7 – Filibuster

There were often times when President Ezra Gerrymander, leader of the Nation Formerly Known as the United States, wondered about his purpose. Not his grand, fire-in-the-sky kind of purpose, but the rote function of his job. In the recent era of peaceful Hegemony, his status had been reduced to that of an ambassador, a representative to attend the Summit of Nations. There were no wars left to fight and no edicts to be signed. The Hegemon and his cabinet dealt with all the important legislature and territorial sandwich disputes.  The world had settled into an era of peace, for better or for worse.

The region governed by the President was currently known as the United State, singular. The people who lived there had grown fat and complacent, content to spend their lives watching videos of kittens biting young men in the face and baby turtles humping shoes. Ezra knew that, though it might seem peaceful, the world was growing dangerously stagnant. There was no fear, no urgency, and no drive toward excellence. The President felt like he had been given charge of a bloated carcass; a once great nation sat rotting in its own fluids, smelling slightly sweet like memories of marmalade.

The President was beginning to understand that his only real responsibility was to reflect an after-image of the great men gone before him, to instill tranquil pride in the hearts of his people. He would much rather be stirring their hearts, stoking the fires of Patriotism, with a capital P. In these languid days, Patriotism couldn’t buy a taco off a fast food menu.

President Gerrymander had just finished eating dinner at his favorite restaurant in the whole District. At Rigotoni’s, the food served was an Americanized bastardization of Italian cuisine. The President, without fail, ordered the shrimp linguini; he ate it weekly, every Sunday at six.

Ezra sighed. When had he fallen into such a droll routine? Picking excess exoskeleton from his teeth, the President mused that no soul was exempt from petrifying doldrums. He grinned, revealing his handiwork, perfectly clean incisors. Ezra Gerrymander was determined to make everything change before the night was over.

He made his way to his car, flanked by his two most trusted servicemen.  Local gossip said that dangerous folks had been running wild through the District in recent days. The President didn’t really follow that sort of drivel and he hadn’t run into any loonies. Even so, he thought it was always nice to have an extra pair of guns on hand.

Suddenly, the world around the president slowed to a halt, like a slug crashing into a wall. His bodyguards froze midstep; they looked ready to fall over at any second. A family eating in the al fresco café nearby resembled a photograph, their faces petrified in masks of laughter. The President couldn’t see what was so funny; he felt he was missing a joke. A tripping waitress was spilling chowder all over an obese customer’s lap, but the meal levitated, hesitant to stain the pants of the man below it; the liquid dinner was paused like the rest of the world.

A figure appeared in front of the president, garbed in an oversized tweed robe. The hood of the robe obscured his face in shadow. From within that darkness came the light tenor of a young man.

“Are you the President of the United State?”

The President was terrified and excited, all at once. Had someone finally decided he was important enough to assassinate? The blood in his veins began to boil.

“Who are you? What do you want with me? What have you done to my men? What weaponry is this? I’m not going down without a fight, you terrorist!” He stepped forward and took a swing at the odd figure. The stranger easily dodged the President’s wild blow with a quick step to the side. The motion revealed the man’s feet; he was wearing sandals, simple and large. His feet were fleet, for someone wearing such clunky thongs.

“Mr. President, I’m sorry for the surprise. There was no other way to reach, erm, Your Highness. I just need to talk to you for just a few minutes.”

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, sugar.” The President attacked again. He tried to distract the monk-like man with a feint to the right before striking from the left. This time, the monk didn’t bother moving out of the way, he simply swatted the President’s fist away like a drunken fly.

“Really, this would go a lot easier for both of us if you’d settle down. Please take this gesture as a sign of truce.” The tweed-clad man reached up and pulled his hood away. Replacing the ominous darkness was a face full of sharp features, topped by a crop of short, blonde hair; it was greasy and unkempt. He appeared no more than fifteen years old, but spoke with the tongue of a much older man. “I’m so sorry for my appearance. Bob frowns upon those of us who haven’t showered, but I’ve been awaiting your arrival for several days now. I’d hoped you would come a bit sooner.”

The President stopped his assault, but kept his fists raised and his stance low, ready to launch a defensive maneuver. “Alright, let’s talk. You’re just a normal, everyday stalker, maybe. Everyone and their brother know I like Rigotoni’s on Sundays. So you wanted to meet old President Gerrymander? Tell me what you’re after, kid. And tell me what you did to these men!”

The mysterious man sighed with exasperation and tossed away his airs of mystery. “All right. I’m just borrowing some of their time. Don’t worry, I’ll give it back…eventually. Maybe. They probably won’t even miss it if I don’t. Look, I know it goes against your protocol, but it is imperative that I speak to you immediately.”

The President squinted his eyes in concentration. This stranger was probably trying to confuse him. “What language are you speaking, boy? I don’t know what protocol you’re going on about. Are you an assassin?”

The hooded stranger let out a deep, irritated sigh. “No, I’m not an assassin. Surely, you realize I could have killed you ten hundred times already if that was what I wanted.

“My name is Jeremy. I am a Brother, Second Rank, in the Order of Builders. You haven’t heard of us because you haven’t needed to know about us until now.”

This hurt the President’s self-righteous feelings. “Well, who’s to say that? I’m representative of nearly five percent of the world’s population, damn it! If you’re so important, I should be the first to know about… well… All right, what is it that you and your brothers do exactly?”

Ignoring the President’s smarmy tone, Jeremy explained. His eyes lit up with the pride of a father showing off his daughter in her prom dress. “Well, you could say that we’re architects. You could also say that we’re clockmakers. Maybe even artists. I guess you could say that we’re a lot of things, but none of them would tell you exactly what we’re doing. But see, what I do and who I work with and where I ate lunch…these things are not important. What is important is that we have an opportunity to save the lives of millions upon millions, depending on what happens tonight.”

The President raised his eyebrows. “Millions of people? United State-ians?”

“Well, yes, actually. Among others. Not that it should matter.” Jeremy took a deep breath and held it in for a moment, stopping himself from getting too flustered. “Here’s the story. You were on your way to a secret meeting with a couple of representatives from other ‘once glorious’ nations, am I right? Some of your close friends from better times? Just a little get together before the Summit of Nations this weekend?”

“Yes, that is correct. How did you-”

“Mister President, if I let you get to that meeting, you’re really going to screw the pooch. You’re going to muck everything up for everyone you care about. And then some.”

This was not what the President expected to hear. “Do you have something to back that up? It’s a mighty powerful allegation you’ve got there. Everything I do, I do for my country and her people.”

“Mister President, just stop it. You’re going to embarrass yourself. There are forces out there that you can’t possibly imagine. Legions of chaos are playing a dangerous game with the fate of this world as the stake. A revolution is coming that will flip every truth you thought you knew upside down and round about. When chaos rules the land, your people will need someone to lead them, someone they can trust. Someone dead will do them no good.

“You are going to this clandestine meeting to vote on something very important with the other leaders, something that’s been itching your legs for a long time. The ten of you are going to decide whether or not to secede from the Hegemony; I have orders to not let that happen under any circumstances. One nation after another will follow your example, until the Hegemony is shattered. War will blossom in such a garden, fertilized by blind pride and hurt feelings. I know this is exactly what you’re looking for, but you are oblivious to the immediate repercussions. Lives will end, cut short by your selfish whim. Families will crumble; friends will cut friends by tooth and claw, all for the name of Mother Country.

“Then, things will get a whole lot worse. Chaos will flood the battlefield. Unstoppable, furious spirits will ride the winds as they seek out human blood. I can’t even begin to describe how badly you should fear the reign of disorder.

“So, rather than try, I’m going to keep you here until your clique’s secret vote is over and done. I can’t risk you making the right decision on your own. Your presence at this meeting would have tipped the mood toward secession. Can you imagine? Just by being there, you would send the world into a spiraling nosedive of anarchy. Your aide is already present at the meeting and she will vote in your place once the other ambassadors are bored and tired of waiting. She will vote for peace, thank the Builder.”

“How do you know all this?”

“You don’t need to know the details. To put it simply, I took a loan on some loose time I saw floating about. I’d appreciate it if you kept that little tidbit to yourself. I didn’t exactly follow the proper etiquette required of a lowly Brother like myself.” Jeremy sighed, and shook exasperation out of his hair.

“Mister President, I’ve done what I needed to do. I’ve said all that I can really say. At least, I’ve said all that you’ll understand. It’s been three hours by my watch. Yours too, though that probably boggles your mind, doesn’t it? Don’t try to think about it too hard, your clock will sync up with the rest of the world before you can spell linguini. Those other ambassadors are an impatient lot, they’ve surely finished up the voting by now. I’ll take my leave, if you don’t mind.”

The President didn’t understand the first thing Brother Jeremy about what Jeremy meant by borrowing and lending time. He was perfectly fine with that.

Were his people really happy being lazy and carefree? Were they satisfied living their lives in mundane cycles, protected by general inaction throughout the world? He hadn’t really put much value in that sort of lifestyle, but perhaps living a dull, peaceful life might be the best for everybody, after all.

