Night Of The Wolf – Part 30

But I might, Marceau now thought to herself. Somewhere into that darkened sea of blue that stretches for miles and miles. And when I get to the other side, I hope you will wait for me. It helped her to think of Cecile as often as she could between the bitter stings of loneliness and color. To envision that sweet, soft girl in the distance, untouched by the Machine Men and their metallic voices. Soon enough, she would be home free, and with a fresh regulator.

Marceau continued on through the sandstorm, creeping around a narrow mound of parts and to the left past a gutted bus. A Machine Man was patrolling the other side. She stopped and pressed her back against the front of it to peer around the corner. Another was approaching fast from the east. No time to move yet. Steady. She scooped a rock from under the wheel and hurled it behind her. It thudded off the roof. One of the machines leapt up onto the bus and slammed down hard, rattling the structure. Marceau ducked and slid beneath the wheel well. Her heart was racing so fast, she thought she might black out.

“Cecile, I know you’re waiting,” she sniffed. The Machine Man stomped toward the front of the bus and jumped back to the ground, planting its feet mere inches from her nose. The girl closed her eyes, about to accept her fate if it decided to lift up the vehicle. A metal hand grasped the bumper. “Not today!” she shrieked, rolling to her left as the bus rose above her. Marceau tore off the goggles and scrambled to her feet. She readied her sword. In a swift, fluid motion, she buried the blade into the back of the thing’s neck. Sparks rained down onto her, but she stood her ground. The machine bellowed an unintelligible sound and dropped the bus. She tore her sword free and ran back into the gusts of wind, cramming her goggles down.

A light blur approached from the west side as she neared her pile of scrap salvation. She charged the machine and leapt up to kick it down, slicing its head clean off as she went. Another came from behind. She slid to her back and planted the blade through its neck. Victory was within her reach in just a few more steps. Marceau raced over to the mountain of twisted metal, keeping a lookout through the gap. Both piles were flush against the wall, so she didn’t need to worry so much about the robots approaching from multiple directions.

She snagged two pocket watches from the scrap along with some phase unit parts—cogs, an old leather strap, batteries, the cleanest emitter assembly she could find, and a few wires of varying sizes she had to strip and cut to length. She fused most of it together with the emitter assembly to be sure it would spark. Success. Another skeleton lay pinned beneath several beams behind her, so she tore off its jacket to form a crude satchel in which to carry the parts.

“Sorry,” she breathed. “Not about to join you.”

Marceau tied the satchel to her shoulder and grabbed her sword for the journey back. She was finished with sneaking around, and that last bit of adrenaline from the bus hadn’t died down just yet. At this point, it would be easier—and safer—to stick close to the wall, rather than maneuver through the mountains of scrap in the center of the yard. The rest of the Machine Men would no doubt be more inclined to investigate their fallen comrades. She held her breath and snuck around the west pile and over to the wall. She drew her sword.

“Now or never.” Marceau envisioned Cecile. “I’m coming, my sweet girl.” She broke into a run, counting each pile as she went. There were about ten or so on this side until the main gate. Three came by with no incident. She dodged around a Machine Man at the fourth and continued on. Five, six, seven. Two more robots blocked her path at the eighth. Marceau jumped and sprung off the wall, somersaulting left and back into the center of the yard. They were catching onto her now, echoing their metallic chants from every which way. She flew past another mound of junk before one of them caught her satchel from behind and dragged her to the ground. Raising her sword, she cut the makeshift bag off her shoulder and kicked back to her feet, spinning around to land a hard blow on the back of its neck. Thank god for Dalishkova steel.

Marceau grabbed up the satchel, dodging another Machine Man blocking the gate. By now, she’d worked up enough momentum to get up the last pile and jump over the gate. Most of the mound was grating on the one side which had fallen to form a crude ramp, so it would be easy to run straight up and flip over, but the climb was steep.

“Here goes nothing,” she sighed, and ran as fast as she could. The first step nearly knocked the wind out of her, but she kept going. Her legs burned. The wind almost took her off balance, and yet she focused her mind on Cecile the whole way up. Up, up she went, kicking hard, though the grating crumbled behind her as two Machine Men pursued. All the way to the top. She prayed the wall was close enough. She prayed the parts she salvaged would work. She prayed she would make it back into her original body. She prayed she would see Cecile again. Please…

Marceau went airborne, feeling the brush of a metallic hand scratch her leg. She flipped up and somersaulted through the air, landing hard on her feet on the other side of the wall, safe at last. Pain rocketed up her legs and she fell to her knees. She double-checked the satchel to be sure all the parts were still intact and raised her arms in victory.

“YES!” she howled. “Yes, yes, YES! Fuck you!” But it wasn’t quite over yet until she reached the bunker, and those blasted heaps of clanging excrement were already pounding on the gate. If they broke through and detected her again, it would all be for nothing. She rushed back to the bunker and pounded the button until the doors slid open, making sure to reset the lock code once she was inside. The doors closed, and she slid down against them with a sigh.

Now it was time to get back to work. Cecile would be waiting.

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Night Of The Wolf – Part 29

Marceau stirred as the intermittent banging noise continued on the bunker doors. She was phasing in her sleep again. Every morning was like waking up from anesthesia. A certain momentary awareness came and went, during which she’d feel a cold rush of air. The mattress beneath her disappeared and reappeared again in a torn state. Lights flickered on and off. Hypnagogic jerks often startled her awake at that point somewhere between the frequencies, and she could never be sure where she was. Several days of riding it out without her regulator had become torture. Once she was conscious enough to realize what was happening, she began to time the bangs on the door, counting the intervals between her phases.

“One, two, three, flash. One, two, three, four…flash. One, two, three, flash. One, two, three…now!” Marceau leaned over and reached for the injector gun on her desk before the next phase came and shot herself in the shoulder. She closed her eyes, listening for that terrible noise as she counted. Five seconds. Ten seconds. It didn’t return. “Back in Viktorium,” she sighed, propping herself up against the cold steel wall. She switched on the lights and looked at her right arm. The machine virus eating away at her flesh receded back down her bicep for now, though it had still managed to rise a little higher than the previous day. For better or worse, she was stuck with the constant reminder that her time was running out. “Fuck.”

The same infection had taken the others several weeks ago. Not that she’d been there to see it. Everyone was dead by the time she arrived. Soon enough, the great Marceau would be little more than a Machine Man herself, doomed to guard Tesla’s junkyard and protect the masses of the Metropolies from the very virus that claimed her—unless she found a cure. At this stage, it was doubtful. Still, it was nice to hope. She owed Cecile that much after lying to her. My sweet girl. I’m afraid the air is not so crisp here.

Marceau surveyed her room a moment to be sure everything was in order. Some of the frequencies she passed through during her phases had a tendency to look exactly the same, with minor variations. Even the dimensions of the room could be slightly off. She’d posted a large calendar on the wall to keep track of her flashes, as well as painting measurement tic marks across the middle of the floor. Thankfully, it remained the same seven-by-seven foot closet space she was used to. A loud bang came on the bunker door.

