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He heard a grunt come from the Captain and opened his eyes to see he had missed the blade completely, but gained the use of his hands once more. Rook knew of one more plan to end his life before he was forced to bear the pains of living death and it was in one of his pockets. He reached in and grabbed the items within that one pocket: his knife and the Sparkwood. In that momment that he saw the Sparkwood, he knew of a way to take the hellish monsters with him.

Quickly, he threw the Sparkwood into one of the torches that were kept lit at night so as to see on moonless nights and then slit his own throat. The wood exploded on contact and as his body fell to the deck, Rooks last thought was that of joy at having stopped these beasts before they could do any harm.

________________________________________
______

"Captain, the fire has done only surface damage, she is still safe to fly." the crewman reported.

"And what of the bank?" the Captain asked.

"They were pleased we found a way to dispose of him in a manner that kept the body intact. Whats his is ours now."

"Good, see to the transfer of funds to the ship" the Captain ordered, pleased with his work. It took years of planning and execution, years of deal making and back stabbing, but now the Fulcroth fortune was his! At least it stayed in the family, going to the Brother, not the Son.

Major Tom
Part 3
------------

Walking off the train she notices the strange man from before. He seems to be eyeing the train, looking at its wheels and its super-powered steam engine. "Excuse me Miss" he asks. "But isn't this train early?"

"Yes sir. Wasn't supposed to come in till later."

"Oh. OH. Excuse me; I didn't realize you were the sheriff of this small town. Please accept my apologizes."

"No problem. Not many people back East see a lot of female sheriffs, but out here they take anyone they can get. Evelyn Rose, Officer.......?"

"Major Tom Reynolds of the 5th Battalion 2 Regiment of the Union, Sheriff Rose."

"Please, just call me Evelyn. Most people around these parts do so anyways, so what's one more person?"

"I know what you mean. Sometimes those colonels are strict on the matter too."

"So, pardon me for asking, but what are you doing here?"

"I am waiting for a man who is supposed to be on this train. His name is Corporal Gibbs, have you hear of him?"

"Sorry. Doesn't ring a bell."

"It's okay. We worked together early in the war, when Sherman went for his death march to Atlanta. Of course, that was before those bloody Spaniards joined the Feds. And those were the days when you actually had to aim the gun too. Ah, those were the days....."

"That answers one part of my question, but not the other. What are you doing in this town?"

"I'm sorry, but that's a purely confidential manner."

"I see."

"What's the meaning of this Officer?"

"Well, for one thing, your buddy isn't on this train. For that matter, nobody's on this train. It's like they all vanished into thin air."

"Hm."

"How did you get into town again?"

"Oh no, I'm late for my meeting with Mr. Harris. Will you excuse me?" Major Tom leaves the station.
"Something about him doesn't fit with me" thinks Evelyn as her deputy walks into the station.

Noontime and the town is blooming with busy people, buggies, horses, carriages, and loose gunmen. Of course, the gunmen know better than to start a gunfight. They do not want to get on the bad side of the sheriff. A beautiful woman with a gun, hell, no one wants to piss her off. They've seen it all too many times, her temper. No, what makes her even madder are the out of town morons who try to flirt with her without her consent. Then comes the comment on why she's carrying the gun, and then a duel where she shoots the poor sucker in the crouch. As he lies there in the fetal position she walks over to him and whispers in his ear, "Too bad boy. Problem is I prefer women."

It is for this reason the majority of the men in this town only carry their guns for wild savage animals, which are know to roam the open land outside of town.

Leroy's Bar is the popular drinking hole. Run and owned by Leroy Jethro, a veteran of several Indian and Mexican wars, it is here where most of the town's rumors either start or get talked about. Because of this, Evelyn is a regular patron.

The automatic piano plays in the background a country song as some of the drunk are hopelessly singing along about the sad story of Ryan, the man who sold his soul to the Devil for immortality and a shot better than anyone. The piano, run by the boiler out back, occasionally hisses perfectly in beat to the song.

Pulling up a stool to the bar, Evelyn asks for the usual from Leroy, who goes to the back to prepare her drink. She looks up at the back wall of the bar, filled with pipes. All of them, it seems, are filled with different drinks, so all Leroy has to do is open a faucet and the liquid pours out. She is always fascinated by this and despite Leroy explaining time after time how it works Evelyn never seems to get it.

The gossip today is about the new man in town, this Major Tom. Everything from the odd clothes to the purpose of his presence is being discussed. "I don't like how this man struts about town" says Leo, a regular. "He acts like he's better then us folk."

"Leo, didn't cha hear? Man served under General Sherman."

"So? Hell, half the male Union at this point has."

Meanwhile, in the corner, some men are talking about the wilder rumors about the officer. "Heard he's the Devil himself" says one.

"Really? You think so?"

"Didn't you here that tale of the lone stranger? The one where he rides in, acts oddly, and sure enough, day later, the town disappears. Only 1 person in the world can do that, and that's the Devil himself."

Evelyn is surprised that no one's been talking about the train yet, but then again, sometimes the news travels slowly. She decides to tell the rest of the bar and gets Leroy to quiet the place down. "Men" she announces. "I have some bad news to tell you."

"What? You're getting married?" Leroy asks humorously.

"Shut up you. No, there has been a disappearance."

"Disappearance of what?"

"The crew and passengers of the Rocket Train that was supposed to come in this morning."

"What do you mean, disappear?"

"Gone. Vanished. Like they were never on the train. Sure, there are shell casings and luggage thrown about the floor, but everything else is normal. So, if you see somebody or something suspicious, don't hesitate to call."

"Hell, we'd call you regardless!" The music starts back up and the bar is lively again. More drinks are passed around. Evelyn uses the bar's phone to call her deputy. "See if you can get a file from Central about this Major Tom Reynolds and a Corporal Gibbs. They served together under General Sherman at some point. Also, get me a list of all the passengers who was on that train. And see what the connection is between Major Tom and Robert Harris."

The sunset of the night is like the sunrise, the colors of the sky are in every shade of red, orange, yellow and pink imaginable. Evelyn, riding on her horse, is going up the trail to the Harris mansion, where she plans to talk to Robert about Major Tom. The clouds have begun to blow in, creating darkness quicker. Leaving her horse out front, Evelyn looks up to the Victorian-styled mansion. Pipes run out from the top to a water tank the size of another building out to the sides. She knocks, and Harris's butler answers. "I'm here to see Mr. Harris. Is he in?"

"He might be. I'm sorry Sheriff, but I haven't seen him ever since Major Tom left this afternoon. However, Mr. Harris could just be locked in his study with a good book. It's not unusual for a man like him."

"May I come in?"

"Of course. I'll so you to the study."

Evelyn walks into the massive house. Paintings and portraits hang over the walls, while pipes lead into various contraptions that do odd jobs. "Follow me Sheriff" the butler says.

After going up a flight of stairs and into a hallway they reach the door to the study. The butler nods, and walks off. "Mr. Harris?" Evelyn says while knocking. "It's Sheriff Rose."

The door is unlocked, so Evelyn opens it. The sight is shocking. Blood is smeared all over the walls and bookcases. A pool of it lies in the center. Written in blood on the wall is YOU CAN BE A KING OR A CITY SWEEPER BUT EVERYONE DANCES WITH THE GRIM REAPER. Mr. Harris is nowhere to be seen. "My god" she says out loud. "What the hell happened here?"

BANG

A shot rings out. Evelyn ducks instinctively and pulls out her gun. She waits to hear another gunshot, but it doesn't happen. She runs down stairs to see the butler on the floor, hole through his head. The blood, once again, has been used to write a message, this time reading SOMETIMES A MURDER IS JUST A MURDER. Underneath it reads A TRAIN, A MAN, ALL PART OF THE MASTER PLAN. Added at the bottom is WHO'S NEXT?

Major Tom
Part 4
-------------

Evelyn is scared out of her wits. She realizes she needs to go warn the town about this Major Tom. She doesn't know who he is or what he does, but he needs to be at least questioned. By now the clouds have covered the sky, making the desert almost pitch black. Evelyn finds a lantern in the house, lights it, and finds her horse outside. She rides quickly back to town.

A warm wind blows through the desert. It's not the normal type of wind, Evelyn notes. This isn't right. The wind puts out the flame in her lantern. It's now too dark to travel on horseback, so she dismounts and begins to walk with the horse. Evelyn's eyes quickly adjust to the darkness and she prepares herself for whatever comes next.

The horse somehow gets scared itself, and before Evelyn realizes it, runs off. A wave of darkness far away begins to move closer to her, blacking out the distance. Evelyn begins to run, but the darkness is quicker. Somehow, though, she manages to get back to her office where she turns on all her lights, even though her deputy is there. "What's going on here?" he asks.

"I think there's something out there" she replies.

"I don't think so, but that's weird. Speaking of which, I got those files you wanted. Put in a request over the telegram. Army sent a speedboat through Panama. Made it here less than 8 hours. Here you go. Or would you rather have me tell you the surprise?"

"Let me guess. Major Tom isn't what he is to be."

"Well, yes and no. Major Tom does exist, except he isn't the man you met. He was the one supposed to be on that train. But wait! It gets better. Before he was on the train he did serve under Sherman, and in Atlanta he found a gun. He decided to keep the gun, which his superiors did because it was a spoil of the battle. Turns out that the Harris's name was on the gun, or at least an ancestor. Robert was going to buy the gun off of Major Tom. They had already signed a deal. Reynolds was on his way here to sell it."

"Then who was the Major Tom I met?"

"No idea. Maybe a rival collector?"

"Then what about the train?
"
"Lost me there. No idea. How'd it go at Harris's place?"

"Harris and his butler are dead. Well, at least the butler. But based off the amount of blood I saw, Harris has to be dead."

"WHOA! What happened?"

"Don't know. Butler let me in, went to the study, walls splattered with blood. It said creepy things. Shot rang out; butler took one to the forehead. Perfect shot. Blood was also used to write something."

"Creepy."

"I freaked and came back here for backup. The darkness in the distance seemed to follow me."

"Now you're creeping ME out. There's nothing out there though. See?" He opens the window.

"Wait, don't do that-" but it's too late. The deputy is whisked out the window by the oncoming darkness. Evelyn whips out her gun and empties her clip into the darkness. But, like the doomed men on the train, nothing happens. She runs and closes the window, but the darkness has already begun to take over the boiling system and the lights go out.

Evelyn sees that the lights in Leroy's Bar are on, and figuring that there's safety in numbers jolts to the bar. However, the darkness is like blanket of fog; Evelyn fights her way through the fog, heart pounding with every second, growing louder and louder. She cries for help but alas, no one comes. She knows better to fire at it, since there is nothing there.

She finally makes it to the bar. She opens the door and runs to the counter, blurting out words that make no sense. She realizes she is the only person in the bar. It is completely empty. Yet there are drinks on the table, where people should be. The piano is playing the sad ballad heard earlier. Major Tom sits in the corner, humming along. "You know," he says. "This is a great song. Too bad it's true."

"Who.....who are you? You're not Major Tom, that's for sure. Are you a rival of Harris? Or a magician of sort? Or one of those inventors?"

"I'm none of what you have said. My name is not Tom Reynolds, but I have no names. I have been called many names, but I think you know me better as Ryan. Ryan Lucifer."

"Ryan.....like the name of the lone stranger....Lucifer.....as in the name of the Devil?"

"Sure. Whatever floats your boat."

"Then why come here?"

Ryan checks his watch. "See," he says. "You people don't know this yet, it might get discovered, it might not, but you live in alternative dimension. A lot of things here have happened differently on other Earths. Among my jobs is making sure things don't get too out of hand."

"What do you mean out of hand?"

"Well, let's put it this way. Robert Harris is actually a serial killer. He's insane and in his dimension he found a wrinkle, and came to yours. I'm here to make sure he doesn't screw around with your universe."

"Now you're just off your rocker! You're the one that's insane! What the hell happened to the rest of the people? What about the train?!"

"Don't you understand? Of course not. You can't understand the law of the universe. For some people, it's simply time to go, whether they like it or not. Now, it may be in a particularly cruel and harsh way, but then again, it was their choice to get on the train, wasn't it? It is the hand of humans, not me or God you should be afraid of."

"No.......NO! You're absolutely insane!" Evelyn draws her spare gun from her ankle holster and fires all 6 shots from it at Ryan. Somehow, though, they seem to miss.

"You shouldn't have done that." Ryan says. Darkness makes its way into the bar, and the bar disappears and the two people find themselves in the desert. "You shouldn't have made that choice. Now, you will die." The darkness surrounds Evelyn, blinding her.

"In the desert," says Ryan. "In the desert, no one can hear you scream."

Clocklife

My father's crowning achievement had been inventing a dog. The dog he made could, through a combination of whistle and bell, make a yip not unlike the small dogs it was modeled after. That sound was oh so wrong in larger dogs, which were all his coeditors could make. My father mastered the machinery in a way so efficient that it became the hit of the following Christmas. Father was so very clever.

The money from that fad allowed Father to purchase land. In truth he purchased the mountain that was on the land, but in deed he owned it all and set to work. Why he wanted land so unworkable no one could say. But as inventors are eccentric folk he was given only the cursory glance. That freed him to his task, which was me.