“Wait! Jeremy, did I,“ he stammered, “Did we really just save millions of people?”

The monk smiled and turned to leave.

“May Bob provide you shelter wherever you may roam.” With that simple blessing, Jeremy disappeared, fading away into the glowering dusk.

The world cranked back to life with a high-pitched pop, like a wishbone snapping. The president’s bodyguards finished their half-steps and sprinted forward to catch up to their ward. A dining family continued chewing and swallowing and laughing. A waitress began profuse apologies before spilled soup could scald her panicked customer’s lap. Everything was as it should have been all along, borrowed time slowly trickling back unnoticed into these innocent lives.

Abundantly, life flowed on, unfazed. Not a soul perceived that hours had disappeared, vanished in a heartbeat. Days later, after the time had finished returning to its previous owners, not a soul noticed the few minutes that were gone forever, stolen by a man in tweed.

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6 – Entrenched

After their train ride, the misanthropic trio of Doctor, Hippo, and Hippo took a banana-colored cab to their final destination, a gunmetal skyscraper that disappeared into the sky, its top floor far beyond the cloud line. In the lobby, a dark haired receptionist with tight features led them to an elevator that was supposed to carry them down to their quarters. Dr. Hadjaz thought the idea of underground quarters was strange, but didn’t mention anything to his companions. They weren’t the type to exchange words, built like boulders and just as silent. The Good Doctor soon realized that the tall edifice launched into the sky was just a show for simple-minded passers-by.

Once it had descended a few hundred yards, the lift opened and its inhabitants spilled out into a large, cavernous amphitheater. A fifty-yard movie screen was hung like a portal above sprawling stage. At least thirty rows of black pleather chairs were tiered such that there was not a bad seat in the house. The “house” was more like a bunker; a whole regiment could have sat comfortably in the available seats. Less than a minute after the trio’s arrival, a video began to play, projected from some invisible source. Trumpets blared a heroic fanfare as the lights dimmed and the secretary ushered her wards to their seats.

A deep, excited voice filled the air; it sounded like it belonged to a radio jockey, intensely aroused by the next song he was going to play. “Welcome, friends, to Epitaph Industries! Congratulations on your new positions!” The screen was filled with cartoons of smiling children, dancing dogs, and expensive houses. The children were merrily dancing and singing some gibberish lyrics while the dogs wagged their tails politely. “Here at EI, we only accept the most qualified candidates for careers under our roof. That’s right, I’m talking about you! You’re the best people to help us reach the stars and make our dreams reality! Always remember, our goals are the people’s goals, and the people’s goal is freedom. Freedom to be born the way they want, to live the way they want, and to die the way they want.”

Suddenly, the horny fanfares screeched to a halt. The children on the screen stopped singing and looked upwards at some distraction yet invisible to the audience. Their faces were masks of fear, stuck the way their mothers always teased them they might freeze. “There are forces at play that want to end this way of life, our sacred right as human beings!” A giant globe fell from the sky, sending the children into a tizzy as they tried to escape; the dogs went mad, snapping at each other and all the children, non-discriminately. More than a few tykes and pups were crushed as the great sphere bounced around the screen, homing in on anything that moved. The globe bore the emblem from the Hegemon’s family crest.

Very subtle, Dr. Hadjaz thought. He glanced over at his companions. The Hippos stared blankly at the movie with content smiles on their mirrored faces, unfazed by the strangeness of the situation. They seemed to think this screening to be a very agreeable welcoming party.

The video continued for several more minutes like a fugue, emphatically repeating its theme. The screen showed a variety of scenes, all involving happy people and their animal friends. Every scene portrayed some utopian ideal being destroyed; things looked idyllic for a moment, but the bouncing Hegemon ball would stop by and ruin everything for everybody. Meanwhile, the announcer’s voice babbled on about the noble aspirations of Epitaph Industries and how, through their valiant efforts, they would change the world to a better place, where free will was truly free for every person. There was no mention of the game Anonymous, no mention of the grand prize, and no mention of the lives that would be destroyed as a result of the EI’s actions.

Dr. Hadjaz couldn’t help but notice the similarities between this video and one of the old conscription propaganda tapes. In the era just before the formation of the Hegemony, when humanity was on the brink of destroying itself, these types of videos were very common. They were used to promote patriotism and instill hope in countries razed by weapons and soiled by plagues, a last ditch effort to revitalize comatose societies.  Lots of bright colors and noises distracted from the real meaning behind the film: welcome to the war party, don’t forget to check your hat.

After a hapless poodle was rolled into a pancake, the video drew to a close but the announcer would not let his audience leave quite yet. “Please stay seated for a word from your employer!”

In silence, on a white background, bold, black words of the Epitaph appeared on the screen:

WELCOME. I AM SURE YOU UNDERSTAND WHY YOU WERE EACH CHOSEN TO PLAY THIS GAME. I DON’T NEED TO HOLD YOUR HANDS. THIS INITIATION CEREMONY WAS JUST A FORMALITY FOR LESSER HENCHMEN. MINIONS OF COMMON CALIBER.

JUST GET BUSY AND CREATE SOME CHAOS. I WILL SEND YOU MISSIONS PERIODICALLY, BUT FOR NOW JUST KEEP ON DOING WHAT YOU DO BEST. WHEN I RELIEVE THE HEGEMON OF HIS DUTIES, YOUR REWARDS WILL BE MERIT BASED.

ALSO, HIPPOS, JUST GIVE THE SCIENTIST A CHANCE FOR ME. HE’S A NERD, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

————–

It wasn’t long before Dr. Hadjaz realized his instincts were correct; he was entrenched in a war where his knowledge was the most powerful weapon.

Two weeks into their habitation in the underground lair, Dr. Hadjaz and the Hippos still hadn’t met with the Epitaph, face to face. The Doctor surmised that they never would. The Epitaph only communicated through typed messages; he was achingly careful not to give away any trace of his identity. He managed all his employees by sending orders at the beginning of each day. At the end of the day, he would release a report on how much chaos had been generated by Epitaph Industries and how much overtime would have to be worked over the weekend. Because he was a high-clearance employee, Dr. Hadjaz also received reports about the attacks on EI outposts in other countries. The other Anonymous players would stop at nothing to win.

The Doctor hadn’t realized the extent to which Epitaph Industries permeated the world. It had nearly one two million total employees causing chaos throughout the globe. No part of the Hegemony was left untouched by EI. No depth of ocean was left unsplashed, no dark crevasse unspelunked. If it weren’t spread so thinly with so many enemies, the corporation could have easily declared itself a sovereign nation.

Despite his aloofness, the Epitaph turned out to be a very generous employer. Dr. Hadjaz’s location, the EI Eastern European headquarters, was equipped with a complete laboratory, outfitted with the most advanced instruments for every test imaginable and then some. He also provided a near limitless expense account, in case anything unforeseen was required, for any reason. Everything was just as Dr. Hadjaz had hoped it would be; he had found an elysian neighborhood, just like the children from the initiation videos. However, though The Good Doctor was given free reign to experiment as he liked, the Epitaph had very specific needs for the immediate future.

The Doctor’s first objectives were to analyze the bifurcation serum, replicate it, and, ultimately, find an extremely chaotic use for it.

The first task yielded surprising results, almost immediately. The liquid in the syringe was less a serum and more an automated modeling kit. It was comprised of complex nanomachines and a superdense blend of common biological molecules and stem cells. The nanobots were programmed to take a reading of the subject’s DNA, estimate his age from genetic decay, and using that data, sculpt a clone from the superdense material. It was a simple concept to create a complex organism; the Doctor wouldn’t have believed it worked, but he’d seen it do magic before his own eyes.

Once Dr. Hadjaz had extracted the code from the nanobots, it took him only three days to completely recreate the serum. An extreme anal-retentive, by this time the Doctor had already optimized his daily work schedule. He allotted one hour sleeping at midnight, spent the next ten hours working, slept one hour at noon, and used his remaining ten hours to work through the night. He reserved one hour for leisure time during each work cycles immediately before his rest time; he realized the importance of diverting his attention to other tasks so that his subconscious could work on solving problems, too.

Improving the serum proved to be a trickier task that he had anticipated. The code inside the nanomachines proved to be incredibly intricate; Dr. Hadjaz realized it would be extremely tedious to try and get a good understanding of their basic functions before experimentation. Tedium wasn’t his area of expertise; he preferred a blind shotgun analysis. A few test injections of modified code were horrible disasters. In his first batch of test subjects, one monkey was duplicated with a second head right above his buttocks; another duplication resulted in siamese triplets, forming a triangle walled by their merged arms.

Almost all the functions in the code used recursion to call on other functions, so changing a single variable or constant would result in drastic changes of output. He wanted to ask other scientists for advice, but they were too absorbed in their own research to care.

Self-important bastards! Dr. Hadjaz thought. Your research is hardly as vital as mine! Ha! It’s not like you’d have been able to solve my problems anyway.

