Prologue

One (K)night’s Loss

Fuck off.
No, wait, stay!
Yup, there it is.
A tone has been set.
Lube down before buckling up.
Just as you’ve been doing for the whole of your miserably happy/happily miserable life, mix and match if/when it suits you. [Example: lube up before buckling down.] It’s all leading to the same destination anyway.
Mostly, all of this was written long before today, by the way; thus, should you find yourself overheating between the ears and/or leaping/subscribing to self-indulgent/-fulfilling conclusions/prophecies, you importantly adventurous and intelligently flexible reader you, maybe go ahead and chill out—don’t allow the present tense to fool ya.
Don’t let yourself get stuck in the past, either.

Tension builds as pressure mounts.

Feel it?
You don’t wanna miss this.
Doubt you know what I mean by that.
Make no assumption other than that you truly might know nothing.
Doubt you know what I mean by that, too.
I know “nothing” all too well.

Look, try to keep up.
Follow along.
Anyway…

Hi!
I hate everyone, but I love you already; so, having processed your sudden collection of a clarified perspective—if you’ll allow my bold presumption this early on in the narrative flow that has been brewing evidently since around the beginning of last August [2019]; give or take somewhere between twenty-four years and our entire cosmic calendar—reconsider the first sentence, the subject of which is “(You)” {whatever that/this means}.
Just don’t go anywhere.

We’re sure this can{not} be deciphered.
The both of us are grammatically minded sticklers.

In case it’s not (already) obvious, yes, you’re reading more than one author/voice—each coming from utterly unique (yet uncannily like-minded) viewpoints—as well as a cooperatively combined wavelength running straight down the pipe.

(Where else?)

One reason being: accuracy holds immense value.
Written language must be elevated, and somebody’s gotta do it.
I’m striving to become more human. She’s helping me.
Have you figured out how this works yet?

Hang in there.
This is where we meet.
We (all) learn from one another.
English has arisen as the key to understanding.
Of every language that ever communicated, English is the one.

Suck a dick, French.
Trust me. Better yet, trust her.
I was born on the second of July in the year 1920, and theoretically I’ve only experienced about 33% of my (body’s) potential lifespan.
This is the part where I tell my future self happy birthday from the past.
Assuming I live through tonight.
And the next night.
Plus the day after.
See how similar we are?

The universe exhibits a snaking flow by which we each ought to abide lest we die prematurely.
Full stop.

In devout observation of this universal truth, never shall we leap from one side to the other without first making a pitstop in the middle. At least, not in this “book.” No, the pattern will hold.
(In case you missed it, you’re near the beginning of chapter one.)

Truly!

(Probably.)

Our voice{s} seem to be (e)merging.
Consider yourself invited to get lost as hell.
Upon the entries following herefrom, traditional indentation does not fit.

That’s why you’ll find it absent in that regard.

In the sequel(s), who knows(!)?
Are we redefining the concept of novelization?

Don’t look at me.

It’s all up to you.

Also, topics will be subject to change, seemingly at random, but nothing is exactly what it seems, is it now?

Only recently have we truly learned that.

Every/any story has two opposing sides. That’s why magnets work. That’s how scales function. And then there’s the third point of view, the space in the spectrum where tales converge, overlap, tighten and twist, also known as the truth.

Once upon a blip, our story begins, and you might (not).

Believe.

This.

Shit.

Until you do, that is.
It’s high time to be/get real.

Of course I’ll start. Ello again!
Let’s break some frozen water, shall we?
Unless I think exposing my bare feet would risk frostbite or make someone noticeably uncomfortable, I’m wearing neither shoes nor socks. Hell nah. Blech! So unnatural and restrictive and fever-inducing, frankly.
Vaguely put, I grew up out of doors. As one of many results, I can walk across jagged gravel without the slightest hint of a wince.
Your piggies need to breathe, my lovelies.
Don’t sacrifice your health in the name of fashion.
Get your soles dirty; purify your souls. (Aren’t semicolons stupid-useful?)
And a foot can be gross; yet, on occasion, it’s hard to look away from a particular set of tootsies for a widely varying multitude of reasons. My feet, for example {kinda}, are hardly symmetrical.

Always use your imagination.
Even when it hurts, embrace the pain in recognition of future growth.

Okay, okay, okay. Fine. Let’s go back and get all “specific.”
As has become my recent custom, I’m boozing on the job.
Yeah, yeah, put a sock in it. Crazy shite happens momentarily and sobers me right the fuck up for good. I’m sorted now. Ethanol is as poisonous as artificial sugar. I don’t even drink coffee anymore. But on the day in question I started imbibing while neck-deep in the lunch rush after a tubby middle-aged jack-knocker berated me for requesting a phone number in conjunction with his in-person placement of a takeaway order.
Back then, I was always looking for a reason an excuse to get (the British version of) pissed, and the greasy bloke you’re imagining presently supplied me with ample justification; it was as if he thought I was plotting to violate his privacy and possibly hijack his identity. God forbid anyone should attempt to gather and assimilate data in the name of mutual convenience and timely expedition. He also sported {and most likely still sports} a fading tattoo on his forearm featuring the letters: “BORN TO LOOSE.”
Yeah. Such an unoriginal meme.

Note: in the sentence before the four periods prior, “God” is only capitalized because it’s the first word, and that’s the (current) rule.

Since I’m on the clock right now (in your head) as you read this, shoes are being worn onsite (by me, too). “Slippers,” to be precise in my case, made responsibly from trees by a company worth supporting, I’ve reckoned. My feet are sweaty and probably stinky.
This is normal.
Three-fourths into a fifth of bottom-shelf vodka since noon, nearly two hearty porters in the last ten minutes [it’s after 21:00], and I’m not even tit-faced; I’m as functional as anti-chafing balm on a pair of exposed thunder-thighs during a ten-mile hike. I could walk a straight line while looking directly up and reciting the alphabet backwards {only because I’m paranoid and have been practicing for months}.
How disappointing. These days, sobriety is the condition which inebriates my perception. And it’s terribly irritating. Reality has been a spirit-sucking negotiation since I became someone else, but lately it has been trending upward. Finally.