“Shit!” she shrieked, leaping out of bed. The floor was colder than expected on her bare feet. That meant the freezers were probably malfunctioning again, but it would have to wait. “You’d better not be an anomaly,” she sighed. She strapped a phase unit onto her wrist and headed for the door. Everything felt heavier without her regulator, and the weight of that steel behemoth was no exception. It took several tries to twist the centered wheel until she unlocked the bloody thing. “Goddamn it I’m an engineer, not a bodybuilder,” she cringed, pushing the door open just enough for her ninety-eight pound frame to fit through. She rushed up the few steps to the lab, flipped the breakers for the lights, and prayed as the holograph display booted up on her work table. A lone Machine Man flickered into view.

“Thank god,” she breathed. The robots only wandered outside the main gate of the junkyard if they detected something was amiss in the bunker. In this case, the malfunctioning freezers must have set them off, although Marceau’s presence in recent days was just as much a trigger. Another reason she needed a regulator—it scrambled her frequency enough so they wouldn’t label her an intruder. This, however, presented another problem. The parts she needed to construct a new regulator would have to be salvaged from the junkyard. That meant scaling the wall, unless…

“First thing’s first, let’s try to distract you, yeah? Freezer temperature is one degree Centigrade…damn.” She could dial it down as a temporary measure to draw the Machine Man away, but the conduits were still leaking cold air out of the coolers. She would have little time to sneak through the main gate and retrieve what she needed. If she was out too long and the temperature of the bodies rose too high, decomposition would reach a point of no return. After that, she could say goodbye to any possibility of returning to Viktorium permanently. Her own corpse had become something of a time capsule to her, a precious piece of herself she was desperate to preserve until such time she could inhabit it again. Even then, she wasn’t a hundred percent sure her plan for reintegration would work. The negative particle load on the piece of scrap metal she’d infected herself on was such that it tore across several frequencies. Committing suicide hadn’t been the solution she’d hoped for, although it saved her body and freed her to travel across other dimensions.

The girl wiped a stray tear from her cheek and focused back on the task at hand. “Lowering freezer temperatures manually,” she sniffed, jumping over the metal rail that separated the lab from the freezers. She set the dials back down and grabbed her cutoff trousers. The cold atmosphere of the bunker was something she’d grown accustomed to in recent days, so she was used to working in her underwear and a tank top. Hot oil and other mechanical parts provided enough warmth anyway. An irony that cold, unfeeling machines can give me comfort. And yet it was not the same as having Cecile with her. Soon.

The banging on the door ended abruptly as the holo grid showed the Machine Man turning away toward the main gate. Marceau snatched her goggles and head scarf off the work table, slinging a short sword over her shoulder as she rushed up the grated stairs to the bunker doors. She braced herself before pounding the button. A sandstorm was brewing outside, which meant lower visibility. She would have to fight off the Machine Man after the gate closed behind them. Phase units didn’t work on their reinforced casing. A direct blow to the back of their necks was enough to significantly disable them, but that only worked for a short period.

“Steady,” she told herself, and smashed the button. The doors slid open to a squall of whipping golden winds that nearly took her off her feet. Marceau adjusted her goggles. When paired with the regulator, she could see through almost any obstacle ahead, but the most they offered her now was protection from the elements. The dark blue hue at least showed the sandstorm in darker tones, while the Machine Man appeared lighter. Not ideal, but it worked. She would just have to stay within the gusts of wind to obscure her location.

Side-stepping into the flow of sand, she made her way forward, making sure to keep the robot in her sights. The Machine Men walked at a relatively slow pace unless they detected an immediate threat. Marceau considered kneeling down for a rock to hurl at the gate in hopes the thing would go faster, but thought better of it—their sensors could pick up on any movement coming from behind. She took to counting its steps to calm herself until it reached the door, following along in a zigzag pattern.

“Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…come on, you metal hunk of shit,” she muttered under her breath. Her patience wore even thinner once she realized her counts weren’t accurate. “Fuck it.” Marceau grabbed her short sword and plowed through the gusts as the Machine Man neared the control panel. She got just close enough for it to enter the code, then waited until the gate began to open. Time to move. In a swift, calculated motion, she leapt up and allowed the wind to carry her spin, slicing through the air to land a hard blow on the back of the robot’s neck with her sword as it stepped through the gate.

“INTRUDER-!” The thing fell, bellowing in a metallic voice. Marceau somersaulted ahead and landed on her feet just in time to hear the gate crunch the machine in two behind her. A shower of electric sparks shot out, scorching her left shoulder. She winced and brushed them away. Son of a bitch. More of those ugly tin cans would be along soon enough to investigate. For what it was worth, at least the burns set off a nice bit of adrenaline. She continued on through the blur to locate her preferred pile of scrap on the west end of the junkyard.

Clangs of metal echoed in the distance as the machines went about their work, hurling heavy beams and crunching unusable parts into cubes. A large conveyor belt ran overhead on the north side, which was where most of them tended to congregate. Marceau clutched her sword tight and turned left around a tall assortment of jagged metal grates to be sure the coast was clear. Two Machine Men blocked her usual path, tearing parts from on old rusted clock. She was about to turn away and maneuver around them until something curious caught her eye. A lone skeleton lay buried beneath the clock, and a decaying foot poked out of the sand just a few feet further. The uniform on the skeleton was similar to those she had seen on the dead bodies in the freezer back at the bunker. These were not intruders, they were scientists who had worked maintenance on the machines.

“The plot thickens,” she whispered. One of the Machine Men dropped the clock and turned to face her. “Shit!”

“INTRUDER!” the robot bellowed through its casing. Marceau whirled around to see a third machine bounding toward her. She charged back, turning to the right of the screaming beast as he reached out to grab her, and sprung off the clock to the left, narrowly avoiding the one behind him. She whipped around the back of the pile and weaved right. The Machine Men were already bounding overtop of the metal heap to catch her, sending an avalanche of parts careening downward as they went. She dipped down and grabbed a handful of sand to toss in the air. It managed to throw them off her trail until she could hide behind a rusted-out Model T across the way. Marceau knelt to catch her breath.

“Fuck!” she whispered, pressing her forehead to the pommel of her sword. The scrap parts she needed were still two mountains away. She closed her eyes and listened to her own heartbeat pound in her eardrums. If she were to die out here alone, no one would ever find her. Cecile would never know what happened either. It would be as if she never existed. Not that it mattered. Marceau already felt like enough of a ghost to the outside world. Oh get a grip, she told herself. Not today.

The girl opened her eyes and rose to her feet, braving the gusts of gold until the clanging noise of the Machine Men faded far behind. She’d been walking through the dark for most of her life. This was no different, and yet the irony of color in her goggles amused her. She certainly felt just as blue in recent days. Navigating the sea of faces in Cavarice was akin to dodging the light wherever it stood, weaving in and out of intermittent periods of blinding black. But the brightest color in her world was undoubtedly Cecile. That girl was her sole reason for staying. Until they’d met, Marceau had very nearly resigned herself to death.