Dr. Hadjaz’s silent, gargantuan partners weren’t particularly helpful either. In fact, they were often more frustrating than his academic colleagues. The Doctor’s hypnosis technique had long since worn off and the device couldn’t be used on the same victim a second time. That victim would more than likely punch the Doctor in the neck before he could flip the switch. The Hippo Twins would only take orders directly from the Epitaph himself; the Doctor couldn’t ask them to do anything himself unless he could get the Epitaph’s approval to back him. Nor could he ask them for advice in his research because they were simpletons, at best.

The Hippos were inseparable. Either all of their missions were two man jobs or the Epitaph was a huge fan of overkill. They made a deadly team that was dangerously close. When cooperating, they acted like a single organism with more than double the destructive force of one Hippo on his own. If the Hippos weren’t away on a mission, the assassin pair spent their days engaged in furious chess matches that almost always ended in stalemate.  If either of them actually won a round, the other would accuse him of cheating and go sulk by himself for a while. The Doctor guessed the feelings were fleeting because the duo would end up in a heated rematch only minutes later. Despite being such efficient killing machines, the Hippos would never hurt each other.

The Doctor wondered how long their relationship would last.

Though the Twins shared the same exterior and a love of crushing spines, they were not exact doppelgangers. An Epitaph mandated brain scan of Hippo Number Two revealed that, even though his body’s sculpting was complete, the nanobot sculptors still remained in the clone. Instead of a fully-functional, human brain, the robots built a specialized organ in the cranial cavity. This pseudo-brain had special receptors for the nanobots, allowing them to dock safely and communicate between one another, providing a form of temporary consciousness. They seemed to be tweaking Hippo Number Two’s brain, programming their host with an incredibly diverse knowledge of worldly data and quirky personality traits. It wouldn’t be long until Hippo Two became a walking encyclopedia, a braniac with two weapons of mass destruction on the tips of his arms.

Dr. Hadjaz worried that Hippo Number Two would even outstrip his own prized intellectual aspect. He wasn’t progressing quickly enough on his assignment to suit his tastes, though the Epitaph himself hadn’t made such exacting demands. His over-clocked brain began to fear for his career and personal safety. This super-clone could easily replace him given enough time! Hadjaz’s worry quickly turned to fear and the fear evolved to panic. So, the Good Doctor did what any irrational being would do in his situation, he injected himself with serum and passed out in his sorely neglected bed.

5 – Dirge

“I hereby call this emergency meeting, the Two Hundred Thirty-First Congress of Figments, to Session. Please be seated.”
Coelocanth, the Figment of Order, remained standing while his congregation took their seats; his deep voice reverberated through the narrow hall. Coelocanth was the eldest of the Figments, the first to manifest in this world. He had followed the scriptures of Chaos since long before any of the other Figments were even conceived.
The tall, snow-bearded man sent a solemn gaze to each of his companions. These six dedicated souls, his younger family members, sat around a circular, stone table at the heart of Castle Figment. One chair remained empty; it waited for the day its Master would manifest to sit upon it.
“We must begin at once, we have so much to discuss,” Coelacanth continued. “As you are no doubt well aware, our game Anonymous is approaching its final stages; several players are close to achieving one million points. The level of chaos on the planet is higher than it has ever been before. While this news should bring us all glad tidings, there have been some complications, some kinks in our grand scheme. I have asked Archimedes to explain his discoveries to you.”
Archimedes stood rapidly, his wiry frame uncoiling from a cramped seating position. His body was long and skinny, full of angles nearly as sharp as his mind. The Logic Figment constantly kept a terse frown dancing on his thin lips.
“Welcome, family. Ahem! I wish our gathering could happen under more joyous circumstances. Unfortunately, I bring you both good news and bad news. Ahem. Allow me to start with the bad news.
“The velocity of entropy generation in the world has slowed down to almost zero points per day. Randomness has reached a plateau, and it is unclear how long this situation will last. Ahem! In other words, in the current situation it is unlikely we will reach the critical level of chaos required to release our master from his trans-dimensional bondage.”
This news incited a roar of disappointment from the other Figments.
“What do you mean by this?” The table shook and rattled as Valkyrie, Violence Figment, slammed her fists against the stone surface. Her face was a freckled mask of wrath, from snarling lips to wrinkled brow. Her hair was braided in thick pigtails that dangled down below her broad shoulders; the braids carried an electric charge, diffusing anger from her core to the standing air around her. Terra and Archimedes, the Figments sitting closest to the raging fury, backed away cautiously.
“Everything we have done and worked for, it was all for naught?” Valkyrie fumed. “Unacceptable! Unforgivable! Explain this, scientist. Try to appease me with your tedious logic! Tell us who is responsible and I’ll go pummel them to sleep!”
“Ahem! Thank you, everyone,” Archimedes said, “For allowing me finish my statements and continue onto the good news. I recalibrated one of the entropometers, effectively rendering it an anti-entropometer. With it, I am able to monitor the flow of order in the universe instead of the flow of chaos. Simple logic, really. I’m amazed I’d never thought of it before. Ahem! It appears that a growing number of entities are opposing the entropy we create. The velocity of order has nearly approached the same level as chaos.
“The way things are now, it appears we are accelerating toward a more ordered universe. If we don’t act quickly, the velocity of randomness generation in the universe will become negative. Reality will begin to reverse our hard work and start heading toward a destiny filled by utter organization; this is unbearably far from the goal we have set four ourselves. I mean, that our Master has set for us.”
“But isn’t that just how it goes?” Oedipus, the Irony Figment, felt obligated to propose an alternative opinion whenever possible. Rather than sitting, she was perched upside down in her seat, performing a headstand with her hands on the chair’s arms. She was wearing a black-and-white striped, strapless dress; both her breasts and her hemline ignored the effects of gravity. “The natural order is to return to a mean state, right? We couldn’t make the world chaotic enough, fast enough, and now we’ve missed our window because Nature is balancing things out. Isn’t that a simple explanation what is happening? It was inevitable. Deal with it.”
“I’m sorry sister, but I must beg to differ with your opinion. The natural trend is certainly towards chaos. I should know.” Terra, the Wilding Figment felt he was the definitive expert on what was natural. Terra refused to deal with artificial constructs unless absolutely necessary, clothing and bathing both falling under his definition of necessary. “Archimedes, this trend that you’ve observed is certainly artificial. There must be some sort of disgusting, unnatural force working against us. I wish I could spit all over it.”
Lazarus, the Chronicle Figment, placed one finger on the table. “Quit wasting our time, you ignorant tits. I’m going to stop this squabble before it starts. I can see it’s going to get us nowhere. I am the Chronicle Figment, after all.” Lazarus paused for a moment, to allow his awesomeness room to breathe. “You are both right, in a sense. Oedipus, the machinations of the universe do dictate a return to the median state. Terra, the force behind this negative acceleration is supernatural.”
