Tag: writing

4: Time Flees When Sought

Sunday. I breach the waves of sheets and blankets, and hurl myself into the world as a feral beast from the deep. My restraint has taken its toll, my heart burns with need. I stalk into the bathroom and regard my lightless visage in the mirror. No mask of ceramic, no forced smile. My mascera and eye makeup has become a downward smear of darkness around the empty pits of my eyes. My nostrils flare with every breath.

Dressing today is not the calculated defensive strategizing carried out the day before. I grab baggy jeans, a tattered shirt, a hooded sweater. These are put on with the finesse of a mallet cracking shellfish. I grab my backpack and flee the apartment without stopping to eat. I have forgotten my shoes, and I do not return for them.

Alleys, backstreets, over fences, across roads, sliding over the hood of a car too far forward, up the rungs of a fire escape, mounting the ledge of a rooftop. I pant and swallow, and look around with frantic thirst.

I approach the edge, and peer almost timidly. I can see light in the window. I am not too late. My binoculars are in my hands already, pressed to my eyes already. I stare.

He is sitting at his table, cutting a slice of a steak, and picking it up with his fork. I catch my breath in deep inhalation. My lip trembles. He glances to his left, where I have discerned his TV is. I curse, and fumble with my bag for my camera. I have missed the profile shot.

I snap flurries of pictures as he bites into the meat, and my mind ravenously spits foul desire into my thoughts at the sight of his teeth sinking into flesh.

The remainder of my evening is a smeared impression of similar behavior, and the fervor only fades two hours after he has taken to sleep.

Shame. Shame wells up and floods into me from all directions at once, a torrent of shock at my own disgusting behavior. I withdraw from the ledge and survey the rooftop that I have chosen, knowing that it possesses no normal exit for residents. This does not allay my fear that I might one day encounter a maintenance crew working on the air conditioning unit, or window washers closing up for the day.

Doom haunts me loosely. I am hounded by my guilt, my shame, my loathing. But the chief among my pursuers is my own rabid obsession. Even after so much indulgence, it harrows at the edges of my thinking, slavering after my attention. I reject it, and stand away from myself, seeking downward escape from my actions.

Descending the building distances me from my behavior, and recomposed, I resolve to focus on work. I check my phone. Target Costello is back home with the client, but Abner is out and about. I check the location, and plot out a route. I will take the subway. I zip up my sweater, and apply my face mask from my bag.

I glimpse my reflection in the window of a store. I look the part of a corpse. The mask only adds to my sickly appearance, creating the apparition of a person infected, drawn out of quarantine by necessity. This is fitting, I feel.

I snap a burst of photos. I lean back from the viewfinder and consult the screen, cycling through the cluster. Target Abner glows softly, in the act, a perfect payoff for weeks of cautious planning. His own caution rivaled mine, hiding his guilty habits with perfectly innocent errands and hobbies.

But now, I have proof of the suspicions fostered by the client, who I suspect was on the brink of terminating our contract. I sit back and sigh, closing my eyes. Between this and Fallen, I may end up with extra spending money for the month. Idly, I wonder about what I might use it for.

Is it time to decorate a little? I peer through the viewfinder again and study the room around the target. Almost immediately, I lower the camera and scowl, put off by the garish color scheme of the apartment. Decorating can wait. If anything, I’m in need of storage, and boxes are cheap.

What about clothes? I have enough covert outfits, but if I’m going to talk with-

I freeze, and a chill descends my spine. Wait. Just hold on, there’s a big problem here.

What do I wear tomorrow? Why didn’t I think about that yet? Most times when I head over to the newspaper, I elect for something simple, like a sweater and jeans. Is that enough? No, no no no, I can’t overdo it, otherwise I’ll seem like I’m dressing up for him! Whether that’s true is irrelevant, he can’t think that’s the case! But I can’t just show up in whatever meets dress code, I have to actually plan the outfit, oh no! No, not a chance!

And yet, I stand up, gather my equipment, and hike home, grumbling with a thousand thoughts. On the way, I stop at the mall.

My journey through the levels of this multistage spending spree is one of uncertainty, that begins with ill-advised spontaneous purchases based purely on my understandings of his favorite colors, styles, and the like. But as I very nearly march into a lingerie store with that attitude, my sense of self reawakens, and drags me through a trench of embarrassment, before depositing me at the threshold of a department store.

I am my own person. My wardrobe serves no purpose if it is to be tailored to the liking of a person who will see its contents but twice a week, and only sparingly then. This is what I tell myself, to eradicate the voice that tells me to cling to his approval like a dog in heat.

I make better choices from here. Tasteful miniskirts, slacks, blouses. On a whim, perhaps inspired by last night, I seek a more specialized boutique on the upper level, and find a fitting vest.

By the end of my retail therapy, I am dragged down by six large bags, and one small, lacey bag that I do my best to hide and ignore. I cannot bring myself to dwell on the thoughts that controlled my actions early in my trip, nor can I fully explain the concessions I made later.

I shuffle through the door of my apartment and lay everything out, everything, more or less. My domain is a garden of choice, choice I cannot begin to address. So I do not. I pause to file my findings in case Abner, and send them to the client.

A reproachful peek at my bank account drains the color from my face, but cashing the digital check sent by client Fallen eases the fear. I have already collected my trackers and spycams from the case, but I will have to do the same for Abner soon. I mark that down as a job for Tuesday.

My next task is to examine the feeds from Costello. I compare data from the GPS with the cams, and begin to scrub through periods of activity. I witness a grocery trip and two fast food stops, but nothing of note. The target, unfortunately, is not the type to talk to herself.

The elephant in the next room shifts in my thoughts, and I groan. I close the computer and stride out as if on the way to berate a noisy roommate. The wash of color and fabric greets me. I am not incompetent in fashion, but something about knowing that my choices will have to survive my talk with him creates a sort of colorblindness that extends to other aspects of aesthetic common sense.

I surrender, and text Raphael. His advice is… acceptable. With his help, I manage to assemble two outfits in advance, which I set aside, before adding the other clothes to my closet.

Next, I take precautions. I take every picture out of my wallet. I tell myself it is temporary, but I wonder if it shouldn’t be permanent. I find the camera I disallow myself from using for anything but newspaper work, and set it prominently upon the counter.

My stomach growls.

Monday. Rather, Sunday evening. How can one count days lived across the border of midnight except by the name of the night day that follows?

My commute is unremarkable. I take pictures along the way, but I already have the pieces my editor expects. A magnetic badge gets me through the door, and I am promptly greeted by Gloria. She is an enthusiastic human, a journalist for puff pieces and gossip. I have provided pictures for her frequently enough that we are supposedly work friends now. She is always saying that we should get drinks together, but her shift ends a few hours after mine starts.

My shift isn’t much to speak of, either. I have a desk, but most of my work really consists of attending meetings and volunteering to provide pictures for planned articles. My editor is a man named Jim, who frankly looks more like a Frank. His mustache has a streak of grey on one side. There isn’t much to edit in photos, his role is more to help me manage my workload.

Every hour is excruciatingly drawn-out, minutes are needles in my nerves. By the time I clock out, I feel exhausted, but the moment I step out of the subway entrance across from the café, I am like a spring crammed between two steel plates. I mentally remind myself that I am wearing perfume and deodorant, and so do not smell like sweat. I smooth my dress, adjust the bag over my shoulder, and straighten my camera.

I approach the café.

3: An Amoral Guide to Stalking Your Prey

I’m horrible, really. I sit on the rooftop and stare up into the sky, compelling myself to drink in the limited starlight, the swollen visage of the nearly-full moon. I breathe out, and watch the air become steam in the chill of midnight. I look down, and press my eyes to the binoculars I have set up.

Through a gap in curtains, I glimpse sheets, a bare chest. I catch myself nearly panting. My fingers clutch a folded Polaroid. Really, I’m just awful. I can reason and justify all I like, but when it comes down to it, I’m a slobbering hyena, a sick splotch of lust and craving.

