Young Writers Society

She had no idea what she had expected, but she certainly hadn't expected this to say the least. A decaying, crumbling museum, a bed ridden man, and a various lot of other random characters. The people of the New Age didn't really seem like people from the articles, strong willed and defiant revolutionaries. They seemed... out of place if anything.
Liv was now in the very back, in what she assumed was the work room or something of the like. She sat down and looked around uncomfortably, an old man, whom Bennit had introduced as Cornelius, seemed to glare at her in her white lab coat. She knew he probably didn't take kindly to people like her, from one of the upper provinces, with ties so close to the Capitol. It was to be expected, and it wasn't the first time she had been looked at in hatred, but something about him unsettled her.
She personally did had ties to the Capitol, in more ways than one, but after 32 years of ignoring the signs and just going along with everything for the sake of it, she couldn't take it.
Liv didn't even really know though how this had happened really, her being in the same place as Editor's of the New Age Paper. People who would be taken away and killed if they were caught. While working one day, she had seen a man who was out of place with his unruly hair and mischievous look in her place of work, full of stuck up professionals. His name she soon learned was Alexsander Bennit. She had decided to follow him, and somehow, she had ended up here a few weeks later as he told her about this, trying to convince her to be one of them and to fight for the people's rights.
Her favorite author of the paper was actually the still bedridden, covered in ash and soot and with a bored expression on her face as he sat there. And then there were new faces, or well new writers.
It was quite clear what had happened, she wasn't a fool. Logically, someone must've burned down their previous base, someone who the Proxy had paid off. A lot of people didn't like the Proxy, but a lot needed the money in these parts, so it'd be easy to hire someone. It was useless to try and find out who had started the fire either way. Local enforcement's wouldn't do a thing, especially if they found out who these people were. They would have just been turned in.
"It's not always so glum, we're just still scrambling to get back on our feet. That's why we need new people, fresh writers with new ideas and mindsets set on the future." She nodded, thinking I can see that, but some of the newest ones were just children.
'This.. still isn't my type of place Bennit. I mean this type of activity has been outlawed... If I was caught there's no telling what would happen to me.'
"That's not the point Liv. It's not about the Proxy at all, it's about the people who need a voice, the people who can't stand up for themselves and need someone to stand up for them." He put his hands on her shoulders, staring at her intently. His relaxed self was gone, his manner was serious and his tone humorless. "This is important, this is someone people need Sinclair. If we don't do this, then who will? You saw Gayle, the Proxy don't care who they hurt as long as they get the leg up. This is more then just about being caught. This, is about fighting for what's right and what needs to be done." He sighed gravely, turning away. "This is a serious matter, it's not just about you or the Proxy. It's about everyone..." he stood there for a second before turning back to her, "Well, what do you say? Will you join us?"
She looked at him, at his, expectant glance and then back around the ragged room. Was she willing to do this? Turn her back against her government, the very people who she had fraternized with since she was a child. Her family, her friends, her colleagues, her superiors, everyone she had ever known?
Everyone had a purpose here, to stop the Proxy. Was this also her purpose? "I-I don't know.. I need some air." she pushed her away past Bennit, Cornelius gave her a disgusted look and possibly mumbled something inappropriate under his breathe, but she didn't care. She felt like she was going to be sick.
In all her years she had never been more unsure in her life. She always knew she wanted to be a scientist, to help the Proxy and to socialize and be like everyone else. She looked passed the distinctive flaws of her society and learned to forget about them. About the inequality, the unjust laws, the corrupt justice system.
Was she really ready to let look past the surface, as she stepped out of the building and into the alley way. She turned, putting her forehead against the coarse brick.
This wasn't her. She wasn't a revolutionary. She shouldn't had even come she told herself. Just being here would've been considered treason. The Proxy was fine, there was nothing wrong with it. The Proxy was the people's protector, the... they.. they were the... Her mind ran blank, unable to finish the sentence.
The Proxy were... she stood there, her mind going back to what had really brought her here in the first place. Bennit had only been coaxing her along, but it was what she had seen in the labs that made her come. She knew people had been experimented on, but what she had seen was horrendous. It was more like torture, it was inhumane, it was just cruel.
Did she really want to work for a government that allowed this? No, that encouraged this type of behavior? Rewarding the very few at the top and letting the mass majority at the bottom rot and be used as lab rats or bait for some mangy beasts?
Liv forced herself to stand upright again, she knew what she had to do now. She couldn't just sit by idly watching what was happening anymore. She shrugged off her coat, folding it over her arm neatly, making sure carefully not to show the Proxy Labs logo and corporation name on it.
She would go to work as normal in the morning, she would act as if nothing was wrong. But she wouldn't just stand by and watch such terrors happen. She would write. She would become one of the writers if they allowed her, and she would do her best to uphold the people's rights. Liv walked back into the building once more now, heading back to the room where she was only just a few minutes before.
She looked over at Bennit and took a deep breathe, he looked like he knew what she was going to say, "I'm ready. I'm ready to help." Cornelius still looked at her disdainfully from his little corner in the room, but he looked a surprised to see her again.
Bennit smiled, shaking my hand, "Well welcome to the New Age, lets get you settled in here then Miss Sinclair."

It was a museum. An old, decrepit place with older, even more decrepit relics. Most of the structure had crumbled, a result of a constant state of negligence and disrepair, and many of the halls had been rendered inaccessible. Whether by collapsed ceilings or the generally displeasing scent, many of the areas had not been used for an upwards of thirty years--not even by the new inhabitants.

Though, they did appreciate the new lodgings. It was drafty, yes, what with all of the holes in the roof. And, yes, they were surrounded by peculiar things with peculiar eyes. But, they made do with what they had, and it worked well. For the most part.