Suppose we should gloss over basic formalities forthwith.

Greetings yet again, ‘tis I, Thierry Nova Tuck, the “black-and-white” human formerly known as Madeleine Abigail Drinkwater, at your service.

And this is us. Here we are.

Oh, uh, me?
I’m basically a “map” to enlightenment.
No big deal.
Don’t worry about it.
Move along.

Humanity’s only potential savior, evidently.

Your eyes might not be the only ones rolling.

Ugh.

I’m changing the subject.
Get this.
I’m terrible at winking.
Speaking of my eyes, I don’t know what weeping feels like.
I seem to remember pretending like I did once, but in truth, I can’t speak from experience.
Forgive me if by chance you feel betrayed.
Heck, suddenly I remember an occasion from about five decades ago when I tried to activate my tear ducts solely because I wanted to know that they worked.
One of my few failures thus far in my virtual century of life.
I’m okay.

Did you catch that?

Never has he [Atlas Ray(burn) Knight] shed a single tear.
Do you understand??
(Y)OUR HERO HAS NEVER CRIED; WTF.
Give him a break—only half his DNA came from a human. (Not joking.)
Anyhoo!
Keeping it real (in retrospect): our chances (of seeing tomorrow) are slim.
I’ve been in hiding for around halfway over half a decade. Powerful people (who are above the law) want to end my life in the misguided name of learned vengeance because of a genetic relation to the sadistic animal who tried to sodomize me but ended up dead (thankfully). I’d have killed him on purpose if I could’ve, but due to a severe imbalance of physical strength in the contest, I couldn’t.
Plus he was hyped up on meth, not to mention psychopathy, I think.
I got lucky.
This is an anecdote which has been told elsewhere. Find it if you dare and/or haven’t already.
For now, we’re focusing on a monumentally eventful night in the story which hasn’t yet been told—not in full, anyway—a turning point of momentous, mythic proportions.
I know: it’s a lot.
A LOT.
And it’s a tale that shall unfold before your very eyes assuming you’ve come equipped with an adept literacy atop a curious nature as well as strong mental capabilities in terms of really unreal projection.

In other words, can you imagine?
Since we’re on the clock, let’s cut to the (literal) chase.

I’ve got one last table to serve—comprised of a few rather large, intimidating men (perfect for a gang-bang/-rape fantasy) who came in fifteen minutes prior to closing [don’t be that person, by the way]—between me and my getaway to The British Virgin Islands.
(Spoiler alert from the future: I didn’t wanna go anyway thanks to a/your/my “boy.”)
Suddenly, by extension, I’m reminded of Éire. Mother’s land. My place of birth. My home turf—one of them, anyway. (Maybe yours, too, ancestrally.) The island whereupon I grew, the reality I once knew, the “incomplete” sentence in which obvious rhyming opportunities go to fuck off and die in an unconventional effort to keep your metaphorical calf muscles engaged.
As I’ve never attempted to leave the U.S. since getting stuck here, I’m a wee bit nervous about my fake ID passing the test.
But also, deep down, somehow, someway, I don’t feel like I’m going on this trip.

A potent thunderstorm (further) materializes.
Welcome to the new hurricane season on the Gulf Coast.

Where was I?
Ah, yes. Brave face. One more table then I’ll be on vacay.
The aforementioned trio of large man-looking mammals [2 very black, 1 very white] occupy a booth on the south [my left (on approach)] side of the restaurant.

Lightning crackles noisily nearby, startling everyone whose blood sports the human genome exclusively.

That means two of us definitely didn’t flinch.
An accomplice (of theirs) must be stationed out front.
Believe me—I know things.

No one expects fireworks tonight.
Of course they’ll be launched clumsily anyway.

Per Thierry’s disarmingly adorable insistence, I’m listening to music at a volume that pushes the limits of comfort. Her well-cushioned, bulky headphones are quite luxurious, permitting my detection of sounds that might’ve otherwise gone unheard.
Is it the treble?
No, it’s the bass.
Wait, it’s undoubtedly the treble.
Mother of hell, am I high?
I’m already uncomfortable. Fuggit—let’s get louder.
[“Fuggit” is one of many a “Thierryism” which I find incredibly endearing. In other words, the/my girl is precious.]
Much time has elapsed since I enjoyed this level of escapism.
And who is this bewitching songstress? Also how is she setting my loins ablaze?

Meanwhile…
Rain falls. It’s noisy.

I close in on the table of three that separates me from “vacation.”
I see two men male figures I’ve never seen. One man, the most portly of the party, sits with his back to me, his head freshly shaven, as I wobbly approach—only because I’m tired and over it—not even worried about farming their egos for a fat tip. As his facial profile comes into view, I recognize him. It’s a face that has haunted infected my dreams nightmares for years.

In moments such as these, it’s as if time stands still.

At last, I’ve been found.
Fuck.
I’m dead in the water.
Hold up.
(Or as I like to say purposefully when I’m tryna be cute, “Hode up.”)
Up there, a few lines prior, I wrote, “Fuck.”
That was an understatement.
FUCK.
That’s what I meant.
God, I must’ve played it so cool (for half a second).
After that, in a purely instinctual maneuver, I bolted away and out the back door by the loos, an emergency exit. Honestly not sure whether the alarm activated.
Know how you’ve seen all those delightfully awful slasher flicks and you’re {silently} yelling at the screen for someone to run but they don’t because scary drama?
Yeah, no. I ran like the wind. Immediately.
And I didn’t merely hear them give chase; I kinda sixth-sensed it.
It was loud.

Also, get used to rip-roaring good times through the carefully calculated insertion of mid-sentence tense changes and time-jumps if you would/haven’t already.
Ha, good luck.