Mayor La Cour had hosted a birthday party some months ago for Vice Mayor Beatrice Castile. Marceau happened to be in the Metropolies at that time, observing the masses as she did whenever she got lonely. She’d stuck close to the Dispatchers when they did their rounds in the mansion. Not the most comfortable tactic, but one that proved necessary. Her regulator was not yet aligned properly, so she wanted to test whether or not they could detect her. If so, she could always duck into the nearest bedroom.

During her tour of the second story, the voice of a young girl caught her ear from behind a closed door. She seemed to be arguing with a male suitor, so Marceau had torn away from the squad of Dispatchers to listen in. When the door swung open, she learned it was not a male suitor, but her father. She was being belligerent and refused to come down for the party. The mayor let out a huff and plodded back downstairs with the Dispatchers in tow. Before the beautiful girl came to shut the door, Marceau managed to slip in and watch her from afar.

“‘It’s just a party, Cecile,’” the girl mocked, throwing off her shoes as she plopped in front of the vanity mirror. “It’s never a party when that rat bastard is here! ‘A blossoming girl like yourself should feel privileged for male attention!’ Maybe I don’t want male attention Daddy, you ever think about that? Women are supposed to be able to do whatever the bloody hell they want in Viktorium. Maybe I’d like a woman instead.”

By then, Marceau was holding back a smirk as she neared the mirror. Everything about this girl was perfect, and she was about to see just how perfect. The straps of her dress came off around her shoulders. It slipped downward over her chest exposing her cleavage, and then the tops of those two lovely, creamy breasts, almost to the nipple. That’s when the young traveler made her move with a single whisper in Cecile’s ear.

“Can I keep you?”

The girl reacted as suspected, immediately covering herself in terror.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL—”

“Shhh,” Marceau went visible and covered her mouth. “Don’t be frightened, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m a Dispatcher, I’ve been watching over you.”

Cecile giggled. “I doubt that. Besides, aren’t you a little short for a Dispatcher? What, do they recruit pervy little boys to spy on me now?”

“I’m not a boy, I’m a girl.”

“Take those stupid goggles off, they’re not helping.”

Marceau obliged.

“You’re Asian?”

“Japanese.”

“Pretty.”

“Don’t ever call me that. Ever.”

“Then what shall I call you? Handsome?”

“You can call me Marceau,” the girl smiled.

“I’m Cecile,” she said, shaking her hand. “Marceau…that’s more of surname, isn’t it? And how the hell did you get in here?”

“It’s…a long story.”

“If you tell me, I promise not to have the Dispatchers escort you out. Besides, I’m certainly not going anywhere, trust me.

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Night of the Wolf – Part 11

Gretel stared at the dark storm clouds gathering over the Metropolies district through the domed glass ceiling of Tesla’s lab. Under normal circumstances, she would have felt energized by this particular weather pattern. Instead, she felt drained, and for more reasons than one. Her journey home the previous night had taken several unexpected detours. First, she’d found herself in the throes of battle with a rather curious girl named Marceau, who claimed to be from another frequency. Second, she was questioned by a squad of Dispatchers upon attempting to access a secret security tunnel which would have gotten her back to the lab faster. And third, even after a series of frantic calls forced the squad off her trail to protect the wall, she discovered that the tunnel was sealed halfway down anyway. Upon arriving back to the lab, she found Tesla wide awake, and understandably quite furious. “We will discuss this in the morning,” he had said.

She had been sitting in his specialized electric chair for almost ten minutes now as the inventor paced about the room in a fit of anxiety. The silence was maddening. If he didn’t say something soon, she was about to send a bolt of lightning up through the ceiling to break the glass and shatter the tension by force. But as it was, she had exhausted the majority of her energy fighting off that stupid girl. She needed to recharge, and soon.

“Just what the hell were you thinking?!” the man blurted out. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“The phase unit works,” Gretel replied, clenching her teeth.

“That’s not the point! Do you have any idea what would have happened to you if it hadn’t? Or, god forbid, if it backfired?!”

“But it didn’t. Besides, you ought to thank me-”

“THANK you?!- ”

”We now know what the test runs couldn’t tell us!” the girl shouted. “It works.”

“Goddamn it!” the man wiped the sweat from his brow. “It is dangerous for you to be out there alone, do you understand?!”

“I thought we moved past this. You said you trusted me.”

“It isn’t you I don’t trust,” Tesla sighed.

“I can take care of myself without using my powers. I know to call the Dispatchers-”

“Come here, let me show you something,” Nikola cut her off, stepping over to his work desk to swipe an array of metal parts off a stack of papers. Gretel stood and joined him as he spread ten of the sheets out on the table and flicked on the lamp. It was a listing of time stamps arranged in rows of thirteen each, with matching dates and coordinates for every line. “Notice anything off about those numbers?”

“Looks like energy fluctuations in the power grid…not all of them were caused by our coils.”

“Exactly. Which means that somehow, somewhere, there is an anomaly the Dispatchers have been unable to catch.”

“And you think it will be drawn to my electrical energy, is that it?” She stared at him. The inventor sighed. “That’s all the more reason for me to be out there! I could help them destroy it.”

“It’s more likely you would get caught in the crossfire. It’s suicide, Gretel! I need you here.”

“We can’t just sit idly by anymore while these things wreak havoc on Viktorium. They’re getting stronger. You know that, right? Eventually, we’re going to have to ramp up weapons production.”

“It’s a fact I’ve hoped to avoid for some time. I refuse to be as reckless as Charles. Weapons production was his department of expertise, not mine. Although I suppose I’m not entirely averse to the idea of reconnaissance for now…I do have a few ideas as to where we might start. Not that I am by any means comfortable with you going out there.”

“And that would be?”

“Mayor La Cour, for one.” Tesla backed away from the table and began pacing again.

“That’s why wants his own phase unit…” Gretel thought aloud. “He doesn’t feel safe. Those timestamps correlate to his location as he moves. If you look at yesterday’s dates, he was strolling around Morcourt when the power flickered. My god, it all makes sense now! The increased security from last year, staggered public appearances, the main Dispatcher units drawn farther away from the Metropolies and as far down as the Barreau District…what frequency are the fluctuations?”

“705 Hertz.”

Gretel’s heart immediately sank. She had resigned last night not to speak a word to the old man about her chance encounter with that strange girl who called herself Marceau, and yet this was much too close for comfort. 705 Hertz was the same frequency she had zapped her young friend back to, and to know that girl was possibly the one causing these fluctuations gave Gretel an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Of course she would be the one going into the field, not Nikola.

Yet still, something rubbed her the wrong way about the possibility of hunting down Marceau. What would happen if they were to meet again? As it was, it didn’t seem as though the girl had hurt anyone. Harmless fluctuations were harmless fluctuations, and it wasn’t their job to keep track of the anomalies themselves. But Gretel understood the danger all the same; Constance Renou demanded monthly reports of any power flux that occurred on the Metropolies grid. If she were to discover that they were harboring knowledge of any not caused by Tesla’s experiments and did not inform her, they were screwed. The woman had already threatened them with eviction on several occasions, talking up her own scientists, whom she claimed were just as competent as Tesla himself. It didn’t help, either, that Renou owned the patents for every piece of Dispatcher technology. She could easily put an end to all their hard work in the blink of an eye.

