#38

You steps into the office, and sees Susie, Your mom, and Your dad sitting in chairs. Susie stands up and grabs Your shirt. Her face looks like hell; a scar is cut down the flesh to the side of her left eye, with some smaller ones on her cheeks and chin. Some of her hair has been burnt off. It breaks Your heart, and You realizes that You must look the same way to her.

“Get out of here,” she whispers desperately. “He's—”

“I'll take care of it,” You replies, and Your dad walks up and takes her back to her seat.

“Dad, mom. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, You!” Your mom cries out. “But Susie's right! You—”

“Where's Earl? He's behind all this, isn't he?”

“He's behind something, You,” Your dad says. “Behind that door.” He points towards a door at the back of the office. You and Klaus run forward and open it up. It's time for the final...

...confrontation?

Susie's stepdad is in there, alright. But he's not in a position of authority. He's chained to a table, covered in burns, scars, and blood—same as You and Susie. He cranes his head upward, weakly. “You?” he moans. His eyes become distant. “Oh no, they've got You too.”

You turns around. Susie has stood up again.

“I tried to tell You,” she says. “It's...dad.”

You looks at Your father. “Dad...?”

His face is unmarked; he has not been tortured, as You has, as Susie has, as Your mom has. He is fine.

“I'm sorry, son,” he says. “I had no other option. Susie found out who I was, and began to have an inkling of what I wanted. I wish You could have come with; it would have saved You some pain and travel. I have to admit, though, I'm impressed with Your reflexes; though I did lower security to help You out.”

This doesn't make any sense. “You're E?”

“I am.”

“But...your name. Your name doesn't have any E's in it. Is it just an arbitrary assignment?”

He smiles then. “It's not arbitrary. Quite the opposite, really. Everyone in this building calls me E. It's a rather important name.”

The brief thought of what this could mean enters Your head, but it's too absurd, and it passes by without deep consideration.

“Do you give up?” he says. “Do you want to know what it stands for?” He tilts his head back. “I am the Emperor.”

The thought comes back then, like a boomerang, but You starts laughing. It's a terrible, horrible laugh, because Your dad must have gone crazy. They must have tortured him and he lost his mind. You starts crying. “Dad...I'm sorry, but that's impossible.”

“It's quite possible,” he says then. “I was inaugurated on Your ninth birthday, after the death of Norton II, our previous Emperor. I was chosen by a staff as the most likely candidate. After all, Earl and I had worked together in the government side by side for years, with he in bureaucracy, and I, serving in the Ultramarine Guard. I retired to start a family and be a simple fuel farmer, still doing my part for the Empire. The inauguration ceremony allowed me to compromise.”

“Dad,” You says swiftly. “I'm sorry, but this is all in Your head. I don't know what they did to you, but I've seen you at the house every day of my life, and unless you somehow teleport here at night and never sleep and Mom and I have never woken up on the nights you're gone, this is impossible.”

“The current project I'm working on is also impossible. Theoretically.” He begins to walk towards a door. “The inauguration ceremony was agonizing, and took a good deal of time, but it worked. And I learned how to be in two places at once.”

He opens the door, which stands opposite to the one that Earl is in now. A perfect copy of Your dad, wearing the costume, sans helmet, of an Ultramarine Guard steps out. He grins at You.

“You knows now that cloning is possible. And probably guessed the fuel can do much of anything, because it isn't from this world. Even I don't know it's fullest extent. There was a device they built in me, allowing me to control my clone remotely—and vice versa. I was completely inconspicuous, and the Emperor never makes public appearances anyway. I could work in secret, on the Ultimate Project, to work towards once again expanding the Empire.”

Your APPLE senses that he's capitalizing “Ultimate” in that last sentence. You thinks back to Lord Kletus and his Brotherhood, how they found some sort of corrupt power, something that turned them into cavemen and filled their home with ghosts.

“You's brought the Ultimate Project, or its last pieces, to me, You. Thank You. I'll take You and that component to the Engine Room, where You can make me proud as my son. However, there's something I need to do first. I have no further need for a secret identity...”

You looks at the clone in armor, who is now suddenly wielding a pistol. He's aiming it at Your dad's head.

“No...!”

But it's too late. There is a flash, and the last remnant of the man You knows as Your father burns away. Suffice to say, Your sanity goes with him, shattered at long last.

#37

Mark gasps as they enter the cave, and come upon the colony in the Wastes.

Above ground, where he just was, he saw nothing but an ugly desert; it was not even a pretty desert, the sort of thing that people paint about. It was a nuclear wasteland, crawling with cancer and yet not even capable of summoning crawling, because of how dead it was.