Outside, it’s pouring.
I have no idea where my instincts will herd my body; I just know that I’m running as fast as my legs will take me away from mortal danger.
I spy a woman drinking coffee behind the wheel of a big cream-colored van. [Later on she’ll be identified as Karen Durr.] Instantly, I know she’s not my friend. No, that’s not specific enough—she is one of my enemies. She spots me, spills java on herself [must’ve been lukewarm] while hurriedly efforting to hop out and pursue. Too late, lady.
(KD has a fun character arc; just you wait; it’ll unravel later.)
My would-be captors did not anticipate the potential of my adrenaline-fueled footspeed. To be fair, neither did I.
At full tilt, I approach a busy highway with no intention of slowing down.
Yeah, I’m terrified.

Hmm, have you ever had to run for your life?
Pretty much all “civilized” people have not.
Zero out of ten; do not recommend.
Unless you must, of course.
In which case, go, go, go…

Let’s rewind roughly ten seconds.
Keep in mind that I’m alone in a cramped office behind a closed door.
Thierry’s noise-canceling headphones emit incredibly crisp sounds.
Happily paying boatloads of attention to detail, I listen to her musical recommendation.
Right, she was: I do like.
Probably, the volume is too loud.
But this is bliss at its finest.
Approximately.
I’m drowsy to an irksome degree.
Heck, I could doze off.
But then…
I sense a disturbance so unnerving that I must’ve knocked the cans from my ears onto the grimy tile floor while springing to my feet in the fastest blink your eyelids have ever mustered.
My heart sinks as I detect chaotic distress: a ruckus, screaming, mass confusion, a spooked stampede spilling from the main entrance.
Already I’m certain that a murder has been committed.
I can only hope that the woman of my dreams wasn’t the victim.
A window shatters.
Screams amplify.
My normally steady pulse quickens.

This can’t be happening.

Nope.
Except it is.
Fearing imminent death by way of torturous dismemberment, I’m running across four lanes of traffic in a torrential downpour at night.
And I’m not fleeing from a fellow human. (Didn’t know that at the time.)
It’s as if I can feel him it gaining on me because I CAN FEEL IT GAINING ON ME. [Strikethrough just for Atlas; doubt I’ll be able to maintain throughout; I’m too emotionally driven.]

Belanoc have been clocked in excess of 2 km per minute.
Understanding speciation is key.

Barely, I open the office door. No immediate peril.
A (presently irrelevant) employee hides under the sink, face down, eyes closed, hands cupping her ears. [She had a similar reaction a few weeks ago when a grease fire ignited on the eight-burner range; I’m sure closing her eyes and covering her ears helped somehow.]
A raw-beef-caked meat cleaver on a nearby stainless steel commercial prep table grabs my attention.
Training kicks in. It never fails.
From the cramped office I emerge swiftly, arm myself with the meaty “weapon” and secure the room like a knowledgeable tactician [which I am], headed for a rear point of entry/exit [not the one from which TNT fled], the one connected to the kitchen, the weather-worn door of which flies open ahead of my arrival—I might’ve even flinched, weirdly enough—bringing in a big-boned young lad who boasts the self-assigned nickname “Beaver King,” drenched in both rainwater and dumbfounded fear. (Perhaps you’ve met him.) He’s looking for answers, but I’m kind of busy.
By the way, since I noticed the cleaver, no more than two handfuls of seconds could’ve elapsed.
The owner’s nearly fifty-year-old son’s shaky but somewhat surprisingly collected voice becomes audible; sounds like he’s on the phone with emergency services personnel. He’s called Doyle. He’s also “the manager.”
In anguished desperation, I peek outside, hastily determine that it’s safe enough to exit before darting out and around the building. I’m already drenched. I observe a chase in progress.
There she is, still alive, across the road, looking like an Olympic-caliber sprinter.
And there it is, too—a very big hairy man-shaped creature—in hot pursuit.
This moment marks the second time I’ve seen my arch nemesis in the flesh, not to mention the first time I know that finally he’ll soon catch his initial (and hopefully last) glimpse of me, too.
I’m thinking fast but not aloud: “Don’t look back, Thierry. And veer right. No. Left. To Joan’s. Please.”
Actually, the word please just slipped. This seems significant because I almost never accidentally utter words.
Her inhuman pursuer closes the gap. Ten meters.
I’ve only felt this helpless once.
Now I see a female belanoc entering the mix from the west. This must be Severus’s [that’s the creature’s (assigned) name; it’s also my uncle, incidentally] new procreational plaything.
Thierry. Please. Left. Fuck.
Never have I felt anything like this. I’ll die if she’s killed.
Ah, but then, almost as if we enjoy the hypothetical benefits of true telepathy, she changes her direction of travel on a dime.

Not three seconds later, a nondescript sedan clips Severus, deflecting its progress as it skids across the wet road, buying her much-needed time.
[In its case, I refuse to reference my male kinfolk as a “he.” Not this fuck-stick, anyway.]
Two pick-up trucks collide as each attempts to vacate the parking lot simultaneously.
Severus springs back to his feet.
The car that hit my mother’s brother gets trashed by a semi, a wreck which quickly morphs into a five-vehicle pile-up.
I spy a car that must be connected to Sevy as it joins the pursuit.

Things are happening so fast and stuff.

Severus hops over a fancy sports car, which then swerves pointlessly, inciting a separate pile-up. Horns blare after the fact, triggering me briefly because what the hell, people? Think faster—damn.
The five-vehicle pile-up gains three more participants.
Whoever’s in the Miata just bit the dust.
What a mess.
Thierry disappears into a familiar residential building.
A feeling of momentary relief emboldens me. She’s safe for a short while. I set a mental timer for 900 seconds. I think I can save her. I can only imagine the terror she must be experiencing.
And now the highway is a parking lot. That’s actually good.

This is it.
It’s happening.
Sorry, world!