They had dedicated one room to bedding, and there Gayle was, sprawled out across a metal cot with a lumpy mattress. He lay miserably, ash and soot still in his lungs. Confined to the bed for at least two weeks now, going on for a third.

The sight from his position was nothing spectacular. A row of beds against one wall, enough to accommodate what few writers they had, and against the opposite wall, remnants of what art remained in the museum. Though, Gayle did quite enjoy the view of the framed scenes of nature: a wooden bridge arching over the serene pond, a doe and her children peering out from behind the trees, and an empty field of poppies and wild grass.

Absolutely lovely! he thought, and assumed it was so since he had never actually seen the things that these works of art were so romantically depicting. Maybe nature still looked like this somewhere. Though, certainly not here. It was nice to think of these things, though--a change of pace from the dilapidated concrete cityscapes. His old room hadn't had such nice things, as much as he'd have liked it to. No reason to think of that now: his old room doesn't exist anymore.

That fire had taken much more out of commission than his lungs and his leg. There wouldn't be a paper out this month; most of their documents had gone up in flame. They were forced to relocate, obviously, to even less homely lodgings. And, to top it all off, they'd lost one of their dear, dear writers.

Gayle hadn't spoken to him much. To be fair, he hadn't spoken to anyone much in all his time there. But, he was rather fond of him--"Edwin," it was. Always an optimist, and always making some attempting to boost their moods. And, oh, did they ever need it during such trying times, especially with people like Cornelius roaming the halls. Edwin was always one to be loud and extroverted, and he missed that.

Cornelius served as a poor replacement. Whenever he was not grumbling and grunting, the old man was chastising them for nothing. He wasn't a bad man, by any means, Gayle reasoned, but he certainly wasn't the best.

Somewhere deep in his heart, he'd wished Cornelius had gone instead of Edwin.

No need to think of that now, though. The past had passed. Nothing could foreseeably change that. He produced an audible sigh before sitting up with a start and glancing at the door. No one had heard that, except... someone was looking at him? A new face, it seemed, and a cleaner one at that, with a pristine lab coat. They exchanged eye contact for a moment. He blinked, and lay back down.

Odd.

He crossed his arms over his chest and continued staring at the paintings, until he decided that he'd wanted some coffee. Beneath normal circumstances, he would have gladly gone off to retrieve it himself. But, it seemed that his leg wasn't functioning beneath those normal circumstances.

Cornelius had to be available. He didn't do much, anyway.

Gayle, however, found himself addressing anyone but Cornelius. "Could someone please bring me some coffee?"

"Coffee, anyone?" he called a few times, and afterward: "please, I've been asking for a bit now! I could get up, I know, but that may put a strain on my leg, as you likely know! It's just a cup of coffee, I swear." He paused for a moment.

As if on cue, Cornelius: "shut your mouth, Parent!"

He fell silent, and allowed Cornelius to proceed with his obligatory rant regarding his pitiable previous life. Gayle did feel some sympathy for the man, but all of that was lost with the screaming. After something about flickering light and instant coffee, the bedridden man decided to comment.

"We're not exactly living in better conditions, Cornelius-" and, was, of course, interrupted by the elder.

Something about eight people sharing a bed followed, leaving Gayle feeling a bit bad for bothering Cornelius. The old man was certainly irritated at this point, and had likely had enough of him. Yet, Gayle persisted with the coffee, albeit a bit more shyly this time. "Can I please just get some coffee?" he said, quietly, and he rolled onto his back.

Sometime later, he entered slowly, and pulled out a footstool for the coffee. The wounded man sat up and took the coffee, sipping it wholeheartedly. His face soured. It was... bitter. It would have been normal for him to offer a polite smile and a quiet "thank you." But, this was Cornelius, and whatever Gayle said wouldn't have affected him anyway.

"Didn't you, erm..." he stammered. "Didn't you put any sugar in this?"

"Coffee's meant to numb your tongue, not taste like cotton candy." Well, he preferred his coffee to do the latter, quite frankly. "Besides, it'll make you less of a whiner, if that's even possible."

Oh.

Then, Cornelius decided to "offer" his services to retrieve some sugar. Ryan likely hadn't found any, actually.

"I'm not sure Ryan's brought any," he said, with another insulting comment that Gayle didn't hear whilst he was thinking of how best to respond to him.

"No, no, erm... It's fine. Really, it is." No need to further incite rage.

Cornelius seemed to stare at him with same sort of resentment that he held for most. He seemed to be in a state of perpetual hatred for all of them. He was never in a good mood--was a good mood even possible for him? As far as he'd seen, it was incredibly doubtful.

Instead of continuing to deal with the grumpy man's temperament, Gayle returned his gaze dreamily to the paintings, still beautiful to his eyes as ever. Cornelius, however, didn't appear to be able to see it, eying the things with utter contempt.

"You've been staring at these then?" he remarked, shattering Gayle's concentration on every color and stroke.

"Well, um..."

"I'm not a curator, mind you," he started. "I can't judge you for your art tastes, so you don't have to worry about me being a snobbish ass on that front."

"Oh?" Gayle said, practically beaming. Could this be a softened aspect of this very cold man?

"Helps me, too. Now I can focus on your pitiable personality. If you could even call it that. Tell me, does a doormat have a personality?" Perhaps not, unfortunately for the victim of Cornelius' derision.

Gayle sank into his bed, visibly disappointed. After a brief coughing fit: "Do you only give your students a break every once and a while, or are you just a bit of a jerk to everybody?"

Without responding to the question itself: "Drink your coffee, Parent," to which the man on the bed listened, leaving them both in silence.