Gretel felt torn between protecting a potential friend and protecting her mentor, whom she loved as a father figure. He had treated her better than her own parents ever had, and yet it seemed her own coming of age was driving a tangible rift between them. Tesla had grown naive and ever more reclusive since Charles’ exile, and so where danger lurked, she did her best to encourage him to step up. But the way she saw it, they did have two distinct advantages. For one, Marceau was not an anomaly, and therefore not an immediate threat. Off-chart fluctuations, though they certainly existed, were a rare occurrence at this juncture. And two, Constance Renou had no knowledge of the phase unit they had built for Mayor La Cour. There was still time to prepare for the worst possible scenario.

“So how do we proceed?” Gretel asked. “The unit it ready. I can tinker with it if need be, adjust the frequency to match.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Tesla shook his head. “We’re not going to give it to him. Not just yet, and certainly not with the welcome gala around the corner. This kind of technology is incredibly dangerous in the wrong hands, especially with the possibility of the Outlanders having returned to the city. Do you understand why my concerns for you are twofold?”

“Noted,” the girl rolled her eyes. “But these problems are bigger than either of us. For better or worse, we’ve inherited them, just as the rest of this city has inherited the failures of Charles DuPont. Somebody’s got to keep watch over the innocent and hold those in power accountable. And who better than the two of us?”

“We’re not superheroes, my dear,” Tesla smirked.

“Well, you’re not. I’m not entirely sure I am either. Doesn’t mean we can’t help them whenever they do come along.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“I’m not sure,” Gretel shook her head. “Just a feeling, I suppose. I’ve got to collect my thoughts.” She got up from the chair and made her way across the lab back to the large steel door of her room.

“Don’t take too long,” Nikola called. “Storm will pass in about fifteen minutes. I’d like to charge the coils before then.”

“I know. I’m on it.”

Gretel twisted the wheel on the door to unlock it and stepped over the threshold, closing the hatch securely behind her. She turned on the light. The room was little more than a closet space with a bunk bed, a work table, and a few shelves for books, but she didn’t mind. She always did enjoy a bit more solitude than most. Moving for the bed, she knelt down and lifted up the end of her mattress to retrieve the burnt, shredded hunk of Dalishkova gauntlet that had adorned Marceau’s wrist the previous night.

For a while, she sat there with it on the floor, running her delicate fingers over the rough textures. Curious. There seemed to be a bit of power still emanating from it, though markedly faint. It was similar in nature to that which had come from the amulet she’d received from Ermina on the subway, though she did not sense this was an object intended for direct influence. It did, however, possess some type of electromagnetic charge. Gretel closed her eyes and allowed the power to surge through her in an attempt to amplify the resonant frequency. Much of the circuitry was fried, but she was able to charge it just enough. A loud metal clang startled her out of concentration, and the shock was so strong that it sent waves vibrating up her arms. She immediately dropped the device and looked down in awe.

She’d left a butter knife on her work table earlier that morning after eating a biscuit, and somehow it seemed to have flown several feet across the room and attached itself to the gauntlet. Gretel held the hunk of metal up to the light to get a closer look. She tried prying the knife off with all her might, yet it did not budge until she sent another surge of electricity through it to reverse the polarity. So that’s how you moved your sword so fast.

“Marceau, who are you?”

The lights flickered.

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Night of the Wolf – Part 1

DuPont Mansion, Sereinnes Province, Viktorium
August 6th, 1910, 12:02 AM

 Constance Renou slammed her dresser drawer shut and finished strapping the phase unit tight onto her delicate wrist. She had cut the power to the rest of the house, so she hoped her plan would work. Far across the moonlit darkness of her bedroom, the radio crackled with the ominous voice of Marco Corcini, Viktorium’s Minister of Defense. The knife-like coldness with which he spoke had been enough to shake the skin from her bones ever since the day her husband made the mistake of appointing him. Of course, she had warned Charles about the crazed Italian on numerous occasions. He was never one to listen. Now, both of them were being hunted down like animals by their own private Dispatcher squads.

“You stupid egotistical bastard,” she huffed.   

“This world was never ours to colonize,” Corcini bellowed from the radio speaker. “Human arrogance did this. The very same human arrogance which will destroy Viktorium itself. The idea that one may overcome death simply by locking our souls in this perpetual Purgatory is foolish. This land is as unstable as the mind of the man who put the locks on our door. CHARLES DUPONT!” He spat into the microphone, sending an eerie ring screeching throughout the shadows. Constance knelt down beneath her desk, startled.

“Go on, say my name too you son of a bitch, I dare you-”

“And lest we forget his filthy whore courtesan, Ms. Constance Renou and her pornographic stage acts!”

“Ah, there it is,” she grinned. “Perhaps you’d like to join me when I make an act out of emasculating you.” She switched on the phase unit. A blue bolt of electricity sparked from the emitter and danced in her palm. For a brief moment, the shadows fled to every corner of the room in a brilliant glow of luminescence. Renou dialed it off when a series of short beeps echoed near the open doorway—the holograph transmitter. “Shit!” she clenched her teeth. Of course. Charles always kept the transmitters active in case of an emergency.

The mansion was a structure hidden deep in the northernmost corner of Viktorium’s Carnelle Forest—not the easiest place to access if one was in need of outside help. For the life of her, Constance never understood why DuPont insisted on living so far from civilization. There were plenty of high-rise condominiums in the city devoted to luxury, where one need not deal with the twaddle of the masses below. How much more important could any of his future experiments be?

The discovery of Viktorium as an alternate dimension capable of human habitation by both living and dead souls alike was surely the greatest achievement in the history of modern man. With the aid of Nikola Tesla, they had seen to that together, and had come a long way since the Victoria I disaster in the village of Bezonvaux four years prior. Viktorium was indeed a utopian dream realized—although with Corcini’s men fast on their heels, it didn’t seem poised to last.

“Yes,” the man continued on the radio, amid the sequence of beeps still coming from the holograph transmitter. “We are hunting them down now as I speak. Their heads will be on display in Centre Square of the Metropolies before dawn. How far did you honestly believe you both could run? Under your rule, the ghost anomalies would have destroyed every last one of the living in this dimension anyway. That’s why you created the Dispatchers, wasn’t it? To purge this frequency for human habitation! How pathetic. Did you really think you could stand up to the wrath of the Dalishkova?”

“Damn it, Charles!” Constance fumed. “This really is not the time!” She scrambled out from under her desk and over to the transmitter on the wall. On the outside, it was little more than a thin wood and brass box with a dial on the side to adjust frequency. A glass pane was positioned atop it with an assortment of green lasers connected to power cells beneath, which projected a moving image in real time when holograph calls were received. The technology was still very much in its infancy, being one of the many inventions of Tesla, but it allowed callers on both ends to see whomever they were talking to. Constance took a deep breath and turned the dial until the beeps stopped and the glass pane lit up.