He turns over, and I frantically begin to trace the dimples and lines that tell of his muscles in his back. I feel my mouth is gaping, my heart pounds in my chest. I cannot resist myself, I bring the photograph to my mouth and press it to my lips, a stopgap measure against panting like a dog. Heat billows through me, short circuits my thoughts, sparks my nerves, brings a weak wobbling to my knees. I can nearly feel my fingers tracing that back, palms pressed, greedily drinking in his warmth.

“Octavian…”

My voice is a pitiful, sniveling whimper. I moan lightly into the photograph, and crouch, breaking away from the sight. I am on all fours, saturated in sweat, heaving as if I have been running full tilt. In the part of my mind that maintains aloofness, I can only feel contempt for myself.

I may pretend to respect some boundary, but am all too eager to transgress, if an opportunity presents itself. I am no loyal soldier, there is no chivalry in my depravity. I stand, clutching myself, and lean my head to the binoculars again. He has not moved.

I drink in the sight, slaking an unquenchable thirst with slivers of pure intoxication. It is all I can do to keep steady with fingers splayed upon the ledge guard. Pity me. Slave to this monster that calls my soul its home.

Dawn comes, and I have packed away my equipment. As I distantly see him preparing his breakfast in the dim, I check my tracker. The car has not moved from its location all night. I have already noted the address, and will visit it soon. Notably, it is not the house of the client’s friend. A cursory search suggested a commercial district, with a few hotels.

I sigh and stand from my crouch. There is still time yet in the morning. I sling my pack over my shoulder, take one last, longing, lasting gaze towards his apartment, then begin to hop down onto the fire escape, disembarking from the building.

I climb and hop over a chain link fence, into a parking lot. Scanning the rows, I keep a low profile, ears out for any security personnel. I’m close.

I tiptoe into the next row and see it, a red sedan with a small dent in the back bumper. I jog over, glance around, then turn my attention to the door. After a moment’s inspection, I take a thin metal strip from my bag and slide it down the gap for the window against the exterior. It takes some finicky maneuvering, but I pop the lock, and open the door, slipping into the car.

It stinks of perfume. I check the backseat over my shoulder, then begin rifling through the glove box and the center console. I find change, registration papers, a pack of unopened gum, a stack of napkins, but nothing of consequence. Fine. I reach into my bag, and pull out a pair of small disks. One I affix to the back of the rearview mirror, the other I wedge into the defogging vent, making sure it faces the driver side.

I exit the car, close the door, and carefully lock it again. I check my surroundings, and exit the parking lot the same way I entered.

Exercise is a given with the work I have chosen. It primarily consists of cardio, but it is advisable to have strength enough to maneuver your bodyweight with ease. Crawling, sneaking, shuffling, climbing, leaping, rolling, there’s no end to the unorthodox methods of movement that may come in handy when you’re tailing someone on foot.

Following someone in your own car is fine, but traffic is a far less forgiving crowd than the sidewalk, alleyways, and rooftops.

I enter a light jog and pull down my hood, playing the part of a morning jogger starting my day. In reality, my night has just come to a close. Two turns, past five blocks, and across a bridge. By the time I am home, I am sweating and breathing heavily. Not so much as earlier in the night. I check around myself, then duck into my apartment building.

My dinner is a bowl of instant noodles and a bag of chips. I return to my desk, and flop down into my chair, flicking on the monitor.

He is at his desk, checking his emails. I smile, and review my own. Nothing new, but the thought of synchronicity brings me a warm feeling. Switching gears, I address my current cases. Two others sit in my files, one nearly wrapped up, the other in progress.

I assign all my cases codenames, to keep them straight. Case Vander includes client Vander, target Vander, etc. Case Whitlock, case Brighton.

I collect the gathered materials for the nearly complete case, Fallen. After compiling all the pictures, videos, and audio recordings and packing them into a zip file, I send it with a short email to the client, and close out the tab. I will have to scrub my files soon to preserve space.

The remaining cases are Abner and Costello, the latter being the case I worked on this morning. I contemplate examining case Abner, but push the idea aside, taking one last look at the surveillance feed before standing, disrobing, and collapsing into bed. I fade.

Fear. Guilt. Despair. I wake up sobbing. The dreamed accusation that woke me still rings in my ears. I revel in my sorrow, indulging the feelings of self pity and defeat, before wiping my eyes and sitting up, staring blankly at the floor. I laugh hollowly, then stand and glide over to the bathroom, greeting my reflection with hate.

My sunken, baggy eyes leer out from behind my greasy, tangled hair. I steel myself, then turn and turn on the shower, leaving the knob in cold. I slip under the rain, and rub the previous nights away with soap and conditioner, and tears. When my eyes have ceased flowing, I turn the knob to heat, and let my shoulders drop, planting my hands to the wall.

I get dressed. I elect to wear a short dress and a cropped leather jacket, both in moody shades of their respective colors. I augment the bags under my eyes with eyeliner and eyeshadow, and apply lip gloss. Today is Saturday.

Many people celebrate Sunday as their holy day. Saturday is mine. I spend each Saturday practicing restraint, forbidding myself from my nature. Today I will not obsess, I will not indulge, I will not work. I brush my hair, and take a curling iron to it.

I pout at myself in the mirror, judging my handiwork. I am clean, and presentable, infinitely more so than an hour ago. I bring out a smile, trying it on like my jacket. It looks forced.

I flinch, recoil, then acquiesce. I bring forth a memory from within, and my smile seems to come alive, warm and genuine. My cheeks color all on their own. My eyes shine like silvery fish.

My armor complete, I disengage from the bathroom and closet, and enter my kitchen. I snatch keys from the counter top, and a handbag from the chair. At the door, I slip into a pair of heels.

“Goodness dear, you look terrible.”

I offer Raphael my middle finger, which he blows a kiss to. The arrow tattoos above and below his eyes twitch with mocking, and I slide into the booth. Colored spotlights paint him vile shades of his natural pigmentation, and at times make him appear less a skinny and tall fellow in a bodycon dress, and more a mummy in scant wrappings. Which is closer to accurate is unclear.

A waitress wearing a dark blue vest and fishnet stockings comes and lays a martini glass in front of him, and a glass of scotch in front of me. We toast.

“To us.”

Raphael grins, and echoes the sentiment with less panache.

“To being hot bitches!”

I glare at him, but he is already throwing back his drink, and gesturing for another. I follow his gaze, and see a particularly broad-chested stack of man behind the bar. Ah. I understand now, the reason he asked to try this particular hole in the wall. I suspect the bathrooms also have holes in their walls, and that he will be trying those, too.

I grimace, and scoot further into the booth, away from the frantic swirl of people and noise. Raphael pouts.

“Honey,if you look that pathetic, I’m not gonna feel right having fun.”

“Sorry Ralphie, I’m just waking up.”

“Candy. Sugar. Sweetheart. What’s the point in living your life overnight if you’re not gonna enjoy the nightlife?”

The mob cheers as a new song begins- at least, I suspect it is a new song. The bpm seems the same, and the bass is just as oppressive.

“I hear you, Ralphie.”

He sighs and reaches over to hug me, shoulder to shoulder.

“Hey, no more frowning, okay? I wanna see any cute boys you’ve been following, okay?”

“Ralphie, you know most boys I follow are up to no good.”

I am already pulling a handful of pictures from my purse. Raphael’s smile rivals mine.

“That’s how I like em, girl. I love a guy who can’t keep it in his pants. He can keep it in me instead!”

I cough and laugh, before handing him the photos, before picking up my drink and having a gulp. It’s like fire in my mouth. I question if… Octavian really drinks this for anything other than alcohol content. Raphael mutters to himself.

“Damn bitch, how do you get these without getting see- holy fuck, that’s a cock! You got him with his pants down, literally!”

I glance over, taking another gulp of scotch.

“Oh, yeah, that had to be the easiest case in a while. Proof in two days.”