He watched Cornelius ponderously. What could this miserable thing be thinking of all day? The man was prone to these bouts of doing nothing save for stare off into space. Yet again, odd.

Deciding to sever his connection to his inner demons, or something of the sort, Gayle spoke. "Cornelius?"

"What is it now, Parent?" he responded, visibly upset.

"Erm, nothing. Nev-Never mind. I thought you were asleep." Which was a definite lie, unless Cornelius slept with his eyes open. Though, that would be unsurprising.

"You were going to ask something."

He was, but he didn't.

"Don't make me pull your tongue out of your jaw, Parent."

It never crossed his mind that he wouldn't.

"Did you see that girl that came by?" What a stupid question.

He sat up in the bed, making eye contact with the old man. Yet another discontented expression. "Yes," he began. "She's nothing of interest. I was going to talk to Bennit about it, but then you came along."

Gayle chuckled a bit, but stopped himself. "Erm, well, she definitely found me to be of some interest. Caught her... erm, staring at me. Strange, huh?"

"She stares at everybody, I bet," Cornelius shot back, "And it isn't hard staring at you with a broken leg. Girl's from the Labs--she's probably hasn't seen any hint of suffering caused by the Proxy until now."

"They're not all bad," he reasoned.

"Well, of course you'd think that," Cornelius glared daggers into his forehead, folding his arms over his chest. Gayle stiffened slightly. Almost in reaction, Cornelius sighed, loosening a bit. "Look. You're injured, and I'm tired from dealing with--this. All of this." he gestured to the mattresses lined up behind him, and the state of the museum. "And we're not even going to talk about--you know."

He glanced down at his hands, and absentmindedly cracked his knuckles. "Yeah," he said, quietly. Looking back up at Cornelius, he had found that the cruel face had softened a bit--which surprised him, actually. The elder was human. Who would have guessed? "Think we'll get on without him?"

The elder looked about ready to shake his head, before pausing. Then, he nodded faintly. "I want to say no," he said, bitterly, "I'd like to say that we're all doomed to failure, but I've lived too long and have called for the apocalypse too many times to believe that malarkey anymore." He considered the situation. "I hope we don't get on without him. So we don't have to deal with the shitshow that is reorientation."

Gayle took another small sip of his coffee. It still left a sour taste in his mouth--or, a bitter one--but, it distracted from this conversation. "It would be nice to have some more friendly faces around here. Especially, erm..." He paused.

Cornelius stared at him, his eyes screaming 'I'm-going-to-punch-the-lights-out-of-you' to Gayle, yet there was a crookedness to his lips that resembled...a smile? No, a smirk. That's more like it. "With assholes like me?" he said. Gayle couldn't argue. "Yeah, I thought so."

"Well..." He hesitated, but decided that now would be a better time than any for some lighthearted prodding, especially when the turtle's come out of his shell a bit. "Actually, yes," he said, with something that could be considered a... nervous grin?

The elder widened his eyes bit, seeming surprised that he had the nerve to say that. He flinched, preparing for another verbal assault. Instead, he got a chuckle. "Dipshit."

The man, ash and soot in his lungs and a misplaced bone in his leg, blinked. Without a word, he continued sipping his coffee, and staring at the paintings on the wall.

What a lovely conversation.

Part I: The Coffee May Be Orwellian, but the Conversation Has No Doublethink

The fire had proven incredibly detrimental to Cornelius's mood, and he wasn't in the best of moods in the first place. Gayle was injured, their headquarters burnt, and someone had died--three things he certainly expected and was at least somewhat surprised that it didn't come out worse, but didn't repair his current bitter disposition.

He got to work. His joints had been killing him, and his spectacles were dusty with the years this dispatched museum had collected, but he's been through worse. He didn't question why the others hadn't; he'd been told from a very young age that he worked much harder than he ought to. "God has gifted our family with a visionary," his father, the religious nut he was, used to tell his fellow construction workers before he left his family for a younger woman. "I'm telling you, he's made for better things."

If torment was what he meant, he certainly wasn't wrong.

"And this is, supposedly, where we're meant to work after we arrange things," a voice echoed from the door. Cornelius looked over his shoulders, still standing by an empty bookcase with torn journals under his arm, watching as Bennit entered the room. A young woman followed him, tensely, hanging on every syllable. The first thing he noticed was the white lab coat. "I can imagine you'll find it suitable once we get rid of the dust and grime; I promise you, any good journalistic office is always ripe with rationed coffee and revolution."

Cornelius glared at the young woman, scowling. Charming git's got himself a lab rat. He narrowed his brows, taking notice of her timid brown eyes, the chocolate waterfall spilling from her head. No, a lab mouse. A probable backstabber and a vulnerable link if not. He must be desperate--he could catch better, especially considering his power of persuasion.

He could see it in her pose, her spotless complexion, the light in her eyes--she's never seen the Proxy at its worst. Little Mouse's probably a relative of some Province Governor, born with a stomach full of food, growing up with a childhood of toys and sandboxes, learning in air conditioned and cleaned classrooms with professors that had titles longer than their actual names, graduating and launching directly into a career.

He's never been a fan of the upper class, even before all of this dystopian business.

He shook his head. He placed the books on a nearby table, turning to verbally assault Bennit. At least, that was his intention.

"Coffee, anyone?" Gayle screamed from the other room, "Please? I've been screaming this for some time now."

Cornelius rolled his eyes, approaching further--

"I could get up, I know, but it'd be a bit of a strain on my leg as most of you should know."

He kept walking, his pace slowed--

"It's just a cup of coffee, I swear!"

