IM(Mortal, moral)

Regular updates should resume soon, but until then, more Rien!

Immortality. For most of human history, it had been the primary goal that had driven many men and women to their doom. It was right next to endless wealth and everlasting youth on the "Please God Grant ME" list. Though pursuit of it changed as time continued, becoming more about finding ways to preserve the body for longer, or in some cases, to forget bout the body and preserve the mind, immortality always loomed over the heads of people, hovering just out of grasp.

That is until the Goddess showed up. Then it was quite real, or at least apparently real. Suddenly, certain individuals were outliving their offspring, and the offspring of their offspring, and even further progeny. They were always the closest companion of the Goddess, the one that Called to her and was Called to her. Of course, no one ever knew they had outlived their families for certain, simply because becoming immortal meant becoming Shaen's, and that meant the past was erased from those who had raised the new immortal. It was this last part that people never understood, when they hoped for the Goddess to grant them such a gift.

It did not take Rien very long to find out what the mixed blessing aspect of the situation was. Though she had renamed him publicaly, the young man could not refer to himself by the made up contraction. It had little appeal to him. The first time she allowed him leave after making him her own, he had sought his parents. That had been...an ordeal. Even thinking about it now saddened the redhead, so he did it rarely. But now that he had betrayed her, he often forced himself to dwell on those moments, when he felt such powerful anger himself. Rien had to know the emotions she would be harnessing before she harnessed their true powers against him.

Of course, as far as mixed blessings went, there was the entire matter of his attempts to usurp the Council. Apparent attempts. There was something about the Misshapen that Shaen called Chael that bothered the hell out of Rien, and he had had no intention of turning over her power to the ugly thing. But his position on the Council had been tarnished by his attempt, rendered by the manipulative cock as an evil coup. The orchestration wasn't too far off from the truth, in all actuality, but really, Rien did intend to relinquish power to the Goddess eventually.

Maybe. He'd thought about it, anyway. Still, as he once more wandered the snow laced streets, a pariah during the season in which it was the most painful to be alone, the immortal knew that he would make a better God. A more benevolent one, in any case. If he only had more powers than just not ever dying, that was. Maybe.

Happy Holidays

Rien's winter season may have been disrupted, but he still wishes for a wonderful winter for you and yours.

The Night Before Reckoning: Part 2 of 2

It was the warmth that had driven him from the thoughts of religion and reality, the lack of chill alarming him to the presence of the other long before she would've made a sound. Eyes focusing finally on the stylish black leather boots within his perception, Rien found himself making a series of certainly false predictions as his gaze traveled up the female form before him. The premonitions, for once, turned out to be the sort of true that even his eyes did not deny.

Shaen was standing before him, dressed exactly as she did for her press conferences, truly a sight for an awkward late-teen. Despite the snow falling around them, she wore the corset ensemble without a coat. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that the snow that was falling around them was only doing that...it did not actually get to land on her pristine shoulders, nearly as pale as the snow falling around them. She wore the sort of smile that chilled his bones despite the heat that she was exuding. It called Rien, even before she spoke, and he did not resist the urges that filled his body.

As the distance between them closed, questions seemed to exit from his mind. The rational being that normally inhabited the ungainly nineteen year olds body vanished without a trace, replaced by the sensation of pure pleasure. Yet it was not even that her presence caused these questions to just leave...she answered them so wholly to his mind that before he understood the response, he had already dismissed them, knowing that she could never lie to him. Finally, there was no distance between them, and her fingers slid against his naked chin.

Time stretched and compressed around them in a way similar to the snow. She had him willingly as far as the Council would be concerned, anyway. He had started walking towards her. All she had done was appear. Rien understood that her intentions for him even then, with her ruby nails sliding against the delicate skin on his throat. It was unnerving. She still hadn't said a damn word, but he knew almost as much about her as she knew about him. The only difference was he simply didn't have the storage capacity to accept the transfer of information she had offered him, and had to take only the most crucial elements to avoid causing a dump of crucial memory functions.

Of course, he had also allowed her to bypass some of the safeguards that would have protected an accidental dump...even as she downloaded his files, she uploaded replacements to some of those locations, giving them the same name to replace them. Strictly speaking, he didn't forget anything. But the files that he possessed now were full of corrupted data that would perpetuate whenever he called upon the old data, affirming itself without appearing corrupted to his person.

By Reckoning morning, he was sitting in the Lair, knowing it was the Lair, and knowing that she had created him again. Rien Thomas Ofphilly would be introduced to the world only as Ritophe now, his heritage erased and replaced with a creation story that had made him a demi-God.

The Night Before Reckoning : Part 1 of 2

A little background on someone that's only been mentioned in passing thus far...

Rien Thomas Ofphilly possessed the sort of last name that came from the Great Disaster that had shoved all of the people from the Great Cities together. His grandparents had foregone their proper surname in favor of one that told the world proudly where they were from. There were many like this and thus, common last name rarely told of genetic correlation these days. Particularly since those from what once was Philadelphia and was now a rather vacant land void of all but the most stubborn corpses were those who most proudly latched onto where they were from, rather than their own heritage. Besides, after the Great Disaster, that was how you introduced yourself, even if you had a proper last name. "I'm Greg Dean OfSanFrancisco." That sort of thing. Though if Rien recalled correctly, Mr.Dean had moved on from San Francisco long, long before San Francisco stopped existing. It was just the only famous name he ever came up with on first shot, really.

But, regardless of common last name or famous people from the past, Rien was spending Reckoning alone again. Given that all the Ofphillys he knew had their own families, he had been hard pressed to find anyone worth spending the holiday with anyway. The young man sighed, feeling, for all the noise of the City, terribly alone. When the acid rains had left this time, they had already taken the roof he had claimed, and the snow that floated down to turn into slush on the hot asphalt managed to chill the warm-blooded descendant of Pennsylvania winters. Wandering the near-empty streets as time sped onward towards the anniversary of the arrival of the Others.

Once, the day had been celebrated for bringing a savior to a people who had needed one desperately. But though the Christians still insisted on remembering it, with their Christmas trees and cards and the like, most of the progeny of the Great Disaster remembered much more clearly the day that the Goddess...and others like her, revealed their true forms. There had been those that had worshiped her and her lackluster army of familiars since the dawn of time...but now, she walked the Earth like one of them, and yet not.

Shaen intrigued Rien like nothing in the world. He couldn't really make any sense of her and what she meant. The majority disregarded her claims to ownership of the world, most religious-minded individuals thinking that, at most, her existence was only to try their faith. The young man shivering on the snow-covered streets hadn't made up his mind yet. His folks had been convinced that she was not a demon, but a Goddess, and it was the ignorance of the others that had brought so much doom to the people of the City, and had brought the Misshapen into prominence.