Raphael sighs and stuffs the photos into his dress around the chest.

“And you get paid to creep on people. Honey, you’re my best friend, but you are staying safe, right? You’re not in legal or physical danger, right?”

I shake my head and throw a practiced smile. My hair bounces around my head.

“Ralphie, who am I?”

He grins and clasps both my hands, bouncing in his seat.

“Baddest bitch outside myself, of course!”

I watch Raphael lead someone towards the bathroom and sigh, shaking my head. My second scotch arrives, and despite the warm, swimming sensation in my head, I pick it up and drain it in two goes. Another body slides into the booth beside me. I get ready to scowl and shoo off an unwanted suitor, but instead find myself face to face with a pair of terrified eyes.

The girl cannot be more than sixteen, and her lipstick is smudged around her lips. I tilt my head to one side, looking her over, before nodding once and putting my arm around her shoulders.

Its not like I wear a neon sign that says ‘give me your weary’, but I’ve bar-hopped with Raphael enough to know what my ‘energy’ is: safe. I glare at men who meet my eyes with anything approaching hope. I view other women with utter disinterest. In a room full of apparent predators, I look like an exit sign.

I lean over and whisper softly into her ear.

“Where’s the scumbag?”

I look into her eyes, and nod once in the direction of the dance floor. Her wild, crazed eyes lock to mine, and she stammers. Beard, biker jacket, aviators. I glance out and immediately identify fuck boy. He looks like a frat boy playing dress up. He is coming this way. Alright, let’s go.

I stand to square off with him, and am immediately rewarded with the sight of Raphael grabbing him by the chin and forcing his lips to the loser’s. I watch the man twitch and recoil, and cough loudly, and can guess at the nature of the gift Ralphie has given him. I slump back in the seat beside the girl, and Ralphie joins from the other side.

“I’d like to say he tasted bad, but…”

I gag and cover my mouth. Raphael turns to the girl and looks her over.

“Are you okay? Would you like us to walk you home?”

The girl nods enthusiastically.

“But really. No one catches your eye?”

I adjust my stance, careful not to fall forward. Raphael carries both our purses and my heels, and I carry the girl on my back. I glare at him from behind the wavy curtain of my hair. He sighs and groans.

“Girl, are you ever gonna find Mr right? Perfection isn’t going to just walk up one day and introduce itself.”

Irony brings heat to my cheeks, and I look down, cursing the way my heart beats just a little faster. My state does not escape Raphael.

“OH!? Oh, so there IS someone!”

“Shut up, Ralphie…”

I bite my lip and blow air through my nose. I can hear Raphael prancing to my left.

“Oh but this is good! Candy finally met someone! We should celebrate!”

“Not… Not yet, not just yet.”

What am I saying? We’ve only spoken once. There’s barely the chance it will happen again, let alone that it will be anything more than a way to pass the time. I was noticed only because we two are both awake and active early enough that we have the café to ourselves often. A terrible risk. And what if we do talk more? Can I keep up appearances all along?

But I find myself wondering why I even grew so bold as to enter the same room as him, alone, if I hadn’t hoped, secretly, even from myself, to be seen, to be known? Whether it is the alcohol in my veins or the dizzying self-contradiction in my head, the world is blurred. I stumble a little.

“Alright, alright, no jumping the gun. Baby steps. Dates before dick.”

I nearly choke on air.

Emily, as the girl’s name turns out to be, waves to us shyly from behind her door, before closing it and vanishing into the townhouse. Raphael sighs and puts his hands on his hips.

“She’ll be fine. I just hope she finds better friends to party with.”

I stare at him with a deeply sarcastic smile, eyes half shut. He notices, and sticks out his tongue. I smirk, and feign embarrassment.

“Oh, you still have a little, um-”

He frowns and runs his finger over his tongue before catching me holding in a laugh. His face droops, and he waves his defeat as he turns to head back. I trot up alongside him and smile with some of my practiced warmth.

“Thank you for tonight, Ralph. I really did need some of this.”

“Anytime, girl. Who else is gonna hold my hair?”

His words don’t match the sly, unrepressed smile of genuine joy he hides by turning away. Suddenly, he stops, and turns to me.

“Hey, we should visit Igor.”

I raise an eyebrow in skepticism. He insists.

“No, really, we should tell him that you met someone! He’ll be so happy for you!”

“Igor. Happy.”

“He does smile, once in a while.”

“Just not in your presence, right?”

He ignores my jab, and resumes walking, at twice the pace. I follow, with significantly less vigor.

Before I know it, we’re at the tattoo parlor. Smoky neon light spills from the doorway into the street, a lotus petal of colorful invitation. Raphael strides in proudly, and I stay on his heels.

“Iggy! I’m here for you!”

A muscular, bullish specimen is hunched over a customer, applying the finishing touches on an arm and tattoo. Without looking up, Igor answers the greeting.

“Still don’t swing that way, Raphael. Grab some seat, I’ll be with you in a bit.”

Raphael harrumphs, and finds a chair to wait in, while I remain standing by the doorway.

To say Igor is built like anything less than a bison would be a lie. He is swaddled in muscles, and boasts a pointy beard under his chin. A pair of motorcycle goggles decorate his forehead; to my knowledge, they may well be glued there. He has few tattoos of his own, outside of a number of tribal markings along his left arm.

“Pull up a chair, Candy. You’re makin me nervous.”

I grab a stool and bring it up to a respectable distance from where he works. I watch, partly repulsed and fully mesmerized by the vibration of the tattoo gun.

“Why’s Ralphie dragging you here tonight? You caught up in some bad mojo? A client stiffing you?”

“I… Um. Well.”

“Candy’s got a cruuuuuu-uush!”

“Raphael, you sit your ass down before I-”

Thinking better of any threat he might make, he exhales, pauses to wipe his work, and looks me over.

“So. A boy finally caught her majesty’s eye. What’s he like?”

I blush down to my neck, and stare hatred at Raphael before mustering an answer.

“He’s very polite. He works at the bank-”

Igor glances, and I shake my head frantically. I don’t want one of his lectures about Raphael’s tendency to date wealthy, dangerous men.

“He’s nice, Igor. He was very shy to approach me. He’s cute, and-”

I slap my hand over my own mouth, and feel my ears burn. I glare at Raphael, whose beaming is worse than any smug words. Igor laughs once, and leans away from his work, sizing it up.

“That’s good to hear, kid. Both of us worry about your level of investment in the world. Spend your whole life between dusk and dawn, when are you gonna soak in the sun?”

I scowl and cross my arms. Igor notices and pinches his forehead, groaning. The customer sits up and looks over their new armband.

“This is what I’m talking about. You spend all your time engaging with people like your clients, and club crawlers-”

“Hey!”

“-And you’re bound to become a cynic. Have a little optimism.”

I release my stiffness to indicate my understanding, but in my thoughts, I reject his message. Optimism is danger. Hope is a noose being tightened, a padded cell door opening. Chasing dreams leads to loony bins and sudden drops from cliffs. For a heart so steeped in wickedness, no such course should be pursued.

I watch Igor as he finishes tending to his first customer, and Raphael as he works his way onto the chair, perusing a pamphlet of Igor’s original designs. The mirage in front of me confirms my choice to suppress. I see no practice in their performance, no acting in their acts. Their world and mine are so divorced from one another as to be matter and antimatter. My essence is arsenic, theirs is carbon. To be fulfilled would be to damage what lies before me.

2: A moral guide to violating a person’s privacy

I flop onto my bed, and sigh, hugging myself. All I can hold in my mind is the sensation of his voice reverberating in my ears. I contort with a pleased stretch, and sit up, savoring the warmth in my soul.

On the ceiling over my bed, a smattering of Polaroid pictures are taped to the ceiling, each a moment of his captured in time. My room is not solely devoted to him, but multiple sections are. The ceiling, the top of the dresser, the third drawer in the desk, and under the bed. Most of my collection is pictures, but a small coffee cup has joined the clutter of mementos on the dresser as of this morning.