Beneath, shielded from the radiation and the ghosts of both the people and the culture of Troy Novantum, is one of several Paradise gardens run by the Old Man. It's literally a garden, with huge luminescent plants and fungi growing everywhere, eating down to widen the cavern so as to make homes for birds, fish, and all sort of wildlife. The birds that fly around Mark's head are less of birds and more like bats, with long, fleshy wings; their feathers are dotted with white and black stripes like those of a cow. As they pass by, a song can be heard, and that song Mark gets the impression of the alien world that they once came from.

At once he comprehends that this place must be a menagerie of different worlds, but not just other planets. He sees humans here, and some of those humans are different outwardly, and presumably inwardly as well. They are the humans of other Earths. They run about, less like frolickers in Eden, and more like the crew of a vast navy ship. Because somehow, through some other sense permeating like a cloud of cotton through the warm, rich temple-cave, Mark senses they are a crew, for a ship that wanders through the Multiverse.

Mark remembers his history much better when he sees antique relics run around in the form of people. There are some garbed in World War I outfits, their necks jangling with occult medals; many dressed in 18^th Century libertine clothing, which billows with rainbows; and any number of superheroes, wearing those trademark flashy costumes, with logos containing hidden meaning beyond the first name of some silly title.

As he walks amongst the machinery, he gets the impression of all religions to ever have existed, all sexualities and genders, all wonderful differences ever carried by any life. He gets the vision of an eternal, incomprehensible journey of immortality, of carrying the ship through the cosmos until every feeling has been experienced at least once; and all of that emotion and thought and intangible otherness is circulating around the Old Man.

Mark begins to break down crying.

The Old Man ignores him, knowing that it's only natural and will pass as euphoria sets in, and Mary Levingt approaches hir. “My Mistress!” she says, in a voice not of servitude but of delight. The Old Man sees that walking nervously behind her is a troglodyte of a man, whose eyes are smeared with the same sort of tears now running down Mark's face. “I received word of your return! Why didn't you tell me the Lost Stream had dispatched a colony?”

“I must've sent one, I think! But maybe it was rendered non-canon and thus was never delivered. You know our sort has an issue with retcons.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Her smile is warmer than even the Old Man remembers it, which is almost impossible. The two embrace.

“My Master,” she coos. “I've missed you, y'know. Silly boy.”

“I've missed you too, Mary. How has this world been in my absence?”

“Falling apart. But I met a young man the other day. He might be able to help it. A lot of potential, on these Cascade worlds.”

“Obviously.” The two part, and there is a pause.

“You've...come back for a really important reason, haven't you?” she says then.

“Yes.”

“What is it? You've ignored the rise of empires and dictatorships like this before.”

“I can't tell you; or, rather, I haven't told you yet. All I have to say is...there's a reason for hiding under these robes.”

She looks at him, and seems to strain a bit; and then she comprehends, or starts to do so.

Beneath the hood of hir robe, the Old Man smiles. “I need your help again, Mary. Help from the American you. The war against the Empire must be ideological as well. Break their resolve.”

She grins and bows graciously. “I haven't been like that in awhile, old girl, but I can pick up the role again really easy.”

Hir smile widens. “Thank you, my friend. We'll depart on one of the ships as soon as we can. Mark is coming with us.”

“Is he holding up alright?”

The Old Man looks back at the lad in question, who has stood and is now leaning awkwardly against a tree from Earth-13151518.

“He'll be fine. It's tough, becoming one of the Lost Boys.”

The two of them laugh, and then walk into a smaller space.

#36

You is still laughing as You holds the laser pike, until Klaus jars You out of it. You gets the vague impression that You has been cackling for a rather long time, long enough to forget the seriousness of the situation. And it is rather serious; serious enough to perhaps negate the insane advantage of something as badass as a laser pike. But it's a start. You and Klaus start running down the oddly-lit hallway.

As You runs, You hears an intercom turn on, with a voice almost identical to that of the Fennec Gang intercom; probably the same model. “Security alert; Ultramarine Guard units RE9 and K710 deceased. Prisoner escape in progress. Contain and eliminate.” The mechanical nature of the voice links up with the sterility of the hallway.

You begins to hear other footsteps, and suddenly before You the walls part like liquid, rippling. It's almost enough to give You pause, but You has to do that anyway; four soldiers are emerging. They have guns, but You just has to put faith in the laser pike. It's all You can do.