Cornelius bit the inside of his cheek, groaning. "Shut your mouth, Parent!" he screamed to the door Bennit and his Lab Mouse came from, Gayle barely visible by an open door in the hallway. The Lab Mouse seemed to jump at his exclamation. "I lived through eight years in a secluded side of the ghetto with a flickering light bulb over a cobwebbed corner, a pile of secondhand books and shitty instant coffee that could make any normal man puke--you can live a day without a goddamned mug."

"We're not exactly living in any better conditions, Cornelius--"

"Your non-cockroach ridden mattress isn't being shared by a family of eight children and one obese mother with a drug problem, Parent," he screamed back, "Take advantage of that."

There was a silence. Then, meekly, Gayle said: "Can I please just get a cup of coffee?"

Cornelius glared to where the Lab Mouse and the James Bond Wannabe was supposed to be, finding the spot empty. In his mind, he tore Gayle's head from his neck. "Hold on a moment," Cornelius screamed, before turning to the other side of the room where Ryan placed the coffeemaker.

He brought the coffee cup to Gayle's bedding place, leaving it black. The feeble man sat on the mattress, comfortably positioned from the looks of it. Still, he had that discontented look that Cornelius couldn't help but relate to, with the worried furrowing of brows that he wanted nothing more to peel off. "Here," he said, pulling up an old chair and a footstool, placing the cup on the footstool. "You made interrupted me in something."

Gayle looked down, picking up the cup hesitantly. He sipped at the smoking liquid, his expression suddenly puckering. "Didn't you--" he asked, putting it away again, "Didn't you add any sugar in this?"

"Coffee's meant to numb your tongue, not taste like cotton candy," he shot back, scowling. "Besides, it'll make you less of a whiner. If that's even possible."

The other man closed his mouth in an instant, his lips thinned nervously. Cornelius sighed. "Do you want me to scavenge for packets of sugar?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest, "I'm not sure if Ryan's bought any, considering she doesn't drink diabetic dreg."

"No, no, it's um--" Gayle choked on his words. "It's fine. Really, it is."

Cornelius shook his head. Of course he'd be that way. The man could write articles calling for a riot against an Orwellian dictatorship and not be able to call for a one cube of sugar to his more intimate companion. He looked over his shoulders, following Gayle's previous gaze, arching a brow at the paintings on the wall. A horribly romanticized red bridge that once stood in the park in Manhattan (that he distinctly recalled to have been wrecked, replaced by a post for Proxy soldiers), an intriguing display of Elaphurus davidianus and its offspring (now extinct, from the last reports he got off the Labs), and flowers in an empty field that seemed almost too peaceful for its own good. "You've been staring at these, then?"

Gayle opened his mouth, stumbling on his words. "Well, um--"

"I'm not a curator, mind you," Cornelius said, "I can't judge you for your art tastes, so you don't have to worry about me being a snobbish ass on that front."

Gayle looked at him hopefully. "Oh?"

Cornelius stole his cup of coffee, taking a sip. "Helps me, too," he said, "Now I can focus on your pitiable personality. If you could even call it that. Tell me, does a doormat have a personality?"

The other man sighed, his shoulders deflating significantly. "Do you only give your students a break every once and a while, or are you just a bit of a dick to everybody?"

"Drink your coffee, Parent."

The other man did as he was told, leaving them both in a peaceful quiet. Cornelius shut his eyes for several seconds, thinking over what had occurred in the last weeks or so. He hadn't been in the fire when it first broke out. He had been given a challenge from an envelope on his desk, left by the nurse in his retirement home. He hated living in the retirement home--it smelled of death and pine needles, and the wooden building almost begged the arsonist he was in his teenage years to tear it apart.

The letter itself was obviously trying to cover its tracks, but there was no point to it. The educated tone of the letter and the fact that it was typed pointed to the lab rats down in Florida.

"It could've been the Proxy."

"The Proxy wouldn't touch me even if they're nearing a nuclear apocalypse and all of the other previous scientists have been killed."

"You know, you're not a nuclear scientist."

"Compared to the idiots down there? Please. To think we've gone from Oppenheimer and Einstein to children who have to look for burned ruins for books on how to split a hydrogen bond."

"You're pretentious."

"And you're dead."

"Cornelius?"

He opened his eyes. He turned to the doormat on the bed, frowning. "What is it now, Parent?"

Gayle stared at him, somewhat frightened from his response. "N-never mind," he said, looking away, "I thought you were asleep."

Cornelius narrowed his brows. "You were going to ask something."

Gayle paused.

"Don't make me pull that tongue out of your jaw, Parent," he leaned back, "Start talking."

Gayle waited for a moment, and said: "Did you see that girl that came by?"

Cornelius grimaced, sighing. He'd definitely ask something like that. Acting as if he didn't already figure out what Bennit was doing. Probably hasn't figured it out yet, either. "Yes," he said, "She's nothing of interest. I was going to talk to Bennit about it, but then you came along."

The bedridden man almost chuckled. Evidently, he tried to hide it, but for a doormat, he wasn't very good at hiding his humanity. "Erm, well, she definitely found me to be of some interest. Caught her... erm, staring at me. Strange, huh?"

"She stares at everybody, I bet," he shot back, "And it isn't hard staring at you with a broken leg. Girl's from the Labs--she probably hasn't seen any hint of suffering caused by the Proxy until now."

"They're not all bad," the other man reasoned.

"Well, it's unsurprising you'd think that," Cornelius glared daggers into his forehead, folding his arms over his chest. The smaller man immediately shriveled at the rough response, his face crinkling in fear.

Cornelius stopped for a moment, thinking over his words. "You're being harsh," the ghosts were telling him. "You had to go through puzzles while he was going through hell. It's not the time."

"Don't guilt me into this, you pieces of shit."

