Project Arcana (original) (raw)

Noli me Tangere

Posted by m_buggie on 2008.07.16 at 19:02

March 28, 2081
Seven
First Person POV

~

Gato was, if nothing else, a businessman. He appeared at my side – a greasy smile, obsequious words. He snapped his fingers. Gato liked to issue orders. It made him feel important. What would he think of the orders I’ve given in my lifetime? (“Open fire, now!” “Hold your positions.” “Burn it.” “Kill them.”) Echoes of previous operations rang out. I have issued orders that ended lives.

The empty glass before me was removed. Earlier in the night Gato had been challenging me, trying to assert his authority in this arena of smut. Now he ordered another alcoholic drink for, “the esteemed Mr. Danzinger.” He flattered, ingratiated, tried to make me an ally of his. He pulled up a chair and pandered. Gato had dollar signs in his eyes. Morgan had pulled in satisfactory earnings the first night he danced at Boomstick. This second performance had been more successful (addendum: monetarily speaking). Much more successful. Gato was impressed. He saw a business opportunity to join forces and double profits.

“If your bitch keeps this up I could make her a headliner, Mr. Danzinger.”

The smile of a shark. Cold, greedy. Hungry for money. Money, always the money. Money and politics.

The cash began piling up on my table. I was a pimp, after all. So the cover story went. They asked how much Morrigan cost, whether I’d ever let anyone “tap that ass.” They wanted to know what they’d have to pay to get a lapdance of their own.

“He’s not for sale,” I replied.

No conditions. No special price.

The price Morgan was paying for this mission was high enough. Would he ever be the same when all this was over? It was unfortunate. Would he understand that none of us had any choice? It was necessary. This was what he had to do in the name of survival. That point required stressing. No more international assignments to assassinate foreign government officials or destroy top secret facilities. No more guerilla warfare in Africa or South America. That was the Shadow Sector. That was Project Arcana. There was no going back to that now. Not after what we did on Operation Morrow.

Sacrifices had to be made. There was no changing that. The matter could be discussed, argued, until we were blue in the face but that didn’t solve anything. Igor still had to learn to deal with his issues. Morgan still had to recover from his. I still had to hold it all together because neither of them were capable of doing so. We all had our roles to play. That was something that would never change.

“Mr. Danzinger?”

Gato’s words fell on deaf ears. The man was a sycophant, a leech. He attached himself to whomever he saw as being powerful or profitable. I knew his kind. Never any use and always in the way. He meant nothing. I rose from the table, abandoning both beverage and monetary leavings. That pink silk leash wrapped around my knuckles.

Disgruntled and curious looks were cast in my direction, the most notable of which came from Chinchilla Flambé. His act ended in time with my arrival backstage.

“I ain’t scared of you,” he declared, walking abreast of me where others moved from my path like a school of fish before a shark.

He stared at me, defiance in his pale green eyes. I sized him up on a matter of instinct, training that would never leave me. American male, 23-27 years of age, 5 foot 10-11 inches, 170-174 lbs. – in shape but not athletic, speech pattern traceable to the greater metropolitan area of Chicago. I had already calculated a dozen different ways to neutralize him before Chinchilla Flambé spoke again.

“I know how pimps like you operate,” he stated angrily, “and I think you’re all a bunch of lousy fuckers for it. So I hope for your sake that the rumors about you aren’t true, because if you are beating Fey then…” He shook his head and wagged a finger at me. “…so help me God, you’d better not be hurting Fey.”

He blocked my path into the dressing room, planted in the doorway; arms akimbo and jaw set. It was a fine line between bravery and stupidity…or loyalty and stupidity, for that matter. I could have killed him in 30 seconds, my reputation as the fictional Hector Danzinger had been established to be a cruel and bloody one. But there stood Chinchilla Flambé like a guard dog staring down a lion. What was it about Morgan that drove others to behave this way?

Morgan, whose voice could be heard from inside asking, “Cissy? Is everything all right? You sound upset.”

“Morrigan, come,” I said, choosing to ignore the young man in my way and address the other young man I needed to see.

“Fey’s not your bitch to be ordered around,” Chinchilla Flambé snapped irritably.

“It’s okay, Cissy,” Morgan commented, laying a hand on the comedian’s shoulder and stepping forward.

That voice, still that voice. Soft and honeyed, that other aspect, not the real Morgan at all. He looked to me, large eyes filled with fear and adoration and a thousand other things that one would be hard-pressed to find in Morgan under typical circumstances.

“Hector.” He breathed the false name like a prayer.

I reached out, attached the lease to Morgan’s pink ribbon collar. I gave a tug, pulled him towards me. He moved with uncharacteristic obedience; a lapdog for now, but I knew of the attack dog lurking behind that. These lost souls populating Boomstick, they had no idea what kind of death awaited them by this small creature’s hands should his darker side win out. More scornful looks found me but I paid them no heed.

None of them had a clue.

Noli me Tangere

Posted by m_buggie on 2008.02.25 at 00:40

March 28, 2081
Morgan
First Person POV

~

Cocaine and thorazine go together, right?

I watched the shimmer of soft pink lipstick gloss over my lips for the second time, mesmerized by the way my mouth looked in the mirror. Me? Not me? I couldn’t recognize my own reflection anymore. Fuck, I couldn’t recognize myself.

Fey put the make-up on for me, moving my hands to touch up the mascara on my lashes, check the blush on my cheeks, and slick a fresh coating of rose petal color on my lips. There was no denying it anymore, Fey was in charge tonight. But as much as it annoyed the shit out of me, I let her be – I needed her to be. She was my shield, a buffer zone between the raw fury of Scythe and this red light world that I had to endure; that was why she had been born in my mind to begin with. She hummed silly little songs with my voice and dabbed perfume on my wrists. A butterfly to mask the dragon.

Scythe, meanwhile, moved about in the darkness of the jagged corners of my mind: seething and vengeful and thirsty for a fight. He whispered to me of all the murderous and destructive things he wanted to do, of the chaos he wanted to unleash upon this unsuspecting realm of flesh on parade. I could feel him writhing just beneath my skin, a steady pressure behind my eyes. The drugs kept him unfocused, my concentration kept him in line. But still, his voice echoed.

Burn it all to the motherfucking ground, Scythe hissed. Paint the fucking walls with their fucking blood. Pop out their fucking eyeballs and step on their hearts and turn their fucking guts inside out. KILL THEM ALL. Scythe was still angry about what had happened the last time I danced on the Boomstick stage…but then, Scythe was always angry when he wasn’t killing something.

Wait, when he wasn’t killing something? I laughed at that, laughed out loud at my own reflection. When I wasn’t killing something: that was a more realistic phrase. Because he was me and I was him and she was me and she was him and we are all together, here in my fucking head.

Who the fuck was I? Was I Morgan? Who was Morgan? Was I Scythe? Who was Scythe? Was I Fey? Who was Fey? Who the fuck were any of the voices in my head?

Two minutes to show time.

Chinchilla Flambé was still on stage, keeping the audience in stitches and getting them in a good mood for when I – no, when Morrigan le Fey – went on to dance. I tugged at the bottom of my St. Michael’s school blazer and turned away from the creature in the mirror. Jesusfuck, I hope we catch this IDES killer soon because I don’t know how much more of this bullshit I can take.

Lee Lemon was waiting for me outside the dressing room, sneering down at me like some high and mighty lord of the motherfucking land. I didn’t like Lee. Hell, I fucking hated the asshole. After all, he’d decided that he hated my guts as soon as I arrived at Boomstick last week so it only seemed fair that I returned the favor. Chinchilla Flambé didn’t like him, either.