Two of the pikes blaze at once, and two soldiers are dead; their armor shattered like shells, and their blood and splattered meat interrupts the light of the hallway surfaces. Okay, good to know—laser pikes are not clean killers. You and Your German companion are about to fire again when they do. Suddenly, Klaus' arms are out before You, twirling his pike at incredible speed; the shots are deflected, but his pike is shattered. This gives You an opening.

Even with Your starved legs, You can manage a lunge forward. The guards cry out as You swiftly disarms them, knocking their guns aside with Your pike. Then, doing Your best not to consider it, You stabs the first, while kicking the other to knock him down. By the time You rips the pike out of the first man, You still has enough time to stab the other. The squad has been eliminated.

You looks up, and surveys the area. The hallway begins to curve sharply ahead, and to Your side, the ripple-hole in the wall has already closed. Klaus rejoins You, and You figures You has no way to head but forward.

An alarm bell, which You hasn't noticed until now, continues to sound overhead as You goes. The enemies could appear anywhere if all of the wall surfaces are like that other one; but as the hallway curves, there's a new prospect in the distance. This curved part now ends with a dark space that seems wide and open; You can even hear wind whistling in it, even if You can't see it—Your eyes are still messed up.

The walls in front of You ripple again, but this time, it's not a squad of soldiers. It's two more of the “Ultramarine Guards”. These ones are even taller, and tower over both You and Klaus. It's rather intimidating, until You remembers two words: laser pike.

You fires, but as You does they raise their arms; and a buzzing disc of crackling pink energy appears on their forearms. They easily deflect the shot. And now, it's their turn.

As two laser pike blasts head Your way, You dodges; You has no such shield, obviously. And that's quite a shame.

Klaus jumps over the shots, faster that Your weakened eyes can catch. He lands on his hands and flips again, his incredible bulk swirling around freely, almost roaring through the air. With that sort of projectile the Guard he's targeting can't help but fall backwards. But he's not out. He pushes himself back up, knocking even Klaus aside, though he's lost his pike.

The other is somewhat astonished, but only for a half-second. You reacts too slowly, and he gets another shot off. You conjures up an awkward slide to dodge it, but as You reaches him, he's raising his pike to stab You.

You grabs the pike to stop it, but in Your speed You grabs the sharp part of it. You stops it, but lets out a scream as blood runs down Your hand. Struggling to remain in control, You pushes it aside, against considerable strength. It's like arm-wrestling; but You would like to remind all involved that You is a strong farmer boy, and You's able to give Yourself enough of an opening to stand.

A pike-duel commences, but Your technique is sloppy. The Ultramarine has years, if not decades of experience on You. You makes a bunch of feeble swings as he undercuts and stabs; You keeps leaving Your body open, while he guarantees his guard. Still, at least You has a crazed desperation on Your side; You's pushing him back, and fighting offensively against his defense. You begins to knock him back into the dark chamber behind him, which You realizes is a shaft of some sort.

Just then, he hooks his pike with Yours and lifts You over his head. There's a small catwalk which the two of you have been fighting on, but as he flips You over he's doing so over the shaft. The barbs on his pike that are hooked on Yours, though, are not letting go, and neither is You. This all sounds very suggestive but in reality it is quite terrifying, and You does not find it very pleasant as he perhaps would in the face of it being genuinely suggestive.

The metaphor of the scenario becomes even more confused when Klaus, having since performed another off-stage murder (he snapped another neck), barrels down and knocks both You and the Guard into the pit.

However, the man has precision; and as the Guard falls in, his spear collapses forward in such a way that You is improbably launched towards him, past him, and onto the safety of the catwalk. You feels Your heart stop to the point where Your vision goes black around the edges and Your brain starts screaming, much in the way that in fact Your mouth is screaming as well. You hears Your pike lands next to You, because Klaus' guide powers can allow contrivances such as that, and You continues to hear screaming for a good long while until at last, You is able to decide to stop.

You stands up, and brushes Yourself off. Klaus stares at You, and then walks aside. He points You towards a button on a pedestal, before pushing it.

Moments later, with an eerie near-silence, a massive cylinder descends. It's an elevator car.

A door parts for You, and You enters, with Klaus behind.

There's a holographic display of a number of locations, possibly in ascending or descending order. Some of them are just offices, or strings of numbers; but two seem interesting. One is “Courtyard”, which sounds like just the place to have an execution. Perhaps this was where You was destined to head. However, the other is even more interesting, and the intrigue around suddenly ignites a tiny flame in You. Speaking of destiny, this button reads “E – Office”.

You presses it immediately, and the elevator begins to drop. It can't go fast enough, You realizes. As if in response to this, it begins to take a rather long time.

Eventually, it stops, and there is pause that almost seems to be deliberately conveying suspense. Then, the door opens, and the office You sought is before You.