"You wouldn't do that to us if any of us survived the protest, would you?"

"That's why I'm not treating him the same," he screamed, internally, "I've had enough of people dying. I've had enough of watching people die."

"Professor Blunt."

His face fell. His shoulders sagged.

He sighed.

"Look. You're injured, and I'm tired of dealing with--this. All of this." he gestured to the mattresses lined up behind him, and the state of the museum. "And we're not even going to talk about--you know."

Edwin.

Gayle glanced down at his hands, and absentmindedly cracked his knuckles. Cornelius didn't know he had it in him to do anything remotely masculine, regardless of how idle and small. "Yeah," he said, quietly. "Think we'll get on without him?"

Cornelius considered lying. He considered shaking his head and leaving himself to be the pessimistic dirtbag he's always been, even from a young age. But he wasn't young anymore. He hadn't the hope necessary for pessimism. "I want to say no," he said, bitterly, "I'd like to say that we're all doomed to failure, but I've lived too long and have called for the apocalypse too many times to believe that malarkey anymore." He considered the situation. "I hope we don't get on without him. So we don't have to deal with the shitshow that is reorientation."

Gayle took another small sip of his coffee. It was feminine and weak enough that Cornelius was surprised he didn't laugh, no matter how inappropriate it would've been. "It would be nice to have some more friendly faces around here. Especially, erm..." He paused.

The nerve. Cornelius smirked. "With assholes like me?" he said. Gayle couldn't argue. "Yeah, I thought so."

"Well..." The other man hesitated, and Cornelius half-expected the usual defensive and frightened bullshit he always got. Instead, the defiant yet calculating writer he's read about appeared, saying: "Actually, yes."

Cornelius stared at the sudden display of honesty, before grinning. He shook his head. "Dipshit."

There was no hope for the New Age. No hope for him turning back now.

The sky was pink from the rising sun, draping over crumbling buildings. A young woman with short black hair was skipping around and laughing. There was a slight wind but it didn't bother the young woman, in fact, it only warmed her a little more. Twirling around the broken supermarket, she stopped. Staring out the nearest window, the girl saw a flock of birds flying north for the winter. She walked towards that window, sitting on the ledge and then sighed deeply. The silence's was only deafening, creating a barrier between imagination and reality. The young woman wanted to be on the verge of both sides, balancing on the beam of dreamless nights. She could've fell asleep right then and there, face pressed against the cold glass.
As soon as she closed her eyes, her phone started playing her ringtone. A faded memory of some famous male singer that she installed onto her phone at a young age. The young woman let it play for a few minutes before groaning. Reaching into her back pocket, she pressed call.

"What?" the young woman spat.

"My, my what an awful way of saying hello to an old friend, Miss O'Harrison." The voice on the other end said, grinning. The young woman rolled her eyes, moving away from the window.

"What do you want, Neil?"

"No need to be so informal. I just want something important. Info on the New Age. What is happening over there? If you can get me the info within a day or two, I'll be paying you greatly for your job, Azia." The other end clicked shut, leaving Azia in an confused state. Sighing, she pocketed her phone and walked away from the window. It was a normal day for her. Getting calls, spying on the two gangs, and then giving the important info to either side. She had often dream of doing something different. Her mind having a battle between these two sides; in the end, the battle was already won to stay neutral.

Azia skipped out of the broken supermarket, holding onto that same broken grin. The wind only picked up a little, causing the young woman to cling onto her black leather jacket. It moved her white skirt, not bothering Azia that much but instead made her shiver with delight. The pathway towards the New Age's headquarters was a simple one to follow (the only person able to remember it in a short amount of time). The sun was in the middle of the sky when she ran into somebody. It was the somebody who broke her brother's bones. The somebody that smashed her cat's head in. The somebody that was known as a monster throughout the whole country. The somebody was named Shane Octave.

"Azia! What the hell are you doing here?" the voice roared behind her, causing Azia to stop in her tracks. A smile danced over her lips as she turned around.

"Hello, Shane! How're you on this fine morning?" Azia asked, holding her hands behind her back. Shane's eyebrows twitched.

"You didn't answer my question, brat."

"Oh my. Such harsh words coming from an adorable love bug!"

"What did you just call me?"

Azia giggled, putting a hand over mouth.

"What's so funny?" Shane asked, clearly angry at the situation. He didn't know exactly why he was mad at the young girl. In fact, Shane was more or less happy to see Azia. Just his emotions didn't agree with him and he forced them into some form of anger.

"You are, silly!"

"That's it," Shane grabbed a crowbar from a nearby junk pile and advanced towards Azia. The said young woman and only smiled. She wasn't one for violence but did enjoy causing it. A pastime she did on her free days from being an informant. Shane moved the crowbar between his hands as he walked towards the smiling young woman.

"I'm going to wipe that grin right off your face."

"Your threats are just like the wind. They go right over me, Shane. Have you tried throwing insults at the mirror?" Shane made a sound similar to that of a growl as he tighten his grip around the crowbar. When he was few feet in front of Azia, she stepped forward planning to meet the monster head on. She didn't have a plan; it was just instinct. Something snapped inside of her as Azia continued to walk. She patted her leather jacket pocket, in hopes of finding her trusty pocket knife but at last, it wasn't there. Shit. Where did it go? she thought. Weaponless and afraid, Azia stopped a few feet from the middle. Shane noticed this and continued on.

"What did you stop? Are you afraid of me?" Shane spat, moving the crowbar into his right hand.

Azia laughed softly. "The only one who is afraid would be you. I know you don't like to hurt girls since they are 'weak' and 'hard to make do with' but I don't think you understand." She looked towards Shane, her fists tightening by her side. "I'm not like the other girls. In fact, I'll fight yo-" before she could even finish, Shane swung the crowbar an inch from her face.

