Carlisle by Night

Fantastic fiction- it's like your character is insane or something!

Steve

The Baffled King Composing...

It was so much quieter in the Asylum.

I think of Elysium.

I remember a night I was murdered three times.

Another heave of half congealed blood leaves my body, another spray over the ‘porcelain telephone’. It leaves ragged knots of encrusted crimson and brown dangling from my fangs and lips, leaves my nerves as raw and frazzled as the track-lines of a heroin addict. Right now my body shudders like a collapsing building, a dead weight on which a vast burden of psychic trauma rests. The carpet itches against my flesh where I’m curled up; the glow of ivory enamel and spotless tiles hurts the sensitivity of my sight. The whispers and wails of the city still tease and nag at my senses, her honeyed words and selfish promises stronger than ever since I opened myself up to her entirely a fortnight ago in search of Tobias’s Techno-abomination.

Even restless and fatigued, here in the heart of my haven, there is no escape from her sensations and impressions. Through floorboards and mortar I recognise the thrum of her eternal hunger pulsing through tarmac, her dread anticipation and thirst. I can almost taste the tang of metaphorical blood-sheen on my tongue; smell the powder stench of forgotten bone in the foundations.

I just can’t remember the last time I felt so fried, so numb.

I haven’t changed clothes since the night; I’m not sure if I even retreated to my safe-room or just slept the day away in here on the bathroom-floor. My senses can barely register the presence of Lance nearby; he’s a growing absence of blissful static in the cobweb. It makes my blood actually itch as I realise he’s fading away. I doubt he’ll stick around much longer. Even when the day-sleep comes and my eyes creak shut I can still see the faces of those I’ve touched since awaking, as if my retinas have turned into psychic projectors that play their deaths on screens made from eyelids. I’m just a scavenger, just a ghost of a man that passes through the remains of dead people.

My mind returns undirected to their trauma.

The heaves begin again. I wish I could call it a memory, but that’s just too weak a term. I crawl into empty corpses and sniff out the final seconds of lives cheated, and for those moments I actually become them. I got the full experience of Anton’s murderous skill when he came for Julia Ling, framed by mortal adrenaline, mind-clenching terror and the utter cold sensation that comes with bleeding to death slowly. And there’s the flash of Rachel Cooke, her beauty and torn red-dress dumped amongst chop-shopped cars and engine oil, hauntingly ethereal from the spirit’s touch. I still feel the cavernous hole where her heart used to be. It leaves me shaking, vomiting and scratching at my chest in case mine is missing too.

My one success is that no other kindred will go after Rachel’s sister, won’t try and tie up loose ends to keep the ‘masquerade’ no matter how far from the truth she really is. Is that all I’ve got to show? Is that all I’ve got left within me, the weakest excuses of damage control?

Surely there has to be something more left within me?

Like venom something crawls and scratches through my veins. It dredges up sensations and memories like a river-boat trawling for dumped cadavers. It’s a rebirth that doesn’t wash them clean, instead it burns away the tears, the shaking and the fear.

There are other faces burned into my sight, those of the perpetrators.

The brickwork crackles and strains and the stench of boiling blood simmers in the nearby drains. I can feel her whispers and temptations, feel her feverish hate seeping into my flesh and empowering my inner-beast. I know that she doesn’t really care about justice, just another death in her name, another morsel to delight in. I feel my hand rifle through pockets, seeking the pistol Benjamin gave me, seeking and desiring a violent solution.

“If you can make those ancient bastards realise that killing isn't always the best solution, you'll have done one better than me.”

The words are all that freezes the growing tide of destructive potential. Words of advice, sought from near every member of the court. But those aren’t the ones. Those words came from the anarch Dane, the head of the ‘free living dead.’ It's all that grants me a tiny, fleeting moment of perspective. An idea takes root...

“Might be time to test that theory.”

