House of Rats – Part 1

Maxwell Ferrier took a deep breath and steadied himself by the third floor window of the abandoned villa, taking care that his face was still covered. He abhorred sneaking out of the city. Not that he feared getting himself into trouble; as an elder of the Barreau Orphanage boys, he was no stranger to that. But forming a temporary alliance with the most feared gang west of Cavarice seemed to be the only way to get their hands on Dispatcher technology. Such devices could fetch thousands on the black market. Since the orphanage received little funding from the government to keep its doors open year-round anymore, it was a necessary evil.

Outside, the sun shone hot across the deserted golden wasteland. Harsh gusts of wind kicked up dust and debris now and again. The villa itself provided little shelter from the elements as most of the doors were ripped off their hinges, the windows smashed. Max wondered how it was that the Outlanders gang had survived out here for this long after being driven out of the city. There was no air conditioning, no electricity, no running water to be found. It seemed a cruel punishment, yet somehow just. They were the most feared organization among Cavarice city folk after all, well known for their sadistic brutality and sociopathic violence. But the only reason they existed was because their leader Igor had been thrown out of the orphanage years ago. In a way, one had to pity him, though of course the scared little boy he once was no longer existed.

Max watched the fearsome child as he sauntered his way through the ranks below appearing authoritative, yet anxious. Hungry for blood, the elder thought. His clothes were tattered and torn as if he’d survived an attack by a wild animal. The oversized trousers he wore hung off his slight frame like the flag of a conquered nation, held in place only by a thread of twine. His complexion was sun-drenched and dirty, his head shaved. The bugger stunk to high heaven. And somehow, that little thirteen year-old rat was their only hope.

“What the hell is taking him so long?!” Igor barked, kicking up dust. Quentin, their bait boy, was fifteen minutes late.

“Give him time!” Max called down.

“I’ll give him time when I’m cutting out his stomach, Ferrier. Then I’ll start with your pretty little eyes!”

“No need to be rash,” he swallowed. “I’m sure he’ll be along.”

“He had better be, or I’m taking an extra ten percent out of your ass!”

Max let out a bitter sigh as Lucien, another of the orphanage elders, stepped up next to him. He could feel the lecture coming again.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t have to remind me that this is a bad idea. I’m well aware.”

“As long as you stick to the plan for getting out of here alive. You know how psychologically unhinged that boy is.”

“That much is obvious,” he replied, watching Igor shove one of his subordinates over a rock and proceed to playfully thrust his crotch into the boy’s backside while holding a knife to his throat. “Although I do have to wonder what he’s going to pull when the Dispatchers arrive.”

“Eh…they’re self-righteous braggarts, most of them. They need a good beating every once in a while to keep them fresh.”

“Maybe so, but Igor has done far worse from what I’ve heard.”

Max leaned back against the window frame and listened for any signs of approaching footsteps outside. The old villa was partially built into a natural alcove of rock, which made it perfect for leading unsuspecting victims into a trap such as theirs. The acoustics were beneficial when it was quiet enough; one could hear a pinprick from a kilometer away. But on this particular day, what with the wind howling in the distance and Igor’s frustrated mannerisms below, he began to worry. Then at last it came.

Olivier, Igor’s second-in-command, popped his head over the cliff above to warn them.

“They’re coming!” he called.

“Everyone stay sharp!” Max urged, giving various hand signals for his boys to move in.

“Hugo, Marcus, take point,” Lucien instructed his own crew on the second floor. Those who had fallen back against the wall to stay out of sight now approached the windows with rifles in hand. The entire process was more of a defensive act in case things went south. The plan was to intimidate the Dispatchers into handing over their technology with minimal force involved.

Of course the boys of Barreau Orphanage knew full well that they couldn’t trust the Outlanders, so it helped to have a few weapons trained on them in the mean time. But Igor was no fool either, and much as the villa provided an advantage for this operation, Max knew it could just as easily become their tomb if they weren’t careful.