But he wasn't certain that either was entirely correct, or even why, necessarily, the two excluded one another absolutely as falsehoods.

Later, he would think back on the naive thoughts that had filled his head with amusement of someone who knew precisely what Shaen was. Of course, the only reason he had any idea of what she was was that the ambiguity of the thoughts floating through his head that night seemed to call the self-proclaimed ruler of the City.

2.0.1: Second's Ticking

For a single moment, it looked like Time was actually going to be able to convince the insanity to subside.

Of course, in Time's perception, a single moment was a tremendous thing, something worth exploiting, something that held more information than just the status as it was at that moment. It was in that moment that she realized her downfall was going to be far more painful than the merciful execution she had planned for Shaen. Though Time was not gifted with future scribing, or anything so useful, the way time itself was wrapped around her center allowed her to sense outcomes in the crudest sense.

As she was crouching on the edge of the towering skyscraper, peering over the ledge to see if Shaen would manage to stop her fall before it wrecked this body, she knew it was hopeless.

But Time was a super heroine, and hopelessness was not an excuse to give up. Fingers wrapped around the ledge for milliseconds, she understood what she would have to do to force Shaen into using some of the energy that the other woman seemed to force herself to reserve. Time winced, white hair blowing into her face, bleached that way by time's flow through her regrettably human body. Just like the Misshapen, she was marked for her interference with the way things should be. Unlike the Misshapen, the latex-attired vixen seemed to cognate at super speed due to the abnormal flow of time around her.

Nanoseconds had passed as minutes as she contemplated the fact that what she was about to do was as close to suicide as one could get without actually slicing a blade from wrist to elbow. Pressing her fingers against her eyes ever so gently, she rocked forward, pushing time around her to slow further.

Her descent felt incredible, and terrifying, and she could not deny that it was everything and more than she actually had dreamed. Time was flying down the face of the building, though time itself moved so slowly that she had perfect control of her body. Her sneakers, seemingly out of place with her flashy costume, were targeted for the back of Shaen's head as she rose from the dent in the ground. It would not kill the demon, but it would cause her to plunge into her reserves to shield herself, or at least, Time thought so. No one really knew that much about the torturer of the city.

No matter what she did from here on out, she was going to fail. At least this way, she would make a ripple before time itself stole her from the reality she had so clung to with such frailty.

2.0: Unlike Time

Time moves swiftly when she is dead. It creeps when she lives sometimes, and it has crept on for months now. It is divided incredibly unevenly between three physical arenas: the lair, which occupies her least of all now, the Council Room, and the Arena, where the Misshapen have gathered and train and learn from her. The Arena is a former military base that Shaen had claimed before the City had been re-rebuilt. Those had been some rather glorious days, according to her now vivid recollections.

While time creeps in her living days, it is full of wonders and surprises, delightful memories and trips to destroy those that ought to have been destroyed the last time she had been skating this side of mortality.

Though, on the subject of those she ought to have already destroyed, Ritophe is strangely absent still...

that doesn't matter. The Council, in the time since Chael's last visit, has once more been overthrown. The Council is always being overthrown and made up differently. It is a little absurd sometimes, but Shaen doesn't mind. The last Elder died without any real fanfare, despite it being a proper assassination and all. Another had stepped up, and in the time since then, very little of the Council that Chael had spoken to over a year ago had anything to do with those that sat at the table now, listening to Shaen's status report.

Nodding complacently as she detailed the derailment of the last wave of Vigilante Justice Force attacks, the Scribe effortlessly typed away on his key-knuckles in shorthand, monitoring on his lenses the program that modified the shorthand to proper sentences. Tempted to let his mind wander down the path of natural language processing history, it took all of his efforts to focus on the failings of the VJF. Of course, there was some mirth at the discussion of the fall of the one who had called herself Time.

There had been plenty of quips at the petty thing's choice of pseudonym at previous Council meetings. When she had finally been crushed underneath Shaen's 'heel 'o death' as they'd taken to calling it with the number of 'heroes' they had disposed of, the jokes had erupted anew. The newspapers had taken a different approach to the situation, though the reporter had evidently had some Council-influence. The article about the last death due to the Council had been titled "Time Stopped by Woman," a rather pitiful attempt to play on the old adage "Time stops for no man." It had the right number of syllables. Shaen was relatively certain that that had been the purpose of the woman's choice of title anyway.

Break!

Sorry all, I'm sort of wonky right now as far as time to spend writing. I expect normal daily updates to resume with school(January Third). This is not to say I won't be updating in the meantime, just that it will likely be at the most random of times and not necessarily "daily". Sorry again...I didn't expect to be pulling this out of my hat, but the irregularity of my schedule right now is really killing me. -_-

0.4: Between the Between

So I didn't mention that Chapter 1 concluded with 1.7...because I didn't realize it until just now. Silly me. But since chapter one is concluded(despite the numbering, it was over ten segments long, believe it or not. ^~) I'm going to side-story tonight since I almost forgot to write again and haven't wrapped my head around Chapter 2. So why all the idle chat? I just thought you might like to know that chapter one was completed.

There are those who really haven't gotten used to him after all of this time. Professor or not, there was still something about the lanky man with his strangely colored skin and hair, and those soul-baring eyes that ward many off. It is not his fault, and he does little to encourage the space that surrounds him at each meal. It wears on him sometimes, and his students see it in the days that he snaps, using a student as an example, regardless of the established rules. His wiry fingers snap and crackle with energy until it is resolved. But most of the time, Theo still forgets to care about his solitude.

For so many years, it is all he has known. Even when he was a student at this institution, he struggled to make loose associates friends. The most emotional relationship he had had been utterly volatile. Of course, that had mostly been on the part of the girl...she had found him repulsive and an altogether unsuitable suitor for her best friend. Theo never blames her for this attitude...though stealing her first kiss had been cruel of him, he admits to himself as the thought found him. But he had never intended to hold her captive to the marriage arranged by their parents. In reality, it is still difficult for the man to care about someone, or even imagine caring about an individual in a classically romantic light.

The closest had been a friend whose interest in him had been a matter of mutual respect, and there was nothing but friendship between them now. Hi heart aches for her as he dotes on her sometimes, sending her odd presents that come through the school in various ways. In some ways, she is the greatest love of his life, though that love is so restricted that he hardly recognizes it as such. It eats at him beneath the surface, but he fails to notice, possibly because his world would crumble if he ever thought about it too hard. The Professor settles within him as the student that lives within him still voices its concerns.

