MATURE: - Ongoing The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 8, Downstroke—11/20/12

[Caprizant]

This is a work of original fiction.
( Note: I'm currently going through the chapters and revising them, hopefully smoothing out some rough bits and making the prose a tad less bland. May take awhile with all the other work I've had lately. )

THE ABSTRACT IDEAL OF STAYING ALIVE

Spoiler

Table of Contents
Currently not much use for this, but oh well.

Chapter 1—The Boat Builder
Chapter 2—A Cup of Tea
Chapter 3—Catching Smoke
Chapter 4—At The Veterinarian
Chapter 5—Gannoré's Exile
Chapter 6—Pride & Delusion
Chapter 7—Shadow Dodging
Chapter 8—Downstroke

Melvin Fibonacci—once a novelist, painter, and boat builder, turned homeless and helpless. Now an old man, Mr. Fibonacci does odd jobs for his fellow citizens for low pay and lives in a wooden hut under a bridge with his two newly-adopted children, Cecelia and Nello. However, one day he finds himself in a hostage situation, assaulted by a woman who demands he do exactly as she says, or face the death of his children. Not realizing what he's getting himself into, Mr. Fibonacci reluctantly agrees. What follows is a sea of grief and doubt in which even his boat struggles to stay afloat.

Chapters placed under spoilers for convenience.

CHAPTER 1: The Boat Builder

Spoiler

It was time.

"Tell me, Mr. Fibonacci," said the woman as she held him at gun point. "Do you prefer to give yourself more time, or give that time to your children?"

The woman nudged back the child that had begun crawling towards his father. The boy fell back softly into the arms of the girl behind him and began to bawl.

"Be quiet," said the woman. Her golden hair whipped at her face as she turned to talk to the boy. Melvin didn't dare to move. Gulping, he tried to sort everything out in his mind. It was time. Time for what, he did not know; all he knew was that his kids were in danger. Perhaps in the back of his mind, it was time to take action, to begin to struggle. Perhaps it was time for lunch, even, he did not know. All he knew was that his kids were endangered, and when this thought reached his full consciousness from his subconscious, his feeble mind translated it as the time to give in. What he was giving in to, he did not know; only the danger of the situation had processed when he made his decision. He would soon regret it.

"I'm waiting," said the woman, glaring once again at him with her pale blue eyes. The expression on her face spoke of an intense repugnance. She kept her gun pointing between his eyes. "What is your decision?"

Melvin felt a burning question move to the forefront of his mind, and he knew he shouldn't ask. However, the all-too-human feeling of curiosity overtook him, and he asked, "Why me? Why my family? I have done no wrong—"

"Too right you haven't!" interrupted the woman with a shout. "But soon, very soon, that shall be corrected. We examined your files and found your criminal records completely clean. No one will suspect you."

"Suspect me of what?" But he knew he went too far with this question. The woman snarled at him.

"That is not your business, not yet. But you shall learn very soon... when you give me your answer."

He trembled as he sat on the floor, leaning against the barrel of gunpowder behind him. Through the cracks in the wooden shack's walls he could see a bright, golden glow characteristic of the times near sunset. Then he looked at his children, his son and daughter, shivering on the cold dirt floor behind the woman. They were leaning against the wall, staring back at him. Then he looked at himself.

His hands were covered in dirt and blood, torn and bruised. He had only nine fingers. He was missing the finger that had once worn his wedding ring. Shaving had not been possible for him for weeks now, and thus he now grew a beard. His hair was sticking up everywhere and was turning from grey to gone. His teeth had not been brushed. The clothes he wore hung loose, and he wore a painter for a belt. He wore no shoes as the ones he once had had lost their soles. The mind that had once painted masterpieces, designed boats, and written novels was now worn out and beaten.

Melvin looked up after a long moment and stared the woman square in the eyes. It was time. It had always been time, and his mind made itself up for him before he could make up his mind. Whatever this woman wanted him to do, he would do it. For his children. For himself.

He nodded at the woman. She put on a malicious smile and helped him up. Melvin heard his back crack. Holding a hand out each to his children, they grasped his and he pulled them upwards.

"There, now we're one big, happy family, aren't we?" the woman mocked him. He gave her a contemptuous glare. She allowed him to leave, but warned him that she would be keeping a close eye on him. He began wondering what she was planning for him.

Over the next few weeks, Melvin Fibonacci went about his daily business and found little wrong. He would return to his small hut under the bridge in the town center every day after work to check on the kids before searching for food. The work he found often consisted of petty chores that the rich men in town had little care for, such as gardening and taking care of animals. Every day he would spend the little money he got on loaves of bread and milk. Bringing these home to the kids, they would say a prayer and then eat. He deeply missed the old days and his old jobs; staying at home to finish the latest chapter of whatever novel he was writing; finishing his latest masterpiece, perhaps finding a nice, quiet spot to paint; building his boats, and testing them on the river. These days were long gone, along with the money he had earned from them.

Now he only had his children, his adopted son and daughter. He could well remember the day he took them in, for it wasn't too long ago. They had been abandoned, left by a dumpster, the girl holding the infant boy in her arms. They couldn't have been more than six years for the girl and eight months for the boy. Melvin had felt deeply saddened by the appearance of the two in such a poor state. They were initially mistrusting, of course, as it was customary not to talk to strangers; but he eventually convinced them he meant no harm and spoke to the town council about taking them in. The council examined his records and found nothing to suspect, and so allowed him to care for the poor pair. Cecelia and Nello were their names, and fine names they were at that. Now, however, he doubted he could continue their care; he rarely had any food left for himself once the day was done.

Melvin knew it was to a good cause, however, that he went to the market every day with a little cash to feed the young ones. Some days, though, he felt he was being followed—no, he knew he was being followed. There was a man following him, he knew, everywhere, as the woman who had assaulted him had promised. Every time he turned around, he could see the man; there he was, reading the paper while leaning casually on a wall; there he was, buying some bread in the line next to him; there he was, in a window, staring at him, talking to someone out of sight. Each time he saw the man, however, he seemed like a completely different man—once old as he, twice a young man, thrice even younger. Always, though, he wore the same suit, the same tie, the same pants, the same shoes, and he even had the same facial features—but always different, whether it be wrinkled, freckled, or smooth-faced.

One day, Melvin came back from the market to find that an envelope had been left at the opening of his hut. Cecelia and Nello neither knew where it came from nor when it got there, but there it was, in an envelope with no return address. There was no sign of footsteps in the mud around the hut, neither of the children had heard anything, and there was no way to tell whose handwriting it was, as it appeared to be typed out. Opening up the envelope, he read the letter inside:

Dear Mr. Melvin Fibonacci,​

Meet at marketplace, 9:00PM tonight. Do not bring the children. Do not get seen.​

Sincerely,​

A.A.I.​

There was nothing else. Only the short message, and the initials... he assumed they belonged to the woman who had assaulted him. He knew he had no choice but to go to the marketplace that night. Reluctantly, he left the children behind and set off alone into the inky blackness.

The town certainly seemed much more frightening at night. Cats hissed from the alleys as they fought each other for the last bit of fish. Shadows jumped out at him out of every corner and at every look behind him. There was a light breeze that chilled him as he walked through the streets in terror of what was to come. Finally, reaching the marketplace, he looked around.

There was no one there.

He searched through every dark alley, peeked at every pile, looked in every place he could think of and there was no one there. Just when he'd given up on searching to go back home, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder.

"Looking for someone?" said a man's voice.

Melvin almost screamed. He was glad he didn't; surely he would've been killed then, for it was the same man who had been following him for weeks, and he wouldn't be too happy to be discovered. This incarnation of the man was of a young adult, with slicked back hair and brown eyes. He stood nearly two feet taller than Melvin.

"Why, yes," Melvin panted. "Jesus, you scared me."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll be more careful next time."

"Oh, there'll be a next time, will there?" he questioned sadly.

"I'm afraid so, sir. And many more after that."

"Hmph," grunted Melvin. "Very well. I do believe you're the one who's been watching me?"

"Indeed I am, sir. Right this way, sir, she's getting impatient."

"So that lady's here, is she?"

"Just in here," answered the man as they entered an apartment building. "And be quiet."

Melvin nervously shuffled to the room adjacent with the one they had entered. Here, the woman who had assaulted him was standing beside a table with various scientific-looking equipment attached to its sides and a thin tissue lay over it. The woman motioned for him to sit on the table. The smile on her face brought up a feeling of intense abhorrence within him. He loathed the woman and everything she would make him do.

"Welcome," she said, making it quite clear he was not welcome at all. "I suppose you're wondering why you're here."

She waved her hand in front of his face, and his eyes closed of their own accord. In an instant he saw in front of him (though he supposed he didn't, as his eyes were closed) a sea of clocks, all depicting different times and all ticking and tocking and ringing and knocking like clocks do. All the noise and confusion made him feel sick. Why was the woman showing him this?

"We examined your criminal files and found no negative record. You're perfect for our... missions."

"What missions?" he demanded to know, snapping his eyes open.