“Nothing but skinned knees and track marks,” Chinchilla had said about Lee. “He’s a nasty cocksucker, literally and figuratively. Stay the hell away from him. That son of a bitch’s nothing but trouble.”

From what I could gather no one else at Boomstick liked him either, but he pulled in massive amounts of money so Kinoko and Gato kept him around like a prized pet. Lee was the headline dancer, the star attraction. He also turned tricks in one of the back rooms and split the money with Gato, who was less of a pimp and more of a business associate.

According to Lee, he wasn’t gay. He said he just fucked men and danced at Boomstick because the money was good. So the same mouth that sucked off any John for a baggie of heroin told vulgar stories about eating out the pussies of wrinkled old bitches from Main Island’s Upper East Side for a short stack of cash. Lee called himself a smart hustler. Chinchilla called him a filthy fucking whore.

No one knew how old Lee was but he had to have been in his thirties. He had the desperation to hang on to youth and appearances that came with that age bracket. Lee shaved his head and pierced his body and tanned his skin, which made him look like some kind of bizarre old-style pirate on shore leave. He was addicted to heroin but took steroids to keep bulked up. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing when he bragged about being the must muscular man in Nowhere. It made me think of Jacob. The mere sight of Jacob would’ve made Lee weep with jealousy. Too bad Jacob was still in a coma back at Shadow Sector Headquarters.

“You think you’re hot shit, don’t you, bitch?” Lee Lemon snarled at me as I walked past him. “Well, you ain’t so don’t think for a second that you can start peddling that fancy little ass of yours ‘round here, ‘cause this joint’s mine. You understand me?”

Fey recoiled and Scythe struggled to lash out but I pushed them both aside for one glorious moment and told Lee to, “Blow me,” in a perfectly apathetic voice without breaking step or even bothering to look over my shoulder at him.

“You little piece of shit!” Lee growled.

But another three steps and I was about to go on stage where Lee Lemon couldn’t touch me. I smirked and swished my hips a little. Fuck you, Lee Lemon. As soon as this undercover bullshit is over I’m going to let Scythe take over for a couple of hours and if he happens to murder your stupid cunt ass then oh fucking well.

The music switched up and Chinchilla Flambé walked backstage, giving me a wink and an air-kiss as he passed me. I smiled and winked back. And just like that, I was back on stage.

Fey didn’t like the dancing. She was embarrassed and wanted to retreat into some shadowy little corner of my mind but I forced her to the front. I wore her like armor and let her absorb all the vibes of lust and hunger that came flying at me from the audience. I listened to her cry in my head while my body moved in naughty ways. It made me feel free. If Fey was suffering then it meant I didn’t have to. If she was crying and shivering from the lewd glances and catcalls then I could just dance and not give a shit. I liked that.

Scythe didn’t care. He would’ve sooner slaughtered the whole room. And oh good, the Oxycodone was kicking in. That would shut Scythe up for a little while longer.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Fey whispered in my head.

Well, that makes two of us but that’s not part of the fucking plan.

“Where’s Hector?”

Oh for shit’s sake, just leave Seven the fuck alone for now, okay? He’s pissed off at me enough as it is, I don’t need any more trouble out of you. Got that?

“Hector’s upset?”

First of all, there is no Hector. Second of all, Seven is very fucking upset.

“Hector is real.”

No, he’s not. He’s a fucking cover. Seven made him up. He’s not real.

“I’m real.”

That’s fucking debatable.

Fey didn’t seem to like that answer much and went silent for a while. Everything was fine for a while then. I kept dancing. Scythe clawed at the back of my mind but the drug cocktail took most of his edge away. And then I let my eyes wander through the audience.

Seven was sitting in his pimp chair at the foot of the stage, looking just as livid as he had when I hopped down off his lap about five minutes ago. Fucking hell, I hope he’ll forgive me for that. It wasn’t me, it was Fey. I’d never do shit like that, honestly.

“Hector…”

Fey, what the fuck are you up to, you little cunt?

I could feel her shifting suddenly, feeding off some of Scythe’s unused energy and going up against me for control.

Hate that fucking bitch cunt, Scythe snarled from the darkness. Kill her. Fucking kill her one day.

But Scythe was too subdued to launch an attack and I was too busy dancing to keep both the dragon and the butterfly in check. And then it all fell apart.

Noli me Tangere

Posted by kilderok on 2008.01.12 at 01:20

Noli me Tangere
March 28th, 2081
IDES POV

Loud...abhorrence...vile, stupid and evil...I would smite them all if it were my place. Perhaps He knows something I'm never to know, He is more forgiving that I.

The atmosphere is as filthy as the street taken to reach this epitome of gluttony and lust. I feel the anger rising up within my throat like some unearthly torpor, and I chide myself for losing control, for a moment loathing and hating the job that I have been destined for. But I should not hate it, it is a holy however dirty job that I should be thankful for, I am a chosen disciple, His disciple. To keep His flock of sheep in line, I slaughter then unruly dogs for Him, He works through my able hands. I have been kept awake far longer than I had anticipated. He gives me the strength to stay up for as long as it takes to complete one of His holy tasks, to have the vision, the otherworldly perception, a knowledge of what would be painfully unclear to myself and others, without such a diligence to see how He sees. Divine intervention. The times, they are coming.

Exhausting to my flesh, I press on. It is my task, and it is my faith that keeps me working, knowing that an eternal rest is promised for me in the end of it all. His humble servant. No matter how taxing. The serpent named Satan will send his minions and they will all fall in their efforts to stop Us, his demons in the guise of hitmen and police taskmen and detectives, they will use their state-of-the-art gear, their mechanisms, to confuse the sheep, they will make me out to be the wolf, their efforts to defile a gilded task will most likely complete---this however, is not the job of glory, they will all see the truth of everything, in the end. It will never be viewed by the many as anything more than atrocity, it will be seen with blind eyes until those curtains are opened, and those blind eyes are allowed to see what is not visible to them, for the very first time. And those eyes will cry then, and those souls will repent, and some will be saved. Some will not. Some will turn away, too shocked or defiant, too insanely gripped by their evil and notion of "freedoms", that it will never come to them in any form of enlightenment, and they should rot forever because of this.

'Deus, dona mihi serenitatem accipare res quae non possum mutare, fortituinem mutare res quae possum, atque sapientiam diferentiam cognoscere.'

'God grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; Taking, as He did, this sinful world As it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all thing right...'

It is so small. This tiny world we live in. This miniscule, precious speck. Something doesn't surprise me to find him here. Tonight. Any night. That ghastly being. That horrid ghastly man, from a none to distant past encounter, in the park. To describe him for more clarity, in his sunken features, the possibility being starvation, perhaps now considering his position in occupation, the wasting effects of drugs, I expect him to have been lured into their temptation once, given an account of his external state. He looked wired. And at the same time nearly mortally exhausted, saturated by the impact of the Tempters banquet of sin. Beezlebub saturates our world with insanity, ill-virtue, violence; the tower of a man he was standing in that doorway was drowning in all of those things, possibly more. An sickly aura permeated him, basked in a light that was both bright and dark and silent, and loud. I met his eyes then for the first time, him sitting upon a bench, if memory serves; it was more than obvious that something about him, was not quite right. Some manner of intelligence was not present. He appeared less as an adult and more of a lost child, but with all the capabilities of an adult man, perhaps more. The factors of this observation cause me a thought that he might remember my face should he see it again, this present night. The same notion, plants a seed of thought, that like some person lame and senile, that he should not. I profess to be unable to assess the mans age due to the outstanding factors of his lifestyle. Evil ages the weak.

But like God, the Devil also likes to imbue his minions with gifts as a reward for loyalty. The man may indeed, remember if this is what he practices. I must use caution. Gods warriors are far from invincable. And that dog Satan must never be underestimated.

...Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; Taking, as he did, this sinful world As it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things right...

No doubt he will see me while in his steadfast position. I am being told he will. I have been warned. The obstacle can be avoided with trust and faith in Him, he will help me complete my holy tasks, and He will alleviate my exhaustion upon that completion. I shall press on with careful steps. The human flock is good or more than one thing, not only are they stronger undivided, but they are also more offering of concealment. It may afford me the virtue of anonymity amongst their masses, mingle within them, look as they do.

Although as preoccupied as he looked, perhaps I would be afforded more than once chance to remain a blank face to the five door men. Odd...I've been here before, I only noticed four door men in previous stakes.

Coolly, I mingled within a group of people dressed more like myself and waltzed in without so much as a glance from the ghastly spectre that guarded the way into the hunting grounds. Under the influence perhaps? Oddly, from memory he looked quite even more unkempt than he did the day I saw him in the park, despite dress attire. Disgusting creature. God, forgive me for my judgment, my human soul is all too flawed on its own, I am a humble creature of sin like these sheep. I am no shepherd and I wonder everyday why you chose me to express your holy toil.

Look around the room. Satan is powerful here. Very powerful. He has everyones heads in a vice and he's tightening his grip. They don't know it, none of them realize what damage they're doing to themselves and to the heart of their Holy Father. Their Holy Father?! How can they do this to Him? How can they be so lewd and horrendous! How humorless and just plain vulgar? There is a border between the two, it is a sin when that border is broken and discarded. I could tear my hair out over the vulgarity coming from the man on the stage right now as I take my seat in the back, but I am no longer that weak. Years ago I would have. I will not anymore. I am as hardened as the concrete these dogs fall into nightly, in their hopeless drunken stupors. A soldier of God has got to be strong in more ways that the flesh.

A sickening factor that has earning my sheer disapproval is that of transvestism. Being something, that you are not. Actually, its not even a matter of personal principle as much as it is blatant sin. You are lying. The rule was established eons ago in a holy tablet. That rule is there for a reason more obvious to the meek--thou shalt not lie. Ever. It falsifies other peoples perception of reality. Reality is that the men that vacate of their androgens in place of a more feminine curvature in this cesspit of a place called an entertainment facility, is a whole hearted sinful engorgement that they have chosen to completely disregard and break at their own accord. Just because you are so involved in the lie that you gain such faith that you are a woman on the inside, does not make you a woman. You should gain the outer womanly virtues of Eve in every tangible manner except your God-given configuration, but that does not make you a sister or a mother. You have made your body into an unlivable temple, an inhospitable environment to the immaculate, your architecture developed by God and masticated and mutilated by man, a blatant monument of sin and failure to function alongside other more wholesome members of creation--a faulty mechanism to be discarded to the depths of Hell.

You should be so loved as to be put out of your miseries. To get it over and done with...

I am a firm believer that a faulty person in the here and now, will be faulty in the next life. The insane will be insane as it is in their spiritual nature to be insane, and not to be blamed as a malfunction of the body. Satan wants you to think that. He doesn't want you to dig past the tangible, the physical of existence. He doesn't want you to see the soul, he wants you to believe in the flesh. They all believe in the flesh here. The man who danced his way about, as I walked through these tainted doors: a whore to sodomy and lust. A vulgar name to befit a vulgar person. The man claiming to be a comedian now, causing a laugh about serious topics not to be taken lightly---making them seem less important than they really are, he and his colleagues, they are all dogs. He names likens his stage name to that of a harmless Andean animal, the Chinchilla--he should have gone with the moniker 'Cerbereus'. Much more fitting considering all the damage he has done to thousands of lives with his 'humor'. They all believe in their flesh. Their flesh...

They all believe in their own flesh!

They exhibit no resolve, their false God loves to see them all bathing in their relentless carnal lust.They don't fight it! They are blissfully painfully ignorant! Reliant on themselves and humanity and their technology. They have turned their backs on their creator when he could heal them! I survive just as well, I have the power and knowledge and faith to fight back. My headaches, my awful headaches...they are incomparable to what fate these morons wander themselves into! Do they not realize that God will ease their suffering if they simply love Him? If they obey his commands? If they live the lives they were intended to live？

I sit. I watch, contemplate. Morrigan, the chosen... he sat upon his superiors lap, his disgusting lap. He bounced and giggled like a three year old child on a playground horse. As if there was nothing wrong with it at all. I cringed over the filthy pleasure that may have been derived in the situation. No restraint. No virtue.

Whore.

Of Whores. He is a whore. Jezebel. Flaming hair reminiscent of the Hell that spawned him, look how it flays about, almost dancing to that music...that sickening music, it follows the beat as if conscious to its baneful cacophony. As if swayed by a gentle breeze, a lullaby.

There is that aura... around his form. It is still there. I see it. Stronger than before. I feel it. Painfully obvious...there is the angel, tangible, guiding...his light signals choice...the boy, the confused male, he dances so whimsically. Sickeningly. I cannot wait. My toxins will make quick work of him soon, just a gesture. A tiny, superficial and beautiful gesture--a rose. But engineered, bathed...grown in a saturation of a chemical that would easily absorb into his skin, and begin devouring his brain within hours of exposure...and still they will be more forgiving, more tolerable, than that which He has destined home for all evil...

Angele Dei, qui custos es mei, me, tibi commissum pietate superna, illumina, custodi, rege et guberna. Amen.

This, it is the beautiful method. The sad, almost poetic method. A method of secrecy, he will not know what has happened until his is far too late, I will make him aware of the Hell that he is destined for. My mercy kill should bring him justice. I will make him aware, and there will be outright horror...the worst kind of horror, a horror not fathomable by any, not written clearly enough of, by the many poets and authors who has basked in the mere notion of its sheer atrocity...he will know what his future would have been, before I cut off his head and throw it into an incinerator. Flames beget flames. Morrigan...

Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio. contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae coelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude. Amen.

To be saved, O stray lamb. To extinguish the hellfire within you forever and ever. The Lord, He beckons. He wants him. It is his time, I will make it his time. You have left me now, left my presence, dear morrigan, off to prepare for your sin. We will meet again very soon, you will come back to me. I will be waiting. Over is the hardest portion of His holy mission now, and He will guide me: To be anonymous to the chosen ones 'owner'. He keeps him on a leash, always on a leash. He will be difficult to get around---with all His good graces, I have faith. One of these days, he will fall lax, let morrigan free for a moment, where I'll strike...you will be free of your leash soon, morrigan...the judgment has only just begun. It is a hard road, a painful road...but it is the road that must be traveled...He says so morrigan. His intentions, they are clear, His intentions are a dual creature. You will see that...because, you see...

...this world, will soon be yours no longer, my dear.

Noli me Tangere

Posted by kilderok on 2007.12.20 at 18:06

Noli me Tangere
Tuesday, March 28th, 2081
Igor POV

He's doing it again. Morgan. But not morgan. I hate it when he acts like he's someone else. I mourn every day that goes by, that he is no longer whole, he acts different from when we first met, back all those long years ago. Like a puzzle with a mangled piece. He was a breakthrough for me, I'm sure doctors would have proclaimed back in the half-way house I lived in once, morgan was the first male I had ever been able to reasonably trust. Even St.Bastard, as completely muddled into a false sense of security as I was by his kind and friendly demeanor, I never trusted him as fully as I learned to trust morgan. He used to be more opaque in his personality status, more tangible. To me it seems as though morgan is in less control of his own body, as though each passing moment the demons inside him grow stronger, while he becomes ever so transparent. It's almost like watching him die. No, it is like watching him die; he's losing what made him who he is, slowly being taken over by his own parasitic mental projections.

People passing by, entering. More people passing. Entering.