There are too few that call him Theo. In his mind, that is the only name he has, though always, he introduces himself as Theodore Nott. The students call him Professor Nott, of course. They could hardly be expected to call him anything else. The disrespect would cost them, if only because he had professionalism to maintain. The other professors...they avoid him still. There are few people on the staff that he would call friend, even now. Yes, they nod in the halls. The other alum from his group acknowledge him with more than that. But mostly, they gossip amongst themselves of their year mates, people who had likely tormented him in his youth. It is frustrating for him, to be continue the self-renewing cycle of loneliness, but he can't help it anymore.

1.7 : The Message

Across the City, across the world, there was a shiver that originated at the spot where Shaen stood. Every being felt it, progressively moving further from the source until every single creature that still roamed the mangled Earth had felt it. It was a very limited number of those creatures that knew that the shiver contained a message, and even more limited was the number still willing to respond to the message. There were many who felt that the time had come to forsake the one that had forsaken them so many times over the years.

Silver crest feathers, all of them. Vanity might have a few of them casting the fashionable colors of youth over their feathers, but it did not disguise their age. True, to any human, they all looked like children with their small forms and ageless skin. But their kin knew better; a Misshapen's feathers were the true tell of age. Eventually, no matter how well kept or well fed one managed to keep one's self, the Misshapen's feathers would silver. Many of these remembered what it was like to serve under Her when she was at the peak of her powers. Those times of true glory still lived in those, which only served to fill them with terrible scorn that so often after that peak had she abandoned them.

Without the madness that drove her, without the complexity of her mind to grow off of, Misshapen were only the dregs of society. Their abilities dwindled, with the exception of her Chosen. And with the Chosen tiring of all things, it seemed, they had lost faith. Some silver crest feathers would answer the call, but most would not. This time, they would not face the disappointment, but remain in their own cities, their own tribes, far away from the City.

But then, there were the youth. And they were excited.

They had never felt the Call before. The last Call had been an entire generation before them...after all, the last time she had been about, she had been active for quite some time and thus, her servants were always aware of her awareness, as it was. So as the shiver rippled through the youth, they could not fathom anything but glory in responding to the Call. And as they dropped their current plans and began to make arrangements if they weren't already in the City, they dreamed of Honor. Those that felt the weariness of the medium for the Message knew there was something even greater than the plight of their parents in this Call.

Those still living with their parents found little resistance. Despite their own irritation with the woman, they knew the Call could not be explained away. The first time they had been Called, their elders had attempted to persuade them that it really wasn't the best of ideas and it hadn't worked then either. Sighing, the generation that had settled into a life of shadows, disillusioned by promises broken, sat by as their children, full of an ideal they no longer sympathized with, left.

As the youth traveled, they obeyed the other order embedded in the call. Bring one. Just one more, that was all that was asked. One to be purified, to be bettered, to be one of them. It did not matter the age, just that the one was willing. There would be time later to gather the unwilling, but her powers would need to be far greater for that. So for now, the youth seduced, persuaded and smiled their way into the hearts of the youth of the human generation who had never been subject to the Call before either. The youth of the Misshapen were finding the City quickly and understood why.

Their Goddess has returned to their people, and they were ready and willing to serve Shaen, Mistress of the Misshapen.

1.6 : Mockery

It wasn't just the agitation with Chael's selective reveals that had driven Shaen past the moment of receptivity. The Misshapen had not protected his thoughts as well as he had thought, presuming that her failure of shields meant total failure of control. It was good to know that she had not lost her sense for people. Chael had a tendency to get rather arrogant in her absences...but that thought was almost too much. She had chosen him, not for any great loyalty, but more for his broadcasting ability. Now, again, she saw the fault in this, the deja vu of the situation giving her reason to believe that it wasn't the first time she had questioned her choice in Chael.

Staring at the Misshapen as the whirlwind of memories entered into her mental catalogs, transferring the files neatly into the binders that she had prepared while ripping the feather out of his skull. The debilitating pain he suffered from now was by design...after all, that she needed to aggressively persuade him at all spoke plenty of why the memory would have to be extracted by force. Her features clearly showed her disappointment as she reviewed the sections that he had highlighted, growling at each encounter with the Council.

Scorn fell from her lips, the temptation to dismiss him matching the force of her anger as she elaborated upon all the ways that he had been a poor choice in the first place. Her tirade lasted the entirety of his immobilization, as if by design as well, and ended with her dismissing the notion of punishment. There were no others with his ability, and though she could contact any Misshapen within the City, it was a costly process for her, while for him, it was something simple. If she had been thinking ahead at the time, she would've never only given the ability to one of them.

As the silver-crested male sat himself, she watched from the standing position she hardly recalled moving into. So absorbed in her anger, the minutes had passed without her noticing. "I am sorry Mistress. I will not think such thoughts again." The words were, of course, unnecessary. It was a lie, but it was one that placated her none the less. If he admitted to his failure, that was all that mattered. Composing the message for broadcast, the Mistress of the Misshapen began to dictate, pressing her fingers onto her knuckles absently.

When she had completed, Chael began the dance of sending, the words still fresh in the air around them. Between her vocalization of the call and the tapping across her fingers, they were easy enough to latch onto that this particular sending would take seconds rather than minutes. The steps were quiet on the luxurious wooden floor, but the words shifting from their normal form into the traveling form made the sound of warmth. It was the sound of sunlight, the whispers of the snow melting, the crush of autumn's remainder; the utterances became more than that and latched onto the claws of the creature, winding around them as they were spun.

The web of sound was inaudible to Shaen, to all humans. But to Chael it was a delicate thing that was crafted into perfection and sent along with winds that only his sibs would feel and hear. On the zephyr of emotions it would travel until all had heard and understood.

Mistress was back. It was Time.

1.5.4 : Return of the Acid

Though there are more memories that may have conveyed the next few months more quickly, the emotions are too much for me. Sharing them with my Mistress so intimately is almost unbearable while her shielding is still so child-like. All emotions are born open to me, and I can not bare another moment like that. Though I feel blessed that I am the one she Chose as her most trusted, the creature before my now is not the Mistress who did the Choosing. It will be a matter of time before my Mistress is herself again, and though my vow to her remains, for the time, it is I who must continue to plan for the future of my people.

Just as I have when she has left before. Just as I will when she leaves once more. It will then be, once more, as if she was never my Mistress at all.

I shake the thought loose, discarding the folders of memory that I had been thumbing through and turn to speak to her with words once more. I start, but she stops me, the look on her face paralyzing as the serpent's venom. I am trapped in the icy tombs that seem to be burning with rage as her fingers wrap themselves neatly around the feather at the very base of my neck. I know what is coming and can do nothing but prepare myself for the pain.

The force wrenches my head backwards, and I fall back onto the couch, the agony unbelievable. I can not move, can not talk to finish the report, can not do anything but watch as she calls forth her true nature. My feather, hovering just at the tips of her fingers, is radiating its inner light. My inner light. The tides of her emotions have poisoned her patience; it is clear to me, even now. My Mistress never was one to accept that I censor my reviews for her own good. This is not the first time I have been thankful that that particular feather grows back with a speed that is unmatched by its fellows.