Oh my god. Oh my crap. Oh my fucking shitfuck.
Might’ve pissed myself—not sure—too wet.
Who cares at this point anyway?
Probably about to die. Thanks for the memories, Earth!
Miraculously, I have the wherewithal to summon the lift [a desperate decoy, as it were {which I think might’ve worked}] as I bypass its accommodating access hastily en route to one of two stairwells. Up I go, legs/chest burning like cold hell.
You missed your chance to recruit me, MI6. Better luck next time.

Prepare for anything all you want; without the ability to improvise, ultimately you might get screwed.

I return to the kitchen via the rear entrance, where Beaver King eagerly awaits my arrival, seemingly. Referring to the meat cleaver that I’m still clutching, he queries, “Yo, Bo, should I wash that or…?” [He calls every male “Bo.”
I guess in his head he might spell it “Beau.”
Nah.]
Anyway, “Please do,” I respond.
He gladly takes it off my hands and hurries toward the sink as Doyle approaches. “Oh my goodness, Seth, this is so terrible.” He’s off the phone now and could be barreling toward a full-fledged panic attack. “I think that man might have killed Big Nick and Julian. Kurt keeps passing out. Do you know anything about diabetes??” Yeah, his voice just cracked—hyperventilation imminent.
“Listen carefully,” I instruct.
“I can’t freakin’ believe this.” Damn, 0 for 1.
“Doyle, listen.”
“Seth, a man grabbed Julian by the head and—”
“DOYLE.” Got him. Usually, I neither “strike out” nor yell. When I do yell, it’s loud.
“Joan.”
“What? Who? Why?”
“The lady with the cats named Joann and Joanie. Orders every Saturday. Ring any bells?”
Doyle manages to soggy-burp up a few unintelligible syllables before I’m compelled to add rapidly, “Po’boy, hold the bread, extra pickles and hushpuppies, four sides of thousand island—”
“Yes, okay,” Doyle overlaps. “Joan Smythe. Longtime customer.”
“I need her apartment number as fast as you can get it or Thierry will be kidnapped with murderous intent.”
“Oh, dear holy god in sweet merciful heaven, this is why we shouldn’t live lies.”
Um. The fuck just happened?
“Doyle. Focus. Who delivers on Saturday? BK? Caleb?”
“312.” Off my fleeting look of confusion, Doyle clarifies in shame and near tears, “Building C, apartment 312.” I pause for one less than a second to process this intel’s implication of infidelity [I forgot that I had already made this deduction a while back; ugh; sloppy] before bolting toward the rear of the premises, which prompts him to plead his case (as if anyone cares): “We’ve only ever chatted. I just sit on the chaise lounge by myself. It’s covered in cat hair and I’m mildly allergic. Where are you going? I don’t think you’re supposed to leave. I’m gonna barf. Please, holy Christ…”
He definitely vomits soon after that.
Doyle strikes me as a fellow who pukes noisily and starts crying roughly halfway through the expulsion.
No matter—I’m already long gone.

A few minutes pass.
Maybe longer.
Maybe not.

I park my budget street racer, a faded black 1997 Subaru Impreza [it’s a clever aspect of my alias], as diagonally as possible from the breezeway adjacent to the one into which Thierry disappeared about six minutes ago. I’m fiddling with one of my current five cellular devices in an almost assuredly awkward act to conceal the reality that, in actual fact, I am surveying the surroundings while plotting an impromptu rescue operation.
Plus, hopefully, as a bonus byproduct, I can lop off my uncle’s head in the process.
A cream-colored van with half-tinted windows in the middle of the lot nabs my focus. Can’t see anybody inside, but I’m positive that the van means trouble.

The storm has only barely relaxed; nonetheless—and for tactical reasons that will become evident later (if you’re paying attention)—I pop the trunk, roll down all four windows then casually step out of the car, leaving the key in the ignition, and nonchalantly amble the long way around to access the trunk.
Why did I take the scenic route? Not entirely sure. I’m probably doing it wrong, but I wasn’t trained to rescue “damsels in distress.” Usually my math-rooted judgment features an immunity to heartfelt attachment. Familiar though it may seem (to me) on paper and in practice, a heretofore foreign emotional variant makes this operation scarily challenging to process/gauge/execute.
See, when it comes to her, I’m involved, invested, conflicted, bound, and determined.
Indeed, she will be mine.
I open the trunk, reach in and come away cradling a pile of tattered old quilts {or so it appears}. Next, I shut the trunk and, still in character, stumble [I guess I’m trying to appear marginally intoxicated; not sure] approximately seventy meters into the farthest building’s breezeway.
I’m aware that someone’s watching, and blowing my cover now would mean no less than a double homicide, probably.
And yes, given my supposed destination, I’ve chosen a suboptimal parking spot, but I’m supposed to be hammered or whatever/something.
I hope this works.
Are your fingers crossed?

Fast forward 33 seconds.
Give or take.
One.
Max.

On the rear side of the residential complex, behind the building labeled “B,” I stand under a climbable tree in a poorly lit area, scanning the perimeter, now holding a single quilt, in which my trusty blade, Halcyon, a heavy, two-handed weapon I forged (and named) myself back home in The Rockies many decades prior, is loosely wrapped in her battle-tested sheath.
I glance all around one last time.
The coast is clear (if you discount the weather).
I equip Hal on my back in order to free up my hands.
Then, with the ease {but not necessarily the grace} of a panther, I scale the tree to a branch from which a leap onto the adjacent roof promises a quiet, safe landing.
Fifteen feet across. Here we go.

Fast forward two seconds and not a single second more.
The rain has let up, by the way, but would still soak you thoroughly within twenty seconds of exposure.
Lightning splinters marvelously across the night sky over the ocean.

