Au suivant

“Next.”

Frame flickers from image of man aged thirty. Dark skin, skullcap with a sigil. Back to the drawing board: projected photograph of series of mugshots and profiles. Some names are marked with small blue lines. The room is smoky, pungent. Ties are loose. Daylight begins breaking through the slats. The woman with early crow-feet continues:

“Well, what are you proposing?”

“I’ve already ruled out corporate terrorism. It’s a messy spiral.”

“So you’ve said, Ashdown, but it’s quicker than reprogramming King Armand.”

“At least he’s in the city. You have the floor, Carter, so just get to the next one.”

“Alright: this guy.”

Frame flickers. It’s an old model, archaic, effective, affected. Man aged twenty-five. Shot from distance: standard: slightly underweight; brown hair. Beard unimpressive, etc. Marked name plate reads: Derek Edmonton.

“Our school shooter grew up.”

“Yes he did.”

“This has to be catastrophe-level, and he’s already failed to activate once. Next.”

“No, no, Bennet—hold up. Give me a minute to explain.”

“Fine. One minute.”

Fuck the world. Still scrawled on the side of his bed. Ten years. He sighs and stretches his hand out, reaching nothing. Shaking his head. Almost packed his bag for school. Birds outside. Takes a look: robins, a sparrow, finches lightly rustling the boughs. Starlings twisting above, sun shines into his eyes, looking away and just listening instead. Chippering. Tweets.

Cracks a beer. Last of the whiskey finished. No more of that: simple IPA will do. Phone’s been dead for days. Parents aren’t home yet. Five P.M. Fuck the world, enter… what? Aberrant stray flicker, dusty dream short passed. May as well finish the drink now. Open laptop login open browser login. Hoping just for once something. Cigarette. Ten years. He still feels the jolts. Still swears it happens. Nobody interested. Nobody left. Drones still run the country. Posted sentry on every buzzing wire overhead that crackles day and night.

Sees their bodies drawn writhing. Large thighs, flaccid penis dripping white magic, perked nose, boyish, with breasts, dainty. Then bulked out tight in cop uniform, mammoried pectorals, chiseled innocent pleading face. Videos, shemen riding shemen, distant until first ochre orgasm gurgles its way into blank sheet.

He lies in bed and holds himself gently, shoulder to shoulder, and swears there and then he can smell the blood of a decade long dead. Lulled to sleep by Buddy Holly: it was the only element out of place. Fuck the world, enter the… there was more. Semen still pooling in his underpants, his penis recoils and aches. Chest snakes, feels the bullets railing through, hollowpoints bursting his open sores he cries witnessing his quarry. Piled up tiny heaps.

Manure always in the air. Quiet path to hell. Birds playing in the breeze. Punched in the stomach. Fuck the world, enter the exterior. His eyes whirl in his head, then calming, and he breathes precisely. Cigarette. Opens another beer. Drones for the company board. Exited hope left turn one decade. Sits up and login laptop login browser hoping for—

A message.

“Listen, this is all great stuff. If he activates properly, or at all.”

“He will.”

Smouldering cherry crushed beneath wetted thumb. Another is incandescent, permeating even the light glaring through.

“Do you know about Emil Jacobs?”

“Eighty-one?”

“I was asking Carter.”

“Can’t say I do. What’d he get up to?”

“Part of the CIA Cruising op. Patient Zero for AIDS.”

“Sounds like a success story to me. Jesus, this stuff is strong. Where’d it come from, anyway? This isn’t London grass.”

“British Columbia. On the face of it, Jacobs was a crowning achievement of Western Intelligence. His handlers were revered and lauded the network across. Until they got murdered.”

Image flicker: two corpses, brains busted wide open.

“Oh? Too bad.”

“By Jacobs, you idiot.”

“Yes, Ashdown, by Jacobs. See, Carter, Jacobs was a case of a similar kind of reactivation you’re proposing with your failed school shooter. Jacobs was originally programmed to shoot Robbie K., back in the golden age. Shoot him dead with his father’s gun, crying I killed the Devil!—Catholic angle. But he didn’t go off. Misfired. By the Eighties, Jacobs is a devout man, and he confesses to a planted priest that he believes that it was he who killed old Kennedy. They reactivate him for Cruising—Biblical repression turning into gay fever. He was never caught officially, neither for those he bludgeoned, nor those he infected.

“Then comes Cruising, the film. Jacobs walks from a screening, takes a taxi directly to his handlers’ hideout, and shoots them all to death with one of their own guns. Everything past that is beyond even my knowledge. You don’t take the code seriously, do you, Carter?”