While she extracts the experiences of the feather...my experiences, I let myself rest. It is the least I can allow myself after all of that exposition to be ruined instantaneously by her impatience.

Crest of Silver

Chael, as I managed to draw him. There was more to the picture, but I cropped it in frustration of dislike. Just really wanted to draw his plumage...at some point, the significance of the arrangement of his upper four earrings will be explained. Check back later for the thrilling conclusion to 1.5. Unless I wrap that post up and realize I'm not done, in which case, you're merely tuning in for...more 1.5? Something like that.

1.5.4 : Tales of Winter Blunder

Again, as the emotions faded, I sifted through the memories, finding the next one that was important enough to the way of things that my Mistress would need them. Though all of the memories in the folder had been deemed important at the time, I am disappointed by what I find. Most of it is nonsensical, rubbish, trite...why have I stored this? My Mistress does not need to know of my struggles. Just of the outcome. Frantically, I am looking for the needed one, the one I marked so that in this situation, I could find it easily. "Aha!" The utterance crosses my lips without permission, but the success is welcome. I slide my claw across the seal absently, releasing the memory from the captivity I imposed on it at the time.

The winter flurries about us, its possession strong and rich with my fear.

I was being hunted.

This memory was not to show my Mistress my struggles. It was only for the purpose of the information I had gathered on that trip through the frozen winter streets. When I had tried to slice just the information into a folder, it had crumbled to pieces. So I had to keep adding more and more to it until this was included. Only memories with strong emotions attached could be archived properly and expected to last more than a year. Even those with the proper utilities for preserving smaller memories preferred strongly emotional things.

Hunted I was, and as the fear catches in my chest, I stumble. The hands that have been outstretched have me. Acting on the instinct that has preserved me thus far, I twist, buying momentary freedom and a hard hit to the head. I lay silent as if unconscious, knowing better than to struggle. Now, in my silence, I may learn what I would not have by fighting. Though my fear has a bit of say on that as well; I am all but paralyzed by it now, as I am roughly bagged and carried. But this crony of the Council has failed to realize that not all Misshapen are as human as they seem, and is foolishly proud of his capture.

He yammers away on his lenses, his booming voice clear as day, though the information he is receiving is a mystery to me; that has long been something inaudible to those around, transmitted directly into the brain. "Right. Edge of town to CERA's facilities, right?" It takes all that I am not to panic at that. CERA is the thinnest of front for a Misshapen torture center, calling itself a research facility. I can not betray that I am aware though; certain death lay down that path. "Beast tried to run, but I nabbed it easy. Without this'un broadcasting, the others should fall soon, and Shaen oughtn't be able to remember prop', right?"

The human knew! Which means the Council knows...and for this fool to be blurting it out without a hint of secrecy to his tone could mean something disastrous. I can feel my sibs gathering, but I warn them off. These words are enough to warrant my escape. The rest of the research would have to be done with more preparation, and could not be gathered if I were to die.

I had sealed the memory at this moment, knowing my escape was apparent, and the details were unimportant. Yet the simple truth remained that they knew about us in a way they hadn't before. "I have not found the source of that information leak Mistress." I say softly, while I tremble through the rest of the records for the last piece of her absence worth mentioning.

Ding!

Actually, this is just a quick poll. I've gotten a few comments about the story so far which I really appreciate and I wanted to mention that I'll probably be moving the update time a bit earlier in the day. Posting right before I go to bed is becoming something that is too easy to forget, so I'm going to go ahead and post whenever I can in the day. Hopefully that time will regulate itself, but knowing me it won't.

The other thing I wanted to mention is the side stories. Whenever I post more than once in a day that doesn't have to do with catching up from the previous day, it'll be for a side story...so far. Would the current readers prefer an increase in frequency of side stories? Since they have little to do with Shaen's Universe, (in fact, so far, the only one who may also exist in Shaen's 'verse is Yaxley...and should that happen you'll know it) are they more distracting or just interesting tidbits to you all?

I'm just curious is all, really. XD I'm having fun, so I doubt they'll go away entirely, but I can start posting them elsewhere if they are TOO distracting.

Thanks for reading!

1.5.3: Memories of Autumn's Fall

My apologies for another late post. Finals + the holiday season, silly excuses. Unfortunate circumstances. Blah Blah. Without further adieu.

The peace fell from my Mistress' face as the scene unraveled.

"Look at this foul Misshapen! Acting as if its Mistress," the way he acidly spat the word out as a mockery of our bond was causing my blood to boil again, though I kept a lock on my emotions to avoid flooding her with them. It would do neither of us any good for the backlash to send us into shared Rage. "were here. Know you not what you are, Misshapen fiend?" The Elder inquired, raising an eyebrow coolly at me. There was no time to answer before his gaze passed over the others, his head shaking as he began what I quickly recognized as the Call to Banning.

"This Misshapen does not hold any power here, friends. Though Shaen left her vote with it, her vote little matters while she wanders off on flights of fancy."

"Flights of fancy? What she does now she does for the mission as well as what you do now!" I defended loudly, but rather than acknowledge my words or even my presence, the Elder rose his voice, as if I were some creature mewling pathetically in the street to be spoken over. My glare is focused on him as I fall to silence in my frustration. If I am naught but Misshapen here, there is no point of attempting to speak now. All I can do is gather information of my Mistress' betrayal for her. I keep my eyes closed, do not dare look at her as the memory continues.

"This petty creature would like to remind you, likely, of the work Shaen does when she is here...so would I. It is shoddy and without any real consequence. It poorly reflects the Council. And she expects phenomenal rewards for her work when it does little to further our cause and often plants seeds of destruction that rally against us only after she has vanished. She promises us safety for as long as she is on our Council friends...that is not a partner. That is a protection racket...a scam. We must Ban her now, friends, before she returns and persuades us once more."

It was then that I had slunk backwards. My eyes had closed and for minutes, the memory was only enhanced sound, each voice attached with the memory of the name. The discussion was too short, with little resistance. The vote settled it. It was this day that my Mistress was banned, only weeks after Ritophe similarly lost his position. Standing, unnoticed, my eyes had opened again, and I heard myself promise something.

"You will find that my Mistress is more forgiving than I...but I doubt she will forget this, Councilors. When you do regret this decision, it will be after my brothers and sisters have stolen your young and made them like us, stolen their memories and replaced them with ones that paint you poorly...though perhaps, with some of you, that last part will not be necessary. That is the better case for me, no? That your children should join willingly with natural hate to be turned against you? When that day comes, Councilors, you will find yourself sorely in need of the protection you have lost yourselves. And you will find it nowhere in this world."

