~Steele~ Writer.

Looks like you’ve lived up to your namesake.

You miserable fuck.

Spence brought August back a couple hours after he posted, so we all basically knew what to expect…

But we could never be ready. Not for that. You took the best amongst us, and turned him into a fucking billboard, another brick for your writings on the wall.

I heard a scream. I don’t know if it was one of us, or just the sense of…security, family…hope…we had, audibly tearing. I felt Him in my mind, and motherfucker, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear He was smiling. And it was all I could do to smile back, for I wouldn’t give Him the satisfaction of crying. A toothy grin, or was it a grimace? A mechanical response to an offensive stimulus. No thoughts.

Nothing.

There is nothing left for any of us. Maybe we were just kidding ourselves into thinking there ever was. Our jokes, our friendships…miniscule in the face of the Abyss. The endless darkness into which all of us have fallen. Our moments of brightness like the spark of a match; igniting the darkness for a few beautiful seconds.

Then burning out.

We buried him, Writer. Out in the forest. Spencer was not in attendance, I’m sure you’ll be sorry to know. When he walked in with August, he said only one thing.

”Start looking for a replacement.”

Then he went off to the Wing, and we haven’t seen him since.

So I dug August’s grave, and we all said a few words. It was a simple service. Nobody dared to read from the Bible. All that jazz about hope, forgiveness, compassion…

All those life values that they so love to spruik in the churches, to pacify the congregation. What’d Marx call it again? “Opium of the people”?

Real opium works better. Less people die because of real opium.

But I digress. This isn’t about religion, Writer, this is about August, and it’s about you.

Funny isn’t it? We’ve lost so many along the way, but it’s always been just a part of the job. Just business. Never have we had one of ours murdered to send a message. Not like this. We took it hard. I’m taking it hard. (I see absolutely no point in that fucked up masquerade people go through. It’s all fine. I’m okay. It detracts from the memory of the dead to act like you don’t give a damn.)

Unfortunately, you may have made an error in your calculations.

Of all people to take from us: you took our moral guidelines. You took from us the final bastion of innocence, and you took from us the last one keeping us together as a team.

Hope, forgiveness, compassion.

No thank you.

As I dug August’s grave, all I could think about was digging another one. A lot more shallow, and in a less scenic location. For you, Writer, for you.

Maybe a garbage can. Or an alleyway. Maybe both! Maybe a couple of garbage cans and alleyways, actually, you won’t need to be in one piece by the end of it.

I’m going to kill you, you depraved son of a bitch. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but I am going to murder you. I’ll hold a gun to your head and pull the trigger, watch as whatever fucked up shit you have in there instead of a brain comes out the other side. I hope it’s black. I’m going to carve my name into your skin with a hot knife, so when you end up back in the Abyss with Mr. Thin, He’ll know who sent you home. I’m going to see you wither into a husk as you burn. Not in Hell, you know as well as I do that that’s a silly concept, but maybe in a bonfire. Joan of Arc style. Extra crispy. I’m going to hold you under water until the bubbles stop. I’m going to smother you with your own disgusting hair. I am going to scalp you.

And I’m going to do it with a smile on my face. Of pure glee.

Consider yourself marked.

[Spencer] Morphine

... if you're wondering why two syringes of the stuff is missing, Doc, I took it with me.

Had a bad feeling. And my bad feelings tend to be pretty damn accurate.




Writer played us all for fools.




Made us think that we had a choice. Had time. That maybe, just maybe, this time he was playing by the rules. That maybe, we could make all this right. That maybe, August had a little bit of a chance.

There's no happy endings.

He toyed with August, and when I arrived, he toyed with me. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to, because it was written out in front of me. It was written out everywhere. I dropped to my knees. I remember thinking idly that this must be some sort of joke. It seemed funny when I started to pray.

It's not funny now.

"Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure."

Over
and
over
and
over
again

written in August's flesh and blood. A portrait of my own ineptitude.



He wasn't moving



And Writer just kissed my cheek and left me there alone. With him.


"H-he's right... about all this."

A cough. Blood comes with it. I crawled over. Grabbed his hand. He shouldn't have had to been alone.

"I-I... think I understand, Boss. I hate you. H-hate all of th-them. Just e-everything, and... and on the way...."

He keeps staring at me, red and azure. Those deep, blue eyes. he's in pain. Oh god, he's dying.

"Christ, was it all a lie...? Was I just...."

"... It was worth nothing because it was finished. I wondered how I'd been able to walk, to laugh with the girls: I wouldn't have moved so much as my little finger if I had only imagined I would die like this. My life was in front of me, shut, closed, like a bag and yet everything inside of it was unfinished. For an instant I tried to judge it. I wanted to tell myself, this is a beautiful life. But I couldn't pass judgement on it; it was only a sketch; I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity, I had understood nothing. I missed nothing: there were so many things I could have missed, the taste of manzanilla or the baths I took in summer in a little creek near Cadiz; but death had disenchanted everything..."