“Constance!” her husband’s voice broke through the static. The signal was weak, so the image kept scrambling between solid lines of light and tiny dots as his message distorted. “What the hell are you…? I told you to get…of there!”

“One moment,” the woman sighed, rushing across the room. Screeches of interference blared from the radio. She was about to turn it off when she noticed flashes of light out in the woods through the break in her curtains. A gasp caught in her throat as Corcini spoke his final words before she shut him off.

“By midnight tonight, we will have your mansion in the Carnelle Forest surrounded. Oh, did you think we’d be stupid enough to run this broadcast live? That we would give you fair warning enough to escape? My dear Charles, you’re always so obsessed with time. We will not afford you the luxury. At quarter after midnight, your precious wife and son will be one of us. You will bow, Charles. You will-”

“Fuck!” Renou snapped, cutting him off.

“Constance, you must leave!” DuPont shouted over the transmitter.

“I KNOW!” she yelled, shuffling back.

“What’s that on your wrist?”

“This would be a phase unit, darling.”

“You cannot fight them, it’s suicide!”

“Why not? I’m already surrounded! Besides, you taught me well,” she smirked. “I’ve got a good arm for it.” She gestured to her right, checking her aim.

“Careful with the recoil. Look, I was trying to warn you-”

“Well it’s a little bloody late for that!”

“I tried calling you an hour ago, what the devil were you doing? Don’t tell me you were cutting off the power…”

“Oops,” Constance sighed. “I thought it was best in case we hadn’t left yet. This place is like a lighthouse in the middle of the woods!”

“You know it resets the transmitters!” Charles shouted. “Whatever…meet us at the rendezvous point.” A loud bang came from downstairs, followed by hurried footsteps and several voices yelling. They had already broken through the door. The young woman’s heart sank to her stomach.

“Little late for that too, I’m afraid. Don’t worry darling, I’ll be sure to watch the recoil.”

“CONSTANCE!”

“Sorry, my love. See you in the next life if they want us there, yeah?” With that, she extended her arm and aimed her phase unit at the transmitter, firing a pulse that shattered the glass pane and fried the circuits. Smoke and sparks poured out from the small wooden box. Charles was no more.

“Mum, what’s happening?” a voice came from the doorway. It was Lucien. Their ten year-old son must have been awoken by the noise. Naturally, Charles for whatever reason hadn’t thought to take him. After all, Constance herself did much of the raising, so the child was always with her or the nanny. Probably slipped her husband’s mind. Still, he was the  future of Viktorium, if any such place would even exist after tonight. Constance dreaded to think of what it would be like to raise her child back on the Earth plane alone if Charles’ plan didn’t work out. Exile was the most terrifying prospect imaginable. All of their funds would be taken from them, their businesses liquidated, titles stripped. They’d be forced to walk the cobblestone streets of Paris as nothing more than beggars, or worse, if the boy were placed in some orphanage…

“Not tonight,” the woman breathed.

“What? Mum-”

“This way darling, quickly!” she grabbed him by the wrist, rushing him out through her private lounge room and over to a secret stairwell aside the fireplace. The spiral steps led down to Charles’ lab next to the Gallery of Machines—a hall devoted to his many inventions, all of which were placed in glass displays for private viewing by partygoers during gala events. If ever there were a greater monument to the man’s narcissism on this side of the afterlife, Constance didn’t know it. That said, however, perhaps such a maze did afford the perfect opportunity to distract Corcini’s men just long enough to make their escape. Renou had the perfect idea in mind.

“What’s going on? Mum!” the boy demanded.

“We’re going on a little vacation, sweetheart.”

“I’m not bloody five years old-”

“Marco’s squads are here!” she clenched her teeth. “Now shut up while I try to remember the code to your father’s lab.” The two hopped down to the wooden floor. All the while, Constance could hear muffled thumps and conversation vibrating through the walls above. The Dispatchers had made their way into her bedroom already. She swore she could pick out the particular voice timbre of a young boy she had recruited into her personal bodyguard squad just a month ago. Of course he knew every inch of the house, save for the secret passageways, thank goodness. None of the people who served the royal family were permitted to have knowledge of them in case a coup—like this one—should ever occur.

With so many thoughts flooding her mind, Constance struggled to remember the combination on the keypad. The indicator light remained red, flashing every time the numbers were wrong as if to taunt her. Meanwhile, Lucien had since broken free from her grasp and gazed upward along the wall, nervously pacing about.

“Mum…please hurry,” he urged.

“I know, darling. Why did your father have to make it ten bloody digits…any chance he ever taught you the code?”

“He never teaches me anything. I’m with you most of the time.”

“Thanks,” the young woman rolled her eyes. “But he’s brought you to his lab plenty of times late at night before when you couldn’t sleep, yeah?”

“That was over a year ago, before he had the keypad.”

“Lovely…3,3,2,9,7…” The door continued buzzing its denial. “Bloody hell!”

“Maybe it’s the same as the code for the gates on the Cavarice city walls.”

“Now that’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard!” Constance scoffed. “Fine, we’ll do it your way. Come to think of it, your father’s not one to use separate pass codes when he can help it…4,8,1,5,1,6,2,3,4,2…” The light flashed green and the thick red steel door to the lab slid open in front of them. “Aha! We’re in!”

“Every Dispatcher knows that code,” the boy pointed out as they stepped over the threshold. “Not very safe.”

“Being that they’re already inside the house, we’re well past any safety measures. It’s time for a bit of offense.”

“Mum, there’s nothing in here that could help. What’s your plan? The phase unit? The recoil on that thing could break your little arm-”

“I’ll break your little arm if you don’t shut it!” Constance snapped. “They’ll be blocking the Gallery entrance. We need a diversion to lead them to a dead end so we can sneak past. Now where did he put that organic matter duplicator…”

She flipped the switch for the lights and gazed over the long, narrow room. One of the bulbs about halfway along the ceiling shorted out and broke. He must not have been here in some time. The place was a mess, full of crumpled papers tossed on the work tables, various metal pieces and wiring strewn about, frayed bits on the floor, screws and nails here or there. Brass tubing and clock parts took up an entire table. Charles’ lab was located at the back end of the Gallery, much smaller than his main workspace at the other end of the house. It was used mainly for storing simpler inventions and cleaning pieces for display, though there were some items he’d move here if he needed to have a closer look at them with a specialized microscope. The organic duplicator was one such piece.

DuPont had acquired a vial of the mysterious liquid from a street market in Helias several years earlier. The merchant insisted it was infused with some sort of mystical healing powers, a statement the scientist remained unconvinced of until the man took a knife to his own palm and poured a bit of the pearl white substance over the wound. Within seconds, the cut had vanished.

Later on, Tesla began tinkering with the liquid, zapping it with varying degrees of high voltage and infrasound. To both of their surprise, the organic matter soon began responding as if it were alive, absorbing skin cells and reconfiguring itself in the Petri dish. With the proper voltage, Tesla discovered it could form a full genetic copy of a living person—essentially, a clone. Of course more research needed to be done as far as stability, but for now, it was good enough for what Constance had in mind.