“Steady everyone,” he said in a hushed voice as the sound of running footsteps drew closer to them. The boys on the ground level below pulled back the hammers on their pistols as Igor stepped out in front of them all. Much as Max couldn’t stand the boy, he had to admit he was quite courageous.

After a few more seconds, Quentin finally rounded the corner rock with a group of three Dispatchers in hot pursuit. Any moment now, they would be able to snag their equipment. So far, so good, Max thought. Now let’s hope Igor doesn’t cock it all up by killing one of them, or us. His heartbeat quickened at the thought, flooding his mind with thoughts of every negative scenario one could imagine. But he shook it off and bit his tongue to stay grounded. Keep calm. You’re all going to get out of here. It will be fine.

“Well, if it isn’t the glorified ghost hunters!” Igor exclaimed, snapping Max out of his trance. Quentin ran back to take cover behind a pile of rocks as everyone surrounded the four Dispatchers on all sides, boxing them in. “I was wondering when you gents would arrive.”

“What do you want, Short Stop?” one of them smirked. Max recognized him as the second lieutenant.

“Idiot!” the first snapped. “They obviously want our phase units.”

“You boys are both morons, I told you this was a trap!” the captain shouted, breaking through the two of them. “They don’t have any hostages.”

“Not ones that matter,” Igor grinned, flashing his yellowed, decaying teeth. “Now,” he added, grabbing the captain and swirling him around to hold a knife to his throat, “why don’t the rest of you be good lads and lay down your weapons before I gut this pretty chicken, yeah?” The other three backed away in fear.

“Son of a bitch!” Max fumed through clenched teeth. “I told him not to do that!”

“You really thought he’d listen to you? We’re on their turf, they’ll do as they like until they get their cut,” Lucien said. “Maybe even then-”

“I don’t want to think about that,” Max cut him off. “Just…stay sharp, please.”

“Like I’m not. We’re all scared here. Keep your wits.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“Good boys,” Igor nodded. “You too Captain Georges, while I’ve got my claws on you. Ah ah, don’t struggle or I’ll paint the sand red with your neck! Now now, that’s a good chicken.”

Captain Georges. Max recognized him as the newest de facto leader of the Dispatchers. Georges was still a boy of about nineteen and very much a coward, unlike his predecessor Pontius who had recently retired from the force. Why the department had allowed him to take charge was anybody’s guess. Pontius had been the one to drive the Outlanders out of the city. Georges would likely be the one to allow them back in, if it ever came to that. Max shuddered at the thought.

“Look, we’re already dead in Viktorium here, what does it matter!” Georges cried.

“You want to test that theory?!” Igor yelled. “Go on, speak another word of shit, I’ll slit your pretty throat!”

Lucien glanced at Max, and they rolled their eyes in unison. The young leader of the Outlanders was clearly determined to drag the operation out for as long as possible to satisfy his ego—an ego that was much too large to be contained by his tiny body.

“Would you just get on with it,” Max muttered.

“Please let me go, you can have our phase units!”

“Very well,” Igor relented, letting go of the captain. The boy unhooked his wrist-mounted apparatus and utility belt, tossing them to the ground in a pile with the rest.

“There you are. Now are we free to go?”

“Not quite yet. Surrender your trench coats. Nights are awfully cold out here.” The older boys obeyed. “And your trousers. Mine are falling off, you see. That’s it. Shirts. Now your shoes. And then your socks.”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Lucien whispered.

“And lastly you, Captain. Your underpants as well.”

“You all have undergarments I’m sure!” he protested.

“Perhaps I don’t,” Igor smiled. “Now how about it. You see all these weapons we’ve got trained on you, yeah?” More hammers clicked below as the Outlanders descended upon him like a pack of ravenous wolves. Georges bit his lip in a whimper, and still Igor urged him on, enjoying every sadistic second.

“What the hell is he doing now?” Max’s heart was pounding fast. A lump had begun to form in his throat.