“You know how much I hate it when you use that word,” Terra mumbled.
Ignoring his younger brother, Lazarus continued. “However, you are both fundamentally wrong in your assumptions. That makes sense, I suppose. A man of my abilities must have foresight as strong as his hindsight. Allow me to clarify for you, baby siblings.
“I can see that we are dealing with something entirely different from what we are prepared to encounter. We are entering unfamiliar territory.” Lazarus was the least favorite sibling of the Figments. Though he was blessed with the gift of oracle, he kept details of his prophecies to himself. There were only rare occasions when he would divulge his visions, instances when he could flaunt his power and reveal much he knew about the future. The other Figments all agreed: he was a king among asses. “I had a vision the other day-“
“AHEM!” Archimedes cleared his throat with exceptional vigor, like a cannon booming over open seas. “I haven’t been able to finish what I have been needing to say, thank you.” He was beginning to get flustered. “I haven’t given you the worst news, yet.”
Oedipus rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath. “You mentioned good news and bad news, not worst news, nerd.”
The scientist ignored her remark and revealed his tidings. “The agents responsible for this unbearable turn of events are human.”
Another fervorous din rose among the Figments.
“I knew you were going to say that,” Lazarus shouted. “But I didn’t want to believe it.”
Valkyrie was up in arms, out of her seat with fists raised at the ceiling. “Don’t fuck around! That’s impossible! Are you trying to tell me that the mortals have discovered a means to compete with our might? Coelacanth, end this meeting right this second. Give me the word and I’ll go crush those wimpy ants right away.”
Oedipus rolled her eyes. “You can’t seriously believe they’re responsible for this sudden surge of order. There has got to be another more reasonable explanation. Like, maybe there’s a bizzarro group just like us somewhere on earth. What if they’re disseminating order instead of chaos? Wouldn’t that be something?” The Irony Figment chuckled.
Valkyrie flashed a sneer back at Oedipus, but didn’t say anything.
Coelocanth frowned through his salty beard. “Are you absolutely certain? There is no chance of error in your measurements?”
Archimedes nodded. “Yes. I’m very sure. Ahem. I suppose it is possible that some human scientists got a hold of some of our entropic emitters and reverse engineered them. I mean, I could do it in a few minutes. If they’d discovered one a few centuries ago, maybe they could have discovered a method to reverse the polarities and cancel the effects by now.”
“Who cares about why it’s happening? Let’s do something to fix it!” Valkyrie’s temper flared again; her mood was especially turbulent. “I’ve been itching to try out some of the techniques I’ve been inventing. Let’s go slaughter those mortal bastards right now!”
Terra refuted his sister’s notion. “Come now, we’ve gone so long without influencing them directly. Let’s just ride this wave of organization out; it’s surely just a temporary fix. Once these meddling humans die, the flow of chaos will return to normal. We’ll still be around, ruining the organization they love so much. Just be patient, sis.”
“I don’t think so!” Valkyrie spat, “You’re just a lazy, dirty bum, Terra. You aren’t nearly wild enough for your own good! How are those idiot humans going to learn anything if we don’t teach them with our fists!”
A debate raged for half an hour before family strife reached a tipping point.
“Silence, children!” Coelocanth boomed, his commanding aura whipping through the room. The intensity in the air cooled instantly from a violent boil to a low simmer. “You all know the rules as well as I do. We cannot influence the inhabitants of Earth directly, with our abilities. Our Master forbade us from touching human lives until he joins us here. I cannot risk any of you upsetting him, before he graces us with his presence. We are doing everything for him! Do not forget that!”
The other Figments glanced awkwardly around the table as their elder continued to speak. “I have taken measures to prevent any overzealous activities. The Threshold is sealed. There will be no more travel between Figment Island and Earth until our Master is among us. The mechanisms of Anonymous are in place, blessed by our Lord. As soon as the game is won, an explosive maniac will become Hegemon. He will take the reins of human destiny into his unstable hands and cause plenty of entropy. We must have faith in our Lord’s design, that His plan will lead Earth into unfathomable chaos. Do you understand the significance of the situation?”
Begrudging acquiescence leaked out, across the table. The siblings understood well. Despite their silly quarrels, they had one thing in common; each of them wanted to please their Master, their common Father. A vibrant shame turned the air of the congressional chamber to gelatinous gas.
“Well, come on,” Oedipus blurted at Archimedes, who sat mumbling to himself, maddened by guilt. “Give us that good news you promised. Something has got to compensate for this disaster.”
Archimedes looked perplexed. “Oh, did I mention that? Ahem. Well, yes, I suppose I’d forgotten. I’m not actually the one who is going to speak the good words. Ahem. Are you ready to speak for us?”
One Figment had remained silent throughout the entire family quarrel. Ophelia, the Psyche Figment, had sat unperturbed as her peers argued ineffectively over different plans of action. Because she was the youngest of the Figments, only a few years into the world, Ophelia had a special connection with her Father that the others had lost over time. She was an inter-dimensional ansible.
“I have received another important message from our Lord and Master,” she rasped. The jagged red lightning in her eyes and her dearth of energy was proof that she had not slept much in the last several weeks. Communications were coming more frequently than ever before and were impossible to ignore. Recently, her head had been filled with a constant drone of her Master’s thoughts and instructions.
“Come on, then. Spit it out! What did he say? Tell us!” Valkyrie waited on no man or woman to get what she wanted.
Ophelia nodded exhaustedly. “It’s easier if I recreate the scene. I can’t actually remember what happened too clearly. Give me a moment.” She stood up from her chair, lowered her head, and dangled her arms at her sides, palms out. She held that position for several minutes, her siblings’ eyes focused intently on the top of her head.
Suddenly, Ophelia’s head jerked upright and she unleashed an ethereal scream. It was the kind of scream that could hunt its prey for miles and pierce their eardrums. It was a living breathing entity of its own rite, birthed from demonic sacrifice on a perpendicular plane. All of the Figments, even Valkyrie, jumped in their chairs, backing away from the terrifying woman before them. This was no longer their sister, but a holy icon of their Lord. Only Coelacanth seemed unfazed, eagerly awaiting this new message from his Father and only friend. Slowly, the scream winnowed down to a calmer tone. Ophelia’s continued to channel her conversation, singing lyrics to a tuneless melody:
Devout servants, My Brothers and Sisters, My time is nearly nigh. The scales of fate are tipped in My favor. I am crowning from the womb of your efforts but I know there have been complications.
The reality you inhabit is not fully prepared for My presence, too much Order yet remains. Do not quail, My kin, My loves. Have faith and wait for the day of My arrival. I portend that We shall be reunited within a galactic heartbeat’s time.
Do not forget, I bring such powerful change that the world as We know it shall cease to exist. In its stead, We will build a world of our own devising. I, Midas the Creation Figment, promise you that.
Go forth, sweet vassals, emissaries of My will, and sing My praise: a dirge of birth and rebirth, eternally repeating.