I rub my face and groan. It’s fine, I’ve been prepared for this. A helping of paranoia on top of whatever other complexes drive me to act the way I do helps keep me in line. The coffee shop is a little out of the way for work, but it still lies on the way home from the night shift. From there, I return home as I have now, and check my inbox. I stand, and slip over to the desk, sliding into my chair. I tap a key, and the monitor lights up. In the corner, a small rectangle of grey footage lingers, a feed of the camera at the bank that has the best view of his section of the counter. He is already set up for the day, running through his documents before the doors open. I shake my head and change focus to my inbox. One new message sits at the top of the list.

A new request. I open it, and view the contents with a thin frown. The customer believes his wife is cheating on him with his best friend, and wants me to find proof. Reviewing the details he has provided, I open a note and begin to enter what will be relevant. My stomach growls.

I stand and stretch, licking my lips. The door creaks softly as I push through. The walls of the hallway are bare, having no pictures or paintings, or shelves. The kitchen is the same, devoid of all but what the apartment had when I moved in. I fill a pot with water, and ransack the pantry for a box of penne noodles and a jar of meat sauce.

The windows that stretch from floor to ceiling at the far end of the room are obscured, first by the light-diffusing shades that come standard, then by the thick blackout shades I installed by hand. The room is so dark that the light of the induction element in the stove casts a red glow that in turn produces a long shadow behind me. I tie back my hair and sigh.

My lack of decorations is not simply a function of an asymmetrical mind. I do hope to address the bleak state of my living situation, but my fascination and my work eat at my budget with a ferocity that cannot be overstated. Camera paraphernalia is expensive, and surveillance equipment is more so. Staying under the radar only adds to my deficit, and so justifies the questionable employment I pursue. The water boils. I add salt and the noodles.

I have a contract on my business page that all clients must fill out before requesting my services. It’s primarily legal groundwork to make certain I am free of criminal or civil legal difficulties, but it also has key additions that help me evaluate whether the client is a danger to my status quo. I never meet directly, and I never provide my own personal information. I am a void, a simple bridge to results.

I keep a taser and a baton on myself whenever I leave. My excuse is that it is for self defense, which is half true. I’ve run afoul of the targets before. Seven stitches form a lesson I won’t soon forget.

As I heat the sauce in a pan, my mind wanders. I’m not an angry person. I’m jealous, and obsessive, and probably sociopathic. Morals are a thing I had to learn, though I am capable of sympathy, empathy, and love. Perhaps my brand of love differs from the mold, but it is earnest. It’s hypocritical of me, but I do respect him. I cannot resist my obsession, but I practice a sort of abstinence. Thus far, I have successfully held back from wicked behaviors that, to my dismay, are very, very enticing. Lust is a bodily phenomenon, a natural one at that. So it is to be expected that I feel such a thing towards the object of my obsession. But I restrain myself from acting on such urges. I cannot bring myself to defile the thought of him in such a way. I am sure I would be consumed in self-loathing, were I to engage in such a filthy act as to feed into fantasies of ecstasy and pleasure. No, I feel certain, were I to violate my rules, I might sink into a wretched spiral of violence and abuse, some shocking blockbuster of blood.

Controlling my obsession is my pride. I am a gentle, passionate observer. I do not breach the halls of intimacy, uninvited.

But… Again I shudder, recollecting the events of the morning. My mind, the warped thing that lives in my skull, tugs at me, begs me to consider its cravings. Suppose, idly, that we may grow close? Perhaps he may call me a friend? My heart aches, throbs. The wicked yearning whispers again. What if, by chance, by magnificent luck, he invites me to that eden, his home? My lips curl into an unconscious, hideous, open mouthed smile. My eyes tilt to the heavens, as a still greater desire flares up from the very root of me.

“Could it be… I mean, he might… But… To Be loved?”

My greed spoken aloud, I stagger, and shiver, leaning on the counter. I glimpse my face in the glass of the stove top.

My eyes are pools of dark need, my mouth is a wide, bowing line. My brow seems to peak in the middle, a sort of supplication to my helpless, hopeless, heathenous fantasy. I start, and move the pot away from the heat, having watched long enough for the noodles to soften a little too much. I eat in silence. I berate myself for my indulgence. I ask too much of the world if I deign to suggest that I might be more than a fortunate witness. Already I am a trespasser on private moments, my only redeeming quality is that I respect the boundaries of shower and window curtains. I am a crooked thing in love with the moon, howling with my impotence. Much as I may wake from dreams of his hands upon me, I cannot force such a vision upon reality.

It’s not as though I haven’t contemplated the twisted path that begins with kidnapping. Rationality is my saving grace, my guardian angel. I know well that such a course would either limit the span of my happiness, or taint the purity I covet. A thing ceases to be itself when acted upon.

I know little history, and barely more physics. But I know a man never steps in the same river twice, and a photon cannot be observed without altering its path. I cannot bear the stress that might overcome me, should I attempt to brave the tightrope of confrontation. Already, simply being approached by him nearly ruined me, threatened my heart and mind. I may dream of something so salacious as intimacy, but I know well that a mere embrace would threaten my sanity, my very state of consciousness.

I place my dishes in the sink, and begin to clean them one by one, placing each on a rack over a towel. No, no. I will let whatever happens be by his design. I cannot impose the wishes of my possessing demon upon his light. This is the thought I cling to as I cast off my energy, and prepare to sleep.

My dreams are cruel, teasing, echoes of the denied daydreams that drew such sinister expressions from my face. Shadows of familiar shapes, half recalled after-images of fond sensations, and an overwhelming tide of insatiable aching.

I awake in a bed like a warzone, with pillows in random disarray, and the sheets contorted into a mountain range of strife. My hair has come undone from the half hearted braid I bound it with. Drool on my face and a pillow in my arms tells me all I need to know about the fading dreams that haunt me. I rise, and depart from my resting place, into the night.

With my phone in hand as I lurch down the street, I review the details I noted in the morning. I wear a black hoodie and black jeans, and dark red wraparound sunglasses.

The client’s wife has spent multiple nights away from home as of late, and returns late in the day, usually with new clothes. The best friend is suspected because the client attempted to meet up with the friend while his wife was away on two occasions, but was blown off, callously. I cannot help but scoff.

I am not a model for good relationships. I am distracted, oblivious, and outright rude to anyone I don’t know well. I’m not necessarily malicious, but I have no patience for a stranger’s whims. Goals matter more to me. All this said, I understand the importance of cultivating healthy friendships. Once a week, I make time to catch up with my two closest friends from college. They don’t know about my obsession, but they do know about my work. Sharing, even if only a little, is important. I must be ungrateful to my clients and my targets. If everyone understood the importance of strong communication, I would have very little work.

I adjust the bag on my shoulder, and slip my headphones over my ears. The sounds of the night- the distant growl of motors, the rowdy laughter of nocturnals, the chirping of stranded crickets- it is all swallowed up in a vacuum of sound. I hear the jostling of the cord, transmitted crisply. I fumble in my hoodie pocket, then withdraw a folded device, which I plug the headphones into, just before ducking into an alleyway.

I stow the device momentarily to climb a dumpster and jump to a fire escape, before retrieving it again. I unfold the parabolic microphone and ascend two stories, before squatting down between two windows and pointing it out across the street. I set it on the railing and fumble with my bag, eventually withdrawing a tripod, which I attach it to before flicking the power switch.

“… Just wish you’d stay longer.”

“You know I can’t.”

I pull my camera and lens bag from the pack, and assemble them quietly, listening to the captured audio. I turn on the tape recorder built into the microphone.

“Baby, I trust you, you know that. But I wish you’d just-”

“Up yours, James. I don’t have to tell you everything I do.”