The flow of memory thinned for a moment as I tried to prevent the leakage of my Mistress' emotions from effecting my clarity of mind. The pity was almost overwhelming, and I could not continue reliving these days with it so fresh and bared to me. "Mistress, your shields." I whisper aloud, and feel the emotions lift from me again, and I squeeze her hand gently as I can to reassure her. It would only be a matter of time until she was back to full power.

I was already in the process of making it happen.

1.5.2 : Tales of Autumn's Rising

Suddenly, I wince, realizing that I have, yet again failed my Mistress. Had I not told her before I checked when she last remembered that I would simply immerse her in my memories? I had, and she seems to be remembering that now, agitation on her features. I didn't grind my teeth, this time. Taking her hand in my two small gloved hands, I look away from her. "My apologies. Here they are." The formal words complete, I settle into my mind quietly.

I take a moment first, to find the memories. I had cataloged them for when she would return, knowing that I would need them. Calling up the mental image of a filing system, I thumb through the files, finding the one marked 'important: disappearance XIV.' Extracting it, I review the memory quickly, allowing it to take over my mind completely before allowing her in as well, opening the path between our minds.

Momentarily, I stop breathing. Her thoughts flood into my mind at first; she has forgotten how to shield. Knowing better than to panic, as it would spread between us too quickly at this rapture, I snap shields over her quickly. The thoughts stopped attacking my mind all at once, and only the remnants of her embarrassment tainted the air as I released the river of memories between us, filtering them in chronological order to make confusion minimum.

I watch the images, reliving the last few months as she lives them through my form.

We step into autumn, when the acid rains have moved on and only the destruction and cold remain. I am walking through the streets of the city, preparing for another Council meeting. Though Ritophe was threat no more, there were others that doubted my Mistress' complete control, and in her absence, my presence would serve reminder. I take pride in that, and that pride had filled me on the day that we had stepped into.

It was not enough, though, to be convincing, as the Eldest started to pick apart my Mistress' exit again. Attempting to intervene, I stand up in frustration. "You have never doubted her in the past. She will return, and once more, she will be stronger than before as always." I watch myself utter, slamming my fist on the table, grabbing their attention at last. It has always been my way to be silent at the meetings. It lends more attention to my voice when I need it. The rest of the Council stared at me, as I held the glare of the Eldest. Anger resonated within me still, even now.

My Mistress' approval of my behavior prodded me onward.

0.3 : Severely Mistaken

If you think you know what you're getting into with her, you're so incredibly wrong.

She's not dumb, you know. She can see through you. You already know that, look at those eyes, girl, damn. They know. She knows. She already knows, but still, she's standing there like she wants you to do something about it.

You're not going to do anything about it though, are you? That's fine. Just make that decision now, not after you've approached her and made a fool of yourself. Stop staring at her and move. Now, or you're going to figure out very, very quickly that this isn't going to work at all.

But she is...she is words. They flow through her like they remain static in books. Oh god's above, she is made of them, made of them like perfection. You can not talk to her. You will...you will end up destroying her if you stick around. Move, boy, move. You can not afford to do this again. There is so much left to do. So much that does not involve losing your grip.

Move on now, before the angel sees you watching and realizes that she can use you to her advantage. Kill this fantasy now. Move.

Oh god. It's too late. It's too fucking late. Run. Run NOW. No. The fear is not immobilizing you if you refuse to move you fool, you're just fucking refusing to move. Pick up your bloody feet and move if you want to retain any semblance of normalcy to your pathetic life. Make your excuses. Get out of here, get out of here, get out of here, no, stay.

She's smiling at you.

She's smiling at me.


"Hi."

1.5.1 : Tales of Summer's End

I look up at my Mistress with wonderment, hardly believing my luck that she has returned now. It has been a rather absurd time since she left once more. Not that her return will bring an end to the absurdity, and not that I wish a semblance of life that is less absurd. That is not, as my Mistress's cycles remind me so often, real life. That is a less-than life, a life which sleeping through seems to be no crime. But she awaits my tale with less-than patience, a sign of her less-than life of the last few months, a knowledge that she has missed more than intended.

"I am not sure Mistress, where you last remember. What season was it then?" I inquire humbly as she settles in next to me more, pale fingers stroking my crest, emotions bared through the intensity of the gentle stroking action. Though it was liable to be a source of pain when we got to that part of the tale, I know it soothes her, and would never request anything so enormous of her such as a release of my feathers. That would be...well, it would be without honor, that is for certain! And as she describes the slow destruction of her last trench coat caused by the acid rains, I understand that it has been longer than even I had realized. The rains are coming again shortly, after all, and they only happen twice a year. And given she mentioned her trench coat rather than her less-than destroyed acid-resistant get-up I had completed at the end of the last Acid Season, I knew precisely where to start.

"Ah, it had been summer then. I am sorry, but the days pass oddly without you, my Mistress. Time seems to flow in a way that is unique to your absence." The compliment treads cautiously from my lips; it was the right choice this time, apparently, because while her features do not relax, she finds the itch at the base of my skull and scratches it obligingly as is often my reward. "The end of the Summer Rains came just as I finished your new coat. I think you will find it much more sturdy when the Rains come again in the coming weeks, Mistress." I take care not to beam, knowing it is humility she prizes most.

A non-committal sound from Her lets me know that I am taking too much time. Cursing my pride momentarily, feeling her fingers leave the itch and work away from it and into my crest, I quickly begin the tale properly. "As the rains left the City again, Ritophe made a play for your open spot on the council." There was a small growl from her throat that was coupled with a much rougher pull on my beautiful feathers. "But it was ignored almost uniformly. The council has officially banned Ritophe from making any power plays until he does something successful." The sharper pain was replaced by a duller pain that did not bother me. Worse will be done to me soon, and I will take honor in that as well. I always take honor in serving my Mistress, no matter the size of the task.

The momentary relaxation does not relieve me of my duties...I am uncertain that I have even covered any material that occurred after the exodus to not-life she had made. It is possible that the news of the bureaucratic decision had not at that point filtered down, but there was much to be told yet. Of those things, much was bad, but I had a tidbit of good to share, a smug bit of gossip that I prided myself on gathering.

"Actually, it may please you to know that Ritophe's life outside the Council is similarly failing. His oldest daughter has recently turned to the Crusade for aid. It was in the papers. He is discredited." I thrill in the smirk that lights those precious pale lips. It sets her features aflame with life. It is this that I live for, and her pleasure is nearly inescapably contagious. Giddiness threatens my composure; I regain it before she notices my loving glance towards her. A punishment would come from that had she caught me, but this time, she is too happy in His defeat.