"You shall learn," said the woman, her eyes glowing red. "In the meantime I shall run you through who we are and what we do. We are the Accelerators, we can speed up time and slow it again. We can reverse it, we can put it through fast forward, but only for the individual—and that individual is you.

"We chose you as a perfect subject for our experiments—no criminal record, quite an old man, no family—or so we thought. You seem to have taken in some stray children since we began researching you, I saw that when I first kidnapped you. However, we won't let that get in our way.

"We shall put the task to you to silently exterminate anyone who gets in the way of who we are and what we believe in. If you do not follow our orders exactly you will put the lives of you, your children, and many others in danger. This may seem like your typical action movie spiel, but trust us, we mean what we say and we don't let anyone get in our way. To ensure that you won't forget what we say, we are going to implant a special cell in your brain that allows us to communicate with you, even when in the middle of partaking in a crime. You have no choice in this situation. Our ability to speed up and reverse time for the individual allows for an immortal killer—as long as he does not get himself killed in the process. Now, we shall begin the procedure."

The woman forced him to lay down on the bed and then pulled on a pair of doctor's gloves. As she lowered the scientific machine and pulled some equipment out of a basket, Melvin felt intense apprehension of what was about to happen.

Outside of the building, there was no impression that anything at all significant, sinister, or insane was occurring inside. All inhabitants of the tiny town were unaware of the impact the otherwise-ordinary night would have upon the world in times to come. Time moved on in one direction and passed by in another, as though it were not significant to it that in that tiny building in that tiny town was a plot to plunge the planet into panic. Time did not care. For time does not know the dangers of itself, it does not care for what it does; it only does its job, and it does it all too well.

 

[Headless Whoreman]

Re: The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 1, The Boat Builder—May 20th, 2012

Quite good. It reminds me a bit of the first Max Payne game's storyline. No spelling or grammar errors here. I'll keep an eye on this story.

 

[Caprizant]

Re: The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 2, A Cup of Tea—May 21st, 2012

CHAPTER 2: A Cup of Tea

Spoiler

"...was wondering, what time is my appointment tomorrow? The letter didn't say—"

"Blanche Centauri is your name, correct?" said the nearly-robotic voice of the employee on the phone.

"Correct," said Blanche, admiring the way anybody could train themselves to ensure that their tone of voice always maintained the same level of dullness.

There were sounds of shuffling files and a searchful muttering from the other end of the phone. After a half minute or so, the man was on the phone again.

"Your appointment is at 3:00PM," said the man in his colorless tone. "You will be meeting with John Richard."

"Alright, thank you."

Blanche hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair. She gazed out the window. This was her third job interview this week. It seemed that the more job interviews she went to, the less likely she was to get the job. She began to tire of telling the interviewers the airspeed of an unladen swallow.

As Blanche blankly stared out the window, she saw a shadow moving through the streets below. Leaning forward in her chair, she peered at the figure as it strolled. She could discern the vague shape and color of a grey beard. The man seemed to be wearing tattered clothing and a rope for a belt. She thought she knew the man from somewhere, but she couldn't think of when. Leaning back in her chair again, she continued her thoughts.

After a few minutes pondering her job interviews, she realized that she felt drowsy and should get some sleep so she could wake up on time the next day. Unbeknownst to her, the man with the grey beard was walking down the streets later again that night, and his face was a masterpiece of grief and doubt. The shadows no longer mattered to him; he only saw the path in front of him. Everything would change.

When Blanche Centauri woke up the next morning, she prepared for her job interview and departed quickly. She entered the dull building in which her job interview would take place on time and waited around for her interviewer to be on time. Her interviewer wasn't on time.

When the man named John Richard finally approached, she stood and shook his hand. Leading her silently to a dull room somewhere on the third floor, the man closed the door with a dull thud and motioned her to sit in the dull chair in front of the dull desk so he could begin to ask her his dull questions. They seemed to have no relation to the job she was applying for. She did not remember what the job she was applying for was. The man only asked questions and made a noise of acknowledgement every time she answered them.

"What was your previous job? ...Mhm. Do you remember the last time you were in a rocking chair? ...Mhm. What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen sparrow? ...Mhm. What is your biggest weakness?"

"The inability to adequately answer a question as ridiculous and irrelevant as this," Blanche rebelled. The man named John Richard glared at her, and then there was a commotion in the floor above. Looking up as though armageddon had arrived at the simple noise of what seemed to be a tea cup falling, the man rose mechanically and marched out of the room without a word.

Blanche thought of following, but instead resolved to quietly leave the building. She did not want the job anyway. However, when she pushed the down button on the elevator, nothing happened. The elevator was malfunctioning. She tried the next. Still malfunctioning. She wondered if she could go up to the next floor to see where the interviewer had gone and what had happened in the room upstairs. She couldn't. She grew impatient. Blanche walked to the door leading to the stairs. It was locked. There was no way off of the third floor. With a bitter resentment, she returned to the interview and patiently waited for the interview man to return. A thought struck.

The man could not return.

For a moment that lasted several centuries, she began to panic. She stopped. This was not how a rational mind handled a situation such as this. A rational mind would seek help. Standing up almost as mechanically as the man who was interviewing her, she walked out of the interview room again and walked throughout the hall. There were very few other people on the third floor. Peering into a cubicle, she told the woman inside of the issues.

"It's no problem," said the woman in a mechanical voice. "This happens quite often. They'll be back up soon."

It most certainly is a problem, thought Blanche. If elevators and the doors to stairways were constantly malfunctioning, this most certainly was a problem, and she did not want this to become a problem with her as often as it was for the woman in the cubicle. However, she said a polite thank you and returned to the area of the third floor with the elevators. They were working again. Cursing the building and its robotic employees, she returned to the first floor.

She walked out of the building as a man passed her, apparently in a hurry. Through the corner of her eye when he passed by, she caught a brief glimpse of a young man with dark brown hair and a grey suit. The man quickly turned right and was soon out of sight. She thought she knew the man from somewhere. An ambulance wailed in the distance.

Back at her apartment, she turned on the television to the evening news.

"—was nobody around and there wasn't any sign that anybody had been recently. The two men were simply sitting in their chairs, faces pressed on the table, dead. An autopsy yielded no results. There were no signs of disease in either men, and there were no indications of foul play. The officers on the scene suspected their tea was poisoned, but this was later shown to be incorrect. Surveillance in the building did not capture their deaths. Information will be reported on as it is received."

The news report showed pictures of the two dead men. She recognized one as the man who had interviewed her. Slowly, she became thankful for the building and its marvelously malfunctioning elevators. They had saved her life.

* * *​

Meanwhile, in an apartment in another area of the city by the bridge under which the old man with the grey beard lived, there was another, much younger man who had a view of the hut. Every night he could see the old man returning to the little hut under the bridge by the river in the darkness. He could remember the day he saw the old man bringing the two children home with him. The man fascinated the other man. That other man was Kevin Apollo.

Kevin Apollo was fascinated by the old man because of his story. He had heard from others that the man was once a novelist, painter, and boat builder. The man was now in poverty, not because he was a failure, but because he chose to. The people who were old enough to remember those days said he seemed much more satisfied as a pauper.

However, he had noticed in the last few weeks a change in the man's demeanor. He now seemed to rush into the hut and stay there for longer periods of time. He no longer took his adopted children around town. The man seemed worried of something, but Kevin couldn't fathom what—even if the man feared dying, he seemed sensible enough to live his days wisely before he died. Setting aside the old man's change in demeanor, Kevin switched on the television to the evening news.

"And now, we've received news of the mysterious deaths of two men in the city. The men, Larry Smith and John Richard, were found dead in the fourth floor of the National Association of Suicide Hotlines. There was nobody around and there wasn't any sign that anybody had been seen recently. The two men were simply—"

Kevin flipped the channel. There was the news again, spreading discomfort among the population. He was sick of it. He'd rather remain ignorant. It was the humane way to live in a society that already knew too much. Ignorance was bliss and therefore the world would be a better place if they were all ignorant. Kevin was ignorant of the negative effects of worldwide ignorance.

* * *​

Earlier in that same day, Larry Smith was set to undertake an unexpected business call requested by a man he did not know who had just moved into town. Larry Smith was a pilgarlic, he had no brains and a high ego, both of which had carried him high up in the company ladder. Smith reveled in controlled chaos, carefully conducting the constantly malfunctioning elevators as a means of entertainment.

The man he had been waiting for entered the room and Larry motioned for him to sit down. Larry attempted to recall the man's name, as he seemed to remember him from somewhere, but this was fatuous, as the man introduced himself seconds later.

"My name is Stanley Ulysses," said the man nervously. "I'm here as a representative of FLAT, the Fight for the Liberation of Adolescent Tension." Stanley shook Larry's hand before he took his seat.

"I'm here as a representative for FLAT because we would like to join in partnership with NASH. We feel that there's a great opportunity in the partnership and that our businesses are incredibly relevant to each other. With a successful campaign, we may be able to reduce the risk of adolescent suicide."

Larry put his skills of deception to work as he feigned interest in the partnership. When presented with a contract, he searched in his pockets for a pen and found that he did not have one. Luckily, the man named Stanley didn't have one either, and Larry gladly volunteered to go to get one.

