I breathe in the cold night air and close my eyes. For a second I consider just walking away. Then I brace myself, step out of the shadows and onto the field. No sense in delaying the inevitable. The stands are empty, there is not a soul in sight. "We don't have to do this, you know," I yell out, loud enough for my voice to carry into the far corners of the stadium. "You could just walk away." A few moments go by without anything happening. I already hope that she won't show when I hear her footsteps behind me. I slowly turn around, showing my empty hands.

She stops just a few meters away from me, ready to pounce. I look her up and down, she’s a skinny thing, dressed all in black, a long knife already unsheathed and in her right hand. She exudes purpose and determination.

I’m guessing my chances of changing her mind are slim to none, you don’t put on this kind of outfit if you’re coming to talk. But you’ll never know unless you try. I smile. I try to put some warmth into my voice. “Hello, kid.” She takes another step towards me, I don’t flinch. I keep my shoulders down, my posture relaxed. I look at her as if we were meeting in a cafe for a chat instead of a baseball field in the middle of the night for a dance of death. “I’ve got to give respect where it’s due, I can’t have been easy to find.” A few more steps, then she hesitates. “Where’s your blade?” she asks. “Didn’t bring one,” I answer. “Liar!” she hisses. I shrug. “Suppose I can’t blame you for not believing me, given my reputation.” She says nothing, but she isn’t advancing either. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but I can see a hint of uncertainty in her eyes, so I keep talking. “Look at me.” I say, “really look at me. Do I look like the man you’ve heard of? I didn’t come here to fight you. I…” I sighed, “I want to make peace.” “You don’t deserve peace.” Her voice is raspy and harsh, full of barely suppressed hate. Whatever made her come for me, I’m beginning to think it's personal. Taking a second look at her, her face does seem vaguely familiar.

“You’re right, I don’t deserve shit, but life ain’t fair. So here’s me hoping that I don’t get what’s coming to me.” Suddenly, her eyes turn back to steel. I’m still trying to figure out what I did wrong, but she is already dashing towards me. “Wait” I scream. “Just wait.” Her knife comes at me in a flash of steel, changes direction wickedly fast as her feint turns into an actual blow. I barely manage to spin out of the way, push her past me and get some distance back between us. I can see blood on her blade. When I put my hand to my side, it comes back sticky and warm. Guess I don’t dodge as fast as I used to anymore. “Listen to me, just listen to me” I yell, “I get it, or maybe I don’t. I did something bad, something to someone close to you. You grew up angry and I was the demon you saw in your nightmares. Am I in the right ballpark?” I was hoping I had hit a nerve. At least she wasn’t coming right back at me again. “This didn’t turn out as you expected, did it?” my hand was shaking, I pressed it into my side to keep it still. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. You’re not gonna let me get inside your head, gonna just push through it. But trust me, it ain’t worth it.” The pain from the cut to my side was beginning to register now. “I’m your first kill, ain’t I? I’m your last test, to see if you’ve got the balls for the job. I know you think this is what you want, but it ain’t. All that shit people say about a dark path. The things your teachers told you are just excuses for the weak… you know… it’s not an excuse, it’s real. You do this and you’ll be cursed. They’ll own you and by the time you realize that they do, you’ll be so far gone you won’t even care or know anything else.” I shut up for a second, wondering what else I could possibly say. So, we just stand quietly across from each other, puffs of condensation wafting away in the cold air. “You did come unarmed,” she finally says. I nod, hoping against all odds. “The man I’ve come for never abandoned his blade.” I had been lying about that, there was a stiletto strapped to my forearm, but I didn’t see how divulging that would be particularly helpful right now. I pretend to wipe some of the blood off my hand, a casual gesture, hiding a little sleight of hand to unlatch the stiletto sheath. If she came at me again I could lower my arm and the blade would drop straight into my hand. I had been honest about everything else though. I did not want this for her or me, she deserved better. But I wasn’t about to get stuck like a pig by some nameless novice either. For an instant, I could see her mind on a knife's edge, ready to fall either way. Life or death. Her anger, as well as her doubt, were written across her face, plain as could be. We linger for a few more seconds, then her fighting stance relaxes. She rams her blade back into its sheath, spits at my feet, turns around, and slowly walks away. Relief washes over me. I sit down on the field, watch her leave, and wait a few more minutes for good measure, giving her all the time in the world to disappear. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, the cut on my side begins to sting something fierce. I have no idea how I managed to talk her down. Maybe she had just considered me too pathetic to be her first kill or she was smarter than she looked and had figured I wasn’t as defenseless as I seemed. Some insane part of me hopes I got through to her though, that she would use the skills she had used to find me and just disappear from the face of the earth. Either way, it was time to get moving. Get stitched up, get my essentials, and disappear. I wasn’t going to wait around for her to change her mind.


This is my first story here, and its kinda long but I hope you guys enjoy it. Its about a dispassionate high school senior's last days in school. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I sat down with my friends. The room around me was bustling with the sounds of youth. I could hear it so clearly, it was as if it were next to me. In fact, it was next to me. My friend Cassidy spoke with her gaggle cheerleader friends, about the end of the school year. “Four years fly by so fast, bitch”, the flamboyant boy spoke in such a way that seemed so artificial. As if his personality was man made, carefully placed together to create an image that matched who he thought he was. In the end though, his tone of voice and mannerisms could only be described as fake, and even a blind man could see through it. I thought that it was pointless, this game of hiding and rejecting who you are only plays to hurt yourself in the end. You begin to lose sight of who you are, and thirty years later your wife tells you that she doesn't know who you are anymore, and you realize that you don't either. But I suppose to some degree we all put on our facade, and that divorce was inevitable. As humans we compensate. A woman who lacks confidence in her beauty wears makeup. A man afraid of his sexuality, bitterly attacks homosexuals. A person afraid to appear dumb, learns large words to make himself sound smart. I suppose I am just as much of a liar as everyone else in the world, and so I am in no real position to judge. I scanned the room of students eating their lunch, and thought to myself. Two more weeks and I will no longer have to deal with this dreaded place. For four years, I played the game of youth. For four years I was an outcast, and when I finally decided that I wanted to change. I was out of time. Maybe this was a lesson, I was not meant to be a part of the in-crowd. I took solace in that thought. It helped me feel as if I had spent my time these past years correctly. “Oh my god, my gown doesn’t fit me.” said one of the jubilant nobodies. Her chipper voice broke my train of thought.“Bitch, How? Your Figure is great!” Once again the gay boy used his signature phrase. I rolled my eyes at their pointless conversation, but then began to wonder what truly was “pointless”. In a moment, I had returned to deep, and likely pointless, thought. As I continued to scan the room before me, my eye was caught by a girl. Her skin appeared to be soft and white, like virgin snow. Despite me, having never witnessed virgin snow at first hand, she was how I imagined it. Her hair was black, straight and short but flowed freely back and forth as she moved. She spoke to the group at her table, and laughed in gay youth. When she laughed two dimples appeared in her cheeks. Her name was Summer though, I doubted she knew my name. She had first caught my eye, three months ago. Shortly before spring break, our school held an every fifteen minutes event. Which is to discourage young students from drinking and driving. It was funny to me that the school only condoned singular illegal actions, but heaven forbid you perform two at once. It was almost as if the school itself was telling all students, “It’s okay to drink underage. It’s okay to drive underage. Just don’t drink and drive underage.” I suppose it was similar to how schools taught sex ed rather than abstinence. Regardless, I was tasked to be a photographer for the event. Well, I was the third choice for photographer. Initially it was the photography teacher and my friend Michael, but when they realized that they needed another hand, they asked me to help. I only joined because I learned that I was allowed to skip my classes for the day. I was going from table to table taking photos of the students preparing for the event. I had always felt that the position of a photographer was perfect for me. The outsider looking in, only capturing moments of the lives of others. Never truly a part of the moment, simply a means to prove that the moment existed. In some way, I was the most important part of life. If an event happens and no one witnesses it, then how can anyone confirm that it happened at all? I am the witness, I am the proof of existence. Or at least I told myself that. As I moved around the room, she entered. Apparently she was one of the makeup artists for the event, She was there to make it look like the students had just been in a car crash. I was taking photos of a group that was across the room from the entrance. I had only noticed her arrival when she walked past me to speak to someone at the table. I looked back into my camera after taking a photo, and noticed a beautiful girl. When I looked up, she was gone. I turned around and there she was. I pulled the camera to my face, and snapped a photo as she reached towards a box of makeup on the table before her. I looked down at the photo I had taken, and she rushed over to me “Oh, How did it turn out?” she placed her arm on my shoulder, and slightly pulled me down so that she could see the photo. I was taken completely off guard. “I-it turned out alright. I think?” my face instantly turned red. For a moment I thought that I might die. She took her hand off my shoulder, and I felt as if I could breathe again. She smiled, flashing her dimples at me, and said, “It looks pretty good. I see why they hired you.” She turned away from me and returned to the makeup table. I turned back to the rest of the students, and continued with my work. Occasionally, her dimples would flash back into my mind, and I would begin to long to see them. I would take photos of her, simply to sneak a look, and occasionally she would show me her dimples. As I thought back to that day three months ago, something caught my eye and pulled me out of my daydream. A waving hand. As I snapped back into reality I realized that the waving hand was hers. I was completely flustered once again. I thought that the best way to recover from being caught staring was to pretend as if I was not. I jerked my head back slightly, and began to wave reluctantly, pretending as if I didn't know she had caught me staring. We flashed smiles at each other, and returned our attention to our respective groups. My face began to boil in embarrassment, but I was relieved of this feeling of dread when the lunch bell rang. I rushed to class, and began to put the whole ordeal behind me. The next morning I woke up to my 6:00 AM alarm. I fumbled with my phone to try to turn off the loud ringing and after a minute or so I succeeded. I promptly threw my phone across the room. I slowly pulled myself up and began to get ready for the day. I left the room to brush my teeth and when I returned I felt the need to check the time. I walked around my room looking for the phone I had thrown earlier. I picked it up off the floor and turned it on. It read 6:08 AM and beneath the time, there was a notification from Instagram “xoSunflowerox sent you a message at 12:08 Am”. I opened the message and saw that it was from Summer, *“Hey! Sorry, I thought you were looking at me during lunch yesterday. That’s why I waved*.” I was dumbfounded and began to think to myself. How did she know my Instagram? She texted me at midnight, she must have been thinking about me. Yeah she probably was thinking about me. Thinking about how creepy I was. I continued down that chain of thought for a couple of minutes before I realized that I should probably respond. *“Na it’s alright, I was just lost in thought thinking about graduation.”* I thought that I would stick to my cover and play dumb. I sat down on my bed and several minutes later she responded *“Oh yeah that’s right! You’re graduating soon. I’m going to miss seeing your cute face around campus”.* I fell off of my bed. Was this really Summer? This had to have been some kind of elaborate prank. I double checked the account and it was undoubtedly her‘s. My mind flashed through possible responses that I could make. I climbed back onto my bed and in my best attempt to sound cool I typed. “*Yeah I kinda blows because you’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself.”