"Woah there, Buster Brown. We don't need that type of violence here."

"I fucking hate you, you know that?"

"And yet you never provided a reason as to why you did. Are you sure it isn't the time of month again?" Azia asked, smirking. Shane swung the crowbar again, missing the young woman's face. Azia found the perfect moment to punch at the young man. Her body moved on its own, moving to the right and cutting a right hook towards Shane's face. Luckily enough, the said man moved quickly to his laugh and smirked.

"That's the best you can do?"

"No," Azia stated blankly. "But I can do this." Stepping forward, she wrapped a hand around Shane's neck dragging him closer to her. Shane knotted his eyebrows, glaring at Azia.

"What the fuck are you doing," he asked. When he tried moving away, he couldn't.

"My type of style," Azia whispered into his ear. Chills ran down Shane's back as a slight pink hue danced over his cheeks. Before he could even react, Azia kneed him right in the groin. He fell to his knees, throwing the crowbar to the side. Azia smirked, getting down on her knees.

"You thought I would kiss you?" A small laugh that soon turned loud, escaped from her lips. "We are enemies. We do not kiss each other!" Azia then grabbed the crowbar and moved it around in her hands. "Now, since this was hardly used, why don't I use it now?" Swinging high over her head, Azia knocked Shane out and smiled.

"That'll teach you to never mess with a woman. Bye, bye dear!~" And skipped away to the New Age headquarters.

Bennit Alexander


Bennit sighed as he watched the Sinclair person walk away. He chuckled to himself, the newer recruits were always so nervous. Bennit turned and stared at the decrepit museum, its pillars chipped and jagged and it's facade old and dusty.

He decided it did look a little intimidating.

Bennit walked off to his own little section of the museum, making a mental note to speak to Gayle or Cornelius or whoever was in charge after the fire. The New Age needed to be more enticing, more than just a shady underground cult.

He climbed the stairs, winding his way up to the very top of the museum. Soon, he emerged on a small balcony, complete with a table and a very messy desk stacked with blueprints upon blueprints. Spying was Bennit's profession. He had had a knack for stealth at a young age and in the slums of the Proxy's reign, life depended on trickery.

"Bennit!"

Cornelius Blunt's voice echoed up the stariwell.

"Whats up?"

The older man stalked up the stairs. A disgusted scowl on his face.

"Whos the Lab Rat?"

Bennit plastered on his lazy smile, exactly what Cornelius hat Cornelius hated.

"Shes mine, Cornelius."

The older man scoffed.

"I dont care whos she is. I care about what shes doing here."

Bennit laughed.

"Shes a new member. We can always use those right? Espcially after the fire and all."

The older man simply turned and walked down the stairs.

"Dont forget to welcome the newbie!"

Bennit laughed at the silence left behind, then turned, scuffling around on his desk to find his journal. He flipped it open, turning through the pages, searching for the a recent mission.

The idea had been to sabatoge a source of propoganda. Nothing special. Bennit's goal was to sneak inside one of the Proxy's many factories and simply decomission their printing press. He had succeeded to an extent. The machines had been taken out, but not before the guards were alerted.

Suffice it to say, Bennit's work was at times a bit dirty. But he relished the idea of Proxy waking up to find a factory full of dead workers.

Bennit sighed, vaguely glancing through the blueprint. He knew what he'd done wrong even before he'd found the blueprint. That wasnt the point of looking back on the mission. Bennit jotted down a small note, then closed the journal.

"Cornelius!"

There was no answer.

"I know you're there. I'm the spy, not you, remember?"

A grunt echoed from behind the doorway.

"Fine. But dont say I didnt try. I have no intention in trusting you, Bennit."

"Yeah sure whatever. I have a hunch buddy, and I need you to confirm something."

The old man grumbled, but didn't leave.

"The mission I went through earlier. What happened around the base after I left?"

Cornelius shrugged.

"Nothing. We kept printing, writing, everything. What's your point?"

Bennit looked back at his notebook, his brow creased.

"The only time our security is not at its fullest is when I'm not around. A good spy would attack when his enemy is shorthanded."

Cornelius sighed.

"You're saying that the fire was setup?"

"By the Proxy."

The old man growled, fire suddenly burning in his eyes.

"We know that already! Who else would want to destroy us?"

Bennit stared back at Cornelius.

"Let me finish old man."

Cornelius growled, but held his tongue.

"What I was going to say wa that they struck us when we were short handed. However I understand you were gone as well."

The older man nodded.

"An enemy spy would also know that the security systems would still be fairly operational with the majority of the members still in the base. However, it comes to my attention that you were out as well."

There was no need for confirmation.

"So. You, are important in some way. Or the spy itself may know you."

"Well there are more than a couple reasons they could want me."

Bennit nodded.

"Therefore, you cannot leave this base until we find out whos attacking us and why."

The older man flinched, then seemed to struggle with himself.

"This is non-negotiable Cornelius."

Cornelius sighed, then turned and trudged away, leaving Bennit wondering: What the hell was he supposed to do?

I recall, in my old days, the day I punched God in the face for heroin.

It was long before the days of the Proxy, long before the repression business. I knew many men in my past. Many heroes. Many villains. Times were no simpler then than it is now, and nothing ever came easily. The world is fair. Humanity never was.

He came to me one day when I was fifteen, a year before I would inevitably break into Kingston College's library and spend nights reading off the shelves of the science section. He came to me in the form of a church, where a famous drug dealer in my neighborhood agreed to meet me in. We didn't intend to meet in the church, certainly. While I was a young heretic, the dealer was vaguely Catholic, a cognitive dissonance between belief and morality that I never understood in theists. But the night was young and our usual meeting spot was unfortunately occupied, and so we had to take our business elsewhere.

