Demiurge : A Recorded History

[Right, to keep the drama of the original posting (and to make putting this whole thing up a less daunting task) I will be updating this thread with one post per day (unless I forget, then it will be longer) from my archive of Demiurge. I may additionally, put some of my thoughts at the beginning of posts here and there, to perhaps get a clearer sense of deconstruction of each passage. Any and all comments are encouraged in the Deconstructing Demiurge thread. Posts by other people will be indicated as such. Credit goes to each post's author, with a special thank-you to Ecks for playing such a pivotal role in the story's direction, tone, and brown-ness.]

[Author's note: This is where the main narrative actually began. Originally, the 'tattered crimson coat stepped out of the crypt nodding a hello, leaving a chuckling, choking trail of smoke behind' was simply an homage to Jobi, whose 'New Tricks' story had inspired the post, but eventually became Dante, the story's antagonist. Additionally, the trio of suits were originally planned to be Tetragrammaton members, as I had written this soon after leaving that faction, but they became the Digamma Unit as per Ecks's lovely story of the same name.

Looking at it now, I see the first post very much as an antebellum excerpt from really any time before this start, and not a cohesive jump into the action. That is - that one ^ set the tone, this one v began the story.]

---

Roman Carrington was both a man whose name trumped his consequence, and a terrible cook. His wife had been great in the kitchen, which had probably been the reason for his atrophied culinary skills, but after half a decade of divorce fallout, he didn't have much of an appetite for self-reliance. As such, Roman was known in nearly every grimy restaurant and nasty bar west of the aqueduct. Not so much as Roman Carrington, but as the lecherous old dead-beat who tipped too much, hoping to get a false phone number, a mumbled first name, or a bashful smile in return.

He trudged his way wearily out of the poorly lit shell of a cafeteria masquerading as a casino. It had been closed early again - some issue with the custodial union. He never saw the place getting cleaned, but enough time on this earth had taught him not to complain about a full-day's pay for a half-day's work.

It rains too much.

He grabbed a worn newspaper off of the sleeping timekeeper's desk - an overturned supply crate with a handful of clipboards strewn across. Roman stepped outside with the paper above his thinning greased hair, looking up at the obnoxiously overcast sky, he decided it felt late enough in the day to get a drink; his watch was in for repairs, and he had made a habit of telling time by the lack of sun.

A drowned, bruised, fractured cement staircase led downward between two long abandoned office suites, running into a corroded, crumbling door. The place was a prohibition-era hideout for the city's mob personae and politicians. Whatever grandeur it had held then had been lost to property taxes and salmonella lawsuits. Still, it had the old-world charm that only comes from rat-infested pool tables and the acrid smell of fissured asbestos.

And a Kirsch that'll knock y'on your ass.

A tattered crimson coat stepped out of the crypt nodding a hello, leaving a chuckling, choking trail of smoke behind before making its way uncaringly down the street. The door screamed as Roman entered, alerting the basement's ghosts and roaches to his presence. Frank "Tiny" Garrison, the yeti of a bartender, nodded knowingly as the man sat down, laying a bargain windbreaker on the counter. "Tiny" clutched an unlabeled glass phial in a massive paw, dropping two tumblers next to it.

"Long day, Roman?" smirked the bartender, glancing at his watch. He placed a glass full of the thin yellowish liquid in front of the man, the bottle standing guard next to it.

"Lay off Tiny, if you ever settle down and lose a family ‘huv your own, you'll crawl into holes like this e'ry chance you get," ushered a raised glass and a tawny grin. Roman lanced at a framed magazine cover hanging just above Frank Garrison's shoulder – some undersold cultural rag that chronicled the few-and-far-between attractive aspects of Westview. The magazine's cover held a glossy picture of the bar's front door, the inside. It was the place's original door, a two-inch thick slab of some dry wood, apparently housing a quarter-inch ceramic sheet through the middle. Etched into the door was a multitude of passwords and pseudonyms - a frantic index written by forgetful watchmen.

The door buckled. The action must have come before the sound, because for a moment, Roman thought to ask "Tiny" if his contact had shifted out of place. Next came the thought to settle up on a bet that there actually was no ceramic in the door. Then a piercing crash as the door splintered through the middle into hundreds of aborted toothpicks. There had always been some less-than-legal practices in the byway at the top of the stairs; it was probably the carcass of some used up fighting dog.

To smash through a door that thick? Either one hell of a dog, or-

"What th'ell was that?" howled "Tiny," washing his hand with the former contents of a glass. The dog, a red-haired girl tripped backward across the floor, catching herself in an improvised half-kneel. A sable umbrella skidded through cigarette butts and peanut shells into the foot of Roman's stool. Lead scissors tore through the remaining scraps of door, peppering the opposite wall with dusty holes. One, four, three black suits poured in through the doorway, pistols hammering, copper jackets pummeling discarded napkins. Roman's glass burst, along with most of his hand; more rounds raced each other toward his torso, painting a zigzag path of ruddy punctures. He yelped just before a slug fissured through his jaw, leaving him with a lopsided half-grin as he collapsed into himself.

Ow.

Frank Garrison threw his two hundred and fifty pounds of hair, sweat, skin, fat, muscle, bone over the bar, a single barreled rifle in hand. He toppled one man over, gilding the ground with his left shoulder. The redhead franticly clawed for the handle of her umbrella, spinning it around her wrist, shoving herself upward on three legs. She fell forward serenely, swimming against a stream of lead. "Tiny" saw the world flash white with each bullet that ripped through his tree-trunk body. The girl maneuvered her way fluidly into the barrel of a gun, the cold steel kissing an exposed midriff.

"Look at this, Ele. You can't even maintain yourself; how d'you think you'll ever maintain a revolution? Hell, even a hovercraft?" snarled a woman, digging the handgun agonizingly into the girl's stomach. She hesitated, glancing at her reflection in the girl's false eye for a half-moment. "If it we're up t'me, Ele, you'd be leaving here in a dozen little plastic bags. I couldn't care any less about the ship; let it go nuclear right where it sits. If the fallout doesn't wipe out whatever pirate haven you're using as camp, the resulting EMP certainly would." A man groaned, his bygone shoulder leaking thick rust-colored goo, a dead giant crushing his near-carcass. Another stood stoic, his handgun wavering silently an inch from the girl's head, brushing against her ivory hat.

"And what'd that do f'er you?" queried the girl, her lower lip quivering in childish fear, but her voice remaining callous and calculating. "You've seen the public relays, yes? Y'ave bigger issues than a group of bandits, don'chu?" Time grew liquid as she dropped to a side, one gunshot skinning her abdomen, the other tearing at her fedora. She let the umbrella slip through her hands, re-tightening her grip on it as she reached the dull aluminum end; a practiced spin brought her eye level with the man's knee as she drove a rounded handle into his chin, his teeth colliding with train wreck force as she shifted the umbrella to his throat, cutting his breath short and knocking him to the blackened ground.

The woman had regained herself, realigning her aim toward the girl's impish nose. A clock's tattoo flared back to life as the two engaged in a bastardized sword fight. Rounds escaped the gun's barrel haphazardly as the umbrella repeatedly batted it away from its target. Finally, the two met, the umbrella's tip lodged in the beretta's barrel. The woman grinned, pulling the gun's trigger. With a click and a crash, the ersatz shield shattered, brass confetti streaming backward. The girl frenetically grabbed for a shard of the sword's flimsy metal frame, a leather hand found one and clamped down. Instinctively, she limply wove behind the woman, holding the mock-knife to her neck.

"The cold war is over," she said with a feigned blunt tone of finality. With those words, she dropped the weapon and bolted into the claustrophobic freedom of a crowded street and fat, bored rain. At a safe distance, she reached tensely for her telephone, checking her SMS messages.

[Author's Note: Originally written and posted by Cystil.]

A man in a grey suit and Victorian overcoat was walking slowly upon the pavement through a dimly lit street, Richland way. From his mouth a plume of smoke billowed and followed him, wrapping and covering his face in a shroud of inconspicuous mirth. He began treading on the gaps in the slabs, and whilst he did so his body seemed to transgress and thin out, making his appearance seem not altogether there, but vacant or hollow. However, on closer inspection his masculine body seemed to be framed in the shell of a hunched sailor, his shoulders rounded into his chest, his hands in his overcoat pockets. Meat evidently lay somewhere beneath the fabric of his coat, which rippled against his pectoral muscles. His jaw was covered in gristle, and his mouth seemed to omit an inquisitive grin. Through the tip of his fedora, his obsidian eyes winced, seemingly in search for something distant.

Starlight was now boring down through the aborigine red haze of the street, casting diamond eyes on whoever deemed themselves worthy of wandering.