“Ah, here we are,” the woman grinned, stepping over to an assortment of corked glass vials in the far corner. “Now wait, which one is it?” At least six of the tubes were all labeled ‘Helias Flesh’, though it seemed some had been affected in various ways. One was slightly pink, the scribbled text followed by a plus sign. Another had a touch of gray, labeled with a minus. Two of the vials contained what appeared to be the original white formula, yet one was labeled with an X, the other with a Y. The others were solid green, and she thought the last was slightly yellow, but it was impossible to know for sure under the dim lighting.

All the while, the loud thumping of footsteps and murmurs on the floorboards above had grown louder. A sudden bang reverberated, followed by shouting. Constance jumped. The Dispatchers were tearing apart her room.

“WHERE THE HELL IS SHE?!” a voice yelled. “Check downstairs in the gallery!”

“Yes sir,” another answered sharply. There was that voice again. It was Karl, second-in-command of her personal squad.

“I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that snake, he probably sold us out,” the woman muttered, snatching the two vials of white matter and leaving the rest. “Do you know if your father keeps a vortex in here?”

“Seriously Mum,” Lucien sighed, taking the tubes from her hand, “I think you mean a centrifuge. You’ve lived together ten years, how do you not know the most basic instruments? It’s the spinner machine right here.” The boy uncovered a device on the work table about the size of a small radio with a hand crank on the side. An angled wheel on the top could fit up to six test vials. Below, it led to a spout and a tiny platform for beakers, and directly behind the spout at the back was a pulse emitter, similar to the ones used in phase units.

“That’s not like any centrifuge I’ve seen before.”

“Tesla built it for testing the white matter.”

“Great,” Constance sighed. “Any other helpful information you’d like to volunteer before they start breaking down the gallery walls?”

“That’s all I know, I swear.”

“Let’s see which one of these tubes is it.” She dragged over a nearby stool and placed the vials in the appropriate slots atop the centrifuge, giving them a few spins to note if the colors changed at all. Meanwhile, Lucien leaned his head over the work table to get a closer look.

“What does the organic matter do, anyway?”

“Well, according to your father, it heals wounds. Tesla discovered it does something more,” she squinted. “Back in the early days, Viktorium had a problem with stability due to matter density ratio. The souls of the dead were brought here because of a beacon they placed on top of the Eiffel Tower, but their mass wasn’t enough to keep the frequency stable. They needed something heavier to balance things out. Supposedly, they injected some people with organic matter disguised as a vaccine to ward off anomalies while Dispatchers hunted the rest. But that wasn’t quite enough either. That’s why-”

“CONSTANCE RENOU!” a voice shouted from behind the walls.

“Well what do you know…it’s formula X,” the woman smiled, noting that the vial labeled Y was now showing a purple substance bubbling up to the top. “Hand me a beaker from over there, will you?” She pointed to a shelf on the opposite wall. Lucien found the smallest one and placed it on the platform below the spout as his mother removed Y and turned the tube with X upside down in the slot. She then powered on the phase emitter. A light blue glow engulfed the dim darkness of the room.

“So what happens now?” her son asked.

“Now, get me the sharpest and cleanest nail you can find on this table. Unless you can find a needle, that would actually be better…”

“Dad wouldn’t keep needles in here. Mum,” the boy shuddered, picking a screw from out of a toolbox, “what are you planning?”

“Perfect.” The woman plucked it from his fingers and took her son by the wrist with an iron grip, forcing his hand down on the table with his palm upward.

“Ow, you’re hurting me!”

“Do you trust me?” She asked.

“Mum, please dont!” Lucien whimpered, clenching his teeth.

“You want to get out of this house alive, yeah?”

“Yes, but-”

“It’s just a drop of blood, hold still.” She jabbed him in the index finger with the sharp end of the screw.

“Ouch!”

“All done,” she assured him, tapping the metal on the side of the beaker to release the blood. She reached up with her other hand and slowly began to open the spout above, allowing the white substance to pour into the beaker. As it passed through the pulse of the emitter, it sparked slightly, and the white stream began to vibrate in tiny angles from left to right. Once the vial was empty, the pulse cut off by itself. Constance and her son exchanged bewildered glances in the dark before gazing with curiosity back at the liquid now pooling motionless in the beaker, turning itself pink throughout as it merged with the drop of Lucien’s blood. It gave off a faint bit of steam, but otherwise nothing.

“Is something supposed to happen?” the boy asked. A sudden crash sounded just outside the gallery walls.

“We know you’re in here!” Karl shouted.

Constance giggled nervously and stepped down from the stool, checking that the phase unit was still affixed tight enough to her fragile wrist. “Perhaps this was a stupid plan after all-”

There was a loud pop and they both jumped. The beaker had just exploded into a million glass pieces, sending the hot white liquid splattering all over the table, floor, and walls. Then the most curious thing began to happen. The steaming droplets slowly merged together whilst they dripped down the walls and glided back over the table in patterns approaching that of veins. As mother and son looked on in shock, they discovered that veins were exactly what the liquid was forming.

The puddle had since thickened and spread out wide over the wooden work table, and now it was bubbling up again. Droplets changed color from pink to purple, then seemed to jump through the air, as if weaving themselves into a physical body. Veins sprouted, and beneath them, bones. Cartilage. Muscle. It was then that Constance realized that the other five vials must have separated the forms; the yellow-white consisted of bones, the pink was blood, the purple, veins. Lord knew what the others were. This was definitely something else. For a moment, she had to wonder who the person in the other vials consisted of, but there was no time. More crashes and shouted threats could be heard out in the gallery as displays were knocked over, machines probably ruined. Constance only hoped the organic matter would finish itself soon enough. Poor Lucien seemed to be in more shock than she was.

“Mum…I don’t like it,” the boy swallowed, looking up at his mother as the organic matter began to take on his appearance. “What if it tries to kill us?”

“It’s not going to kill us, darling. And if it does, we’ll be long gone from here.” Another crash sounded beyond the wall. Renou closed her eyes. She’d always known Karl had anger issues. That was why she’d chosen him after all, though she never expected it would backfire in this way. He was completely unhinged. And with Corcini’s Dispatchers probably using cloaking devices—cloaker coats, they called them—it would not be easy to escape the maze of the gallery. She only hoped that Lucien’s clone could be more of an asset than a hindrance in that regard.

“What if you f-forget which one of us is me?” Lucien trembled.

“Oh darling, I could never!” Constance knelt to hug her son tight, kissing his forehead. “Now listen, all three of us are going through the secret passage there and into the closet,” she gestured to a bookcase at the end of the room. “Once there, I want you to run out as fast as you can across the end aisle while the clone takes the middle. I’ll fire pulses to distract the Dispatchers from you both and make my way toward the gallery entrance. You and I stay on opposite sides until we’ve reached-”

“No, I’m not leaving you!”