When You sees what is within, You gasps.

#35

At least, they do so until the dawn.

The Old Man feels something approach hir; something intending hir death. Ze wakes up at once, and looks around in the low dawn.

It's a pack of zombies. Or, rather, the Imperial fuel-mutants. Twisted remnants of humanity, packaged and sent in automated ships, intended to overwhelm the survivors of the English Wars of 2043; a birthday party held in honor of three decades of Empire.

Ze awakens Mark at once. “Wha...?”

Ze points. “Zombies. It's time for you to test your mettle, boy.”

Instantly Mark freaks out. “No!” he screams. “No...!!” The Old Man places hir hand over his mouth.

“I'm going to cut out your artificial phobia,” ze says softly. “It'll be easy, because it's very shitty magic.” There is a flash of light before Mark's eyes, and suddenly he seems fine; the zombies seem almost silly now; his mind reels from the distortion occurring between the pulse of fear and the swift calm.

The Old Man stands up and reaches out, flexing hir arm far into the air before hir. Hir fingers clench and suddenly, there is a sword-hilt in hir hand; ze pulls back, and a large but simple sword comes with it. Ze throws the sword at Mark's feet.

“They'll attack soon. You'd best get to work.”

Mark looks up, his face full of puzzlement. “Me?” he asks. “But...”

“Shhh...” The Old Man's face cannot be seen, which greatly disturbs Mark; at least, in this particular instance.

There is a pause, and suddenly the zombies charge. Mark stands up and raises his sword. With an unconscious chop, he decapitates the first beast that chose to rush him. With another flick, one that he astonishes him, he impales another.

He spins as he hears the cries of some more—five others. This time he lunges, his body not like a tiger but a tiger itself; with a cry, he slices two across the chest, before he becomes mortal and falls back.

“Why aren't you helping me?” he then shouts, his blade held outward. The Old Man just stares at him.

He turns, then, as an angry roar comes towards him; he sees a rushing dark shape before he is knocked to the ground. It's one of the sliced ones; in his strike he took its arm, but it still lives while its brother died. Mark is the one to scream again as he impales it through the chest, then cocks the sword upward, slicing cleanly from the wound to its shoulder. There's no blood, only meat.

As he struggles to stand, another is upon him; and this he also stabs through the chest. It claws and screeches as it whips its dying hands through the air, as he lifts it overhead with the blade, trying to shake it off. He succeeds as it dies, and he brings the thick sword down as one of the last comes towards him. Its head is split, and with its dead yellow eyes rolling in its sockets, it still howls. Acting only on instinct, he raises and lowers the blade once more, cleaving it entirely in half.

His muscles burn suddenly, but only one of the mutants remains. It's attacking now as well; these zombies seem to run on martial arts film mechanics. He simply allows it to run into the blade, but as it pushes the sharp tip into itself, it keeps coming forward, persevering. Soon almost the entire sword is pushed through it, and it's right in Mark's face, howling. He almost panics and drops the sword, but it's too much for it; the last of the pack dies.

He kicks the corpse away from himself, and the battle is over.

He finds himself panting, as he collapses back on the moss-bed he slept on that night.

“Why didn't you help me?!”

“You didn't need any help. Your natural talents arose. I believe you are what I'm looking for.”

Mark looks at the sword, his throat suddenly feeling harsh. “I thought you said magic was subtle.” He gasps and swallows. “Pulling a sword out of thin air isn't my idea of that.”

“It was what was needed. The sword is an idea of a sword, and that is subtle.”

Mark resigns himself to the idea of nonsense and says no more. He looks instead at the sword, and wonders if it even exists; but in that glimmering moment of doubt, the sword vanishes.

“Hey...!”

“As mentioned, it was the idea of the sword. You focused too hard on the material world, the world of Yaldabaoth. But for a time, the sword brought you pleasure, for it was what you've always wanted in a sword; light, efficient, capable of dispatching your fears swiftly and without effort. The sword really was your sword.”

“Well, c'mon now, bring it back!”

“I can't. It was born out of emotions that you don't have right now. But you'll find another weapon, eventually.”

Mark is frequently impatient, but he contains his rage for now. The Old Man still has some uses to him, and for now he is in the quandary of being unable to escape being killed by him, and of being unable to kill him directly. To his knowledge.

Objectively, the Old Man is immune to being killed. Ze has reached that stage in hir life where, even if ze was separated from hir armor, hir soul would be irrevocably bound to it, meaning that the death of hir material body would mean nothing. But Mark doesn't know this yet.

