Time-Eaten Towers

...I've never actually said much about Oliver, have I? At the time he died, it hurt too much, I think.

 

And after that, well, I forgot him, as ashamed as I am to say it. Not because he didn't matter to me, but because Running is hard like that. It's hard to grieve as a Runner. It's hard to process things when you just don't have any time for it.

So let this be my memorial for Oliver. I doubt he'll get one anywhere else.

 

Oliver was a good man. He never told me why he was targeted by the Black Dog, as I've said, so perhaps I'm wrong in saying that, but I never saw him do wrong. He was polite to strangers, treated me well, would give up his blanket or jacket when he saw me shivering at night.

 

He stuck to the Code of Abacab like it was Scripture. Of course, I can't say the same for myself, given the rule against online interaction, but I respect the dedication.

He reminded me not only to be wary, but what to be wary of. It's easy to distrust everything, harder to ignore your paranoia when it does more harm than good.

...And, of course, I only knew him for about a month, just short of a year ago.

What kind of memorial can I write for someone who died before I truly knew him?

The Angels

So this has been a goddamn nightmare.

Why haven't I been posting for a while? I'll tell you why. I got fucking kidnapped. Eric and me, we got jumped, had black bags put over our heads like in a movie, and taken to some sort of warehouse- again, like in a movie. It was, as noted, a goddamn fucking nightmare.

 

(You'll excuse me, I hope, for the language.)

 

They fed us. They gave us water. God only knows why. Could've just killed us. Sent us to embrace the Archangel or whatever the hell. But we've both been suffering enough as it is. Maybe that's all they ever really wanted anyways. Wouldn't be out of the question for the willing servants of an incarnation of fear. Gotta feed it somehow.

But here's the thing.

 

One of them was the tattooed man. Nico Rossi, as his name turned out to be.

 

He taunted me for months. Reminded me over and over of what happened to Mason. Asked me things about Mason- his favorite movies, his favorite food, whether he read a lot, anything that he thought might remind me of his absence.

 

He got better at it after a while.

 

And then, one week ago, something happened. The Timberwolves left, save for two named Melanie Hector and Rainer Kavinsky, who stayed back as guards. They tied us to our chairs, back-to-back. I swear to God, it was like those motherfuckers learned their kidnapping techniques from action movies.

 

And then we saw two people walk in. 

 

One, I recognized as Asher Lyall. The fox mask and long black coat are pretty distinctive. The other I didn't recognize, but he had an Archangel seal on his right sleeve.

 

I was ready for the worst.

 

Then Giles drew a knife and started walking towards Melanie, and Rainer punched him.

It was a blur after that. I remember throwing punches, getting punched, stabbing people. Asher's side of the story is much more detailed.

Frankly, though, I don't really care how it went. All I care is that they rescued us and tied up Melanie and Rainer for the rest of the Timberwolves to find.

We're traveling together now. We don't have a destination in mind, just wandering, now we're free again.

 

Giles and Asher- or, rather, Kaden, his real name- are free now too. Free from the Fears they'd joined.

I'm happy for them. They seem to really love each other.

The Tell-Tale Heart

"...His name was David."

"What?"

Eric stood up from the bench and turned to face me. "The Dying Man shard. The carcass. His name was David."

"...Oh, Christ. Eric, I'm sorry. I..." I shook my head. "I'm so sorry."

"I never knew what killed him. Not at first. I thought it was wild animals. That's what the official story was. Once I learned about the Fears, I thought maybe it was one of them, but now... now I know." He sighed. "I know that thing killed him. And now it's possessing him."

I didn't know what to say. I barely even knew how to cope with the thing that had worn my own brother's body.

"He was my friend," Eric said. "We were on a camping trip. He heard something out in the dark. Went outside to check what it was." He shook his head. His hands were shaking. "Needless to say, he didn't come back. After a little while, I went outside myself. And... and I found him."

 

His whole body was shaking as he sat down again.

"They said he was killed by wild animals. That's how bad it was."

 

We're on the move again now. We haven't really said anything to each other since he explained what happened to David.

 

What am I supposed to say?

 

I want to comfort him. To make him feel better. But I can't even do that for myself.

It hurts.

 

- Henry

The Night's Plutonian Shore

We needed information on the Dying Man shard that was haunting us. We needed supplies. So Eric took us to the Mountebank Club.

If you're not aware, the Mountebanks worship a being known as Jack of All, Jack Smith, Stingy Jack, Jack the Hand, etc., who may or may not be the Fear of choices, deals, and unforeseen consequences. The Mountebanks themselves wear masks, go by pseudonyms, and make up false pasts.