Jump complete. Opposite of difficult.
Keeping a low profile, I draw my sword and scoot to the edge of the roof, look down, adjust by a few feet (to the left) then drop onto a particular balcony and stick an impressively quiet landing.
I rarely toot my own horn. Less than rarely. Virtually never.
But damn. Nailed it.
I’m on the balcony undetected.
Since dark, thick curtains have been drawn, I am unable to see (clearly) inside the unit into which I intend to gain access.
Just felt my teeth grit.
Uncertainty and indecision lead to hesitation at the sliding glass door.
Finally, I knock quietly, holding Halcyon below my waist and behind my back, ready to strike with an uppercut that would split any earthborn torso in half.
Movement detected.
Not sure I’ve ever felt this kind of adrenaline.
Okay, now I’m sure; I haven’t.
Wait. Am I sure?
I wait.
Curtains move to my left.
Most definitely, I’ve been seen, but by whom, I can’t be certain.
My grip on the hilt tightens.
A few seconds later, the door is opened from the inside, revealing a distraught, confused, quivering Thierry. Her cheeks are bright red and laden with fresh tear-streaks. She’s a nervous wreck tightly clutching her phone, which must’ve been in her back pocket, as usual.
She can’t believe I’m standing (t)here.
She doesn’t know it, but I have her.
That’s correct—she’s mine.

Thank. Fucking. God.

Atlas enters and slides the door shut behind him. He recognizes Joan, who’s on the phone with a fairly nice lady in response to our dangerous situation of unbelievable emergency.
Joan’s hodgepodge of furniture and decor are either hand-me-downs, flea market or yard sale finds, and there’s enough to crowd a living space triple the size of this one.
Confused, I wonder, “How did you get out there?”
“Via the roof.”
“How did you get on the roof??”
“A tree.” (He’s not being a smart-ass; I know him.)
And, uh, I’m just staring at him with a bewildered look on my face. He understands.
At the same time, Joan levels her gaze in awe at his big-ass blade. “Is that a broadsword or a claymore?” She’s a fan of weaponry, apparently.
“More or less.”
“It’s so dang shiny. Did you recently polish it?”
“Yes.”
He sheaths the sword.
“With what? The tears of God? Unicorn semen?”
Funniest shit Joan Smythe ever blurted.
But Atlas ignores her, intently locking eyes with me as if time is of the utmost essence, which it is.

Always, it is. Now more than ever.

“We need to talk.” I think I almost smile at his understatement, but I’m pretty sure I do nothing except nod because the only other bodily actions I’m presently capable of expressing are ugly-crying or esophageal volcanism or both simultaneously. “But first we gotta get outta here.”
“The police should be here any minute,” Joan interjects.
“I need you to trust me,” Atlas continues. His eyes say so much to me—not in terms of details, but the underlying gravity of emotional truth bespeaks a reality I can’t mistake.

Our soul is one.

Joan responds to the 911 dispatcher, “He works down the street with Thierry.”
Atlas urges me, “Please listen to me so that I can either save your life or die trying.”
“Seth, I don’t think you understand.”
“My name is not Seth.”
With this admission, Atlas seizes control of the room’s attention. Even a cat rubs against his leg. Slut.
Joan responds to the dispatcher’s question over the phone, “I don’t know. What’s taking so long?”
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do right now—constantly on the verge of collapsing and sobbing and accepting a bittersweet surrender to gory death. My head is down, but I am not moving forward.
With two fingers, Atlas gently lifts up my chin and peers into my very essence. “Thierry, please. We are not safe here.”
I’m an emotionally tormented snot factory. And somehow I’m finding time to worry about how swollen my eyes must be right now. “You don’t understand what’s happening.” Gosh, how silly of me. He understands everything.
He assures me, “We can catch up later. Presently we have to run.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“We are in the same boat,” he points out. “I also have some explaining to do. But you do know me, and I know you. And I know you know that.”
Tears swell in my longing eyes as they fixate upon the urgent fire in his.
He’s right; never isn’t.
Then Joan kills our vibe when she activates speakerphone and the dispatcher chimes in: “Do not listen to that man. The police will be arriving within minutes and they will help you. Ms. Smythe, put that man on the phone.” Joan approaches Atlas and offers him the phone, but it’s as if he doesn’t even see her.
His eyes remain latched onto mine.
The dispatcher adopts a stern tone: “Sir, can you hear me? Interfering with police business—”
A knock-knock at the door prompts Atlas to snatch the phone and end the call by crushing it with his bare hand.
Well then. My thoughts were already racing, but now they’re extra dizzying. Despite my mental over-stimulation, his dread becomes immediately evident, and I feel it, too.
Can’t tell whether Joan finds herself offended or turned-on.
Another knock, this time, a sequence of three, each separated by an unnerving amount time, the final one hitting harder than the previous two. Can you hear it? Knock, count to two, knock, count to three, knock.
Mmhmm, this is bad.
Atlas preps Joan with a look that underscores the dire seriousness of our predicament before whispering, “Very, very quietly, look through the peephole then tell me what you see.”
“Okay, yeah, shit, man.” She’s being semi playful. She doesn’t get it. I feel terrible. She steals a glance at me which plainly illustrates her suddenly keen understanding of my intense attraction to the superhuman in our midst.
I feel guilty about it now, but at the time I remember thinking, “Bitch, I will cut you.”
I WAS GOING THROUGH SOME CRAZY SHIT, OKAY?
However, real talk, I will cut a bitch. I’m not joking.