Cystil cast his cigarette on the floor, red ash erupting over his black suede shoes. He paused from taking another step to curse softly in the air.

Wiping his grey overcoat of a little rain that had fallen earlier, he removed it from his back and slung it loosely over his shoulder. He readjusted his hat and sighed, his jawline raising, as his eyes looked skyward. He took a step forward, onto another paving crack.

Somethin’ wrong again, seems such.

Out of the corner of his eye, his smirk growing, Cystil caught a pink sign that hung from a wall down an alleyway to his left erupt in a volcano of sparks. They dribbled onto the floor and down the brick walls of another building opposite. The letters on the sign that signified it was a bar melted into a new word.

Ooh. Pretty.

He steadied his foot on the paving crack and pushed it harder into the masonry. The vision down the street ahead of him remained - and just under the brim of his hat he caught but more sparks erupting from where the sign had been; yet there was no sign there, it had burnt onto the walls and fallen on the floor a while ago, and now the sparks seemed to originate in mid-air.

Brushing over the masonry he continued down the street, taking the tarmac in the central reservation instead.

They ain’t got no time for little matters fixing stuff.. no no, war on their hands now.. But they still want us no where near them... treading on their matters, it seems...

Disappearing into darkness, he flicked his phone open and wrote an SMS to Ele.

”I'm being traced. I need to find you. Where are you?”

[Author's Note: Originally posted and written by Ecks]

The weather was still cloudy and overcast as it had been for the past few days - an almost constant grey...

It was still raining when XElite stepped out of the Hardline, not that he minded - he was well used to it by now. He took only a few steps along the pavement when something caught his eye... down one of the narrow staircases which led off of the main street into its own world lay a trail of empty shell casings and blood; painted on the surface of the surrounding walls.

As he proceeded towards the narrow staircase, he withdrew his SMG and armed it with a metallic click.

Edging along the wall of the staircase, the true extent of what had taken place no more than a few moments ago became apparent... The front door which looked to have, at one time, been a sturdy, wooden structure, now lay in splinters and fragments all over the entrance way. The spatters of blood were beginning to turn into pools, some with motionless persons in their centre... Bottles and glasses now lay in
shards upon the floor. Tables and chairs were turned on their sides towards the entrance - probably by the establishment's former patrons, in the vein hope they would provide cover from the stray bullets of those caught up in the fighting.

So many innocent lives...

He heard a shuffling from behind a table close to one of the far walls which too, had been turned on its side and was heavily laden with silvery, metallic objects. XElite aimed his SMG a little above the leg of the rounded table and made his way quickly but vigilantly towards the noise...

"Help..." he heard faintly as he drew closer.

As the person laying in the pool of blood behind the table came into view, they let out a scream as soon as they saw the weapon aimed at them.

XElite quickly lowered the weapon and kneeled down next to the wounded man.

"It's OK, I'm here to help."

"..." the man remained silent.

"... what happened?"

"A woman... barged in. Bullets flying everywhere!"

"A group in black suits came in after her. I could only make out two of them, a guy and a lady."

"What did the woman look like?" XElite asked.

"I dunno, reddish hair, pretty well dressed, not too many folks round these parts could afford that kind of tailoring... Oh! and a really strong accent but I couldn't really make out from where."

Fara... XElite immediately thought to himself.

The man looked down towards the centre of his chest but remained silent even through the obvious pain.

"Thanks... I'm gonna get you some help. Hold on." XElite tried to reassure him.

As the sirens grew nearer, XElite decided it was time to get out of the bloody battleground...

---Incoming Message---
From: XElite
To: Eleutherophobia
Subject:
Hey Fara, it's X. I heard what happened at the bar. Are you OK?

[Author's Note: Originally written and posted by Cystil.]

Keep running.

Stay on the job.

Find Ele.

Freedom?

Cystil took the parchment from the quivering hand and held it a little while, studying and observing the petrified mess below him. Ochre wallpaper, moist with sweat and blood from the fight, fell from the sodden walls onto the cheaply laminated kitchen floor. The pale creatures face pulsated under the neat leather sole of his foot, its black hair greasy and lice riden trailing over the floor. Upon the paper, a beautiful spidery writing had made out a name and a number.

Eleutherophobia. 305 ...

He had what he wanted, but not what he desired.

Seven or so mintues before aforesaid human trash lay strewn on the floor quivering and begging for mercy, cypherite Thomas Crawley had bragged about having the ability of tracking and succesfully finding, one Miss Yazin, on a private forum. For Cystil, Casting his mind back was never easy, but he imagined the thread that led him to the present once more.

Epanokamelavkion: "Demiurge, that's what they called it. They were infidels. I know that each one terrorized the system and awakened hundreds, probably, not intentionally though. They all got infected at some stage, too. If bluepills saw that, they would have awakened stone cold in their pods. I got us a link, anyway. FaraRose/Eleutherophobia/Yazin. I have her number. We should be able to cleanse the lot of her number."
Bartser: "A telephone number. Pfft. What'll that do us for? How we tracking her?"
Epanokamelavkion: "We'll sort something out. It's still unsafe to post details here. Get Cystil on it, he's a detective.. infact, he's anything you want him to be!"
Bartser: "He's here because I have something he needs. His life. He's jacked in and I wont let him jack out. He has to live with it."

I should have thought about this. It's a trap. They want me to find her, like everything else. Lazy bastards.

Clutching the tiny paper close to his pocket, his foot still on a squirming face, he pulled on the trigger of his shotgun. The cartridge echoed a loud bang throughout the kitchen making two tiles dislodge from above the cooker hood. They shattered on the floor and dust flew silently over the legs of the table and chair in the centre of the room. A little blood had flecked over Cystils mouth as a torrent of flesh and cartelidge swilled across the tiled floor.

Silence wrapped the room in a short while, and all was normal again. Dabbing his mouth with an silken handkerchief, he made his way past the kitchen and into the sitting room. Cystil sat on a filthy brown sofa, which enveloped his thighs and crunched his shoulders.

Why am I still doing this? Is dea...

...

What was that?

The computer in the far corner of the sitting room began typing for itself.


Good evening, Cystil.

What the..

The girl is worth your life, remember. Find her, and dispose of her

Cystil typed into the machine.

Find her yoursleves!

If they follow me, I'll shake them. I know I can.

She hesitated for a moment, glancing backward, breaking a double-handful of self-important lawyers’, brokers’, prostitutes’ strides while silently catching her breath. Insincerely apologizing, the girl inched her way out of the crowd at an intersection, ducking past the missing gate of a private alcove. An embarrassing gash in the seam of her ivory hat gave the girl an ethereal, otherworldly aura; a loosely feathered halo atop her fiery hair. Though, a more apparent rip in her stomach was making itself more known with each step. Her cleaved shirt allowed the apathetic world to view a weeping cleft just below Fara Yazin’s navel. The combined scars painted a one-eyed grin across her abdomen: a poetic caricature.

A random patter of water on cement slowly grew to the rhythmic drumming of a thousand simultaneous droplets saturating every surface available; the girl’s thoughts dwelled sodden on the corpse of her umbrella as every inch of clothing began to cling to her pallid, taut skin. She gingerly plunged a leather hand into the ashen pocket of her soggy coat, resurfacing with a gleaming telephone. There were still two messages; the uncaring black text scrolled lustrously across a dulled white screen.

Sender: Private/[Unknown]
“I'm being traced. Where are you?”

Sender: XElite/[Alias]
“Hey Fara, it’s X. I heard what happened at the bar. Are you okay?”

The first elicited a childish frown from the girl, as she wondered where private caller got the audacity to ask her location on an unsecured line. The second deepened the expression, as her intensely recent escapade had already reached the ears of a colleague. Both, however, received the same collected, emotionless response. Her glistening black fingers skipped carelessly across the small keys as Fara’s right eye stared needles into the mobile’s tiny screen.

Reply: Inbox/[Recent]
“The Demiurge Private Commissioning Agency was unable to process your message, please feel free to speak with an associate at our newest location on the boardwalk of Ikebukuro.”

The message sent, and she reburied her telephone with one hand, hailing a taxi with the other as she stepped back into the congested traffic of a crumbling square of sidewalk. The coughing yellow coupe pulled halfway onto the splintered curb before coming to a stop, its leather-faced driver cranking a window down an immeasurable sliver to ensure his upcoming income. The girl placed her war-torn fedora onto the imprint of an overweight man’s wet trousers as she climbed into the cab’s back seat. Rasping directions in a pseudo-pubescent cough, she gazed haggard at the faceless heads of dark suits ducking between canopies.