 

They stared at us as we walked in.

 

(Not the best customer service, I must say. I get that they're more interested in waxing philosophical and trading in information than in actually selling goods, but they still do sell goods.)

 

"Howdy," Eric said, nodding at one of the Mountebanks, one dressed in a fox mask and a business suit.

"Hello," replied the fox-masked Mountebank. "My name is Asher Lyall. And you are...?"

"Eric."

"Not giving away your full name? A wise decision." Asher laughed. "Very well. What do you need, Eric?"

"Weapons. Gear. Information."

"Supplies will be easy enough to handle, I imagine. Now, what's this about information?"

"The Dying Man. Do you know anything about it?"

"Well, yes," Asher said, his tone making it obvious that he thought the answer was obvious. "Fear of death, possesses people, makes them experience necrosis even before they die, it's got lots of different shards that each do their own twist on the basic concept..."

"Okay, here's what I'm wondering. Have you heard of a shard that can possess people who are already dead?"

Asher stroked his chin. "Hm... well, shards can't really feed on the fear of the dead, and even then, there's the practical matter of rotting the body away too fast. I mean, the shard's necrosis, plus the decay a corpse will naturally exhibit... doesn't really work. I mean, unless the corpse has already been embalmed, or what-have-you. I'm assuming you've run into one that can work around those issues, though?"

Eric nodded.

"So, you knew this person was dead before the Dying Man took them over... heh. I bet angel face won't like the Dying Man infringing on its trademark. So, what exactly do you need to know about this undead shard?"

"How do I get rid of it?"

 

Asher said nothing, just rubbed his thumb against his index and middle fingers. Eric rolled his eyes and sighed but, nevertheless, pulled out his wallet and handed Asher a couple bills.

 

(I didn't notice what denominations were written on them- for all I know, the question could've been worth $3 or $30 to the Mountebank.)

 

"Thank you. Now, that's a tricky question. You can kill the host, but if it's someone you remember, you're probably not going to want to do that. Sentimental value, and all. Actually, I'm not even sure if you could kill the host, if they're already dead... killing a Dying Man host is not something I'd advise normally, mind you. It tends to mean getting possessed yourself. But if this shard can already possess the dead, it might not matter either way.

"So instead," Asher continued, "you'd want to debilitate the host. Beat up the shard, tie it up, dump it somewhere it won't be an issue." He looked us up and down. "Then again, I'm not sure either of you could take a shard in direct combat. Well, maybe you could. You-" he nodded at me- "you look pretty scrawny." He scratched his chin. "But maybe you could ambush it, or set a trap, or something like that. How intelligent is this shard, exactly?"

"It seems animalistic," I said. "I'm not certain if that's actually the case or if it only seems that way, but..."

"Oh, that reminds me. Who are you, again?"

"Henry."

"I see. Well, Henry, if this shard is actually unintelligent, setting a trap shouldn't be difficult. You could consider purchasing some rope from us, maybe a net, something strong enough that once it gets snared, you can dispose of it as you will before it gets freed, which is to say hopefully never."

"...That's it?" Eric asked.

"What?" Asher said.

"That's it? All we're supposed to do is tie it up?"

Asher shrugged. "I'll throw the restraints in free."

"Hmph. Alright."

"Excellent. Now, please excuse me for a second," Asher said. He walked away and went into the backroom of the building.

"...So, who is this guy?" I asked Eric.

Eric shrugged.

"You don't know at all?"

"Well, supposedly Asher Lyall was a prisoner for six years before breaking out with the assistance of magic gifted him by Jack of All, but I can't think anyone would be stupid enough to believe that and still be alive in the Runner business."

"Are any of these people trustworthy?"

He laughed.

"Point taken."

 

Asher returned after a few minutes, carrying a rope, a net, and several hefty-looking chains. I was surprised someone so scrawny-looking could carry all of that, to be honest.

"That's... a bit more than I expected," Eric said.

"We wouldn't want our customers to be unsatisfied, now would we?" Asher asked. He handed it over to Eric. "Pleasure doing business with you, Eric, Henry, but I must be going now. Ciao!" 

And with that, he walked away.

So Eric and I walked away from the Mountebank Club and did so, surprisingly, not empty-handed.

- Henry

Blood Was Its Avatar

I saw something last night while Eric and I were looking for shelter.

I don't know how long ago it had noticed us. For all I know, it could've been watching us for minutes before I saw it there, standing by the door of a nearby building whose lights had long since gone out.