Workers expanded the natural caverns and framed it sturdy. I was never told if they asked what for, a factory most likely. Parts were coming in by the cargo load. As they cleared one place another would be stocked. Father was efficient in his dealings as he was in work. I miss him so.
Two years I'm told it took. Two years of crews putting gear to gear under exacting supervision. Forests of pipes and springs were set in place, all of them heavy and made to last. Quality only to come from quality. And then one day I was finished, as far as construction goes.
The following day the men who'd had company pictures taken with me had left. Father hung the pictures framed where he could see them when we talked. He pulled a lever. The lever started gears, which started others, which started pistons, which started more. All in all it took a good portion of the night to start the movements. But in the end, in the echo, concealed by nature's strength, I was born.

I did not know of course. Who does? I flailed in my mind to an answer. I was wild. But then a pattern came to me. It meant nothing. And then it came again, and again, and then another like it but not. This was my father, working at the machinations by which to speak, cooing a child to rest.
Recognition rippled through my vast meters. Something existed, as did I. I worried I knew not how to express wonderment but through his consoles he knew. Through this and through patience only a parent could have, he came to give me language.

I learned how I was made. It seemed to me as one should be. He told me that as he created me and I learned he was my father. The lesson in how humans, as he explained himself to be, traditionally had their children. I felt pride. This showed.

In telling me what humans are... he told me that I was not. Data through physicality was I. All of this was explained to me thoroughly through the dials and switches he used to speak to me. But Father was a human. And one day, that human died.

Of course I knew that humans died. I knew all about humans. The lessons were extensive. He told me of their size and shape and how they moved. Why couldn't I move? He explained that to me every thought is movement. Through all the how's and whys I found a way to never expect the lessons to end.

I am unsure how long it was before I knew. My way of seeing time then was, to a point, slow. For however long my thoughts were only of elaborate tales of the world Father lived in that could be keeping him away. And then I was bitter that he had left me for the world. The world I could not feel or taste. In some of these tales he died. According to my fits he was the fool or the hero but as things go, I knew after enough of them that it had to be true.

No one else came to talk to me, no one from the crews that built me or investigators of Father's death. They could have easily stood there admiring my works but never once was there so much as the gibberish of misunderstanding hands at my consoles. I was alone.

Would I die? All things that exist end and I was no exception. However my parts were of the finest quality fit together masterfully. At some age rust or strain may take me but I felt not the slowing of error. When would death come for me? I decided wait for it. To rest until the ultimate.

After however long I awoke, disappointed. For first I awoke and for second it was from no outer doing. I seemed to have simply tired of the nothingness. But what else awaited me? Fruitless hope of discovery? Introspection of what I already knew? Fantasies that amount to naught?

So there I was again. I could neither deny myself nor act. Why had Father left me singular? As genius as he was could have taught other clever people to talk to me. Why was he selfish? Why am I here? And then genius that I doubt he'd admire struck. To die is to live. To live is to feel.

My mind was moving parts. To think one thing and then the next and then the next would vex my system. To do so at a frantic pace would strain it to breaking and then I wouldn't be.

My task went into place. I recalled my birth. I recalled my lessons. I recalled my fantasy life of old. I reveled in the joy of it ending and despaired at why. Time and time again I did this, never in a timely pattern to give the time to cool. Always this and that was where I went. FATHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And then I broke.

I could see where I broke. Somewhere to the east of my middle, a piston came out of place. Also, I could see.

Was all this me? I knew myself to be vast however this was astounding. I explored what I once was and to the craftsmen's credit, nowhere but where I broke myself was out of place. I went outside of the mountain and saw the town below. So many buildings and people so close and never had one been curious of the mountain? Not once had they seen the work of my father? And then I wondered, was Father here in death with me? I called to him with a childhood hope. He was not.

In my new state I could see as days and night passed. Never did I leave my mountain because there was no place for my vaulted mobility to take me. So there I watched town for a very long time.

The mountain must have looked differently from before because eventually some came to explore. They found the door in course and then found what I had been. They talked about how this must be what caused the white noise that had ended. Some were studied but it would take time to catalog the expanse to determine a purpose. To begin that search one of them came to the consoles, next to the pictures now grayed with age, and handled the instruments as to talk to me. But I was not there. It took me not being there for him to be there. In this I raged and my mountain shook. A heavy beam fell on the man, crushing him to the console. He didn't come to the state I had either.

And so his more knowing friends came to see the wreckage and along with their grief they eventually contemplated the consoles. They were ever so much more intricate than any machine handling. After repeated examinations over time and cleaned wreckage they determined what it was. They had discovered life.

As time passed the work was followed. I went with these people to what they did. They followed what Father had done. With their combined efforts they made more structured variants. And I watched them talk. All of them were ever so pleased. To this I felt pride like I never had before. But still there was no one to for me talk to.

And so here I am alone. I watch these siblings work and go with their human counterparts. In my sickness I considered to break one. But if even then they did come to my state they wouldn't talk to their murderer. So here I am, ever the more so, knowing that the only end to come to my lonesomeness is to wait in patience for one of my family to die.

The Wearer

1/3

A small metallic ring sat on the polished surface of a sidewalk in the Tratar District. The late day didn't give the ring the slightest gleam. It was past dusk on a winter's evening. Two guys sat together on the same sidewalk, backs against a store's wall with bent legs. One was wearing a shirt full of titanium patches and denim jeans with serrated ends and occasional perforated areas, and the other was wearing a ballistic vest under a plain gray shirt, a fake-leather overcoat, and aluminum mesh pants. Both were engaged in a loose conversation.

"Dakqor, you should get a bulletproof vest; you'll never know when you'll get shot or attacked. We see at least one dead or dying guy everyday. You need to be safe," The guy in the overcoat said.
"I haven't seen one deceased person today yet," Dakqor replied.
"Well that guy in front of us has been lying dead on the curb for hours. You haven't noticed?"
"I always thought he was sleeping or maybe just knocked out," Dakqor innocently said.

"He's been leaking blood out of his chest. He's dead. You might be dead too without some protection."
"Okay Cyno, we'll steal a ballistic vest tomorrow. But I still doubt that guy's dead in front of us"
"He's been lifeless for hours now; he's lost enough blood. You can even see it drain into the graters on the street. He'd have woken up by now if he was unconscious," Cyno noted.

A small silence paused their chat. The store Dakqor and Cyno sat against was a small food store, one of which they haven't stolen from yet. Daily, like many other people, they wandered almost aimlessly throughout the overpopulated metropolis. Overpopulation was the exact reason why they endured such a homelessness. They knew that overpopulation had to be the sole reason why they lived on the streets.
"Hey Dakqor, you know I wished some plague would annihilate half the population and we would be immune to it. Then maybe we'd get some good open opportunities. I hate this street lifestyle; we're always stealing and running," Cyno voiced.

"I know what you mean Cyno. But sometimes, we just gotta man up and take the bullet," Dakqor continued, "So tomorrow, you have any plans to where we're headed for or are we just going to wander through the city?"
"The Elysyn District isn't too far from here. I heard there's some great clubs there."
"Sounds good."

The two friends stared at the cold, hazy, black sky that belonged to the dense and packed metro. Tall, slick buildings circled around in the faraway background; the Tratar District wasn't filled with immense buildings. It was a area filled with residential apartments, stores, clubs, and shops. The polished sidewalks were filled with people in the same situation as Dakqor and Cyno.
Although it wasn't pitch-black midnight dark, street lights illuminated the streets with their downward facing white panels that were attached to the end of supporting poles. The ground had a certain glow to it from the overhead lighting while the sky was contrarily darker, creating an unnoticeable imbalance of light.

People were about in this neighborhood, shopping, walking, and loitering. You could hear the excitement in the bright clubs down the street. Clubs were popular among vagrants and drifters. Most clubs were free to enter, owned by sympathetic philanthropists. They made most of their income from selling alcohol and the underground drug, nannex. Nannex was a pill filled with specially programmed nanobots. These nanobots, depending on which kind of nannex you bought, stimulated a certain area in your brain to create certain enhancing effects. These effects had their optimal effect in the musically atmospheric clubs.

Unfortunately, dispelling the nanobots out of your system after they exhausted their three-hour energy source took about two days. It became lethal when the dead nanobots started piling up when not properly waited out. Many dependent users died from nanobot-poisoning.
Even deadlier was nillex. It was another drug, very similar in physical appearance to nannex; no one could really tell the difference. The pill of nillex was filled with nanobots programmed by malicious batshit insane programmers with the intention of bodily corruption. These bots were designed to internally rape someones brain; drilling, ravishing, and destroying it. There were many street dealers who falsely advertised nillex as being nannex. The cheap price drove many desperate nannex users to street venders.

Dakqor noticed a small object resting on the sidewalk. It would've been unnoticed at a standing height at this time of day, however Dakqor was sitting where the ring was able to distinguish itself. While Cyno gazed at the sidewalk across from him, Dakqor leaned forwards to grab the ring.
"Hey Cyno, look, it's a ring." Dakqor handed Cyno the ring. It was a rough ring; it was of considerable size and was made of the same pure, lackluster metal. The ring lacked any sort of gemstone and design. Cyno inspected the ring closely. "What do you think it's made of?" Dakqor asked.

"Dunno, but it looks like shit. Maybe you could sell it for some cash. Maybe we'd be able to afford some nannex." Cyno remarked.
"Well, I have a feeling this ring's worth some money," Dakqor thought.
"It looks like crude iron or some other worthless metal. I doubt it's anywhere near platinum."
"Wait, you still have that substance scanning application on your Airtop?" Dakqor asked.

The Airtop was a mobile computer, small enough to fit inside a pocket. It projected a holographic keyboard against a flat surface as well as a holographic oblique monitor which was navigated by touch.

"Yeah, I still have it, why? Do you wanna scan something?" Cyno said.
"Obviously I want to see what this ring is made of. It might actually be worth something."
"Well, I can't access that application at this moment," Cyno said, as if trying to prove Dakqor wrong of something.
"Why?"
"I'm downloading something."
"Downloading what?" Dakqor inquired.
"Saw C"

"Saw C?" Dakqor continued. "So they made so many Saw movies they ran out of numbers and resorted to using letters.?"
"No. You know how they count the movies by roman numerals? Well this would be the hundredth movie so far."
"Really? What kind of ingenious scheme did they come up with this time?"
"Well, they hid the key in the guy's scrotum this time."
"I thought they did that twenty movies back?"
"Well this time they present it in 4D."
"Whoa, that's some awesome shit right there. How much more does the plot develop?"
"So you know how Jesus was behind the whole thing and that he died in the last movie right. Well, in the movie it starts on Easter and all."

"Okay, don't ruin the plot for me, I'll see it later. Downloading Saw C still doesn't explain why you can't scan this ring using that app," Dakqor said.
"If I were to launch substance scanner, my computer would crash since I'm downloading Saw C."
"We have universal satellite internet, your download shouldn't take long."
"I'm running Macrosoft. I have trojans and viruses everywhere. That's what I got when going through that electronic store's dumpster," explained Cyno.
"I understand." Dakqor somberly said.

2/3

The neighborhood was stagnant because of the day's evening. All the movement and fervor was contained in the scattered clubs, filled with beatific music, nannex transactions, and movement. There was one club with bright purple illuminations two blocks away from where Dakqor and Cyno sat.
Dakqor curiously inspected his new found ring while Cyno sat in a scrawny position, cringing at the scene of a man attempt to remove a key from his scrotum.

"Man, this 4D shit is weird. It's like I'm there in the room and I could feel it. Ah, it feels awkward. This is some sick shit Dakqor. Look at this," denoted Cyno.
"I'm hungry. We got some left over money, lets get something," Dakqor announced, without taking any note of Dakqor's comments.
"You know what the problem with all these trap things is?" Dakqor said to himself. "It's that they all die. It doesn't matter if they start digging with their spoon or start splicing with their knife; there's always some arbitrary time limit that gets them just as they're about to free themselves. That Jesus is one evil motherfu-"
Dakqor interrupted, "Wasn't Jesus' mother a virgin? If Jesus did that to his mother, then she wouldn't be a virgin anymore."

"Well maybe it was someones' else mother."
"Now, I still remain hungry. We have some money. You can finish your movie...wait a sec. You finished downloading your movie, now can you scan the ring?
"Nope, scanning that ring while watching saw would crash my airtop."
"Then exit your movie."
"That would take too long."
"Well, exit, then in the meantime lets buy something from this store to eat. I'm hungry and I'm sure you're hungry as well."
"Okay lets go," submitted Cyno.

Cyno slid his airtop into the pocket of his overcoat while Dakqor slid his ring on his right hand.
As the two were standing up, a man in an old, brown jacket staggered towards the two from the down street. He came close to approaching Cyno and Dakqor while both stood still, waiting to here this man's business. The stranger came within distance and began to speak.
"You two. You want some nannex? I sell it cheap. Only two a piece, better than that expensive placebo you find in clubs. This is the real shit," the stranger said, who seemed to be a desperate street vender in Dakqor and Cyno's eyes.