They walk, once more in dead and awkward, until at last they do reach the Wastes.

#34

The walk ahead of Mark and his companion will be a long and treacherous one. Fortunately, it's these sorts of walks that tend to develop friendships, and there have been many such walks of this sort in this country. Unfortunately however, Mark is not a very friendly fellow. He's still distracted by the fact that he cannot sense a gender below those robes.

“So, uh. Mate,” he asks. He needs conversation, to cleanse the palette of fear and loss that's still in his head. “What do I call you?”

“I am the Old Man.”

Good, thinks Mark. He's a man.

“But does that name mean nothing to you?”

“Hm? Well, 'Old Man' isn't much of a name. It's more like a title.”

“It is a title. But for one who comes from that has no name, a title such as mine ought to be as good as a name. Did you not read your history? The history of your town?”

“Hm? Are you saying I should know about a particular Old Man? I mean, there were the town elders...”

“I was the eldest of your town elders. I founded that has no name, over seven centuries ago. It was to be my main base on this Earth.”

Mark pauses, and blinks. “You founded...?” He keeps walking. “But that must mean you're...”

“Old, yes. Very Old. For I am the Old Man.”

They continued to walk for quite a ways, saying nothing. They eventually reach the first hill, which they begin to climb.

“A bit of a hike, isn't it, Mark? Oh well. You could stand some exercise.”

“I'm starting to remember you,” Marks says, and he's being sincere. “Weren't you said to be some sort of...irony wizard?”

“Sorry to induce more worldview-shattering onto this plane, Mark, but irony wizards don't exist. Perhaps trope-magic can involve drawing power from the strength we as a species have placed upon dramatic touches, as a massive cultural consciousness manifestation sort of thing, but the idea of 'irony-magic' is a diluted version of true power derived from years of incestuous thought and failure. Your colony did not satisfy my idea of a mystical bohemian utopia, and it is not alone in that regard. I still seek the perfect place, and perfect collection of individuals, to be worthy of my House. For I seek the greatest magic of all, which is freedom.”

“Freedom?” Mark chuckles. “We made freedom, mate. We broke away from the mainstream norms. We defied culture...”

“English culture died when the Empire sent to the fuel-bombs to its cities,” the Old Man replies. “And rebellion is not always freedom. Not when the rebellion falls into the same cycle of rules and regulations as the old order. Remember France?”

Mark shakes his head.

“Of course, the Revolution may not have happened in the same way on this Earth. I'm sure Lutetia faced some sort of cultural rebellion in the 18^th Century, though.”

There is another silence, and this one is awkward.

“If you're a wizard,” Mark says then. “Why don't you just fly us up this hill? Or something?”

“Because magic is subtler than that. Magic is not bolts of raw flaming energy flying everywhere. Though there is such a thing as going Ablaze, which can burn out someone's system rather easily—hence the name. When I was a spry youth, I went Ablaze more than once, and I think it was only the drugs that kept me in check...”

“You don't seem much like a guy to just light up.”

“Oh, I'm consistently high, on a relative scale. Part of the bohemian utopia aspect.”

“So you could be crazy?”

“Of course I'm mad. Don't trust a single thing I say.”

Mark is aware of annoying paradox wizards from fiction and ignores that statement.

“So where are we going?”

“The Wastes. I have an encampment there that we can use to head to America. We're going to fight the Empire.”

“Wait...what? Why? Why me?”

“England is mostly defeated, and has been for decades now. But there are many of those who are quite unlike the men and women of that has no name, trying to rebuild; trying to restore Troy Novantum, but also Glaschu, Baile Átha Cliath, Caerdydd. The great places of these Isles, and not merely England. Those beast-creatures you saw back there are an attempt to make Albion into a base to strike at the rest of the European Allegiance. The Emperor grows ambitious, and hence he's making himself into our target.”

“That doesn't explain why you need me, of all people, though.”

“I see you as a closet patriot, my friend. Certainly your ideals are bent, but you are a young man of your country. With my training, you could learn to be a valuable British soldier. And, perhaps, your teachings in the ways of irony could be reshaped into true magic.”

“You want me to be a sorcerer?”

“At the very least, a magician. Maybe a wizard. Sorcerer's a bit of a ways off, though. And you're no Incomputare, I can tell you that much.”

“Incomputare?”

“Not important. Look, I'm afraid you really have no choice in the matter; the same risks that come about from not following me now apply as well to the near future. My institution in the Wastes will keep your zombie foes waylaid in English, once I contact them, but you must stay with me to indulge my sense of your potential.”

“I can refuse, right?”