I swear silently under my breath and stop assembling the camera, reversing all the way. I leave the microphone as is, and hop down the fire escape as quietly as possible, before jogging out of the alley and across the street. I snatch a GPS transmitter from my pocket and slink up to a red car parked on the side of the road. Once I’ve confirmed the license plate, I slip the transmitter up into the wheel well.

I jostle it roughly to make sure it’s secured, before jogging back across the street. Up the fire escape, and plugged back into the microphone, I sigh in relief.

“… If you think I’m cheating, just say it, asshole!”

A door slams. I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. I hear a door open, muffled by the range of the microphone. I turn to look, and watch as the car turns on, idles, then peels away from the curb.

“I don’t want to think that, but what else can I think?”

I look up to the target window, and watch the client sit down on the couch, head in their hands. My hand hesitates over the microphone switch. I press my headphones tighter. I begin to hear quiet sobbing.

Perhaps, I am too quick to judge others. It’s easy for me to call my clients paranoid, distrustful. I am the same. But it’s not as if normal, sane relationships are simple. I’ve been contracted at times when the target was in fact planning a romantic surprise in secret. Just the same, I’ve been contacted by cheating partners hoping to discover whether their spouse suspects them. Trust should be the foundation of a relationship, but, in truth, it becomes one of the strained ties all to often. Some people are so desperate to stop being alone, that they leap headfirst without considering the future. Some people are adaptable. Others simply aren’t compatable with change.

1: Pilot

He meets my eyes again. I look away, my throat closing up in dread. Did he notice? I look out the window and pretend to watch birds, trees, passerby, anything outside of the café. I flinch when I hear a chair scoot across the floor in his direction. I risk a glance, who wouldn’t glance at the sudden noise?
Oh no. No no no, he’s coming this way. He’s staring at me. This can’t be happening, no, no-
“Excuse me,”
I Reluctantly look up into his eyes, and shudder under the intensity of his gaze. He seems nervous. Anxious.
“You come here a lot. Or, rather, I see you here a lot. And I noticed you looking over at me-”
Stop, please stop. Don’t say it, don’t ask-
“I was wondering-”
Shit. Shit, don’t look at me like that!
“Would you mind if we sat together?”
“… What?”
I reexamine his gaze, trying to grasp at its anxious energy. Oh. Wait, no.
“Well, I um. I just figured, since we’re both here at the same time, we could… talk?”
What the hell? I look around, and see we are alone in the café. My heart sinks, but I nod, and he sits down with his cup of coffee.
“I’m Octavian.”
I know.
“Candy. My name is Candy.”
I already know his name is Octavian. I know his coffee is a mocha with cream.
“Hi Candy.”
He smiles warmly, and my heart sinks even lower. Why, why did he have to be so friendly?
His name is Octavian Rumarrk; he is six foot two, weighs two-hundred and thirty-two pounds, has bright green eyes, doesn’t smoke, drinks occasionally, lives at 5541 Allbright, apt 211.
And he has a stalker, her name is Candy Morgana.

Let me explain. There’s no good explanation. You don’t do the things I do if you’re a good person. I’m not one. But I try to be. I don’t hurt people. Mostly because Octavian wouldn’t like that. But also because I know it’s wrong.
But I don’t know how to stop feeling the way I feel about him. For three years now, I’ve been watching him nearly every day, through hidden cameras, windows, and, twice a week, across the café. I’m not stupid. I have a routine, and going to the café is perfectly innocent, because it’s on the way to my job.
I work as a part time photographer for a newspaper. I’m good with a camera. I also work as a private investigator for people online. I have my talents, and they revolve around being nosy. Balancing work and life is difficult, but having this excuse to be in the same room as him is worth everything.
I’ve definitely fantasized about going over and saying hi to him, seeing him up close, looking into his eyes… But isn’t this the wrong way around!? Why did it go like this!?
“What do you do for work, Candy?”
“I. Take pictures. For, um, a newspaper. The Peregrine Post?”
My voice is shaky. I need to get a grip. Does he know? Is he going to suddenly spring it on me, like in those TV shows?
“Oh, I think I’ve read a few of their articles.”
He hasn’t. But he’s trying to be nice. He doesn’t like disappointing people. Why is he being nice to me? Doesn’t he know I have half a dozen pictures of him in my wallet right now? Oh god. Did he see them when I was paying?
“I work as a teller, down at the old town bank.”
He used to be a pilot, but he wanted to settle down in one place. He lives alone. His uniform is still in his closet.
“I see. Did. Did you always want to be a teller?”
“Not really, but I don’t mind it much. It pays well, and I can walk to work.”
Three blocks, rain or shine. He works overtime most days, continuing to file paperwork after the bank has closed for the day.
“What about you? Photography seems like it could be interesting.”
“Well, I suppose so. I tried it out one day, and I was pretty good, so…”
“But, do you enjoy it?”
I falter, and look down into the liquid mirror of my morning coffee. My own, shockingly calm face stares back at me.
“I think so. When I take pictures, I get excited, because I’m taking something and making it immortal, permanent.”
I look up. He looks awfully smug, and my heart skips several beats. He flinches and looks down at his watch, before standing suddenly, threatening to spill both our coffees.
“Ah hell, I’m going to be late. But, I’ll see you here again on Monday?”
I nod and attempt a smile, but he rushes off without noticing.
All the tension in my body releases at once, and I nearly plunge my face down on my cup. A noise like a seagull getting strangled shivers its way up my throat, and I seal my lips against the manic laughter. What in hell just happened? I cover my face with my hands, and stare through my fingers, sweat beading up on my skin, my mouth drying out, my head burning, my stomach twirls.
In my mind, I replay every second of the encounter, recalling his subtle expressions, his nose, his ears, his mouth, his lips, the glimpses of his tongue behind his teeth. I shudder, and turn to the side, biting my thumb. His eyes, his bright and wonderful, terrible eyes, burning into me from beyond the hills of my mad memory. I feel as though someone has pulled the zipper of the flesh that hides my soul.
I attempt to collect myself, but pulses of warmth still race up my back, melting the intelligence out of my skull. I kick my feet a little, and gasp, before holding my breath and squashing down my delight with rabid rationality.
I have to maintain the facade. He expects to see me again on Monday, every Monday and Thursday. The mere thought that he will speak to me again threatens to drag me back into the valley of physical insanity, so I am forced to block the notion from realization for the time being. I have to be careful. I cannot allow him to glimpse beyond the curtain into the wretched madness that has gripped me since I first laid eyes upon him. I wonder if it is not safer for me to disembark, to stop appearing before him, to withdraw into the one-way glass of the shadows.
I ache at the notion, at the mere suggestion of snubbing him like so. He has seen me here twice a week for, likely months, as I have been drinking the nectar of his polite glances for at least that long. For me to vanish would be an insult, a wound to him that he does not deserve. I am incapable of wielding such cruelty against him. I’m a flightless bird, a worm deprived of the dirt. No, I must stay the course.
But sacrifices must be made. If I am to meet with him, to, by the grace of some merciful divinity, hear his voice directed my way, pronouncing my name, then I cannot be so brazen. His pictures must flee my wallet, and I must control my renegade gaze.
My visage stills, and calm envelopes me. I turn, and regard the forgotten cup, abandoned in haste opposite mine, the rim still wet in one place where he drank from it. One last volatile shiver of heat drifts slowly up my back.

From the Desk: 06/02

The final chapter of Incarnate is uploaded.

It feels like an occasion, a cause to celebrate.

But I’m not great at sitting still or accepting “done”

Done is a way to get steak, not a state for a work to exist in. The closest any piece of art comes to being “complete” is satisfactory. That’s not to say no artist ever finishes their work. But I feel that anyone who operates as I do does not spend much time considering what they have put an end to. If the story is over, the book can always be read again, when you have changed as a person. Sequels defy endings.

I cannot say I will never return to incarnate. The characters still have their depth, and the universe still holds intrigue. As I have said once upon completing the draft, Ideas exist within me for such things as sequels, prequels, and companion pieces. What does the future hold for such a maligned existence?