My fingers reach for a weight in my pocket, searching instead for that of the mobile phone also granted by Benjamin. I flick through, fingers leaving bloodied smears across the keys and screen. The numbers of Alexandria and Cora flash up on the screen.

“Always wanted to host something of a party anyway...“

That Dream

(OOC: Over the next week Alexandria, Benjamin, Chambers, Coraline, Jamie, Lance and Tobias receive the following recorded message on their phones...)

The message begins quietly. It is accompanied by the uncomfortable silence that causes hairs to prickle nervously, a silence that betrays a presence on the other end. The static of the signal makes it hard to hear.

“The mountain-nest is challenged.
The cradle shakes,
the sun is blind,
and the ground sheds tears.
The king has come,
the eagle soars,
and the shepherd answers.”

The voice is Nathaniel’s, though there is something alien to his words, something strange about his speech pattern that sends an unbidden chill through your veins.

“A contest for the flock,
wolves now shed of sheep-skin,
led from thorns and hunger.
The shepherd carries a crook of blood,
the king with horns of iron and gilt,
carved from a sacred bull.
Compacts long sealed by ash and blood.”

The voice twists and distorts, as if Nathaniel is merely a mouth-piece for something wearing him like a second-skin. Sudden noises rise in the background, impossible raspings of desert winds and shaking earth.

“The eagle plunges,
trailing a rain of poisoned feathers,
that draw pale the dark shepherd’s skin.
The king advances,
the pained earth rises and envelops,
consuming homes and tribes,
and all they contain.”

The voice alters, clumsily speaking words not heard in centuries. Words that no modern ear can understand. It passes after a few distressing moments that are nearly painful to listen to.

“The heaven’s shudder,
the ground is split by blows,
of blood-gods who should still slumber.
The bull-king is triumphant,
the demon-shepherd is broken,
and the eagle circle's above,
It’s will is done.”

The voice quietens, the strain of the words ceasing. A touch of Nathaniel's voice re-enters the message, as if whatever terrible force behind these words has left him distressed and unsure.

“It's will is done..."

The phone goes silent, leaving only static and the occasional muffled sound of life in the background. Eventually the call ends, the last noise heard is the hollow alert-tone of the phone's battery-life expended.

A Piece of Mind

The summer-downpour clatters off rusting and abandoned cars, turning the scrap yard into a beating instrument of echoing percussion. In those descending raindrops memories refract eerily in every unique drop, like kamikaze pilots in free-fall or those dogs they used to launch into space in the fucked up 60’s - falling back to earth violently. Hollow carcasses of steel and aluminium are piled up all around, a steam haunted graveyard of mechanical elephants that loom impossibly.

The pounding of thunder peals in the distance, repetitive like the heart beat of the impromptu storm.

I stand in the eye of the hurricane.

A flash of red fills my vision, an image of a cardinal dress reflected in the falling storm. A girl stumbles on shoes made for clubbing between the piles of rust and junk, screaming in panic as she is dragged roughly by her dark hair. She has a haunting beauty and a richness of life to her features; I can see why she was chosen as a victim. Mud and cuts cake her knees as she is pulled along by the murderer. He’s not quite her murderer yet, but there’s no doubt he’s crossed that unmistakeable threshold before, taken a life without blinking. Gaunt and pale, lanky with elongated nails and dank hair. It’s just a human skin he wears.

They pass me without notice, unaware of my presence in the roaring rain.

Because when this really happened, I wasn’t there.

Broken and cracked, every grime-ridden car headlamp shines a spotlight on the scene, following the horrific events as if some kind of circus of horrors. He drags the girl onto a dilapidated wreck, forcing her down on the exposed and rust-eaten engine block. A sacrificial alter for our modern times. She flails as if terror incarnate nips at her heels, wildly searching for a grip or a foothold that might stall her fate. I have seen this part many times, watched him repeat this act in my mind until I have scrutinised every detail. One night, soon, I’ll have to deal with him. I want to be on my A game when I do.