When Larry left, Melvin let out a sigh of relief. Putting on the guise of a boring businessman looking for a partnership deal was stressful. The newly-acquired grey suit scratched him and he felt extremely uneasy. It reminded him of his exciting old days—though he supposed that his current age that day would have indeed been the age he was in those days. After a brief moment of reflection, Melvin turned to the job at hand. Pulling out a small vial of clear liquid from the inside of his suit, he poured the clear liquid into the cup of tea that he knew Larry would drink from.

The moment the vial was out of sight again and Melvin had returned to his Stanley state of mind, Larry returned with a pen. Signing the contract absentmindedly, he took a sip of tea. He leaned forward in his seat to speak to Stanley.

"You know, I was thinking, about this campaign—" was all he could say. A choke, a gurgling noise, and a fleeting glimpse of realization in his eyes, his head drooped and he fell into an eternal sleep. The tea cup fell onto the floor, empty.

It made Melvin sick to know that it was he who had killed the man, on the orders of the lunatic criminals known as the Accelerators. He knew it was all he could do; he was a timorous man, and the imminent threat of death to himself and his children forced his feeble confidence to cower back and fade into the shadows of his fear.

Next moment, a man came running into the room, panting.

"I came up here because I heard a commotion—who's that?"

The man's face turned paler than marble as he spotted the dead man laying his head on the table.

"Mr. Smith!" said the man. "Oh, what's happened to Mr. Smith?"

A voice called from inside Melvin's head.

Kill him.

"I don't know," Melvin lied. "He's just fainted! Someone should call for help!"

"I'll do it," said the man. "I'll go get a phone."

When the man left the room, Melvin quickly set up some more tea and poured the invisible liquid in it. When the man returned, Melvin spoke.

"My name's Stanley Ulysses, by the way."

"John Richard's mine."

"Would you like a cup of tea while we wait?" said Stanley.

"Sure," said John. He was so absorbed in the reality of the whole situation that the reality didn't actually process. He didn't make the suspicious connection between the tea cup on the floor and the tea cup in his hand. He drained it all in one gulp.

"Thanks," said John. "They should be here soon—" He paused as a look of horror crossed his face.

"Wai-wait a minute. Did you...?"

There was the choke, the gurgle, the head droop, and the clatter of the tea cup as the invisible poison took effect. Even in autopsy, there was no way of knowing how the two men died. Melvin grabbed the tea cups off of the carpet and put them on the table. Quickly, he left the room and exited the building, nearly running into a woman as he walked out. Again, the voice sounded in his head.

Avoid her.

Melvin turned a sharp right and swiftly walked away and around a corner. It was a bitterly cold day in early winter, and evening had already descended on the city. As Melvin maneuvered the busy streets and dark alleys, he received directions from the voice in his head on where to go. He had no knowledge of where he was being led, only who he was being led to.

In the rooftops above, there was a young man watching him. Melvin had no knowledge of the man. The only knowledge of Melvin that the man knew was what he could observe on the rooftop. This was a great much for many circumstances, but not much on this occasion. He had no interest in Melvin; he seemed inconspicuous. This young man had developed a keen sense of sight and sound over the course of his life on the rooftops of the city. He had faded from everybody's memory.

He was a young man of around the age of eighteen. His hair was dark and tangled. The young man was thin, and possessed an immense strength in relation to his appearance. He had acquired this strength with necessity, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, climbing walls, and dashing out of sight when he thought somebody might see him. His eyes were large and grey, and he wore a plain shirt and dark blue jeans. He spent his nights observing the events in the city and spent the daytime in dark stairwells on the roofs of buildings. This young man's name was Victor Vantes.

 

[Caprizant]

Re: The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 3, Catching Smoke—May 23rd, 2012

CHAPTER 3: Catching Smoke

Spoiler

"What about the fingerprints?" asked Melvin when he entered the room the woman was in, taking note of the new location. How she found a new place every night to meet him would be a mystery to him for a long while.

"Oh, don't you worry about that," said the woman casually. "That special cell we implanted in your brain wipes your fingerprints clear. You leave none."

Melvin stared blankly. He didn't like what he heard, didn't like being reminded of the horrifying process of the night before. Finally, he said, "Wiped my fingerprints? How the hell does that thing wipe my fingerprints?"

"It's simple. The cell searches for the SMARCAD1 gene that controls your fingerprint pattern and annihilates it."

Melvin stared for even longer. Then he let out a chuckle.

"What's so funny?"

"Nowhere," said Melvin, exasperated, "nowhere, have I heard of a cell that can be implanted into your body and used to annihilate your genes. It's impossible. Not in modern science, on television, not in the wildest science fiction books, not even in my own, have I heard of something so preposterous."

"Well, now you have."

"I don't believe it."

"Then start to."

"Prove it."

"My, my, aren't we pushy? Fine. Touch something, anything. Pick up a glass."

Due to his poor eyesight, he could never see his fingerprints clearly, though he could always tell when they left a mark. Melvin picked up a glass of wine the woman offered him, ready to gloat over his imminent capture. He confidently took a sip from the glass, staring straight into the woman's eyes. Setting the glass down, he glanced at it. His mouth dropped.

He left no fingerprint.

"Convinced now?" sneered the woman. Melvin gaped.

"What about skin flakes?"

"Covered that."

"Elevator malfunctions?"

"Those happen regularly in that building. They won't be anything of suspicion."

Melvin tried to think of something else that could get him caught, but he had little hope. He was no investigator. He didn't know what they did.

"Is there anything at all that could give me away?"

"Not to our knowledge, and we have all knowledge we need."

"What if someone saw me rushing out of the building?"

"You were a perfectly normal looking businessman. The only person to take note of you was that young woman outside of the NASH building that we told you to get away from. We'll be keeping an eye on her from now on."

"Why was it so important to avoid her?"

"My, we're curious. That's of no concern at the moment. The important thing is to dodge her at all costs."

The TV played at a soft volume as the conversation wore on. Looking at the screen, there was a video showing the front of the NASH building. The woman turned the volume up.

"This is Brenda Wimbly, coming with a special report in front of the National Association of Suicide Hotlines building in the west side of the city, home of the mysterious deaths of two employees late this afternoon.

"These deaths are unlike anything the investigators have ever experienced before—it would seem that the two men merely dropped dead over tea in a small room on the fourth floor. There were no signs of illness, foul play, or indeed any injury at all to the men. The only fingerprints in the room were their own, along with their flakes of skin. Absolutely nothing of interest was found at the scene. There were no eyewitness reports of suspicious looking individuals in the area.

"We have, however, received new information from the investigators: They're bringing back a former investigator to the team. This mystery investigator, they say, had solved numerous crimes such as this in the past. They hope to close the case before it gets too far, as they fear this isn't the last they hear of the same type of strange deaths."

"Good to see they aren't slackers," said the woman. "But I'm afraid their goal is unreachable."

* * *​

Out on the rooftops, Victor pressed his ear to the cold surface to listen for a television. Finally catching the noise, he listened in to the report on the news.

"...special report in front of the National Association of Suicide Hotlines building in the west side of the city, home of the mysterious deaths of two employees late this afternoon. These deaths are unlike anything the investigators have ever experienced before—"

Victor lifted his ear from the rooftop and looked up towards the tall glass building to the west. With tremendous speed and strength, he scaled the walls and hopped over the alleys until he reached one close to the NASH building. He observed the scene below.

A few police cars and a sedan were lined up outside of the building. There was no one dawdling around. Men in uniforms carried a pair of bodies on stretchers to an ambulance with several men wearing black suits in tow. He assumed these were the investigators.

Peering into a window at eye level with him, Victor watched the television blinking inside. The screen depicted the scene of that afternoon around the time of the deaths. As he watched, a woman strode out of the building doors at a quick pace. Just as he was thinking of how suspicious she looked, a figure stumbled past the woman, turned, and left the screen.

The man was on the screen for such a short amount of time that he doubted anyone else had caught the sight of him. The camera was angled just so to give him the least airtime, so that his face was hidden. But Victor recognized him. He was the man who he had seen in the alley earlier that very night.

Down below, the investigators were discussing the event vehemently.

"I can't believe it—it's as if they just dropped dead," said a dark-haired young man in a green tie.

"Now, now, don't believe all you see. We need to report our information to headquarters—"

"Not out here! Get in the car."

The other three men did as they were told. The green eyed man who had directed the conversation to the more private quarters began again as the last door was closed.

"Right, as soon as we get the report back from the lab, we'll begin work. Fenworthy, you take charge of the victim's relations study. Pennington, Longfellow, Hemingway, you search for leads on the possible identity of the murderer, if any. The whole case is so misty right now, it's best to be on the safe side and search for signs of foul play immediately. I'll take the public relations, notes, investigation organization, and interrogations. Are we clear?"

The other investigators gave nods of assent as they set off down the road back to headquarters. Back on the rooftops, Victor was pondering the meaning of the connection between seeing the man in the news and in the alley. He supposed there was the possibility there was no connection; but a small part of his mind still felt convinced there was. Watching the police cars drive away, he wondered whether he might be an asset to the investigation. But he stuck with his ways and decided to operate alone.