* After I pressed send, I reread the message, and fell off of my bed once again, cringing at myself. In pure desperation I turned off my phone entirely, and continued to get ready for school. When I exited the front door of my house I came to the conclusion that I was being pranked. As I walked to school I began to think about who would hold such an elaborate prank on me. Luckily I didn’t know many people so my list of potential pranksters was short. The issue that I had faced was that within my short list there was no one that I was aware of, who had a friendly relationship with Summer. I reached into my pocket for my phone to check the time. I turned it back on, and the first thing I saw was a notification from Summer “xoSunflowerox has sent you a photo” I reassured myself that this was it. Now the prankster would reveal himself and we would both have a good laugh. I opened the message and it was a photo of her. The orange morning sun lit her white skin turning it golden, and the light showed the intricacy of her beautifully brown eyes. However beyond the highlights of the image were the dark little patches of shadows where her dimples were. There was a graphic in cute pastel colors that read “Thank you”. I half tripped when I saw her photo. I thought that even the most untalented photographer could make masterpieces with her as a subject. She’d be perfect for me. As I looked more closely at the photo I realized that she was at school and I was not. I looked at the time on my phone and it read 7:03 AM. Classes started at 7:20 and I still had a 20 minute walk ahead of me. I threw my phone into my pocket, not responding to Summer, and ran towards the school. My first class of the day was calculus two, I had barely made it in time before the late bell, and took a seat beside my friend Peter. After the teacher performed her opening lesson, and we were all working independently, I began to confide in Peter the events of my morning. “It’s definitely a prank.” He said callously, “There is no way that a beautiful girl like her would ever take interest in you” “Right!” I agreed, “But I wonder who it is.” Then, in contrast to his last statement, Peter said, “But if it is genuine, and you approach it as if it isn't, you could really be blowing your chance with a beautiful girl.” “You suck, don't give me hope like that.” I had only shortly played around with the idea that Summer's advances towards me were real, but I simply couldn’t believe it. No girl had ever been so forward with me, and so why would one be now?“Well, I mean. If it is a prank, and you fall head first for her, yes, you look like an idiot. But only for like two weeks. The real question is can you live with yourself if it's genuine and you blow your opportunity.” I buried my head into my arms in search of hopeless respite. He made a solid point. By accepting her advances, I had more to gain than to lose. All that was at stake was my pride, and I really didn’t have much of that to begin with. “Why are you acting like I have a chance?” I asked. “Because, Ollie, at the end of the day, I’ll be here to help you out whether it's a prank or whether it's not. I mean regardless, it’ll be entertaining for me.” “You’re a shit friend.” This was our relationship. I had never felt like Peter was particularly rooting for me, but I also never felt as if he was ever really rooting against me. It was like he was just around to watch and see what would happen. Maybe that’s why Peter was such a good photographer. I smirked at him and began to return to my work. As hard as I tried however, I could not get the image of the golden sun hitting her face out of my head. I kept thinking about Peter’s reasoning more and more. Then I began thinking about why I was thinking about Peter’s reasoning. I finally concluded that it was because I wanted him to be right. I wanted it to be real. I wanted Summer. During Lunch, I didn’t sit with Cassidy, the summer sun was not too harsh today, and so I sat alone outside in the quad, and drafted my response. *Hey sorry for the late response, your photo made me speechless… and late for class.* I thought about the message, concluding that it was just playful enough that it could work in my first step on trying to woo her. A figure appeared before me, but before I looked up to see who it was, I sent the message. I then heard a phone chime and looked up. There she was, as if on queue, a light breeze blew her hair slightly to her right. “So here you are? You weren’t with your usual crowd. You hiding from me?” She smiled playfully. I couldn’t believe it. Her brash approach towards me threw me off completely. I wondered if she had even considered my feelings in all of this. Did she not realize that with her beauty, she could give a man a heart attack? After a moment of silence, I realized that she was waiting for me to respond. “W-well, I can only behold your beauty once a day or I think I’ll, I’ll MELLLLTTT” I began to slide down the bench I was sitting on, towards the floor. She lightly laughed and covered her mouth as she did so. I wished that she hadn’t so that I could see her beautiful smile, but the gesture was attractive in its own way. Before I hit the ground, I pulled myself up and sat back down. “Well that makes things a lot harder, now doesn't it?” she said, while taking a seat next to me. She was so close that our elbows slightly touched. I wondered if this girl had known what she was doing. I wondered if she was planning on killing me. “I suppose that just means that we should spend the whole day together.” Her cheeks were rosy. I awkwardly chuckled to myself to try and gain my composition. Then I was caught by the thought that this was genuine. No girl could laugh at my pathetic attempts at humor if she didn’t like me. No girl would be able to fight the natural cringe of my cheesy remarks if she didn’t like me. I was expecting to wake up at any second but I never opened my eyes. After our small bit of banter, we sat in silence for a moment. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either. She was sitting beside me with her legs pressed together and her hands resting on her knees. There was a sense of tension as if both of us were waiting for the other to make a move. It was like two cats had locked eyes and were preparing for their showdown. When I thought to make the first move, I had realized that I knew virtually nothing about this girl. As my mind scrambled to find something of value to say, I decided to choose my default student question and asked her about her classes. She told me, “AP U.S. History, Psychology, AP literature, and precalculus.” Initially, I thought that she might be smart but her class lineup proved it to me beyond a reasonable doubt. I found myself a little intimidated. “What major are you planning to take in college?” I thought for a moment and said, “Political Science. For a while, I thought about Astrophysics, but the only money to be made there, is in the best of the best. And my calculus grade shows me that I am not in that margin.” “Political Science and Calculus, huh. Those are two very different fields.” There was a moment of silence, then she said, “ You should help me study for my precalculus final!” She dug into her backpack and pulled out a worksheet and showed me her progress. I was taken aback, for a moment I suspected that all she wanted was a math tutor. But the plot seemed too convoluted to be true. A third of the paper was complete, and the majority of the answered questions were wrong. I thought to myself that regardless of whether or not this would score me points with her, this girl needed major help. I grimaced wryly at her and said, “Oh man, we're definitely going to need a table…” I stood up and she watched me for a moment, before following suit. We began walking towards the library. As we approached she grabbed my arm and stopped me “Umm actually, can we not go to the library?” I thought that maybe her boyfriend was the librarian’s aide, but then I remembered that the librarian’s aide was a girl. Maybe she was a lesbian? I broke my strange train of thought and made a questioning expression towards her and she said, “It’s just I owe two books, and the librarian has been hunting me down.” I instantly understood how she felt, the librarian terrified me. Before I found myself in Cassidy’s clique, I often stayed in the library during lunch. I would watch the librarian hunt down rowdy students. Once, when I was studying alone, listening to music, my headphones unplugged when I reached for my backpack and the music played out loud. Before I could turn it off, she stood before me menacingly. Her gaze pierced my soul, and she kicked me out of the library. She half dragged me out, because my body was too afraid to move. As shivers ran down my spine I said, “Okay, lets go to the photography room then.” It was once my personal safe haven, but I hadn’t gone in a while so it wasn't the first place that I had planned to go. We walked toward the photography room. As I opened the door, I shouted “Hello! How are you!” There were three people in the room as we entered. The teacher, Mr Cardenas greeted me, and I walked towards my desk, and Summer sat down next to me. Summer questioned my strange greeting and I explained, “During fourth period, I hold the door open and greet everyone as they come to class. It started back when I was the teacher’s aide for the class.” She nodded like she understood. Peter walked over towards me, and patted me on the back as we walked past me. My face began to feel like it was on fire, and I had wished that he wouldn't make such obvious gestures towards me. For the rest of the lunch period, we quietly worked through the problems on the worksheet. We worked closely, trying to share my small desk, which was already limited in space due to a computer monitor. Occasionally our heads would bump into each other, and I would feel her soft hair brush against my face. We came across a question that was so utterly incorrect that I questioned to myself if she had even taken the class. “You have to erase all of this.” I said. “What? I’m sure that there is something salvageable here.” she responded. “Yeah, no. This one is so wrong, I can’t even begin to find where you went wrong.” She pouted at me, but I didn’t understand why she was upset. This was math. Numbers are cold and uncaring, and they love to express how incorrect you truly are. “I guess I really am dumb.” the brightness of her face dulled, and I couldn't understand why. I spoke coldly, “You’re not dumb for making mistakes in math. Even the greatest mathematicians, make mistakes. Would you tell Albert Einstein that he was an idiot for discovering relativity earlier? Or Newton for not realizing that it was gravity that brought things towards the earth? If making a mistake means you’re dumb then everyone is an idiot.” There was a still silence, not even the other people in the classroom spoke. Summer looked at me, her cheeks were red. I couldn't tell if it was rage, or embarrassment but I could tell that it wasn't good. I was frustrated in myself, I had a bad habit of speaking in an abrasive way, and it was obvious now, that my lack of social skills were backfiring. I might as well have just told her that she was an idiot for thinking that she was an idiot. I had to apologize. I began , “I-I…” “I’m sorry.” She finished my line for me and threw me for a loop. “I guess, I just don’t really believe in myself.” She looked down, and the light from her face faded even more. I only longed to see that light again. “Yeah, well. We’re following the path of intellectual titans. People that can only be described as perfect and the fact that you can begin to understand any of this is proof enough that you have a right to stand beside them.” She nodded and I assumed that she understood that I was trying to compliment her. She smiled at me, flashing her dimples. I had succeeded, but I couldn't help but feel guilty. I had dragged her through the mud only to clean her off afterward. I wished that I didn't have to do that. Why did I have to be like a sour patch kid? First sour then sweet. Why couldn’t I just be sweet? While I sat there thinking to myself, I hadn’t noticed that the lunch bell had rang. “Well, Mr. Tutor. Will you walk me to class? It’s precalculus so I might just skip.” I was pulled back into the dream that was, being in her presence. She began to put her things back into her bag and stand up. How could she just change the atmosphere on a dime. A moment ago I was flustered that I had borderline insulted her, but now it was as if all was well in the world once again. I felt that this might be an opportunity for me to make a cheeky remark and so I said, “It might be best that you just skip, and have me teach you.” She smiled at me and said, “I might just take you up on that offer.” Her response made my heart skip a beat. She made her way out of the classroom, and I followed her, leaving my things in the classroom. It wasn't fair, I could have sworn that I had the upper hand, but her beauty was too much. She was cheating in this game of banter. We began to walk down the hall together. “Wow, how can you be so bad at math? Do you pay attention in class?” I joked. But then I instantly regretted the words that escaped my mouth. Hadn't I just told her that it was okay to not be good at math? “I’m more of a reader than a math person, you dick.” She playfully pushed me to the side. She seemed to have picked up on my playful tone, and responded accordingly/ I moved back to her side and retorted, “Good, then you can read your math textbook.” I chuckled at my own joke and we walked in comfortable silence to her class. When we reached her class, we stood outside for a moment. This was it. Every moment, every sly remark, had led to this moment. “Uh, you know. I really recommend that you need a tutor for math” I used my hand to pull my hair back and attempted to avoid eye contact, “so could I have your number?” “I’m not sure Oliver” my heart broke. It had all been for naught but before I could respond she said, “Because apparently I’m just no good with numbers.” This girl was something else. Did she not know she could give a man a heart attack? She pulled a piece of paper out of her backpack, wrote her number and handed it to me. “I hope that you could solve this problem without my help.” She smiled at me showing her dimples, and I smiled back. She turned and walked into her class, but the smile on my face would not go away. I ran back to the photography classroom, and when I entered, Peter, Michael and the Photography teacher were waiting for me. I dramatically raised my hand holding the piece of paper, and we cheered.