“Let me finish,” she insisted. “Halfway up to the entrance near the Liberté sculpture, both of you will switch places from across the room and I’ll move to the middle aisle. They’ll be looking for me first. While I’ve got the Dispatchers on my end preoccupied, it should give you enough time to sneak out the side of the gallery and through the dining room. You can hide in the pantry closet in the kitchen. By the time the Dispatchers catch the clone, you’ll be in the clear.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll think of something to divert them. You and I will run off into the woods and meet your father at the rendezvous, understood?”

“Yeah,” the boy gulped. “But…are you sure he didn’t hear you?” He gestured over to his clone, who now lay fully-formed and naked on the work table before them. What little remained of the white liquid that had birthed him had congealed into solid chunks before melting to cover his smooth form in a sheen that looked like sweat. The boy—or creature—appeared pale as death for several moments until a faint color of pink washed over his body. Slowly but surely, the thing opened its eyes.

Constance moved to stand in front of her new identical twin son to make certain she was the first living being he saw. She wondered if it would have Lucien’s memories at all. She certainly hoped so; he would make a poor decoy if he didn’t know everything her own son knew. And bad as it might turn out, she actually hoped he’d heard a bit of their conversation as well so she didn’t have to explain the plan to him twice.

A smile spread across the boy’s face when he saw her. Constance smiled back. It was the strangest thing. For deep down, she knew that this clone was not her son, and yet every bit of him that she so loved was still there. And for a moment she thought to herself that if there were to be a twin brother to Lucien, perhaps it was something she could live with. That’s what was odd, too. The motherly instinct to protect him was still there, and suddenly this clone was no longer so much an expendable decoy…he was her child. No, stop it, that makes no sense! she scolded herself. But it was too late. From the moment that child opened his eyes, she was taken all over again, just like the warm summer day ten years ago on which Lucien had been born.

“Mum?” the clone boy spoke softly. “What happened? I was standing right next to…” He trailed off, clearly in shock at the sight of the one from whom he had sprung. The original Lucien frowned and backed away. For several moments, the two eyed one another with suspicion and scorn. Constance, ever the peacemaker, struggled to find words.

“Now now,” she said after much hesitation, “both of you are-”

“Shut up,” her son cut her off.

“Mum?” The clone whimpered, seeming afraid. “Please tell him that-”

“She’s not your mother, so don’t you dare ever call her that!” Lucien snapped.

“I’m sorry…”

“And cover yourself up for god’s sake, you’re naked!” the child fumed, tearing off his pajama top and throwing it at his clone’s crotch. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Lucien,” Constance pleaded, but her son wouldn’t have it.

“Stay away from me, Mum. I’ll escape on my own.”

“You want to be angry at me, that’s fine!” the woman snapped. “But right now, there are only two ways out of this house. One is under my protection. The other is in Corcini’s custody, and I can’t guarantee that the latter option will leave you alive!”

Lucien stopped and glanced back at the clone, still skeptical. The noise out in the gallery had long since silenced, as had the footsteps and thumping from the ceiling above. There was no way to tell now whether the Dispatchers had given up, or if they would be waiting for them just outside the closet. A shudder swept over Constance at the thought. She shook her head and took the clone’s hand as her stomach twisted in knots. It was an involuntary reaction, and one that drew instant disdain from Lucien, but her pleading eyes seemed to do the trick. Her son sighed and gave her a curt nod.

“All right,” the woman acknowledged. “One last thing. You wouldn’t happen to have any other clothing lying around, would you? He could do with some pants.”

“Oh, I forgot! I slept here sometimes when Father was doing renovations upstairs last year because it was quieter,” Lucien said, shuffling over to a work table on the opposite side. He opened one of the lower drawers and produced an identical pair of blue-striped pajamas, throwing on the top for himself and handing the pants to his clone. Watching the second child hop off the table and stand next to his identical twin was at first an eerie sight. The two began to poke at each other’s faces out of curiosity until Constance knelt down and grasped their shoulders.

“Boys,” she whispered. “Are you both ready?”

“Yes Mum,” they replied in unison.

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Ghost Frequency & Stabilization: A Brief History of Viktorium (Part III of V)

by Benoît Laurent

“I have searched during many years for some process or means to test the possibility of future existence by scientific experiment, and I have devised one, which, to my great disappointment, has failed. But perhaps some more skillful experimenter might succeed if I suggest to him the course…” – Nikola Tesla

 CONQUEST. It is perhaps an unfortunate fundamental truth of modern society that no great nation could ever hope to exist without it. Throughout the darker historical periods of our planet, such battles have often been waged without mercy or regard for innocent life. In the Modern Age of course, most civilized countries have done away with senseless barbarism. Perhaps that is only because we have forgotten what is necessary to found a country.

Long before Viktorium existed as we know it today, there were certain ‘anomalies’—for lack of a better term—which had to be cleared before habitation could commence. These anomalies are generally benign today, though still present throughout the world to varying degrees. It has been theorized that we may never truly be rid of them, though the number of such occurrences which pose a genuine threat is far fewer than it once was. It seems to dwindle with each passing year—major events are thankfully rare. But just what are these anomalies, exactly?

No one quite knows. Most of us call them ghosts, though that is an oversimplification. It is also an affront to our fundamental understanding of how Viktorium itself functions. Many new arrivals often stop me in the street to ask what all the fuss is about when they first catch sight of the Dispatchers making their rounds, patrolling the city walls or rushing through the marketplace in pursuit of some invisible entity. I must confess that most of the time, I am guilty of using the word ‘ghosts’ myself to describe what they are chasing after. Of course the arrivals balk at this answer. It is never good enough. There must be a more logical reason why these young men are leaping over rooftops and shoving citizens out of the way like rag dolls. At this point, I resolve to give them the long version I had hoped to avoid.

It is the same reason why paranormal investigators and ghost hunters document such phenomena on the Earth plane; something has crossed over into our realm on a separate frequency that should not be here. From a purely scientific standpoint, we now know that everything is made up of variable frequencies stacked on top of one another to form the basic fabric of reality as we perceive it. Earth’s reality, for instance, is one frequency. Viktorium is just a step above, where particles of matter vibrate at a much higher rate so as to escape the pull of visible light on the other side. And yet while neither of us can see each other, we both exist on the same planet.

Problems arise when those particles become shuffled about through specific circumstances. It is theorized that a particularly grisly death, for instance, has the potential to shatter the soul to the farthest imperceptible frequencies—grisly deaths, perhaps like those which occurred in Bezonvaux at First Crossover. Left to their own devices, these parts and pieces of the human soul then coalesce into bonds and seek out their own, drawn together by mutual emotional energy such as rage or fear. They often appear as disparate voices, cloaked distortions casting impossible shadows, abrupt changes in temperature or gravity.

On the Earth plane, they cause the phenomenon known as a ‘haunting’. In Viktorium, they have the potential to do far greater damage, up to and including complete destabilization of our reality. Fortunately, the great Charles DuPont envisioned a solution for this. Enter the Dispatchers!