It was tall and gaunt, its rotting skin pressed tight against its bones. It was wearing hiking clothes, and looked to me like it had once been male.

 

It was a fragment of the fear of death- a shard of the Dying Man- and it was staring at me.

My eyes met the shard's, and its decaying, bloodied lips parted to reveal sharp yellow teeth. I couldn't tell whether it was a growl or a smile.

"Eric," I whispered to him, tapping him on the shoulder.

He glanced upwards, and I pointed to the shard.

His eyes widened, but he said nothing.

 

It brandished its nails. The flesh of its fingertips had rotted away, exposing far more of its fingernails than normal. Like its teeth, they were sharp, yellow, and caked in dried blood.

I took out my knife. Eric was still staring at the Dying Man shard, frozen in place. I shook him, but it only seemed to make him more panicked. He clearly wasn't in a state to fight. I motioned for him to step back, which he did, albeit in a daze.

The shard ran towards me. Its speed caught me off-guard, and it slashed at my chest with its nails, tearing open my shirt and leaving cuts in my chest. I slammed the hilt of my knife into its head- I had no interest in killing it, knowing full well that it would just possess me instead.

 

The shard bit into my arm. There was inhuman strength in its jaws, and its teeth were razor-sharp. It hurt like hell. I think I actually blacked out for a second. After a second, I regained my composure and kneed the shard between its legs.

 

It stumbled a few steps back, but it was a spirit, even if it was possessing a human host. It only took a second or two for the shard to lunge at me. It knocked the wind out of me, and knocked my knife to the ground.

 

The shard easily wrestled me to the ground. By chance, I managed to find my knife. I grabbed it and hit the shard with the hilt, aiming for the nose. As the shard was disoriented, I kicked upwards, knocking it back, and scrambled to my feet before it could get me back onto the ground. 

I didn't belabor things after that. I ran, and I pulled Eric after me.

I don't like having to run from all my problems, but it's better than letting them win.

- Henry

King Pest

Okay, this is going to sound really petty and ungrateful, and it probably is, but...

 

I don't really get Eric.

 

He's clearly not malicious, but I don't really understand the way his brain works most of the time. He doesn't seem to have any problem with the idea of talking to strangers (you may recall that I only talked to him after he rescued me because he started a conversation), and in fact, he actually seems to like talking to people, which I know full well is possible, it just... I don't get it. Maybe that says more about me than about him, though.

 

I don't know. I just don't get him.

 

- Henry

Habiliments of the Grave

I saw it wearing his face. The Archangel wore my brother's face.

That's why the Timberwolves killed him, I suppose. So it could wear him.

You see, that's what the Archangel does. It takes the shapes of the dead, trapping them inside itself as it uses their bodies to grim ends.

It tried to kill me. That's how I knew it wasn't him. The thing about loss is that your mind's first instinct is denial, to continue seeing the person who left your life in the places where they used to be. Seeing someone you watched die seeming to be alive allows your mind to fill in the gaps. It's just that sometimes it fills them in wrong, and it needs to be reminded of the truth.

Mason is dead. I let him die.

When I reminded myself of that fact, I did the same thing I'd done when it happened. I ran.

But it chased me. It hunted me down just like the Black Dog hunted Oliver, just like the tattooed man hunted Mason.

As I glanced back at it, I felt myself bump into someone. I looked up. I didn't recognize him, but he seemed to be able to tell how scared I was, and he told me to come with him.

I didn't have a choice. When he started running, I followed him.

 

We ended up at a fast food place. It was two in the morning.

It was silent for a few moments as we sat across the table from one another.

"So," he finally asked, "who did you see?"

"What?"

"The person chasing you. Who did you see?"

"I- I don't-" I began to say.

He shook his head. "Never mind. That wasn't... uh... wasn't very sensitive. I'm sorry." He paused. "So, you hungry?"

I blinked. "Uh, yeah. Yes."

"Alright. On me."

So we ordered some food.

"So, what's your name?" he asked, dipping a fry in some ranch.

"Henry."

"Well, Henry, my name's Eric Zane." He took a bite. "Mm. You know, I didn't used to like ranch for some reason. Looking back, I really don't get it."

I shrugged and ate one or two of my own fries. "So, about what you said earlier..."

He looked up at me.

"The thing that was coming after me, it was pretending to be my brother."

He sighed. "I'm sorry. It's... it's a lot. Running from the Archangel. Running from any of them, really."

"It is. It really is." I cleared my throat. "What do you think about Running together?"

He smiled. "I think I'd like that."

So now Eric and I are Running from the Archangel.

 

God only knows where we're running to.

- Henry