He was an old preacher man, the sort of person my father would once call 'the perfect shepherd'. He had hair that resembled a dead squirrel and a face like peanut butter on a piece of overburnt toast, with a white collar and the once customary black robes. I came to the church before the dealer did, texting undelivered messages to him on a stolen phone when the Lord took me by the shoulder. "My son," he told me, "Are you looking for this?"

He raised his hand, then, and there in his rugged grasp was a packet of white powder. Unmistakable. He looked into the gleam in my eyes, and shook his head. "We found your friend a few hours ago," he told me, "There are better ways than the one he went. We can help you. We can get you out of this problem. There's another way--"

And in that moment, I saw Him standing there, in his vessel, staring back at me. Judging. Watching. One hand holding the Devil by the neck, the other outstretched to me, offering heaven in a single gesture. Offering a choice.

I was never one to make the most rational decisions.

The whole parish sent a police force right after I made a deity's nose bleed, but they never got to me. I was sitting in the garbage heap my mother called a home, taking drags while staring at my wall, covered in newspaper clippings of police shootings and various science articles.

"We're all going to die," they told me. "The apocalypse has come." The suffering. The words. The feeling of stimulants running through my veins.

In that moment, I forgot what it was like to be afraid.

He stopped scribbling for a moment, taking a look at his words. His private room in the retirement home was too quiet, too serene, leaving his thoughts scattered. He picked up the red pen he stole from Gayle several weeks before the fire, preparing to make the paper bleed.

"You're not going to cross that all out, are you?"

He dropped his pen, nearly jumping out of his seat. The thirty year old with messy blonde hair leaned by the desk, looking down at him with a perpetual arch in his left brow. "Most of it is good." the figure, evidently dead, said. "Could use editing, certainly, but it's still worth pondering over."

Cornelius groaned, looking around him. The room was not shaking and seemed relatively real, so he wasn't dreaming. Imagination, then, he decided. I really ought to check whether or not I'm schizophrenic.

"I'm never going to use it, Naomale," he said, tossing the notes on his desk. "It isn't like I could salvage this into a revolutionary or scientific article. It's covered in--"

He paused, unable to finish his own sentence. He was normally more eloquent in describing things. And even if he wasn't, he could've always resorted to using an inflammatory word. The ghost looked down on him, still, before finishing for him: "Sentimentality?"

He scowled. "You'd know better than me," he said. "I'm still not sure if you're a ghost or just a figment of my imagination."

"Well, you were never religious, so I assume I'm not exactly reassuring your faith in the supernatural here."

"Yes, but I can't imagine my subconscious spitting happy bullshit like yours."

Edwin simply shook his head, turning away to take a seat at the bed. Cornelius looked over his shoulders to watch him, frowning when he finds another person in his bed. "Jesus fucking Christ, not you too."

A girl, no older than sixteen, appeared to be playing with his stolen phone (which he lost thirty years ago since he went to college), sitting on his pillow. She had curly hair that jumped around in places, and skin only slightly lighter than his, the shade of black coffee with barely a drop of milk poured in. "Can't talk now," she said, without looking up from her phone, "Playing Clash of Clans."

"Oh please, Clash of Clans has been taken off since the Proxy came," Cornelius stood up, striding towards the girl. "Now get off my nonexistent phone and my existent bed!"

"I'll tell mom you won't share," the girl replied, glaring at him.

"Mom is dead , Defiance."

"Yeah, well so am I," the little girl dropped her shoulders, glaring at the man in defiance. He supposed that's where she got the name. "Get off my back, Corny."

"Don't--" Cornelius paused, fuming internally. "Don't fucking call me Corny, you little--"

"No cursing in the campus, Professor Blunt."

Cornelius grunted loudly, tossing his head back to meet the eyes of the older woman sitting in his chair by his desk. She had graying blonde hair and eyes that reminded him of the neon lights in the seedy stripclubs he used to go to before his academia years. She wasn't nearly as attractive as the girls on the poles, but she could definitely stare down the bouncers in those joints. "News flash, Arson--Kingston's burned down twenty years ago."

"I am Kingston, Professor Blunt," Avaline Arson scowled at him.

"You're dead."

"Well, this is just a fun arrangement, isn't it?" Edwin chuckled, leaning back on the bed, "Nearly everybody in this room is dead."

"Mostly because we're associated with you." the teenage girl said, nonchalantly, still playing on his nonexistent phone.

"I'm surprised none of your students are here, Blunt," Arson added, calmly, "But then again, I really am not. This room of yours is too small for three hundred and two twenty year olds."

These were the moments when he had no doubt where the banter was coming from, where the ghosts lived. I'm crazy, he decided, finally. I need as much help as I can get. "Well, you're not crazy to us, Corny," Defiance started, finally looking up from her phone. "Just sort of a dick."

"Yeah, I've heard, you little shit," Cornelius tossed her head to her.

"Language." Arson added.

"She has a point there, Cornelius," Edwin agreed, "You ought not to curse in front of your little sister."

"That's it," Cornelius pulled at his graying hair follicles, snapping towards the table. He pushed Arson aside, grabbing his notes. "I'm leaving."

"Oh, we'll just follow you anyway," Defiance argued, "You can't get rid of us."

Edwin smiled. "Not unless you're doing something to avenge us, of course."

"A paradoxical act, isn't it?" Arson said, folding her arms over her collared white shirt, crossing her legs. "It's selfless, because you're doing it for our legacy--but it's selfish, because you're doing it to try and get rid of our spirits."