I know where he's coming from. I know the reason 'why'. He doesn't want to be here, so he blacks out, goes somewhere else in spirit. Something tells me that if morgan hadn't held a mental illness within him, that he would already be long dead. Sometimes I wish that I also, had this bizarre ability to recede into my shell like a mollusk, and let another me take over. Another me...someone else who wasn't such an exposed nerve. I can only understand the ailment as far as I can read in books...

A couple more pass by. Why would they subject themselves to this? How can they consider it entertaining? A blonde man passes. Then a mulatto. I sigh and look at the ground. Wince at the pain in my shoe. The sense of it all escapes my feeble, underdeveloped mind.

...in a way this mission was the most compatible assignment that morgan could ever be part of. Anything involving undercover toil requires the alias, and morgan was brilliant at being something that he is not, but myself? The concept of any other self is beyond my comprehension. I cannot be anyone other than who I am already, what I have been made into. Morgan is like clay mud in that he can take any form at any given time, and that form is chosen based on what the 'artist', his environment, is molding him into. Although something tells me that even that, is far too simple to fully explain his manic, self-destructive tendencies.

I feel as though I am lapsing into insanity. My head hurts. But not like a headache. More like its a beast, longing to escape mortality. Where is this? Who? Him? What about him?

Seven is angry. Very angry. What really bothers me is the fact that it could be him acting in such a manner to play his cover role, or it could be real abhorrence. Seven was almost as outstanding an actor as Morgan was, you could almost always bet that he is serious about whatever action he takes, but how serious? To what lengths would seven go to keep himself from being exposed as more than his portrayal? Would he actually turn on us if we mess up too much? How much is too much in sevens eyes? We have known each other for quite some time already, but the man is still an enigma to me. Something tells me that he was just as secretive long before Black Ops, was he like this with his family? Did his mother know him at all? It baffles me that a person of abillity would wish to keep themselves private. To wish that they had what I have. I've always wanted to share, and to know. I cannot. He can, and yet he does not.

I've been forced into being a very private person. I know nothing of translucent behavior. Nothing of sharing myself. Likewise, I know nothing of being anything other than what I am. I cannot act, I cannot be. It's a tumultuous existence.

At my post. Stay. I will stay at my post. I should not listen to my free will, it only gets me in trouble. They're always right, I'm always wrong. You're a drone. You cater to the will of others, not your own. That Gato man will not stop staring at me, I hate his eyes. I hate eyes period. The repugnance I hold for the acid manifestations knows no limit. They are to me, no less frightful than a needle or a bullet to the head. He makes me wish to rip them both from his putrid skull. There is no denying the monster I've become. Especially now, after seeing the outside world in more than I've ever really seen it. You don't know anything other than what you've been exposed to. Up until now I've seen little more than a basement and another room, that was used in the same fashion as that prison basement was utilized. This is the creature that Black Ops made me. There is no getting around the violence. It'll be against myself alone, or it'll be against others and myself included, either way every passing day seems to make me worse for the wear. I cannot escape a beating, in one form or another. Existence, is a beating. Maybe it is better for other people, but it is not for me. I don't think it'll ever be good for me. Some people were just made to suffer at the hands of others.

A man dressed in womens clothing passes. Another with a jewel encrusted fan at his face. Who's to say which of these oddities are what we're looking for? Any of them are subject to have done those horrible things that the killer committed. They're all the same. I cannot tell them apart. A red head passes me, a black man and a lanky fellow are denied entrance. Redhead...

Morgan? What are you doing? Seven is allowing that activity? You're sitting on his lap. You both blend into this crowd so well. Your invisibility is just making me more visible. Fate is cruel. It takes what you want the most and does the exact opposite of what would make you happy for just a single moment. I forget who made the profound statement...

"If God were suddenly condemned to live the life which he has inflicted on men, he would kill himself."

Unbearably and undeniably too true.

Noli me Tangere

Posted by m_buggie on 2007.12.02 at 13:33

March 28, 2081
Seven
First Person POV

~

If it isn’t one then it’s inevitably the other.

What luck I have with these two. Troublesome…so very troublesome. Igor continues to prove himself to be less reliable than originally thought. Morgan causes enough problems. I do not need Igor doing the same.

One man, Igor cannot handle one man? Ludicrous. Disgraceful. Unprofessional. One man should not be any sort of difficulty. I never thought I would see the day Morgan had more self-control than Igor. All those years with the Shadow Sector under Project Arcana were for what? For him to threaten to break character all because of one, albeit distracting, person? Disgraceful. Utterly unprofessional.

Even Morgan, pawed and defiled in the name of this assignment, sat obediently backstage applying cosmetics and fixing his skirt. Morgan…I had best check on him. Additional mistakes cannot be afforded.

A performer took the stage, one “Captain Dildo.” Such odd characters here.

A subtle sneer, a sip of my rum on the rocks, and I left the table for the direction of backstage. I reached into a pocket, pulled out the pink silk leash from Saturday night. No mistakes now, no more mistakes. Tight leashes for both of them, even if Morgan alone wore it physically. I will not allow further blundering.

Morgan sat at a mirrored dressing bureau, brushing his hair and conversing excitedly with the Boomstick comedian, Chinchilla Flambé. He laughed airily, effortlessly. The tone was not like him at all.

“Morrigan.”

“Hector,” he gasped, went still, at the sound of my voice. His eyes first met mine in the mirror, then directly as he looked over one shoulder. There was vulnerability in his gaze, an openness that was normally absent. But more than that was his voice. Small, delicate, breathy – it told me all I needed to know. The other personality, Fey, was in control tonight. I recognized it immediately. Would that be more trouble or less?

“Are you ready?” I asked sharply, fingering the leash.

Morgan glanced hesitantly at Chinchilla Flambé, set the hairbrush down on the dresser, and slowly rose. “Yes, Hector.” He tugged the bottom edge of his schoolgirl uniform blazer and put the jeweled pins back in his hair. “I’m sorry I took so long, Hector.”

Chinchilla Flambé shot me a look of venom, calling out to Morgan, “I’ll catch up with you later, Fey.”

He, in turn, paused to look back and respond in that breakable voice, “Oh, sure thing, Cissy.”

Chinchilla Flambé gave a firm nod, sent me one last dirty look, and retreated further into the dressing room.

“Making friends?” I inquired.

Morgan nodded gently, eyes averted from mine as he displayed his neck for me to attach the leash to his collar.

“Hn. Let’s go.”

Noli me Tangere

Posted by kilderok on 2007.12.01 at 21:39

Noli me Tangere
Tuesday, March 28th, 2081
Igor POV / Intro third person POV

Late evening at Boomstick. The club more than lived up to its name tonight as people flooded in by the dozens, more than hungry to indulge in a rabid night, positively engorged with the sin and pure adrenaline that made their lives livable. A full line up of performances backstage rushed themselves into their respective costume and make-up--provided makeup was vital to their their acts. In the roster amidst several somebodies, jabbering amongst themselves, there sat a relative nobody. He chatted with himself, in the mirror he used to play out a rose-shade of lip gloss. Morgan's second night in a place he didn't want to be, with a secret psychological coping mechanism to be used to persevere through the twilight hours.

"You're so pretty tonight...you'll do a good job..." He whispered in a loving fashion, to the decorated figure in the vanity.

A full moon hidden behind the many masses of sleeting clouds outside proved more than a factor in the lunacy in the masses, that would begin as a mere pindrop, and would end a cacophonus roar.