The investigators' car reached its destination minutes later and Lind Ridgway stepped up to the apartment door and knocked. A few moments later, the clattering of someone walking down the stairs could be heard, and the door was opened. The blonde haired woman who answered was a familiar face to the group.

"Good evening, Jessica."

"You need me for an investigation, don't you?"

"What gave it away?"

"The news report and the codename," she replied lazily. "Come in."

The investigators entered the apartment and sat down where Jessica motioned them.

"I trust you have heard of the deaths?"

"Of course I have. I was just watching the news, wasn't I?"

"Yes. What's your opinion on them?"

"It's unfortunate, yes, but I don't believe we should all jump on the foul play boat just yet. It's bound to sink."

There was a slight pause as the investigators pondered her words.

"Care to clarify?" Ridgway asked.

"Simple—I don't believe we should call murder right off the bat. Yes, it's a strange coincidence that the men died in the same room at roughly the same time of, as far as we know, the same cause, but if we go romping around yelling murder the public will panic when it may not truly be a murder at all. The autopsy could have been faulty, the cause could be of a new kind of disease that we have yet to discover, you need to approach these things with caution."

"We do need to at least investigate the possibility, however."

"Exactly. Which is why you shouldn't shout it out on the news. Keep it quiet until we're sure. For all we know, the perpetrator is next door as we speak. For all we know, it was a natural death on both accounts. For all we know, we know nothing."

A silence followed her words. The eerie silence filled the room and crushed their throats.

* * *​

Outside, the same unnatural, eerie, pounding silence resounded through the alleys, across the river, into the caves of the mountains. The silence was too thick for Kevin Apollo as he walked back from the pub that evening. The strange feeling he was being watched came back to him as it did often before, and to every other person at some point in their lives. This time, however, he really was being watched.

A dark shadow in the sky. A glint of light from the reflection of an eyeball. A split second later, it was gone; he knew not what or who it was. But it was enough to make him sprint the rest of the way home. All the news of death and the eerie silence made him yet more timid.

Up high on the rooftops, Victor watched from a safer distance as the man he was watching ran away. It didn't seem he was the one he was after, but he still kept a close watch. Whether the man ran of fear of being caught or fear of Victor himself, he did not know. Following the man, he found himself near the river.

It became apparent the man was only afraid of him; he was muttering to himself, with excuses such as "trick of the night," "just a light in a window far away," and "just my imagination." However, Victor decided to tread ground over to the bridge, where he saw an abandoned hut underneath.

It felt almost foreign to walk on the flat ground at street level. Crossing the bridge, he stared into the hut. A paper lay on the ground and some trash lay about. Walking over to the banks and inside, he kicked a few things around, searching for nothing. He picked up the paper and read the tattered remains of the letter.

Dear M M l n F n ci​

Meet at mark place, :00PM tonight. Do not bring the c en. Do not get seen.​

Si r y,​

A.A.I.​

Victor read over the letter again, trying to make sense of it. It could possibly be related to the deaths at NASH. He tried to fill in the blanks, but all he got out of it was replacing "mark place" with marketplace and "Si r y" with sincerely. He supposed whoever lived here could have picked it up out of curiosity. It was apparent to him that anyone who would live in that little hut by the river would not be a murderer. Nevertheless, he put the note in his pocket in case it would come in handy later.

* * *​

The next day was cold and foggy, and Fenworthy sat in the car sipping his tea, waiting for the rest of the investigators to get ready. He turned on the radio to a favorite station and leaned his seat back. In the back of his mind, Fenworthy knew it wouldn't be this peaceful for the rest of the day, so he took the moment and squeezed all of the serenity out of it he could. However, just as he was settling in, the radio tuned out.

His eyes snapped open. He wasn't aware they had closed. Sitting up farther in his seat, he turned up the volume. He heard nothing. Trying to tune back in, he thought curiously about what could be going on. Then, a voice crackled through the speakers that made him jump.

"Investigators," it began, echoing and fluctuating in a deafening cacophony that made Fenworthy uneasy, "you cannot stop perpetual motion. It's fatuous to believe so. You must merely let natural processes fulfill their duties, as we are here for causes imperceptible by ones such as you. We are not barbarians. We are mechanical, we are perfect, we are monochronical. We maintain anonymity while remaining familiar to all. We leave no evidence yet our mark is placed everywhere we go. You are trying to catch smoke with your bare hands."

As the speech ended, everything was silent. Seconds later, a door slammed to his right. Looking around, the other investigators were filing out and into the car. Jessica was taking her own car. All hung a portrait of foreboding over their faces, marked by the anonymous entity that had been their messenger. Fenworthy pulled his seat forward and put his head in his hands as the rest entered the car, all with the same thing on their minds.

 

[Caprizant]

Re: The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 4, At The Veterinarian—May 26th, 2012

CHAPTER 4: At The Veterinarian

Spoiler

Victor leaped across the gap between the rooftops as his target began to run away. Have I been spotted? he thought, trying to keep the man in sight. Getting to the edge of the block, Victor crouched on the corner of the last rooftop and watched dejectedly as his target ran across the bridge and disappeared from his view. Whether the man had run from fear or guilt, he didn't know, and he certainly wasn't able to find out at the moment.

His target seemed to be very similar to the man he had seen the day before running down the alley; however, this man seemed slightly different. His hair was slightly more grey and he had several visible wrinkles. It was impossible for the man to have aged that much in one day, and so Victor decided to leave the chase for the moment and turn back to looking for more evidence.

The moon hung like a noose in the sky and the clouds rolled lazily in front of it. There was a gentle breeze blowing in from the ocean, while a tint of sunlight could be seen on the horizon. To the west, the mountains loomed over the town in much the same way a dictator would loom over his people. Down below, headlights swerved and blinked in the busier parts of the city. Amidst this, Victor stealthily lowered himself to ground level and started walking down the street he had just seen the man on. Halfway down, he saw a small, broken object laying on the ground.

It was a paintbrush. It appeared to be extremely worn out, so that it had split apart on contact with the ground. On it, the faded printing seemed to read the name of the owner:

M lv F n ci​

Looking at the brush curiously, he remembered the letter he had found in the small hut by the river. It seems maybe that man has been going the same places I've been going, thought Victor. Why would he have been in that hut, though? I overheard a conversation saying that an old man used to live there... Is he in danger? But what motive would there be in harming him? It occurred to him that it could simply be a coincidence; it was entirely possible the man was simply curious about the hut, and that just then he had only ran from fear of Victor. He supposed it was also possible this man was simply a relative of the old man under the bridge and had visited the hut to find him missing. There was also the chance that the person he had seen in the alley the day before and the man he had just seen running from him were two different people. However, something in the back of his mind told Victor to keep a watchful eye out for him from then on.

* * *​

Cecelia and Nello cowered in the back room of the new location that the woman had moved them to. Cecelia comforted Nello as he bawled, wondering why they were there. She did not know what the woman wanted with Melvin, why she had them move to a new location every night, who the woman even was, she knew absolutely nothing. All she knew was that they had been kidnapped and there was no escape. All she had was Nello and memories of the few months of peace they had had with Melvin.

Cecelia recalled finding an old painting in the chest in the hut by the river one morning. When Melvin returned from early chores, she asked him about it. Melvin explained to her where he had painted the scene and what it was. It showed an old man in a suit leaning against the side of the bridge, looking into the sky. A boat was passing underneath the bridge and the hut appeared to be a new addition to the banks of the river. At this time, the river appeared much higher, so that it was only a few steps from the hut opening to the water. Melvin had painted it when he was forty-two years old and there was a different man living under the bridge. A family was picnicking on the banks of the river, and what appeared to be the father was reading a book. Melvin had said it was his own book the man was reading.

Cecelia also recalled a particular evening when they had all taken Melvin's last, handmade boat down the river while Melvin showed them different special places of his childhood. Melvin had been born and raised in the city, and he could never imagine leaving it. He showed them where he had gone to school, the area where the church he went to used to be (which had now been replaced by a broadcasting station), the cemetery where his mother, father, and brothers were buried, and the warehouse that was where he undertook his first job. Neither Cecelia nor Nello had ever seen this part of the city before. It was only then that they realized just how vast it is, and just how vast the world outside of it must be.

Those days were brief, and then there was only the waiting, the tremendous weight of waiting. Waiting for Melvin to return. Waiting to find out why they were there. Waiting to know when they can leave. Waiting to know if they will ever leave. Every night, Cecelia would be afraid to fall asleep, because of the nightmares—ones of gunfire and explosions; ones of dogs, chomping and gnawing at human flesh; ones of intruders, taking them away; ones of loneliness, where she was completely unknown, in an unknown location, frozen in silence and unable to hope. There simply was no way for her to hold it all back. She would just have to endure the nightmares.

* * *​

On the other side of the city, a veterinarian was expecting a visit from a new employee who would receive a tutorial that day. The employee was applying for a job in the company's Abused Animals & Adoption department. As the veterinarian paced around the office, he glanced at the clock. 1:00 PM. The employee would be there any minute.