“Y’new in town, kidd-o?” choked the driver, his smoke-ravaged voce the grating whine of an ill-tuned saxophone. He stole a drooling look at the girl in an adjusted rearview mirror, thanking the rain for its unreserved effect on her clothing.

“Always,” she quipped bitingly, catching her own reflection in that of his eyes. Her unlikely frame leaned itself toward the window, ducking behind a passenger seat.

“I’d say get out while ya’ can,” he advised her, switching seamlessly from suitor to mentor. “This town”¦it’s like a big ship, and the water’s on fire. You know what I mean?” The man laughed inwardly at his poor excuse for wisdom, not expecting a reply, as he scarcely knew what he was saying. The rest of the ride to an address in Ikebukuro was silent, but she knew what the saxophone meant.

[Author's Note: Originally written and posted by Ecks.]

There were a myriad of individual canopies scattered along the sidewalk of the narrow sidestreet, each with an individual stand underneath and occupant stood beside. There were usually one or two people on the other side of each counter, stopping to see what new merchandise or ingredients had been brought in with the day, though this always increased to a handful when it rained. Those which dispensed a hot meal or beverage were especially popular as the heat they generated always provided a soothing warmth to those stood close enough.

It was under one of these that he withdrew his cell phone to check for any new messages. The screen gave a warm glow in contrast to the intersections of darkness which shrouded the distance between each canopy. The hanging lanterns danced on the screen as each new drop of rain changed its shape and pattern. Oddly enough, these sidestreets always seemed to grow busier as the day progressed instead of quieter. A chef rushing past with a crate of fish. A figure in a dark suit talking loudly on their cell phone with a brief case in the other hand. An old lady stooped over with her cardigan pulled tight to ward off the attacking weather.

But time stood still on the screen...

There were a few new messages but one in particular which drew his attention was a reply from Fara. It seemed almost like an automated response. Perhaps the line on which she was currently was not secure? If so, then couldn't any names or locations be monitored by whoever had taken an interest in Fara's goings on? Perhaps.

He replaced the source of light back into his pocket and left a single note for the proprietor.

Leaving the warmth and shelter of the canopy behind, he made his way to the familiar boardwalk of Ikebukuro...

[Author's Note: Originally written and posted by Kellner.]

Why am I devoting cycles to this?

From the roof of a dilapidated building, Kellner had a good view of the entire street. It didn't take much concentration anymore to focus his whole being on something - he could stare unblinkingly at a computer monitor for hours, looking for anything that might be the key to the destruction of Zion, the end of the awakenings. He could bathe himself in blood, even if most of it was his own, battling tirelessly to achieve something. Yet they had found him, and they had told him he would be allowed certain liberties only if he worked with them more closely.

He was currently spending his time monitoring. His eyes never left the man in the grey suit and victorian overcoat, despite the things that others might deem interesting happening all around on the street below. It wasn't challenging - the man was simply walking, taking time to stomp out a cigarette, using his cell phone.. Straining his eyes was no good, Kellner couldn't make out the number he dialed or the message he typed. These things could be traced, however, and he was sure he would hear of it sooner or later.

Arrogantly, he took some of his concentration away from watching Cystil. It's easy enough, keeping the eyes following him. The rest of me can be thinking about something else. Something like the treatment of our latest prisoner, perhaps. And as gruesome images played through his mind, Cystil disappeared.

Kellner shook his head, bringing the multitasking to an abrupt halt. He played the images his eyes had taken in over again, but he could not determine where his target had gone..

The girl stepped onto the wooden eastern seam of Ikebukuro, an early-evening breeze spraying salty mist into the fat, humid air.

[Author's Note: Originally written and posted by Ecks.]

A reflection of the setting Sun hovered over a pool of water resting upon the boardwalk. The rain had only moments ago stopped and already there was little evidence that a rain storm had, at all, happened - could ever have happened.

He walked further along the wooden platform. The Sun grew brighter, its rays resting on his black sunglasses.

A white Fedora slowly came into view...

"Hello Ecks. Glad you could make it." Fara greeted him with a gravely serious tone in her voice.

"Is it safe to talk?" XElite replied.

"Prob'ly not, but we're going to anyway?" She said with a grin on her face.

XElite smiled for a moment but it began to fade as he moved on to discuss what had happened at the bar...

Not long into talking about what had happened, her demeanor changed. The confidence in her voice suddenly disappeared and what was left was shaky and uncertain. A dark crimson stain began to appear on the surface of her tailored jacket at which she looked upon with an almost surprised expression.

"Do you know the severity of th'situation we're in, Ecks? My ship, my crew... We're pirates. There's more than one organisation we've met th'disapproval of..."

"You're not in contract with the machines?" He inquired, glancing at her quizzingly.

"Of course we are! We're the Demiurge Confederacy. Privateers under the g'huvernship of the machines." With this statement, she had suddenly returned to the very confident and professional Fara Yazin that had greeted XElite on the boardwalk.

Throughout the rest of his time on the boardwalk, Fara continued to flit between the "Captain of the Demiurge Confederacy" and the young girl who had stolen a ship and was on the run, fearing, at every moment, for her life. Several times.

Apparently she recognised one of those dressed in all black suits, who had attacked her at the bar, as a former associate.

"I'm... sorry to hear that." XElite said at discovering this news.

"It's the way it goes..." She replied. Although he was unsure which Fara had said it.

She stared at him blankly for several minutes and XElite looked around to see if there was anything which had caught her attention; which had rendered the area suddenly unsafe...

Nothing.

"I'd better let you get back to work then." ... turning to leave.

"I..." she said.

Turning back to see Fara cautiously holding out what seemed to be a thin, black square.

"I've been unable to decode the encryption on this disk... I was hoping you may h'uv more luck with it?"

"Was there something in particular you were looking for on it or rather just to see what's there?" he asked, while placing the data disk in his pocket.

Her response was a smile and, again, a blank stare...

The telephone rang once, its monotone warble bouncing energetically off of each warm drop of rain. With a resigned stumble, she melted into the alley, drawn like a gnat to the buzzing orange light of a restaurant’s fire door. A practiced glance found only the vacuous shell of a drunk collapsed under a tabloid timeline of the past week. She brought the receiver to her ear, a light, tinny sound like scraping silverware against a plate climbed through her head, beat at the back of her eyes. Her projected self-image methodically fissured, replaced for a moment with millions of tiny white-green fireflies, then nothing.

Waking up always felt like your whole head was vomiting. The Italian woman, Systemic, firmly twisted the panic clamps folded around Fara’s neural jack and pulled the impressive spike from her head. Thin blood dripped from the girl’s ear, got lost in her ratty tangerine hair. Systemic rested a ginger hand on the girl’s clammy, off-white forehead, pushing a knotted lock from her clamped, fluttering eyes.

“She scares m’half t’uh de-huff when’uvver she does this,” barked the thickset operator, Ooidal, watching the girl’s neural spike shoot her heart rate over two hundred beats-per-minute. Nervous sweat pooled over her upper lip as Ooidal’s nostrils flared. “Shit, if we wait any longer, th’bit-chuh won’evver get outta’ that seat,” he croaked to the woman, expecting a frantic nod of endorsement. Instead, she held open a bronze palm, staring serenely into her salty reflection on the man’s quivering, fat forehead. That chick must bleed steel, he thought to himself for a half-moment.

“Do it,” she commanded firmly, not a trace of panicked urgency in her voice. The operator’s pudgy fingers danced over a double-handful of keys; the mechanical bleat of a depressed hypodermic plunger was drowned out by a shrill wet cry, powerful narcotics flooding out from an intravenous cuff.

Fara felt as if a scab had ripped from the front of her brain as her eyes opened to Systemic’s gentle smile. Her half-vision sharpened as the girl lifted herself from the chair, landing silently, the rough cloth of her thick socks letting in the aggressive cold of a steel-mesh floor.

-And without missing a beat-

“If we get ‘uh heading now, we could theoretically reach Bah-bylon in seventy hours, sixty-five, if we duh-n’t care about getting there in one piece,” chirped the girl, swallowing in wet hiccups between cadence.

“Iesce sole! Are you alrigh-”

“Don’ bot-hurr. Th’brat’d jus’ ignore it anyway-”

“Where did you get that disk, captain?”

“Ignore what?”

“Nun sputa n’ciele ca n’faccia te torn,” muttered the woman, ducking between two large piped that halved the height of most of the catwalk.

“I’m not ignoring anything; I’ve tod’ju before, I don’t speak Italian.”

“See wh-ut I mean? And what did’juh give t’uh that guy?”