"Shut up--"

"Do you want us to die a second time, Corny?" Defiance dropped her phone this time, looking at her brother intently. "Is that what you want? To forget us?"

Cornelius shook his head, hands sliding down from his hair to his face. He still had his notes in his grasp, crumpling them and shoving his face into them as he leaned by the bottom of the bed. "I can't go back to the New Age--"

"And why is that?"

There it is. There was that last voice, the one thing missing from his destruction. He looked up, and he realized suddenly that he was on the verge of tears. A man, about as old as he was now, stood before him, his pale skin off-putting, his blue eyes kind. "Not you," Cornelius shook his head, throwing the notes aside. "God damn it, not you--"

"Come now, Cornelius," the old man said, softly, clutching onto a wooden cane. His vest and tactile blazer seemed to come out of Cornelius' closet--or, more accurately, Cornelius' closet came out of his. "Use your head for a moment here. What would the Proxy want with you?"

"Don't ask me questions like I'm still in your class, Marlin," Cornelius shot back up, sitting down on the bed. The other dead figures had gone, now. "You're not forty years older than me anymore. I'm--" he paused. "I'm three years your senior."

Marlin Hodges smirked. It made him look younger. "Age isn't a measure of maturity, it seems."

"What are you doing here, Marlin?"

"I should be asking you that."

Cornelius frowned, shaking his head. "Look, I can't go back to New Age," he said, simply, "The goddamned James Bond wannabe's grounded me."

Marlin laughed. "I'd ground you, too, obviously."

"You're not helping."

"I didn't mean to."

Cornelius sat down on his chair, taking everything into consideration. He looked at the letter on the table, scowling. "I swear, if Ackroyd had anything to do with this--"

"Roger Ackroyd, you mean?" Marlin started. "He seemed nice, didn't he? Well-intentioned, at the very least."

"He wants me to do his work for him."

"He wants to put your knowledge to good use."

"What knowledge? I was a goddamned journalist, Marlin, I'm not supposed to have any knowledge about genetic engineering," Cornelius tossed the letter aside, folding his arms over his chest. "At least, not to anyone who aren't familiar with me."

"Also known as everybody in the Proxy era," Marlin said.

Cornelius glared at him. He sighed. "I hate it when you have a point."

Marlin chuckled again. "Cornelius," he stood beside him, leaning over to read the letter, "You realize that whatever I tell you, it is because I care for you?"

He looked up at the ghost. "Please do not give me the 'I'm-your-friend' bullshit," he said, frowning, "I was too old for it when I turned fifteen, and I'm too old for it now."

"You need a friend."

"I have the New Age."

"Do you, now?"

"Please don't force me into this. It's too late in the evening for this."

Marlin leaned forward, touching Cornelius by the shoulder. The dark-skinned man scowled, sliding down on his table. "He's giving you a puzzle, Cornelius, when your New Age companions are pushing you aside," he said. "You might find something good about the state of the Proxy in him."

"Or he can turn out to want me dead and I'm just helping his twisted cause," Cornelius shot back. "Yes, I'll remain the silent revolutionary."

The ghost chuckled. "Just for now," he said, "You don't have to give him anything substantial, but it's worth hearing him out for some time."

Cornelius closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. He turned to where the ghost was, finding an empty space instead. He looked down at the letter once again. He sighed. "I'm going to hate this."

Bennit Alexander

Hours later, Bennit was still sitting on the porch. His eyes stared blankly up at the drab grey sky. His body wished to drift upon the clouds, whisked away by the wind. However, his mind was still sharp. It berated him for being so wistful. It yelled at him to think. The time was short and it had lives to protect.

Slowy, his eyes came back into focus. Bennit stood, then walked back inside, shutting the door behind him. He walked over to his desk and flipped through the pages that met him there. The first few were blueprints from missions past. The next were notes on the state of the base. The security system had not been damaged but most of the interior had been completely cleared of anything useful. The strike had been a success to say the least. Bennit sighed, scribbling down some notes.

Whoever had hit them wanted Bennit out of the base once more.

The obvious move was to retaliate against the Proxy, hitting their own printing press or perhaps an armory. That being the case, Bennit could do none of those things. He would have to find a way to hit back from his bedroom.

On the bright side, the Proxy would be waiting for a counter-strike. That gave him time. On the other hand, it severely limited Bennit's options.

"Bennit are you willing to do me a favor?"

Bennit sighed.

"Whats up Gayle?"

"Do you have any coffee up there? Cornelius locked himself in his room and wont come out. What're you doing up there anyway?"

"I'm doing super sneaky things. I dont have any coffee up here."

There was a pause. Then Gayle's voice echoed up the stairs once more.

"Could you go make some?"

Bennit looked down at his notes.

"Look, I can either do spy stuff or I can get you coffee, your choice."

There was another pause.

"I guess spy stuff is more important."

Bennit smiled to himself then turned back to his papers. His notes were pushed aside as he started to brainstorm. Now that he had an inkling of what his enemy wanted he could effectively counter it. All he needed to do was make other people do his work.

Bennit stared at his desk. Was that really the only way to counter this?

He went over the dillemma in his mind and sure enough, arrived at the same conclusion. He couldn't leave the printing press and he had to launch a counter attack. Therefore he needed to mobilize the rest of the team to carry out his will.

"Hey Gayle?"

"What?"

"I'll get you a cup of coffee if you shout at Azia to get up here."

"Why do you need her?"

"We're gonna beat up some Proxy people with stealthy weapons and strategy. Lots and lots of strategy."

Gayle was quiet for a second. Then his voice rang out, shouting for Azia. Bennit sat back in his chair and waited for the woman to meet him.

They were gonna kill some fools.