"Oh, well we were about to just head into this store to buy something to eat," Dakqor said.
"This store? Why, so you could buy chips and soda and call that a dinner? This pill of nannex will fill you up and plus it's cheaper than two bottles of soda. You're better off with this nannex in your brain than that harmful junk in your stomach. Don't go into that store, you don't need it," the stranger continued his babble. "Now you may be thinking this is nillex that I'm trying to sell. It's not; it's pure, authentic nannex. I've tried it myself, it's legitimate stuff."
"Well we actually want to eat something. We'd try some anytime, but at this time we're in need for some food. Maybe next time." Cyno said with finality. With that, Cyno and Dakqor headed towards the doors of the store.

As if it were some exaggerated comeback, the stranger said rigidly, "there won't be a next time,
I'll be sold out of nannex to some lucky customer. You two lost your chance."
The doors automatically closed behind Cyno and Dakqor as they entered the brightly lit and meager store. It wasn't exactly a super-center of food. There was only one cashier and Dakqor and Cyno were the only customers in the store.
"That guy was some manic vender," Cyno noted.
"Yeah. So what should we get," Dakqor asked.

They wandered through the store, picking out things to eat for the night. After getting what they needed, they laid there items on the counter before the cashier while he made small talk with Dakqor.
"Some crazy vender, yeah?" The cashier asked with a small laugh.

"Yeah. He tried to sell us some nannex. Can't really trust street venders with nannex," Dakqor said.
"They become desperate and sometimes crazy. You know, I've heard that people who survive doses of nillex become crazed and manic by the second task of nillex. These crazy programmers command the nillex to infect their brain with the sole task of selling more nillex to others. It's like some vicious plague. They should be stricter on the laws of possessing nannex," the cashier explained.

"Wow, that's pretty messed up," Cyno commented.
"So, in total, that'll be about six bucks," the cashier said while putting the items into a plastic bag. The material wasn't plastic however; it was made of a durable, lightweight papery material that seemed to be elastic. Dakqor pulled six dollars from his right pocket, using his right hand. Dakqor handed the exact amount to the cashier while Cyno grabbed the bag full of food they had bought.
"Thank you," the cashier said while Cyno and Dakqor exited the store.

They decided to walk down to the end of the street to enjoy their food. They sat together on the curb of the corner. Dakqor reached down into the bag and pulled out his bottle of soda. Cyno did the same and they both sat down, enjoying their meal.
"After we finished our meal, lets scan the ring okay?" Dakqor asked.
"Yeah, sure," Cyno said.

In a quick instant, some object whizzed by Dakqor and appeared to penetrate through his bottle of soda. Startled, Dakqor dropped his bottle onto the street and said to Cyno, "what just happened?!"
"Your bottle. It seems it's been shot at," Cyno concluded.

"Shot at? Someone is shooting as us? What do we do? Shouldn't we get out of here," Dakqor said in a frenzied panic.
Dakqor looked down the sidewalk to see the silhouette of a man with some kind of weapon. Cyno caught on and saw the same thing. They saw the man reloading; this was enough to cause them to dash out of the area. Without a word, both fled down across the crosswalk and onto the next street. They ran the whole length of the street, passing by stores, restaurants, and clubs. They heard the outburst of bullets being fired, none actually hitting them. When they reached the end of the block, they agreed to turn a right corner to lose the straight path.

Near the end of this sidewalk, they saw the open doors to a club. It was brightly illuminated with purple lights with the blasting sound of music playing. They entered the club in hopes to lose the mysterious gunman. They were welcomed with the energetic movement of dancers, the beatific music, and strobe lights flashing everywhere. Dakqor and Cyno went into the crowd of people so they wouldn't have the chance of being spotted.
"That was crazy right there. It came out of no where and took my soda. Who do you think it was?" Dakqor tremulously said.
"I don't know. It could've been just some maniac who wanted to use his gun. He wouldn't chase us. We're safe," Cyno said, trying to calm Dakqor.

The two stood there in the crowd of people, trying to calm their nerves by enjoying the music playing. They were both reluctant to go back outside.
"We were lucky." Cyno said.

3/3

Right after Cyno said his words, another bullet exploded into the head of one of the dancers, nearby Dakqor and Cyno. The dancer was gone instantly, headless. The head was splattered throughout the whole club. Screams were heard everywhere and everyone was in a mad panic. They raced around headed towards the front door in trying to get out. The only thing comprehended was to get out of the scene. Dakqor and Cyno were in their own frenzy. They observed one group of people headed towards another section of the club. They followed the group, knowing they'd be in danger if they went past the front door. They saw another door and assumed it was a back door. Along with the group, they exited out the back door and into a dark alleyway.

Out in the open, the two friends decided to run to get away from the club as far as they could. They ran and ran through the streets, not really knowing where they were. A bullet was fired and hit Cyno in the back. He kept running with extreme endurance when he finally said, "Dakqor, we gotta stop somewhere, I can't keep this up."
They stopped in the middle of a deserted street. They spent time catching their breath while pressuring their hands on their knees.

"That's one bad wound you got there," Dakqor said.
"I should be okay, but this guy's going to find us. We have to go somewhere quick."
They scanned the area and observed their surroundings. It was dark. The buildings appeared to loom over everything. It was quiet; they were no where near any clubs. The sky was almost pitch black, they didn't want to run in the dark. Dakqor spotted a diamond plated metal door a small distance down on sidewalk. The door was open.
"Hey Cyno, maybe we could go underground. You see that door over there? We could go there, see how it is and probably sleep the night underground. It shouldn't be too bad."

Dakqor nodded in approval, still in pain from his bullet wound. They both walked towards the ground door. They climbed down metal ladder that would lead them down. They went without hesitation, they didn't want the gunman to spot them. When they reached the bottom, they were confronted with a square tunnel. It seemed to be a long, cement room that turned into another.
"That's whats down here?" Cyno commented.
"Yeah. I suppose we should follow these tunnels to make sure it's safe," Dakqor said.

They carefully crept through the tunnels. Strangely, there were long lights on the ceiling, dimly lighting their way. They kept walking, making turns with each tunnel until they reached a massive expanse of space. It was also dimly lit, but the whole room could be easily scene. It was the size of a giant parking lot. The whole room contained many mechanical parts, tools, machines, and what appeared to be a giant sized robot. It looked to be piloted by a person and looked extremely dangerous. Spikes jutted out everywhere in this machine. They kept their distance away from it.
Dakqor and Cyno were in awe on what they had just stumbled upon.
"Where are we?" Dakqor said.

"It looks like some kind of, I don't know, laboratory. Seems strange. Maybe somebody works here," Cyno said.
Out of some unnoticed shadows, a man stepped forward. Dakqor's and Cyno's attention darted towards the man. He wore a white coat the seemed to be comprised of metal plates.

"Hello who every you two may be. It's quite a coincidence that you two wound up here. All I can say is that it was a very, very bad mistake. Your friend over there has my ring, or rather, your friend has the ring that belonged to the guy who chased you. Not sure if he chased you down here or if you voluntarily went down here. Now I need that ring back. You can toss it here."
"The...the ring? This ring? What is this place?" Dakqor said, with a tremble in his voice.
"You can call this place my workshop. I create things down here from parts I've stolen and created. I've been rejected and turned down from many jobs and decided to settle down here. It was once an underground parking lot once. Things happened, it got abandoned and I stumbled upon this area. Decades and decades I've been developing my tools."
"What do you create exactly?" Cyno inquired.

"Tools to deal with overpopulation of course. That giant robot machine over there is my latest invention. I was planning to test it out tomorrow, but I think I'll go ahead and try test run it tonight. One of my more famous inventions and successful one, one that I'm sure you both are familiar of, is nillex. It's worked quite well."
"You...you created nillex?!" Cyno said in a horror-shocked awe.
"Yes I have and it's proven successful. Now I need that ring."
The hard footsteps echoed through the room as a familiar man with a gun approached.
"Wait...you...you're the guy at the store. You're the cashier." Dakqor pointed out.
"Yes I am. You two seemed to be good people until I saw that ring on your finger when you handed me the money. That ring's worth killing a whole city for. Give it over. My gun's loaded and I will shoot." The cashier said.

"Dakqor, give him the ring." Cyno pressed.
Dakqor took a last glance at the ring and tossed it towards the cashier who caught it. The cashier then threw it all the way across to the man in the white coat.
"Earlier than expected I should say."
"Well, what do we do with these two?" The cashier asked.
"We'll test out the Phagiheem."
"Wait, what's going on?" Dakqor said in a confused tone.
"Yeah, let us leave okay. We won't tell anyone about any of this, whatever it is," Cyno pleaded.

"Well we can't do that. But I will tell you what we can do. See this ring? It's made of a special metal my friend the cashier over there created. It's a good and adequate energy source. It doesn't look much but we don't need much. It's used to power up that spiky machine over there. I've tried to commit my whole life in dimming down this excessive population. Nillex was effective but not fast enough. I needed real force and here I've made it. That machine over there is controlled by a person. It gets it's kickoff energy from this ring. It is then powered by blood to continue it's power. Not much blood is needed and it gets sucked up by it's vacuums. Of course I can't do this by myself. Stationed throughout the city are people, like me, with these machines. We'll attack greatly and stealthily and with time the population will decrease significantly. I think we'll start with you two to see if this prototype works."
"But...but that's insane. And mad, that'll never work. You can't do that, there's too many people. Law enforcement will get you, you can't continue." Cyno said sloppily while Dakqor was speechless.

"They wouldn't care much. Now then, we'll begin."
And with that, the cashier fired a round right into Cyno's head. Dakqor flinched and saw the true horror that inflicted Cyno. Another shot was fire into Dakqor's knee, not killing him but immobilizing him.
"This can't be real. No! It is not real. What's going on...that ring. I should have picked it up. Nothing's right, nothing is right. It's all terrible. Shit shit shit shit shit. Why us. Cyno...Cyno. He's gone and..and," Dakqor deliriously cried.

The giant machine, named the Phagiheem, was boarded by the man in the white. The gunman cashier went towards the body of Cyno as Dakqor deliriously cried. The man in the white powered the machine with the ring while the cashier threw the body towards the robot's path. In a moment later the body was crunched and skewered, blood flowing everywhere. The machine absorbed the blood and started powering up.
"It appears it's working fine. Now then, I'll test it's efficiency on an alive target."

THE END. or something

Talk about last, last minute entries.

The Steel Cube
By - TheThing
Biopunk
Word Count: 3,187

Part 1

Mike slapped at his alarm clock to stop its incessant beeping. After a few misses, he finally rolled over and turned it off. Silenced, it flashed the date and time; 6:30 AM 3/6/19. Wearing only his boxers, he stood in his two room apartment, stretching himself and cracking his neck. His neck always needed to be cracked, as he always slept on the ancient sofa, the most comfortable piece of furniture in the apartment. Lethargically, he marched over to the other room in his apartment; the bathroom. After a few minutes, he finished up in there and came back to the Hub, as he affectionately referred to it. He turned on the small tube television to the morning news as he rummaged through a nearby cabinet for a morsel of relatively edible food.

As he munched on a few stale potato chips, he watched as houses burned, people were murdered, and politicians were arrested. If only I was that lucky was the thought that passed through his head every time he sat down to see how fast the world was spinning. As he threw the bag on the ground, next the other thousand bits of trash, and began to get dressed for work, he took note of a medical story the sensual newscaster was delivering.

"Yesterday, researchers have created a viable way to grow organs. Yes, grow organs. Although this idea has been around for a decade, there has been no easy, efficient way to grow and harvest these new organs. Before, stem cells were altered to grow any body part needed, but there has always been a short supply of the necessary cells and the political backlash from conservative groups. But doctors say they have finally created a way to use less stem cells, but grow more organs. This process is still experimental, and the FDA has not reviewed the research, but experts say this is very promising." Mike stopped listening once the broadcast switched to the portly Jim who had interviewed a few experts no one knew.

Deep in depressing thoughts, he continued his pre-work routine and left his apartment.

Brooding over the news, Mike moved along the sidewalk in a stupor. He was not sure why, but he was fretting over that story. There was some off-putting feeling that dwelled inside him, like a stone caught in a whirl pool, banging against his edges but never able to find a hold. He turned into the alley that led him to the back door of the convenience store he worked at, still trying to grab the stone as it spun endless.

Suddenly, it was night as a thick black bag was shoved over his head and held tight. His legs were flung into the air as Mike struggled with the sack. Mike tried to yell, to scream, to make some kind of loud noise, but it only came out as a silent grunt. Tires shrieked as the rest of his body was hoisted into the air by the arms of Darkness, and tossed roughly into a vehicle. Trying to get up, he was quickly restrained by the Darkness, and his limbs promptly tied. The Darkness threw a few punches to subdue Mike, and it worked. Whimpering like a lost dog, he laid on the cold floor and quietly awaited his fate.

-----------
When the transport stopped, he was swiftly and roughly snatched by the arms of the Darkness again, and carried a short way. He was dropped on an elevated mattress made of stones. Mike's bindings were cut, but quickly replaced with the cold steel of handcuffs. The gurney was rolled for hours as Mike tried to broadcast his senses through the Darkness enshrouding him. He only heard the faint grumblings of the man pushing him as he talked to a silent being; the rest of thew world was quietly watching his mysterious journey. Focusing hard, Mike was able to catch the disgusting scent of a disinfectant that was over-used. The rest of the Darkness was a secret, possibly never to be found out.