“I’m not a brat,” grinned Fara, brown outlining her teeth. The improvised space took on the illusion of late evening, as powerful illumination gave way to subtle, discreet operation bulbs. Four of the ship’s six keel-mounted hoverpads spindled into position and began to purr, tiny servo beacons whirring in excitement.

Shayel’s spectre landed lightly in the pilot’s seat, not pressing any buttons as Vinia neglected to crawl through the gangway, rubbing her forearms off with an oily rag. Even Jouzu failed to appear as he always had, his dark, immense figure blocking the hatchway, an impressive hunk of filthy machinery tuck under each arm. That was another lifetime. In rude contrast to the nostalgic non-reunion, Systemic reappeared, matter-of-factly asking who was supposed to pilot the ship.

-And without discussion-

Fara measured her own ability for a moment, and graciously stepped aside. The ship whined pathetically as it fell back into fluorescent dormancy. Ooidal’s seat groaned as he got up, lumbering entertainingly toward his quarters, everyone’s quarters, returning a moment later stretching the seams of a tent-sized sweater. Though deep enough underground, the New Antigone encampment was a straight drop down a former Arctic mine. Fara pulled on an itchy woolen facemask and bubbly glass goggles with deep imperfections that made her look like a restless fruit fly.

Over a threadbare sweater she pulled the now-grey coat she had received after the great big battle of Paradise. It was grey because she had worn it on every operation since the great big battle of Paradise. She had gotten it just after the great big battle of Paradise because of her undying, albeit unwilling, loyalty to whatever cause for which the battle had been fought. Since then, wearing it on every operation since then had conveniently torn the pressed white insignia of the Tetragrammaton from its sleeve; at some point, she had scribbled the Equinox’s three rings onto the shoulders.

Ooidal grunted and kicked at the corroded metal hinges of the ship’s small escape hatch, now the only door now locked shut by thick frost. With one impossible heave, he pulled himself through the rotary opening, Fara clambering nimbly out behind him, slipping on her elbow. The duo admired their surroundings as they had each time since their former crew had politely stolen themselves and left for greener pastures. A ragged scar of sky tore across the wide canyon they found themselves in, sporadic, spidery lightning pulsing through the wound.

-And without an exchanged glance-

The two started toward the thin grouping of whitish dots through the greyish limestone fog. In the tiny population of freeborn extremists, which had been mysteriously robbed of supplies just days prior, was the new pilot of the Equinox.

[Author's Note: Originally written and posted by Ecks.]

Their business concluded, the tall figure with spiked, red hair, dressed in an all black suit, bowed his head to both the woman and man still sitting at the table from which he had arisen, in turn. They each bowed their head back, remembering how odd they found it that someone would wear sunglasses indoors... in a fully lit room.

As the two made their way towards the still busy, illuminated sidwalk through the lightly brushed, metal doors which they had used to enter the restaurant; the man in the black suit made his way towards the swing door which led to the kitchen, removing a black cell phone from his inner coat pocket as he went.

Once on the other side of the door - a flood of Cantonese shouts for orders and ingredients blending into the buzz of chatter from the main dining area for a few seconds, as it swung gently back and forth - he answered the ringing phone and put it to his ear...

* XElite: This is a secure line, go ahead...
* Voice: I hear you've seen Ele?
* XElite: Why d'ya ask?
* Voice: Because I haven't.
* XElite: I see...
* XElite: I'm guessing you were hoping to have a word with her?
* Voice: A word, a hug, a tearful reunion... take your pick.
* XElite: Hmm... I could let her know you were looking for her, if you want?
* Voice: Yes. Do you know of anything I could do to help her?
* XElite: I'm not sure what could be done although... I could let her know of your offer....
* XElite: Where things go from there would be up to her.
* Voice: I just hope she hasn't abandoned us completely.
* XElite: I'd doubt Ele's decision would have been made solely on a... personal basis.
* Voice: This is the problem. I don't really know what she's thinking these days.
* XElite: How so, do you mind me asking? A loud hiss from several woks and steam pressure cookers can be heard in the background
* Voice: How what?
* XElite: What would be preventing you knowing what she's thinking, that wouldn't have before.
* Voice: People grow unfamiliar when you don't see them for a while.
* XElite: Yeah.
* Voice: Anyway, keep me posted huh?
* XElite: I'll let Ele know what you've said.
* Voice: Thanks.
* XElite: See ya around.

*click*

New Antigone had been settled twelve days after Dante was killed. The colony’s entirety was only three small craft and a labyrinth of canvas walkways. It was the nearest place to heaven.

With Dante gone, there had been no one left to lead the group, so Noone graciously took command. When a client demanded his presence, Noone would reserve a table, taking his steak medium-rare with an 1860 Veuve Clicquot, and toast to the community’s progress. The triad of craft was traffickers of whatever needed to be trafficked. As such, Noone most often took his meals in the company of Flood, who had placed several competitive prices on his head.

Twelve days before the settlement, Dante had been fiddling with a set of car keys when a single bullet, followed by many more, severed the equal exchange between his projected self-image and his hovercraft which was ripped to shreds by a team of sentinels moments later. Moments later, his hovercraft was ripped to shreds by a team of sentinels. The reasoning behind Noone’s cut ties with the machines was, therefore, obvious. While most of the population of New Antigone was freeborn, Dante, and his successor were both awakened, and angry; so, they found it fair to wreak havoc upon whatever world they had decided false. The ships settled in a valley of dying stars, a hollow valley, the broken jaw of lost industrial kingdoms, able to play out their role away from the interests of both their benefactors and adversaries.

Ooidal had been trading war stories on a public channel when the opportune signal made itself known; this was when the ship still had a pilot. It was, as he described, a simple impulse function; a repetitive bit of chatter that broadcast, theoretically, to infinity. Fara was nearly immobile when the decision to follow it was made, having been rebuilt for a second time, but when they finally had found the mine, it had been her decision to bring the ship inside, because, as she had said, it looked hungry. The Tetragrammaton’s fat, pretentious flagship Archon would later have difficulty making its way out of the gaping passage with Fara’s crew on board.

The Equinox had set down far enough away from the camp proper to make Ooidal’s bad knee ache, and Fara’s nose turn bright red, even underneath it’s thick hood. The two avoided conversation, having made the trip carrying overstuffed sacks of stolen supplies three days earlier. This time, they arrived at an improvised night, finding no one but Noone in the tented hallways between the hovercraft.

He was beautiful. Dark, windblown hair trickled down his forehead masking two piercing, hawklike eyes. His skin was tanned, and looked like it was pulled too tight over his face, leaving him with thin, defined lines at his cheek bones. He wore a thick black scarf around his neck, hiding the messy hairs on his chin and neck. With a swift movement, he cracked an ungloved fist against Ooidal’s pudgy face, knocking him dizzily against a tarp wall.

“Who th’ell are you?” his thick, stately drawl demanded. He snarled at his reflection, staring at the girl’s filthy goggles.

She was sightless, until she allowed her eyes to reappear, resting the blackened bug-eyes on her cloth forehead. One silent moment allowed her to gain composure. “We apologize. There’s apparently some sur-ruff high-brow, choice guest-list ‘ere, yes? How is it that upstanding ah-n forthright individuals such as ourselves weren’t invited?”

“You fuh-”

“I’ll ask-”

“-kin’ broke-”

“-you wuh-”

“m’nose.”

“-ince more, before I ‘eff you garroted, and used as food, kid. We’d dah-em well need it,” he barked, nostrils flaring. A tall, thin woman with a bandage on her nose and half a left arm stepped through the chuckling opening of a zippered doorway at the noise.

“We, being only empty men,” she began to step from side to side, “women, have come t’beg ‘huff y’er charitable and benevolent community the hope of a navigator. In return, we offer-”

“Are you-”

“-the supplies that-

“-out of your-

“-so mysteriously-”

“My nose.”

“-vani-”

“-mind?”

“-shed from your camp three days ago.”

“You stole our supplies, you bih-”

“Have, not stole your supplies.”

“You’re dead.”

“I’m probably too chewy, and he’s mostly fat,” she motioned to Ooidal, whose pathetic form was slouched over itself, blood dripping off his chins.

His jaw set, searching for some way to beat the girl. “We’ll speak inside,” he turned before finishing, walking toward the RcCft Hestia.

A tall slit in the hovercraft’s bantam stomach jerked open at the crank of a frozen metal toggle. The one-armed woman ducked fluidly through the opening, the tumor of Ooidal’s form squeezing through in tow. At the rear was the tired leader, disallowing the girl unchecked reign of his colony. Comparative warmth burned at the girl’s cheeks as a disguised hand pulled the itchy mask from her face, impish features stretching upward for a moment. Noone hesitated, dumbfounded and nearly awestruck by the intruder’s youth - then more than curious as to the odd scars along her face. Shaking the thoughts, he willed the door shut, and the one-armed woman complied, a vacant distance in her big azure eyes. The woman politely asked Ooidal to move, and he collapsed onto an overturned crate, pushing at either side of his swollen nose, knocking a homemade deck of cards to the mesh floor.