But tonight, just for one goddam night, I don’t want to have ringside seats to a murder.

The pounding of thunder crashes with an intense, almost metallic, cry and ceases. Instantly the storm increases in intensity, a biblical flood mail-ordered from heaven above engulfs the manufactured mindscape.

I wake with a jolt.


I am in a worn chair, some sort of mahogany item that is clearly third or fourth hand. A man with deep sunken eyes stands over me, hands still in the pockets of his tan trenchcoat. It does nothing to hide the spare tire growing around his hips or the increased toll the thirties are taking on him. A flash of concern registers across his face, especially as he holds up the eclectically coloured rubber ball. He holds it gingerly, as if the blood-bond has convinced him it’s a threat to my very safety. That it might grow exponentially and crush me underneath like a rolling boulder.

“Nath? You learning to juggle in your sleep or something?”

The meditative techniques Gwai-Lo taught me are flawless; though the night Rachel Cooke was murdered it wasn’t raining. That I have no idea what the downpour represents in my subconscious irritates me on a level I can’t begin to explain. I snatch the ball from my boss’ grip and tuck it deep into my pockets.

“No. Just helps me focus Jerry, trying to recreate a scene.” I tap my finger against my head. “Up here.”

He doesn’t seem to get it, but then he’s seen more than a few of my eccentric investigative techniques and he keeps me on the payroll. Not as if the blood bond has anything to do with it either. I don’t feel the urge to explain to him the particulars of meditative states or mindscape construction right now. The repetitive bouncing of the ball, thrown and caught by autonomous muscle memory, gives me something to focus on. I need that, because the alternative terrifies me. I’ve seen Gwai-Lo meditate like the lotus, seen him become less of a person and more of a corpse. So utterly still that the all-to-human revulsion to a lifeless form kicks in from somewhere deep in the lizard-brain. I tried to tune into his escaping thought-forms and ideas, but found the broadcasts from his leaking mind so damn faint.

It still makes me question whether our kind is capable of meditating to death, simply by forgetting our half-preserved natures and surrendering to the still, permanent quiet in that moment of clarity? That’s what the ball is for. If that rhythm of catch and throw is interrupted I wake, just like that.

Jerry works the ageing and reeking coffee machine in his office while I let the last traces of the trance fade. He returns soon after, a steaming mug in one hand and a piece of newspaper clippings in the other. I only wish they were clues or job offers, but I can see from here the familiar black and white check pattern of a crossword.

“Reckon I’ve cracked this one.”

I smile and hand him my own copy from the broadsheet next to me. I can feel his hopes sinking already. Carmichael Investigations can struggle financially from time to time, but when work’s slow Jerry and I have worked out a little means of making a tidy sum from the cash prizes of newspaper puzzles. It’s something I enjoy about our working relationship.

That and the fact I fill my answers in pen annoys him to no end.

“Well, thinking of giving up this life for the ways of the zen-master Nath?” I can feel the heat from his cheeks from here, feel the blushing of his naturally ruddy, drink weathered complexion. I’ve got him dead to rights on 7 across and 13 down, and he knows it.

“Yeah, as if there are such things as zen-masters these days boss.” Jerry laughs, wrinkles that hint at a rather early mid-life crisis fold his skin around expressive eyes. I'm sure Gwai-Lo's ears are prickling from here, but personally I find his unaware comment of giving up life the real joke.

“You never know. I could be like a modern day Confucius.”

“Sure you could.” His rich laughter fades away, the stench of the coffee machine rises in what can only be considered the world’s most noxious alarm setting. But my thoughts return to the case of Rachel Cooke and her supernatural murderer, to her grieving sister Sian and her family, to the very real fear this bastard might strike again. And they turn to the words of a clan-mate uttered long ago.

“Didn't Confucius once say 'Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves?'

This one is a long one... took me a few days to write. I hope it is all to your liking.