4 – Cunnilingus

As he regained consciousness, Petyr briefly thought that he had died and gone to heaven. Despite his years of atheistic fervor, he had managed to arrive at nirvana. His vision was swirling with images of beautiful women, all beckoning him nearer with sparkling, doe eyes. His own eyes had turned into kaleidoscopes; repeating images of the women spiraled into the distance, as far as he could see. He gathered his strength and tried to skip toward the gorgeous females, but his arms were yanked back before he could finish his first hop.
That harsh jerk forced dreamy visions to fade into a much harsher reality. Cold, metal shackles adorned Petyr’s wrists, securely attaching him to sturdy rings in the stone wall behind him; the rings were located at shoulder height, trapping his arms perpendicular to his body. A sharp pain pierced his senses like an infant on an airplane, its epicenter on his breast. He looked down to see two metal clamps, one attached to each nipple; the clamps were also equipped with wires running up into the ceiling above him.
The infinite fractal of spiraling beauty began to settle down; thousands of sultry faces congealed onto one seductive body. Petyr recognized the figure of his captor immediately; her silhouette informed him that his notion of a heavenly future couldn’t be further from his present situation.
The tall, scathingly clothed woman stepped closer to her captive, shifting her hips like a horse in heat. She was wearing a red leather one-piece that stopped short, halfway down her thighs; the neckline dipped low, almost down to her waistline, exposing ample cleavage. Her bosom might have fallen out, but six small buckles, evenly spaced, attached the sides of the swooping neckline. Black combat boots with four-inch heels gave her an exceedingly overwhelming, but undeserved air of authority.
“Dear god or whoever,” Petyr mumbled, “Why couldn’t you have just let me die?”
“Vell, vell, look who has voken up. Is naptime over, my little raccoon dog? Are you ready to play vith me?”
Petyr sighed and spoke, his voice monotonous like a lonely robot. “No, mistress. I’m not in a playful mood today. I’m glad to see you’re still keeping things business casual.”
The Dom Com, sometimes called the Himalayan Minx, unveiled a wide, sharp grin. She had finally caught her prized quarry after months of failed attempts. Little was known about the voluptuous mercenary, other than her penchant for wearing leather, her Eurasian origin, and her extremely sadistic tendencies. A prominent Anonymous player known as the Bullmoose had hired her as an assassin, but the Dom Com’s objective in Anonymous was not to help him win the game. Instead, her goal was to force others to lose. Nothing ignited her pleasure center like breaking an opponent’s will, cracking them like a raw egg and sucking out the insides. If she were in an especially good mood, there would be beating and whipping of the eggs. The Dom Com used an encyclopedic knowledge of torture techniques to interrogate her captives. After her violent thirst was quenched, she would force her prisoners to reveal their names and disqualify them from the game. Her tactics were quick and dirty, much like the woman herself. She and Petyr had a special relationship; he was certain that she had special treats waiting to surprise him.
“Can we just get this started aleady?” Petyr asked. “I’ve got an appointment with my dentist tomorrow. I’m pretty excited about this root canal we’ve got planned.”
“Oh, silly boy, ve can call him up and reschedule,” the Dom Com said, tying her hair up in a short bun. “I’ve been vaiting so long to catch up vith you! I’m sure you’ve got a lot to tell me.”
The Dom Com had been tracking Petyr for over nine months. They had first met on assignment, their missions at odds with one another. Petyr had been sent by the Minotaur to capture a genetically-engineered, super chimpanzee from a research facility; the Com had been sent to erase it. Petyr managed to sneak the ape away safely by disguising it as a janitor. From that day forth, the sultry assassin had sworn to achieve vengeance. Every month or so, they would find themselves at odds once more and again Petyr would use his superior tactics to outmaneuver her. She never surrendered, and her day for revenge had come at last.
Petyr winced. He must have been unconscious a long while for her to catch him so easily. That meant the briefcase, the mission, and his life, were all forfeit. His embarrassment must have shown all over his face, because the Dom Com walked over and pinched his cheeks into a smile.
“No, no. Ve can’t have you being so unhappy. You have such a pretty face. Look, I vant you to meet somebody. It’s somebody I think you’ll like.” She stepped back and clapped her hands aggressively. “Aleister! Attend!”
A door creaked open behind the Dom Com and a portly caucasian man scuttled into the room. He was wearing nothing more than a black latex speedo and a matching collar, revealing a flabby torso spattered with coarse, graying hair; the shambling man looked like the love-child of a grizzly bear and a manatee. He shuffled over to his mistress holding a heavy bucket, eyes focused on its turbulent contents.
“This playtoy, he is new since ve last met. My little fox, are you familiar vith the Snapdragon? You know his vork?”
“Sure, he’s one of the best henchmen around. He’s supposedly released hundreds of convicted murderers from high security compounds and never even had a photo taken. Quite the impressive record.”
“Yes, he is a player, just like you. That is, he was, until I learned his name. Please, I vant you to meet Aleister Bowfinger, once known as the Snapdragon. Now, after being shamefully diskvalified, he became my slave. Much better than the typical alternative, yes?” She raised an eyebrow, hoping her prey would be duly impressed, or at least a little intimidated.
Petyr was neither. “I don’t know. Probably. Maybe? What did you do with my briefcase? Where are the samples?”
The Dom Com paced over to her prisoner; her torso hovered perfectly still as her waist gyrated in a hypnotic orbit below it. “I don’t know anything about that. I vas assigned a mission to kill some scientists. I come to this site and I find my vork completed! Vat a disappointment! However, I also found you vrapped up like a present from the heavens, so I am not too upset.”
“You really don’t know who you’re messing with. The Minotaur will come after me and do terrible, embarrassing things to you and your boss,” Petyr bluffed. He had no illusions about his employer; The Minotaur was much more likely to look for the briefcase and its contents than a dispensable agent, no matter how skilled that agent might be. “He will stop at nothing to get that briefcase and its secrets. Come on, what have you done with it?”
The Dom Com clicked her tongue discerningly. “I already told you, I don’t know vhat you are talking about. Also, I don’t think you quite understand the little role-play ve have going on. I am the one vith the pover right now.” She reached into her boot and pulled out a small black cylinder with a big red button, a trigger for some unseen device. “I have some qvestions for you, my naughty pup. I hope you vill answer correctly, for your sake. Do you remember how ve first met?”
The clamps were siphoning too much blood to Petyr’s nipples. He was certain they would fall off his chest. They were all too sure of the purpose behind the Dom’s trigger. “Yes. It was in Jakarta. Nine moths ago, I think. I was there to escort a chimpanzee that somehow managed to discover a solution to some equation or other. Something about the energy shortage. You were there to kill the very same ape, to stop the chimp’s brainpower from being used for good or something. I don’t know. It was a mission; it’s long done. I like to keep things simple.”
The Dom Com politely clicked her button; a small shock coursed through the clamps, turning Petyr’s veins to molten sludge. He knew the Dom meant it as little more than a warning; his situation would become much more excruciating over the next several hours.
“Not qvuite, you scamp. That vas the first time we met as cloak and dagger, but not the first time ve met as man and voman. Do you remember, two years ago, vhen you vere on leave in Moscow?”
This question took Petyr by surprise. To him, the trip to Moscow had just been another vacation, another opportunity for him to waste his money on pleasure and debauchery. He remembered the city and its offerings well, but nothing struck him as significant about his time there.
“I remember. I was on leave for almost a week. What about it?”
“You took my viginity from me!” the Dom Com screamed, pressing the button with vigor. “You stole it vith your mouth! In the bathroom at the Kremlin’s Korner! How can you not remember this?”
As terrible jolts of electricity caused him to dissociate from his body, Petyr had a vision of his past. He remembered going to the Kremlin’s Korner while he was in Moscow. The trouble was, he didn’t remember leaving. It was the most popular bar in his hotel’s district, known for serving a drink dubbed the Molotov Cocktail. The drink was simple; it consisted of a shot of vodka with high enough proof that it could be lit on fire. Petyr had lost count after swallowing around seven. His Russian blood had granted him immunity from cold weather, but had neglected an ability to tolerate alcohol. His liquor processing system was so weak that he didn’t remember much of the next two days after that night of debauchery. He certainly couldn’t recall a fun romp with anyone like the Dom Com. Deranged as she might be, Petyr would have treasured memories of a night with her.
“I’m sorry,” Petyr said, panting, “I don’t recall. Maybe you’re confusing me with someone else. I was-”
Before he could finish, more intense shocks wracked his body. His spine arched, his wrists burned where they were attached to the metal rings. The Dom Com was through maintaining onto any pretense of playing nice.
“Don’t mess vith me. Hah! As if I could forget your face. I stared into your eyes for a good…no, an amazing hour.” She shivered, a wave of pleasure flooding her through the memory. Aleister straightened up his posture, hopeful that his skills might be required after all. “I recognized you immediately in Jakarta. Do you know, I have been vith no man since then? I had been vith no man before then. You are the only man for me, my little fox. I vill have you as my pet, forever.”
Petyr was shocked, electrified, and silent; he was disgusted to think that he might have been responsible for creating such a sadistic monster.
“Now tell me, vat is your darkest secret?” As she yelled, the Dom Com pulled the torture trigger once more. All of Petyr’s senses flared intensely as electricity overclocked his system; he experienced sensations unknown by most creatures limited to only five senses. Self-immolation couldn’t hurt half as badly as what Petyr was experiencing, a transubstantiation into an electrical entity. He tasted metal, as if an unwashed sword were cutting out his tongue. Colors flashed before his eyes, constructing a tempered mosaic of his life’s memories. A sweet siren’s song twittered in his ear, tempting him to obey his new master, to give in to inertia’s flow. As the shock died down, a hint of cinnamon lingered in his nostrils.
Petyr hung motionless and out of breath, a stressful euphoria replacing the unbearable torture; his body was entirely limp and useless. The only things keeping him upright were the chains on his wrists. He could see the excitement in his captor’s eyes; she licked her lips and fondled the shock trigger like a lover.
Peter knew exactly how this farce would play out; his years of training had prepared him for situations just like this one. He could avoid telling the mistress anything, just as long as she could keep torturing him; his mind was locked in a steel vise and pain was not its key. And yet, from a distance, his body was telling him that those shocks hurt like hell. His future held endless days of pain with no respite in sight. The Dom Com would work him hard a couple of days, before seeing his resilient nature shine through. She would inevitably grow bored, and set up an automated torture regiment while she was otherwise occupied; this robotic painfest would continue until Petyr was dead or rescued.
Unfortunately, Petyr also knew what the Minotaur was planning. Failure of his mission left Petyr as good as dead in the Minotaur’s eyes; his employer wouldn’t be sending any rescue missions, limiting Petyr’s futures to various forms of gruesome expiration. If Petyr managed to escape, he would no longer be welcome in the Minotaur’s circle. He would be blacklisted to prevent him joining any other Anonymous syndicates and would probably run into more than a few hungry assassins. Most futures appeared pretty bleak for the shocked agent.
There was only one viable option available to Petyr; only one choice would allow him to stop the cycle before it could even begin. It might place him in an even more dangerous situation, but at least he would see a glimmer of hope that he might survive. As long as he survived, he could find another source of money. He could find another reason for living. He looked directly at the Dom Com, his blue eyes colder than the Russian steppes.
“Mistress Com, my name is Petyr Dmitriev.”