Up front and toward the entrance, there was simple igor. Looking rather paler than average and quite sickly, no doubt because of the cold air entering the building with every person that joined the scene. He stood stock still regardless, a guardian statue with a chain around his neck and tinted eyeglasses than hid any evidence of a soul, adamant on sticking to his guns and doing his job in the correct fashion. Really the bouncer job was the perfect occupation for a man of his stature and appearance, anyone who even glanced at him gained a newfound shiver up their spines. He however, felt far less intimidating than he appeared to the crowd, like nothing more than a five year old child trying to avoid certain death amidst a pack of stampeding wildebeasts. The stress of it all would cause him a right bit of hair loss later, all the training in the world would not break the man of his sheer disdain for the social scene. Especially since he was beginning to realize with further terror, that he was becoming the idol of the affections of one very misunderstanding and heavily misinformed floor manager.

~X~X~X~

There are times when I feel in control. This is rare. Then there are the more common instances, when I feel out of control, assuming the role of the underdog. As though I'm a domestic canine, someones loyal pet, who was just been cast into the wilderness like some putrid piece of trash, with no knowledge of surviving anything but a warm living room and satisfying handouts every now and then. Considering this, I would be sevens pet and he my master in any situation.

"Ese got a fine looking ass, you not taken are you, honey..?"

I have been utterly, utterly abandoned to my own devices tonight.

I'm not sure that I've ever been more angry at seven. He told morgan and I earlier in the evening that 'no matter the incident, we are to hold our identities as professionals would'. He cannot expect me to put up with this man. He makes my skin crawl. This man, he won't leave me be. I'm supposed to be scanning the room and doing my job, rather, Boris's job. How can I be expected on this of all agonizing nights, hold our objective?

"Hey silent knight, how about you and I get to know each other better?" He moved closer, and I sought desperately to inch away, not finding any empty space in the crowd that was filing in.

"Shut up please..." I thought, backing away from the offending man with increasing desire for solitude. "Do your job...ignore him...pay attention to what matters..."

"I'll bet you're a really rough trick, sexy." He advanced another step, causing me to favor a position closer to the nearest wall.

"Refrain!" I inched away and squeezed my eyes shut, intent on moving from the bar through the crowd, away from my post. Surely seven didn't mind me being against that comfortable brick wall. The bar area was a better post and far more typical of a 'bouncer' to be stationed near an entrance area than a brick wall, but...

A glare from seven sludged my retreat from the man and his vulgarity. I began to feel a familiar uncomfortable sensation as I weedled for a way to escape the confines of my post. His Hector Danzinger cover persona proved less hilarious than I had originally imagined. Originally, I had it in my mind that seven dressed as he was, facial hair and all would be something of a comedy. It was anything but. If nothing else, the violent colors and added burl made him more of a nightmare to face should you spurn his wrath. I remember the man from our days within the concrete walls of the corporation, and he was a tedious and terrific force for me to deal with in the rare instances that we have. A monotonous neutral of a man but with a hidden flame that you dare not add tinder to. Now that he and I interacted on a daily basis, well...

As aforementioned, a dog to his owner.

Thats the extent of our aquiantanceship. Especially now that we've vacated to 'relative freedom'. It doesn't feel as free as I would have previously imagined. Sadly most of the situations and experiences that I have dreamed about having in life, have been quite a bit less glamorous in the realities of this mortal coil, than within the confines of my cerebral mechanism.

I've since stopped dreaming.

Having been distracted by seven non-verbal threat was the worst thing that could have happened at this point in time. It only made matters worse for me in the flash of a second compromising my position and alias with the sensation of the floor managers hand just barely touching a portion of my backside that I will not describe. I jumped and emitted an unusually high pitched sound that could only be described firstly like a predatory bird and lastly a lion, I flew what felt like feet into the air, and landing back on my feet a near yard away, awkwardly so. With an ugly cracking sound I winced in pain then groaned loud enough to hear myself over the music. Undoubtedly something inside my shoe had been properly jammed and bruised from the unbalanced impact my feet made with the cement-tiled flooring. I wheeled around ready to strike the man down, luckily he was well out of my reach and it gave me that split-second I needed to gather my rationality and shoot the observant seven a violent glower, laced with vulgarity that could not begin to describe my frustration and abhorrence that I felt towards him, and this anencephalic prick invading my breathing space. I held outright disdain for this mission more than any I had ever been forced to commit to during our agency days, and seethed at the knowledge of what would happen if I gave this man a proper and well-deserved trouncing. I knew in my very bones that killing this man would be far easier than keeping myself tethered like I was having to do now. Self control hasn't ever been something I was good at.

What really frightens me most however, is that the mere thought of ending his life has caused me to salivate, as if hungry for the indulgence of ripping his jugular from his throat. Is that what I've become?

"Like to play hard to get eh? Ha ha, I like that in an hombre." He cocked his head and so sickeningly propped his hand upon his hip, as if amused at a playful kitten, or something equally adorable and harmless.

I am thirsty for the bloodshed.

I admit it wholly.

There is nothing I'd rather do right now than kill everyone in this room.

And if he touches me again, seven can go rightly fornicate himself with a jagged grappling hook, because this man will die tonight. I cared not for self-restraint at that moment. I contemplated baring my fangs at the man, to get the message across. Would seven consider that gesture a breach of alias?

I didn't care.

The bastard began to advance my way again, and I noticed a wet feeling inside of my left shoe, followed by a dull sensation of pain. He made me split some skin. He came not a single step closer before I uttered a low-octave growl and opened my mouth ever so slightly, with the full intention of using the vile tools of my trade on the mans weak flesh if he pressed on. I flexed my talons and cracked the bones of my wrists and tarsals and watched his eyes to rightly widen in surprise in unison with my own, which brimmed with the full intention of homicide.

"Boris!" I heard in the background, drowned out by the din of the noise they called 'music' in this establishment.

Seven had been shouting at me ever since I had glowered at him, but the words fell on deaf ears. Later I'll bet I could get away with saying that I didn't recognize my alias and thats why I didn't react to it. Morgan has become a bad influence on me in ways, I never used to think of the many ways I could lie if need be.

Before the Project, I didn't know what lies were.

"Sir, if you would kindly leave my bodyguard alone..." seven interrupted the mans activites, careful to keep me at a distance, "he cannot perform his job when being bothered." Seven reasoned with what was, in my opinion, the unreasonable.

"Now I know he's not taken man, let a little romance blossom between El Gato and fella!" He chirped and I winced, growling under my breath. It still caught sevens attention, and he turned on his heel sharply and faced me with wrath in his expression.

"You! Get back to your job now!" He commanded, ripping his hat off and brandishing it in a threatening manner. I grimaced and used the distraction he was causing as a chance to slip to a safe distance from the offensive floor man. Thank you seven, but this doesn't change much.

"If you leave Boris alone, theres money in it for you." pulling out a billfold he offered Gato a handsome bribe of one hundred dollars cash. I was shocked, mainly because we were in no position for throwing our funds at any little thing, but I suppose this was part of sevens cover act? He was afterall, supposed to be a man of dirty, ill-gotten money. In order to fulfill the image, one would actually need more than a pennies pittance.

"Thats okay man, I don't need any of that." Gato waived off the bribe and began to walk away. As he did however, he made a graceful and slightly whimsical turn and looked in my direction, "You and I aren't through, cutie."

A final wink from him caused the bile in my stomach to churn enough to taste vomit.

"Never again." Seven uttered crossly, with an impatient sigh. He approached me near the brick wall I was against, an index finger extended meant as a final warning.

"Never again." Seven paused before leaving me for his table towards the front of the stage.

"This hell is no different than a barred prison", I thought to myself, feeling the futility of resistance crawling upon me. "I want out! I want out so damned bad! Let me out!" A wave of nausea came over me and I doubted that the sounds I whispered to myself resembled anything intelligible at all.

I let a out a hard sigh and let my head bang against the wall once...twice...

... and closed my eyes in defeat.