The young captain below quivered in fear, a mixture of sweat and tears pouring down his softened face. He looked back at his team members with pleading eyes, then again to the boys closing around him. There was nowhere left to run. To Max, he appeared as a helpless animal about to be slaughtered until finally he gave in.

“All…all right!” Georges cracked in a hoarse voice, pulling down his drawers in shameful surrender. He stood stark naked before them, save for the two hands he used to cup himself. Of course Igor would not even allow that much.

“Hands away from the goods. No need to be bashful, right fellas? We’ve all got one!” The rest of the gang laughed as the young Dispatcher obeyed and bore all, weeping in humiliation. “Oh my. Impressive for a chicken,” the leader said. “Such a pretty thing. It’s a shame you had to raise such a fit. Your interest rate just went up.”

With that, Igor drew his knife and lunged forth in a wild rage, ramming it hard into the dejected young captain’s genitals. Max felt his stomach churn as all of the Barreau boys and Outlanders alike let out a collective gasp. A hush fell over the group, followed by a primal cry like none other they had heard before. Blood squirted out from between the captain’s fingers as he cradled his wounded crotch and fell to his knees in agony, screaming into a void of echoes that reverberated all across the valley.

“Holy Christ!” Lucien cringed.

Igor licked his lips and laughed at the spectacle, turning to his band of Outlanders who then joined him like a bunch of howling primates. The other three Dispatchers exchanged horrified glances, uncertain of what to do. Max stood up in fury and headed for the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Lucien stopped him.

“This operation is over, we’ve got to take him out. He’s stark raving mad and so are the rest of them!”

“Careful!” Lucien hissed, noting the Outlander guards posted at both ends of the room. “You want to get us all killed?”

The two of them were interrupted by Igor’s voice below.

“Well then, I think we’ve played with our food long enough, Monsieur Georges. Or shall I call you Georgette now?” The gang roared in raucous laughter.

“This has got to end!” Max snapped. “I told him the rules, not a hair was to be harmed on their heads!”

“If we fire on the Outlanders, we’re dead!” Lucien grabbed his arm. “And if you protest, you can say goodbye to any further operations with them. If the orphanage closes, more gangs form in the city, Cavarice is finished. And the Dispatchers will catch on to us. I don’t like it any more than you do, but our hands are tied. Now stop being a bloody fool and stay up here!”

Max shook his head. “This is wrong.”

“You’re telling me,” Lucien said, turning back to survey the scene in the courtyard below. The captain had fallen into a fetal position with a small pool of dark crimson painting the sand beneath him. The other three were shoved to their knees as several gang members tied their hands behind their backs and gagged them. It was absolute madness. Max could only assume his friend was trying to rationalize it with the Dispatchers Code of Service; they were to sacrifice themselves to Cavarice at all costs, even if it meant losing their lives in the line of duty. Not that there was any honor in this.

“It’s two minutes to noon,” Max said, checking his pocket watch. “If he doesn’t cut them loose before twelve, I’m blowing his head off.”

“He’s not going to do that,” Lucien sighed. “Igor!” he called down. Startled, the young leader dropped his bloody knife and swung around in a rage.

“What the hell do you want, Barreau scum?!” he shouted. Max threw down his rifle and fell back against the wall.

“We’re compromised. Great.”

“Barreau?” the second lieutenant asked. “So you DO have one of the Barreau Orphanage boys hostage up there?! What more do you want, we’ll do anything!”

“Perhaps not,” Lucien thought aloud. “At least that one took the bait. Max, there might be a way we can get Igor to let the Dispatchers leave.”

“In exchange for what?”

His friend pondered a few moments.

“Hmmm…trade me and my boys with them. We’ll go, you can lead the rest of our people out of here once you give the Outlanders their cut.”

“What? No, I can’t do this without you!”

“It’s the only way you’ll keep a leash on Igor, the boy clearly wants blood and he’s not stopping for us! It’ll send them off our trail. The Dispatchers can never find out about this. Pretend I’m your prisoner and hand us over to them in trade for Georges. Igor can do whatever sick, sadistic things he wants to that boy. He’s already taken his cock, there’s not much else to strip him of. Trust me Max, we can do this.”