There was a knock at the door. The veterinarian looked up, straightened his posture, and called out, "Come in!"

At the door was a tall, slim man. He had some slight wrinkles and tinges of grey in his hair. The man had large hands and broad shoulders. Shaking hands with the man, he noticed a missing portion of his hand where his ring finger should be.

"Hello," said the man. "My name is Roy Boudreau. I am here to apply as an assistant in the Abused Animals & Adoption department. I believe you are Dr. Kingston?"

"Correct," replied Dr. Kingston. "Welcome to the staff, Dr. Boudreau. First, I shall demonstrate to you a normal shift for me. We shall first be taking care of food and water for all the dogs. We normally let them stretch their legs if they wish during this procedure..."

Dr. Boudreau waited until a good number of large dogs had been released and Dr. Kingston had his back turned to pounce. Dr. Boudreau returned to Melvin, and he pressed the button on the extra powerful dog whistle the woman had given him. The room dissolved into instant chaos.

Several large dogs panicked. They writhed on the floor and bit everything in sight. The pack raged everywhere as though a hurricane had been let loose in the room. All took jabs at the closest target: Dr. Kingston. The canine teeth sank into the flesh and blood squirted onto the ceiling. The dogs tugged at his arm, bit into his neck, took a few of his toes, nibbled on his fingers. Body parts flew into the air as the man noiselessly screamed for help. A particularly large dog jumped on top of Dr. Kingston and gnawed into his face. Before long, he was unrecognizable. His nose was flung all the way across the room at Melvin's feet. Much of the skin on his face was ripped off in one big chunk, revealing the bleeding mass underneath. His tongue had been torn out by one of the dogs and now lay on his chest. Blood was everywhere; on the walls; in the backs of the cages; dripping from the canine mouths, like saliva; it slowly fell from the ceiling with a torturous drip, drip, drip. Melvin nearly vomited before he pulled himself together and ran for help.

"Quick! Someone help! Dr. Kingston's been attacked by a bunch of the dogs!"

A door opened to his right and the head of the office exited.

"What's that?"

"The dogs—they just went haywire! Tore up Dr. Kingston!"

"Lead the way."

Melvin lead the way as Dr. Boudreau and stood nervously outside the room.

"Er—I don't take blood well," said Dr. Boudreau, which was also true for Melvin. "If it's alright, if I may just wait out here—"

"I guess it's alright. Go place an emergency call. Get the ambulance down here right away."

The head of the office opened the door and gasped. In the midst of canine breathing and a pool of blood lay a mass that used to be Dr. Kingston. Right there, the head of the office fainted. Outside, Melvin once again turned on the extra powerful dog whistle. There was a flurry of noise from inside the room, barking, screaming, squirting, thumping. A splatter of blood sprayed on the window to the door with a squelch that made Melvin nauseous. Eventually, he let go of the button and put the whistle in his pocket. He then went out into the lobby and made the call.

After the call was finished and all the building had been thrown into a panic, Melvin quietly slipped into the bathroom. Taking off his veterinarian uniform, Melvin thought over the situation in his mind. He had no clue the dog whistle was that powerful. They must have programmed it to be extra painful for the dogs. It was almost as though their minds had been overridden and they had gone into attack mode. He pressed a finger to his temple and thought, It's over. Age me. A familiar voice answered him, Good job. Remember, clueless.

His facial features began to droop. His hair shrank back into the scalp and greyed. His muscles deflated and his spine bent slightly. His nose broke itself again with a disgusting crack. Soon, Melvin was an innocent old man who honestly had no clue what was going on. His name was now Greg Wessell. Leaving the bathroom without anyone noticing, he quietly sat down in a chair and put on a confused and worried expression. When the police arrived, he told them exactly what Greg Wessell knew: Nothing.

* * *​

Victor vaguely saw in the distance a group of police cars making their way to a small white building on the other side of the city. Curious, he climbed, brick by brick, to the top of the nearest building before running and jumping at full speed to the other side of the city. Keeping well out of sight, he watched as he ran past headlight after headlight. Reaching the city center, he climbed to the top of the news station antenna to get a clearer view of the scene.

From the distance he was at, he could make out an ambulance and a group of men carrying two stretchers, each with a lump on it. He could not see who they were, as they were well wrapped up. He decided to learn more by listening to the news later.

* * *​

When Pennington received the news, he let out a long groan.

"Are you sure this could even be a remotely related case?"

"I'm almost positive," replied the voice at the other end of the phone. "It may not be so subtle, but this has been executed the same way; a newcomer to the city applies for a job somewhere, a little while later, two people of that profession are dead. Do you think this is a coincidence?"

"We can write it off as one for now," replied Pennington lethargically.

"May I speak with Agent Jessica on this matter?" said the voice impatiently.

"Sure, but it won't do you much good. She's got less faith than me on this."

When Jessica was on the phone, Pennington leaned back in his office chair and sighed. They had spent all that day in headquarters, looking for information that they couldn't acquire unless they gathered more information. It was quite tiring. He opened his eyes and watched as Jessica typed something into the computer. After a few moments, she shook her head and said, "He doesn't seem to be on here."

After a few more minutes of chatter on the phone about the events, Jessica hung up the phone.

"Well, this case just got a little bit more interesting," she said. "Two sets of strange deaths, within one day of each other, under much the same conditions... does sound a bit fishy, doesn't it?"

"Don't tell me you, of all people, believe these events are related?" asked Pennington with another groan.

"Well, not quite yet. But it is a strange coincidence... if it is murder, and a strange one at that, we've only got one suspect. He goes by the name of Roy Boudreau. He disappeared moments after the second victim died."

"That shouldn't be too hard then, eh? Just find him and give that sucker what he—"

"There's just one problem," interrupted Jessica.

Pennington straightened in his chair and frowned at her, saying, "And what would that be?"

"He doesn't exist."

 

[Caprizant]

Re: The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 4, At The Veterinarian—May 26th, 2012

(Ignore the massive gap between when this was posted and when the last chapter was posted.) :I

CHAPTER 5: Gannoré's Exile

Spoiler

"Gannoré? ...Gannoré, are you alright?"

"What... makes you say that?"

"You... Gannoré, what's happening to you? Every day you vanish somewhere for hours on end. Every time you come back, you seem... different. Your mannerisms, your motions, your tone of voice... I'm worried for you."

"Vera. I'm alright. Just taking care of business matters—"

"But does business matter? I could come with you, if it helps."

Gannoré paused, and then let out a deep sigh.

"I will be truthful with you. These are not business matters. But I cannot tell you more, we're not alone—"

"Tell me, Gannoré! I want to understand! No matter the consequences!"

"Vera, you don't know how dangerous this is—even just talking to you makes it worse! I'm telling you, Vera, it just doesn't work that way—"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER! All I want is for you to be safe—"

"Vera, calm down! I don't want this to get out of hand. I'm doing this for your sake. I'm keeping you in the dark because you'll be in danger if you aren't. Vera, please, you're everything to me, but this can't go on! I'm really, really sorry that it has to happen this way, but it must, and there's nothing you and I can do about it!"

At this point, Vera was in tears. She knew what was coming next. She wasn't ready. Gannoré spoke more gently.

"I have to go. I can't tell you where. But if this ever ends, I will come searching for you. It may not end for years, decades. It may not end until we're as old as Lorenzo Vernice, the man under the bridge. It may not end at all. But I want you to promise me that you will never go looking for me. Do you promise?"

She looked over at Gannoré, and then wrapped her arms around him.

"Te lo prometto."

He gave her a kiss on the cheek and then quickly ran over to the window. In a moment, he had ripped off the curtains, opened it, and jumped onto the rooftop. She ran over to the open window.

"Non ti scordar di me, Gannoré!"

Gannoré smiled weakly. It seemed his muscles were trying to remember the motion.

"Né a me, Vera."

And with that, he ran across the rooftops, towards the other side of the city, and was soon out of sight.

 

[Kihote]

Re: The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 5, Gannore's Exile—August 31st, 2012

Verrrrrrrrrrry well written, to the point that it sucks me in and I can't look away XD

I will thank you though, you weren't toooo explicit with the dog scene since that might have made me vomit(yeah felt a bit queasy reading it)

The feel of the story is very similar to that of Death Note, and I am looking forwards to seeing what happens next. Also great job on the characters (such interesting people)

 

[Caprizant]

Re: The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 6, Pride & Delusion—9/3/12

@Chaosj2;

CHAPTER 6: Pride & Delusion

Spoiler

"—Andrew, why would you cheat on Emily?"

Click. Soap opera.

"—time is subjective. If you ask someone on the other side of the planet what time it is, you'll get a different answer than if you asked your neighbor—"

Click. Educational show.

"And there he goes, off to the other end of the field, look at him go—"

Click. Sports.

"Sometimes these things aren't exactly as they seem, if life had a voice and it saw what you were doing, it would scream, 'Hey, don't you have but a single drop of common sense? You better decide right now what the hell you're for or against!'"

Music. Kevin stopped for a moment and tried to think over the words, but they made his head hurt. No, they meant nothing—just normal artistic banter. Click.