"The Struggle Knows Not the Logic of Morals" *** Walid sat at a table across from Mahmud. All Mahmud did was look at him, shaking his head. None of Walid’s apologies worked. He woke up with sweat gluing his shirt to his skin. Walid's sleeping wife stirred, but soon returned to her steady breathing. He swung out of bed and walked out to the lawn, listening to helicopters in the distance. He was tired of the sound. The steady beat of an American machine gun started up, hitting a note inside his chest. Either someone was standing up to them, or they were shooting at shadows. Walid lit a cigarette and shivered as cold Baghdadi air leaked into his blood. The Samarra Mosque had been bombed earlier that morning, and though he still felt anger, he wasn’t certain what to do about it. “Walid, they’re coming!” Salaam yelled. Walid turned. His mind lingered on last night's dream. Smoke from late morning fires thickened the air and blurred the street. They had just set up a checkpoint, and he wasn’t certain if Salaam was joking. “Minoo?” “The Americans,” Salaam yelled as he climbed into his car. “Wayeen?" “The bridge to Azamiya.” Salaam started his car. No way, thought Walid. He had promised last night to get at least one. “Get back out, they are at least five daqa'iq away,” Walid said. He tried to stop his voice from quivering. Normally, he would've done exactly what Salaam was doing. They were parked on the side of a small road that was regularly used by people who tried to avoid the main street's traffic. Taking a deep breath, Walid pulled out his handgun and pointed it at the first car that came down the potholed street. He hoped it would stop; he knew he wasn’t going to shoot. “Identification. Where are you from?” Walid asked the driver. “What is this, police checkpoint?” the man asked, scrutinizing Walid with a look of disdain as he handed over his ID. Walid looked at the man, surprised that he had obeyed him so easily. “Us?” he looked back at his group and felt more powerful. “We ask the questions here. Where are you from?” Walid asked. The ID checked out. “Hurriya, azizi, you?” Walid smiled. One of their own. “We are only looking for Sunnis, drive on.” The driver hesitated, looking at Walid, Salaam, and their entourage before swallowing his words and driving on. Walid pointed his gun at the next car driving by. “Walid, they’re getting close,” Salaam said. Walid tried to slow his breathing down. The car squeaked to a halt. “Identification, please. Where are you coming from; where are you going?” asked Walid. “Where are your uniforms?” the driver asked back. Walid pointed the gun at the driver’s asymmetrical, beady eyes and large nose. “No questions, just answer.” “Azamiya. I’m going to the market.” Walid’s heart jumped. This was his moment to act, to prove Mahmud wrong. Walid felt queasy. He was not certain if this was right. He turned to Salaam and the rest of his group, and they came at the car. “You are Sunni, sah?” The man’s eyes darted to the other men, and he nodded uncertainly. “But I am a good man, I work with Shiites, azizi you must not …” Walid opened the car door and pulled the man by his shirt. “No, please, I have a family. What are you doing?” Salaam opened his trunk, and they stuffed the man in. When the man gave Walid another look, Walid felt like crying. They all jumped in their vehicle and drove away. Walid looked behind to see an American Humvee slow down near the man's car. Two soldiers nervously approached it, guns out, like it was a car bomb. “They think it’s a seeyara mufakhakha!” Walid forced out a laugh. The rest of them laughed with him. They drove a little ways to Salaam’s place. They pulled the man out of the trunk and dragged him into the house. On the living room floor, the man got on his feet and started to beg. Walid tried to stand as tall and steady as he could. He could feel the eyes of his group on him. He fought the urge to shit. He hated the man for not making this easy. “Please, why are you doing this?” Walid stepped forward, his hands shaking, sweating. “You think you can destroy our mosques and murder our women, and not expect us to fight back?” “No, no, I have never done anything. I don’t know anyone who does that. These are Arabs from other …” Walid stepped forward, steadied his hands, and shot the man through his face. The sound jolted everyone, including Walid. The man crumpled to the ground. Walid realized he had been hoping the gun would jam. A pool of blood spread. He told the group to clean up and dump the body near a Sunni neighborhood. They stared at him in silence. He decided it was awe. A good night’s rest was all he wanted, but his wife was giving him that look again. “What is it?” Walid asked. He'd been scared of killing again, so he found other things to do. Many Sunnis lived in Hurriya. He took his group and forced the Sunnis to leave. Walid and his men managed to collect taxes from some of the people, or take some of their possessions. His wife pulled out a poster that had his picture on it. Wanted, for 500,000 dinar. He was shocked; first that he would be on a wanted poster, then that he would be worth so little. “Where did you find this?” “At the market. I tore some down, but then there were police everywhere.” He smiled; he loved that his wife would do that when she saw his poster. Other women would have just run away. He kissed her and caressed her smooth skin. She turned her head away. Walid followed her eyes to the door. There was no one there. His stomach churned. Would the police knock his door down at any moment? “Is dinner ready?” he asked. She didn’t reply and walked into the kitchen. *** That night, after they had made love, she stared at the ceiling in a way that let him know that he needed to say something. “It will be zian, honey, don’t worry about it.” Walid, of course, hadn’t stopped thinking about being caught for what he'd done. He felt small, foolish. “You have one son and another on the way, in sha Allah. What will we do without you? Think about it, Walid?” He wanted to slap her, but she was right; he had to think about his family. He could not get arrested. He knew what happened in those prisons; sometimes people never returned. His family would most certainly starve. In the end, she was concerned with him turning out like Mahmud. “I will,” he said to calm his wife down. “But what will you do now? Your face is everywhere and people need money.” He looked around their room; the house had been theirs since they married. They recently bought a new heater, but the cracks in the wall were still growing. “You could live with your relatives in Karbala until things got quiet again.” “Walid! Don’t become like your brother, you are not him.” “Sukti,” he hissed, angry that she would dare to say such a thing. “I will take care of this.” Mahmud would have known what to do. Walid had fought with him after their father was killed in a missile attack during the invasion. But Walid could never stay angry with his brother for long. Mahmud had always been the one people in the neighborhood looked to for guidance. After the invasion, Mahmud had told everyone to wait and see what the Americans were going to do. He always thought about some greater good that Walid couldn’t see. Walid walked into the kitchen, put on a coat, and stepped outside. Winter was giving way to spring, but the air still bit. He could hear the helicopters again, and, in the distance, some shooting. He lit a cigarette, sucking in the smoke to warm his insides. “Mahmud, Mahmud, Mahmud,” he muttered. He missed him. It was Mahmud who, when Al-Sadr rose against the Americans, decided to fight. “We cannot lie down like dogs.” Walid had followed his big brother to Karbala, and they fought against the Americans. Mahmud fought without fear, firing clip after clip at the occupiers. Sitting in a dilapidated house, they found themselves overwhelmed as the Americans returned fire. Walid hugged the ground, his stomach churning. He remembered the disappointed look Mahmud flashed him, a look that he'd given Walid throughout his life whenever Walid had acted too weak. Mahmud was shooting from a break in a wall when Walid, who was looking for a way to get out of the house, heard a grinding splat. He looked over to see Mahmud, half his head gone, falling to the ground. Walid remembered lying on the floor of that house in Karbala and thinking about how to escape. He hid as the Americans came through. He crawled away when night fell. He came back to Baghdad and everyone thought he'd been a brave warrior. People stood in awe of him, of Mahmud. He didn’t tell them how wrong they were. Instead, he lied about how many people he'd killed. Only he knew that man in Salaam’s living room had been the first. That man’s face was still etched in his brain. Walid finished his cigarette and threw it into the street. He walked back inside the house. *** The next day Walid awoke to his cell phone ringing. “Yes?” “Walid, your pictures, they are everywhere. Abdullah was stopped at a checkpoint today, and they asked if he knew who you were. I think you should lay low right now.” Walid