An aged groan placed Noone slumped onto a weathered chair, his wise boots landing loudly next to a keyboard whose characters had faded and been redrawn, crossing. “You’re just a kid,” he declared after several pensive breaths.

“Sorry?” the girl furrowed her thawing brow, offended by the statement.

“I expected the harbinger of our demise to be some brute from the syndicates, or maybe a pile of Neonite terrorists; I would’ve guessed a hun’red things before some brat an’ her father,” he motioned to Ooidal, whose head was leaned against a precarious shelf of discs.

“Harbinger ‘huff-”

“I’ll ‘ave y’know that I’m not some brat,” her voice was a raspy, childish whine, “and that man is th’most talented operator this sie’duv th’Euphrates dih’vide.”

The man chuckled omnisciently, “I’ve no doubt.”

“Eih wuddn’t call us th’harbingers ‘huff y’er demise,” gurgled Ooidal, spitting a wad of dark brown jelly to the ground, “We’re jus’ here f’er th’sightseeing.”

“Did you start the fire?” queried the one-armed woman, her voice a constant C-sharp with no discernable origin. Ooidal stopped wheezing, and the girl studied the stitching pattern of her gloves. The woman climbed through a cluttered gangway, disappearing from conversation.

“Why did you start my camp on fire?”

“We needed t’distract y’while we borrowed supplies.”

“Borrow?”

“Take.”

“Why did you take my supplies?”

“We were running out.”

“Why did you not simply ask for supplies?”

"There was a fire, nobody was free t’speak with.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he uttered, his voice painted with peeved resignation. Through a hole only visible when pointed out and squinted at came a short man with unfortunate eyebrows. Unfortunate because an odd stripe through the middle had grown in blonde, contrasting his black hair, and giving him the appearance of having four eyebrows. He mourned the corruption of a databank, eliciting an irate roar and a slammed fist, sliding a small tucked drawer slightly open. “This is your fault,” a long finger accused the girl, “This is your fauh-”

“An’ we’ve every intention t’repay you ah’soon as we can. However, that can, being our ability to repay you, hinges only and entirely upon y’er willingness t’supply us with a steersman - which, in prospect - will require a larger reimbursement in th’pile we’re creating,” she paused for a moment, head spinning in her own doubletalk, “Whereby upon said reimbursement, folluh’wing the pivotal can on y’er behalf, aforementioned steersman will remain in our employ. Call it a finder’s fee f’er th’compensation it is you’ll, in all graciousness, ‘ave us find, bring t’you, and lose. Yes?” One jittery eye scanned the blank expressions surrounding it.

“You’re asking for a favor?”

“An investment.”

“You broke into my community. You started my homes on fire. You stole my food.”

“Creative negotiation. Moreover, I hold severe doubt that th’food stockpiled in this loveliest of communes was originally yours, and that ih’t’was in fact stolen. Ergo, our theft ‘huv that very same food is not your crime t’prosecute or punish.”

“You overestimate your leverage.”

“Y’underestimate my resolve.” The one-armed woman returned, slightly thicker from a bald sweater, its left sleeve hanging limply at the shoulder, an erupting rucksack slung tightly over the right. She wore an unpleasant look stretched across her face, like some terrible taste refused to leave her mouth. The vibrant canary of the woman’s tensely ponytailed hair showed thin traces of lost colour, age. Her faded black pants bunched at the top of her ankle-high boots with broken clasps. Thick twine laced one taut to her leg.

“I’m not sorry,” she stared blankly through Noone’s dark, judicious eyes, no inflection, no emotion. He nodded and the man with unfortunate eyebrows grasped the girl’s wrists, holding them tightly in the small of her back.

The comment invoked no manifest response, the chieftain’s jaw still set. “Domino will pilot your ship; she’s more than competent.” He frowned deeply for a moment, his eyes crawling to the toes of his boots, and took his leave by means of a fold-down ladder, climbing to an unseen tomb above. Domino reopened the wall, allowing a pitiful Ooidal to step out before her. The girl was shoved forward into the console Noone had been sitting at, an opened shelf shoveling into her abdomen, before being commanded to get back up, and promptly shoved stumbling through the craft’s frigid jaw.

The wind slapped coldly at their faces, a large portion of the canvas enclosure having been taken by fire. It was the kind of angry wind that stampeded through a fractured nostril, cushioning a resocialized brain with a frigid halo of stinging air, and tearing the thin twine from loose boots that left cold feet exposed to the icy abuse. The long walk back was frighteningly reminiscent of the silence that had brought two to New Antigone; the only difference now, a light gasping noise from Ooidal’s nose, and a third pair of footsteps on the cracked ground.

[Author's Note: Originally written and posted by Ecks.]

*phone rings*
"The Eastern part of Magog is lovely this time of year."...
Entering into the Eastern part of Magog, the wind formed the rain to a diagonal slant which cut through the abandoned storage houses and high rised tenement blocks which stood on either side and all around.
Nearing the designated Hard Line for the area, he could make out a luminous white jacket in the background, hiding under a two laned freeway which carved its path above. The green glow from the phone booth behind created an oinous glow around the silhouette of the wearer of the white jacket, patterned - he could now see - with several swirls sewn in black.
"It is." he said.
"It's a run down, over populated pit." she hissed with a sigh.
He held out a small, light blue object which she placed directly into her jacket pocket.
"As always time is h'uv the essence and --" she informed him...
"...only if it is allowed to be." he smiled.
A frown came across her determined face as she asked if he had been able to find out anymore about the contents of the data disk. It was another surveillance report although no names, locations or dates were mentioned - traditional practice for one of a number of intelligence agencies, both officially and... some less so. He found it of note, however, that such a report would be compiled onto a disk...
"Almost h'as if it were meant t'be published?"
"Mm. If not publicly..." he replied.
Several moments of silence passed...
"I think I'll go fer a cup of tea in a coffee shop north h'uv ‘ere." she said distantly.
Walking out from the shelter of the motorway overhead, he removed a small, light blue cell phone from the left pocket of his beige cargo pants and dialled the number for its identical copy which he had earlier given to Fara...
It was answered. "Cadsuane was asking for you..."

It was supposed to look like a complicated goldfish, or maybe a koi - the length of a car key, and spotted with pretty white blotches where the paint had fatigued. The frame was a complex maze of twisted golden wire clutching shards of verdant brass. If she held it by the mouth, each interlocking piece to the tail would twist and fall according to that position of its predecessor. A flexed pin jutted from a loop at the top, as if the fish had swallowed a fishing pole, but was smart enough to leave the hook. Its two scarlet, faded eyes cried, mourned. After a period of quiet deliberation, she decided that an ear piercing could not hurt very badly, and would, in fact, be pretty.

A quivering yelp reached Ooidal’s ears, and he assumed that the brat had tried sleeping on the top bunk again. She pulled a small, shaking, terrified, leather hand from her ear, brown-red blood dripping between its fingers. Her brow tightened and her skin paled, and she fell out of time.

Twin trails of mascara paved Fara’s pale cheeks; there was something heavy in her hand. Her finger traced backward along “oh-five-point,” and she pulled tightly at the cold metal trigger. Each shot dug something painfully into her wrists, bent her arms another way, the recoil overbearing for her delicate arms. A round climbed excitedly from the barrel, ripped through the silk of his tie, shattered a plastic button and cleaved through cross-stitched cotton. Hair, sweat, skin, fat, muscle, bone fissured. The boy gasped shallowly, eyes tearing at the powerful warmth spreading through his abdomen.

Time was unclear, and she spun around slowly at the soft, wet thud. Robert fell into a pool of his own blood, moaning frivolously, staring in vacant disbelief at the girl. She collapsed onto his limp body, crying, and was pulled away screaming by a black suit. There was blood on her hands.

The weeping hole in her ear felt like a bee sting that refused to subside. Fat, salty tears gathered in one eye, and paved a path to her pointed chin. The girl wiped at the side of her face with a slack, threadbare sleeve as a heavy door opened, plunging the cabin into radiant light. Ooidal stood silent for thirteen seconds before erupting into a robust, cathartic chuckle. The girl began to grin, and laugh as well; the bittersweet taste of a tear fell past her lips, mixing with old vomit.