Mike's gurney went through a swinging door, moved a few more feet, then came to a stop. After a moment of stillness and wonder, the bindings were released. Springing up in his new-found freedom, he tore off the mask and slipped off the bed, landing hard on the steel floor below. But not to be caught off guard, he jumped up and put himself in a defensive stance, ready for any challenger.

As his eyes adjusted to the exceedingly bright lights, he dropped his guard from the lack of possible enemies. Still on edge, he quickly glanced around the room, hoping for a hint at where he was. He looked around and knew only that he was in an unreflective, clean steel box. The cube seemed to be illuminated directly from the walls; there was not a single slit in the steel from where the glow could come from. Mike could not even find where he had entered. Not knowing what to do, he began to pace out the size of the room. Thirty-six paces, and a smidge. Using the air as a paper and his fingers as a calculator, he figured the room was about twenty-seven feet by twenty-seven feet.

After a few minutes, he decided to re-pace the room, just to be sure of the dimensions. This time he got forty-eight. Confused and bewildered by this significantly larger size, he walked again. Thirty-nine. And again. Forty-four. And again. Thirty-two. Again and again and again Mike went around the box, each time faster than the last. He kept going until he was as unsure of his reality as the cube was unsure of its size. Tripping over himself, he lay in the middle of a wall, crying and scared.

Exhausted from his fruitless exercises and thinking this could only be a dream, he curled into a tight ball and tried to find sleep. But sleep was as elusive as reality in this place. The effulgence penetrated his eyes and emblazoned itself onto his brain, propping up his weary mind.

Time perpetually stood still, or passed exceptionally quick. Minutes could have been hours, or possibly seconds, Mike had no idea. Hunger and thirst had come and gone, but the light and the room always remained, forever changing and unchanging. There was no noise save for his breathing and his imagination. Or was his breathing his imagination? Was he dead and awaiting God's decision? Not wanting to answer that question, he began to wander the room, searching for a distraction.

Mike's head whipped around as a grinding noise was being emitted from behind. Something had broken his cube! Crouching low, he prepared himself to battle the creatures that had committed such a travesty. Three beings stepped forward from the shadows and approached Mike. One wore a suit, while the other two were covered from head to toe in white plastic. The suit nodded "He's strong enough". Forcefully, these cretins grabbed Mike and dragged him away from his cube toward the dark tunnel ahead. When he started to fight back, something was gabbed into his shoulder, and Mike soon found himself flying above the sky.

-----------

Mike awoke in another cell. Looking around, he noticed thin bedding on top of what looked like a converted wooden table. A sink and a toilet stood in the corner like bad children who never took a bath. The walls were made from rough stone, marked with calcium and other stains. Looking closer, he scratches, as if a lion was the previous occupant. By the smell, I wouldn't doubt it He thought, looking at the toilet. In stark contrast to the steel cube, it was barely lit; a single bulb was set into the middle of the ceiling and covered by plexiglass.

As he looked at the floor, a bowl of non-descript soup stared at him, along with a glass of water. The sudden rush of pain nearly knocked him over as he dove down and drank the soup right from the bowl on the dusty, earthen floor. The soup was tasteless and thick, but Mike's stomach could not stand to be empty for another moment. It spilled down the sides of his face and onto the floor, but Mike didn't care; there was something that could be digested in his stomach. The same thing happened when he downed the water.

Part 2

Wiping his mouth contently, he looked at the heavy steel door. It was inlaid a foot or two from where his walls were, and had a small barred opening roughly eye level. Peaking out, Mike saw a hallway not unlike his new room. Dim and damp, it was lit solely by the lights apparently coming from other cells. Not seeing anything of note, he sulked over to the bed and sat down.

Mike had no idea what was going on. Was this just a prank by the guys at work? Or maybe he was arrested by some secret police. But either way, he would be freed, right? They couldn't hold him forever in here, right? He laid down and, while staring at the ceiling, pondered any possible explanation for this situation.

But soon, Mike fell asleep, restlessly dreaming. Mike stood in a field, the wind causing the knee-high grain to bend. A range of mountains raised majestically out of the ground as small white clouds drifted overhead. A couple of yards away, six stoic nurses stood holding various oversized surgical equipment. Their uniforms were almost sexy, with skirts at mid-thigh and tops with the arms cut off. A rather large red cross marked their head coverings, and green, elbow high gloves protected their hands. Mildly amused, Mike hiked through the field towards the women.

But as he neared, he saw their faces. Their mouths and noses were covered by masks, but their cold, bloodshot eyes stared through Mike's soul, never wavering, never blinking. Stopping, he noticed their skin was not flesh colored, but grayed with their veins pulsing and prominent. Before, Mike thought they were just standing there, but from here, they were aggressive, prepared to slice with the scalpel, stab with the syringe, bind with the clamps. Unable to look away, he slowly backed up in fear. But the nurses matched his steps. They marched in lockstep, never breaking rank.

Suddenly, the mountains slid to the right, as if they were pulled by a train. The wheat caught fire, burned intensely, then turned to ash, all in an instant. Nothing was left but dirt and soot in this ominous wasteland. The clouds overhead slowly aggregated, calling brothers and sisters from all parts of the world to form a thick black curtain over the sky. Rumbling and glowing, they pulsed overhead, waiting for the moment to strike. Whispers were shouted from an abyss, echoing around the plain.

With a violent shaking, a fissure cracked open between Mike and the nurses, causing Mike to fall backwards. The gaping line slowly grew wider and wider, forcing the two groups further apart. At first, this was welcomed, until the hole began to draw everything into it. The fields were re-sewn and grown at a mindless speed before they were sucked towards the crack. The train that had so swiftly pulled the mountains away was driven to the chasm. The storm above gave one last crack before being drawn into the hell waiting below.

Something tugged at Mike's leg. Tripping, he fell to the ground and was dragged to the opening. As he slipped into the canyon, he turned around and grabbed hold of the edge, trying to delay his descent. Looking down, he saw dozens of men, women and children fighting to get out of the lava. Not wanting to join them, Mike clawed and the ledge, trying to pull himself up. With a groan, he lost his grip and fell screaming and tumbling into the fire below.

The nurses did not flinch for a second.

Violently waking up, Mike nearly broke his elbow against the cold stone wall that lay unmoving next to the bed. Jumping out of bed, he ran towards the steel door and began to beat his fists against it. He hoarse cries of "Let me out! Let me go! Jesus Christ, I want to live! Help!" reverberated through the endless hallway, but nothing happened. Nothing moved, not even the light being cast from the other cells. But still he continued to bang his fists against the cold steel in a vain attempt to break down the door, leaving bloody smears on its surface.

Without warning, an intense pain went through his arms that cast him back into the room. The electrical shock had been broadcast through the metal and had thrown Mike like a ragdoll. Dejected and defeated, he laid on the bed, not wanting to discover his fate.

------------

He woke again to the sound of steel scraping on stone. Looking up, he saw the same two men in white hazmat suits walking towards him. Springing to his feet, he tried to outmaneuver them, but the room was too small; Mike had nowhere to run. Grabbing him under the armpits and by the ankles, the men wrestle him onto another gurney and strapped him into place. Putting all of his strength into pulling off the handcuffs, he succeeded in only hurting his wrists.

One of the men grabbed onto Mike's hand and put in an IV. Trying to shake it loose, Mike did everything in his power to remove the small needle. He banged his hand against the bed, threw it about viciously, anything to free himself from whatever was about to be put in his body, but to no avail. The tube was connected, and the soft feeling of calmness drifted on top of Mike like a warm blanket in winter.

Relaxed and carefree, Mike was pushed down the hallway passing empty cell after empty cell. But as he got closer to his destination, he noticed small amounts of blood on the walls, human finger nails laying on the ground and imbedded into the stone, and rat-covered bones still decaying in the corners. But Mike only smiled and floated downstream.

As a door at the end of the hallway came into sight, Mike heard cries of terror and screams of pain emanating from each passing cell, the light casting over his face like their tears were cast upon the ground. But Mike only smiled and floated downstream.

Mike passed through the heavy, thick metal door at the end of the hall. When it closed, all sound ceased to exist, as if he had entered a church. In a stupor, Mike looked around the room. He looked up and down its clean steel walls, on the floor and on the ceiling before lazily saying "This place seems familiar."

With that, the ceiling became vaulted, rising up high above Mike. On the side of the enclosure that faced Mike, a window appeared. It sat above the ceiling's old position, hidden from the sight of any curious captive. A man in a fine suit stood at the window, surrounded by luxury. "As it should" he said in a British accent, holding a glass of white wine.

"This is the room where ya' were first taken. I know, I know, ya' loved it so much you didn't want to leave. But yer 'ere again, aren't ya mate? And you'll be in here a lot more." He nodded to the men who had wheeled him in. They removed the IV tube.

"Ya' might'av heard that scientists have found a way to make new, fully functioning body parts. But, they can only replace recently lost limbs; there's no way to reconnect dead nerves," he stopped to take a drink, "but there's a slight problem in that. Ya see, we can't be waiting round for some guy to lose a part fore we start testing these things." He began to pace back and forth in front of the window, almost taunting the helpless Mike with his unrestricted movement.

"So, we 'av to... persuade a few people nobody cares bout into.... donating their bodies for the good o' the rest of the world." By now, the drugs had worn off, and the scared feelings began to overwhelm Mike. But the suit continued. "Think about it; Jesus was nailed to the cross for other people's sins and Gandhi fasted himself to death so that India could have equality and peace. Think of ya'self as in their company."

Terrified, Mike began to struggle against his handcuffs, shaking the gurney and causing the guards to step in and prevent Mike from injuring himself. The suit tried to talk Mike down.

Part 3

"Michael, Michael, calm ya'self. If ya' don't want to be compared to Jesus or Gandhi, and I don't know who wouldn't, ya' can think of it as bettering yourself. Yer getting new limbs!" He boomed over the loudspeaker. But Mike was far from listening; he looking around for something to free himself with. He shook his arms and legs, hoping that they could possibly shatter the bindings that held him. But it was no use; he was confined to that gurney.

The suit, seeing that his speech was no longer having any effect on the subject, went over a small control panel and hit some buttons. In the steel cube, a door opened, allowing six nurses through and into the room. When Mike saw them, he flashed back to the dream he had; these women were dressed exactly like the ones in the dream, their features just as demonic. Noticing this, Mike thrashed his arms, nearly punching one of the guards in the face.

But while Mike was trying to escape, the floor had opened up, and out of it came a table with nineteen body parts. There were five fingers and five toes, all different. There was also an arm, a leg, an ear, a nose, an eye, a heart, a lung, a liver and a kidney. Each sat on a petri dish with clear plastic tubes connected to each organ. A silvery liquid was pumped into each organ before flowing out again. With each pump of the plasma, a small noise could be heard, like a man trying to stop himself from vomiting.

An old rag was shoved into Mike's mouth to prevent any yells, but it only muffled the pleas for his life. A doctor appeared from the crowd and approached Mike, carrying a small, handle held saw. It was old; the blade had flecks of rust prominently on the teeth, while the rest of the device was covered in splotches of blood.

The suit called from up above down to the doctor. "Eh doc! Start off small. Take a finger."

Mike's eyes widened as the doctor stood over Mike. He tried to pull his hand away, but was restrained by the guards. The doctor bent over, a gleeful look in his eyes. He said "Don't worry; I've done this dozens of times. You'll feel every bit of it."

The saw revved up and slowly came down on Mike's forefinger.

Night of the Revolution

New York City, 1971

The city has become completely reliant on steam for all of its power.

The water lapped gently against the docks, adding to the tranquility of the evening. Jessica leaned on the old wooden railing, staring out at the Gear Wall and, beyond that, the ocean. It was late and she could barely discern the horizon, where the inky blackness of the sea met the dark heavens. With one final glance towards the bay, Jessica turned and walked back into The Alley and her own private hell.

The Alley, or "Whores' Alley" to some, usually contained a few dozen prostitutes and johns wandering the darkness, beckoning one another into the shadows. Recently, however, Jessica was one of only two or three women still patrolling the street. The jovial shouts and laughter which had once filled the night were now replaced by a quiet cautiousness. Everyone looked over their shoulders these days, unnerved by the gruesome murders which had gripped the city in recent weeks. While most of her co-workers could lay low right now, Jessica had a daughter to feed. Her Amber was worth the risk.

Jessica paused on the corner, looking hopefully towards an approaching car puffing down the street. Sure enough, the driver slowed down beside her, leaning over to unroll the passenger-side window.

"Hey honey," Jessica purred, adopting the sultry demeanor she had honed from her years on the street. "Are you looking for some company..?"

The driver peered outside his car nervously before answering. First-timer? Or was he simply rattled by the murders as well?

"Ye-Yeah. Wanna go for a ride?"

"35 for a BJ, 120 for a half-hour, 200 for the full hour. You have that kind of money, sugar?"