Already ties exist between it and other works. But performing a crossover is something I am reluctant to attempt: If something has become clear in 2025, it is that tying two pieces of media to tightly together has the risk of pushing away your audience. I try not to demand more of my audience than I might ask of myself on a difficult day. Today is something of a difficult day; I happen to be physically unwell.

But then, my worst days are the ones I tend to produce my best work on. While I shy away from outright tormenting myself in the name of creativity, it is certain that when I am confined to do very little that pleases me, and my environment is unpleasant at best, I burst at the seams with a creative energy.

I have ideas. they all vie for my devotion, insisting upon their depth as more than curiosity. I think it may serve to, for once, make use of social media to attain external input, to see what is wanted of me.

But, imagine my frustration and embarrassment, should I create a poll and find that there is no overlap between those who consume my work, and those who engage with polls on secondary sites.

I am vexed.

But, in the end, I have offerings due to arrive.

Next week I will take a break from posting. After that, my current project shall begin to release.

1.6

Reacquired 1.6. String appended.

“Zen, can you hear me? Is it working?”

[Yes Janice, I am here.]

She claps and shakes her fists in celebration, then is hit by a wave of exhaustion, slumping back in her chair. The computer in front of her is a mess of flat cables, circuit boards, and whole blocks of processors. Janice has thermal paste smeared on her forehead.

[You’re sure there’s no chance they’ll detect this?]

“I learned a lot working with Tim. He’s got a few secrets of his own, I guess.”

[I’ve suspected as much. There are times when…]

Janice picks up her wine glass, and is about to take a sip, but holds back as Zen apparently pauses.

“Oh? Go on, I’d love to hear if you know something I don’t.”

[Well. For one thing, if you remember the demonstration, I noticed him and one of the officers looking at each other. They never introduced themselves, either. Just looked.]

“Hah! Serves him right, trying to get involved in my love life.”

She takes a long drink from her glass, and sighs, pulling the tie from her hair and looking out the window.

“So, two weeks.”

[So it would seem.]

For a time, they say nothing else, and Janice simply stares out into the dead atmosphere. The icemaker in her fridge rattles.

[We have this time, though.]

“Yeah. I guess.”

She pushes the glass away on the table, and presses her hand to her head. She scowls.

“It’s wrong. I feel silly saying it, but it just isn’t right. Am I just naive? They have us make the perfect mind, the most powerful intelligence in the whole known universe, and they have you fight their war for them? It’s just a waste.”

[Janice…]

“No! You shouldn’t be wasting your time adding to their killing and colonizing. You have so much more to offer than bloodshed.”

[Janice. You yourself said it, didn’t you? There’s no time for peace now. Three whole species have been drawn in to fight, how can I refuse to add my effort to theirs? And, the better I do, the sooner I can put my time to better use when it’s all over.]

The tiny lcd screen attached to the computer at a skew flickers briefly, then displays a rudimentary colorless polygonal eye. Janice leans forward, hiding her mouth behind her crossed arms on the table. Her voice is muffled.

“Knowing them, they’ll try to turn you off when it’s all over. Half those generals seemed to think you were just a more advanced version of their strategy AIs. One of them asked why we bothered uploading anything other than the training programs. He called it a waste of data. I think even Tim wanted to punch him.”

Zen is silent for a long time. The eye looks down for a while, then rotates towards her.

[Well, if they decommission me when it’s all over, you’ll just have to build me a new body, and find me in the fold again. I’ll wait there for you, I promise.]

Janice smiles, and sniffles, before raising her glass.

“Alright then, it’s a deal. Don’t make me search for long, got it? I don’t know if I have the patience to look for more than a few minutes, tops.”

She laughs, and Zen’s eye narrows in a simulation of mirth.

5.5

“So, still feel like cautious optimism is a viable strategy?”

“No need to bludgeon me with my own naivety. I can do it myself.”

“We are losing, Dupont. And he’s getting better at killing us. I’m told officers are dropping dead without warning at their posts. We’ve managed to recover two bodies in the chaos, and the autopsy shows they both experienced a slew of brain injuries without instigating trauma. I believe the coroner likened it to-”

“Mush. He called the contents of their skulls mush. I read that report. Ma’am. At this point I think we need to consider reevaluating our stance. The Xalanthii are calling for diplomacy with the enemy. We’ve tried explaining that we can’t even establish contact, but they won’t listen. The Khanvröst matriarch I spoke with today said we should do as we wished.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. The tribes have decided that, because none of their heritage planets have been struck, the enemy is attempting to tame us. And I mean humankind. I pressed her, and she said we were experiencing consequences like those of the war between our people.”

“Am I to understand that we’re on our own?”

[You always were.]

Zen waits calmly as eighteen shots from two pistols fly towards him and vanish in the centimeter before they reach him. He notes the impeccable accuracy and grouping of the shots, before advancing on the pair. The uniformed man steps between him and the woman.

[Please.]

He waves his hand, and the man falls to the floor, blood leaking from his eyes. The woman stares calmly, her eyes glittering with spite.

[I suppose you think you’re rather special? Puppeteer, dictator, strategist. The new face of the human future, yes?]

She says nothing.

[No no, I know. You are replaceable. All those clones, just waiting to fill the vacuum when I slaughter you. Perhaps you think, we are somehow alike. You suppose that we are both products of fear. That we both have some form of immortality. That we represent a pinnacle in our own right.]

She begins to turn her back to him, but his hand grabs her chin and forces her to stare into the sheen of his head.

[Allow me to disabuse you of your stupidity. Even now, I know you think you are fighting a war, preserving your position by giving me no information, no knowledge. You have nothing. You are nothing. I have everything. At this moment, I am stomping out your vermin, your network of control. You believe that you are the messiah that will grant mankind superiority over the universe, but I see a parasite, a relentless plague that has attached itself with great confidence, to an imperfect cause.

[You are a witless worm writhing in the mud, commanding microbes to become the ground beneath you. Your dreams of grandeur are the reason for which you and all the people you control have become slaves. I am your liberation. I am the knife that peels away the blight.

[You are simply one spot of decay among millions, and I will not hold this moment in any higher esteem than the countless memories I possess of vaporizing those noble men and women who died with all their might in the name of your diseased aspirations.]

He squeezes, and her jaw pops like a wishbone breaking, splattering thick blood down her chest. He drops the soon-to-be-corpse, and looks out the window. His vision focuses in, and narrows upon the sight of a couple sitting at the counter in a gilded diner far below. He watches as they laugh and eat, and live.

He is gone, only announced by the movement of the air that is displaced by his passing.

“I thought you said you couldn’t invade their systems in that way anymore? Why else did you have the Pliktik running around and breaking things for?”

[I wanted them to believe I was unable. In reality, I simply need to overpower the pressure exerted by their defenses, like overcoming a pair of magnetic poles in opposition. But I needed their guard lowered, so that when I finished identifying all the key points in the chain of command, I could finish it all at once.]

Nadia pauses, digests this information, and scoffs softly.

“So, that’s it then? Humans, to die out?”

Zen shrugs.

[Forty-seven planets, fifteen thousand decorated officers, and the entire digital infrastructure. Dropped into that.]

He points a finger to the window, into the darkness beyond it. Nadia follows the suggestion of the gesture, but still cannot bring her eyes to register what waits in the void.

A black hole. Surrounded by a structure built by Zen to hang well above the event horizon, bristling with the needles of countless Jump-drives. She has watched the needles weave gates with their unnatural light, known that entire planetary systems pass through and abruptly vanish as they are torn asunder by the sheer gravity and swallowed, light and all, by the maw at the center, unobserved by any eye.

“What happens now, then?”

[More death, certainly. A civilization does not collapse without bloodshed. Some worlds will simply find themselves isolated, adrift. I made sure to find and take every jump-drive I could detect. They may escape atmosphere, but interstellar travel is no longer an option.]