The Roughest of Nights
Monday 2nd of August to Tuesday 3rd of August.

The private hospital was another victim of the times – yet another looming construction site in the dilapidated outskirts of Rosehill. A place meant for healing ironically reduced to a hollow carcass starved of all prospects and funding, it was nothing more now than a solemn monument to abandoned potential. The unfinished concrete bones of the building had long been picked clean of all worth by scavengers and vagrants, leaving only a foreboding welcome.

I can taste the imaginary tang of disinfectant on my tongue and the creaking of hospital gurneys tug at the very edges of my juiced up hearing. That skin-prickling unease that comes with being watched travels across my arms. The unlit holes where door and windows were once intended seem all too eerily like cavernous eyes and mouths that swallow all light that enters. From beyond their event-horizon frames I can tell something is there. Something that knows we’re here.

Jamie leads the way, a gleam of red light spilling from his eyes. His movements take a more feral touch, a stalking animalistic edge. While I might vouch for him, I’m left with a pretty strong understanding as to why his lineage is so mistrusted. What Brujah ever allows the beast a greater foothold to their soul?

A rising sense of nervous electricity alerts me to the murderer we seek, to the witch of our impassioned hunt. The thrumming power cables left idly on the floor begin to skitter and lash like the snakes of the healing god himself. The lanky, pale-skinned monster charges from a corridor, his skin fresh and healthy from stolen power. In his hands a workman’s shovel is clutched like an axe, the fresh flicker of silver along its edge reveals a sharpened tool intended for uses not imagined by its inventor. He charges towards my partner, swinging high with decapitation in mind.

An infusion of sweet vitae gives my limbs a boost; turbo charges my instincts and reactions. The flashlight flickers on, delivering a blinding stream of light at the murderer’s face. Micro-seconds pass as I seize the distraction and the pistol in my other hand barks twice, birthing new universes of smoke and flame.

An eruption of blood and pulverised cartilage explodes from the murderer’s knee joint, sending him sprawling beneath the second bullets trajectory. Snarling with anger he swipes out with the shovel, seeking the precious flesh of my neck in revenge, but the wound turns the ferocious attack into a clumsy, pain-ridden attempt. I dart under the blow, granting Jamie an opening. The Brujah might be a neonate, but he seizes the opportunity with a devastatingly deceptive snap-kick.

The impact practically tears the man’s leg clean off, a blow delivered with the power of a speeding car that sends the murderer spiralling to the floor. He lands with a terrific thump, a cry of agony and a spray of brackish, foul blood that invokes memories of nausea and gagging. A bestial timbre darkens Jamie’s voice as he speaks, grabbing a fist full of the downed monsters lank hair.

“That’s for Rachel you bastard!”

“Easy there hero, now's not the time. I’ll patch him up, you get the car ok?” I reach down to the crippled monster and begin binding the wounds, forcing my razor sense to dull, mundane levels in case the smell overwhelms me. I can feel her - the city's – gluttonous hunger crying from every storm drain and manhole and tonight, for once – I’m going to fucking indulge her.

I’m not treating him for mercy. It’s for what comes next. For what needs to be done.

***

My contacts come through for me; they get me a number I think three times about before calling.

Jamie hovers in the background, the deep trembling of the car engine ticking over – my lifeline of escape. A foul, brown smear trails from the tarpaulin sheets of his car-boot, something I really, really don’t want to ask questions about, to the crumpled wreck of a man at my feet. His arms and legs are bound with cable-ties that are so tight they rub raw his weakening flesh. I can tell from the failing beat of his heart that he hasn’t got long left for the world, from the numbing drum beat and the slow wheezing of his breaths.

But they’re drowned out by the sheer bestial presence of the man I called, the man with amber eyes.