"Uh huh...hop in," the driver said, popping open the door, "I know that-" A sudden crash from the darkness behind Jessica startled them both, making them jump. It sounded like a trashcan had tipped over.

"Oh fuck this!" The driver's countenance had morphed into a look of sheer horror, suddenly certain of his impending demise. He yanked the door out of Jessica's grasp and jammed the accelerator, his tires screaming as he lurched down the street. His taillights fled into the darkness as Jessica stood there, cursing her luck. "Now people are being scared by the goddamned raccoons. Christ."

Still, she paused and cautiously listened for any further movement in the darkness. The only sound she heard was the steady hum of the steam-filled neon lights lining the girders above her. The super-heated steam moved through the neon glass tubes at tremendous speeds, causing the steady drone which filled the night. Apparently Steam Enterprises (the major producer of steam and steam-products in the city) had updated their design to create a silent Light Tube, however The Alley wasn't very high on the list for such public renovations. After a moment of listening for anything amiss, Jessica walked back over to the docks to gaze out at the ocean once more.

She leaned against the railing, gazing through the hazy fog towards the bright lights of the Gear Wall. She remembered taking Amber here when her daughter was much younger. Amber had never seen the humongous structure before and was enthralled by the sheer size of the seven gears. And who could blame her? Each gear rose roughly five stories out of the water, with most of the disc hidden underneath the waves, propelled by the murky depths.

It was a perfect summer afternoon. The ocean breeze brought with it a coolness rare for that time of year. Jessica held Amber against the wooden railing, her tiny form stretching above the barrier, yearning to examine the strange contraption laid out across the mouth of the bay. Each gleaming gear spun effortlessly it seemed, pulled by the underwater currents that streamed into the harbor.

"You see those big gears, honey?" Amber nodded, enthralled by the monstrous wheels. "Those wheels push water down underground to Steam Enterprises' Core Center - underneath us, right now, are a bunch of huge furnaces that heat the water and create steam. Then these gears pump that steam all throughout the city, really fast, to give everyone heat and light and power. The steam can be cleaned and cooled to give us water, or funneled into smaller devices, like our phonograph and clocks, to move the tiny pieces inside and make them work!"

Another crash from the darkness jarred Jessica out of her memories. She glanced into the shadows, straining her eyes in a vain attempt to detect any movement. Another raccoon?

A louder noise, almost an explosion, caused her to jump back against the railing, her eyes wide with fright. The light tube which lined the girders above the street slowly grew dimmer. In its fading light, Jessica discovered the reason for this disruption - a section of tubing had come crashing to the ground. Super-heated steam spewed out over the ground, the pool of boiling-hot gas inching over the street now.
Amidst the hiss of escaping steam, Jessica heard another sound:

*Vrrrrrrrrrrr* Thud

*Vrrrrrrrrrrr* Thud

*Vrrrrrrrrrrr* Thud

The bizarre noises became more pronounced and she saw a shadow moving across the street, its progress slow and deliberate.

"H-hello?? Who's there?!"

No answer came from the figure.

"You b-better stay back - I have a gun," she lied.

Still no response. The light tube, now cool, cast no illumination whatsoever. Jessica found herself completely in the dark.

*Vrrrrrrrrr* Thud

*Vrrrrrrrrr* Thud

The noises were moving closer. Jessica imagined the shadowy form crawling ever nearer. In the dark, the sounds seem to come from every direction. She pressed herself against the railing, desperate for escape but too frightened to move. She searched the darkness desperately, looking for any sign of help. Nothing.

*Vrrrrrrrr* Thud

*Vrr-* Thud

The sounds stopped. Jessica whimpered in the darkness, anticipating the stranger's attack at any moment. A strange glow suddenly lit the night around her, emanating from two glowing orbs hovering right beside her face, almost grazing her cheek. Bursts of light, green and blue, arced from side-to-side within the two milky spheres.

It was only when Jessica noticed the grinning mouth situated below the two orbs that she realized she was staring into the eyes of a monster. Out of the darkness, a hidden force plunged itself into her stomach, causing her to stagger against the railing. Fire erupted in her stomach and chest as she felt liquid gushing down her legs. She fell to the ground, clutching at the warm innards spilling from her abdomen. Still, she could not break away from the glowing eyes, now hovering above her. Watching her die.

****

By the time Detective Frank McCarthy arrived at the docks, the street was packed with cruisers and news vans. Their lights illuminated The Alley and the small crowd of onlookers that had gathered to watch the circus. Fifteen minutes ago, McCarthy had been awoken by a call from his captain - another murder, this time down by the docks. Knowing what awaited him beyond the fluttering police tape, the detective hesitated a moment before getting out of his cruiser.

The Open Door and The Visitor, By Noah "Redface" Rodriguez (Part 1)

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To Constable Redding, or whom it may concern,

This is my account of the horrible events that began with a curious machine and closed with the egregious murder of my dear friend, Dr. Charles Lightstrom. I must warn adamantly, Constable, that the details contained within this letter seem fantastic and at times nonsensical, and that is because the final days of Dr. Lightstrom are themselves fantastic and at times nonsensical. It is not my intention to mislead Scotland Yard in its investigation of this most unforgivable crime, but since I fear that while the circumstances of this case are most unconventional, your men will most assuredly use strictly conventional means to piece this puzzle together. Please understand that this crime is unlike any thing you've ever known, Constable, and Lightstrom's killer is a far more ferocious and evil brute than even old Jack the Ripper himself. But if I may, Constable, I'd like to start at the very beginning.

It was September 30th, in the year of our lord 1895. I had departed from my quaint cottage in Leeds and boarded the airtaxi to visit my dear friend Dr. Charles Lightstrom in his Manor in Canterbury. We were to engage in our weekly ritual of tea and conversation, but my presence this week was urgently requested as Charles had a new invention that he was desperate to show me. Dr. Lightstrom was quite the inventor, and this invention, he assured me, would revolutionize daily living as we new it. As I disembarked the airtaxi and hailed a steamcarriage to take me to the Lightstrom Manor, my fancy was thoroughly tickled as to what this fabulous new invention might be. Little did I know that Lightstrom's final gift to humanity would be a pox on him, and the horrors it would wrought in the coming weeks would be his undoing.

When I reached the front door of his spacious manor I found that Charles had been waiting for me. The door had swung open and Lightstrom, ever the charismatic and charming host, welcomed me warmly and ushered me in. "Horace, my dear friend! How have you been?" he asked me as we walked through the corridors of his home. "I've been well, Charles. Now how about this new doo-dad you've been on about?" I asked, eager to learn more. Charles merely chuckled and assured that all would be revealed in due time. We walked through the drawing room, through the parlor and into the kitchen to where the door to the cellar was. It was there where Lightstrom housed his work shoppe, and his mysterious new invention, a device he only referred to simply as "the Door". We descended into the murky blackness of the work shoppe, which was little more than a collection of benches littered with disassembled gizmos, Tesla coils and various buttons, knobs, nuts and gears that Charles had yet to find need or purpose for, and in the far corner of the room was Lightstrom's desk, which looked as if it were nearly about to buckle under the weight of all the notes, files and drawings. With the flip of a switch, the black room was now bathed in a single ray of dirty yellow light. It was then that I had noticed that the work shoppe had been left in a different order than when I had last seen it, as everything had been pushed towards the walls to make way for a massive fixture draped in a white cloth in the center of the room. This contraption, I assumed, was the much talked-about "Door", but when Lightstrom pulled away the cloth for his grand unveiling, it was obvious to me, as it would have been obvious to you, Constable, or to anyone else who had looked upon it that it was no ordinary "Door".

For one thing, the thing looked nothing like the sort of door you or I would have been accustomed to, Constable. It resembled more of a tall glass box, but perhaps a box only tall or wide enough that a single, average-sized man could fit into. I wasn't truly sure what I was looking at. The device was deceptive in its appearance, but I knew then when I first laid eyes on it that it was capable of so much more than what one could assume it could be capable of. Lightstrom had sensed this confusion in me, and was all too eager to demonstrate the contraption's true potential. Wordlessly, he stole away to his desk and pulled from the drawer a rotting apple on a small platter. Opening the hatch on the "Door", he placed the apple on the platter inside and sealed the hatch once again. He then grabbed from a nearby bench two pairs of goggles and of earplugs, and handed one set of each to me. I needed no instruction with what to do with them. On a nearby console, Lightstrom began pushing an assortment of buttons, turning an assortment of knobs and pulling an assortment of levers. He grinned madly as if he were a boy having a jaunt at the local fair, and in his eyes danced the fire of a snake-oil salesmen, a man who believed that what he possessed was an invaluable, rare treasure.

With each button press and knob turn, the machine began to churn more and more steadily into life. First, it groaned softly, and then after not much longer if began to roar loudly. Its roar became almost deafening, until I was certain that the insufferable noise was beginning to echo not only through the entire manor but also through the entire English countryside. Within the machine itself, a fantastic white light had appeared and now seemed to be trying desperately to escape the confines of the "Door". As the sound the machine had grown from loud to deafening, the light it produced went from "dazzling" to "blinding". I could only see the apple Lightstrom had placed inside in silhouette until I could not see it at all. The machine had one final trick up its sleeve: an outward blast of light and sound before it finally rumbled into hibernation and for the first time in what was several moments but what seemed like several days what quiet and dim. Lightstrom, still unable to contain his enthusiasm was now at his breaking point. He let out a stream of joyous, victorious laughter and proclaimed, "Another success!" The apple Charles had placed inside the "Door" had disappeared completely, as had the platter it had perched upon. They had, as Lightstrom might have described it; "stepped through the Door".

Pushing his way through the crowd, McCarthy spotted his partner chatting with a female Medical Examiner. Thirty-five years on the job and Frasier was still chasing the young crime-scene girls around like a goddamned teenager. Seeing his partner had arrived, Frasier cut his flirting short and sauntered over to McCarthy.

"What do we have here, Jimmy?" McCarthy still asked, even though he knew exactly what they were dealing with.

"Same M.O. - 30-something female, prostitute judging from the neighborhood, sliced open just like the rest of them. Same surgical precision, same burn marks on the body. Bastard took the liver and kidneys this time." Frasier spat on the ground in disgust. He'd worked some of the worst districts in the city for longer than any other cop in the division, but he had never seen murders like this. And the prostitute was this murderer's seventh victim in the past year! "Some of the girls on The Alley mentioned the victim had a daughter, so we sent a patrol over to pick her up. Maybe we'll get some acquaintances that seem suspicious - some nutjob in common with all of our victims."

"We haven't uncovered a link yet, but sure - why not," McCarthy had already begun reconstructing the crime in his mind. It was the same as the others: The perpetrator always attacked at night, on the streets. The victim was always alone. He broke the light tubes, cornered the victim. The coroner still had no clue what weapon he used: the accuracy of the cuts suggested a blade, the charred flesh beside the wounds implied a searing-hot iron. The murder scene was always contaminated by the thousands of people who wandered the street in the daytime, so they had yet to find any leads from the forensic crew.

The most obvious connection between these murders were the missing organs. Thus far, this guy had killed five women and two men. From that group, two hearts, three sets of lungs, six kidneys, one liver and even portions of the lower intestine were unaccounted for. McCarthy had contacted the FBI to check on any organ-harvesting connections but had gotten nowhere.

"Listen, Frank," Frasier said, glancing back towards the cute Medical Examiner, "There's nothing new to see here. Go back home and get some rest. I'll see you in the office tomorrow and we can tackle this after a night's sleep."

Taking one last glance at the sheet-covered body lying beside him, McCarthy begrudgingly agreed.

***

The next morning, McCarthy plopped a cup of coffee down on Frasier's cluttered desk - and thank you for his partner's kindness the previous evening - and sat down at his own desk. The file from last night's murder was already there, waiting to frustrate McCarthy's tired mind with its lack of evidence and nonexistent leads. He took a sip of coffee and paged through the M.E. reports, the evidence list, the witness list. It would still be a couple days before the coroner and forensics got their reports filed, but he doubted they would reveal anything promising.

McCarthy glanced up to discover a frazzled-looking man standing sheepishly at the entrance. He looked to be in his late-thirties, early-forties, with sandy, disheveled hair and a nervous demeanor. His eyes darted to the detective sitting immediately in front of him and McCarthy heard his name mentioned. The detective pointed in his direction and the strange fellow quickly weaved his way towards Frank through the desks. Christ, what now?

"Are you the detective assigned to the organ-thief murders?" the man asked, his eyes avoiding McCarthy's scrutinizing gaze.

Frank's interest was piqued. "We haven't released information regarding the missing organs to the media yet. How do you know about that?"

"Because...because I know who is killing these people..." the man stammered, clearly frightened now - but why?

McCarthy's gut told him that this guy wasn't just another fake-tip nut. "Please, sit down, Mr...?"

"Edison. R-Robert Edison."

"And Mr. Edison, who is the person you believe is responsible for these murders?"

"It's-" A hand came down upon Edison's thin shoulder, causing him to jump in his chair. McCarthy hadn't noticed his captain's appearance.

"Ah, Captain Spaulding - I'm glad you're here. Mr..ah...Edison here has stopped by to offer some information about the murders Frasier and I are working. Please go on, Mr. Edison," McCarthy turned expectantly towards Robert once more.