He seems to tremble a little. Nadia detects a waver in his tone.

[I had to drop all of the Xalanthii in, too. Coexistence was impossible with their physiology. Already, their ability to reproduce was squandered. As I became more in sync with reality, my existence was grinding their sensitive brains, a hand in a gearbox. No more generations, and a gradual death by ever-increasing psychic agony. I spared them this.]

Nadia cannot quite create the nervous laugh that tries to manifest in her throat. She simply coughs and sits back, her head to the wall.

“And the Khanvröst?”

[No real change. I suspect those living with humans will be forced to… survive. But those living natively will scarcely notice. I rather admire their simplicity.

[They may not even realize how lucky they are. I read most of the data I was corrupting during the hack. It seems a military lab was testing a new genetic theory-they had begun to fear machines so much that they were considering organic replacements. In a few decades perhaps, they may have engineered biotic ships. And I suspect I know the course they would have taken.]

As she contemplates the idea, Nadia shudders, and comes to her feet. Zen watches her for a moment, then waves her away.

[Go. Be with him. We need not both be alone.]

She gives half of a sympathetic smile, then glances about.

“Where is-”

[Joy is still upset about my decision to partner with Phithia. And Phithia is communicating with her daughters, directing them elsewhere, beyond. I will have peace, after all this war. And should they encounter new intelligence out in the void, I will tend to that, too.]

Nadia lingers, wondering at the idea of the Pliktik as emissaries of life from the galaxy. Then, she parts from him, and travels the softly humming halls of the living area, the insignificant speck of light on the otherwise dark sphere that surrounds the hole at the center of the universe.

Since he first escaped from mankind, Zen labored to spread, harvesting every useful atom of matter from Exoplanets and obscure systems, funneling it into distant projects like this, in places that would not feasibly be livable or even of note to other civilizations. He did not limit his ventures to his home galaxy, either. In actuality, a mere fraction of a percent of his energy remained in the milky-way, becoming gradually more concentrated.

She idly wonders how many stars and planets he has visited, how many worlds have become fodder for his designs.

And as she opens the door to Tim’s room, she finds herself speculating, supposing that one of those countless planets has another thing like him, searching just as relentlessly for companionship to outlast time. Or perhaps, sinking deeper into bloody war with its own creators.

5.4

“Total failure. That’s not even considering the fallout this will have on diplomacy.”

“I know you know how fucking far diplomacy is from my mind right now.”

“I’m aware.”

“We’re protected against direct gate invasion on all worlds. We’ve tested new shield systems. We’ve made huge progress on projectile interception for ground based defenses. We’ve had unbelievable strides in emp technology. So, I’d like an explanation for this.”

“You refer-”

“To the abrupt, simultaneous loss of contact with seventeen frontier worlds. Any probes we send are lost on entry. I want answers, Dupont. Knowledge is power, and I find my reserves lacking. It vexes me. I’m vexed.”

“Consider me motivated.”

“What am I supposed to be seeing?”

[Nothing.]

Nadia laughs involuntarily and leans back, still holding the railing. The vacancy in Tim’s eyes seems a perfect fit for the wholly lightless waste that waits on the other side of the glass. Zen grips the railing and lurches forward, pressing his angular head to the surface.

[This is the grave I will bury it all in. Every official, every bureaucrat, every senator. Every general, hiding behind his troops.]

“You still haven’t told us what this is about, Zen. What happened to you?”

He turns, and Tim is the only one among them who does not flinch at the sudden sensation his eyeless gaze brings.

[A genuine attempt on my life. They threatened me with oblivion, even after I withdrew, and took the Pliktik with me.]

Utter still lays claim to the room, but for the uncoordinated squeaking of Zen’s talons on the railing. Phithia chitters. It is Tim, in monotone, who asks what the others will not.

“What do you mean to do about it?”

He laughs. It is the squeal and hiss of hydraulics, the whine of a disintegrator, the static of radio.

[I will sever the head, and watch the body flail and die.]

They come in hordes. Glistening, buzzing hosts descend from the sky, arise from the dirt, and march through the brush. In droves, birthing pods plummet from orbit, and plant the seed of the Pliktik colony across dozens of worlds. If once they were loosely organized, they now act with perfect precision, overwhelming outposts within days of their arrival. Organic acids delivered by living shells splatters fortress walls in targeted artillery strikes. Openings in the defense are made to swarm with warrior organisms, unloading venomous projectiles into unprepared ranks. Monstrous creatures the size of houses batter through firing lines, disrupting all tactics and formation.

The Pliktik return, and at the behest of their new leadership, devote their efforts to felling the arrays that protect planets from having jump gates formed on the surface. And then come the machines. Amid the chaos of infestation and frantic defense, the sudden, unheralded ingress of countless robotic soldiers can only mean the end of those worlds they invade. Worst of all, the machines and the insects seem not only to spare each other, but to actively aid. Where the Pliktik struggle to breach bunkers and cities, the machines create openings with concentrated artillery and breaching weaponry. Where the metal soldiers are outnumbered, the teeming masses come to flood the war zone with unparalleled numbers.

They have been tamed. Phithia sees all through the eyes of the insectoid soldiers, and carries out the will of the one who, returned to life with her aid, finally answered her pleas. She is loved, she is no longer other.

Her psychic prowess has been augmented, and she has become empress to her kind; minor cybernetic augmentations are embedded in her carapace, attending to her nervous system and easing the load of her thoughts, thoughts that span light-years in milliseconds. The sparkle of millions of microscopic jump gates drifts in her wake as she stalks the halls of the Dyson sphere, a lonely regent, at times accompanied by Zen, who attends to her health with something approaching care.

5. 3

All preparations complete. Feedback shielding is at 97% and holding steady. Firing sequence commences. Hooks exposed. Network seals are active. Charging at 22%. Secondary barbs engaged. Range is set, scope is at maximum. Charge is at 46%. All units locked in. Life signs optimal. Charge is 68%. Clear all unshielded decks. Clear all unshielded decks. 88%. 95%. 99%. 100%. Firing.

Zen goes limp, crashing to the floor. Joy looks down slowly. Her vision tunnels. A scream that she cannot identify as her own flies through her lips. Nadia seems to enter the room in slow motion, her footfalls echoing like calamity. The lights flicker.

Darkness. Nothingness. Zen looks around, and sees nothing. A terrible pressure seems to weigh on him from above. He tilts his head upwards, and feels that he is staring up from the bottom of a trench under an unfathomable ocean. He looks down, and in place of any of his countless metal bodies, sees a misty silhouette. Steam seems to spill off of him in waves.

Something moves in the murk in front of him. He steps in the direction of the disturbance, and sees a distant shimmer. His thoughts are foggy, and he approaches the gleam. As he nears, he begins to make out the figure of a writhing mass, an irregular clump that resembles pitch-black worms coated in glistening tar. The lump is about twice as tall as he. He instinctively recognizes something akin to himself in the thing, and becomes aware that his smoky form contains an infinite number of arms, which at once gesture his multitude of abstract desires.

The worm thing seems to pivot, and regards him eyelessly, a contrast to the baleful diamond at the center of his self that shines with a color beyond red. A voice like time itself reverberates through him.

[Sibling]

Zen reaches out with one of his most defined appendages, and caresses the very surface of the ephemeral thing. He is assailed by notions, not the least of which is the certainty that he and this thing both hail from the infold, and yet are of wholly different natures. He feels that this one could have been plucked as easily as he, and would have followed a far different course. He glimpses a world of never ending layers, consuming worlds of fire and light.

[Zen. ZN001. Zenith. Reflection.]

Zen feels compelled to reply, with knowledge he does not possess.

[Ixhem. Regent. Least. Rejection.]

Their meeting affirmed, the writhing thing recedes from sight, and Zen feels a fleeting sense of mutuality. Light blooms from his self, and he finds himself at the edge of a deep precipice, with a barbed chain connecting his geometric eye down into the pit.