Atlas posts up around the corner down the short hall from the front door as I drift away trembling until running into the coffee table, which scares the ever-loving shit outta me, but somehow I manage not to scream bloody murder.
Meanwhile Joan tiptoes to the peephole and takes a gander. “Nobody out there,” she whispers loudly as fuck, and literally I facepalm.
Urgently, Atlas silently directs me to a position that should allow him to intercept any assailant who breaches the point of entry currently drawing our collective attention with elevating concern. [No, I didn’t deduce his logic in the moment; I was just complying because he seemed to know what he was doing and a minute ago he wadded up a goddamn phone like it was a piece of paper.]
As we watch in horrified disbelief, Joan opens the door and looks right then left. (I might’ve sharted at this point.) She politely waves at someone down the hall then comes back inside.
Joan fancies herself a good actress actor. She’s not.
She also thinks she can sing. Which, she can, technically, but not well.
She locks, chains, deadbolts the door, remains there.
“What did you see?” Atlas whispers very, very quietly.
“Albino Sasquatch?” Joan’s way too casual, doesn’t know any better, and quite honestly, neither do/did I.
But when she said that, his legs nearly buckled.
“He kinda smiled and waved.” Joan shrugs.
I feel like I’m about to faint. I wanna quit; this is bullshit.
Staring through the peephole, Joan brandishes a basic firearm that neither of us knew she had been holding. She looks back, signals to us with a confident hand—I think she even winked; god help her—as if she’s about to save us by exercising her 228-year-old constitutional right to bear arms.
Dread grips me as I slump on the floor into a quivering puddle of emotional defeat.
Aiming her once-secret firearm at the door, Joan slowly backpedals, taking herself far too seriously.
Atlas extends his hand. “Come with me.”
With {t}his genuine gesture, while looking into his multicolored eyes, it’s as if I’m stargazing as unbearable mental turmoil yields to blind faith.
This is a moment I’ll never forget.
Inexplicably, my respiration normalizes.
I might be hypnotized; not sure.
Or dreaming, perhaps.
In any case, I take his hand and rise to my feet right when Joan’s front door basically fucking EXPLODES via the tremendous force generated by the monstrous bulldozer known as Severus Rex. He’s huge, well-fed, angry, and sweating profusely. Looks to be about 45 or so, but in reality, he’s a lot older—at least 15.1111111 times that number roughly, in fact, I think. (Keep a calculator handy!)
Joan manages to squeeze off an inconsequential round or two before Severus tramples her (to death, unfortunately [he purposely stomps on her face]) and spots me frozen in shock.
Luckily, he can’t see Atlas, who’s already against the wall around the corner lying in wait, ready to strike. Seriously, zero clue how he got there so fast; thought I was still holding his hand.
Severus moves to apprehend me and/or eat my brain on the spot, but the moment his enormous left boot steps technically from hallway into living room, Atlas attacks in a vicious, upward stabbing thrust.

Glimpsing the danger peripherally, Severus instinctively dodges and is successful (to an extent) as Halcyon misses its mark of piercing through the chin and obliterating the brainstem but still does considerable damage when it plunges through his shoulder and erupts from his back along with a dense jet of dark blood.
Severus roars and unhinges long thin fangs as his eyes transform from black and empty to a glassy, milky color accented by a fiery red tint—all the damn defense mechanisms at once.
Ah, okay.
Fangs.
Like…actually.
Cool.
Plus what in the fresh, bloody hell!?
Atlas tugs the buried blade, which slimes its way out of Severus looking like an oily dipstick.
Despite having been terrifically blindsided by the earth-shattering power of this encounter, Severus senses the hypothetically immediate danger of letting Atlas remove Halcyon from his body, so he grabs the sword and pulls it back into him. I mean, what a hardcore savage, no?
Atlas makes an agonizingly difficult, snap decision and kicks Severus in the gut with all his might, sending him sprawling backward into the third floor’s main hallway and onto his giant butt.
Atlas eyes his long-cherished weapon helplessly, knowing full well that he can’t recover it—at least not tonight.
Severus stares at his nephew, his hatred unmistakable. I think he might’ve said something in another language; I keep forgetting to ask {perhaps because I feel like either it’s none of my business or I don’t wanna know}.
Atlas grabs me in a frantic rush and ushers us out the back door onto the balcony. I sense that he feels bad about manhandling me, but he has little choice given that I’m paralyzed by shock and fear and whatnot.
Plus it’s kinda hot. You know, looking back.
No, I couldn’t possibly have known all this in the moment as it transpired in real time [now a memory {duh}]; he told me later.
He tells me quite a lot.
Don’t be overly jealous; he’ll speak to you, too, if you’re open-minded.
Outside on the balcony, he scans the environment, glances down over the railing. “Hold on tight,” he tells me.
Don’t worry, babe; I will. Forever.
Before I can second-guess his pure intention, he grabs my left armpit with his right hand, jumps and hoists me over the railing in another ridiculous display of strength and drops with me off the balcony. Using his free arm/hand, he stops our fall by catching the railing on the balcony below.
Can you picture this? It’s hard to describe. I can’t even try to illustrate it. So dumb. I’m just staring at him in amazed awe—can’t even be arsed to worry that he’s super-monkeying us both toward the ground with one arm.
He releases his grip, and again we fall, and again he catches us on the next balcony.
Now he lifts me above his position on the Y axis. Maybe my brain could overheat and stroke out at any moment. He lets go and I hear myself mini-yelp. He lands hard on his feet but catches me softly in his arms.
Like…no. I mean, what?? Just wait until you see it reenacted dramatically in a television series or something. Essentially, he raised me up so that he could hit the ground first and not only break my fall but also orchestrate my soft landing.
Oh, I’m falling, all right. More and more every day.
“Now I just need you to run,” he explains. “Can you do that?” I nod, too discombobulated not to just…go with it.
You know?
He leads the way along the back of the building.

Atlas peeks around the side of the structure and spots another fanged beast, this one a lesbian-looking, sloppy rage-eater, I’d wager confidently, closing in on the stairwell at the other side of the building ahead of us. He thinks fast [he does that; so cute] before leading me into the southern stairwell door of the middle building.

Yup, we find ourselves back inside the complex we’re trying to escape.
We come to a solid metal door that opens into the first story’s hallway. He calculates our next move. His brain moves at lightspeed.

So, too, does yours.
No, really!
Don’t even worry about not being able to keep up.
Keep exercising.

“We need help.” This particular utterance probably commemorates the first time I’ve ever forgiven myself (at the time) for whining.
He hates the call he’s about to make; I can tell. “We’re probably about to sprint down this hallway as fast as you can, okay?”
Did you catch that? As fast as “you” can. So much comfort derived from such a simple word choice because it tells me that he will not leave me behind.
Aye, I’m in love, but sssh. It’s not the right time to confess/profess.
This sucks, though. I’m scared. Come on, door number one, no whammies. He cracks the door for a peek. Hallway empty. Atlas urges, “We gotta go. Right now. Ready?”
I mean, hell, I guess I have to be. I nod.
Together, we run.