He’s not exactly the lupine I imagined. While he’s a wall of utter muscle whose idea of fashion is a perpetual snarl I find myself almost falling for his human disguise, letting my guard down to the fact he’s a bloodthirsty, savage rending-machine. Those predatory eyes watch me with distrust, framed by the tribal tattoo down one side of his face. His fingers flex and pop, curling into fists on reflex and I can see his nose wrinkle at the turgid smell from the beaten man at my feet. I can smell the tang of alcohol upon him and it’s not the sign of a quick drink, more like the old, settled stench of it resting in his skin and bones.

Far be it from me to judge, but I don’t imagine a man with the name Aaron Stonegazer has much going on cerebrally. Still, he’s easilygot the brains of a wolf because he’s not alone – the air bristles around him from the alien spirit intelligences that have his back. Jamie’s got my back too, that car isn’t just a getaway vehicle. I told the Brujah at the first sign of trouble to mow down this furry bastard’s legs from underneath him.

“What the hell is this leech?”

“What I told you on the phone. Heard one of your allies was found with several of his organs torn out. This is the culprit.” His eyes do not hide his suspicion and I’m silently glad I did not hang a sign around the murderers’ neck with GUILTY daubed on it. I’m surprised he hasn’t torn my face off and used it as a washrag.

“I’ll let you say your piece then boy, but it damned better be good.”

“I’ve got my own reasons for running this guy to ground, so there are no deals to be made here. But I thought you might want to be present, to see justice done.”

“Justice huh? Those are some rather noble words for...”

“Yeah, my kind. I get that. I’m sure there was some forgotten pissing match back in the day that caused this ancient rivalry between our kinds Aaron, but I couldn’t actually give a shit ok? The long and short of it is this – you stay and get justice for your friend, his family and yourself. You leave, well then I give this guy the 9mm aspirin for the other crimes he’s guilty of.”

The bravado and callousness in my voice is fake, in fact I’m glad for the baggy trousers I picked up because they don’t show the shaking that’s working down towards my ankles. At any moment this thing could go outright postal, like the ignition cord on a chainsaw.

The lupine stalks closer, towering over me like something straight out of a nightmare. I can feel the rage inside him like a furnace, feel its growing power like waves of searing heat. With a growl he moves savagely, faster than even my eyes can see. He brings the heavy sole of his combat boots down on the bound man’s head with such force it shatters utterly, sending a spray of grey matter and bodily fluids down into the storm-drain beneath my feet. What’s left behind is something unrecognisable, leftovers from a butchers shop.

I exhale despite the pointlessness of it. I can feel the surprise still quivering through my limbs, shock from the sudden brutality of the act. It’s one thing to prepare yourself for the act, to focus on the righteousness of the cause and the burning cesspit of anger that fuels so many acts of retribution. But to kill without blinking, it leaves me shaken.

“Justice is done.”

The ground pulses with a new warmth and a sense of satisfaction arrives so timely on the wind. I can tell she’s pleased with my actions, can feel even the disgusting blood of the Thief seeping into her sewers and pipes and mechanical stomachs. As the city revels in the bloodshed and the lupine stalks back into the distance...

I can only wonder, is there such a thing as justice for the likes of us?

***

“Hey.”

The voice shakes me from my thoughts, from the guilt that already worms its way through the many things I tell myself. A summer storm pours without end, a cold downpour I seek no shelter from. I can feel my body temperature fall as it soaks my clothes, feel the tension in my muscles build from exposure. It helps me feel.

Sian, Rachel’s sister, stands across from me. I can tell she’s surprised, concerned – her umbrella and coat keep the harsh weather at bay. We stand a few steps away from the entrance of Terminus, but in truth I have no desire tonight to enter that den of supernatural intrigue. I have no desire to admit I’m just as bad as most of them in there tonight. Even through the falling drops of reflected neon I can see her clearly, see the lack of make-up she wears in case the fresh grief for her sister causes it to run. She brings the umbrella closer and I feel the personal cloud of sadness and grief that follows her.

“Hey, you ok? You gave me a call...” She hides it well but I can feel the building resignation, see the quivering at her shoulders that builds.