"News has been heard of another set of strange deaths in the city, this time from Euclid Anderston Memorial Veterinary Center. Witnesses of the scene report that two men, Dr. Kingston and Henry Burrows, were found in a room of the clinic, apparently torn to shreds by the dogs in the room. Officials are unsure of what could have possibly caused the dogs to go haywire—"

Kevin turned off the TV. He didn't want to think about the news, he didn't want to think about the music, he didn't want to think about the world, he didn't want to think that he may be next. He didn't want to think, he didn't want to feel; all he wanted was to be a functional member of society, to be a cog in the works, a step in the process. He didn't want to be remembered, he wanted his name as a serial number, he wanted to be trademarked and forgotten for the rest of man's pitiful existence. What did he care if people were dying left and right? It was their problem. Not his. Everything was exactly as it seemed, life is voiceless and identical, common sense was a figment of the imagination, and there is no deciding your opinion, because there is no opinion. There are only temporary views on the same ideas. This was the way he lived: a part of a part, never a whole.

* * *​

The television on the wall of headquarters blared the same news report as Pennington asked, "Agent Jessica, have you considered the possibility that the suspect was simply a disguise? Possibly created to avoid suspicion?"

"Of course I have, Pennington. But I've got the feeling this isn't your standard murder-by-the-rules case, using the same tactics we're used to. I'm still not certain if there's any connection, but it's a rather strange coincidence. Possibly the first attack was one murderer, and the next was an imitator. Imitators tend to be more brutal and more careless with being spotted. And anyway, for now, I need to talk to you about that message we received. We have no clue how we received it, but it appears we are the only ones to—"

She paused. She had been pacing around just moments before, and had stopped in place directly facing the window. There was a shadow. Someone was pressing their ear against the glass. Quickly and quietly, she walked over to the window, Pennington observing.

"Agent Jessica, what—?"

"Shhh!"

But as she reached the window, she found that the figure had disappeared. Throwing it open, she looked down both sides of the street, down below the window, and up above it too. There was no one.

On the rooftop, Victor listened closely to make sure she had given up. The news report still blared. He heard the soft tapping of footsteps, an indecipherable murmuring, and a door opening. As the sound of a car coming to life filled his ears, Victor ran further away in the sea of the city, a shadow in the night, a minor thought in a small few's minds.

That clinic is where the man I had been following was heading, thought Victor. I had him in eyesight all along. But what connection does he have with the paint brush he dropped? And what about the letter I had found in the hut? Was the letter his? And what was the message they were talking about? How much more does that Agent Jessica know? Should I perhaps join forces with them after all, they tell me what they know, I tell them what I know? So many questions scramble my head. But I want to keep asking, and I want the answers.

But the sun was on the edge of the skyline and Victor had exhausted himself for the day. It was time to rest.

* * *​

"You never told me just how powerful that dog whistle was," said Melvin furiously.

The woman smiled. "Time is unpredictable, no? It does not tell you when it will strike."

"Drop the act. Why are you doing this? Why do you want me here? Who are you? I need answers."

Again, the woman smiled. She motioned to the tall man who had kept a watch on Melvin and who had led him to their first location, where he had the cell implanted in his brain.

"We are the Accelerators. Is that not enough? Need you any more? As for why you are here, you should know the answer already—you have no criminal record. Well-received in the public mind. I believe you were an author, painter, and boat-builder, correct?"

Melvin stared at her blankly. The tall man set two glasses of wine between Melvin and the woman. The woman took a gulp and sat waiting for Melvin to respond.

"You still haven't answered my first question."

The woman still smiled in her sickening way.

"I thought the answer obvious."

"You're being deliberately vague."

"I am telling the truth."

Melvin sat in silence, and then ran his fingers through his hair slowly.

"I need to sleep."

"Then you may very well do so," said the woman.

Melvin stood up and walked around the couch the woman was sitting on and down a hallway to the last two doors. He tried to open the door to Cecelia and Nello, but it was locked. Instead, he opened the door across the hall from them and closed his eyes, allowing sleep to roll over him, hoping it to be a painkiller.

* * *​

"Vera, why would you do this to me? I've got nothing more to live for but you—"

"Because you are an incompetent, weak, self-loathing coward! Melvin, you lie to me. You have nothing to live for? Bah! You have everything to live for. You've got wealth, fame, you've got it all! Is that not enough? Surely my absence will do you no harm? See, I've found a stronger man. A better man. A man who cares about me! One who respects me for who I am, and one who doesn't bury his nose in his books, or his paintings, or his boats all day! There is a reason I married you, and it was for the man you used to be. The one who had so many ideas about the world, the one who took it in stride, in wonderment. The one who endured whatever happened to him. Through the hatred he received, he smiled. Through the insults he heard, he laughed. Through the people he met, he stayed alone. And when he finally took notice of me, he was one with me. We never left each other's side. We knew how each other felt, we knew exactly what people are made of. We took everything with heart, laughed together, smiled together, lived and breathed together. But that man just doesn't exist anymore. He's been replaced by Melvin Fibonacci, world-famous author, the greatest painter this world has ever seen, the biggest name in boating! The billionaire, the people's investment, the one who needed every penny from the paupers' pockets! And he scoffs at the old Melvin! Well, I know a new man, who has left behind the cruel person he once was and has become understanding. He shows empathy, courage, and good-will, and he would never, ever let me down. He would never make me feel as though I'm useless. He would never do me wrong. There is nothing I would like to do more than to be with him forever."

Melvin stood still, halfway through raising his fist in anger, and then let his head droop in shame. He sat down on the red velvet chair behind him and held his head in his hands.

"Vera, I promise you, I'll do whatever it takes—"

"You promised me too many times before! You do not deserve to be with me under these wedding vows! You do not deserve to be my husband! You do not deserve to be the man I love! You only love yourself and your money! You do not want children, because they distract you from your work! You do not want to visit family, because they are poor! You do not wish to live a free life, only to be swallowed by your pride! Now it's time for you to swallow it. Goodbye, Melvin. And allow me to leave my mark on you, leave you evidence of your incompetence."

Melvin looked up. Vera was holding a knife. She dragged him up by the wrist, and pulled him over to a table. She separated his fingers, so far apart they felt like they'd tear off, leaving the ring finger on which he wore their wedding ring alone. She swung down and chopped it clean off. Melvin felt to scream, but he held it in. He wanted to try and convince Vera, to show her one last time he could take it, that he was not as she made him out to be. But the next moment she picked up the finger from the small puddle of blood, disgustingly amused, and stared at the wedding ring. She tore open the window and threw the finger in the river. Then she stormed from the room, out of the building, and down the street, a look of intense pride on her face.

Was this love? Was this all there really was in the world? Cold disappointment and cruel pain? He didn't like it at all. Melvin knew who she was going to, and it stung him even more. Vera, the one who had always been so kind to him, the quiet one who had admired him, and even, at one point, loved him, the only human being that had ever shown him any feeling other than pure hatred—she had turned on him. She had given up on him. In the wake of the argument, he made his decision. A decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life, one which would become the sole bit of knowledge he could hold onto, the only knowledge he knew—and it was a knowledge that could tear any other man apart. But Melvin wanted to show that he was no other man. He wanted the world to know that he could take everything it threw at him, that he could take any amount of pain, sorrow, fear, or disgrace, that his life had meaning. He wanted to become the man Vera once knew, he wanted to give up all his greed, all his selfishness, all his self-loathing. There was only one person in the world who had ever mattered to him, and she was seemingly gone forever. But he felt he couldn't regain her. He saw no point in being the man she wanted him to be. He did not want to change. He would not swallow his pride. And his ultimate decision was foolish. Then and there, Melvin knew.

There is no such thing as love.

There is only the illusion.

And there is only the pain.

 

[Kihote]

Re: The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 6, Pride & Delusion—9/3/12

Only pain.........-plays pain by 3days grace-


Melvin....why didn't you do anything DX

 

[Caprizant]

Re: The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 7, Shadow Dodging—9/23/12

@Chaosj2;

CHAPTER 7: Shadow Dodging

Spoiler

"What was the point of that frenzy, Agent Jessica?"

"I don't know," she replied, uncharacteristically nervous. "I thought I saw someone listening in. I didn't want to risk it."

There was a few minutes' silence. Then, Jessica reached into her coat jacket and pulled out a cell phone.

"Call the other investigators. Tell them to meet at my apartment, ASAP."

As they drove through the winding streets, they were soon joined by the other investigators in their own cars. Reaching the apartment, they entered in complete silence and sat down. Pennington knocked on the wooden wall behind him and frowned.

"These walls seem quite thin. Are you certain this would be a more comfortable place to hold a discussion?"

"The only other resident who lives close enough to listen in is out of town. Which I am thankful for, as he often throws beer bottles at the wall in the middle of the night. Hopefully he is in rehab."

Fenworthy squirmed uncomfortably. He was well-known for the same habit, often passing it off as an obscure ritual that releases stress from the tosser, instead dumping his issues onto his neighbor. Fenworthy had been thrown out of many apartment buildings by now.

"Now, onto the matters at hand," said Ridgway. "Have we collected any further evidence towards the case, apart from the warning we received this morning?"