I didn't know what I was saying. But later I would realize what this was from. Fucking pathetic; even as he lay there, it was like me laying there -I could hardly stand it...

And he laughs.

"What is the most wonderful thing in o-our messed up w-w-world, Spencer F-fitzgerald?"

It was then that I held the clear, smooth glass of the syringe in my palm. For him to see.

There was an unspoken covenant between us in that moment. In that one, silent moment... He smiled, just so slightly, smiling at a coward...

"The most w-wonderful thing in the world... Is th-that all around us, people can be dying..."

He flinches as the second syringe enters his flesh.

"And we don't r-realize the same thing can happen..."

"I'm sorry. August, I'm sorry."

"To us."

I held him close. He seemed to.. .relax a bit, despite how terrified I was. It's hard to hide. It's so god damn hard to hide it... He lay his head on my chest. Listening for a heartbeat that's sporadic at best.

"... N-no, I'm sorry. Looks l-like the whole time, w-we were both just pretending..."

I could feel myself start to shake.

"That's k-kind of..."

He was so brave

"Haha-"

Because there was never anything left of him to be afraid with

"Funny."

I could see it. Those blue eyes slowly losing their light. The light that my eyes seem to have lost a long time ago. People live. Then they die.

"... Dinner's at eight."

... that was the most natural hug I've ever pulled anyone into. He hated me more than anything, but...

... but...

"Say hi to Allan for me."

And the unspoken plea. Tell him I'm sorry for this. Tell him I'm sorry for everything. Tell him that...

He laughs. A fading mockery of a laugh.

"See you in hell, Spencer."

Closing his eyes. Then, an afterthought.

"Don't be late."








... He never woke up.

My dears, sometimes you have to do things yourself...

In order to get them done.

It's quite unfortunate, really~ I'm a man who prepares for your team's arbitrary decision making, Fitzgerald. To be frank, you've all quite a history of making last-minute decisions that usually end up imploding in your faces. I had figured that maybe, just maybe, your darling little housewife might decide to bring along your sham of a doctor, though the drug addict? That one surprises me. I had thought the boy was smarter than that, putting the two of them together - but I suppose if there was one thing he was good for, it was keeping you all together~ How exactly did you last as long as you did without him? It makes me wonder why it took you so long to get him to enlist!

Because you knew about him and his father all along, didn't you, Mr. Fitzgerald? Why else would you have taken the boy in~?

So I sent the squad in. Not a problem. Baker Street has a wonderful and proud history of bringing targets down, your couriers no exceptions. You're only untouchable until you leave that dear House of yours, afterall!

And they failed.

You can imagine how absolutely ecstatic I am about this turn of events. Not only do I have explaining to the Higher Ups to do, injury reports to be written, insurance to be collected, and punishments to hand out, now you've forced my hand and made me take care of what was supposed to be a simple job myself.

I wonder, sometimes, Fitzgerald, how long you knew we'd been watching you~? From the very beginning, I'm sure you knew we - I - was looking, but when did you first begin to feel our presence? How many 'freak proxy attacks' needed to happen before you started to read the writing on the wall? See the patterns emerge? You were always very sharp, I'm sure you noticed right away. But why hide it? Why keep it from them? Why dismiss it as 'all couriers are high priority,' and nothing more? Were you afraid of telling them the truth? Or did you just not want to accept it for yourself~?

Ahh, so much to say, so little time to say it!

I suppose I should make this brief. You've no doubt noticed that your beloved little pet's gone missing~ After my squad's pathetic failure I had all but given up on sending others to do the dirty work for me. Now, don't get me wrong - there were still deals to be struck, lives to be threatened, and packages to be arranged.

And while it's true I didn't have nearly enough time to play with the boy as I would have liked, (what with time constraints and the like. Only a six hour delivery, right~?) I think I did manage to have my fun. Though I admit he wasn't nearly as resilient as I had expected - though I wasn't expecting much, was I, with such a feeble frame and pretty face?

Drop by the old apartment, Fitzgerald, and see if you can reach him before the blood stops flowing.

I'll be waiting~

-August- Sweet Little Augustine

Overall, I think it went quite well.


I suppose if you can dismiss the fact that we lost the van, were nearly killed, and had to walk ten miles to find a dealership that would be willing to sell three people with five days' worth of luggage on our backs and in our hands whatever car we pleased, no questions asked.

I think paying in cash helped.