felt his stomach acting up. He wondered what would happen if he did lay low. Would the police forget him and chase someone else? No, he was being a small man again. It was his time to stand up. “We will not hide; we are protecting our neighborhood. Have the police done that for us?” He fought to keep his voice from cracking, from showing Salaam his fear. “No,” Salaam said. “Of course not. Drive here now, we’re going to settle this once and for all.” He reached for his gun, but remembered that it was in the bedroom. He had the urge to drink, to stop his trembling. He hung up and put on his clothes. It felt like someone else was doing it for him. He checked his handgun, tucked it into his pants, and grabbed the wanted poster. His wife was cooking breakfast, and he rushed out when she called him. He did not want to stop, but she called him again. He poked his head back through the door. “I will be back in a few hours.” Salaam pulled up in his car, and Walid jumped in. “Where to?” “The police center, where else?” Salaam stared at him. “But…” “Are you deaf? Drive!” Salaam put the car into drive, but didn’t press the accelerator. “Are you mutaeqed about this?” “Yes. Stop being a coward and drive. You have your gun, right?” “Yes, but the police center?” Salaam’s voice threatened to kill the bravery he had mustered. “You never fought against the Americans. Are you a dog?” Walid asked. “No.” “Then drive. When we get there, I will go inside and you will stay with the car. All right?” Salaam drove the car without another word. Walid fingered his handgun and remembered what his father had told him: that no one was scared of an AK, since everyone owned one, but handguns reminded people of Saddam’s secret police. Five minutes later, they stopped in front of the police station, and Walid hopped out of the car. It was a large cement building with massive steps leading inside. The guard at the front door stood silent as Walid walked past him to the shiny main lobby. Walid rubbed the wanted poster folded in his pocket before realizing that he was sweating too much. He wished he'd asked Salaam to come with him so there would be someone beside him. He would not be able to fight all these policemen. A large poster with his face grabbed his attention. He couldn’t stay in the lobby for much longer. Walid saw signs for the police chief’s office. It was down a long hallway to the left. He touched his gun and started walking. His hands trembled. He felt like he did after he shot that man in Salaam’s living room. He stopped at the door with the police commissioner’s name printed in English and Arabic. He leaned against the wall and looked up and down the hallway. No one seemed to have noticed him. From inside the room, he could hear a man yelling on the phone in a gruff voice. Walid thought about Mahmud; he thought about his family. He knocked and squeezed his trembling hands together. “Enter!” The voice sounded large. Walid pulled out his gun with one hand and his poster with the other. He stepped into the room. “What can I do for you?” the chubby, bald, man asked, hesitating when he saw the gun in Walid’s hand. Walid placed the wanted poster on his desk. “You’re looking for me?” The police chief glanced down at the image, and recognition crept up on his face. “I…” Walid felt his nerves calm as the man stuttered, unable to finish a single sentence. He went around the desk and grabbed the policeman by his collar. He was fat, but compliant. Walid pulled him out to the hallway, over to the lobby. “On your knees.” The man fell down and started to cry. Everyone was looking at him, but even the guards with their AKs didn’t move. “I am Walid, the man on this poster.” He pointed at the poster on the wall. “I am not here for anyone else but this man.” He looked around when he said it. He felt invincible, and the trembling stopped. The overweight policeman continued to whimper, rocking himself like a child. Walid pointed, shot; the man fell. He looked the guards in the eye, and they turned away. Outside, he lit a cigarette. He absorbed the nicotine hit and sauntered over to the car where Salaam sat, staring at him. “Drive.” He didn’t say another word to Salaam. When they got to his house, he nodded and walked in. His wife warmed up his breakfast, and he ate it, not speaking to her either, but keeping his eyes on Mahmud and the first man he shot, both standing behind her.


Ten Years Ago:         It had happened while Kira was strolling through a busy parking lot, in the light of day, nodding absently to the chatter of her three-year-old. How had no one noticed or helped her? She had felt the sharp prick of a needle in her arm and caught a glimpse of a gloved hand holding a syringe. She reached feebly for her confused little boy in the shopping cart as her mind and body folded inwards.         When she regained consciousness, Kira was in a dark, cement-walled room that smelled of cigarettes and piss. Her empty stomach contracted and she retched unproductively. Her brain throbbed and her limbs were slow to respond to her urgent requests to get up and run. Her wild, darting eyes had caught a movement to her left, and there she saw an older woman staring back.         “Help,” Kira’s burning throat cracked out. The woman smiled, walked to where Kira sat on the floor, and stroked her cheek with a spotted hand.         “No one can help you, dear,” the woman replied hoarsely. “Benny will be back soon. Then we’ll get started.”         Kira could only shake her head and stare at the insane woman with short, spiked, white hair, a hot pink t-shirt and ripped cargo shorts. Her wrinkled knees sagged over a roadmap of blue and purple spider veins on bare legs pocked with goose-bumps.         Kira crab-scooted desperately away from the door as the handle rattled. The door opened, revealing a slight-framed man with thick glasses that magnified his brown eyes. His lank, dirty-blonde hair spilled down both sides of his face. He stared back at Kira as a slow smile lifted his lips, exposing a row of cracked, yellow teeth.         A piercing, shrill scream reverberated in the room, and then Kira felt a stinging slap on the back of her head that caused her to suck in a breath, cutting the scream abruptly. “Stop that heinous noise this instant!” the old woman demanded.         “Mama? Why is the lady yelling?” the man asked in a slow, child-like voice.         “Oh, she’s just nervous and excited, Benny. Don’t worry, she’ll calm down.” Kira felt a sharp pinch of warning dig into the vulnerable flesh on her upper arm.         The woman waved impatiently at the man. “Now, give those bags here.”         Benny handed over two plastic Dollar Tree bags and the woman grunted as she bent over them, pawing at the contents. A container of peanut butter, plastic-packaged portions of fruit cocktail, and a box of Toasty O’s. She nodded her head and gave her son an adoring look. “You did good, Benny. This will do us for a few days now.” Benny beamed under his mother’s praise.         The other bag had a bottle of water, some toilet paper, and a roll of duct tape. Kira went cold as the woman’s gray eyes slid in her direction.                                                      *********         Kira repeated “Why?” in a steady chant that first night, not even realizing that she was speaking out loud. The woman ignored her until Benny was snoring in a sleeping bag on the other side of the room. Only then did Kira get the horrifying answer she sought.         Bernice was broken with regret that she had ruined her son’s life. Benny had been diagnosed with fetal alcohol syndrome as a young child. His dad had left soon after this revelation, and Bernice had only overcome her disabling depression by dedicating her life to making up for her mistake. She was fiercely determined to give Benny the fullest, happiest life that she possibly could despite the irreversible brain damage her drinking had caused him in the womb. She wanted Ben’s life to be as “normal” as possible and was willing to do anything to make that happen.         Bernice fought for Benny to be included at school, she insisted he be invited to classmates’ parties and go to prom. The only thing she couldn’t do was force others to accept and love him. She could rally for harsher punishments for bullies, but the consequences never healed the hurt.         As her repeated efforts inevitably failed to give Benny the life she longed for him to have, her grip on reality fractured. There were moments when she recognized her own insanity, but she couldn’t stop bull-dozing the path she was convinced Benny should take.         On Benny’s thirty-fifth birthday, Bernice told him she had a special present for him. Wouldn’t he like to get married? she had asked him. “Like the prince and Cinderella?” Benny replied wide-eyed. Bernice had smiled with tears in her eyes and nodded at her son.         After sharing this memory with Kira, the two women had locked eyes. Shaking with despair, Kira understood the role she had been assigned. “But I’m already married,” Kira pleaded. “I have a son of my own.”