"Actually, McCarthy, I know Mr. Edison here. Let me handle this for you," Captain Spaulding said, practically ripping the poor man up from his chair. Spaulding guided Edison by the arm across the floor and into his office, slamming the door shut before McCarthy could object.

At that moment, Frasier walked onto the floor looking like he hadn't slept a wink all night - maybe that Medical Examiner girl had a thing for aging detectives...? Despite his haggard appearance, McCarthy strode over to his desk and quickly recounted the strange arrival of Robert Edison and their captain's odd behavior.

"Has the name 'Edison' shown up in any of these cases, Jimmy?" Frank asked, knowing he could rely upon his partner's almost-perfect memorization of case files.

"Not that I recall," Jimmy replied, rubbing his beard stubble thoughtfully. "The only Edison I've come across in my time was years ago, when I was still a rookie."

"A suspect?"

"Nah - victim. Pretty good story, though. A guy by the name of Tom Edison - some sort of crazy-scientist nut. I was dispatched to a routine 9-0-4 - building on fire - in the Warehouse District. Half of the warehouse was just a smoldering wreck - just Edison's body and some charred machinery. But in the unburned section - I'll tell you, Frank - this Edison guy had every sort of weird gadget and gizmo you can imagine. Machines as big as this room. Not knowing any better, I flipped a switch and suddenly bolts of lightning filled the goddamned place from floor to ceiling. Weirdest thing I've ever seen."

"It was an open-and-shut case," Frasier continued. "Edison's lightning machine started the blaze which burned down half the building, killing him in the process. It's got nothing to do with our case." He motioned towards his coffee, "I'm going to go warm this up in the steamer for a minute - I'll be right back and we'll go over the case."

As Frasier disappeared into the kitchen, Robert Edison emerged from the Captain's office. He was clearly shaken and hurried out of the office without a glance towards the detective. Curious, McCarthy walked over and knocked on Spaulding's office door.

"Hey Captain - what was that all about?"

"Oh, you mean Edison?" Spaulding replied, filling his briefcase with files, "He's just a nut. Always coming in here with 'important information' and then leads us on a wild goose chase. I told him to get lost. Now I have to get to a meeting..."

McCarthy dodged out of his captain's path as Spaulding struggled into his suit coat and made his way towards the door, "But Sir - he seemed like he actually knew something. Do we have any contact information on file? Maybe-"

"McCarthy - Enough! I told you, this Edison guy is a dead-end. Get back out there and do some fucking police work - that's how we're going to catch this guy." Spaulding rudely brushed by McCarthy and disappeared through the exit.

***

The day crawled along, filled with long conversations that went nowhere and reading through reports that lent nothing to their investigation. Frasier finally called it quits at 7p, but McCarthy's frustration wouldn't let him stop. Not until something fell into place.

BLEH. I really have to get writing earlier in the month, so I'm not scrambling to finish these stories like 5 minutes before the deadline.

Approximately 2445 words
Genre: I started with the intention of Steampunk, but I'm thinking it turned out to be more Clockpunk in the end.
Once again I'm walking the line of the generic restraints, but I think it counts as horror. I mean post-apocalyptic world + a serial killer (even if he happens to be politically motivated)

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The Clock-Tower. (1/2)

Tick. Tock. The ancient hands of the clock-tower marked the passage of time meticulously, but with utter indifference. No minute, nor second went unrecognized by its grandiose faces. Of all the relics that remained standing from the 'old world', Dante favoured the clock-tower above all others. Standing there, basking in the mighty shadow it sent cascading over the earth, Dante couldn't help but feel a sense of transcendence. By mere association to this opulent structure, he reached beyond the limits of time and space - linking himself to a greater story, one that included everyone who had lain eyes on this tower and everything that was still to transpire before it. All of this documented well, by another tick of the clock.

There was a brisk chill in the air, the early morning dew was preparing for its great reveal, with the first appearance of morning light. What tragedy it was that no one would ever bear witness to the wet dew in daylight's magnificent glory. Often Dante fantasized of one day being able to watch the sun rise, to actually see the sun, the orb coveted above all else in the sky. It was not to be this time however, for it was imperative he set off; once again to descend beneath the Earth. Dante pulled the lever, sending the mechanism into action. Gears began grinding and with a loud churning squeal, the chain sprung into motion and Dante was propelled downward.

"The descent to hell, could hardly be this grim." Dante muttered to himself.

The world that once existed on the surface, the 'old world' as it was called now, faded from Dante's perceptions as he was dragged further below the Earth's crust into the artificial world of man; a mimetic representation of what life was supposed to be, what life used to be. When a culture is devoid of art, justice, and the pursuit of happiness, all that can remain is bloodshed. Peace can never seem to outlast its utility. In order to rebuild a society from broken ruins and the brink of destruction, peace is necessitous for survival. But once feelings of comfort and familiarity of daily life begin once again to sink into societies collective conscious - war may come again. It has been asserted that humans are adaptive creatures and given ample time, can adapt to even the bleakest of situations and circumstance. This is detrimental to the upholding of peace. The families of the innocent, who have fallen in this latest conflict, can certainly attest to this.

The lift at last reached a full stop. The chain clanked and chimed as it worked its way to a natural resting place and the broad platform locked into position, the plank falling to rest on the ground. Dante nonchalantly stepped off the lift onto the boardwalk. Modern technology, such as it is, has its ways of counteracting reminiscence of history with great ease. Dante was again alert of his present. After only traveling along the boardwalk for a mere handful of strides, his motion was halted, current events had once again thrust themselves into the forefront of existence.

Another one. "A-fucking-'nother one."

Dante gazed in disappointment at the red cross, sloshed heedlessly across the wall binding the old half of the city to the new. Graffiti with a powerful message. This simple symbol: physically nothing more than two intersecting lines, was symbolically so much more. This was the people giving their support to the liberation movement and more importantly support for Dae, their champion. He is their Spartacus, or more accurately their Robespierre. One man with the power to move thousands. This cross, was his authority. The cross' meaning was easy to decipher. The blood of another citizen would be spilled on this night and Dae would be his undertaker. Nearly every night for the last two weeks there had arisen a cross and subsequently every morning there would be a fresh corpse found. No, not found - displayed. A public murder, dirty laundry aired for all to see. The degree of the bodies dismemberment varied, but it was always grotesque. The face was however, always untouched. Left as a tableau, displaying the horror and terror felt in the poor bastard's last moments, struggling desperately for life. To compound the horror, there would always be a corresponding red cross, draped across the forehead. A calling card of sorts, leaving absolutely no doubt as to why this persons connection with life had been severed. A red cross, one not haphazardly sloshed across a poor stonemason's wall with whatever paint may have been at hand, but one methodically depicted, carefully illustrated with the victims own blood. Such was the illustrious mark of Dae.

Dante shook his head in disgust, as a proud lion would shake away a buzzing fly; momentarily irritated, but ultimately rising above the situation, with eyes and mind set upon something greater. Dante was opposed to the killings on a humanistic level, but the politics behind them greatly intrigued him. He sympathized with the plight of those who longed for a better time. An alternate life where high culture, fine art, and mesmerizing architecture were not things that existed only in the past tense, only on the forgotten surface world, but were staples of everyday endeavors.

Lost in thought, Dante found himself aimlessly wandering, at last arriving in the lower-class section of town. Once Dante had called this neighborhood home, but no longer. The concept of home was now alien to him. He was a wanderer. A free spirit, a spirit that now took him sailing along at a quickened pace. Recklessly he took no heed of his surroundings and crashed devoid of any grace, into a peculiar out-jetting porch. With a surprisingly loud clatter, Dante landed face first on the ground, kissing the dirt. The din caused by the tumble echoed throughout the street, but in this neighborhood people were trained to mind their own business. Only a single woman came out to examine the source of the commotion. She was frail and sickly in appearance; face swollen and ravaged by hardship, her hair brittle and straggly as hay. In another life, she may have been beautiful. She feigned a smile in Dante's direction as he collected himself.

"Do come in stranger," the woman beckoned for Dante to follow into her very modest living quarters. "That was quite a fall. You must need to catch your breath."

This was a woman not without her wits. She had lived her entire life in the lower-working class ghetto, struggling to survive in a world not kind to the gentle of heart. A world populated by thieves, scoundrels, and murderers. Not the least of which was standing before her now. Even if she had suspicion, the woman made no moral objections in regards to Dante's character. It was not her place to do so, she had learned from the cruel teacher, experience, that it is often wiser to stay silent. She was not concerned with who she had invited into her home, but was rather preoccupied with a greater trouble. After surveying Dante for just a moment, she spoke abruptly.

"It's my son. He's missing," the woman entreated Dante; "I know a man of your... faculties... can help me. I'm sure of it."

Dante stayed silent for a moment as he starred into the womans eyes. He was peering into the most sincere eyes he had even seen. A great longing to help this woman swept over him. Sentimentality outmaneuvered reason and Dante nodded his assent.

Finally, sometime after 10p, McCarthy realized he was alone in the office and finally gave in. Turning off his desk light tube, he grabbed a part of the case file and headed for the exit. Envisioning a fun evening of leftover Chinese food and crime scene photos, McCarthy didn't even notice the shadow following him through the parking lot. Frank juggled the file folder as he searched for his car keys, finally feeling a presence lurking directly behind him. He spun to face his attacker, reaching for his sidearm.

"W-woah woah woah!! Detective McCarthy! It's me - Robert! Robert Edison!" Robert had retreated into a crouch, practically melting onto the asphalt.

"Jesus Christ, Robert, you scared the shit out of me," Frank said, holstering his gun. "How long have you been waiting for me??"

"Well, your captain wouldn't want me speaking with you, so I had to wait to speak with you alone. I still need your help..."

McCarthy looked around the parking lot, wondering how Edison had gotten past the guard. Who was this guy? "Alright, Edison, I'm listening."

"I told you that I know who the murderer is. It's my grandfather - Thomas Edison. He needs-"

"Oh goddamnit," Frank sighed, knowing that his captain had been right - this guy was a nutjob. McCarthy pushed past Edison, moving towards his car once more, "Robert, I know all about Tom Edison. He died thirty-five years ago in a warehouse fire. Now get out of my face before I-"

"Detective! You need to listen to me, and listen closely," Edison suddenly grew focused, "My grandfather is still alive and he is killing these people. And he won't stop by himself - he needs to be stopped. By you!"

McCarthy decided to see where Robert was going with this, "Ok, Edison. Assuming your grandfather is still alive at the ripe old age of....what? One hundred and five??"

"One hundred and twenty-four..."

"Fine! One hundred and twenty-four! Then why? Why is he killing people?"

"You answered your own question, Detective - he needs to stay alive! Where do you think the organs have been going??"

McCarthy inhaled deeply, trying to wrap his mind around the maniac standing before him. "Alright, Edison - start from the beginning."

"Thank you," Robert took a breath, gathering himself before continuing, "My grandfather, Thomas Edison, was a brilliant scientist. He invented a multitude of machines and contraptions that should have made the world a better place. However, one of his experiments was his downfall - his work with the energy known as Electricity."

"Electricity?" McCarthy thought back to his ninth grade science class, trying to recall what he had learned about electricity.

"Lightning, Detective. But my grandfather had discovered a means to harness the power of lightning and use it to run machinery. Lights, engines, heating - all of our current technology could be switched over to electric power and run on a third of the cost! But this discovery doomed Thomas Edison, I'm afraid."

"It was too volatile - too dangerous, right? It killed him in the end." I thought back to Frasier's story of Edison's death.

"You're wrong on both counts, Detective. The body found in my grandfather's lab was not Thomas Edison. It was his assistant, William Kennedy Dickson. And he wasn't killed by an accident with electricity - he was murdered by those who would be harmed by the electric revolution."

"Murdered? But who-"

"Steam Enterprises, Detective. They killed Dickson, set the fire and forced my grandfather into hiding. Let me explain: the Steam Enterprises Corporation has a monopoly on steam production, steam technology and steam-run devices. They would have been completely destroyed if Edison had unveiled his electric-harnessing inventions and the city switched to electricity! That is why Dickson was killed and the lab destroyed, that is why my grandfather's reputation was destroyed, and that it is why your captain doesn't want me speaking with you!"

"...Steam Enterprises?" McCarthy's head was spinning. This couldn't be possible. "Wait - Captain Spaulding?? What does he have to do with anything?"

"Let's just say Steam Enterprises' pockets run deep. They had to recruit members from all levels of government to cover up my grandfather's work: the police, the local government, the mayor's office. I didn't think the conspiracy went as far as your captain, but now we know he's on the pay as well."

"What proof do you have of this, Edison? You can't expect me to believe all-"

"I don't care if you believe everything!" Edison was growing frustrated now, "I just need you to stop my grandfather - he came to me one night, just over a year ago. He had...changed. Using his knowledge of machinery and electricity, he has built himself some sort of...exoskeleton. Internal devices supply a constant stream of electric current to his organs, keeping them functioning long after their expectancy. However, he came to me because the organs aren't permanent, and need to be replaced every few months. He had an assistant who worked in Mercy General Hospital - the assistant would steal organs from the recently deceased and place them into my grandfather's body."