We got back not too long ago, actually, and believe me when I say I have never been so glad to see the House. Sure, the floors weren't exactly spotless anymore and there were a massive pile of dishes in the sink (we bought a dishwasher, you know!) that needed cleaning, but there really isn't any place like home. Though I admit I'm a little upset I won't be able to stay long enough to get down to business; I've got another short delivery to do once I unpack and wash up. The usual, really; another dying lunatic's journal to be delivered to an online friend before his days are up. They're always so sad. I take it upon myself to do these deliveries because I like to think I'm able to comfort them in their last few days, not to mention the fact that I've always found it funny how people seem to just know their time is up. I've met some people who have predicted their deaths down to the minute and the location of the wound that killed them, though I have to say I've never really stuck around to find out if they were right. Still, you hear it on the local radio or sometimes the news; unknown man found dead, thought to be homicide, more information on the hour.

... Jesus, I'm feeling morbid tonight.

Let's end this on a light note, then. We ended up getting a 1991 Firebird from the dealership just outside the city. The salesman was a balding 40-something in a rented tuxedo and oozed slime like our van oozed oil, and immediately approached us asking what 'the lovely couple' were looking for.

The lovely couple in this situation being, naturally, Doc and Steele.

We weren't sure what to make of it, either.

Once we managed to get the giggling under control (I was 'their perfect, darling daughter Augustine' - haha. I would have been upset, but the fact is he bought it completely) Doc and Steele decided to see just how far they could lead this guy on, mentioning they were coming up from their wedding in New Orleans and needed a new car, because Doc's (apparently now named Veronica) uncle had gone a little overboard with the champagne and trashed their previous car, as well as the rented limo. They had spent most of their money paying for damages and insurance and needed a cheap car, quick, so they could get back to work. Not a complete lie.

He ended up selling us the Firebird for half price. Steele says he has plans to convert it into the Knight Rider or something - I don't know my 80s TV shows very well, but by the description he gave me, it's going to look fantastic when it's finished. It's not a simple paint job like the Mystery Machine was but hey, we've got nothing but money and free time.

( For now, anyway. )

See you soon, everybody. Stay safe.

-Doc- Ambush

Well now, that was interesting.

When we don't feel comfortable seeking shelter in a shitty motel for one reason or another, we tend to sleep in whatever vehicle we're driving down to the pickup or drop point. Pretty standard stuff, and I normally wouldn't reveal this level of detail but it appears our competition has figured it out anyway. Middle of the night, I woke up and Steele and August were gone. My first groggy instinct was to chalk it up to a male bonding moment outside the van and go back to sleep, but then I realized that I woke up because a bunch of people were outside the van screaming and the doors were open and what the fuck was going on. Then I heard shots being fired: fucking fantastic.

I'm not usually a heavy sleeper, but I guess I was tired that night. But not tired enough for that gaggle of proxies, however. I silently slipped my glasses on, grabbed a few necessities from the van, and waited. I knew they were going to send one of their mooks after me eventually, so I took a moment to prepare a particularly nasty cocktail. Much like a magician who never reveals her secrets, I can't tell you what was in it, but the bitch who slipped in with the sole intent of gutting me (I'm sure) got a full dose of it. I held a cloth to her mouth to muffle her screaming, but she still flailed around quite a bit and kicked a few things over. Well fuck, so much for subtlety: I figured I might as well go for the dramatic finish at this point, so the moment she went limp, I picked her up by her shirt and tossed her out the back doors of the van. She landed in a gibbering crumpled heap on the ground, and moments later one of her buddies swung by to grab her. Awesome, get the fuck out of here, I thought. That still left me with the problem of how to deal with the goddamn shootout outside. I couldn't just leap out and book it.

Except I kind of did. Maybe not the smartest decision I've ever made, but the sniper bullets whizzed past my head and dented the van as I bolted. A few folks - strangers, I thought at first, tried to stop me. The bigger man got a shot of my venom, the boy...not in need of any treatment at that point, I pushed him aside easily and lunged into the underbrush. Suddenly, I recalled their faces: the diner. Fuck, I wondered how long they'd been tracking us to follow us there. Goddamn proxies. I swear I must've been a swift blur of adrenaline, because those snipers couldn't touch me. I don't know if they fired again, or if anybody else even attempted to stop me: all I knew were the soft stings of the brambles and the trees rocketing past me as I ran. It didn't take long to find August and Steele: they asked if I was okay.

I told them to shut the fuck up and run. Even from the paranoia and panic machine, at that point, it was a good way of motivating them. Yeah, we booked it. And long story short, we found our way to the drop point without the van, met our charge, and...well. I've written quite a lot here, I'll let you stew over it while I think of how to continue my story.