Noli me Tangere

Posted by kilderok on 2007.10.13 at 18:52

Noli me Tangere
Monday, March 27th, 2081
Third person POV/Partial first

Burgundy waters and bubbles spilled across the floor tiles. Mumbled, garbled vocalizations came out of the mouth of the man, making sense at times and at other times, not. The din of the room was loud, incurably loud; to him and only him, and no others--had there been other people present. It was his utter madness wreaking its chaos on the manifolds of his decaying brain tonight, once again. Once upon a time it crumbled more slowly, only month by month-- and now it was a daily thing. It progressed now as fast as a flu and was damaging like rabies, connections in Ivan's mind were lost forever, as his neuro-chemicals soared to astronomical levels, and drove him to slaughter.

Wash.

Earlier that evening, he had prided himself upon another one of his deluded, "holy" murders. Another woman, his gender of choice. He washed his hands of her now. The last time, his victim had done something to set him off, she had attacked him. This time she had done nothing but exist. Last time. One little day ago. His control had become understandably sloppier since the murder of Pearl, though he kept himself far more tedious than a simple raging lunatic. His brain was having an atomic meltdown, but his calculative cognition was still strong. Strong enough.

~x~x~x~

I drug her into an alleyway...the whore. Fucking that man off right on the street...! She deserved to die in the darkness she had been born of...

~x~x~x~

In the eyes of the madman, he had seen her on the corner of fifth in the bath of an orange street light: Giving a man oral service in full view of everyone.

But there was no man. And there was no crowd, just like there was no Archangel Gabriel, commanding him as a force.

There was no sexual favor being performed.

His seratonin levels soaring and finally peaking, IDES had hallucinated the whole damnable thing. The woman was simply picking up a piece of litter from the sidewalk. You could call her a martyr for Mother Earth. The only 'favors' she dealt were in the name of the environment, they were for no man. What the person who dropped that cheeseburger wrapper that afternoon would think if they knew they had caused an innocent womans death, by that mere action. There was a fine in the city for littering, a costly fine that nobody paid attention to anymore. Afterall, nobody enforced it really. The city was a dump to the whole world practically, who cared? And on a particularly depressing day nobody waited for a trash can to come into view.

The saddest thing perhaps, was what had really driven the man to his madness in the first place. Ignorance. Immorality. That one significant moment when he could finally take no more. Because there was no good or evil here, no darkness and no light--there was only one big tragedy unfolding upon itself like a train wreck. Ivan was the catalyst in Nowheres most gruesome slayings. Rather, his mother was. In all actuality. He had always been such a sensitive child. Such a sensitive child. Who was never, ever considered. Always treated like the perfect high-class citizen robot he was supposed to be. Top of the fold. Toast of the town. Born to lead; flawless. But not. It is fact that in show breed dogs, there are certain flaws and traits that plague each breed. And it was the same for Ivan and his breed. He was a choice human, and there laid errors in his makeup. In his family, there was this long string of people, who had suffered from multiple psycoses. The devil was in the brain--one thing that rang true in his garbled train of thoughts. One more thing that IDES did not realize, that in his degeneration, his reasons and motives were becoming increasingly drunk and without warrant, without reason. Now? He simply did. He confabulated memories later, that he had been told to kill and that he was indeed justified, when in reality nothing had gone wrong at all. There had been no hallucinations, no headaches, no divine intervention. The philosophy goes that 'The insane do not realize they are the insane', and IDES fell into the stereotype like a perfectly set cabochon.

Scrub.

~x~x~x~

"Nnnooo! Please no! Let go of me, ffucking cr--!"

Her harpy screech made my ears ring. She had caused enough pain for the day, so I ripped out her vocal cords and put an end to her. Dug my nails in deep, and tugged and pulled a few times. A good grip on her flesh...and...

Thy deed is done.

~x~x~x~

Splash.

The tiles were a mess and Ivan was now clean, at least physically, of his deed. He smiled. And he said a small prayer, in between odd vocalizations and mutterings. He began to clean up his floor with a soiled mop from the closet storeroom of his kitchen. He thanked God and the angels, and then sat at his desk, observing the vial of toxin, dreaming of the day when he would apply it in his method. A march snowstorm rolled in later that night and covered the womans body with a dusting. She lay so sadly cut short of life, in a half-open dumpster in the crook of that very alley she had been killed in. There was no divine justice, like Ivan so exhaustingly believed. There was no justice in the town, period.

Just a scene.

A quiet, sad and albeit morbidly beautiful scene. Two small highheels, hanging from two small feet. Trash everywhere. A rigored pair of legs attached to a rigored body, with a mangled throat and a face so dark and so moribund and fixed, with a silent, tortured scream. All trapped in between two hinged pieces of rotting metal. Dogs barking. Cats crying. Sirens blaring out empty threats.

And the falling, frozen apathy of mankind.

The night had only just begun.

Noli me Tangere

Posted by m_buggie on 2007.10.02 at 00:50

March 26, 2081
Morgan
First Person POV

~

It was already late in the afternoon by the time I woke up.

I rose unsteadily, dizzy and disoriented. I could feel Scythe at the back of my mind, a panther napping with one eye open: dormant but dangerous all the same. It almost sounded like he was chuckling. A chill went down my spine at the thought. Although at this point I couldn’t tell what unnerved me more: the heavy darkness that was Scythe’s presence or the soft but unrelenting effervescence which I quickly recognized as being Fey.

Me, myself, and I.

It was crowded now, here in my head.

Upon reaching the bathroom I found that the mirror I’d broken was gone, replaced by an identical new one. Not a shard of glass was anywhere to be found and my black box of drugs sat innocently on the floor next to the sink. Ten bucks said it was all Seven’s doing. In a moment of paranoia I wondered if he’d opened the black box, whether I’d remembered to lock it in my altered state last night, and if he’d discovered my stash. I shrugged it off, though, as I went through my morning routine in what was almost the evening. If Seven had really wanted to he would’ve just taken the box and confronted me about it later. The fact that he left it in the room was a sign of him humoring me. I had no problem with that.

My reflection stared back at me from the unbroken mirror, as unfamiliar as ever. I absently touched my cheek, trying not to focus on the debacle of last night but unable to think of anything else. I unwrapped the bloody bandage around my hand, discarding it as I flexed my perfectly healed fist. Glittery pink nail polish shimmered in the light.

“So pretty…”

Shut the fuck up, Fey.

Scythe grew louder for a moment before fading again, but I couldn’t tell if he was laughing or growling.

Me, myself, and I.

Too fucking crowded in here.

It took me nearly an hour to get dressed when I got back to my room. I kept getting distracted.

~x~x~

“No, really, I’m okay,” I squeaked out as Igor lifted me a full two feet off the ground when he hugged me. “I’m feeling a lot better now, Big Guy. Everything’s fine.”

The expression set on his already deeply grooved face said that he didn’t believe me in the slightest but Igor set my feet on the ground anyway with a small, sad, tight-lipped smile on his face. He pat the top of my head gently and then wandered back into the kitchen to finish making dinner.

“There was a call for you earlier,” Seven stated as he seemingly materialized behind me.

I turned to face him but I must’ve moved too quickly because another wave of disorientation hit me and I nearly faltered. It was only for a moment but didn’t go unnoticed by Seven, who regarded me with an inscrutable gaze as he stood there with his coffee mug in one hand and small electronic organizer in the other. He said nothing but the arch of his eyebrow was enough to convey an inquiry into my condition.

“Hector?”

There was a gasp and I couldn’t tell if it had come from Fey or if I’d been the one to make the sound.

“Hector?”

Shut the fuck up, Fey.

Scythe snarled, a coiled snake rattling its tail. Fucking hate you.

“Morgan.”