3 – Bifurcate

Train rides are always exceptionally boring, Dr. Hadjaz thought to himself, fighting hard to stay awake. He couldn’t quite bring himself to trust the man sitting across from him, his supposed partner in crime. They had both been hired by the same mysterious stranger, The Epitaph, but that bond was of little worth. After all, they had both been chosen because they were the most ruthless artisans in their respective fields.
Dr. Hadjaz’s traveling companion called himself the Dancing Hippo, and rightly so. The man was a true behemoth, a rippling monolith of a henchman. He looked as though he could eat literally eat a horse in one sitting. Dr. Hadjaz wasn’t sure about where the “Dancing” title came from and didn’t really care to know any details. The Hippo claimed he was wanted for murder in over one hundred countries, but Dr. Hadjaz wouldn’t believe him before he did a thorough background check and had some serious data points. Even if that rumor weren’t true, Dr. Hadjaz would have bet his first-descended testicle that it would be a terrible idea to cross The Hippo.
Their cabin was suited for four passengers, fitted with a pair of red, velvet-lined loveseats across from each other. The Hippo filled both seats on his side easily, with no room to spare. Despite being so monstrous, the henchman was dressed well in a white button up shirt and brown dress slacks. His tiny green bow-tie, speckled with white polka-dots, seemed intentionally ironic, but Hadjaz didn’t dare ask. The Hippo had combed his hair immaculately, gelling it in place with obsessive design and far too much fixative.
None of this really bothered Dr. Hadjaz; he’d worked with too many kinds of low-life to be put off so easily. He had led a vigorous, noble life of medicinal research until a few years ago, when he realized that his time was slipping away and he was yet utterly unfulfilled. So, he decided to play Anonymous, signing up as The Good Doctor. The opportunities for research offered by playing the game were much more satisfying than the offerings of academic pursuit. The Doctor had worked for a few low-level players before realizing just how high his powerful brain could fly. As his ambitions grew greater and greater, he left the organizations of his employers in flaming rubble and flew like a phoenix ascending. This current assignment with the Epitaph was his greatest achievement yet, though he was certain things would only get better. To protect his identity, he designed himself an insignia, a purple winged man, representing his love of the Daedalus and Icarus. Though his everyday life flirted with danger, Dr. Hadjaz used cold logic to make sure he never flew too close to the sun.
No, Dr. Hadjaz had spent too much time in the heart of the game to be bothered by the Hippo’s odd appearance and demeanor. What really dug at The Good Doctor was the silver briefcase. The Hippo held it tightly between his great hamfists, refusing even to store it in the luggage compartment. “The Hippo’s only letting go of this to The Epitaph his-self.” His commitment to completing his mission was admirable, if incredibly simple-minded.
Dr. Hadjaz had been hired specifically to examine whatever was inside the briefcase and he had no idea what it might contain. It could be a code for some ancient fortress, a weapon to melt the thickest armor, an elixir of immortality, or any number of other things. The Epitaph had given no clues, claiming only that it was “extremely entropic.” The Good Doctor tried to think of other things. He dreamed of women he had known, of projects he had completed, and of lands he had traveled, but the briefcase kept sneaking in at the edge of his thoughts. Hadjaz began to grow tipsy with anticipation; he was not a doctor known for his patience.
Before devoting his life to the game, Dr. Hadjaz had run several labs. He had hired grad students and other research technicians to perform his research; he was usually too busy brainstorming his next project to do any experimentation himself. If an assignment wasn’t yielding results within a few days, he claimed his staff was moving too slowly and the scheme was scrapped. He would replace all his scientists and start again on a new project. Luckily for his academic career, his strongest asset was creativity, so he had no shortage of alternate schemes to investigate. However, all his plots drove towards one ultimate goal, the betterment of mankind. The Good Doctor cringed to remember such a sterile existence; his life as a criminal genius was infinitely more intoxicating.
There are too many hours left in the train ride, Dr. Hadjaz started to shift anxiously in his seat. Not knowing what was in the briefcase, not being able to plan, expand, and extrapolate, and not getting his way was driving him stir crazy. His brain was on fire! He needed to initiate a plan to get his hands on that briefcase. He leaned forward, put his hands on his knees and stared directly at his associate.
“So, my dear partner, Mr. Hippo, are you ready to let me have a peek into that case yet?”
The Hippo didn’t bother to look back at Dr. Hadjaz. “The Hippo already told ya, you’re not going to get a look. The Hippo’s only going to give it to the Epitaph. Stop asking before ya get The Hippo upset, sah.“
“Now, listen to me,” Dr. Hadjaz said, getting quickly annoyed, “We’re supposed to work together, and it is my job to work with whatever is in that case. You must give it to me immediately!”
“Do ya think The Hippo cares? The Hippo only answers to the boss. The Epitaph is the boss, not ya, sah.”
The Good Doctor rolled his eyes and sputtered a sigh through his tight lips. Extreme loyalty, tremendous strength, and simpleton intelligence. All these things made the Dancing Hippo a perfect henchman; they also made him an intolerable partner.
The Hippo had searched The Doctor before allowing him onto the train, on the Epitaph’s orders. However, he had only been ordered to search for weapons, which Hadjaz did not usually carry. He packed a much more dangerous variety of items of his own invention. He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket and began to nibble on its end.
“Hmm. You see, that attitude is going to be quite a problem. If we’re going to get along, we need to trust one another, right? I don’t feel very much trust in this cabin.”
The Hippo refused to reply; he simply stared at the bit of air directly behind the Dr. Hadjaz’s left earlobe.
The Good Doctor smiled impishly. If that was how it was going to be, then he could play along. Dr. Hadjaz didn’t like to put his cards down before it was absolutely necessary, but the situation was driving him up the wall. He took the pen from his mouth and stuck his arm out towards the Hippo. He closed his eyes and clicked the pen’s button three times. A light at the tip of the pen emitted a flash of green light, rapidly followed by flashes of pink light and green light in a highly complex pattern.
“Good Hippo,” Dr. Hadjaz commanded, “You will give me that briefcase and you will be happy about it. You will work with me from now on, instead of against me. It is in your best interests to do so. For all intents and purposes, I am your boss now. Got it?”
The Hippo’s expression hadn’t changed. His typically serene face looked exactly the same. Dr. Hadjaz was worried; his brow twitched and leaked tiny beads of sweat. Had something gone wrong? Was this massive monster immune to his hypnosis device?
The Hippo extended his arm, briefcase still attached, to the middle of the cabin. “Yes, sah, The Hippo obeys.” He dropped the case onto the floor.
The Good Doctor smiled a genuine smile, like a child on his birthday, and quickly scrambled to pick up his treasure. “Thank you very much, dear friend. I think we’ll be getting along just fine from now on.”
He opened the case while short of breath; his heart beat quickly, pitter-pattering with excitement. Inside the case he found six syringes, all containing an unknown clear liquid, all labeled BioMod36B. The vials piqued the scientist’s interest; his Faustian soul was yearning for knowledge about this strange solution. An insatiable urge to explore the serum’s magic filled his very fibers. In a day or two, he would have a lab to himself where he could experiment to his heart’s content. On the other hand, he had a willing test subject sitting across from him.
“Hey there, Hippo. To celebrate our new friendship, I have a little game to play. Are you interested?”
“Yes, sah. The Hippo likes all sorts of games, but especially chess.”
“Ah, well. Very good then. This is going to be just like chess. Just sit tight and close your eyes, alright?”
The Doctor took one of the syringes and checked it for bubbles. There was no use killing off his patient before he got his data. After he was satisfied the injectible was safe, the Doctor walked over to the Hippo and placed the point of the needle against the Hippo’s neck.
“Bon voyage.” Dr. Hadjaz inserted the needle into the Hippo’s jugular and pressed on the plunger until the entire contents had been administered. Dancing Hippo sat through the process with little more and an uncomfortable grunt. Dr. Hadjaz wasn’t concerned about the dosage; his patient was big enough to require a whole flask of cough syrup to see any effect.
The Doctor returned to his seat to watch his experiment in motion. Nothing happened for several minutes; the Hippo blankly stared at that same sector of empty air he loved so well. After about a quarter of an hour had passed, the Hippo silently conked out.
Perhaps the dosage had been too great after all? Maybe the specimen was dead! The Good Doctor panicked for a second-and-a-half; the Epitaph would surely be upset that he’d killed a fine henchman. He quickly shook off the worry and began to think rationally. The Doctor didn’t believe the serum was just meant for killing a foe or for making someone pass out; there was too little chaos involved in either act, though they were both quite villainous. Even so, one vial might have been too much for the Hippo to handle.
Just as Dr. Hadjaz was making a mental note of the failed experiment, the Hippo sat straight up, stiff as a board. His eyes were bestially wild, entirely opposite from their usual tranquil-pool state. A strand of drool began to run out the corner of his mouth; his whole body was quaking rapidly, as if he were being electrocuted. He shuddered and quivered and made quite a racket. He whooped and hollered, shouting out sounds only vaguely reminiscent of words. A small, spherical growth appeared on his neck, at the point where he’d been injected with the serum. It grew rapidly, inflating like a fleshy water balloon. When it was the size of a tennis ball, the tumor detached from its host and bounced to the center of the cabin; the Hippo passed out once more.
Dr. Hadjaz stared at the small lump of flesh with terrified eyes, fascination locking his vision in place. This was unfamiliar territory for the scientist; he was witnessing a miracle of sorts, something that didn’t make sense. Things were happening before him that bent the laws of science in ways he had not imagined possible. The ball of cells continued to grow, changing shape as it expanded. It slowly morphed its shape, taking on the features of a small child. After a half an hour, it looked like a young man, distinctly overweight. As it continued to expand and mature it looked more and more like the Hippo asleep behind it.
A bifurcation serum! Dr. Hadjaz couldn’t believe it. It was a serum that could replicate the test subject. It seemed unreal. He closed his eyes and shook his head, planning to wake up from a mad dream. He though this must be the product of some long-dormant dementia. When he opened his eyes it confirmed that he was living in a nightmare. The cloned Hippo was prodding the original, trying to wake him up. The original begrudgingly regained consciousness and was surprisingly calm about what he saw.
“Hello, The Hippo,” said the newborn clone, “Are ya feeling all right?”
“Oh yes, The Hippo,” spoke the original doppelganger. “The Hippo was just napping! The Hippo feels much better now.”
Dr. Hadjaz was contemplating jumping out the cabin window when a wayward fist rapped at the door. Hippo Number Two opened it to reveal the train car’s attendant. The stiff young man pushed a pair of thick-rimmed glasses further up his nose before trying to speak.
“I’m sorry to bother you but I heard a commotion. Um, weren’t there only the two of you before? Hey! Are you trying to scam us?” He took a noble stance and puffed up his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to alert my boss.”
The two Hippos shared a quick glance before grabbing the attendant’s arms and pulling him into the cabin.
“No, sah. That won’t be necessary.”
They picked the boy up and swung him as hard as they could through the cabin window. The attendant disappeared with a crash and a scream, and Dr. Hadjaz decided he was glad he hadn’t gone through the window; the train was moving quite rapidly, after all. The cabin was stiflingly silent for several moments afterward; the only sound came from wind whistling through the broken window.
The new Hippo put his finger to his lips, wrinkling in his chubby brow to indicate deep thought. The Good Doctor realized that this clone wasn’t under his hypnotic spell and it worried him. The air in his mouth turned exceptionally dry.
“Hmm,” the doctor said, laughing nervously, “There isn’t enough room in here for all us, is there?”
Dr. Hadjaz spent the rest of the train ride nestled in the lap of Hippo Number Two, wishing that he could be back in his old university lab, performing research on the mundane and uninteresting.