She was at the diner, drowning a smiley-face pancake in syrup; her fiery orange hair was pulled into adorable schoolgirl pigtails. It was September twenty-sixth, 1999 - the last Sunday before a new school year. The girl was eight, and her father had taken her out for breakfast. In the kitchen, a tan man with large black hair, and a cumbersome black overcoat buried his fist into a veteran’s stomach. He was wearing a blonde wig, a red cocktail dress, and a head full of secrets.

Ooidal had to lean onto the steel frame around him, doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach. Fara laughed too, her face flushing a cherry red.

“Wh’ur th’ell’ju get that?” As he said it, he was stepping out through a thick metal frame, the cold air biting at his freshly thrashed nose. He heard a thick, wet thump, and saw a man’s fist in the brat’s stomach; she fell backward. Her side hit an opened drawer and a covert hand trickled inside, removing something shiny, green, and she dropped to the floor. He watched her hands as she fell; they were nimble, somehow graceful, the black gloves demanding some form of reverence.

And he was aboard the Lethe, one war ago, his inexperienced fingers danced wildly across a faded keyboard. A black haired woman put a hand on his shoulder assuredly before planting herself in a worn armchair with a gaping hole in its headrest. He watched the codestream update in blinding, rectangular flashes. A tan man in a dark coat dug a thick, powerful fist into a flowing red gown. Ooidal prayed that she would get there fast enough to plant a bullet in the unlucky veteran’s head. A door burst open, and the man’s form wrinkled, falling into itself, the blonde wig falling into his eyes.

Errant strands of knotted, rusty hair fell into the girl’s eyes. “I found it,” she managed through a giggling wince, “wha’d’y’think?”

“I ‘fin’g you shoul’ clean dis’suh’p before Systemic sees tha’chu bled all ov’ur her bed.” He stepped out of the dormitory, making his way through the cold, grate hallway to a claustrophobic ladder.

While Dante stepped over a pile of inaccurate newspapers, his hand hitting the door, pulling himself from the hallway. Lethe strode a few steps behind him, on a cell phone. “Days like these,” he breathed deeply, the crisp, autumn air, “we’re lucky to be alive.” He wanted badly to find the kid and be done, but nobody seemed to know of an one-eyed redhead with a stolen ship. That X-whatever, he seemed to know something, but was not going to give it up easily. Hopefully the exile chick he contracted would beat it out of him.

“Remember the diner, Dante?” Lethe covered the receiver with his hand, smiling broadly, a streetlight illuminating his glasses. “Back then, we could get things done, you and me. We could really pack a punch.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he laughed to no one in particular. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Where are we going?” Domino queried, uncurious. A nimble, cold hand like that of a starving child pulled at a leather-padded handle with a small split that irritated her fingertips.

Ooidal grunted, heaving a bundle of poly-proportioned rods from a hideaway compartment. “Who curr’s?” he replied, not looking up. And he dug a pebble of white chalk from a pouch of the same, marking every few centimeters down the largest pipe.

Domino did not care where they were going. They were leaving New Antigone behind, and that was what she cared about. “I do not. But, does the captain?” Somewhere, an anxious fuse popped, cutting the life support to a row of lights, causing them to flicker derisively, then die.

“She’suh bright girl,” Ooidal continued his tedious chore, “She’s ah-ways played it har’ ahn close. But there’s one thin’ she’s grasped: yuh’ don’ make omlettes wif’out breakin’ eggs - an’ rules. Th’brat’s broke more than h’urr shar’ruff eggs, an’ makes a dah’um good omlette.” He furrowed his heavy, hairless brow, made heavier by the now uncertain shadow, and ground his twisted little yellow teeth, satisfied with the metaphor.

The gaunt woman nodded her head downward, feeling like she had missed a history lesson. Her head felt heavy, and her big blue eyes looked drained and glassy. Ooidal held the same desperate, haggard appearance. His big, fat lips looked like pulled pieces of bacon fat hanging limply below his bandaged, violet nose.

The girl’s off-white eyelids fluttered, her jaw tightly set. Two powerful vises wrapped around the sides of her face, congregating at the stem of a thick spike that drove into her skull, and gently wept a clearish red gunk. She had worn a grubby camisole shirt and a ragged sweater before falling out of this reality. Since, a thin shawl with makeshift sleeves, and two blankets had been draped over her small frame. A cruel looking cuff held two syringe heads in place, their cords trailing to two intravenous bottles that were switched every few hours. Her tangerine hair was darker from blood and filth, each stylus was knotted and unkempt, with frayed recessions where she had pulled at it nervously.

Inside, it was much brighter, livelier. Her salmon locks smelled the way they always had - a clean, well-washed, little-girl-ready-for-a-party smell. They sat under a whitish Panama with a black stripe, slightly damp at the bottom for autumn sweat. Big, bug-eye sunglasses masked the hue difference in her eyes, taking attention from the watery purple of her too-wide grin. Her shirt was a pale white, and wrinkled slightly, like the skin of a drowning victim. Over it, she wore a dark grey vest in thin kevlar and velvet, laced in corset fashion by a handful of cheap belts. Outside, was a faded tailcoat, in a swatch of dark grey silk masquerading a mannish cut that clung, by another pair of belts to a waist just the width to hint that one could span it with an open hand. Her adolescent hips were trimmed in black, and pinstriped - pointing downward to impatient toes in black leather.

She had been in the simulation for a marathon six-day stint. One hundred and forty hours without sleep, even illusory sleep, had allowed the girl to daydream more than usual. The sensitivity of her senses had blunted, and she had begun to find herself unable to concentrate, hold a vein of attention. Sleep deprivation is like a big party that nobody is invited to. The people that show up do not know each other going in, spend some time vomiting and getting dizzy, and do not know each other afterward.

Perfect.

“There’s some’fink I need t’find out,” she chewed at her lip as she spoke, the reflection of the fire of New Antigone danced in her saffron-tinged, pupil-less milky eye. “Once this’us done, I need t’find someone. Y’understand, right?”

Ooidal was unpacking large, sodden boxes of newly stolen supplies. “Yeah. I und’uh’stand. Bef’urr I w’huz assigned t’th’uh Equinox, bef’urr th’war w’huz over, I-“

-It sounded like fireworks exploding under a picnic table. The thick shell exploded, sending obese lead roaches boring through the apartment’s thin door. The plated sole of a snakeskin boot kicked at the remaining hinge, knocking the door to its ochre carpeted ground. A tattered crimson coat stepped in, surrounded by a chuckling, choking aura of cigarette smoke. Underneath the coat was an unzipped leather jacket in deep burgundy that framed the rippling, ardently tanned muscle of an olive patterned shirt. The man wore oval glasses in the same shining not-brown of his jacket. They matched his dark cheeks that were slightly reddened from the crisp fall air. His black hair jutted outward in every direction, like a big, egomaniacal lion’s mane.

He walked in alone, but both he and that redheaded pirate knew that someone else had strode in next to him. A professional looking main in a suit, which no light could escape, grinned into his cellular phone.

“Hello there, friend. My name's Dante.”

Pirates!

Lowly, disgusting,
scum-of-the-earth,
Mongrel sub-humans.

Keep a weather eye
for this human trash,
and stay alert.

They're all around.

There they were, Dante with his big happy grin and his fire-engine red jacket, and the girl with cracked pockmarks on her purple lips. And it was like that big cathartic sneeze after a winter of sniffling. The spittle and phlegm flies everywhere and makes a terrible mess and you stand there with closed eyes and open nostrils in a moment of insurmountable clarity.

“I heard you were dead.” Fara stared at him with one useless, glossy eye, and another that was hazy and bloodshot. Her black heel made a sharp, bright clicking on the hardwood as she stepped forward, holding her small shoulders back elegantly, carrying her red-cheeked, bee-sting lipped, innocent little face lifted to the gaze of the other man, the one that walked in with Dante. He met it through rimless sunglasses.

“He was,” escaped him in a lyric baritone. He stood there with a slight grin crooked on his face and a pad of paper tuck under one smooth arm, the coat sleeve jammed elbow high. His other arm rested comfortably against a hip, the shy cuff of a white blouse peeking out from a black jacket, more youthfully fitted than a Machello. The buttons hung open, a black tie pointing downward to the silver glint of a belt buckle on black pants that flared slightly above black shoes. He muttered something under his breath and waved his black hair out of his face.

“You don’ seem at all surprised to see me, miss,” Dante leaned his head back lazily, giving him the appearance of a rooster looking for a mate. For a moment, he ran through the laundry list of people he had asked about the girl. “Ecks, right? That sun’va’bich told you, didn’t he?”

Fara nodded bashfully, pulling at the hem of a tight leather glove, clenching and unclenching her fist.