I opened my eyes, having not realized that I’d closed them in the first place, and put a hand at my forehead. Igor was off to one side, making worried vocalizations as he fidgeted with the dish towel in his hands and shifted his weight between feet. Seven stood closer than I remembered him, coffee mug and organizer gone, his arms folded across his chest as he stared down at me as if he expected to be able to see into my skull to figure out what was going on in there.

“I’m okay. I just spaced for a second there. I’m fine,” I muttered, laughing it off but in a half-hearted way.

“Doubtful,” Seven responded.

“So who called?” I asked, diverting attention from myself. “Most of my friends are dead and it’s not like this number’s listed in the phone book.”

Seven drummed his fingers on his upper arm once in a gesture of discontent. “Ruby.”

~x~x~

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Seven’s inquiry carried more than just the weight of his words. Whether he was referring to me paying a visit to Ruby’s alone or my taking Shinigami with the roads in less than perfect condition didn’t matter because either way this was Seven’s equivalent of calling me a stupid fucking idiot, really.

I paused in the doorway, helmet resting against my hip.

“It’s cool, Seven. Everything’s fine. I’ll be okay.”

Seven’s only response was to breathe deeply and turn away.

~x~x~

Late March in Nowhere had a bite to it: a dampness and a chill that went through you like a knife. The streets were mired by slush from last week’s rain and snow from the week before. No one in their right mind would even dream of riding a motorcycle in this weather…good thing for me I’ve never been sane.

Noli me Tangere

Posted by kilderok on 2007.09.27 at 00:07

Noli me Tangere
March 26th, 2081
IDES POV/Partial Third POV

"You've waited too long Ivan..."

...The angel spoke to the man, he was restless.

"I know, I know I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

...And the man pleaded with the angel, stumbling.

"You don't deserve to be His left hand..."

...the angel threatened. He was irritated by the mans weakness now.

"Please! I'll do better! I found one, one to purge..."

...Ivan pleaded, while running into a burly man whom he ignored in favor of the angel and his excruciating headache.

"You need to be quicker...he is angry with you Ivan. Take the one with the red mane, give him to the lord..."

...The angel was impatient, and crossed his arms.

"What are the next steps to cleansing morrigan...? Tell me...!"

~x~x~x~

Three O' clock P.M, the bustling streets of Main island were alive with the many forms that dwelled within every crack and crevace of the cities span. People going to lunch, people coming home from late night shifts, people going to work, at their diners, and their plazas and their markets...and then there was this man. Horrible and prominent, and nobody knew anything but his glittering gilded side, his higher classed standing, his charity. They knew nothing of the monster in his head, screaming at him as he strolled--he would occasionally clutch his forehead, plagued by the headache that came with the outbursts.

"And the angels shall cull the population of you material swine! Your vast numbers shall be thrust into the pits of hell for eternity, that lake of fire, and no dollar amount will ever keep you from it! Listen to me sheep to satan, and be cleansed and saved by the lord Jesus Christ!"

The woman shouted amidst the crowd---futily. She was like any other typical master to the lord above that you'd see on the street corners in daytime, occupying the areas where call girls and working ladies would stand when the sun went down. Her hair was pulled up in a tight bun and she reeked of a heavy chantilly odor, her tanned, ambigiously native face devoid of any makeup, her lips, frail, and lost in her square and aging countenance. Ivan regarded her from a distance, and deemed her in her middle forties, although looking about ten, perhaps twenty years older. She aged herself. As he did himself. It came with believing too hard.

It came with insanity.

"Thou shalt not covet! Thou shalt kneel before Him, and know that you are but His sheep and He is your shepard!" She thrust herself into the face of a young man dressed to the gills in black attire, piercings hanging from earlobes and cartilage, hands in pockets. She wailed out her warnings incessantly and grabbed at his coat as he continued walking by, trying to get his attention. As she did this he easily dodged her grasp and he answered her message in a straight to the point, non-verbal gesture: he stuck his equally pierced tongue out and wiggled it like a serpent, hissing and giggling and mocking the overly-fervent womans rantings as nothing more than a stupid joke. Christianity had lost its place in the world long ago. Christians had dug their own hole, as this woman did to herself now. She shown her repugnance in a grimace and spat at him most unladylike.

She sickened Ivan. She sickened him almost more than the Jezebels of East Island.

She gave his religion a bad name_. "If not for this woman and her kind",_ he thought, "perhaps not so many would be forsaken to those fiery depths." And he was right, most people wouldn't stand for religion being forced down their throat, for humanity was a fickle and freedom-loving creature, they loved too much freedom. They couldn't see the light by being shouted at, they had to be welcomed into it. Ivan was a loon by all standards like her except the fact that he knew unlike this woman, that religion and God would not be force fed to the masses. They had to be taught to savor it. And some who had savored it found its taste unpalletable, were unmistakably forsaken. Some like Pearl. Some like that troubled one Morrigan, the beautiful boy-in-a-dress.

"...What now, what are the next steps Gabriel--"

"And YOU! You smell of rot and torment! YOU reek of material lust and carnal lust and the blood of the innocent! You are forsaken lest you take him unto your breast and beg for His mercy!" The crazed woman lunged in Ivan's direction and caught him off guard, a grim mistake.

"Agh...! my head...!" Ivan clasped his skull, squeezed his eyes shut, and wailed under the pain of a sudden burst migraine attack. He had wandered too close to the raving woman and she had begun to pelt him with insults and self-righteous rants from her figurative soap-box pedestal. He shouldn't have been out in the open now in his state however sleep, was a rare commodity these days and the killer IDES had been forty-eight long hours without a single moments rest. He was angry. He was indeed, tormented, as she had observed correctly. He had wandered about for the hours he had been awake and in pain throughout the Red Light districts main prostitution areas, under and through bridges, on freeway walkways and homeless derelict slums, and now one sixteenth a block from Central park, he came upon a mount of overload.

Too much.

Not enough.

You are a demon in the guise of a believer.

You do this because you know they will only turn their heads and not listen.

You are not human.

You have the mark of the beast upon your forehead.

He began hallucinating the woman, who's words were now lost on his deafened hears, with an eerily glowing pale green triple six mark upon her forehead, to him, she began laughing and pointing and shouting rude insults. To him, the cross upon her bosom hung upside down and not right side up. To him she was blasphemy, she became blasphemy and the angel Gabriel hung above her head holding his great sword like Damocles, dangling precariously, ready to smite. To him she was a horrid Lucifer's foot soldier. And he was her destroyer. With the power of Gabriel he would mangle her demon body back to hell amidst the crowd of lambs, and they would be grateful for Him and his soldier, Ivan.

They would hide in the most believable disguises of the Christians that they wished to overthrow. They would act like mental patients and bigots and thieves and sodomizers and whores and insist that they believed in the Lord and His work. They would destroy those who once believed in God, turning them Athiest, and make once true people believe in falsity, make them turn to other religions and other gods. These were the days of Apocalypse. The very thought of her disgusted him so that his stomach began to try and expel its contents from within him.

"AAAAAAGGGHHHHHH.....!!!!" He thrust a blade into her chest and turned the blade, causing immediate fatality. It was so easy. So very easy. No planning was needed. Uttering in Latin prayer, using his free hand to sift the beads of his rosary through each Hail Mary, he pulled out his fatal blade and looked to the sky and put his hands in the air praising to Him, as she fell in a slump to the ground.

Amen.

The blood that poured from her body as he looked back down to her with a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face, formed into the cracks of the pavement and began trickling towards the gutter nearby. People screamed and looked around for the killer and then to the man who was dressed to the gills in warm and concealing fabrics, who covered his face with a regal-looking scarf, who hailed Mary and praised the Lord that his head had magically stopped hurting. And he, as if blessed with the speed of the Roman God Mercury, sprinted off into the winding alleyways of buildings, avoiding brave men and women who persued him. Brave? Men? Women? No, they were not. They too were false.