Hopefully, her joy with summer's end will save me from too much injury when I have finished fall's travesty. It will be difficult to serve her if she does not control her temper this time.

1.4 : Spring

Sorry that this is late...and short. But I'll be making up for it this evening, you can count on that!

Time failed to act for a while as she absorbed her surroundings. The rhythmic breath of Chael punctuated each long draw over her lair. It had been many things in its time, rarely serving the purpose of a proper apartment. Sleep was a luxury, and Shaen would rather her luxuries be in the form of power and clothing than sleep. Not that it seemed to effect her too much, really. Or had it? Was that why she had been so stuck last time in that stupid grind? No, that didn't make a lick of sense, sleep had been long proved to be unimportant and in fact, an impediment on productivity.

At long lost, her eyes fell on Chael again, a frown crossing the wind-licked lips at first. That he was sleeping was somewhat disturbing. The man never slept when she was away unless...the frown deepened as she approached the coach without her regular silence, cursing the squeak of the new vinyl boots. It would take some time for them to be properly broken into silence again. Rousing him from his slumber, the poor thing looked confused for a moment, apparently lost in some half-dream. This passed quickly though as she continually attempted to get his attention.

"Mistress Shaen? You're back?" The not-quite-human finally annunciated, finally understanding. A grin split his features, though the eerily black holes that ought to have been eyes did not change with the smile, giving it a shallow feel. But Shaen knew better than to judge based on that, and tousled his silver crest feathers gently, enjoying the way they felt on her long numb fingers entirely too much. A delighted sound escaped from Chael's throat, a cross between a lovebird's trill and a kitten's purr. Sitting properly up as she took a seat next to him, Shaen bade him to tell her of what had passed in her absence.

"Much, Mistress. Much more than my throat is capable of uttering. I will share the memories with you instead. They will be truer than my words, though you know I would never willingly deceive you.

1.3 : Trembling

At long last, the fashion-defying loafers impacted with the concrete sidewalk. It was a good thing the Company had no interest in her when she was alive. It really wouldn't have been a problem to catch the woman who now panted at the bottom of the stairs in a rather uncomfortable way, thin fingers perched atop her knees. Yet this stop was less needed than the first had been, and she recovered rather quickly now, all things considered. Shaen felt the demoralizing night as it captured the City once more as a single moment, not the slow advance that the sunset would imply. There was a way in which, with only the warning of the death of the day, it closed in with a finality that was unmistakable to the past and future Conquerer of All. It was as clear as the Call of Gods was to those that still heard Them. Night had always been Shaen's time for action, and it invigorated her as it froze the citizens in their homes.

Rejecting the ice of the air, she drew herself to standing once more, feeling well and far more ready for the business at hand than the panting she had only moments ago ceased would generally denote. The snapping of evening into place had coincided with life flowing through her, bringing with it passion and the madness that often characterized her memories. The daydreams that she had hidden away ran rampant now as she started down the streets, keeping away from the street lamps. Her current attire hardly marked her as a streetwalker, but that certainly hadn't stopped the assumption in the past. Of course, her desired costuming actually did little to discourage the thought of an alternative career that involved a certain variety of conquest.

Each step in the shadows was accompanied with a surge of guilt for having left the City alone so long again. How she kept forgetting about it was beyond her, but with the softness of sight that accompanied her now, she was hardly fit to pursue that line of thought. For some reason, spectacles were intricately related to her success rate when it came to gathering formal intell about the soul-death.

Right. There was that part of her previous research to pick up as well. Damn, she had really fucked up this little lapse of time. Thinking about it now, with the enticing gloom around her, she was starting to recall the time before this last interval of office work. Gathering her new location, providence seemed to be with her tonight as she noted the intersection. Apparently, she had picked this location of soul-death well, as she was rather close to her favorite after-dark clothier. And the first step to getting back to herself was looking like it.

After a fashion montage and the swipe of a credit card belonging to Shaen Caliomoch that would likely cease to be paid in the near future, she exited the shop, carrying a rather small package, given the amount charged. But said small package carried a particularly full wardrobe, one that would soon be taking home in the apartment she kept for just such occasions.

Actually, she had been rather hard on herself for the length of time she had been in the other state. It really didn't get much better than having fresh clothing within walking distance from a place to scheme. Relieving the burden of regret some, the finely dressed woman re-entered what had been her home time and time again, ignoring the dust and inhaling the information.

There was much to be done.

WC:594

0.2 The Blood Tree: Raccoon Boy

Even with steam filling my lungs as I shower, I just can't seem to get warm anymore. Not since...wincing against the hot bullets, I turn the temperature up to try and get some heat past my skin. It doesn't work of course, but it gives the illusion of color to my skin for a moment, beating it red. Not red hot, but oh well. The ritual is completed, and I turn the water off without any real thought. Pushing the curtains out of the way, I reach for the towel I left outside before I got in in the first place. Finding it blindly, I dry off my face before wrapping it around my waist and clearing off the steam from the mirror, examining my face once again.

This is just part of the ritual, though it serves a different purpose than it did when I was younger. When I was about ten, I always jumped out of the shower to see if maybe this would be the time that I would definitely need to start shaving. That time never really came, but my body still goes through the motions, giving clear view of what I am now instead of the man that I'd always thought I'd become.

The holes that stare back at me are familiar in their strangeness. I still can't reconcile what I look like and my inner image. I know the dark circles belong to me, I can feel the puffy quality to the near black skin. I don't know, on the other hand, when it was that I stopped sleeping. I had never had too much color, but save for the back of my arms, I am so pale now. Like a ghost. Like her ghost might look, maybe.

"You don't deserve to think of her, you know." I am no longer surprised when the face in the mirror talks to me. I talk back these days. But then, I started in the first place. It'd be rude to ignore myself, I think. Maybe. It's mostly circles, the same old ones, the ones that lead me nowhere at all. But that's what circles are all about, aren't they? Going nowhere?

So I play along again. "I don't deserve the relief of not thinking about her." I retaliate, and off I go, and I argue the case down to nothing but the facts. If there is such a thing as truth anymore when I spend my mornings talking to myself in the mirror. A knock sounds off the door, and the face in the mirror winces in a foul way, bringing the monster out of the features I can't call mine.

"Evan...I have work in an hour. I need the shower." Pereginne says through the door, continuing to pretend that she does not hear the discussions I have with myself. She is a good little sister for that, for ignoring my madness. Though even that she does not do all of her own accord, I think. I think I did something to make her ignore it on purpose. I don't remember doing anything specific, but I spent weeks in the depths of my booze pit, and I do not trust my memory of those times.