“Well, I reckon we don’ need to waste time catchin’ up then, huh?” he licked his lips and started to yawn.

The man in the glasses nearly giggled, and stepped forward, pulling the papers from under his arm. “Former machinist operative Fara Kerrigan Yazin, alias Eleutherophobia,” his voice oozed omnipotence. “We have been contracted by a private party to apprehend you and bring you to,” his smile broadened, and his breath caught in his throat “Well, you’ll know soon enough.”

“Former ma-?”

A few stories below, a police siren whined poignantly. Dante’s features bulged powerfully for a moment, and he lunged at the girl full of adrenaline. He started with a thick, crushing punch that landed in her outstretched glove, the rest of her silken form already feinting leftward. She countered instantly, bringing her own small leather fist into his stomach, which backed acrobatically out of reach a moment before. Their limbs danced through each other, and knotted tightly.

The girl stared torridly at herself in his sunglasses; he grinned at himself in hers. For just a second, nothing moved, then everything did. Fara’s raven shoe shoveled into Dante’s red gut and she pushed herself into an ungraceful backflip that scraped her back against the apartment’s low ceiling as Dante pulled a beast of a handgun from his jacket, unleashing fireballs of lead that screamed past the girl’s blurred frame.

She landed stumblingly, and kicked a wooden endtable at the man. He batted it away callously with a strong elbow and shot explosive footprints into the ground, wall behind the girl’s spastic movements. One jacketed arm lifted the girl over an overstuffed chintz couch and she circled around a corner on the room’s outer wall, stepping lightly on a window before it shattered. Eggshells of drywall painted the floor involuntarily as the girl met it, rolling. The man pounced, grabbing her by the shoulders, and somersaulted in a bear hug into a wall, flattening the girl’s hat into the molding. A picture fell, shattered.

Dante straddled the girl, pushing one hand down on her neck and raising his other again and again to pummel her; her crossed wrists blocked each attempt. In a lapse, the girl held tightly to his arm and slid out from under him, pulling two small revolvers from her tailcoat. Her wrists bucked with each shot; she watched as his vermilion form swam fluidly through the lead, coming out unscathed. At twelve shots she spun the pistols nimbly around her fingers, grabbing them by the still-hot barrels, and raised the left to beat into him. Their arms tangled again; the guns fell from her hands, and he grabbed them, then back again - each using the complicated steel as surrogate shields. Finally, Dante’s dense mitt broke through the foray and crumpled Fara into her aching chest.

Before a thought of pain, she ducked to his left, and with a sweeping motion from her outstretched leg, broke him from the floor. He fell loudly, and Fara dove over him, scrambling for the hole where the door used to be. She leaked through it, and gained a few steps before Dante burst out behind her. He grabbed for his gun again and unleashed fervent hell upon her as she reached a confined stairwell. They were on the fifth and top floor, and could choose between an ancient cast-iron lift or the cramped staircase that snaked around it. The girl ducked right, then left, and tucked herself, for a moment, in a corner, hoping to gain an upper hand on the man.

He was met with an elbow to the face that knocked his glasses off and blurred his vision. On instinct, his big hand snatched her thin arm before it had retracted, and he pulled her into a knee to the stomach. Her balance shattered, and she tumbled agonizingly to floor four. Dante vaulted down the staircase, landing on a knee and an elbow where she had been. Fara rolled out of the way and got back to her feet, spotting a newspaper-shielded window at the next turn.

The man with the glasses slowly made his way to the staircase, and called the elevator, scribbling a few points of interest into his pad. He was about even with the girl when she sprung through the window, twisting her cute little hips from the odd angle from which she had jumped. There were still police sirens outside.

The cement cracked angrily as she landed, crouching, the force of the fall reverberating through her entire body. She had formed a bad habit of closing her eyes when she jumped, and she opened them to a greyish sunrise, and a double handful of Richland’s Finest.

They yelled all the typical things police yell, and she slowly brought her hands to her head, the situation running through her mind in slow motion. Two of them, fat ones, walked up to her, one with handcuffs jangling limply from his sweaty pink grasp. The first pulled her pulsing arms down behind her while the other placed a cuff around her right wrist. She narrowed her eyes and tossed back her elbows, catching them both in the stomach, and raised her left fist to one’s face. Spinning, she ripped herself from the grasp of the other, and landed a series of jabs across his front. The rest came at her with curses and batons; there had to be at least ten.

The fastest yelled and swept his nightstick out like a bat, and she ducked under it, the two behind her recovering. She latched onto either of their inside shoulders and jumped, the sole of her shoe shattering the man’s teeth. The trio engaged in a deadly ballet, Fara ducking and weaving between their clumsy blows. The girl fell into a split and swing both her legs under the men’s, pulling at the backs of their shirts. As they struck the cement, three more joined the skirmish. Fara landed a slug on one, and her arms rubberbanded between the three.

In a moment of unfocus, a strong jab hit her nose, and she stumbled backward into the arms of a different. He squeezed tightly around her arms and waited for the rest to begin taking shots at her stomach. Instead, she planted her feet and pushed forward, throwing him over her shoulders, bowling through two others too slow to dodge.

The door behind Fara burst open, and Dante raised his gun to her, eyeing her like a bull eyes a matador. Suddenly, two of the police officers looked as if their skin no longer fit correctly, and squirmed uncomfortably in place, their residual self images being overwritten by two frowning men in dark suits, each unholstering frightening handguns. Fara and Dante ducked behind opposite cement dividers as the men emptied entire magazines in their direction.

They stopped, and Dante sidled around the barrier, distracting the agents with a haphazard eruption of gunfire. Fara, meanwhile, compressed herself against the wall tightly and wondered for a fleeting moment if an agent had trained his aim on her. The grout next to her splintered at a gunshot wound. A snarling police officer appeared next to her with a smoking barrel. As she weaved to avoid another shot, a hole jumped through his chest, then another, and he fell to the ground. Dante abruptly moved his aim back to the agents.

Realizing the futility of the firefight, the four lunged simultaneously at each other. Fara locked limbs with Dante, and bounced a kick between his abdomen and a dark suit. A fist reached her face, another her navel, and she flipped backward, her foot colliding with a chin. Dante did his best to deflect the onslaught of fists, wrapping his hand around one while batting away another. The girl landed, grabbing a black pant leg before it reached her head, jumping over a low-aimed kick. Her fist reached Dante, and he leaned backward, avoiding the jabs of an agent. A still-conscious police officer radioed for backup.

Dante spun his back toward Fara in adaptation to the movement of his assailant; she did the same. They leaned against each other while shifting their weight fluidly to parry attacks, and Dante reached behind himself, wrapping a trunk of an arm around the girl, throwing her over himself, at the agent. She planted her feet in his black lapels, and kicked off, knocking the tanned man onto his red back. As he fell, he rammed a snakeskin boot into the girl’s abdomen, knocking her breath out into the early morning dew. Fara landed headfirst on the gravelly asphalt and skidded across the ground on her cheek; she did not get back up.

Dante recognized the opportunity and doubled his efforts with the agents, picking a gun from a downed officer and distracting the two with lead confetti. He heaved the girl over a muscular shoulder and thrust a hand into his back pocket, fiddling around for a key. His hands met brass and he snaked the key into its nearby door.

It opened to a pristinely white corridor that looked, almost, like it went on forever. Lumbering through the door, he dropped his fidgeting cargo and slammed away the world behind him. Lethe was leaning against a grey door a few feet down, chewing at an apple; looking at the crumpled mess of a redhead, he nodded.

[Author's Note: Originally written and posted by Cystil.]

Cystil was now running quicker than ever, his feet rhythmic to the pavement like a hummingbird in spring. Gravel and dirt was spitting up his trouser legs, greying them even more, into a sorry, sunken mess. Sweat poured down his long, tapered nose, until it dripped onto his chin and splashed onto his neck. He had tried, earlier, to outrun his past. He was as sorry for that reason as any man. He couldn’t escape anything - he could only embrace it.

He was still aware of being followed. He was still aware that he needed to find Fara.

Carousing past a corner shop, he brushed an Italian lady and swore under his breath -- something he did well out of her hearing, before speeding on through the suburbs of whatever part of the city he was in.

### Validating Screened Signal ###

...Complete ; )

/Key....
/Filter....
/Recompile...
>Sys: [Warning: Security failure at 34.11.02]

Exchange: operator@ equinox.1879.n.Eleutherophobia/secureSSH.socket
With: operator@[private].[private].[private]/secureSSH.socket
Number traced. Displaying co-ordinates.

> Sys: Interspersed ping will continue until target becomes inept.