Bernice’s eyes had hardened as she spat, “You will never tell Benny that or I will find your husband and son and kill them.”         In the days, weeks and months that followed, Kira’s spirit detached itself from her body. It wasn’t really her there on the bare mattress on the floor. It was not she, Kira, who was trapped in the dank and dreary cement dungeon. She could not let herself acknowledge or accept that she had been reduced to a sex slave who washed herself with water from one bucket and squatted over another to excrete her waste. This was just a temporary situation. She would get out, Kira promised herself. She would resume her real life.         At least she knew she wouldn’t get pregnant in that hell-hole. A complication during Jamie’s birth had required the surgeon to remove her uterus. What seemed a blow at the time was now a blessing.         Kira felt constantly fuzzy-headed and uncoordinated. Bernice was adding drugs to Kira’s meals which left her feeling drowsy and weak. Kira knew this must be why Benny was strictly forbidden from touching her food or water bottle. Whenever Kira refused to ingest what was offered, shrewd Bernice would ask Benny to give Kira a tight “hug” while she injected Kira with a stinging substance that rendered her unconscious. Bernice told Benny it was medicine that Kira needed.         The same ritual was performed at bedtime. Every single night she was pricked into a drug-induced slumber. Kira’s arms were bruised tender from being poked so many times.         In her dreams, Kira saw her sweet little boy, Jamie, cry out for her. “I’m sorry, little one. Mommy will be home as soon as I can,” she whispered each night as she fell back asleep on a pillow damp with tears. Her heart cracked open imagining Paul distraughtly thinking of her non-stop, frantically searching for her day after day. She knew her husband wouldn’t rest until he found her. This thought was all that kept Kira going. ********* Present:         Kira let out a yelp of pain and shielded her eyes from the glaring sunlight. She hadn't been outside or seen the sky in so long, she had forgotten how bright it could be. She blinked rapidly and got her bearings. Then she heaved the heavy door shut behind her and leaned her back against it, as if to keep the evil in.         Her legs were shaking and she allowed them to collapse beneath her as she slid to the ground. Hot tears cleared rivers of blood from the surface of her cheeks. She touched her face, and then looked down at her blood-soaked shirt. It made her laugh. That glorious blood had saved her life. Or whatever was left of her life.         Kira had stayed under the covers that morning, moaning that she didn’t feel well. The previous evening, before the obligatory injection, she had felt the tug of her period starting and it had given her the idea. Instead of asking for a tampon as she usually did, she had surreptitiously bunched a spare t-shirt into the space between her legs. Through the night and into the early hours of the morning, she passively let her monthly fluid leak into the fabric of her shirt. When she awoke, she felt the sticky, soaked fabric still in place, and her heart sped up in anticipation of enacting her plan.         With very slow, spaced-out movements hidden under the covers, Kira carefully put the blood-soaked shirt on her torso. She lowered the blanket discreetly and glanced at her captors. They were munching on dry cereal and paid no attention to her. Her heart beat against her sternum like a frantic bird trying to escape her chest. She placed a shaking hand between her legs to collect some blood on her fingers and wiped this over her face.         She had to count to three twice before she summoned the courage to launch herself off of the mattress and onto the floor, wailing loudly. As she heard Bernice and Benny exclaim and then come rushing towards her, Kira dramatically flopped onto her back with her arms splayed out, feigning unconsciousness.         “Oh, no. Oh, no,” Benny repeated in a high-pitched whining voice, taking in her blood-soaked shirt.         “It’s alright, Ben,” his mother said in a too-calm voice. “We’ll get her fixed up. Can you go to the Dollar Tree and get some supplies?”         “Should we call 911?” he asked.         Bernice hesitated a couple of beats before replying. “No, don’t worry. I can handle this. You take this,” she handed him a wad of bills and a list of items, “and bring back what we need, ok?” Kira got the distinct impression that Bernice just wanted to get rid of Benny so he wouldn’t object to whatever she thought she had to do about this inconvenient development.         Kira listened carefully as Benny ran up the steps and banged out the door. She held her breath listening for the usual clunk of the deadbolt sliding back into place, but it didn’t come. Just as she’d hoped, they were too distracted to be on guard as usual. Through a thin slit between her lids, Kira observed Bernice tapping nervously at her mouth, looking around the room. For what, Kira didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to wait to find out.         Kira gathered her flaccid muscles in preparation, took a deep breath, and sprung up with all of the strength and speed she could summon. She leapt at the metal box against the wall just as she had planned, scrambling to get her hands on the syringe she knew Bernice always kept loaded and ready for emergency use.         She pulled the cap off the needle as she looked at Bernice, who was frozen with a stunned look on her face. But as Kira lunged towards her, Bernice’s eyes hardened in anger and Kira knew she wouldn’t go down without a fight.         Kira feigned a right dodge as she swung her left hand forward with the syringe, plunging the needle into a squishy thigh. She pushed on the plunger even as Bernice roared and swatted her hand away. She probably hadn’t received the full dose, but Kira hoped it had been enough.         Moments later, she got her answer as Bernice crumpled to the floor. Kira didn’t hesitate. She ran up the steps and out the door. Propelled by adrenaline, she burst onto the sidewalk panting. She pressed the door closed and leaned her back against it, as if to keep the evil behind it.         Not knowing where she was, Kira stumbled away from the Dollar Tree she spotted at the corner. A woman walking a plump, tawny dog raised her eyebrows at Kira before diverting her gaze and briskly continuing on.         “Please,” Kira croaked, “Help me. I’m Kira Randall. I need help.”         The woman assessed her for a few moments before recognition seemed to cross her face. “Kira Randall. That sounds familiar…”         “Call the police. Please,” Kira begged, her knees buckling. A police car pulled up a few minutes later, silent lights flashing. Two officers got out. The older one approached her warily, shining a flashlight in her face.         The officer began asking her questions. He wanted to know if she was on drugs. If she had a home. Where the blood had come from.         “Yes, I have a home!” Kira replied indignantly. “216 Maple! Take me there, please. My husband and son must be very worried about me. I’ve been gone…” Kira didn’t actually know how long it had been.         Kira told them her full name and explained that she had been captive for years and only just escaped. Surely they had been searching for her? The two officers conferred briefly and then ushered her into the back of the squad car to go to the station, offering no reassurances. On the way, Kira gave them the name of her husband and begged them to call him for her. Then she stared out the window as sites, some familiar and some foreign, flashed by.         Seated in the bare room awash with artificially bright light, Kira had never felt so alone. She stared at the large white door, willing it to open and let Paul and Jamie come rushing through. She couldn’t wait to hold them close and tell them how hard she had fought to come back to them.         Finally, she heard the heavy metal handle of the door being engaged, and she grasped the arm of her chair ready to launch herself out of it. But when the door opened, it was just the younger officer with a concerned look on his face. “I need to ask a few questions and collect samples from you, Ma’am, to confirm your identity.”         Kira was stunned. “Where’s my husband?” she gasped.         The officer looked uncomfortable. “We did contact Mr. Randall about his first wife. He is skeptical you are who you claim, but he said he would come by after work to help us sort this out.”         Kira’s mouth dropped open. First wife? After work? Why wasn’t he rushing right over? The officer sat down in the chair across the table from Kira and took out a pen and notepad. “What is your date of birth? And what hospital were you born at?”         Kira was in shock and couldn’t find the energy to be angry at how she was being treated. She answered the questions robotically. She let herself be an inanimate object while her cheeks were swabbed for a DNA test and her fingertips were covered in ink, then pressed onto a card. Someone handed her a new shirt and collected the bloody one in a plastic bag. It was the same disembodied feeling she had used when Benny had raped her. She was no longer in her body.         Then she heard a familiar voice outside the room, and this time when the door opened, there was a man who she faintly recognized. He had a beard now, and his hair had greyed. His face was a bit fuller, his eyes a bit droopier, but it was Paul! She shouted his name and jumped to her feet, ready to embrace him.         But Paul took a step back with a hand raised to ward her off. An officer stepped up beside him and told Kira to stay back. She couldn’t believe it. “Is this your wife?” the officer asked.         Paul looked hurt and defeated. “No,” he whispered.         “What?” exclaimed Kira. “Paul! How can you say that?”         The sound of her voice changed something in Paul. He looked at her closely. “Kira?” he asked incredulously.         “Duh!” she replied. It was a common refrain of hers and Paul grinned widely back at her.         “You look terrible. I can’t even recognize you,” Paul explained.         Kira was awash in relief. More officers came into the room to get Paul’s confirmation of her identity. This broke the spell and a buzz erupted. Now they wanted to know where she had been held captive and a description of her kidnappers. She told them everything she could, feeling revived by Paul’s presence and the fact the police finally believed her.         Thirty minutes later, a tall, skinny teenager in baggy clothes arrived at the station. He locked eyes with Kira. She knew those eyes. She dropped to her knees and wept, holding her hands up towards her son. He came closer but didn’t touch her. She was a stranger to him. Paul introduced them. Kira’s chest emptied.         Kira’s mind whirled helplessly, trying to comprehend what surreal life she had stepped back into. She had been forgotten. Life hadn’t waited for her return.         Kira had been declared dead eight years prior when a convicted murderer falsely claimed responsibility for her disappearance. Paul had remarried. They divorced after two years, but in that time, Heather had adopted Jamie. He called her mom. Kira numbly held the pain at bay. It was too much to process.         The police located the hovel where Kira had been held. A dead woman was found on the floor. Kira wondered if she had injected too much of the “sleep” solution into Bernice. She wasn’t sorry.         Kira said no, she didn’t want to press charges against Ben. “It wasn’t his fault,” she said sadly. She wondered if he would become a ward of the state.         Kira went back to the house that didn’t feel like hers anymore. She took an obscenely long shower. While hot water ran through her hair and over her skin, her thoughts percolated. Paul hadn’t betrayed her. It wasn’t Jamie’s fault he couldn’t remember her. She knew she could either accept the new normal and build from there, or she could be bitter and take her anger out on the people closest to her.         She thought of how Bernice had let disappointment poison her life. She was nothing like Bernice. Kira shut off the water, reached for a fuzzy blue towel, and decided simply that she had to forgive the wrongs if she wanted to be free of them. She longed to get to re-know Paul and Jamie. She had yearned painfully for another chance as this life. She intended to use it well.