"We're still not entirely sure," said Longfellow. "I trust you've all heard of the veterinarian incident by now?"

"Yes, we have," said Jessica, while the rest of the investigation team nodded. "We should still investigate this case, even if it is possibly unrelated to our main case. Best to make sure."

"Anything else?" asked Ridgway, scrawling notes. No one answered.

"Well, in that case," said Hemingway, "shall we discuss the warning?"

"I'm still trying to determine its significance," said Jessica. "It would seem that we are the only ones to receive the message. Its one thing to deliver the speech solely to a specific car radio—another to deliver an alarmingly loud and cacophonic speech like that to a certain set of people through what would appear to be their own thoughts. While you, Fenworthy, heard it through your car radio, we inside received no indication that it was being projected from any sort of speakers. The only possibility in my apartment is the television, which was off during the speech and did not seem to be the source—given that each of us were in different positions of the apartment at the time and could clearly hear it coming from our own very close vicinity. I doubt any ordinary criminal would be able to execute such a feat. If so, I applaud them."

She picked up a bottle from the table and poured them each a drink. Fenworthy turned his down, citing "temporary ritual abandonment." After Jessica had taken a sip of her drink, she continued.

"There's one particular word in the speech that struck me as odd—monochronical. In the context, it doesn't seem to fit. Perhaps we need the true context of the speech to be able to fully understand its meaning. Do we have any ideas?"

The rest of the investigators shook their heads dejectedly.

"I suppose we'll just have to find out for ourselves, then. But for now, you all need some rest. You cannot do any further work while tired to the point of seeming inebriated, especially since I've just provided you with extra incentive to become even more so."

* * *​

Melvin woke up from his dream. He shuddered every time it came back to him. The memories of his collapsed marriage always pained. He still held by his decision now, even more than ever. Looking down at his hand, it seemed to him that the woman had made him younger than before—his ring finger was back.

Is there any way to freedom? Melvin wondered. I can't think of anything that they haven't covered... No fingerprints, no known suspects, no skin cells, no evidence whatsoever can be left behind. I can't... I can't...

Melvin had an idea. It was so simple it was almost certain the woman had already thought of it—but it was worth a shot. Digging out a pen from the suit he wore to his first murder, he took a sticky note from a pack on the desk against the wall and began writing, trying not to be too loud, praying that the note would reach the right person.

* * *​

After years of isolation and wandering, Vera decided to return to the city she knew from childhood, where she had met the love of her life, who she was certain would return one day from his exile. However, she now had two children in tow—one, a six-year-old girl, blonde and cheerful; the other, an eight-month-old boy, with thin whisps of brown hair. Neither had a name. She did not wish to give them names. They were reminders of her forced betrayal of Gannoré, the abuse she faced from unknown citizens of another city she visited. The nightmares she faced in sleep were more than enough of a reminder, the existence of the children only made it worse. So there, in the city of her childhood, she abandoned her own children, leaving them next to a dumpster in the middle of the night.

They went unnoticed for the following day—until an old man named Melvin Fibonacci found them on his way home from the market, a small amount of bread in his hands. He stopped when he heard the sound of the boy crying. Turning around, he spotted them, and in that moment, Vera happened to be checking to see if they were still there. She spotted Melvin, a man that she now did not recognize in age, and watched as he took them in. In this moment, she felt a small spark of hope for humanity.

As Melvin turned around to continue walking down the street, she climbed onto the roof of the nearest building—an impressive feat for someone as old and worn as she was at this point—and watched as he passed by. Then she noticed something that made her heart skip a beat.

The man was missing his ring finger.

A surge of anger flowed through her. She recognized Melvin now, from many long years prior. She heard him, as he walked by, whispering.

"Cecelia and Nello... These seem fine names."

She turned away from him and set her eyes on the rooftops behind her. With a sudden flicker of hope, she noticed a shadowy figure jump a gap over an alley. Pursuing feverishly, she made sure to cut him across, hoping to catch his attention. A light drizzle began to fall, and the moon seemed to follow them as they hopped the rooftops. The noise of their footsteps was lost on Vera, all her strength focused on the shadow dodging her. Quite a few times, it changed direction completely, but she held on. Finally, after a long while of crossing paths and each shadow eying the other, the other shadow stopped and beckoned to her. Approaching, she could make out the man's face—a familiar face, but at the same time, a stranger.

He was too young to be Gannoré. He had unkempt black hair, a plain t-shirt, and baggy jeans. The young man seemed to move in a twitchy fashion when not running, his joints locking into place almost mechanically and at awkward angles.

"My name is Victor Vantes," he said, shaking her hand. His voice was quite hoarse, as though he had not used it for years. He seemed underfed, judging by his cold and bony hands. "I've lived on the rooftops for as long as I can remember. In these years, I've honed my senses, using them to observe the city's criminal network. I often leave anonymous notes outside of the police station, leading them in the right direction on cases."

He paused, as though waiting for her to tell her story. The silence lasted for a long while before he broke it again.

"I'm sorry. As a result of my isolation, I've lost many useful social skills. I believe this is where you introduce yourself and tell me your story."

"Oh! I'm Vera Rigel. Er... Where to begin..."

"Begin with the beginning. It's only logical."

"But which beginning should I begin with? There are so many logical points to start with."

"Then begin with the point closest to your heart."

After a moment's hesitation, Vera smiled.

"Many years ago, so many I can't count, I was married. Through childhood, my husband and I had been the greatest of friends. We were the only ones who were kind to the other, the only ones who treated each other as equals, all through life. But as the years wore on, after our marriage, he was discovered as a talented writer, artist, and boat builder—and with that, his greed got the best of him. Over the years, he became increasingly concerned with his work and decreasingly concerned with other people, including me. After this had gone on for quite some time, I finally abandoned him. In this time, I did something which I now regret. I do not wish to tell you. Even now I feel ashamed, despite the hatred I still feel for him. Now, I know you told me to begin with the point closest to my heart—and indeed I did—but the heart is not always for love. The heart is also the home of pain, and hate, and fear. The point closest to my heart, in the positive sense of the word, is actually quite far away. But not far away from my heart, no—far away from me.

"You see, after I abandoned my husband, I went to the apartment of a different man, who I had been seeing for some time before. In the past, he had abused my husband, and I had hated him as much as I now hate the one I left. But then, seeing how greed had corrupted his old enemy, he changed his ways. As a new man, he in turn fell in love with me, just as I was falling out of love with my husband. In his apartment, we had one last exchange—when he revealed to me he had to leave the city, to be exiled, for reasons he did not wish to discuss with me, for my own safety. I promised not to go looking for him, as he would come looking for me when all was well.

"After a few years, I grew restless. I traveled to a few surrounding cities, resting on the hopes that he would indeed search for me, if I was not in this city. However, after some years as a vagrant, I became increasingly concerned of the citizens I saw on the streets. Each night, I slept with one eye open, as I would always catch men attempting to get the best of me while I was defenseless. After each encounter, I would go to a new city. However, around seven years ago, one finally succeeded. Not only did I feel degraded, but I also felt as though I had betrayed the one man who I loved, the man I was waiting for to return. From the experience came a daughter. Then, not even two years ago, it happened again—this time, a boy.

"This lead to my return to this city. I hoped to find a more stable life back here. I came here to keep myself as close to my memories of Gannoré as possible. And just now, I saw my former husband taking in the children who bore me memories of betrayal. Bah! Keep them, I say. I don't need to see either of them, kids or husband, ever again."

Vera's story was met with silence from Victor for a few very long minutes. Then, he spoke up.

"I sincerely hope Gannoré finds you. That is his name, correct? You only mentioned it in passing."

"Yes, that is his name."

"Your story is one of the more tragic ones I've heard in my years of listening, from people's conversations on the streets below. People here are always complaining about petty things, or else blaming others for problems brought down upon themselves. However, I am slightly offended that you would leave behind your children like that, especially after what you've been through, in full knowledge of what people in the streets can be like."

With these words, Vera choked. A tear dropped from her eye and she bowed her head. Then, she began sobbing profusely. Victor moved next to her side and put his arm around Vera to comfort her.

"Do not worry," he said. "It's an all-too-common response to rape. You have nothing to feel ashamed of but the wiring of the average human brain."

After a few minutes, Vera looked up.

"Why did you begin your life on the rooftops?" she asked, curious.

"I cannot recall directly," Victor replied. "But I can piece it together, through dreams."

"And what do these dreams tell you?"

Victor hesitated, and then spoke very quietly, as though to a dying friend.

"My mother abandoned me, because I was the product of incest from her brother."

Vera stared at Victor, dumbstruck.

"What was her brother's name? I want to strangle him to—"

"Her brother's name was Gannoré."

 

[Kihote]

Re: The Abstract Ideal of Staying Alive—Chapter 7, Shadow Dodging—9/23/12

DUN DUN DUN DUN DUN! Gannoré, Victor, Vera, Melvin, nobody has an easy life

...


....