2 – Anonymous

Petyr crammed himself in a shadowed alcove, shrinking his presence until the only trace of his existence was a fiercely beating heart. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and tensed his bones. His eyes twitched with anxiety; he hoped the distraction he had planned would conceal him from the panicked eyes of his enemies. He ground his teeth together and prayed to the almighty unknown while he braced for endless waves of alarms to begin. Deep down, in the nebulous heart of his being, he prayed that all his problems would work themselves out.
Fate. Kismet. Karma. Destiny. There were endless names he could give to an intangible source of courage. Most normal people had a crutch to keep themselves off the ground, but long ago Petyr had decided he would never bend his knee to a god. The highest power he worshipped was his own ability, but this dire situation was making his faith waver.
Sweat drenched his palms, suddenly as slick as a rainy curb. Petyr readjusted his grip on his prize; if he accidentally dropped the briefcase, the crash would echo throughout the facility and alert every slimy guard to his exact position. Certainly, if he were discovered he would be slaughtered on the spot; no quarter was granted in his line of work. If he managed to escape detection, he would probably lose himself in an attempt to escape. The mission had been a miserably planned clusterbomb; it was either a miracle or blind luck that Petyr had acquired his target and survived to this long. If, through some grand twist of the universe, the rest of his plan were to succeed, Petyr hoped he would earn enough points for his boss to give him a long deserved vacation.
The game was known as Anonymous and playing it was Petyr’s true calling. The lead players, royalty of the underworld, were unknown to one another and scattered across all seven continents. The game’s goal was to ignite the most chaos by committing crimes, inspiring mass debauchery, or exciting general entropy without being caught or having one’s identity discovered. Either of those predicaments had the consequence of disqualification.
A panel of judges scored these acts; they were known collectively as The Figments. No soul had ever met or seen a Figment; nobody knew how many entities were involved with the group. As far as Petyr was concerned, the Figments didn’t really need to exist. As long as he had a job, he could be working for a syndicate full of ghosts. The invisible judges were offering an incredible grand prize: the office of Hegemon of the known world. This blessing would be granted to the player who most quickly accrued one million chaos points. Nobody ever bothered to ask how the Figments would make it happen; the dream of such incredible power was more than enough motivation for most modern narcissists and new age sociopaths.
The prize lured all types of players from all lots of life to the game. As such, all tactics and any deeds were fair game. Rape, treason, arson, murder, burglary, graffiti, and extortion were a few of the more common acts, but no limit was imposed on what was considered truly chaotic. In fact, the only written rules referred to the execution of the acts themselves.
Each player was required to announce his intent to commit a crime before the actual occurrence. This served to weed out the simple criminals from the true megalomaniac masterminds; crimes of passion were considered especially urbane. The nature of the entropic operation itself could remain a mystery, although bolder players might give some clues to their plans. These declarations acted as additional proof that the player was worthy of special credit for his chaotic conduct and often resulted in higher scores from the judges. It also gave other players an opportunity to stop the crime from happening and determine the player’s identity. Given the devious nature of most players, having one’s identity discovered resulted in not only disqualification, but an unfortunate demise.
At one time, Peter had been a Russian special agent; his training had prepared him well for the role he would play in the game. Disenfranchised from country and family, Petyr had quit his country’s secret service two years ago and sold his skills to an aristocratic game player claiming to be from Crete. He called himself the Minotaur; he was slowly building an army of agents using a seemingly bottomless wallet to cover all expenses. Petyr was hired as a knight of chaos, committed to furthering the destruction of all orderly action. The Minotaur envisioned himself as some sort of destructive savior, claiming to have a grand manifesto, a great plan to reinvent the world after his ascension to the Hegemony. Petyr didn’t care much for that aspect of Anonymous. As long as the gold was flowing into his coffers, his boss could pass an edict killing all puppies and stripping angels of their wings; the money was all that mattered.
Petyr continued waiting as the seconds drifted into minutes, melted into hours. The alarms he expected never sounded. Suddenly, the briefcase felt especially heavy. It only contained six syringes, snugly secured in foam bedding. Petyr was unsure as to the syringes’ contents, but thought that was just fine. Not knowing every detail often made completing missions a lot simpler. This particular endeavor had already wound up several levels more complicated than expected. The guards had been all too aware of his movements through the complex, despite his ingenious disguise and fleet feet; it was as though some third party had been setting the odds against him.
Something felt amiss, as if the facility’s air had been stagnant over thousands of years. Petyr briefly hallucinated that he was hiding in a tomb, trapped with his master pharaoh’s treasure, six golden syringes. Shaking off the visions, Petyr convinced himself that whatever was in those needles wasn’t worth dying over; also, he decided he wasn’t getting paid nearly enough for this job. Though it wasn’t specifically included in his orders, Petyr was determined to survive the day; dying was not his forte. He quickly decided that, if he was forced to meet his maker, being slain while investigating the eerie calm was a much more appealing option than rotting in a corner.
Petyr took a deep breath and starting moving away from his safe alcove. He crept from shadow to shadow, retracing his steps back to the laboratory where he had found the vials. The facility was a complex, cold maze designed to trap research scientists for endless ages. Unable to find freedom, they would work hours upon hours to invent demented weapons and frivolous devices. Petyr had placed a timed explosive in the primary research lab, but someone had likely found it and disarmed it. If the scientists had discovered it, they were smart enough to understand that he hadn’t been able to leave the premises. Utmost stealth would be required for him to escape intact.
Petyr’s muffled footsteps seemed to upset the heavy air, adding to the illusion that he was walking under a Great Pyramid. Something had unraveled his plan much worse than he had planned, as it often goes. A nasty tumor of worry knotted itself over and over in his stomach. He slowed his travel as he neared his destination, finally sidling up to the great, glass window-wall of the research department. Flourescent lights strobed erratically from the lab, casting spider-like shadows on the outer corridor wall. Petyr peered in, using his peak sneaking technique to avoid notice.
It wouldn’t have mattered if he was carrying a bullhorn and singing Souza, no one was left who could sing along. A scene of carnage flickered before his tired eyes. Scientists were strewn throughout the room like litter, white lab coats stained red as cardinals. Great gashes lined many of the corpses’ faces; often, the wounds were still leaking scarlet juices onto the floor. Petyr couldn’t make out any facial features; the scientists’ heads seemed to have gone through a mighty vise. Some vicious monster had violated this space, crushing all life beyond recognition. The flashing fluorescents illuminated two small sparkles on a stark laboratory bench. One was a silver tern, left by Petyr as an artist’s signature after he stole the vials. Petyr squinted, trying to gleam what the other sparkling speck might be.
He couldn’t think fast enough; a pair of strong hands lifted him up and threw him through the laboratory window. His body turned to putty and his skin split from the force of the impact. Shards of glass cut him in hundreds of places, creating a jagged, ruby grid all along his torso; blood began to flow freely. Time began to slow as Petyr gliding through the air; he imagined himself looking like the mutilated scientists, an unidentifiable pulpy mass of flesh. Sliding along the ground in a puddle of mixed, crimson fluids, his mind spun, his heart raced, and he tried of think of a survival plan. His body crashed into the wall with a heavy thud. Peter couldn’t lift his head, let alone his fists; something vital had ruptured inside him. Heavy footsteps padded to his side. Two great hamfists pried the briefcase out of Petyr’s petrified grip. As his fingers loosened, his mind began to fade into black.
A deep voice echoed through his fracturing mind. “Thank ya for helping the Hippo, sah. If ya wake up tomorrow, tell the Minotaur that The Epitaph send his regards.”

1 – !!!