“Why would Igor agree?”

“We’re his only meal ticket. He knows he can’t demand entry back into the city, they would imprison him right away. He’s playing hard because there’s too many of us up here. Some of us have to go before he fucks us all.”

“All right,” Max relented. “You’ll take the long way home then?”

“Of course, I’m not stupid.”

“Right now, that’s debatable.”

“Yes,” Igor answered the lieutenant below. “We’ve got several of your Barreau boys. And their leader will be the next to lose his cock if you don’t shut that hole in your face!”

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The Socialist Decay: A Brief History of Viktorium (Part II of V)

by Benoît Laurent

EQUALITY WAS AN INEVITABLE CONSEQUENCE of the Viktorium afterlife, whether one agreed with the initial concept or not. Problems which plagued the land of the living such as racism, classism, sexism, and beyond were no longer to be of any concern to us in this New World. After all, we had learned with great difficulty during our time on Earth’s frequency that exclusion only breeds failure. Thus, we took it upon ourselves as an evolved French society to extend that same liberty to all people, regardless of background or immutable nature. In short, we had said our goodbyes to the Old World. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the New!

Of course the only problem with this philosophy would be in its implementation. Given a model of the world as we previously knew it, Viktorium differs in marked contrast to its concept of death; simply put, we have none. No one has ever died here, and birth is impossible for reasons as yet unknown, though new arrivals continue to flood our streets every minute. By 1907, a system was devised whereby every new arrival—a death in the land of the living—was classified in Viktorium as a ‘birth’.

This was but a fanciful process to ensure that all debts of a citizen’s previous life were forgiven, whilst the most vital parts could be carried over. The only thing which could not be transferred was one’s finances. For this reason, income equality was also viewed as a necessity; of course this idea quickly morphed into a colossal failure once members of the elite Parisian upper-class began to arrive. One could feasibly argue that this is the event which led to Charles DuPont’s exile, though even if that is not the case, it is undeniably certain that at the very least it led to the breakdown of Viktorium’s utopian socialist ideals, thus reinstituting a bitter convention of classism which had taken centuries to defeat.

To add to this dilemma, the question of what was to be done about orphaned children also came to light. After all, there were many instances back on the Earth plane in which it was quite possible for children to die long before their parents. Finding themselves alone in Viktorium and understandably mistrustful of most adults, these orphans would often begin to seek out one another and form gangs for protection. Five buildings in the now-impoverished Mendrés district were renovated for the purpose of housing to combat this problem, as well as the institution of a Dispatchers Training Programme meant to encourage youth to take on leadership roles in service to the community. Both of these projects were later scrapped in a massive reallocation of federal tax funds following Charles DuPont’s exile. Of course in the wake of this madness, the children were left with no other choice but to form gangs anyway. Many of them were promptly expelled to the Outlands by the ever-so-compassionate Dispatchers.

But the first orphanage—and the only one still standing today—is located on the west end of the Barreau block, a sector which has largely been condemned by the Cavarice City Zoning Commission. Following the closure of the remaining four orphanages in 1916, significant funds were poured back into the dilapidated Barreau Estate for further renovations and housing space. A miracle seemed just within reach—the plan allowed for the reopening of two other buildings on the block, as well as higher-class accommodations, plenty of food and clothing, and even educational services.