“Yeah. I’ve got some good news, the case is closed.” She blinks a few times and the streaks of her aura play before my eyes. The faint flickers of violet tell her surprise where her body-language does not.

“Closed? You mean you found him Mr Carter?”

“Closed as in he’s been brought to justice.”

“Justice? I thought you said this wasn’t a matter the police or courts could handle?”

“You know how these things work Sian...” She nods passively. I guess that’s why she sought me out, why I fought tooth and nail to keep the other kindred from getting heavily involved. She stands there knowing the full meaning of my words – her sister was some sort of psychic or clairvoyant, sometimes the Masquerade isn’t quite watertight. In more traditional domains, they’d take my head for letting her live, declare her a threat to our very existence. “Rachel wasn’t his first victim. It looks like some folks were looking for justice as well. They just needed to find him.”

“I see...” She reaches into her pocket, removing a brown soaked envelope in the finest traditions of film noir clichés. “... I wanted to thank you Mr Carter, maybe now my family can begin to grieve for Rachel in peace. There’s a little extra for your effort.” She moves closer and presses it into my hand. Through her warm flesh I can feel the faintest pressure of blood pumping through capillaries and vessels. She gasps slightly in surprise at just how cold my soaked fingers are. I force myself to look away from her neck, from her inviting jugular that’s even more appealing so in these lean, war-stricken times.

I tell myself that is one line I will never allow myself to cross.

“Sian. Please...” I flick through the notes with a nimble count, pulling the extra from the packet and press it back into her hand. “Give it to charity, donate it to something worthwhile, maybe put it towards a memorial. We agreed on rates when I took this job.” I don't tell her that I refuse because it feels too much like blood-money. Accepting payment for murder, It reminds me far too much of Anton and how much I don't want to be like him.

“Thank you, Mr Carter. For bringing him to justice, for bringing us... a sense of closure.” She shakes my hand once more and leans closer. I can see the glistening of her tear ducts this close, can feel the quiet gratitude my work has brought to her. I almost think she’s going to kiss my cheek, but the frozen temperature of my skin clearly puts her off. She smiles, only the slightest bit forced through memories of funerals and loss, and turns to leave.

I stand there a few moments longer, letting the conflicting emotions ravage my soul like a hurricane. I committed murder, took the man inside me and gambled it against the beast and broke several of the Iron Duke’s draconian laws. The rain washes away none of my sins, but could it wash away any of the grime in this town?

I reach for my phone and key in a number of anarchy and freedom, another city law breaking in the process. It’s the last item of guilt and confliction resting in my mind, the last thing I need to address before I endure the sun’s crushing sentence, before the day-sleep condemns me to inaction.

“Hey Dane, I guess I could use some advice. Maybe I drunk off a wino last night because I ended up doing something really, really foolish.”

As expected, a confiding silence awaits my next words.

“I think I might have ended up as a Primogen...”

as i said chief i really really enjoyable piece, thanks!

Hehehehe

Mirrors

Mirrors.

Few things really quite unsettle me as much as mirrors do. Windows, screens, any reflective surface really. It’s not because they serve as her million, myriad eyes and senses. It’s not that behind each and every last one lays a lurking predatory presence.

Though, admittedly, who wouldn’t be freaked out about that?

For our kind preening in mirrors seems like a pretty good definition of insanity, the delerious kook repeating an experiment and expecting different results every time. It's like drinking from rats and expecting it to taste like genuine royalty. The night to night joy-ride of immortality dulls you to mundanity, because who would pay attention to their reflection when it’s going to be the same tomorrow and every single night after? Maybe we should, because on a primal, visceral level there’s something else to it all.

The truth is I try not to look too closely, the very act frightens me on some level. It’s not the same as watching the soulless and mechanical recordings of video and film. The real deal is far more intense and personal. I guess that’s why historically we always believed the soul itself was made plain on such simple surfaces, a recognition of something far beyond mundane laws of wave and light.