Shelley Glazen tapped her cigarette against a homemade ashtray. It was misshapen and cracked with age, but it had been her first attempt at art, the first time she fell in love with creating something with her own, rickety hands. Now, decades into her hobby, she found joy in teaching others at the community center. At seventy-three, Shelley was proof anyone could take up a skill and make something beautiful. She taught both throwing clay and Beginners' Drawing. “It's not about getting famous on the ticky-tock!” she said on the first day of classes, her voice bouncing on the well-rehearsed speech. “It's about expressing yourself and most of all...having fun!” She knew she was a little silly and foolish, but felt it encouraged the shy artists to break into their deepest desires free of judgment. She sucked on the filtered end of the Turkish Gold and studied the sketch in front of her. All her classes up to this point had other retired, white-haired gals like herself, but this semester she had a young boy fresh out of high school. A real oddball. A gentle, kind spoken boy...but odd. Shelley felt incredibly old and disconnected whenever she spoke to him about his perspectives or his subject matter. It was always trains. Whatever the lesson of the day; color theory, shading, angles, whatever, the boy drew trains. Not just any trains. No. These were slinky, bent at the middle like some sort of serpent and instead of wheels they had long, catly appendages and razor fangs popping out of humanoid faces, dripping with crude oil. Sometimes the smoke from the engine parts engulfed people that were never detailed and often shapeless, sexless blobs. She held the most recent charcoal sketch and turned the stiff paper, squinting at it in an attempt to determine the correct angle. A glow of yellow light shone out of a bulbous nose shone and onto the train tracks. Shelley finished her cigarette and leaned back, holding the paper up to the ceiling fan light, forcing the shading of the image to change and warp as though it were a demonic creature. She had to give marks for the use of sparse color and lighting but marked off for the tracks being in the wrong position. She wasn't sure how to grade the train's structure. Should she judge it on the behavior of cats or the behavior of locomotives? A new shadow appeared in the doorway of her tiny office, and she lifted the paper to eye her husband, Robert. He plucked idly at an earlobe. “At it again with those damn trains?” “I just wish I knew what it was about them.” “Art's an obsession. We can't ask for everything to be explained.” He raised his free hand to show a large glass of brandy and wiggled his tufty, white eyebrows. “How 'bout it? I got the popcorn on the stove and the movie picked.” Shelley chuckled and slowly detached herself from the art projects and the office. She clicked off the light and took a glass. “You sure know how to woo a girl.” “Just you wait for the foot rub.” The movie he'd picked was a semi-recent feature exploring the final days of Van Gogh, all masterfully painted frame by frame in his style. By the end of it, Shelley's breath had caught up behind her nose. She wept open and ugly. Robert pat circled on her back until she was able to settle, and she was glad she could be this way around him and not feel like an idiot. “I'm sorry, darling,” he said. “I'll pick a better one next week.” “No,” she said, kissing the hard sandpaper of his cheek. “It was a wonderful movie. Beautiful. The brandy got to me. That's all.” “That's all?” His eyes narrowed and disappeared behind puffs of skin. Shelley shook her head. “I could never paint like that. The poor man.” “You're not supposed to paint like that,” said Robert, wrapping his arms around her. She snuggled deep into him and listened to the vibration of his lungs. “You're supposed to paint like you.” Inspired, Shelley brought to the community center the red wagon she normally used when walking to Kroger. She filled it with cheap canvas and paints and waited outside the classroom for everyone to arrive. “We're going on a little field trip today to paint outdoors. It's called plein air.” The weather was perfect and the walk brisk, filling her lungs with a sharp autumn wind that carried the scent of dead leaves and pinion burning in fireplaces of the nearby homes. They only walked as far as the park, where a bend in the running trail led off to a lush, overgrown patch of protected wetlands. She hoped to teach her students what Robert had said to her that previous night. Paint like you. After all, the odd boy of her class wasn't the only one with a unique perspective and perhaps Shelley could show how one piece of landscape could be different for each of them. “The old masters used to do this all the time,” she informed the class with authority, even though she'd only read about the fact that morning. Truthfully, she didn't even know if she pronounced 'plein air' the correct way. It was very French, and her tongue often felt slow and heavy with other languages. She secretly hoped that the odd boy would be forced further away from the comfort of drawing trains and look to more organic inspirations. By the time the class was done, Shelley had five pictures of the trail and two of the playground. She considered it a success until she spotted the odd boy's submission. He'd done the trail as well but included a train in the far distance. At least, she thought with a bit a dash of resignation, it was a real train and not a funny shaped one. She carefully set the paintings into the wagon and began to walk back to the community center. The clacking of the wagon wheels thumped in tandem with her troubled thoughts. Was there something wrong with the boy or was she being an old and judgmental fuddy-duddy? Trains made him happy. Who did it harm? During their dinner of homemade challah and potato soup, Shelley discussed this with Robert the day's work. He listened, beefy hands folded neatly together, the tufts of his eyebrows shifting thoughtfully like an old dog chasing something in its sleep. “Perhaps it's his home life? Maybe he wants to get away and can't...the train is him trying to escape. Do the faces look like him?” “I suppose,” she rubbed her temples, then stood and collected the dishes. It was her turn to clean. Robert had done all the cooking. That night, Shelley dreamed monstrous, mechanical beasts chasing her. They snatched at her with steaming claws and tore her apart with the fangs folded inside the wide, human mouths. It startled her so terribly, that she couldn't convince herself to fall asleep again. So, she braided her hair and put on her walking clothes. It was nearly four o'clock in the morning and not much traffic on the streets. Still, she kept her flash jacket on and walked purposefully to the only train station in town. As a girl, Shelley enjoyed taking the train to visit her relations. She loved the clunking, churning sounds, the strangers that passed at the rural stops, the long arching bridges that crossed over the Brazos. The viewing car was her favorite. At night, she'd hunker down into one of the captain's chairs and stare into the night sky, as though she were in a spaceship. She understood the delight in the slowness of a journey by train. She appreciated the nostalgia. She simply couldn't wrap her mind around the boy's added layers of oddness attached to them. Should she ask and risk embarrassing him or herself? What if he was simply drawing some sort of Pokémon? She frowned and lit a cigarette, cupping the glow in her cold hands. She didn't think an obsession with those little Japanese creatures was hardly any better than one of trains. At the current hour, none of the trains ran. The station was abandoned, and it had an old world feel to it, as though the platform hadn't been updated since Billy the Kid allegedly stood in the very spot. Shelley stayed by the outdoor ticket booth, smoking, and running her hands over the smooth wooden back of a bench she stood beside. Would the train yard speak to her and explain why some might be overwhelmed by their hulking frames? If architecture was meant to be jazz frozen in time, then what were trains? She waited and waited, but the only answer came from the chirping of predawn birds and the wind rustling the orange-gold trees. Three tracks away from the platform, she saw the flash of a light and thought for a moment that it might be a night watchman. She hoped that she wasn't standing on the platform illegally. There hadn't been any gates or signposts, but she could never be certain with these types of places. Shelley finished her cigarette, waiting for the flashlight to come closer but it never did. She brought her jacket closer to her chin, shifting nervously. There were whispers now, frantic and cooing. She stuck a pinkie in her ear and wiggled it, then listened again. Yes. A singular voice coming from the same direction as the light. I love you. I love you. More than you can know... and a long, drawn-out sigh followed by a laugh. Shelley brought a hand to her flushing cheeks and turned to leave. She hadn't meant to snoop on any love making. She stumbled off the platform and grabbed the railing before she fell. A trashcan toppled over and the voice, Shhh! What was that? crawled through the morning mist as though to snag her by the hair. Shelley trotted to the end of the lane and paused to catch her breath. She stood under a streetlamp that had already shut off for the day and cupped her hands against the oncoming headlights of an early commuter. There, at the far side of the block, where the back of the train yard began, was a figure. A shapeless lump that reminded her off the people in the odd boy's pictures. Hands trembling, Shelley went home and made a strong pot of coffee. She knew that she had no reason to be scared, all that bubbling in her nerves was left over from her nightmare. She had always been scared of the dark, deep down, although she never admitted it to herself. In retrospect, what Shelley heard and witnessed were two unremarkable moments wedged together in her frightened mind. Robert woke at the normal hour, and she told him all about her early morning walk. He fixed his paisley bathrobe, uncomfortable by the notion of her out on her own. He said as much. “I'm just trying to figure out why the trains,” Shelley answered in a small, unsure tone. “Well,” Robert cupped his thick fingers around a red coffee mug. “Well...I'll come with you. Tomorrow.” “I couldn't ask you –” began Shelley. “Sounds like fun. I'll nap in the afternoon.” He wiggled his eyebrows like it were an invitation for something more. The following morning, Robert woke with Shelley. He packed a thermos of coffee into his jacket pocket and folded the blanket they used when they went to concerts together and sat in the grass. Shelley grinned, her lungs fluttered, and it felt like a date. She took him to the exact spot when she first heard the sounds. They waited and when the minutes passed without any sign of another person or a flashing light, Robert reached for her hand and squeezed her fingers. “Show me where you saw them.” Shelley pointed into the third row of trains and Robert led her gently from the platform. They stumbled over the big chunks of gravel and the old metal lips of the tracks. She leaned into him, giggling as he nuzzled the tender place behind her ear. He asked, in a hushed tone, “Is this what you heard?” then moaned soft and slow. “No.” her smile was sly, and she gripped his fleshy jaw. “Like this. I love you. I love you. I love you. ” They sank down onto their creaking knees and Robert fumbled with the blanket. He spread it out and unbuttoned his shirt. “We'll get busted.” “Oh, no!” Shelley replied with a dramatic gasp. She laid down and shimmied free from her pants. “Wait. I got a cramp.” Robert moved his hand over her hip, massaging. “Like this?” “Yes...” Shelley rolled her head to the side, and he kissed her neck. He shifted to an odd angle to alleviate the pressure off his bad knees and kissed with vigor when she gasped. She pushed him off and whispered, “Hang on.” “Another cramp?” “No. Look.” She directed his head to a dark space underneath one of the freights. There were pink candles burnt down to the stubs and little strips of paper singed at the edges. Robert shuffled off Shelley and reached for one of the shriveled bits. He held it into the light of a naked bulb hanging off a nearby pole. He squinted. “Some kinda jumbo. Fake Latin...” “That's mine,” a voice behind them quivered. Shelley shrieked and struggled to crawl away, holding onto her pants with one hand. She tried to pull them over her knees but dropped them in her panic. Robert stumbled to his feet and spread his arms to block Shelley from view. “Who are you? What do you want?” “This is my safe space,” said the shape coming slow out of the shadows. “This is our spot and you ruined it.” “We're sorry,” said Shelley, standing at last. Her numb fingers slipped around the button of her pants. She recognized the voice. The odd boy from class. “We just were –” “We're married,” said Robert stiffly. “We're allowed to kiss.” “This is my spot,” he said again. He placed a thin hand onto the side of the freight. “Poor boy is leaking. They put him out of commission. He just needs a little love, and you ruined it.” “Sure, sure,” said Robert. “We meant nothing by it.” Shelley could tell he was uncomfortable. It was the same too easy, too wispy tone he used when playing a bad hand at bridge. “He needs special care. You see? He isn't thriving.” The boy's lamp-like eyes turned to Shelley. “But you can feel it, can't you? That's why you were drawn to him. Yesterday. Today. He's got a way with words.” “He...he does?” Shelley asked, eyeing the muscles on Robert's back tighten. “Is he who you draw?” “Sometimes,” said the boy, in a cool, detached way. “Sometimes it's our children.” “Oh. I see,” she said. The human faces in the trains were beginning to make since. “He needs to be compete again.” “Well, I'm sure that there are men who know how to fix this sort of thing,” Robert said, puffing out his chest. The odd boy nodded and then he brought a hidden shovel into his hands. He swung it against the side of Robert's head. Then, before Shelley could cry out for help, the shovel came to her. When she regained consciousness, her hands shuffled over old wood. Splinters dug into the tips of her fingers. Blood crusted her nose, but she could still catch the scent of melting wax and dust. Although she could feel the space around her, she couldn't feel herself move. It was like quenching a thirst without drinking water. Shelley's temples throbbed and she cautiously opened her watering eyes. The odd boy was standing in front of her. He held a riveter, muttering under his breath and bringing the sharp nose of the tool in and out from her field of vision. “What are you doing?” Shelley groaned. “I'm finishing my art,” said the boy not looking at her. “I'm making him complete.” Her eyes flickered to the opposite end of the car. There was Robert, riveted into the side of the car. He wasn't a man. The clothes were gone. It was only his face against the soft wood and his tongue rolled out like an animal. His skin was stretched, stapled into the sides of the freight. “No!” cried Shelley. “No!” “Shhh,” said the odd boy. Shutting her mouth with the hard staples of iron. Her teeth broke and she accidentally swallowed bits of bone. “You're part of us now. Part of him. This is good. I'll show you.” He set down the tool and wiped the sweat off his brow with the tattered end of his shirt. He picked up his backpack and lit a fresh pink candle. Inhaling deeply, he took out his pencil and drawing pad. Then, he sat beside the candle and began drawing them. His hand moved fast across the white paper, smudging the ink with the side of his fist. “It's beautiful. It's exactly how you showed me. Aren't you proud?” He turned to show the sketch to Shelley. She saw herself, flayed out like a newly caught fish, sinking into the sharp shadows cast by the candle. Her hair sinking into the grain of the wood. Her mouth buttoned shut. She was only a face into the side of the train, and it was beautiful. It was his best work yet.