Oddly enough, these significant (and essential) changes have still not taken place to this day, the 4th of January 1920! One has to wonder where exactly those funds are being siphoned to. Has the Barreau Orphanage become another front organization of some sort, and tax-free, no less? That would hardly be shocking; there are plenty of those in Cavarice now! Just to list but a few of them I have uncovered in previous exposés:

  • Courges Print & Press
  • LaFout Taylors
  • Zuviban Clockworks (a subsidiary of DuPont Steamworks Co.)
  • Montcherie’s Clothing & Textiles (owned by Agnés Brochard, a cousin of Constance Renou)

I’m sure I could go on. But it is a sad irony that in all the rich snobbery of Viktorium’s elite ruling class, they do not seem to be above the finance of organized crime, so long as it benefits their own pocketbooks. What I find even more shocking and reprehensible is that they are destroying the lives of young children in the process. They are not above using them for their twisted ends, either—it should come as no surprise that no child raised in any of the five orphanages was ever recorded as having completed the Dispatchers Training Programme. In effect, it was a directive which only seems to have ever existed on paper. And yet these children to this day can often be seen shuffled around the city with the Dispatchers themselves, carrying heavy equipment and aiding in various security functions for little to no pay.

What, then, is the solution?

An orphanage lies in shambles along with any dreams those kids might have for a better life, a true and forgotten testament to just how much greed exists above the clouds in the Metropoliès downtown. A fearsome gang in the Outlands led by a psychologically disturbed young boy named Igor (barely thirteen years of age, I might add) is holed up in an abandoned villa just outside the city, waiting for the first opportunity to break in and wreak havoc. Constance Renou, the director of Viktorium-France Transit, seems content to run her business under DuPont’s old regulations. The Dalishkova Knights, a mafia organization shrouded in mysticism, keep dissenting voices in check whilst operating various front companies to keep the money rolling on up to the wealthiest of Viktorium’s citizens. And all the while, DuPont’s old ghost machines have been mysteriously disappearing, even as rumors persist of strange activity occurring in the valley of 501 kHz to the east of Cavarice–activity that the Dispatchers have yet to investigate.

For those of you unaware, Viktorium’s 501 also happens to be located at the same parallel coordinates as Bezonvaux on the Earth plane!

It is a gross understatement to say that in our upcoming elections, the newest presidential candidates have their work cut out for them–if it is even work that they are willing to do.

But perhaps I mistaken about all of this. Perhaps it is simply the natural order of things, and the abandonment of classism was nothing more than a brief social experiment in our early history. After all, we were expecting to do away with a system that has existed in Europe for centuries in the span of just a few short years. And yet apart from the other institutions we were successful in dismantling–mainly racism and sexism–no one here is willing to think outside the box or implement long-term solutions, barring of course what is beneficial to them alone. Why did we ever do away with such attitudes of hope following our president’s exile? Certainly it was a primary staple of why many wanted him gone in the first place! ‘Narcissism has no place in the allocation of federal funds,’ they argued. Equality and reform were the talk of the town during his trials. So why are we still lying to ourselves?

One has to admit that despite the narcissistic behavior of Charles DuPont and the manner in which he, too, dodged responsibility and sacrificed precious lives to meet his own nefarious ends, his actions did give us all a much better understanding of this world than the decadent elitists currently in charge. This was a man who at the very least encouraged us to be shameless and to dream, even if his own vision was far overreaching and out of touch with sociopolitical (or even financial) reality. And that is what made him simultaneously the best—and worst—leader we will ever know. I like to believe that perhaps he did come to understand something shortly before his inevitable exile that we have all lost sight of, and that is that Viktorium itself is a grand, constantly-evolving scientific experiment.

It only stands to reason that if DuPont’s term as president taught us nothing else, it is that reverting to the old ways we once knew on Earth will inevitably lead to our destruction not just as a society, but in this particular dimension of existence. Nikola Tesla himself has warned us of it on numerous occasions, though few in the political arena here will take him seriously.

So I must implore you all to ask yourselves: Are you ready for the true afterlife? Because if not, there are clear changes that must be made following the coming elections which we would all be patently stupid to ignore.

 

I thank you all once again for reading, and we apologize for the brief hiatus in the publication of our news. Our printing machines here underwent a malfunction and took a week to repair, but The Viktorium Free Press is back! Please be sure to keep up with me here, as well as the scandalous developments with Constance Renou, who I will interview in a future segment–if she is willing, of course!

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