Suddenly, the Old Man spins around to face him. Ze raises a gloved finger to Mark's head, and the fingertip glows in starry light. “If you refuse, my friend, you will damaging much more than you know. Your role is important. I can kill you right now, and instantly raise your remains as a doppelganger with a much more acquiescent personality. But you will be dead, as a person, even as your body becomes that which you fear the most.”

Mark isn't unreasonable, especially in the face of a magical gun. He raises his hands and steps back. “I'm not much on kidnapping, chum, but...if it's all I've got.” He shrugs. He doesn't know what to feel on the matter. Somewhere deep inside, he has doubts as to his genuine ability to manifest strong emotions.

The two continue walking, stopping only briefly to set up camp as the sun sets. They eat a simple dinner, conjured from beneath the Old Man's cloak—something Mark doesn't find, alongside a magic gun-finger, very subtle—and sleep peacefully.

#33

The burst of energy coming off of You's laser pike forms a scene transition. Cut to: England. A nice place to live; unwilling enemy of the Empire. You are now a young man named Mark.

Mark, though he has just been referred to as “you”, shall be called “you” in the lower-case, as he is full-bred British, and thus no relation to the all-American You. (Not you, you. I'm aware that you could well be from any country, and as such you may not be all-American at all. Which is okay with all concerned; I myself have some complaints about America, but I'm afraid I don't the time or courage to make them here. Besides, that would be inappropriate in the utmost.)

Mark, or you—we'll call you Mark and vice versa, until we return to You—is a representative for a vacuum cleaner company. He's actually pretty ordinary, really, and that is said in the hopes that, in the whole “Mark/you” setup, that statement is not taken offensively, because “ordinary” is a word often tinged with insult. Mark doesn't mind being ordinary, and thus “you” don't mind being ordinary either.

How about we just make it easy on ourselves and just Mark “Mark”.

Mark is driving home along a lonely road outside of a small town of that has no name. That's not a typo; the city is a postmodern bohemian colony with a populace made of jerks, who decided to troll the rest of the world by naming their town that has no name. That is to say, their town is called “that has no name”, no capitals. that has no name is a miserable place for outsiders, but Mark grew up there and as such has a few certain traits that should be examined here.

Everyone in that has no name has to have a certain level of bigotry towards some arbitrary detail. Mark has an intense and all-consuming horror of zombies. It reflects, in the minds of the town elders of that has no name, a growing trend of lower-scale zombie culture that is popularly devoured by young people such as Mark. Everyone in Mark's family has had such a trope-hate; one of Mark's ancestors, a man named Vitus, had an intense and all-consuming horror of cats, to represent medieval superstitions. Vitus' life was modernized and filmed in 1934 as The Black Cat, and with the help of an Einsteinian tachyonic antitelephone, it was suggested that Vitus be named for the character in the movie as a sort of totally ironic paradox. Here's a good time to point out that the citizens of that has no name also possess time-travel technology, but only use it to suit their irony purposes.

Fortunately, that has no name is about to be destroyed by zombies, so the pretentiousness of its citizens and their potential to become unbelievably irksome characters in this tale will probably be neutralized in this entry.

The engine of Mark's car begins to sputter. He looks at his fuel tank; it's near full, but the needle is dropping rapidly. All of the other needles are freaking out. Something is really wrong, so it's time to pull over. Mark doesn't know much about cars, which isn't helpful in this case, though he knows enough to understand when something's totally messed up.

He pulls off to the side of the road, besides a forest. The forest near that has no name is named the Devil's Forest, but only ironically. A lot of completely B.S. and faux-camp stories circulate around the Devil's Forest, mostly to get people to not laugh in a fashion that is totally ironic. Mad scientists are said to lurk in the Devil's Forest, cultivating an army of monsters to unleash on the world. This is hilarious but only to people who aren't quite in the know about the ways of irony.

Mark begins looking at the engine, but as mentioned, his knowledge base regarding cars is pretty tiny. He may have to walk all the way back to town, which might cause the others to laugh at him. So he tries his best to work on it, though his best isn't great.

Meanwhile, something rustles in the bushes.

Mark notices this immediately. However, he recalls one of the stories about the Forest being that an enormous frog lives in the swamplands of the Forest, and uses this tale as a handwave explanation as to the noise. It could be anything, really, and it certainly isn't something linked to his artificially-induced phobia.

However, Mark here makes a magnificent discovery. Not everything works along the guidelines of suspense, even in a world heavily influenced by the flowing tides of trope-magic. Though the bushes have only rustled once, and Mark is not properly afraid yet, a large company of creatures burst out of the wilderness to feast upon Mark's flesh.