The Conspiracy

Warned by Tesla that that the anomalies could pose such a threat, Charles wasted no time reverse-engineering his current machine for travel to Viktorium into something more sinister. A series of wrist-mounted prototypes were constructed not for the purpose of travel, but for ablation. His goal was simple—cut out the cancer. No one wants to live, much less vacation, in a haunted house. Especially not a house possibly haunted by the souls of those who died during First Crossover in the famous Viktoria I disaster. Of course it is quite possible that other habitable frequencies exist higher than ours, though we know of no way to travel there and even so, Charles himself was not willing to dream that big. Stabilization would be far too great a task to accomplish on his own, and it was enough to reinforce Viktorium.

To this end, he enlisted a team of several trusted men and their sons—physicists, electrical engineers, and hunters, all of whom were thoroughly screened. In addition to these, DuPont also appointed a rather curious Afro-German man by the name of Karl Richter, a seismologist who claimed the ability to track phenomena using gravitational waves. With their combined knowledge, the culling soon began. But this, too, was to be a disaster from the outset. A crucial element was missing from Charles’ equations. Something he had forgotten from his first foray into this land, and which he would later put to use in his improved machines.

A delicate balance in electromagnetic resonance must be maintained for any life to remain within reach of Viktorium’s frequency. It is known as the Law of Trade. We must consistently import a certain range of dense matter equal to or greater than what is dispatched. Nowadays, this is no longer a problem. Plenty of people arrive here every day, and so less phenomena poses a justifiable threat to warrant removal.

In the beginning however, it was a major concern. Bodies were needed for the gateway to remain open, and lots of them. Every action taken to open the door requires an equal countermeasure for stability. It is no secret at this point that Charles obtained numerous cadavers for this purpose as a temporary fix whilst he perfected his sales pitch to con rural French citizens into his colonization efforts. There is much debate on exactly where he obtained the corpses; he claimed they were donated by science, but of course this has never been verified.

Even more puzzling is the fact that in the months both before and following the First Crossover incident, thirteen males in the surrounding towns of Garronville, Ornes, and Douamont went missing. Rumors began to circulate of a murderer on the loose. At least four women from Garronville were admitted to a psychiatric hospital within a week of each other after suffering a fit of hysterics, claiming a ghostly apparition had snatched several of their relatives out of thin air. Viktorium, it seemed, was not as stable as DuPont had previously thought.

In order to understand the nature of what occurred in this conspiratorial conquest, one must first become acquainted with the term ‘dispatching’ as it applies to anomalies. Charles knew from the beginning that any loss of life was an unacceptable compromise. Eradicating the anomalies outright would throw off the resonant frequency of our world, leading to a massive collapse. By the same token, he didn’t wish to find out what might happen if a living person were to die here, either. It was out of this reasoning that the Dispatchers squads were conceived. For all intents and purposes, they would serve as policemen, keeping citizens in check whilst properly disposing of anomalies.

The wrist-mounted phase units they wear—which at first glance appear intimidating—are intended to fire variable electromagnetic pulses that break apart and scatter clusters of these anomalies, dispatching them to different frequencies where they can no longer cause any harm to our citizens. This is typically done in teams of three; one will fire a unit that discharges infrasound, drawing the anomaly into visible light. Another fires a torch to ensure it remains visible long enough for the third to discharge his pulse array and scatter the apparition, dispatching it into the dark unknown. Unfortunately, an unstable Viktorium combined with overzealous dispatching had the unintended consequence of reaching back to Earth’s frequency. Living people had become victims of the Dispatchers because no one could see what was happening on the other side. To everyday citizens, fireballs appeared out of nowhere and set their towns ablaze. Lightning bolts zapped their relatives into oblivion, or infrasound drew them into a panic.

Fortunately for Charles and his team, another unintended consequence occurred. Viktorium suddenly began to stabilize on its own. It was soon discovered that contrary to what he had previously thought, those who went missing on Earth’s frequency were not lost, as had happened with the Viktoria I—these people instead materialized in the outer reaches of our world, fully alive and with measurable vital signs. I wish I could say that our bold first leader only used this information to improve his ghost machines to facilitate travel. He did, of course. But given his prior record of egotistical decisions made at the expense of others, it is unlikely DuPont stopped there. Those times were desperate, and desperate times as we all know often call for the most unorthodox methods. Yet that is where the paper trail ends.

Various theories have been put forth as to why some people in Viktorium seem to age whilst others do not. These theories range anywhere from the highly plausible—that DuPont was not above kidnapping people, faking their deaths, and granting them a new identity—to the most absurd—that the apparitions, knowing their place of residence is threatened, prey upon the living energy of human hosts. If the latter was true of course, citizens would be dropping dead in the street every hour.

I do find it suspicious, however, that the Dispatchers and those close to them up until now have always seemed to age. This fact has never changed, despite concern among some of our more progressive politicians that DuPont may one day be able to use this to his advantage and plot his return. Following his exile to a range of higher frequencies, new contracts were drafted for every Dispatcher squad. These contracts are, oddly enough, so confidential to the point that they were destroyed after one viewing; the only person with remaining copies in their possession is our governor. In addition to this, I also find it suspicious that the old courthouse which sits at 1500 Rue La Monte in the Barreau district has not yet been demolished. It is unknown if all remaining records were in fact confiscated from its halls following DuPont’s exile.

Taking all of this into account, I would encourage both my fellow citizens as well as our new arrivals to remain wary at all times. Things in Viktorium have never been quite what they seem on the surface. If you are reading this paper on the street right now, please do me this honor. I would like for you to avert your eyes a moment and look above you this very second. Look, high above, to where the city meets the clouds. Can you see it? Our tall, sleek skyscrapers inspired by Roman architecture. The grand scope of a white and silver horizon, the Metropoliès at the very center, squeaky clean and shining and full of so much promise.

Now look back to the ground on which you stand. Look back, at the rust-ridden, condemned sectors of our city. The Barreau block, the polluted waterfront that once sparkled so crystal clear, the parks in a horrid state of overgrowth and decay. Look at the orphaned children on the street with sad, sunken eyes. Look at their distended stomachs, their dirtied hands, those which perhaps sold you this very newspaper you are reading right now. And look also to the jobless, the old man begging on the corner in the same sector, or even a recently evicted adult who was once promised an education of the highest standard.

These people are all your brothers and sisters! Do they not deserve the same equal treatment, the same chance as the rest of you? At least their desperation is honest and comes from a place of necessity. And yet this greedy lie which continues to be perpetuated by our current political lineup is permitted to continue. It is permitted because you, the average citizen, refuses to vote otherwise! I tell you, friends, you live in such blissful, ignorant opulence! If you have read these articles, if you can grasp the depth of what I am saying, I must encourage you to do some research and investigate further.

Go downtown to the Barreau district sometime. Visit the old waterfront, survey the empty parks filled with garbage. Learn of our history. For if you do not, you ignore it at your own peril.

Thanks again for reading, folks! I apologize for the late issue, but further research was necessary in the writing of this article. If you are enjoying this series on our history, please don’t forget to follow me here, as well as DuPont Steamworks and our Director of Viktorium-France Transit for all the latest updates!

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