The Green. A continent-spanning forest filled with genetically modified flora and fauna that grew aggressively, and could only be brought to heel by fire. The predators within the Green could rip a man outside of titanium steel wrapped, depleted uranium plated power armor in half. Then there were the ones who could rip a man inside that armor in half. The foliage was thick, barely room enough for some men, with the only way to traverse the Green had been by foot, or by air, with ground vehicles restricted to the confines of the Corporate run cities along the coast. What patches of the old roads and byways exposed to sunlight were rare and far between. Fur and Meat were the prime resources exported by Frontiersman who wished to live beyond the security of concrete slabs and steel. With different laws to follow. Different rules to live, and die by. The Corporations traded for medicine and luxuries, as well as their blue-tinted bills in order to keep some economic wheels rolling in the vegetation-covered ruins of the Old World. Then there were the Cults. Worshipers of Mother Nature, and Primal Father, who attempt to spread a blight of humanity to their own kind in an effort to return all to the soil as they belong. Sometimes it has been hard to tell the difference between Frontiersman trying to survive, and the Cultists trying to turn you into mulch or meat. It was a hellish place out here in the Green. One was threatened by the wildlife, money, or blind religion to plants and carnivores as soon as one stepped out beyond the gates. Baldr Grimskyn was called a Hunter. Hunters were men who wore titanium steel wrapped, depleted uranium plated power armor, the tanks of the modern era. In the armor, he stood nine-foot-tall and was armed with a hardened titanium steel bearded great axe of the Danes in one hand, and an under-mount snub nose minigun beneath the other. The armor and the weapons were decorative, shining silver that gleamed at what little light that found its way to the grass floor, and inlaid with gold. Even the ammunition pack and the feeder that fed the fifty-five caliber, explosive tip anti-carnivore rounds matched the finery of the armor. Despite the decorativeness of the suit, it was enough firepower and augmented might to take on a small armor of conveniently armed men and women. And the Hunter in it did not want to be in the Green. They knew better than to be here. They had gotten out six years ago, after witnessing Corporate Greed and Frontier Honor clash at Buffalo. Yet here Baldr Grimskyn, or Grim as the nameplate on his chest identified him as, was, with ten Patrolman in more conventional arms following after. The Hunter was here for one reason and one reason only. There had been a murder, and Lapis-Fernum Industries needed someone outside the Corporate World to investigate it. Lives were cheap to the Corporations out within the Green, and it only meant that an asset or employee of the company had been slain by others within their Corporate World. They gave Grim the basics, Patrolman went out with a Hunter for a two-week patrol beyond the Exclusion Zone. It had been standard practice to attach a Hunter to such patrols when one expected to run into something more than lunatics or the infected. The Patrolman, composed of Red Raptor Security Personnel, returned two days later without their Hunter. Officially the Hunter died fighting a pack of Predators, giving the Patrolman time to run. Yet the Hunter’s transponder was supposedly damaged, making the highly coveted Power Armor unrecoverable short of a coordinated search. With whatever killed them still there. This was not the first time that has happened with the same group of Red Raptor Mercenaries. Hunters dying heroically saving this one group, with the Transponders somehow becoming damaged and lost. As mentioned, they were the modern-day tank, when such military vehicles had been rendered completely obsolete. Corporations would sink millions to try and recover such armor, even if it would go to the next kin, or even buy the salvage in order to keep the armor in service to their City, and their Corporation. But, Grim was not here for that either. They had not traveled far from the confines of New York’s Exclusion Zone, much to everyone’s relief in that regard. Grim, despite not having been outside of his own block for six years, picked out the first clearing of trees from the air, then had been lowered five stories to the knee-high grass of the forest floor. It was the first sign of a man-made shelter near the patrol route, and Deitric Allenwulf, the victim, would have noticed the signs and brought their attachment of Patrolman over. That had been the normal routine in patrols, seeking out human life and judging if they were hostile, or to be ignored. Regardless, such a place would be added to an ever-changing map of the Green. Currently, as Grim and their Patrol approached, it was a blank spot. Deitric had been an intense man, they lived and partied hard. They swore vehemently with every other word and had an unpleasant attitude towards those around them. The man was a jerk, a pessimist, and never had anything positive to say about anything. They were good Hunter, never leaving a Patrolman, or a Frontiersman behind, never once turning down a job even while complaining about the pay. Within the Walls, they were an insufferable prick, out in the Green, they were someone you wanted at your back. Deitric even badgered Grim, on and on, trying to get the man to go back out beyond the wall, which turned into heated arguments over why he bothered. Grim stepped around a tree that was as thick as four men in power armor, stood over Deitric’s slumped body against it, and regarded them with mixed emotions. “I should buy whoever killed you a drink,” One the Patrolman heard the filtered words, and blurted out, “Sir?” “Nothing to you,” Grim turned their helmed head forward to survey the clearing within the wood. “We are here,” It had been a residential area once, a long time ago. Grim could barely make out the neighboring houses due to the wild vegetation that clung to the domiciles like possessive children. The one that had been occupied recently had freshly cut grass and far view vines spidering up the side of a faded yellow home. Several burnt tree stumps dominated the front yard, and a tin fence could be barely seen towards the back. The door had been patched with metal, and the stairs leading up to it were made of cinder blocks. The roof had a deerskin nailed down to cover the holes from the rain. The skull of the prey-animal lay atop the rusted ruins of a car in the driveway, taking up much of the roof. It was a six-point deer, with several bullet holes decorated the side Grim could see. Wolf claws and teeth reinforced the carriage door, as long as a man’s forearm, bound together by leather strips and metal wiring. The occupants were Hunters themselves, apparently, just not as well equipped as Grim or Deitric had been. It impressed the Power Armored wearing man, who knew how tough Wolves could be in large packs. The Patrolman flooded into the area, with a few standing over Deitric’s body. One leaned over to inspect the armor, careful not to touch it with their hands. “They ripped out the transponder, and it looks like someone shot him clear through the visor with something armor-piercing,” “A Bear Rifle, point-blank range,” Grim reported. There had been no rage in their filtered voice. It had been calm, unnervingly so, as it always was in what little interaction he had with the Patrolman. Though there was a quiet rage in their tone, the Patrolmen knew it, they all knew the signs. Like one of their supervisors who was quietly berating them when a normal person would be screaming at the top of their lungs. They all could see the similarities between the armor the dead, and the living Hunter wore. Deitric had snarling Wolf’s head for a helmet, bared teeth lunging for a throat. Grim’s helm had matched their voice, calm with a studying gaze sizing up their prey. They were the same wolf’s head, simply carved into different expressions. With the same calm voice, Grim gestured with the axe towards the house. “Encircle the clearing, keep me covered,” There had been no verbal argument, but some exchanged looks with one another. They were here for the suit and nothing else. Grim approached the house and tested the door. Finding some resistance, the Hunter stepped back, and wedged his axe deep into the metal, before ripping the door, and the frame, right off the house. Crawling in, Grim found the place cramped, being nine-foot-tall in the armor, and he had to slouch ever so slightly or scrape his head on the ceiling. The floor creaked beneath the feet, barely holding the half-ton of armor and weapons, but it held. Thankfully, there did not appear to be stairs, he would need a Patrolman then, and Grim was under strict orders not to include them. The room Grim stepped into had bodies, zipped tied, and executed where they stood. Grim loomed over the bodies, mumbling to no one as he did so. “No green eyes,” Grim listed to the air as he gently, and with great care, handled the dead before him with a single power-armored encased glove, “No scaling on the skin, no Type Three. No vegetation in the wounds, or roots securing them to the floor, no Type Two,” Standing up as best they could and focusing on the zip ties, the Hunter gestured with their axe. “Zip tied, and executed so no Type One,” “They were not infected with the Dryad, and I do not see markings, or iconography to the Mother or the Father,” Then, slowly, Grim panned their helmet from one side of the room to the other, ensuring to linger over what would be valuable. “There are trinkets scattered around the room, weapons, and munitions that could have been flagged for salvage,” Stopping at a fur lumped onto the floor, Grim reached down and hoisted as much as he could up to their visor, and scanned over it before turning it loose. “Wolf pelt, I judge about six figures worth, maybe less considering its damaged, so the cause was not burglary,” With the same controlled care, Grim reached into a thick side pouch and pulled out a thin, golden chain with a heart-shaped locket at the end. Setting down the axe, and with a single digit, the Hunter opened the locket, revealing a holographic projection that flickered to life. A Father, a Mother, and a Little Girl. The house was the background, with all three wearing colorful shirts of blue, red, and pink. They were smiling, enjoying their life out in the Green despite the dangers. There were three males here, no women. The first room had what he sought, the Mother, and the Little Girl. What lay within was a nightmarish crime that, momentarily, made Grim close his eyes, and suck in a lung full of air. Yet Grim made