By the way, New Orleans was a lot of fun, and let's never speak of it again.

believe it or not, there was a time the one you call todd had to get used to calling himself by that name. he called himself my name for a while. i was him for a while. but then he had to stop because of the tall man.

i should explain.

sybil, or todd as you know him now, had almost always been followed by the tall man, mostly because his father had been followed since he was young. it was no easy task for either of them, so sybil decided as soon as he was old enough, he would leave and start a new life where the tall man could never get him.

but sybil didn't know that it doesn't work like that.

there was another boy sybil knew who went by the name of todd. the two of them were very close. todd was also followed by the tall man, but for some reason, was no where near as upset about it. sybil would talk about how the tall man hurt him, how he couldn't breathe or see when the tall man was there, but todd would always talk about how everything seemed calmer, and more in place when the tall man was there. todd and sybil didn't talk much after that.

then one day, a few years later, todd came back and asked sybil over to his house. sybil came, and todd closed the door behind him and tried to kill him. but sybil managed to overpower todd, despite todd being, at the time, much larger than sybil. it was that day that sybil decided to leave.

sybil changed everything about himself, starting with his name. he decided to take todd's, because he had always liked the sound of it. sybil was now todd. sybil was always considered selfish by his friends, so todd decided to become the most selfless person he could have been. his mom had always said sybil was a big whiner, so todd decided to try and keep his mouth shut as often as possible.

but todd didn't understand that creating a completely new personality doesn't work like that.

remnants of sybil still remain with todd to this day. while todd was on the run, sybil had always been watching through the same eyes as todd. but when spencer came along, sybil was forced into a dormant part of todd's brain, and he's has been waiting ever since. and he's been hurting.

~Steele~ Round the Twist.

It’s good to be on the road again. My mind doesn’t have the chance to wander to anything beyond surface deep.

I find I’m most at peace when I’m working. Strange how that got so screwed up. I’m most at peace when I’m taking what are often dangerous and/or illegal items across state boundaries, and of course they never do go flawlessly, do they?

It’s also strange that I can say that and not worry about leaving such a very obvious trail to what is at times essentially a casual arms trafficking organization: the feds are really the least of our worries. He’s always there, watching us mill about, pushing his pawns towards us with reckless abandon…But it’s not reckless, it’s almost as if it were calculated. Like He’s watching to see how we respond to pressure. And when he gets bored of that, he watches to see how we respond to pain. Like ants under a magnifying glass held by a sociopathic infant.

Strange things happen.

I’ve been thinking about my family today. Back home, back in the days before I had to grow up. Mum, Dad, my baby brother, my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my grandparents…my big sister…

I never went to her grave. It’s always been on my list of things to do before I die. Head back to Perth, see her again. Just let her know I’m still kicking around, I guess.

Sorry this is so disjointed. I’m really not trying tonight. I’m just thinking, and I guess you guys’ve been following for long enough that I don’t really mind letting you in on my thoughts. It’s apparently healthy, or so Dr. Rivers told me last time we spoke. Letting people know what I’m thinking. (I then believe I might’ve said he wasn’t a real doctor and that he should sod off, but he didn’t seem to take it to heart.)

I guess I’ve been thinking about family so much today because of the lunch we had. It wasn’t anything particularly momentous. August, Lori and I stopped at a diner on the road down to Louisiana…We sat down, ordered our meals, that sort of thing. Dealt with the terrible watery coffee, typical diner stuff. I was heaping my mug full of sugar when a little boy walked up to us. He was young…Probably around 10, I’d say, with sunny blonde hair and a serious scowl on his face. That lovely, pensive scowl that only a child can pull off. Like they’re SO close to solving some great mystery of life, like the answer is right there, close enough to grasp, but still so far away…and then they’re old, like me, and the answer is gone.

Strange that a 22 year old can call himself ‘old’ without a trace of irony. But I digress.

He stood there, totally quiet for a fairly long time until I noticed him; he was standing next to Lori, who was sitting next to August. “Hey little buddy, you lost?” I ask, attempting to sound kind. He didn’t move, but a blonde haired woman, maybe Lori’s age, with piercing green eyes walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Gem, don’t disturb the nice people, love.” She looked up at us and smiled apologetically. “Sorry, he’s been very sheltered by my uncle; we’re just coming back from a trip to see the grandparents.” She had a familiar look about her, just really down to earth and matter of fact, but I suppose I just got a bit confused by someone our age talking about…family.

I guess I’ve always known that there were these big, idyllic families that people keep in contact with, but it always just seemed like a fantasy in my mind, a simple idea. I haven’t thought about my extended family in so long, my grandparents, my cousins. When I started running, that life ended, any possibility of that life faded away into the realms of hopes and dreams. My family’s still out there, presumably doing the same as normal. There would’ve been a funeral when Melissa died. Presumably closed-casket. (I wonder if Dad even told them that she was killed, or if they played it off as an act of God.) After the funeral, sure, everyone would be sad, but life would go on.

I wonder if my grandparents are still alive? It’s still very much a possibility, they were fairly young when they started a family. My aunts and uncles would definitely still be around. My cousins would be working, studying at uni, falling in love, getting married, having kids. This entire life that I know I’ll never be able to have.

A different life. One that’s a little less strange.