-throws beer bottle at Cap's wall-

 

[Caprizant]

I update so sporadically I know

@Chaosj2;

CHAPTER 8: Downstroke

Spoiler

My name is Melvin Fibonacci.
As of the writing of this note, I'm being held captive, along with my adopted children.
All those recent murders—they were me, under orders of my captors.
I am told I must do as they say or I will put the lives of everyone in danger.
They have the power to manipulate a person's age.
They call themselves Accelerators.
One is a woman, whose initials are A.A.I.
The other is a man, tall and quiet. I think I recognize him from somewhere.
I have the feeling they can do much more than they let on.
If you are part of the investigation team, take this note as evidence.
If you are not, turn it into them immediately and do not say a word to anyone but them about it.
My captors implanted a cell in my brain that lets me hear them talking to me and helps eliminate any evidence that may be left behind.
I don't know what will happen next.
And I do not want to find out.
If there's anybody out there...
Save us.​

Victor was shaking. Snow was piling up outside and the cold air seeped through the cracks in the walls. Winter months were not his specialty. This year, he would have to find something warmer than a t-shirt, and fast.

Normally in the winter, he was underground all day, in the city's subway system, long abandoned since an incident years before. The wreck of the long train served as a convenient sleeping quarters. He could get food by raiding the basements of the restaurants above, who left entrances to the kitchens underground for those commuting from far away. The air was mysteriously warm, even in the coldest of winter. Every once in awhile, a noise comparable to that of a train passing through would echo, as though the system was still active.

But all Victor had was a t-shirt. He put the note in his pocket and readied himself for the blizzard. He drew his arms into his shirt after he closed the door and ran, as swiftly and quietly as he could, for the entrance to the underground. Inside, he breathed a sigh of relief. He knew his way around well now. Three stops down the tracks, and he'd be where he needed to be.

A loud noise echoed behind him.

Victor remembered when he was young, and the system was brand new. It was faint in his memory, but it was there. He had been on the first public ride through the system, awed by the speed they were traveling, and the distance they were going—connecting eighteen cities across the country by miles of track and nearly 1000KPH. There were more cities planned to be connected across the globe.

The noise grew louder, but he didn't notice.

Since then, Victor always wanted to be with trains. He could care less for the heavy diesel locomotives; it was this system he had interest in—the one with the fastest train in the world. It was the beginning of a new era, the push that man needed since the public air transportation business was internationally outlawed after the Cicada Disaster.

A rumble began, as though something were passing underneath him.

That's what he believed—until the incident left the system abandoned. There was still nobody who knew what had caused it—one moment, a train was going along the tracks, perfectly functional; the next, there was a gaping hole in the ground and a large portion of the train was broken off. It was almost as though something had eaten it.

He suddenly broke out of his thought and realized that chunks of earth had begun falling around him. Running for the next stop, he prayed to reach higher ground before the whole system caved in. The next moment, he heard a loud screech behind him, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Something whipped him off his feet and into the wall, and he watched through bleary eyes as the world caved in around him.

* * *​

Melvin had now killed more people than he could count. Governments all over the world were now searching for him, this mysterious mass murderer who never left behind any evidence, and never failed to complete his mission. By now the investigation team had to suffer through daily interviews, and they knew the whole world was watching them, ready to condemn them if they gave up their search.

A.A.I. was no longer keeping him in her sights, but she was always with him. She knew what he was doing even if she wasn't looking. She spoke to him through the cell implanted in his brain, and he spoke to her the same way. He was the host, and she was the parasite.

He never heard much about the other Accelerator. There was not much he seemed to do; Melvin never saw him undertake any missions; never heard him speak after the last time they had spoken; never knew him to eat when they ate; he almost never moved a muscle while Melvin was near him. It was beginning to drive Melvin mad. The man felt familiar to him.

As he sat in a crowded mall waiting for instructions, A.A.I. spoke to him.

"You must return to our location to receive a special mission. No discussion until you arrive."

Melvin stood up, walked out to the street, and signaled a taxi. He wished that the train system was still in operation. As the taxi wheeled away to where Melvin wanted to go, about ten blocks away from his destination, he recalled the day of the incident that had shut the system down.

He was in one of his beloved boats, heading down the river to the market on the south end of town. The weather was calm, and tourists were busy snapping photos on the docks and laughing over lunch with family. A ripple started in the water. It was small at first; but as it grew, people started to worry. Finally, a large rumble shook the whole city, and his boat flew out of the water. Everyone who had been in the city that day reported a long, loud, odd shriek. It sounded unlike anything they had heard before.

The taxi stopped and Melvin got out. He walked down the ten blocks to his destination and went inside, ready for some warm air. He caught the tail end of a conversation between the Accelerators as he entered the room.

"Audrey, I'm a bit worried about how this will carry out—"

"Hush. Our guest has arrived."

Audrey greeted him with a cold stare.

"You may visit your children before receiving instructions."

In the back room, he found Cecelia and Nello. They went over to him and put their arms around his neck. Picking them up, Melvin could tell they had been well-fed. They seemed to be perfectly unharmed. But still they were sad, and felt limp to Melvin, as though they had no more energy to hold on. After a few comforting words spoken to them, Melvin set them down and wished them well before leaving the room to receive his mission.

An interview was airing on the television. One of the investigators was speaking about a suspicious rumbling noise from the system below. The other Accelerator was watching the interview in silence. Audrey motioned for him to sit down at the granite island in the kitchen.

"As you know," she began, "you are here now to receive instructions for a very special mission. I'll give it to you straight."

She pulled a gun out from under the island and set it in front of Melvin.

"You are going to pose as an interviewer. You will take the world-famous Agent Jessica out to dinner for an interview, and with everyone watching, you are going to kill her. There, you will announce your identity and your plans."

"Plans?"

Audrey smirked.

"Tell them to prepare for a new world order."

Melvin sat still.

"That's a bit of a cliché, don't you think?"

This coaxed a chuckle out of Audrey.

"It may be, but you will go through with it—you wouldn't want to be brainwashed like your dear brother, now, would you?"

Melvin stared at her blankly, and then looked over to the man watching the interview on television.

"That's... You mean to tell me... That's Gannoré?"

Audrey said nothing.

* * *​

"It's so dark in here," Fenworthy chattered through his teeth. "I don't like the dark."

"It's an abandoned underground train system, what do you expect?" said Jessica.

"At least some flickering lights. This just gives me creeps."

"Shut up and investigate," Hemingway snapped.

"This is all very professional," said Jessica, "but we should really be looking for the source of commotion now."

"My toe hurts," Longfellow moaned. The others ignored him in favor of the large shadow looming ahead of them.

"What's that?"

"Seems to be a cave in," said Jessica. "I think we found the—oh dear."

The other investigators all looked at each other, confused, as she strode over to the pile of rocks. She peered into a crack between boulders and rolled one away to reveal a young man. Miraculously, the boulders had piled up around him, but not on him. It was almost as though he needed to be kept alive, and something had made sure he was kept so.

"Fenworthy, stop chattering your teeth. I can hear it from here. It's not even cold down here. Now you all make yourselves useful and help me get this young man to the hospital."

Before long, headquarters had been contacted about the situation and the special ambulance sent for them arrived at the entrance to the system. They carried the young man on a stretcher to the ambulance and set off in the blizzard towards the hospital.

Victor started to wake. He tried to sit up, but Jessica made him lay back down.

"What's going on?"

"We're taking you to the hospital."

There was a silence.

"Can you tell us what happened?" asked Ridgway.

"I... was just about to ask you that."

Ridgway frowned.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Victor looked like he was struggling to find the answer. It seemed to be making his head hurt.

"Nevermind. We'll figure that out later."

Victor breathed a sigh of relief and felt the back of his head. Pulling his hand away, he saw it coated in blood, and fainted.

"He'll be alright, won't he?" asked Fenworthy nervously.

"He will," replied Jessica. "I'm sure he will."

As they reached the hospital, Ridgway's cell phone rang.

"Hello? ...Who is this? ...Yes, she is. Give me a moment... Jessica, it's for you. Someone wanting to do an interview."

"Hmph. At least they had the decency to ask me first this time. Hello? ...Yes, this is her. I'm the only 'her' on this team. What's that? ...I'll see if I can make room. Hm... Yes, I think I can. Oh? ...Oh, how sweet of you. That would be darling. Thank you. Goodbye."

She ended the call and handed the phone back to Ridgway.

"I'll be taking an interview tomorrow at 5PM, with dinner. I'm sure you can all manage without me for an hour or two, hm?"

Snow had now become hail and they had to get as close to the entrance as possible with the ambulance to ensure that Victor wasn't hurt more. Ice the size of ping pong balls pelted them in the backs as they rushed inside, hunched over Victor to keep him warmer, and they only rested when he was taken to where he needed to be.

The hospital was dark, but very clean. Seafoam green walls surrounded them wherever they went, and everything glowed in what little light there was. Each room had a set of beds and a large window on the far wall with the blinds shut. Soon, after taking note of where Victor would be staying, the investigators left.

"We'll have to come back when he gets over his amnesia," Jessica said. "But for now, let's get some rest, and head straight back to work tomorrow."

 

[Kihote]

Of course Victor gets amnesia when he finally makes contact with the police XD

Melvin, its up to you now, do what must be done ;-;