sure to be facing the contents of the room for a long, long period of time, before backing away and exiting the house. Only two words escaped Grim’s helmed head as he passed by the Patrolman in charge, “Burn it,” and the Hunter did not linger to oversee the action. Grim headed straight back to the ropes attached to airships that still hovered above, not wanting to be here at all. The ride back had been an uncomfortable three-hour trip. Grim had to weather the journey under an Executive Cutter, latched on by cables designed for that very purpose. They had stopped long enough to scrub the power armor down in quarantine, ensuring to remove any pollen or seed from the surface of the armor. A quick search through pouches, registering contents to forms, submitting to a viral scan, tedium on tedium that Grim bore in silent annoyance. Then it was back unto the Cutter, where he would be flown directly to his home near Central Lake in the Heart of New York’s Entertainment Block. The flight over the Exclusion Zone was the worst part, and it made Grim’s stomach sink to look down between his dangling feet. Five miles of mute gray asphalt, bordering the thick gray wall and the towering City they both protected. Nothing living had been allowed to exist nor linger here with a stack of security clearances from five different corporate holdings, and twelve different badges. Spurts of fire could be seen from roving patrols of men and women who had volunteered for the work or had been volunteered. They put anything green to the flame, grass, weeds, or even stray branches fallen from the high trees that tower over the walls. Yet other than the soft glow of flamethrowers spitting fire, there was no light below. Just vast darkness that clung to one’s soul just as tightly as roots grasp at the ground. Ahead, and approaching fast, had been the comforting glow of New York City, the largest city in the Conglomerated States. It was a second Sun to Grim, who had no desire to leave the creature comforts of his apartment. As Grim was whisked towards his final destination, a communications beep warned him of an incoming call. A long, slow sigh escaped from his lips, and Grim simply stared at the indicator on his screen. He did not want to talk to this person as much as he did not want to find Deitric’s body. Finally, Grim rolled his eyes, and gruffly asked, “Yes?” A man in a corporate suit appeared on the screen, and though their face was impassive, Grim could not help but comment. “You look mad, Mimgari,” Mimgari ignored the observation and started speaking, their tone formal and business-like, with very little in the way of emotion. Mimgari was Chief of New York Law Enforcement, owned and operated by the Lapis-Fernum Industries, and was dressed as such. Behind the sharply dressed man had been a wall of flickering screens from viewpoints of Detectives performing their duties. They were too many to focus on, and it hurt Grim’s eyes to try. “The Department of Justice has finished watching your footage and rendered a verdict two hours ago. Your footage?” Mimgari paused a moment, and arched a brow, “It was, thorough,” “And?” Grim asked, knowing already where this was going. “We pressed charges for the death of a Contract Employee and the Sabotage of Equipment due to be forfeited to Lapis-Fernum holdings,” Mimgari stated, tilting their head to the side to study Grim’s reaction. There was none, the expression the Hunter gave the Corporate Law Enforcement Officer had been boredom. “The Hunter Guilds will be informed of our Investigation, and the Red Raptors Security Firm will be further penalized by association. However, because of the scene of the crime, I was permitted to investigate further in order to seek violations within the City itself,” “Vincent Doul,” Mimgari announced, holding up a data-pad and read off of it, “The rest of his Red Raptor squadmates will be working the Exclusion Zone for the next five years, they can’t afford the half-million credit fines, Vincent is the son of an Executive Member to Beltross Barony, who had to resettle here in New York after their Warehouses burned down in Buffalo,” “How sad,” Grim quipped sarcastically. Mimgari continued on without a nod, smile, or acknowledgment of Grim speaking, “Vincent posted the fine, but he is still in our custody for the moment. As of half an hour ago, Detectives found fifteen lockets like the one he tried to sneak in. They were not even hidden, just hanging over his bed like trophies. Two of them belong to women who were raped and murdered years ago, but they are well beyond the statute of limitations so all we can do is consider their cases solved. The rest?” Grim, knew exactly why, “They lived out in the Green,” “In Vincent’s words, people die in the Green every day, who cares about more plant food?” Mimgari said with a hint of disdain in a monotone voice, “When he was interviewed, he considered the half-million a slap on the wrist. Currently, we do not have a murder weapon to match the cause of death nor evidence that they killed the other Hunters, so we have to let him go,” “Of course you do,” Grim replied with a bit more disgust than he wanted to show. “Interesting, however,” Mimgari again arched their brow, “That an invitation to the Wolf’s Den was found on his messages,” Now, Grim straightened, locking eyes with Mimgari. It was the first time in the exchange that Mimgari offered any sort of smile, let alone a knowing one. Grim, after a pause, offered a single demand. “Give me his File,” Landing on the roof on the Wolf’s Den, Grim exited his Power Armor while on a Freight Elevator going down. They made sure to fish out the locket to study as they headed to their penthouse apartment to change. What they wore had been a simple, yet elegant, soft velvet blue long coat with a matching suit and vibrant green spectacles. The Wolf’s Den had been the limelight of New York’s Central Lake, an artificial lake that, according to myth, replaced a large swath of trees and bushes that once rested in the center of the city. The Wolf's Den, a twenty-four-hour establishment where the party never stooped, overlooked the lake was highly successful and almost always packed. The lines of people winding around the block were still entertained with holographic projections of vegetation decorated key locations of where they once stood. Live plants outside of an Agricultural Tower had been illegal within City Limits for as long as anyone remembered, and fewer still have ever seen a real one up close that was not already on their plate. Grim lived on top of the Wolf’s Den, and exited a hidden elevator into a virtually empty VIP room reserved for himself, and guests. In here, they could peer out into the twisting crowd dancing to the latest fad in music without being seen, nor hearing what was being played. One person, another corporate man in a suit, sat at the end of a long blue table that uniformly matched the color of the room. Seeing Grim, the man, Vincent, stood up, but Grim waved them back down, “My name is Grimskyn, I own this place,” Grim introduced himself, and opened the door to the hellish noise beyond, making a motion for someone else to approach. “And I, Mr. Vincent, owe you a drink,” “Excuse me?” Vincent asked, rather suspicious. They had just been fined a considerable amount of money and suspended without pay. Somehow they knew Grim was connected somehow. “And why do you owe me a drink?” A waitress entered and passed Grim a wine glass as she walked on to Vincent to place the cup on the table before him. Soon, the woman walked out, giving Vincent a playful grin before departing. “Wine, straight from Rome itself,” Grim explained and held up their own glass. “You killed Deitric Allenwulf, that Hunter you got fined for out in the Green,” Instantly Vincent became wary, looking at the Drink before placing it down and away from himself. “I did no such thing,” “I was at the scene of the crime itself, Bear-Rifle through the faceplate.” Grim observed, pointing at Vincent, “You should have aimed for the gut, let him die slowly,” “I take it you and Deitric were not on the best of terms?” Vincent asked nervously. “I was at Buffalo during the riots, Deitric suckered me into a job that I really did not want to do,” Grim noted, now indicating the sea of people beyond the glass, “The credits I earned bought the old club here outright, and I still had more money then I will ever need to spend,” Vincent’s eyes glossed over a moment, and their mouth gaped, “You’re Grim!” “Unfortunately,” Grim conceded with a nod of his head. “You owe me more than just a drink then,” Vincent said angrily and snatched the wine glass up to sipped at it. “Did they tell you who my Father is?” “Not really, not interested in your Father, just you killing Deitric,” Grim said indifferently, and held up their wine glass, “Thanks for killing a right bastard,” “You really did not like him did you?” Vincent asked, reluctantly holding up their glass to toast as well. “Are you even going to ask me why?” “Nope, I honestly don’t care,” Grim answered bluntly and did not partake in their glass as Vincent drained theirs. Instead, the Hunter placed it down, then asked, “How is the wine?” “Bittersweet,” Vincent grunted. Without a flourish, Grim tossed Vincent the heart-shaped locket. It was caught and open, projecting the dead in front of Vincent’s eyes. Stunned, Vincent looked up, and Grim had a golden pistol already aimed at them. Shot after shot rang out and hit its mark, unheard and unwitnessed by the crowd. Vincent screamed in surprise and then fell silent as Grim emptied the magazine with slow, deliberate shots. The elaborate pistol clicked twice before Grim tossed it away in disgust. Looming over the body, Grim snatched the locket up and spat on the corpse. “That was for the girl,” Sitting down, a small crew in corporate jumpsuits with LFI branding on the sleeves, entered the room and started to surround the body of Vincent. Before they did anything, Grim spoke up, gesturing to the corpse. “Toss that into the Green,” “And if someone from Beltross Barony comes asking questions?” one of the men asked. “File a report that Vincent went out with another Patrol, trying to hide from the Guilds,” Grim responded without hesitation or thought, “Cultist shot him dead in a firefight,” “Think that will cover it?” With a roll of his eyes, and pocketing the locket as he stood, Grim answered, their tone dismissive, uncaring if it was enough to cover anything. “First, when the Guilds find out that Vincent’s little group murdered Hunters, the Red Raptors not being able to score contracts with the Guilds will be the least of the problem. Beltross Barony Board of Directors would not dare challenge Lapis-Fernum Industries in any of its Cities, much less challenge the Guilds. Not after Buffalo.