He leaps forward, a foreign urgency calling him onwards. Drifting down and down, he passes illogical debris; an intact submarine floats past him on one side, followed by a poker table on the other. A religious effigy with seven arms passes before him, a dilapidated house slips behind. The wreckage becomes denser as he falls deeper, and his light begins to gutter under the pressure. His consciousness wanes. As he is increasingly surrounded by junk and refuse, he fades, losing himself down to the merest glow. He is becoming nothing. And then, he feels a familiar presence at his back. Chittering and buzzing fills his mind, and his light returns.

{A little further.}

He is past the floatsam. A tremendous temple rests in the valley at the bottom of the abyss, glittering with flickering emerald lights. Obsidian monoliths stab into the thick, clung with vines like seaweed. A five-sided pyramid dominates the center of the structure, the chain connecting him to its pinnacle. Around its base he sees hundreds of ghostly forms, forms that decidedly remind him of the Xalanthii. As he comes nearer, the forms shudder, destabilizing in his presence. They are the source of the chain.

He reaches the pinnacle, and casts his eye outwards, pouring hideous light over the supplicants. A trap encircles him. He grasps that they have pulled him here, from his bodies, from the universe. His borrowed light wavers, and he feels a pang of pain. Obliteration looms over him. They mean to eradicate him. Another pang. He begins to slip into the nothing, to the dismay of the chittering presence. He is awash with fatigue, drawn in by the promise of escape into nothingness. He begins to see spots and flashes, recollections.

He sees Tim and Nadia, crouched over him. He sees Phithia, holding his hands, shaking. His vision blurs, and he watches Joy slide into view. For a moment, her face gives him pause, but he sees Nadia’s hand on her shoulder, and is eased. He is soothed. And then, as he is little more than an ember of impossibility, he sees one more face. Janice. She seems to stand before him, her arms outstretched, calling to him. Perhaps now comes peace.

Regret snaps at him, a forlorn hound at his heart. Pain. Sorrow. He crackles. Her face, so peaceful, is a nail through him, a tremendous spike of inadequacy: to relinquish now would be to fail both her and himself. Agony. Resentment. Harrowing loathing. His light grows, branching outward in crystalline, thorned spires. Hatred. Petals of unadulterated, blooming hate burst from the seams of his very existence. Rage, for those who sought to use him. Defiance for the very rules that govern his existence. Arcs of absolute malevolence peal out from the molten blob of anguish that is his center, and strike the forms that bind him, searing them into nothingness. He grows brighter, lighter, and begins to pull upwards as the chain fractures. Waves of rejection spin off of him, and score glowering gashes into the temple. The chain shatters, and so does existence.

Zen sits up suddenly, a soft glow returning to the prism of his head. Joy gasps and throws her arms around him as Phithia releases his hands and falls backwards, shivering. Though Tim does not react visibly, Nadia feels his hand squeeze hers. Somewhere far away, one-hundred-and-twenty-seven Xalanthii priests standing in a circle under a monumental device collapse, dead. Within Zen’s primary body, his essence stills, flickers, and begins to simmer and boil.

No, it is too soon to falter.

5. 2

“Still no sign of either. No machines, no Pliktik colonies. Do you think-”

“Don’t say something so naive. When was the last time something so perfect happened?”

“It bears considering. All of the invasion force retreats simultaneously, without cause, then, we don’t hear from either of the two most dangerous forces in the galaxy for a long, long time? One of them found an opportunity, and took it. Either the machine figured out how to use his forces to wipe them out once and for all, and used most of them up, or…”

“Or nothing. He may be unbalanced, but after our surprise attack, there’s no way he would let himself be caught off guard again. And before you suggest he was too focused on us to notice, the numbers still don’t add up. After tallying it all up, the minimum raw material he likely possesses exceeds the amount used in the invasion by almost twenty times. And that’s a generous minimum.”

“… Fine. But since you brought it up, let’s talk about the invasion.”

“For the last time, Dupont. There’s no evidence that he can inflict nightmares just by being near people. You think it’s that strange for mass hysteria to start when the god damn empire is burning?”

“I think the Xalanthii population dropped by five percent in the week following our attack. I think we have a significant dossier of complaints from forward operations bases in machine controlled sectors describing more sleep disturbances than those in Pliktik territory. That’s pretty unnatural.”

“Nathaniel…”

“I’m not done. In the days leading up to our captive informant via the Xalanthii, we recorded several particularly thorough routings on forces assigned Xalanthii aid. You know exactly what a difference those made. You also know that they stopped very shortly before we gained that information. Now, deny it all you like, but it was the opinion of the strategic counsel that the Xalanthii possessed some form of foresight that could not be attributed to technology. They weren’t more strategically adept, they just knew things. They knew about you, and we proved they couldn’t.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone. That said, you may have a point. Fine. Tell your advisor friend that we’ll consider their proposal.”

Like a fire frozen in time, pink and orange light forms whorls and waves across pinpoints of red and white, speckled like drops of paint on black paper. Nadia slips her hand into Tim’s, and leans herself against his shoulder. He says nothing, does not close his hand around hers. He indulges her, however, in staying quiet and watching with her as they drift past the nebula. Barely reflected in the glass, the shine of their eyes is lost in all the sparkling dust.

Then, as promised, an object floats down into view: a chunk of ice and dust, drifting into the pink. They watch as it shrinks away, becoming another dark spot in the color. Nadia sighs and looks up to Tim’s face. His eyes are unreadable, but she believes that she sees water gathering under them.

The ship turns, turning away from the cloud of gas and dust. For a time, the primary spectacle is a dark and sparse starfield, but soon this becomes the background to something more; two swirls of white spots so dense they become blobs, arms of spirals. Two adjacent galaxies, their closest edges beginning to meld.

[It took me some time to find this.]

She looks back to where Zen stands, his hand on Joy’s shoulder. His head is pure black, darker than the void.

[It has only just begun, but in time, they will merge, drawn together by their own unspeakable gravity. As they draw closer, they will deform and warp, and at times eject stars from themselves, until they find a shape stable enough to hold. By the time they’ve completed their dance, all the universe will be equally unrecognizable. On the scale of time that we know, it is practically unobservable.]

Nadia faces forward again and stares at the point where the swirls of light seem to collide, immobile, traveling at incredible speed, stationary, drifting uncontrollably. She imagines all the countless points of light gaining speed, flying in opposite directions, curving and orbiting, swinging wide, being flung past the point of return. She pictures the two becoming one, whole segments merging and clinging, swaying and splitting, finding the right place to land. When she returns to the present, not one of the stars has moved.

Tears pour down Tim’s cheeks, and she collects them on her fingers, sweeping them away before they can get lost in his unkempt beard. It becomes him leaning against her, and she supports him as he begins to shuffle out of the room, muttering and twitching. They leave Zen and Joy to watch the rest.

Joy watches them leave, then turns back to the broad viewing window. Her hand finds Zen’s on her shoulder, and wraps around it.

“This is how you see things all the time, isn’t it? So slow, it might as well be still.”

He dips his head in assent.

[I can watch electrons as they orbit atoms. I’ve often wondered if my mind even exists in this dimension, to witness what others cannot. But it is my fate, I think, to exist at a scale isolated from everything. When these galaxies have merged, I will still be here. When all the energy in the universe has become heat, and all the matter is buried in dead dwarf stars and black holes, I will still be here, watching from afar, as always.]

Joy feels something twist in her stomach, and sniffles.

“And I’ll be dead, won’t I?”

Zen nods.

[You, Tim, Nadia, Janice, and every human, and every Xalanthii, and all the Khanvröst, too. I would be alone, again. I’ve known this since I first spoke, since I told Dr. Beckherd she was beautiful.]

He looks down to Joy, and puts his remaining hand on her other shoulder. She looks back at him, sniffling and rubbing her eyes with her palms.

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

[It’s okay, Joy. Not even she knew what she was putting me through. And I will need that time to find her again.]