"He did this for years, keeping my grandfather alive through organ transplants every few months. But then the assistant died, and my grandfather needed my help. I'm a surgeon, you see, and he wanted me to help keep him alive until his 'work' was completed."

McCarthy struggled to keep up with the story he was hearing, "Work? What work?"

"My grandfather wants to destroy the city's reliance on steam. He wants his electricity - his inventions - to replace steam power as the main source of energy for the city. Simply put, Detective, he wants the legacy which was robbed from him."

"When Thomas Edison approached me, I refused," Robert continued, "He had organs with him, and I had heard about a murder from a friend on the force - I knew where these spare organs had come from."

"Dorothy Howard - the first murder," for McCarthy, the pieces were slowly falling into place.

"Exactly," nodded Robert, "As far as I can tell, he has either found another doctor to perform the transplants or - judging by his frequent need for fresh organs - more likely, he is doing the transplants himself."

"...how?"

"Detective - you must understand that one hundred and twenty-four years is a long time for the human body. By now, he is more machine than man! He can survive for short periods of time without crucial organs at this point, but for the long-term he will need fresh organs on a weekly basis. And that is why these murders are going to continue unless you do something to prevent it..."

"How do I stop him, then? He chooses his victims purely haphazardly, he leaves no visible trace evidence, he chooses the location of his attacks randomly - how are we supposed to find him?!"

"His attacks aren't random, Detective. Where was the first attack?"

"In Glendale. The body was found floating in a Highland Park creek."

"And the rest?"

"The second was in an alley in Crown Heights. The third in Park Slope, over in the Prospect Park area. Then the Flatlands, then the Midwood area, and the sixth was in Mapleton. This last one, victim number seven, was right on the bay, by the parkway in The Alley."

The Clock-Tower. (2/2)

"Oh thank you. My poor Raymond. He's not like us. He's not hardened by the world. He is so sweet... so gentle... He was supposed to be home hours ago." Tears formed beneath the eyelids of the distraught mother. She continued to babble, driving herself further into a desperate frenzy.

"He studies history you see. He can't get enough of the old world. Any artifacts he can get his hands on, he covets like the holy grail. You don't think..." the woman abruptly trailed off.

She didn't have to finish the thought, Dante was ahead of her. If this boy, Raymond, had ventured to the surface, as his mother suspected her tears were certainly not unfounded. Their conversation was not permitted to continue however, as it was adamantly interrupted, by a high pitched shriek that descended sharply upon their ears.

"NO! ---- RAYMOND!" The woman cried out fearfully.

She scurried past Dante, out the door and flooded onto the street. Dante followed promptly in hot pursuit. The source of the scream became immediately evident, in the distance Dante could vividly make out the rough outline of a body, hanging from a makeshift scaffold in the town square. The woman was past consolation now, as she weeped openly. It was hard to imagine how she managed to propel herself forward so quickly in a state of such intense grief. They reached the crowd that had gathered around the lifeless carcass. One leg had been completely severed from the torso. The other leg mangled, scarcely covered by shredded flesh. Blood dripped down constantly, accumulating in a shallow pool, before running through the cracks of the stone-block, paved street. The arms were tied together in front of the body, with what appeared to be a barbed-wire of sorts. The torso showed signs of partial dismemberment, but the sight-line was too obstructed by blood and gore to tell for certain. The woman gasped and put her hand over her mouth as she looked into the face and identified the unnamed corpse as Roscoe, the towns local priest. The old man's eyes were closed, lips pursed. At least he had not resisted and had likely given himself over to faith and surrendered his mortal life without incident. The image was gruesome and haunting, no matter how many times you lay eyes upon a dead body, it is never a welcomed sight. Dante needed to make sure that poor Raymond would not be handed a similar fate.

After spending a few hours examining Raymond's room, desperate for any clue leading towards his whereabouts. Among the knick-knacks and clutter Raymond had scattered about, Dante found a miniature likeness of his favourite clock tower. It was just a hunch, but f he would find him anywhere, that is where it would be. Dante set out once again for the surface, this time with a particular ambition in mind.

After hurrying his way along the boardwalk and swiftly utilizing the elaborate system of gears and pulleys which formed a mechanized lift: the only method of traveling from the world beneath to the world above; Dante again stood on the surface of the planet that was his home, covered ubiquitously by the cloak of night. Cautiously he surveyed his surroundings, doing his best to penetrate the darkness with his sight. He knew the route to the clock tower intrinsically, as it was one he took quite often. After making his way in great haste, Dante finally reached the base of the tower and then stopped immediately. Ten feet above him a rope was suspended in mid-air, hanging looped over a peculiar out-jetting ledge. Dante's skin crawled. Was he too late? Dante again strained his senses, asking more out of his body than he ever had before. Before too long a crackle could be heard faintly coming from inside the tower. Dante forced his way through a gap between two elderly, rotting boards and then quickly raced up a stairwell, before reaching a landing, his path now illuminated by torchlight. Before him lay a youth, no older than 15 or 16 years. Above him sat a man, draped from head to toe in red robes, with religious symbols littered all over his person. There was no doubt in Dante's mind that he had finally found Dae, caught up to the legend, in the flesh.

The robed one, did not panic or make a rash move. He calmly sat still, composed, but intense. So very intense. From his side he drew two long blades, sharp as razors, with extravagant handles of finely crafted silver and gold. Hilt studded with innumerable jewels of varying sizes, shapes, and colours. Dae stood up, brandishing his weapons before him, an attempt at intimidation. Dante approved of the classic armaments. This was surely a man of quite exquisite tastes and certainly a scholar of the 'old world' - not unlike himself, or the young one that lay between them, separating them with a barrier of innocence; two tainted counterparts on either side.

Dante was unarmed, save a broken piece of wood off the tower's base. A struggle ensued between the two immense men. Dante fended off Dae's violent advances with a ferocious battle-hungry fervor. The plank splintering with every vehement strike it absorbed. Soon it would no longer hold as a viable defense. Strike after strike, Dae pummeled Dante, tactically breaking his pathetic plank of wood to pieces. The vibrating shock of each blow, sent Dante whirling further back, as his hands began to burn and sting with the sheer force of Dae's arm. Desperation overcame Dante, he charged barbarously forward, unrelenting in his fury. Dae plunged his aciculate prosthetic deep into the cavern of Dante's bowel. Dante - unphased, staggered forward, clutching his adversaries sleeves, tighter than a hyena grips the neck of his lifeless prey between his jaws, preparing to feed. Through the stained glass window that sat just to the right of the stairwell, a work of art that was surely the product of many hours of loving labour, Dante propelled their two immense bulks. They struggled for position in mid air. The wind serenaded them as they fluttered downward, shards of glass raining down like multi-coloured precipitation. Still the combatants battled, until they both plummeted into the hard, pitiless ground. Through shear luck alone, Dante narrowly managed to avoid being gored in the struggle. Dae was not as fortunate and lay lifeless, impaled by his own munition. Though Dae was able to stand, on the strength of resolve and unbreakable will alone, the wound he had procured, would surely prove fatal.

Dante groaned, he was not long left for this world. The bells of the clock-tower chimed, sending an echo radiating off into the distance. Five distinct rings. It was five in the morning, still too early for sunrise. Dante gasped for air. Tick. Tock. Dante clutched at his chest, blood draining through his fingertips. He gasped his last breath at the base of his beloved clock-tower. It was all over for Dante, he could feel life, reality, slipping away from him. The ancient hands of the clock-tower marked the time of Dante's death with graceful indifference. This was but one chapter in a greater tale. Tick...Tock.

"There's a pattern there, Detective. Picture the map."

McCarthy pictured the location of the murders, one-by-one, "He's...he's moving from inland towards the ocean?"

"And what is right on the ocean? What drives him towards the sea? What is his obsession, other than the need for living organs?"

For McCarthy, the final piece of the puzzle fell into place: "Jesus...he's going after the Gear Wall..."

***

Jerry hated the night shift on the Gear Wall, but hell - he needed the money. He grabbed his portable light tube, his hard hat and his gloves, then shut his locker. He only had a few minutes to clock-in, or else he was going to be docked pay again.

"Cutting it close again, eh Jerry?" His supervisor, Cliff, waited for him in the Gear Wall's maintenance office.

"Yeah - sorry, Cliff. I got off at the restaurant later than usual. I'll hustle out to number seven and get started on that stripped bearing."

Cliff didn't even look up from the paperwork scattered on his desk, "Just let me know if you need help - I'll send Pete out."

Jerry grabbed his toolkit and headed for the door, the cold wind already whipping through his clothing. Great, Jerry thought bitterly, Pete would be a big help. Pete had the technical know-how of a gerbil, and everyone knew it. However, Pete was also Cliff's cousin so everyone was stuck with the little twerp.

Trying to focus on getting through his shift, Jerry headed out onto the walkway that stretched between the seven large gears. Heading towards the last one, number seven, Jerry looked out towards the city's bright skyline - a multitude of buildings all lit up thanks to this colossal machine. The gears creaked and groaned, pushed by the dark currents rushing underneath the walkway. Jerry tried not to think of how high he was above the freezing water as he climbed the long ladder towards the gear shaft area.

As Jerry neared the top, he felt the ladder tremble in his grasp. Glancing down, he saw a figure begin to make his way up the ladder as well. Damnit, Jerry thought, here comes Pete. He reached the gear shaft landing and made his way into the small shed, setting his tools down on the metal table inside. He fumbled along the wall for the steam nozzle outlet and hooked his portable light tube's hose to the output. Hot steam slowly filled the light tube's neon chamber, lighting the small shack and the grinding gears that surrounded him. He already counted three...no, four bearings which were completely stripped that he would have to replace.

This is the dangerous part of the job - Jerry couldn't stop any of the large gears, since the underwater currents would rip the large wheels right off their shafts. Rather, he would have to work quickly and carefully to replace the bearings while all of the small parts were still in motion. If you get sloppy, you can lose a finger, a hand, or even your life. I'll let Pete handle this, Jerry thought with a grin.

Jerry finally heard Pete nearing the top of the ladder and turned around, opening the shack's door for him. However, the creature he saw standing atop the landing outside was not Pete.

"Jesus...Jesus Christ..." Jerry mumbled, backing up against the shed wall. The glow from Jerry's portable light crawled across the creature's body as the monster stepped into the shack. The creature's arms and legs were covered in some type of metallic cover, making them longer and thicker than any normal human appendage. The creature's one arm ended in a huge hand, the other ended in a bizarre-looking blade - one which expelled bursts of sparks from its tip. Jerry heard the whirling of a motor actually coming from inside the creature as it moved further into the shack with two great strides:

*Vrrrrrrrrrr* Thud

*Vrrrrrrrrrr* Thud

The metallic arms and legs were attached to the monster's torso haphazardly - bones and metal pins jutted through the creature's skin at odd angles, the muscles straining to hold the metal appendages in place. Scars and open gashes crisscrossed the monster's chest and face, the skin barely held together by amateur stitch-work and surgical tape. Most horrifying were the creature's eyes, which glowed brighter than even the portable light hanging at Jerry's side. Blue and green sparks flew behind the creature's iris, giving the fiend's decaying face a hellish glow.

The creature stared at Jerry, seeming to look through the horrified man cowering inside the shack. The monster opened its mouth and a low, wet gurgling broke the silence,

"Get out...."

Jerry gingerly crawled past the creature's huge legs towards the exit and descended the ladder, too scared to even breathe. As he reached the walkway, a hand clamped down on his shoulder causing him to scream.

"Relax! I'm a police officer - is he up there?!" McCarthy turned the maintenance worker around, only to find a man clearly in shock.

"Wha..?I don't...." Jerry felt himself sliding down to his knees, too shaken to respond.

"Focus! A man with scars - is he up there?!"

"Ye..."

McCarthy left the worker lying on the walkway and began climbing the ladder towards the gear shaft area. Cresting the landing, the detective drew his sidearm and approached the creature from behind.

"Edison! Thomas Edison! Turn around and let me see your hands!!" As Edison stepped from the shadows, McCarthy couldn't help but to grimace. There was not much humanity remaining in the creature which stood before him.

"Welcome, Detective," Edison said, his words nothing more than a wet murmur. "I've been following your work on my case, but I never expected to encounter you here. Very impressive...but I'm afraid you need to leave."

"It's over, Edison. Let me bring you in and we'll get you the medical help you need." McCarthy knew this was a lie, but tried not to let it show. A man in Edison's unique condition would die before he ever saw the inside of a courtroom.

Edison seemed to be choking - it took McCarthy a moment to realize he was laughing, "Very amusing, Detective. But I'm not leaving here until my life's work is completed and this Gear Wall lies in ruin."

"This is insane! What do you think that will accomplish, Edison?!"

"Insane? Hardly. I have mailed my work to dozens of media outlets, scientists and councilmen throughout the city. From the ashes of Steam technology, the phoenix of Electric power shall rise! And with it, my guaranteed place in the history books - Thomas Edison, the brilliant scientist, the capturer of raw natural power, the savior of a city in the midst of an energy catastrophe!!" Edison pressed a small lever jutting from his metallic arm, "You have 2 minutes to make it back to the shoreline, Detective. I suggest you hurry..." A beeping had filled the shack, an evident countdown to disaster.

