that live down there.  The crows, the crows who flit between shadows and conceal themselves behind cloaks of oily feathers darker than the night itself.  The crows, who believe that what they consume gives them a clarity.  But what they do not realize is that they are victim to a different kind of blindness, one that stems from seeing the wrong thing rather than seeing nothing at all.

And high up above the filthy sewers where the crows converge, higher still than the blind who scamper from ruin to ruin searching for their next meal, higher than all the rest there are those who would claim the city for their own.  They are searching for something, for the room where the faceless clock ticks.

But there will be time enough to speak of them.  Look, now, the sun is rising.  Crawling across the screen at a pace matching that of its original, a thousand weary heads turning towards it, feeling the warmth on their faces, their dark, empty eye sockets echoing with tears long spent.  To them the sun is a symbol, a symbol of another night survived, another day ahead.

It does not bring relief.

Instead it brings a surge of exhaustion, a feeling of inevitability, a fearful longing for the end they try so hard to avoid, day after day, minute after minute, second after second.  It is not a love of life that keeps these people going.  It is sheer habit, one which they cannot shake no matter the consequences.  It is the will of billions upon billions of years of evolution enforcing the necessity of survival, biological incentive which has never heard the old saying “quit while you’re ahead”, or its lesser-known yet in this case far more apt derivation, “quit before things get worse”.  It is all of these things and more, but what drives the damned to carry on living far more than any other reason is exactly the opposite of a love of life.  It is a fear of death.

Pixels change and adjust to mark the sun’s ascension, the progress it makes invisible until the moment you turn away, the moment you stop looking.  Thousands of eye sockets, all basking in the sight of a thing they have never seen, will in all likelihood never see at all.  All they have is this replica, a replica they will never know the authenticity of, never be able to appreciate.

As light floods the city and the dark things scamper back to the shadows, a different kind of evil pours out into the city streets.  What, didn’t they ever tell you?  There is no solace to find in the sunlight; only a blind faith, an illusion of safety that comes from our ability to see and the belief which we derive from this fact, a belief that nothing evil can harm us in the light.  But this belief is wrong, as wrong as the things these day-walkers would do to you if ever they got the chance, and no amount of being able to see them as they come for you will save you from that.  In fact, sometimes it’s the ones that walk in broad daylight that are the most dangerous.  Because shame is often the last shred of humanity these creatures have left, and when that too succumbs to the evil inside, you had better make sure you’re tucked away somewhere nice and dark when that thing steps out into the light.