"I'm out...just a sec Ginne." I utter in the voice that no longer belongs to me. My hand moves to check the security of the towel in ritual action. Then I open the door and sacrifice the heat that had let me forget for a moment of the perpetual inward cold. The air stings just as the hot water had and I do my best to smile for my little sister. She doesn't look up as I exit. Maybe one day she will be able to see me and not think of whatever it was that I did or did not do.

I'm fairly certain that it is on that day I will sleep once more.

So I smile, weak as the expression is on my deformed face, hoping for the day that she will see it and return it.

WC: 671

1.2 : Bruises

Sliding down the stairs would've been more dramatic, but Shaen hadn't had control of herself again to grab a binder or something equivalently flat-like to span the steps. So she ran down them two at a time, each downward leap sending a shock through her atrophied muscles. How long had it been this time that she had been so damn ordinary anyway? Sitting at her desk like a statue, oblivious to the fact that New NewLosSan Tokyorkdonton was just out of her grasp. Growling at herself for having lost sense of time again, she flew down the stairs, passing the floors at great speed.

There were still many more floors to go when she suddenly stopped, her legs trembling as she hung onto the railing, grasping onto it for dear life. Why in the name of all things destroyable had she chosen to work so high up in the Company anyway? At the time, it must have had something to do with being able to control people or something. Before she had started to die so quickly again, with the Company telling her what to use and how to type. Standing was taking too much strength with all those flights behind her, and Shaen was aware as she hadn't been in ages of her body.

It ached. There was a glory in that, there was no mistake about that. But, glory still hurt, and that was made all the more terrible for how long it had been since such a sensation had gripped her muscles and tore at her lungs. Even the cold was piercing here from inside, each sharp breath introducing more jagged ice spears to remind her. As much as the pain alleviated her concerns about if she had actually died this time, it was aggravating and incapacitating for the moment. Rather than risk body-death by continuing without rest, she sat on the escape, regardless of the dirt that now clung to the previously immaculate black slacks.

The blood in the sky was being driven down by the oppressive night. Resting her chin on the lower of the two support rails that laid beneath the hand-bar, Shaen wondered if this time would be any different. There were some memories that came easily to her still, things that she had long ago learned from and knew better than to ignore. But there were other small losses that were beyond her comprehension even now, sitting in this place and becoming one with her body again. Defeat was a rugged, angry thing that she knew all too well. Scowling as dusk's end was made as clear as hers had been so many times before, it became clear that she would need to keep moving.

With the eve properly fallen, she had work to do that could not be put off simply because her body was busy adjusting to being used again.

WC: 476

1.1 Anticipation

The lithe executive never actually decided to move. That was something all of her body and none of her mind. So she moved, discarding the tools of the position she was similarly abandoning. The window that she had stared out of so many times was blurred, and the world beyond it was only two colors...the black silhouettes of the buildings that housed millions of other dying people and the primal red of the sunset. A wicked expression stared back at her in the window; the blood red was familiar, and she was about to add just a little more of the color to the world.

"Shaen?" Glancing back to acknowledge the husk that would undoubtedly become her replacement in the following minutes, Shaen found her fingers moving without her permission, placed lightly on the unpainted lips, silencing her ex-assistant without any real effort. Turning to face the other woman properly, she started in on the so-called evil genius speech. Even this was not something of her mind really, not just yet. Oh, she would have to rework it a little bit in the near future, no doubt about it, but for now, it flowed naturally from the last time the words had escaped her lips. The only thing different was the addressee.

As she closed the speech with a particularly evil laugh, Joann nodded appreciatively. After all, it was a rare thing indeed to see one of the great masters in such fine form, let alone to be the recording vessel for the words. There was a pleasure that seemed to originate at her ex-boss, and Joann wondered if she oughtn't clap, now that the whole thing was tied up. Yet Shaen seemed to be pulling the cackle to a close, and really, it was a bit late to start clapping now anyway.

Fist closing in finality with the last satisfying 'ha,' the next ruler of New NewLosSan Tokyorkdonton radiated with the muse that had lit upon her once more. Bidding Joann adieu in far more words than worth recording, she made her way to the escape ladder, setting off the alarm as she swung the door open and slammed it behind her giving the cold air as little chance as possible to rush in behind her. After all, it was the warmth that had saved her...perhaps it might some day save Joann as well.

WC: 392

1.0 : Warmth

The warmth was utterly unprecedented, really. It started at the bone, which didn't make a lick of sense anyway. Speaking of licking, that's what the flames of warmth seemed to do from there, licking outwards from the bones, tasting of the veins without shame. The flesh followed, the dramatics of the sensation entirely internalized. The warmth was not so hot as to burn at all, let alone feel like flames at all. It was hardly a wonder at all, except that it had been so long since her hands had really been anything but utterly numb. It was terribly alarming. Not alarming. Wrong 'a' word. Amazing. Astounding. Ameliorating. Airline-o-rific. Not the last one either.

Cracking her knuckles experimentally, Shaen relaxed back into her chair, examining the world with eyes so unaccustomed to seeing things as they were that everything was fuzzy. That wasn't true at all, actually. The young woman had never been able to see properly without corrective lenses, that's why everything was softened. It had nothing to do with being crippled so long by the screen that had been so close to her eyes. Maybe it did. She didn't have enough evidence to strongly support either the hypothesis or the contradiction to it to make any real claims. But she felt that it was the time spent viewing through presentations and reports that had made her so blind.

Feeling as if she were resting her hands on the warm hearth of some ancient inn's fireplace, the thought that perhaps, she wasn't going to put the contraption back on her hand, struck her rather solidly, all things considered. The longer she thought about that, the more time it would give the Company to notice that she was taking more than the required time to switch hands and get back to work. Actually, all things considered, someone would likely be bursting through her office door any moment to check on her, under the premise that she had not answered the call moments ago.

It was too late now though. Shaen had remembered that she was dying. And with that memory, she could no longer remain locked in anyway. They had the ability to detect that sort of thing, and it was a higher betrayal to remain in her post with the knowledge of incoming death than to escape without warning.

Escape without warning? Even as the phrase from the Company's Policy Book presented itself in the appropriate font style and size to her mind's eye, a smirk crossed the pale lips that had drawn thin at the initial realization that the fantasy was over again.

This was not the first time she had realized she was dying, and now that she was moving again, she was remembering that the warmth that lived in her fingers now once lived in all of her. It had once lived in her, and when it did, that was when she had lived the most of all, and staved off death better than any other time. It was time to get out of here.

WC: 504

Why the Word Count?

Just a little side note to answer a question I suppose will be asked eventually.

Why the hell is word count posted at the end of each post?

Because I want to know how much I've written. Really, that's all. I've rarely been aware of word count, and likely, by the end of this month, I won't bother. But right now, it amuses me, and I feel it will be beneficial to me to be aware of how many words I've typed per day. The goal isn't necessarily to increase or decrease the number, just to be aware.