They are, predictably enough, zombies. Or, it should be said, beasts that Mark is automatically convinced are zombies, in a loose definition of the term.

There are quite a lot of them, as hipster chemistry is a very powerful thing, so Mark is full of terror. He soils his pants, in fact, though he doesn't know it presently. He screams loudly, flails about so as to rip the car battery from his vehicle, which isn't easy, and begins to run away.

It's here that the text should point that the artificial phobias of that has no name are still as potent and powerful as regular phobias, and there's a level of intolerance brought into the psychology of the affair as well. So Mark is simultaneously legitimately terrified and disgusted, making him feel awful. Honestly, making fun of the deal isn't a proper thing to do, especially given what is presently happening. Half of that has no name has already been destroyed in a massive fuel fire, and dozens if not hundreds are dead. Mark has no living family, though, which will make it very bitterly bittersweet when he discovers the assault, which he is about to...now.

It's a short jog from the Devil's Forest to that has no name, but somehow, Mark didn't notice the flames. The flames are, if it hasn't been specified already, being caused by the zombies, who have shattered the fuel lines about town and are wielding torches, which is a lethal combination. The screams can be heard for miles, though some of the older members still fail to scream, preferring instead to defy the mainstream. They silently judge the others for being weak.

The zombies run free and wild, and deformed; their waxen features melt in the unnatural heat, and they scream as well, though they do so without the same reasoning as the others. Some of them are blind and others have lost limbs. Of course, the same can be said for their human victims.

Mark will be safe until the zombies notice him, which will occur shortly. The zombies that chased him from the forest lost sight of him awhile ago, because zombies tend to be much slower than living, non-zombie humans.

The phrase “living, non-zombie humans” gives Mark a tiny burst of pleasure in the maelstrom of horror. The phrase “maelstrom of horror” also gives him pleasure, but he doesn't specifically know why on either of them.

The pleasure fades when the zombies begin chasing him. They're slow, but not all of them are on fire, and there are dozens of them, and as mentioned many times before, Mark has a crippling fear of them. He considers breaking down and crying, but is conflicted over that because it means the zombies will get him. He needs release, and the release he needs is beyond words—making this especially difficult in the face of a drastic narrative shift.

Catharsis is a dramatic motion, however, and can be carried out by other players of a piece. Case in point, the glowing light that appeared through the flames and disintegrated all fifty-two of the approaching zombies. (Though, naturally, their number wasn't known to Mark.) There is a sudden wave of flame that Mark knows goes beyond a simple fuel rupture, and much of the remaining town is blown to ashes as well. The grey dust forms a wave that begins flying towards Mark, who shields himself helplessly; but then, he is enshrouded in a cyan light, and the ash is deflected away from him.

He blinks, feeling a slight burn as a little bit of the ash gets into his eyes. He can barely see, but what he sees is tremendous; the town, now crumbled to dust, is being swept into the air in a massive tornado. Given the size of the town—population somewhere circa a thousand—this tornado is miles across. The sky is blackened as a mixture of charred humans, houses, and zombies is carried high into the stratosphere. Mark falls to his knees, though his aura follows him.

After just a few seconds, it is all over. that has no name has been completely destroyed. Only some brick foundations and scattered shattered planks remain. In the center, however, where the town square once stood, with its monument honoring a series of white male writers beloved by the populace, there is a figure glowing with the same bluish light as that which protects Mark. As Mark strains to look at it, his aura fading in the process, it suddenly explodes into a fierce flash of violet light. Then, just as suddenly as that all happened, the figure is standing next to him.

Mark gets to see the figure up close. He can't tell if it's male or female, and frankly, the idea of it being neither or both is enough to make him be rude enough to refer to the figure with the pronoun “it”. The figure is dressed in black robes that billow around hir entire body, with a hood over hir head. Mark can't see hir face at all, but two vague prominences of color that may be eyes can be seen under the hood. He can't tell what color it is, though, which he finds very odd.

“Listen to me, boy,” ze says then. “More zombies will be upon us soon, and I doubt that is the least of our problems. I sense a fractured tense; it is present rather than past, suggesting time dilation on a massive scale. That is never a good sign. We have to move quickly.”

Mark says nothing, instead too blown away to react—and with him, the pun is indeed intended.

“Boy. I cannot speak frankly enough. Your country is under attack.”

Mark cannot tell from the voice which country ze comes from, or if ze is a man or a woman; both of these disturb him greatly.

“Boy. Decide. Will you follow me?”