I keep a single mirror in my haven. It’s an antique affair, maybe fourth or fifth hand and it has that timeless smell of varnish and history. I save it for the occasions I dare come face-to-face with myself and see what I have finally become. I look deep into the eyes of the thing staring back. Am I proud, am I disgusted? How many men and women have seen their soul given form and stepped back from dangerous edge of moral dissolution? How many times has that precipice been averted? I dread the day the figure staring back is simple unrecognisable... because I know I will have to ask – am I real or have I become the reflection?

This brings me to the Lasombra.

It sounds pretty weak doesn’t it? No reflection. Take a look at Balfour or Hancock and then tell me that it’s a harsh curse right? You would be forgiven for thinking that in days of old the first shadowy cunt must have been as good at lying as his descendents to get off that lightly. Kind of like the community service of clan-curses, if you believe in all that nod and caine stuff.

But it terrifies me.

Imagine never having to come face-to-face with yourself, never seeing the state of your soul laid bare? Imagine never being able to look yourself in the eye and see what you’ve become, what you’ve sacrificed and given and fought for? Imagine a life without the reminder of personal responsibility? Is it any wonder every last one of them is cracked? For them, their true weakness is that there’s no intervention...

I sit in my haven cross-legged, the suit of Elysium discarded like the hangman’s noose. The Ventrue look just isn’t me; it’ll be a long time coming before I make another concession to civilised vampire behaviour... if such a thing ever existed. My nimble fingers fidget with the packing tape and paper as I wrap the canvas with care, serious care. I find it almost hard to believe these masterpieces were made by my hand, it’s not like I consider myself an artist – if that label has any true meaning.

The brown paper crinkles under my care, covering the eastern features of Julia Ling. The frame flickers into life every few minutes, bathing the canvas in ultraviolet light from embedded strip lights. The fluorescent colours burst into a cacophony of ethereal shades – rapid rippling slivers of orange tinged with wisps of silver and black. And in the background a faint outline, something even the astute would assume a trick of the eye, the face of Julia’s orphaned daughter.

My hands seem to shake slightly, and those long-dead nerves shudder with damn good reason. But it’s a transitory moment, a point expected in time and behaviour. Because it’s an intervention, because this is what Malkavian pranking is all about. Those of us who share the throbbing blood of our dismembered founder are not harmless jesters and tricksters, we are not all juvenile pranksters one step away from devoting our existences to the trick or treat of eternity.

We all exist in ordered, structured systems of self-defined reality at the heat-death of the evening. Pranking is about taking that celestial sphere of identity, taking the elliptic orbits of routine, the gigantic shapes of opinion and the omnipresent gravity of belief and introducing... a little chaos and discord. And not for the sake of some popularised notion of randomness or nihilistic intent, but to disturb the ordered existence for one fleeting moment and see if lasting change can be introduced to a time-tested system. It could just as easily be a clock with its cogs and mechanisms or any other collection of events and probabilities colliding. It’s not some wacky dismissible shenanigan or hijink, it’s about fundamentally altering someone’s perception of the universe around them.

It’s about intervention.

I look down at Julia Ling’s face one last time and run a delicate touch across the canvas.

Despite the many risks, right now I’m all about a causing a little lasting change. I’m about to make sure this piece of utter criticism ends up in the hands of a professional assassin and see if it provokes anything at all. The odds are low, and numbers are my thing, but it might just get Anton de’Sylvaine to take a long, hard look. And that potential, that unbirthed lasting change, might just leave a lot less bloodshed and murder in the world.

I tape the note to the front.

“So sorry you missed my last Salon, Anton. Here’s something of a gift for you, I guess you could say you were the inspiration behind it. Nathaniel.”

I so wished i could have walked through nathaniels mirror when he was thinking that!

Very nice fiction Dale, would love to be a fly on the wall when he gets the gift.