Prologue.4: Breaking

Shaen was getting awfully tired of this format. It was so much more restrictive than the last one had been, and it wasn't giving her room to do what the other one had. It was getting maddening, actually. If it hadn't been her own knuckles she was pounding on, she might have actually pounded rather than just pondering over the ridiculousness of the format.

Maybe it was time to break from the format regardless of the punishment that would be doled out.

Actually, maybe the blinking alert at the upper right corner of her lenses that signaled an incoming call, likely to announce the newest adaptation was the excuse she needed to walk away from the Project for just a moment. To remember that the format had been decided on because it would be the best once more, and stick to it with a little more gusto.

Or at least, perhaps that's what she would have done, if when she had tapped her index fingers together, as she always did to answer the phone, it had actually worked. But this time, it hadn't worked at all. Something funny had happened. Scrunching up her nose into the sort of face mothers scoffed at, she removed her air-dead lenses to rub her eyes and saw something she had forgotten to see for some time.

Shawn was dying here.

Just like the ones who did not have the corner offices with the brighter windows that showed the relaxing weather that they supposedly had all the time up this high.

How many weeks had it been since she had removed her lenses anyway? Though company policy had stated that they take eye breaks, it did not strictly require them to remove their frames, and in practice, most did not. So they never saw what Shaen was seeing now.

It was freedom, and she was going to have it again.

WC: 309

0.1 : Theodore Nott

Theodore Nott was not particularly amused by the goings-on in his classroom, and that was made clear on his greasy yellowed face, bushy black rectangles of hair narrowing downward as he rose from his desk, his height exaggerated ridiculously by his stick limbs. Mud-spattered limes bore upon the class with something akin to the most vile disgust. One by one the students turned to face their Professor, aware that something was not right. The air seemed to shiver around him with power, giving an odd look to the electric blue hair that had come free when the band that had held it back had suddenly changed into a small canary.

"That. Is. Quite. Enough." Each word had its own punctuation, a trick that the young Professor had learned while receiving his continued education. There was a steel that hardly seemed to belong to the wraith of a man that moved out from behind the desk with sudden determination. Each step rang out in the silenced classroom, and his irritation was nearly tangible as he moved towards the student in the front row who he was about to pointedly humiliate. "Wilkes." The look of utter horror on the boy's face very nearly convinced Nott to choose a new target, but that would hardly do. This Professor was never going to be accused of favoritism, let alone nepotism in his time teaching.

For the rest of the day, the class was utterly obedient and actually managed to complete each task he set for them. There was one notable exception, of course, but that was by design more than anything else.

August Wilkes couldn't very well be expected to both be a barn owl and a student at the same time. That was just preposterous.

WC: 289

Prologue.3: Tired

Shaen was tired.

WC: 3

Prologue.2: Thinking

Shaen was thinking that maybe typing on her knuckles wasn't actually anymore "ergonomic" than typing on a real keyboard had been.

But then again, it had never really been a choice. As soon as the Company had heard about the Keyknuckles design, everyone had been fitted with the delicate wrist guards with their light sensors. She no longer wrote the numbers and letters on each section with ball point pen...it was as natural as the other ergonomic keyboards became, after enough use now.

Of course, that didn't help it from hurting like hell and being ridiculously uncomfortable after typing for any longer than an hour and a half. It also didn't allow her the luxury of wearing the nails on her typing hand and longer than stubs. Though even on a proper keyboard she would type with the pads of her fingers, she had never realized until the switch how little her fingers left the keys until her nails had scraped across her own knuckles. After the first day, she had trimmed all of her nails to just under the tip and had kept them filed down that way for the following weeks.

It was the joints that got the sorest, not the bony bits. She had to switch typing hands every so often to preserve the use of her hands. She couldn't risk those becoming useless though, as the Company had made plenty clear when they had replaced the old new keyboards with the Keyknuckles.

Just like they had made plenty clear that they were to spend five minutes of every half hour staring at the window when they had replaced the old new monitors with the tiny displays in her eye wear. The Company would not tolerate injuries due to the new perfect equipment they had purchased, regardless of how many employees made the same complaints.

Shaen wasn't complaining though. It was just a passing thought as she stretched her fingers out on the desk for a moment, reveling in the cold ergonomic plastic desktop that had replaced the cold ergonomic wooden desktop just last month.

WC: 342

Prologue.1: Wondering

Shaen was wondering, for what might have been the millionth time, what she was doing here.

No, she decided, moments later, that that wasn't what she had actually been wondering at all.

Rather, it'd been why she was here.

Wait, was that any different, really? Shaen thought maybe it wasn't, but maybe it was.

Maybe this was why she was here, actually. Because she couldn't determine between what she was thinking, and what words really meant anymore. They used to convey so many things, used to hold so much meaning, used to be everything to her.

Memories of those days brought something out of her, and her fingers itched. It was the first time in minutes that she had been aware of her body again, and that was the end of that. The thoughts stopped as of their own accord, the pale tips touched one another in rapid succession, one hand the keyboard, the other typing each letter across the knuckles and bones.

She wondered what she was doing here, for what was certainly not the millionth time, in the corner office with the view of the City and the assistant who was even now waiting for Shaen's next summon.

WC: 194

What This Is and Is Not

IS:
Fiction.
Therefore, it is entirely based in real life. Any semblance to real people or places is probably unintentional, yet completely lacking in coincidence. If you think something is about you...you could be right. If it's definitely about you and you're uncomfortable with it, let me know and I will make it private.

Random.
Any typos and oddities are therefore mostly unintentional unless otherwise stated. Nothing will be planned ahead of time. Serial stories may be interrupted for poetry without rhyme or explanation. For that matter, unscheduled bits of serial fiction may intrude upon once one-shots and wordless art without warning.

Public.
Therefore, I fully understand that you are reading this. I am intentionally performing here...but that is not to say that I'm actively seeking any sort of critical review. While good-natured recommendations may be taken well, some pieces will include a simple request not to critically view the piece. When this is added at the end of the piece, please respect it.

NOT:
Scripted.
Fiction does not mean that I think things out ahead of time. Fiction in no way implies that the characters I will use and speak through are static, planned out, have destinies set in stone as they are created. They will come to me, and that's what this will be. Their outlet. My outlet.

A Journal.
Except for when it is. Shaen, Evan, Kaylee...who the hell knows who might need to write in their secret place. But it is not MY journal. It is not the life and livings of one Miss Tia Shelley. You can find a sparsely updated journal for that individual here.

Yours.
It is very likely that unless I know you in my day-to-day life already that you are reading this. I hope that will change, to some extent. And if it does change, than I will explain this more.


I hope that you have found what you were looking for.