Mark snaps out of it, and nods. Whoever this guy or girl is, he has a better chance with it than with the zombies. Still, it's tough to tell what Mark feels about this right now; and not even he knows. He was never that attached to that has no name anyway; liking it would be ironic, as it was never expected to be liked. And as mentioned, he had no family.

The two begin to walk away from the ashes, with the tall figure leading ahead. Beyond the ruins of that has no name lie the hills, and past that, the Wastes—a place once called Troy Novantum.

#32

Days pass, possibly. You doesn't remember eating. You only remembers darkness, and feeling weak. If You is going to starve, it would only be one of several logical, albeit negative, conclusions to this particular scenario.

But logic doesn't matter here. It never did, because still, nothing makes sense. It would take a genuine miracle to figure out everything present here before You dies. It would require belief in a large backdrop of the universe, and You can't conjure that right now.

Then, one day, an overhead light snaps on—one larger than the tiny overhead bulb. And that's not a metaphor; a light literally goes on, and You is blinded.

When the light clears, Your right eye is suddenly on the fritz again, possibly indicating permanent damage. But with the left, You can see that You was in a stone cell this whole time, with a single slit in the side, probably for air. At the front of the room is a circular metal hatch, which is grungy and miserable-looking. However, there's something coming down in front of it: a steel blast shield.

Something is happening. You hears the rising sound of twisting machinery, as the wall suddenly parts. It's not an escape; behind it, You sees a vast assortment of gears, all churning as a large gear pushes itself into the room. And it won't crush You—it's meshing with other extending mechanisms building themselves into the room. It's like watching some sort of awkward, uncanny animal enter through a rift in space. Once the gear and blast door are secured, You feels a lurch—because Your cell is now an elevator, going up from what You's feeling.

You struggles to stand with Your weakened legs, but as You does so, the tram shudders again with a halt, and You collapses. You's barely back on Your feet when the blast shield, and a new steel hatch, are open. Two men walk in, wearing the same dark blue garb as Your torturers. However, You can tell, from what You sees of their stance and height, that they're different. Elite units, maybe? Captains for the soldiers outside? Or just staff for...wherever You is?

As they grab You, You notices they're carrying large pikes, which makes Your heart sink a little. But they're not going to execute You with them, You figures—unless they're taking You out to some sort of spectator area first. You has to keep hopes up, though. Which indicates there must have been a jump at some point.

You's dragged down a hallway for a long time. You's now seen Your fair share of hallways, You must admit, but this one is certainly strange—it's like it's made out of fluorescent lights. Everything is white and glowing, and while some of it must be due to Your eyes still readjusting, it seems supernatural. And sterile, too, very sterile. Wherever You is must be somewhat important.

However, the hallway seems long, so You scans Your ability to speak. It might work, though You's parched as all hell. “Where are...” Shit, that burns. “Where are you boys taking me?”

“That's classified information,” a low voice says.

“Can you at least tell me if I'm going to be killed?”

“Perhaps—if You continues asking questions.”

“That's not very helpful.”

“Pipe down!” says the second one. And You does. But You also learns something in the process.

As it turns out, of all of the things to end one's mortal existence on, “pipe down” is not very memorable. The speaker would have learned this, if there wasn't a pop that blew his head and helmet apart. The other drops You and spins around, aiming his pike at the air; there's a laser burst from it, and You realizes it's not merely a pike, but also a gun. There's another distant pop and blood sprays from a new hole in his chest. He falls back, and You strains to see who this new person is. Another pop, and suddenly Your vision is obscured by blood. You's fortunate it's not Yours.

A figure is in the distance. It approaches slowly, and You wonders if this slow approach necessitates menace. However, as it gets closer, You sees that it is moving in a slow waddle, because the figure is sort of fat. It is, of course, Klaus. How he got into this place—wherever or whatever it is—is a mystery, but that is the way of Klaus. You doesn't believe You'll ever get him figured out.

You tries to smile at him, but it's a very weak smile. He raises his pike and gives you one of his nothing looks.

Then, he gives You a sandwich.

Even in the face of the drastic torture to You and Your loved ones, You properly freaks out. Internally, so that Klaus still believes You to be cool.

He hands You a familiar looking spear; that it's held up this whole time is impressive.

“What about the knife?”

His face is unresponsive.

“The voodoo doll?”

He gives an “of course, You horrible idiot” look, which You can only identify through the sheer amounts of intensified sass.

“...the stone?”

To this, he simply nods.

You nods back and looks at the spear. It's not a laser pike, but...wait. It looks like something has been attached to it with duct tape. It has a trigger. You turns it away and pushes it...

The odds have been evened.

Because speaking as directly and as deliberately as possible, You now has a motherfucking laser pike.