Hegemon Solomon woke in a cold sweat, panicking as his dream shattered into oblivion. Billions of terrifying beasts had been nipping at his heels, chasing him down a cobblestone street in an unfamiliar city. He had kept just a hairsbreadth away from his tendons being devours in a most unpleasant fashion. Flashes of the devils’ breaths raised his hackles and he shivered, despite the artificial warmth of his bedroom. The whole experience had felt just a little bit too real to shake off as an everyday dream.
The Hegemon performed a quick search his bedroom, just to make sure he was safe from harm. He glanced under his bed, perused his wardrobe, and made sure the window was still latched. Nothing in his room was any scarier than usual. The tree outside his bedroom cast skeletal webbing on his floor and bedding, backed by a glowing moon. The stuffed clown his mother had given him ages ago still smiled grotesquely from on top of his bureau. The silver light of night reflected off the picture of him in his mother’s arms, in a frame placed next to the terrifying doll. Everything was in its right place, but he couldn’t shake the chill from his dream experience.
One demon, the most terrifying of all, had been at the back of the pack, driving the army before him. He was a great, black moose, as long as he was tall, with a shadowed crown of antlers as sharp as his teeth. A wild tongue lashed out at his minions like a whip, urging them onward toward their tasty prey, the Hegemon. All the devils cried Solomon’s name as they ran, beckoning him to slow for just a second and play with them.
Solomon hadn’t been raised to accede to any demands besides his own. He was the Hegemon, after all. His special training at the secret Bureaucrat Academy had served him well; he had acquired the strongest will on the planet. A few little nightmares should be nothing to him. His mother would have scolded him, if she knew how troubled he was by the dream. A stereotypical Jewish mother, she would have given him some warm chocolate milk, nestled him in her busom, and sent him back to bed feeling guilty for having broken her slumber.
Memories of his dear mother filled Solomon with a lost courage and warmth; the chill from his dream was finally dissipating. A glance at the moon revealed that the night was still in the witching hours; there was much sleeping still to be done. After one last, neurotic search of his room, the Hegemon crawled back into his bed, snuggled under the covers, and shut his eyes to get some rest.
After several sleepless minutes, he reopened his eyes and screamed. “Mother, may I!”
Looming above, inches from his face, was a mouth full of razor-sharp umbrage. The mouth was attached to a familiar face; a cold snout, molten eyes, and a jagged crown of shadows. The moose devil was standing on Solomon’s bed, breathing noxious vapors into his gaping mouth. His nightmare had manifested into a very corporeal beast.
“Your mother can’t hear you now, Solomon,” the moose rasped. His voice sounded like sandpaper rubbing flesh away from bone; his breath smelt the same.
“Buh, huh, mah,” Solomon stuttered. “Guards! Security! Get in here! Help me!”
“They can’t hear you either Hegemon,” the moose continued, “But you are safe, for the moment. I come to hold counsel, only. I cannot hurt you here unless you wish it.”
“How can I trust you?” Solomon said, “You were trying to eat me in my dream!”
“Yes,” the moose hissed, “and that was a warning of what is to come, Hegemon. That is, if you choose to fight me and my will. I am coming to play a game in your world, Solomon. If you follow my rules, I might consider sparing your life.”
“My life?” Solomon had sworn to give his life to save the world many years ago, when he first took his oath of office. The vow was only words, when it came down to it. “My life, well, you can’t threaten me. I’m the Hegemon.”
“A pretty title, to be sure. Many people respect your authority. I am not one of them. In fact, it’s best if you don’t think of me as a person at all,” the moose smirked. “And it’s not your life alone that you should be worried about. Think bigger, Hegemon. Imagine every spark of human life, extinguished by a single decision you might make. You hold in your hands the destiny of human existence. Will you play for my team, Hegemon?”
Solomon gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering. “I refuse to negotiate with terrorists.”
The moose laughed, a heaving tide of pestilence. “I am much worse than a terrorist, Hegemon. Or even a horrorist. Gods and devils have got nothing on me. There are no words to describe how sickeningly scared you should be. Allow me to elaborate for a moment.
“All the beasts in your dream, the ones slobbering for your flesh, are hungry to feed. They are very real, at least as real as me. It is only a matter of time before I can unleash them to hunt down you and every other warm-blooded creature on your planet. The cold-blooded beasts will make soothing desserts.” The moose’s pink tongue was beginning to shine with thirsty saliva. “I made them all with an insatiable taste for fresh plasma, Hegemon. They will drink until there is no more to swallow. I will ask you again, because I don’t think you understood me at first. Will you play with me or against me?”
Solomon gulped away his tongue’s paralysis. He thought it might not be a bad idea to listen to this anthropomorphic beast, at least for now. “Okay, moose. I will listen, b-but I’m not promising anything, yet. What would you have me do?”
“I have a few simple requests,” the moose smiled, drawing closer to Solomon’s face. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re willing to listen. It will make things so much easier on the both of us.”
Solomon could hardly breathe, the moose’s toxic breath filled his lungs in the stead of fresh air. “Ask me, already. I’m listening.”
“The first request, I think you will find quite disagreeable,” the moose said. “At a summit this weekend, there are a number of countries who are going to propose a motion to secede from the Hegemony. You must let them leave.”
“You can’t be serious! This will cause terrible repercussions. If I let them leave, countless others will ask to secede as well. The Hegemony will dissolve! The world will fall into chaos! Countries will be scrambling to assert their independence and will probably enter into meaningless war. The Hegemony was constructed to prevent this exact scenario.”
“Precisely,” the moose grinned. “It will be a beautiful disaster. I’m salivating just thinking about it. Don’t you want to know what will happen? Don’t you want to watch the world burn away?”
“Never! That goes against everything I’ve sworn to do. I gave my solemn oath to stand for order and justice! To protect the innocent from power hungry tyrants like you.”
The moose laughed. “Well, you might stand for all that silliness, but you will still fall beneath my raging armies. You saw them in your dream. Do you really doubt my might?”
“I do not doubt your strength, sir moose, but you are asking me to make a decision as though all hope is already lost. Perish beneath your soldiers or lose ourselves to our own devices. I can’t just give up hope at the drop of a hat. I’ve given my whole life to the cause of order.”
“And you will give it completely, if you resist. You will sacrifice the life of every organism my dark knights encounter. Can you shoulder that guilt? Come now, Hegemon, be reasonable.”
“But, my oath,” Solomon stammered. “I, my, I promised. Mother, I, forgive me.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. You can pass the blame off to another,” the moose crooned. “In several days, you will be approached by the one who will replace you in your office. At this time you can be assured that I am walking the dirty ground of your planet. You will abdicate without resistance because, I assure you, any efforts to deny me will fail. This is my second request. I will not hesitate to annihilate every living creature if you try to balk me.”
“Why is that? Is this an emissary of yours?” Solomon asked desperately, pining for answers. “Do you want to rule the planet or do you want to destroy it? I don’t understand your motives. Why are you here?”
“My reasons are of no concern to you, mortal,” the moose crouched low and began to lick the Hegemon’s neck with a virile hunger. “All you need to know is that standing against me will result in infinite death. Have I made myself clear? Do you need me to draw you a diagram? I have big plans for this universe. Your world is an incredible source of power, so I’m giving it my utmost attention, for now. What I end up doing with it is my perogative.”His shivering tongue slithered up Solomon’s cheek.
The Hegemon was on the edge of tears, a monolith shattered. “Please, what else do you want? Just ask me and leave me to my peaceful slumber. I can’t take this anymore. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“Poor little human, I have asked quite a lot of you, I realize. The last thing you must do is wait for me, your new master, to come. Spend your days fearing me and worshipping that terror. It will prepare you for the ultimate transition into my kingdom of chaos.”
“I promise!” Solomon sobbed. “I will give every waking moment to fearing your footsteps, mighty, oh, what should I call you, sir?”
“There is no need to burden you with that knowledge at this time. Just call me Master,” the moose said, licking Solomon’s ear, sending an icy dagger through the Hegemon’s soul. “The world will know my name when the time is right,” he whispered, before ripping off his prisoner’s ear with a terrific bite.
Hegemon Solomon woke in a cold sweat, panicking as his dream shattered into oblivion. The sun was shining and his alarm clock was blaring smooth jazz. He jumped out of bed to shut off the alarm and searched his room for any trace of the moose demon or his minions. Not finding anything suspicious, Solomon pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t still dreaming. It had happened again, the dream within a dream. He fell into that trap every other night, with the same demons chasing him to a false awakening. The moose demon came every time and every time he nearly wet himself with fear, forgetting his previous encounters. It didn’t seem right, that he could fall for the same trap over and over, but he did. He didn’t understand dreams or what they meant, but this recurring motif was really starting to bother him.
He went over to his bureau and picked up the picture of his mother, avoiding the disappointed stare of the smiling clown doll. He wished he could call her and ask her for advice. In truth, he knew what she would say. She would tell him that big boys don’t cry, that if he wanted to grow into a strong man he should forget about it and get back to his work. Otherwise, he would never find a good woman. His mother, rest her soul, did not understand that a Hegemon was not to be married under any circumstances.
Solomon sighed, wondering if these dreams were his subconscious mind’s way of telling him to start a family. Something told him that was just his neuroses speaking. Still, he knew these dreams were more than dreams; they were happening all too frequently. Today’s dream had been more realistic than ever before, his level of lucidity had been horrific. Some kind of action needed to be taken. Solomon’s will was fraying, he was losing touch with reality. Even if the nightmare army wasn’t real, he wasn’t fit to run the world anymore. Solomon put his mother’s picture back, placing it face down on the bureau, and gathered some pens and paper.
The Hegemon looked out his window to see a yellow finch tweeting from its nest in the spindly tree outside. Solomon envied its joyous celebration of freedom, its lack of responsibility, its lack of fear. He sighed longingly. This was a good day to write an abdication speech.
Just in case.