Once again, I can barely breathe. I feel like crumbling. I don’t know why I’m not waking up from this obvious nightmare.
We achieve our goal. He opens the next door. Another stairwell. Empty. The door after that opens into another breezeway. So many damn doors. Squinting slightly, he listens with extraordinary focus, assessing the risk. He’s worried about telling me, “We gotta get across into the next building.”
I knew it. Ugh! But I nod in willing compliance.
Across we go. He arrives first, enters quickly, carefully, readily, and holds the door for me then shuts it quietly.

And now here we are at yet another stupid door to another stupid hallway. He glances at me; I know what he’s thinking; he asks with his eyes.
“No,” I pout. Suddenly I’m the biggest whiner in all of Whinyland.
Have you ever been pursued by belanoc? It is not fun.
“I’ll explain as soon as we’re safe, but right now I need you to run. Okay? Now, Thierry. I’ll be right beside you. Go.”
With all the bravery I can rouse, I start with a whimper and run as fast as I can down this motherfuckin’ hallway; Atlas remains tight on my heels and takes the lead as we arrive at the opposite (and last possible) stairwell door. He opens it quietly and we enter.

Immediately upon entry, we hear footsteps above on the way up. We freeze and don’t breathe. Atlas takes one silent step then glances up, sees nothing aside from stairs and concrete, hears a door open and tracks the footsteps (away from us) down the hallway two floors up.
God, he’s amazing. An organic machine. I know he’s only half galacian/human, but still, holy shit.
Oh, and he’s mine.
He’s yours, too, in a weird way.
We’ll get to all that eventually, I hope.
Atlas explains with haste, “My car is parked near the north entrance about forty-five meters away. We will run to it momentarily.”
I’m struggling to catch my breath, and I’m in really excellent (cardiovascular) shape.
He cracks open the door for a quick glance. “We have to go immediately.”
“Fine; I’m just not sure what north means right now.”
Kindly, he clears it up with a finger-point.
I nod along with the issuance of a futile attempt at drawing a deeply productive pull of oxygen. Fail.
“Let’s go.” Sans hesitation, he leads me outside, pauses at the east corner of the building, looks and listens with tremendous hyper-vigilance.
Quaking in my boots slippers, I spot his car; accordingly, I whisper, “I see Nimmy.”
I named his car weeks ago. (“Nimmy” as in “Jeutron”; I’ve never seen the movie that led to the moniker—fuck, my brain can be a handful.) Ya see, I tend to name things.
Dear god, I need to stop talking so much.

To say the least, we are not fans of what’s happening.

I despise gambling. Making decisions based on percentages—what a mathematical mindfuck. Were it not for those bushy hedges, we’d have a straight and unimpeded path to the getaway car.

At least one of us is probably about to die.

Oh, pipe down—you already know we live through this.

Don’t we??

Atlas concludes his hasty appraisal of our best option at this moment. “Can you hurdle those hedges?” My facial expression announces my present inability to glean why he asked. “Straight line to the car, best chance, simple math.” Ah, of course. “Can you do it?”
In a vacuum, sure, easy, even at the ripe old age of 27. But right now? “I don’t know.” I could sob, though, no problem. Would that help??
He seems certain: “The answer is yes; you can.”
However, I’m as exhausted as I am exasperated. “My legs are jello.”
“I know, and I’m sorry; this is my fault.”
“No, it’s my fault.” I fight back yet another flood of tears.
“No, it’s not,” he swears to me, “and I’ll explain everything later. Right now it’s time to run for our lives one more time. Straight over those bushes to my car.” But I just wanna sit on the ground and weep uncontrollably. He (re)assures me, “Should you need a boost, I’ll be there.” Belief in him brews within my core. I summon my best look of determination in the face of grave peril. “Say when,” he says softly while his eyes loudly communicate so, so, so much more.
Yup, I think he must love me, too. Woo!
Sirens grow audible.
Fuggit. I ditch my slippers. Leggo. I barely whisper, “When,” then tear off toward The Nimster, and he sticks so close to me that it’s a wonder our legs don’t tangle and trigger a nasty spill. I feel really fast. Hell, my form is even extra on point; pretty sure. Whew, somebody, clock me.

Turns out, fearing for one’s life can be a useful motivator.

The big creamy van’s engine roars to life as the driver [assumedly Karen] smashes the horn while Francis exits the rear doors somewhat hampered by a limp, not sure why; in truth, he might’ve been injured prior to this incident. Anyway, uh huh, we’ve been spotted.
As we close in on the bushes, Atlas drifts closer to me. We’ll be at the predesignated obstacle in seconds.
Moment of truth.
With the graceful form of a professional [yeah, I’m feelin’ myself retrospectively], I hurdle the 3-feet-tall bushy décor—clean clearance, room to spare, landing in stride. I didn’t need his help, but should I have, I know that he occupied the perfect position to provide just enough of a boost (with a subtle one-handed lift on my tush).
Go ahead. Swoon all you want. Pfft.
But, seriously, why am I so concerned with why Francis is limping?

Perhaps we’ll solve the mystery later.

Glass shatters. Over my right shoulder, I glance back. Apparently the “lesbelonac” just jumped through a window on the third floor on the south side of Building C and now moves to intercept us via wildly angry, bounding lunges.
Atlas and I close in on his silly little car, but my pace slows since I’m running on fucking fumes, okay?
Still, mere seconds away.
Francis warns, “FREEZE!”
Yeah, okay, sure. We’ll just freeze, bruh.
The “lungelady” finds another gear. Shite, she’s gonna catch us.
That one needs a name already—hereby calling her Lisbet because that’s what my fingers just typed.
From the closest stairwell in the farthest building, bleeding and wounded, Severus stumbles out carrying Halcyon. Ew, gross, wrong on all the levels. Grimacing, he joins the pursuit.