They are demons in league with the one that was smited. Do not let them catch you Ivan. Your relief is your payment, God loves you. You will help bring Him into glory once more in these dark days.

~x~x~x~x~

I arrived home. Bliss. Utter bliss. The headache is gone, oh how I have suffered so, all for Him. It is my blessing and my curse. The pain is a result of the power He gave me, He for reasons I do not question, cannot stop the headaches, so I embrace them as well as I can. Two days...fifty one and a half hours now without rest, and now the sun has downed. It has been three hours since I sent her to hell. Surely the media dimwits will document the tale of her slaying. Petulant dog. I hope she rots in the deepest bowels of Hell now, like her demon flesh deserves.

I turned on my television. Channel nine. And...

...there it is. They are documenting her.

"Witnesses attest to seeing a man with a concealed face covered in winter attire who was hiding a small blade weapon..."

I had to bundle up. The headaches make me feverish.

"...caught up to the man, but persuer Jaime Kelsor was assaulted by the killer..."

Killer...? Me, a killer? I am God's soldier. They should be thanking me. But the Lord said through Gabriel that I would be looked down upon, and lambs and unbelievers would mark me as a monster. God's crusaders are never viewed in a golden bath of light, and I understand that. It is an unrewarding job and someone must do it. Well, unrewarding in this life, but the fruits of my labors shall be savored upon my death surely. God promises a rewarding afterlife for my deeds.

"People believe that the killer was a Central Park derelict, about six feet tall, the female victim had been accounted expletively by a man who wished to remain anonymous, who had encountered her earlier that day."

A man blurred out by the camera appeared on screen and began talking.

"The *edit* was *edit*-ing nuts. The bitch grabbed at my coat and tried to manhandle me, and she began shouting at me like I was a mother*edit*-ing child, the mother*edit*-ing cu-*edit*..."

They shouldn't allow such unmannerly persons on screen to speak for anything. The mans voice was like a cheese grater to the eardrums with all his cursing and swearing. He was blurred out but certain features could be made out, like his black coat and the movements of his mouth. They didn't even really try to edit out all the swearing he was committing, you could read his lips and make out what he was saying most of the time. The blur of his hair reminded me of my next target and it almost made my headache return, so I shut the television off and made tea, and settled into my bedroom for a good nights rest.

May God have mercy on their souls. Pro deo, pro futura, e pro tanto...

Noli me Tangere

Posted by m_buggie on 2007.09.20 at 02:59

March 26, 2081
Ruby
First Person POV

~

So help me God, there are days when I wonder if I’m wearing some kinda perfume that attracts crazy folk and I just don’t know it, ‘cause I can’t think up any other explanation for why this sorta thing keeps happening to me.

“Can you believe that muthafucka? These bitches can’t do anything right, I swear. Blood, muthafuckin’ blood! Seriously, can you believe that shit?”

I shoulda known today was gonna be a trip, ‘cause there ain’t no way that waking up with dreams of Grammy Minerva singing to Ogun and Eshu first thing in the morning was gonna mean anything but a whirling dervish of a day. I shoulda seen it coming.

“And do you have any idea what that crusty old heifer told me next?”

Ignoring the ache from the bruise on my cheek I rubbed my face, dug my fingers into the corners of my eyes ‘til they watered, and pinched the bridge of my nose like somehow that was gonna make all this nonsense go away; but I woulda had better luck prying a starved pit bull off a porterhouse steak. This was Rex I was dealing with, after all…and not just any Rex. This was Trannysaurus Rex, King of the Drag Queens in full out Drama Queen rage – cursing and spitting a blue streak. It was all jive and insult coming outta his mouth, diva bullshit that he didn’t even really mean half the time. I knew drunks who were less belligerent and more coherent.

“Shit, that bitch wouldn’t be sitting pretty where she is today if it hadn’t been for Lady Mags, God rest her soul. The Velvet Clam wouldn’t be what it is without them bones of the House of M in it, d’you know what I mean? Who does she think she is? Barking at me like that, like some damn junkyard dog…”

There was no reasoning with him when he was in this state, no getting through no matter what you said. Rex was a master at working himself into a flying fit over nothing. Then again, anything that was nothing tended to be everything when it came to Rex. Different priorities and all that.

But I knew this already, done found it out years ago. You gotta take the good with the bad when it comes to life – and especially when it comes to your friends. ‘Cause let’s be honest: there ain’t too many of those to be had in Nowhere. And having been burned a few times by the phonies, having buried too many of the real thing, I oughta know. True allies were hard enough to come by in our world; true friends were even rarer and more precious. And you don’t keep a friendship with someone like Trannysaurus Rex, or the Marquis, without making a few sacrifices along the way.

So I made my tea and tried to say “uh-huh” in all the right places while Rex howled at me in outrage on his drive back to West Island. I felt bad about his dirtied up costume and sorry for little Sugarcube and aggravated with them professional killers for letting the situation get so outta hand. I even nodded even though Rex only had his mobile phone’s audio feature turned on, what with his need to watch the road and all. I did everything to be supportive, everything that was expected of me.

‘Cause I was good ole Ruby, steady and reliable; the anchor, the tether, that kept Rex and the Marquis from getting their heads too far into the clouds. I had to be the heart and the nerve, had to keep it all together, had to be the strong one like my brother had said back in Belladonna when we put Ophelia in the ground.

I was the one who stepped off the bus in Nowhere at eighteen years of age with nothing but a short stack of cash and some dreams of a better life than what I’d left behind. I was the one who’s been identifying dead bodies since poor Jade back in ’60. I was the one who decided I wasn’t gonna be anybody’s momma, and had to live with that choice long after the bleeding stopped and the tears dried up. I was the one who backed the Marquis as the new underworld head when Lady Magdalena died and the mafia threatened to swallow up everything she’d worked so hard to create. I was the one who ran over to Trannysaurus Rex’s house at a moment’s notice to help glue him back together after every emotional crash, commiserating over old movies and endless amounts of junk food. I was the one who let assassins into my home for tea and then turned the other cheek when one of them went and hit me for reasons I’ll never understand.

That was me. That was what I did.

Which is why I stayed on the line ‘til Rex finished venting, when he was pulling into his driveway and already planning out what kinda frilly little ensemble he was gonna make for Sugarcube as part of his apology. I reassured him that the blood on Morgan’s outfit was probably not gonna stain, reminded him to be calm about things, and told him to give Sugarcube a hug and a kiss for me.

Then I hung up the phone and stared at my empty tea cup, wondering why I felt like both crying and breaking something but not being able to do either.

It’s just so…tiring, sometimes.

Goddamn, I don’t even work tonight. I had plans to cook dinner and watch a movie, curl up on my couch and let Moonstone fend for herself at The Jewel Box for one night. Tonight I was supposed to pretend I had one of them normal lives I read so much about, the kind that don’t involve dead red lighters and hitmen and the batshit loonies that are my friends. So much for the best laid plans…

I sighed and rubbed my face again, let my fingers linger where my skin was still all kinds of unpleasant colors that I needed makeup to conceal. I felt so drained, so hollow from emptying myself out to hold everyone else up.

Lord Almighty, why can’t I have just one friend who’s actually sane? I seemed to attract crazies, they flocked to me like hogs at a trough. Sometimes it was entertaining. Sometimes it was frustrating. And sometimes it brought new meaning to the phrase, “with friends like these, who needs enemies?”

I shook my head and thought about what I was gonna do with the rest of my afternoon.

Then the Marquis called.

I put the kettle on. I was gonna need more tea.