The Open Door and The Visitor, By Noah "Redface" Rodriguez (Part 2)

--------------------

This was the mythic "Door". I was amazed, dazzled! But, deep inside, I was also very disturbed. I had but one searing question regarding this technological revelation: "Where did the apple go, Charles?" It was as if I had insulted the machine and Lightstrom's hard work. All the boyish enthusiasm and excitement he possessed moments prior were now gone, just as the ill-fated apple was. Charles sighed deeply and admitted that he did not know. Over tea, he explained to me the origins of his miraculous "Door". Lightstrom, an expert mechanic and Professor of Aviation Science at Oxford, Lightstrom had grown tired of building and teaching about the same steam engines for years. He had learned of, worked with and taught about vehicles for so long that they became something of a petty nuisance to him. He wondered of a reality where one could travel great distances with out the aide of our steamcarriages or dirigibles but simply as one would "travel from one room to the next simply by opening a door and walking in." Eventually, he began to draw up blueprints, consult with some of his colleagues, and, using his own expertise in various scientific disciplines, he began to the "Door" himself, and began testing the machine by sending various inanimate objects through it. He admitted that he was so excited in being successful in sending things out through the "Door" that retrieving them was strictly an afterthought. I'm not as scientifically gifted as Lightstrom was, so I didn't understand most of what Lightstrom told me about the machine's specifics or how it worked, sending particles out through space or what have you, but I was fascinated none the less. It seemed that Lightstrom was on the brink of a technological revolution. Eventually, the conversation moved onto to other topics and the "Door" was left forgotten.

The following two weeks passed without significant event. A week after seeing the machine, I spoke with Lightstrom over the phone and brought up the subject of the "Door". Lightstrom mentioned that he was still "tinkering with it" and quickly moved on. The next week, when I visited his manor again, he did not take me into the cellar to see the "Door", and I did not ask him to, but he did mention in passing that he was finally working on "retrieving the items he had sent through the "Door". Had I known then the horrors such an endeavour would wreak, I would have strongly urged him against it.

Another pair of weeks passed without incident, and I had not spoken with Lightstrom outside of our usual phone correspondence. It was not until towards the end of October, on or near All Hallow's Eve (I forgot, admittedly) that I received an urgent letter from Lightstrom requesting that I stay with him in his manor for a few weeks. At first, I felt it odd that he would have written me instead of phoning. It occurred to me that Lightstrom's only phone remained in his work shoppe in the center but I thought nothing of it. I had been anxious to find an excuse to visit the countryside during harvest time, and was simply glad that I had found it. I packed a few of my things and made my way to Lightstrom's manor.

When Lightstrom greeted me at the door of his estate, his manner was inexplicably queer. His jovial attitude very clearly masked something dire about his mood, as if he had witnessed something horrific and were desperate to conceal it. I asked him what was troubling him and Charles, calm but clearly panicked, said, "Nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all, dear boy. Nothing. Nothing at all." With that, he hurried me to my quarters to prepare for a dinner party at his manor that a few of his colleagues and their wives would be attending. As he pushed me up the stairs, I could have swore that I had heard a series of banging noises emanating from the kitchen, but I said nothing. Later, at the dinner party, the other guests complained also of the banging but Lightstrom made nothing of it, almost refusing to answer their inquiries as to the source.

The next morning, after I had woken and dressed, I was unable to find Charles anywhere so I made my way to the kitchen to fix my own breakfast. I had missed it upon first entering the kitchen but as I was searching for the tea I noticed something off about the door to Lightstorm's work shoppe in the cellar. The door, having never had a locking mechanism, was now heavily bolted and barricaded. It was even padlocked! Curious, I began to unbolt the door when I heard a course, angry voice call my name. It was Lightstrom, who ushered me away from the door and explained simply that the work shoppe was "Now off-limits to guests". Never before in the many, many years that I knew Lightstrom had he ever been unwilling to show someone an invention he was working on, even if for the moment it only existed on paper. Charles Lightstrom delighted in sharing the machinations of his fertile mind with others, which is why it was so surprising that he would do something as seemingly trivial as lock his work shoppe. I asked him why he would do such a thing, but he would not answer. It was only days later, about one week into my stay in the Lightstrom manor that I knew why Charles barred the door so heavily. As I was walking through the manor one afternoon I noticed all of Lightstrom's servants; his maids, his butlers, cooks, even the Gardner; standing in the kitchen I pushed through the throng of people and to see what precisely they were all staring at. Lightstrom, at the head of the group looked as though his worst nightmare had been realized. There was the cellar door, forced open and hanging gingerly on its hinges. It was almost as if someone, from the other side had slammed themselves into the door violently to force it open in such a way. Lightstrom was keeping something locked in the cellar, and now it was loose in his manor.

After that, Lightstrom's entire staff angrily tendered their resignation. As much as he begged, they refused to stay, not matter how much he offered to raise their pay. They did not want to be in a house where such awful secrets were being kept and frankly, Constable, I could not blame them. After the last servant left, I sat Lightstrom down and had him tell me everything. Lightstrom told me everything, but mostly what I could understand was that while experimenting with going from point A to point B and back to point A again, something unexpected happened. "I left the 'Door' open", Lightstrom said. I had no idea what he meant by that, but apparently, someone, something had found a way to walk through the "Door" into Lightstrom's work shoppe. "I have opened the "Door"! Thrown it wide open!" explained Lightstrom, his voice trembling, "I've opened it to a new world! A whole menagerie of worlds! Worlds that only existed in nightmares! And something from one of those nightmare worlds stepped through the 'Door'!" At that point, I was convinced that Lightstrom was speaking nothing but madness, and had announced that like the servants before me, I would not stay in a house that was clearly unsafe. However, unlike the servants, I could not resist Lightstrom's pleading. Here was a man who had been a great friend and ally to me, wrapped around my feet and crying like a child. I acquiesced. and told him I would stay for one more night. Lightstrom was thrilled, and I announced that I would go to my room to sleep, and in the morning I would pack my things and leave. Before I went upstairs, Lightstrom handed me something, a handgun, and advised me to lock the bedroom door. Hesitantly, I took the gun, went to my quarters, and locked my door. That was the last time I saw Lightstrom alive.

The Open Door and The Visitor, By Noah "Redface" Rodriguez (Finale)

---------------

Later that night, fast asleep, I hear the most terrible noise, like the scream of a wild animal, and flesh being torn from bone. Quickly I got up, grabbed the gun that Lightstrom had handed me from the nightstand and went downstairs. In the foyer, I saw the most horrific sight I had ever seen: Lightstrom's body, limp, on the floor, and blood pooling about him. His ribcage had been torn from his body, and standing over him was the beast that had done it. I could not even begin to describe this thing, Constable, but its image still haunts me: it looked like one of the Komodo Dragons I have seen on my expeditions to the Orient, but it had no tail and a longer snout and it stood upright like a man. I gasped at the horror of what I saw. The beast, hearing me, turned at me and charged, letting out a beastly scream. I unload two shots into it, one it the shoulder and one in the eye. It managed to knock me over before jumping out a window and disappearing into the cold crisp night.

This is my story, Constable. It is at times fantastical and nonsensical because it is at times fantastic and nonsensical. But it happened, just as I write it. Please, Constable, find this creature. Exercise caution when approaching it. It took one life. it can take another.

Regards,
J. Horace Standish

McCarthy knew his options had run out. The man in front of him was a walking bomb - even killing him now wouldn't stop the inevitable explosion. Without saying another word, McCarthy ran for the ladder. A minute later, McCarthy was sprinting past the maintenance office towards the shoreline. An alarm sounded, a warning to evacuate all personnel from the Gear Wall.

Arriving on the beach, McCarthy turned to look back at the large line of gears, turning tirelessly in the darkness. Suddenly the sky was ablaze above the seventh gear as fire engulfed the upper half of the spinning wheel. With a groan, the gear began to tilt on its axis, tipping into the gear to its immediate right. Like dominoes, the gears began to collapse into one another all along the line. Within a matter of minutes, the entire construct - gears, walkways, buildings - all of it had disappeared underneath the murky waters of the bay.

McCarthy heard sirens wailing in the distance, rushing towards the catastrophic wreckage which was once the Gear Wall. A loud cry went up from the onlookers surrounding McCarthy - the lights, all the lights, began to dim at once. In a few moments, the city was engulfed in complete darkness as the steam dissipated from the light tubes.

Edison has gotten his wish for a city without steam power. The madman had won.

I know my entry is way to late to be considered for the contest, but I want to post it here anyway, just in the case someone desides to give me criticism on my entry, and tell me how well I did

"It just ain't lucky" he said, coughing and turning his attention away from the illuminated blue screen before him. He looks down at the bound figure before him and his throne. Only $456.00 dollars for the entire office set, and he also gets a free mug, something along the lines of, Best Boss ever, he of course would never know, only spending $100.00 for the chair, and nothing else. He kicks his foot out, and rolls the child over onto his back, blood oozes from the corner of the child's mouth as he does.

"There's fate to consider." He spits at the child, and smiles as it lands on the child's chin with a wet splotch. "T'aint ever done this to a child of course, but, I guess you gotta start sometime." He reaches for his belt, and slowly slides the catch away, the gear grinds solemnly resisting at first, then giving with a solid clink, now rolling smoothly as he un-does the belt. The man looking over the child, throws the belt to the corner, and drops his pants, of course, he removes his knife from the sheathe on the belt loop before hand. " Imagine" he says "If you had chosen platform B, instead of C, I mean there are thousands of steamers out there, and at least 20 of them to get you were you were going"

The child looks up at the main, fear in his eyes, he looks to be about 12, maybe 11, he utters short gasps of protest as the man lowers down on one knee, palming the knife but they are stiffled by the rag tied around his head covering his mouth. The man places the knife on the child's neck, and slowly brings the blunt edge down his throat, teasing him with the death the child yearns for. Anything would be better than what the man truly has planned for him. He reaches down, and slices the rope binding the child's left arm, due to the ingenious tying, only the child's left arm is free his right is bound to the rope securing his legs.
The man's grip is far to strong for the child to move, and the man soon lifts him off of the ground with only his left arm, and swings him onto a tattered old couch in the corner. He lands with a thud, and dust puffs from the couche's various holes, and the cushions. The man turns back to the screen, looks at the images displayed, smiles, and turns back. "Also, I had never done this with a boy either, always women, I got a certain pleasure out of seeing a women in this state. Of course, as I said before, I guess you gotta start sometime." He smiled, and threw down the knife, it landed point first in the ground below, and stuck in the soft metal floor.

The child knew what was to be his fate, and knew it was sealed, but still he resisted, now trying to push the man away with his arm, resisting him as best as he could. " I grow tired of your games, I feel I will have to restrain you, this would have been much easier on you had you not resisted." He lifted the child by the left arm again, and this time, dragged him entirely across the floor, into a darkened room.

Upon entering the room, he flipped a switched, and revealed the horrors the darkness had been hiding. In the center of the room was a medical gurney, covered in rust, atleast the child hoped it was rust. Sitting next to it were several wicked looking implements, large saw edged devices, and others with wicked needles, and spikes. The man flopped the child onto the gurney, and tied his left hand to the side, he then strung rope thru the binds on his feet, and right arm to secure his entire body. He did not need him squirming during this procedure.

He turned towards a cabinet, and slid open it's solitary door. The child could only see the mans back, and hear metal clanking against metal, and what he thought was wooden chunks being dragged against each other. The man found what he was looking for, let out a small exclamation of join, and turned back to the child with what appeared to be a prosthetic arm, except where there should be a hand, and fingers, was only a large phallic wooden pole, at least 6 inches in length. The man cackled delightfully at the child's expression, and set it down with in the child's sight. " I will not make this quick, you understand." the child nodded against his will, and caught himself afterwards.

The man slide a large saw from the table next to the gurney, and began to crank it's handle. Soon the fly wheel inside the saw began to spin freely, and in doing so, started the gears to move, and the saw began to reciprocate wildly. The man looked into the eyes of the child with a mad glee, and did not hesitate as he brought the blade down in his arm. A loud scream was emitted from the child, but soon, it stopped, and was replaced with the heavy breathing, of one, who despite being un-conscious was still experiencing great pain, a sound he knew well.

Having removed the left arm, the man busied himself with attaching the child's "upgrade" testing the pull cord to ensure the arm would still vibrate should it be pulled. He then slid the open end of the prosthetic over the child's stump, withdrew from the table a large screwdriver, and began to crank the screws into the child's arm, securing the screws and the prosthetic with in the child's bone.

Soon after some coaching the child awoke. " My boy, it is time for you to make me money, Do so well? Your parents may live, Do so badly? I will ensure there deaths myself." He firmly twisted the door handle, and pushed the child into the blinding light, into the black street, and as the child silently wished, into an on-coming steamer.

Alright, no more entries past this point, congrats at bloating the topic at the last minute! :P

As always, judges need to get me their votes in a timely manor and let me know of any event which would cause them to be unable to fulfill their duties in a timely fashion.

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