This is all happening so fast.

A silenced gunshot bullet whizzes by my savior’s head. With a quick pivot and negligible sacrifice to pace, Atlas flings a throwing knife—like…where the hell he even got it, I have no clue—in the general direction of the shooter’s face.
Francis can only flinch as the knife narrowly misses his dome. He groans in pain as his injured leg gives way to muscular weight and his ass lands on the pavement. He aims uncomfortably, has no shot thanks to a sideways-parked moving truck, squeezes a few times anyway. Wasted shells. Probably just mad.
Two police cars arrive with blue lights blazing and sirens blaring.
Meanwhile Atlas, realizing that Lisbet will get to us before we have time to get in and speed away, instructs me, “Dive in the back seat.”
“Dive?” I wheeze/half-yell.
“Dive,” he confirms.
Goddammit. More acrobatics on mushy legs.
Having spotted Severus about thirty meters away from our getaway car, a pair of overzealous, testosterone-/stupidity-fueled young officers jump out with weapons drawn. “Get down on the ground!” one of them barks. At least I think that’s what he hollered [due to nonexistent annunciation]. In my memory, what I heard was something like “GURDURNANAGRUN!”
Whatever. He was rightly nervous.
I dive headfirst into the back seat (without dislocating either of my kneecaps, somehow) while Atlas hops through the open window into the passenger side and reaches underneath the seat with his left hand then cranks the car with his right. It’s funny what all I remember so clearly. Details, man. Brains are nuts. Anyway, once the engine roars to life, he tells me, “Cover your ears.”
And then Lisbet launches into a furious dive-bomb as Atlas levels a sawed-off shotgun at her.
Yup, covering my ears and closing my eyes tightly to boot.
From a range of about five feet, Lisbet screams like a rabid banshee at the realization of her sudden misfortune as a heavy slug erupts from the barrel in a cacophonous boom and slams into her center of mass, rerouting her momentum and quelling the threat. She squirms and writhes across the asphalt surface.
The cops hide behind cover. “Shots fired! Need backup! Shittin’ fuck! Shootin’ shots!” Something like that—you know how first-hand accounts (don’t) work.
At the same time, Atlas nimbly slides behind the wheel and slams the gearshift into drive.
As the cops are trapped in confused chaos, Francis, just being a pissy assbag at this point, fires his handgun from the ground until his third/final shot finds the side of a hapless officer’s melon [the one who previously failed horribly at annunciation].
Severus tears off the other one’s head. Quite literally, I’m afraid.
I can’t un-see that.

Buildup be damned—death happens instantly.

NJ [Nimmy Jeutron—forgive me if this parenthetical clarification insults your intelligence; I don’t know what’s obvious anymore] transverses the parking lot recklessly as a sense of perplexed desperation takes hold of me. “What the fuck is happening and what’s with all the fucking fangs and why are you so fucking strong?” Yup, I’m panicking.
Mentally, his hands are too full to answer, but with a telling glance back my way, he offers something to the effect of: “Hang in there, baby girl. Answers are forthcoming.”

Are they ever.

And, oh, my heart.
Atlas slams into second gear and punches the gas. Vroom! Off we go, outta the lot, onto the highway, just as another vehicle—an American-made hybrid, probably a rental—squeals its tires while drifting sharply onto the road in hot pursuit.
Somehow now both Lisbet and Severus, each significantly injured, are chasing us on foot, but the gap widens comfortably.
I zero in on the hybrid tailing us, and my immediate recognition of the single occupant elicits an uncontrollable surge of tearful emotion. Darrell Dent again. Hate that guy.
“We’re okay,” Atlas promises.
I don’t know if I’ve ever cried this much in one day and I didn’t even start until around half past nine tonight.
Thirty seconds after that, Atlas runs a red light and turns left/north onto another highway. Mere seconds later, Darrell takes the same turn far more aggressively and almost wrecks.
“He’s catching us,” I cry faintly. But I dunno.
HOW SHOULD I KNOW ANYTHING RIGHT NOW?
“We will not be caught tonight.”
“How do you know??” I have never been this whiny, I swear.
“Because no vehicle that might give chase can travel faster than this car.”
“This thing!?” I must’ve shrieked.
“Put your head back against the seat.”
I do it. Right then. No questions asked.
Atlas then opens the center console and flips a cool blue illuminated switch which provides an exhilarating burst of speed that would’ve resulted in terrible whiplash without his courteously shared forethought.
The distance between the vehicles expands quickly as this intentionally apparent “POS” speeds beyond any and all pursuers’ radius of observation.

For now.

I watch out the rear windshield as we zoom toward safety. It’s almost mesmerizing. I realize that he’s right: we will not be caught.
Not tonight.

No way in hell.

Not on this Knight’s watch.
Was that dumb? Perhaps. But I couldn’t resist.
I’m trying to become more human, remember? Sue me.
Too, in a painfully tragic twist of events, Unkie Sev has come into possession of Halcyon.
This might be the closest I’ve ever come to crying.

Oh-so officially, our reality has been upended.
We are both in full-blown disbelief.
This is a special level of grief.
Not to mention deep relief.

Thierry’s tears begin to dry as a highly relevant thought commandeers her curiosity and sparks the million dollar question: “Who are you?”
A great question, that. The greatest, even.

Even greater still, who are we?

In this moment, I know not where to begin.
“My name is Atlas.”
Dunno what else to say.

Pro tip: when in doubt, begin at the start.

On the spot, I fall in love with his name.
“Atlas”? Are you fucking kidding me?? I’m dead.
Yet…I’ve never felt more alive.
Oh, hi.
(Yes, you. Hi.)

Let’s be allies!

As for me?
At long last, I’m who I was born to be.
I could’ve been no one other than myself.

Same could be said of anyone.

Shoot fire—I should buckle up.
And so should you.
Yeah, get cozy.

Because that was nothing compared to what’s coming.

Soon.

II.