[Message: Channel Frozen]

Cystil was at a full sprint - as quick as he could physically, toward Eleutherophobia’s position.

[Author's Note: Originally written and posted by Cystil.]

Eventually time comes to stand still, you must face your demons. Cocking the pistol, he stood unequivocally as a man, a human, with his fears shed. He had let them catch up with him, he played the coy. Sitting beneath a street lamp, he rested his back against it's metal and breathed a sigh of relief.

Now to get this over and done with.

In only a matter of moments and out from the darkness, their faces appeared.

"We gave you a contract Cystil. You are to find the infidel and cleanse her. I'm not going to tell you again. Otherwise, your neck is cut".

Cystil laughed and blinked a few times, looking curiously at the floor beneath his black Chelsea boots. He stood up and placed the barrel at his temple. "Listen to me carefully. I am not running any further, for any of you, for any of them.." he turned and looked at the spreading Megacity before him. "Without the mind, the body does not live".

A moment passed, as if the junkies didn't get it.

A grimy, shiny bald headed buffoon puffed out his chest and smirked. "You kill yourself and that's it. Your our only link. There will be thousands, if not millions of deaths, all as a result of your selfish consequences. You'll be another number to add to the terrorists in this simulation, Cystil."

"Have you stopped to think, perhaps..." Cystil breathed in a heavy, lamenting way...

"That I do not care?"

Both of the men looked straight at his dark, greying eyes.

"For too long I have stood, gaped and moaned... watched and listened... worked and enslaved... I have a purpose, a chance, an opportunity now. I am well aware of what you both want boys, and I suppose it'd be something that Eleutherophobia has..."

Both men started to look down at their feet and grimace.

"Freedom".

The gun hit the floor, as did the phone... and away he ran into the night.

“Thi’ff applesh rhully good,” popped and smacked off Lethe’s lips as he chewed at a messy bite of reddish and off-white mush, “d’yuh wan’ shume?” He held the dripping fruit in front of her nose, waved it back and forth, getting her head to follow the sensation.

The bright hallway had lasted forever, Dante’s big shoulder jabbing rhythmically into her abdomen as he carried her slack body. Now and then, she would beat at his lower back, or scratch at his arms, but it would stop, and she would fall back to murky consciousness, her senses focusing on a deep pain in her stomach, and a egg-shaped knob forming on the side of her head.

Lethe had been enjoying an apple, first one of the season, when the bear burst through a greyish door, dropping the squirming kid from his shoulder. He nodded, and Dante shoveled a steel-toed boot into the girl’s stomach: she bent into it, her face contorting and letting out a dismayed gasp.

They reached a grey rectangle, identical to all the others, and Lethe produced a key, opening into a brownish suite, the bed unkempt, the bathroom poorly tiled, the flowery wallpaper peeling, the curtains pulled shut. Lethe grabbed at a wooden armchair with his free hand and pulled it in front of Dante. The girl was dropped onto it, her arms bound behind her back, tied between plan slabs of a dark wood.

“I’m going for a smoke,” mumbled Dante, disappointed that his work was nearly finished, that he was going to end something, that the mystique and intrigue of action would soon be replaced. He glanced at the laminated fire escape plan above the door’s handle before stepping into a narrow balcony overlooking a weathered bar, and a series of pool tables. The place was a remnant from before the fire, and was proud to show its age. The only blemish being the cheery bartender, Sandra.

She was a little blonde sprite with a heart-shaped necklace and a cough from teenage smoking. A telephone receiver was tuck between her alabaster cheek and her corduroy shoulder.

“We will need a name under which to reserve the room,” she smiled, scribbling details onto a yellow notebook with a butterfly on the cover. “Great, we will see you on the twentieth, sir.” She hung up the phone, and Dante nodded toward her, irritated at her cancerous existence in the building.

Outside had become Chinatown, not to the extent of the northeast, by the docks, but still enough to make most of the buildings’ signs unintelligible. He patted his breast pocket and found a squareish object. Removing a coffin nail, and lighting it leaned him against an engraved stone.

“13300 S. Bell Road
This final stone was lain on October the fifth, 1899”

Dante chuckled, joking to himself about how many times the building had been one hundred years old. As he laughed, smoke seeped through his teeth, dissipating before it reached the drawn curtains of a second floor window.

“Thi’ff applesh rhully good, d’yuh wan’ shume?” Lethe watched as Fara’s face followed the sweet scent of the fruit. He swallowed, “Come on, have a bite. It’s terrific.” She was hunched over herself, the rope around her wrists the only thing keeping her from falling forward off of the chair.

He stepped toward the window, moving the curtain with his pale, white hand, and looking out at the now mid-morning sunlight filtering through the smoke of the manufacturing yards. Gazing loosely over the overturned bucket of cockroach legs that made up the city’s skyline for more than a minute, he nearly wept. He sensed he was at the end of something, but could not fathom what.

The apple reached his mouth, and he took another sloppy bite, a small piece hanging from his thin lips. The wind picked up, and blew a bit of cigarette smoke in through a crack in the window’s seal, curling his nostrils and bringing him back to the situation at hand.

“You’re being very rude, I offered you a taste of my apple and you’re not taking it.” Deep creases spidered through his youthful features as a snarl crawled across his face. Dante stepped back inside, and sat down on the bed as Lethe pulled his hand back and thrust the apple into her closed mouth, once, again, again.

The force bent her upper teeth into something horrible, and he threw the apple against the wall. His fists clenched and bounced against her cheek, jaw. Blood caught in her throat and spilled from her agape mouth. Lethe began chanting fervently as his knuckles beat against the girl’s face.

“A chip on his shoulder,
And a feather in his cap,
And the powers that be give a slap on the back.
And he waits, and he waits, and he bleeds, and he waits,
And the horse strays away from its trough.”

The verse mixed with a loud ringing in Fara’s ears and a pounding from inside her throat. She opened her eyes and winced as some muscle that controlled her eyelids scraped against a misaligned piece of her jaw. From her left came a red sleeve trailing a big brownish fist. The jab knocked her gaze upward for a moment, and she glimpsed a blurry vision of Dante’s craggy face, a wet bit of apple hanging on his lip.

[Author's Note: This section originally entitled "Narrative Interlude."]

“They don’ leave me -ere t’uh keep peopl’uh’live,” he once said, “they do it t’uh keep people dead.”

Ooidal had been red since the start: getting the ship to New Antigone, taking Domino aboard, the brat finding Dante alive. It had all been formulated, calculated, part of a greater scheme. Faust Cunningham had put it all together under an alias that the two found hilarious, and Ooidal had followed each step to the letter, just as he always had. Maybe he felt that he still owed the phoenix a favor, or maybe he just longed for some nostalgic proof that he was still alive - still aboard the Lethe - still part of the war effort â?" still fighting the good fight for the bad team.

A moment of silence for our fallen comrades.

The privateer story had been his idea, after Dante decided they would have to ditch the machinist mainstream.

“She’ll l’uff it, th’symbols, she’s into all that shi’h. It’ll work.”

He had hesitated too long to ask for a why: they were too far in now, but the bastard always had a good reason. In that way, he was exactly like the brat â?" you never expected them to know their fist from a forty-five, but then they would speak, and without trying make you feel like the first man to trip over his shoelaces.

“The machines’ll probably get itchy when they figure the cost of their -craft versus whatever they think they’re losin’, but don’t get antsy if they start tailin’ you.” Dante had been grinning when he said it; you could hear it in his voice. “I’ll take care of it, y’ah got that?”

[Author's Note: Originally written and posted by Ecks.]

"Nice catch, Ecks."

"Why, thank you."

As a thin silver data pen fell into a soft, strong black fabric pocket, Ecks asked the burning question.

"Th'vacation in Erew'hon was simply explosive, thanks f'er askin'."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it!" he smiled warmly, stifling a muted chuckle.

"Oh! Well, we'd never h'uv located it without y'er assistance. We'd tried asking f'er directions on several occasion but they all proved t'be less than helpful."

"Tsk." he tsked from a shaking head. "So rude..."

"Where the hell is she, friend. Her and that great lump she calls a friend."

"Eleuthero--"

"The gurl! I've no time for games, friend and if I had wouldn't be playing any." Dante breathed from a fuming red face. A boiler struggling to contain the hot water in its pipes, on the verge of either exploding or falling apart at the seems. You could never be entirely sure.

"Last I heard, she was on a vacation to--"

"Erewon?"

"Indeed so. Lovely weather this time, of year too." he smiled in a, for all appearances, decidedly conceited fashion, rolling his head around in a circular stretch.

"No! She's--" the old antique ground to a halt as another washer snapped apart. "When I find her!--"

"You'll be sure to let me know?"