“I take it seriously. And we’re not doing another AIDS, fuck… fuck that shit. We’re not American dogs. Listen, I take the code seriously. That’s why this is going to work.”

Fuck the world, enter the exterior.

—You got my message, didn’t you?

That was all it said. Ten years. One message. 

He scans through her pictures. He can see her bulge, and it is clear from the shape of her face. She is beautiful.

—hey

All he could muster. Quiver in his throat, cold chills. No immediate response.

—is this like the matrix?

No immediate response.

Given the opportunity, he masturbates using her images. Before the orgasm comes:

—What?

—No I meant you got my message on my other account right?

—um no

—you have the wrong person

—I don’t. You’re Divergent Path, right?

Original name from years past, a land since abandoned.

—yeah who is this?

—Blossom_Space_Ranger.

—oh haha i remember u

—how’s it going?

—sorry i didn’t get your other message

—It’s fine! I’m good thank u. :3

Found—here—this environment… resist the sickness.

—i never realised you looked like that lol

—Like what?

—oh like

—you’re very good looking

—Thank yuo. You’re also very handsome.

—You*

—i posted pics back on Darkfire

—I know, you were always handsome.

—but idk if u ever saw them

—oh wow thank u lol

—(:

“Next?”

“We’d let them settle. Talk for a while. Let the ideas come naturally. I looked up Jacobs after you mentioned him. I’m certain this will work.”

Donut spread already near spent. Headaches all-round.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Bennet. Seriously. My initial idea came from the code.”

“You couldn’t understand the code, kid. Your generation doesn’t see the patterns in the smoke. Bennet, we should go back to King Armand. Getting Edmonton in the city is added hassle—on top of being unsure if he’ll even go off.”

“Ashdown. Carter has the floor. Carter.”

“I ran the numbers. Edmonton has it all. Potential, chaos; nuclear shit, I swear it. Hey, Geoff, make yourself useful and get us a coffee, would you?”

“Suck an Arab, kid.”

“Ashdown. Carter.”

“As I was saying: nuclear shit. The code pins him as extinction-level, if harnessed right.”

Danish pastry with a bite taken out of it; discarded, paper plate.

“Hold on: extinction-level?”

“Indeed.”

“We’re not trying to kill the planet here, punk.”

“Ashdown is correct. I, for one, would rather, well, be alive.”

“Listen, Bennet—Sarah—don’t worry about it, okay? I don’t want to die, either. My point is just that he could be if worked correctly. But we can temper that to our needs: catastrophe, not extinction. King Armand’s armies haven’t grown since the day he picked up that old crown. Unless you want to try homebrewing a sharp from that gallery of gormless potentials, nuclear reactivation with Mr Edmonton is your best bet.”

“What about us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Jacobs killed his retainers.”

“That’s because they let Jacobs live long enough to malfunction. With our guy? There won’t be a trace of him left.”

He had left Darkfire a year ago. Nine years before, cold steel in his body. Rubber bullets rattle around inside.

—I left too. The nazi shit was funny for a while but i know they’d all want me cold dead if they knew about me lol.

—it was funny that we all simped for u. i bet they still do lmao

—it is funny to think about

—I suppose it’s funny. But it’s also sick, you know? Like how did we get stuck in that mindset. Like I was serious about it like i was going to actually or well i was thinking about actually going and stabbing these Muslims near my house. Like in my part of toqwn. Because I thought they wanted to kill me cause i’m trans and all that lol.

—Town*

—some muslims do hate trans people tho. lol

—im not a nazi anymore btw tho ive moved on lol

—i dont to hate people anymore

—want to

—don’t want to

—Yeah, fine, but like. I ended up like having a breakdown in the   street when i was walking over to stab them. and like they saw and thought i was just freaking out and like, they were super nice and offered to call an ambulance, you know? So I realised that those fucks on Darkfire were wrong — they were the ones who wanted me dead, not Muslims or Blacks or whatever.

—Weird. So misplaced. Did you every get close to doing anything like that?

—not really lol

—Ever*

—no

—You never got that urge to pick up a knife? You live out in the country right?

—yeah

—idk tho i’m sorry that happened to you

—i’m glad you are alright tho. do u have a boyfriend

—or girlfriend lol

—Not at the moment. :3

Then she’s offline. He comes, lies in his bed, shaking, and pathetic. Cigarette. Another beer. Parents are home. Eats dinner with them and sister thinking about. Punch in the gut, bursts his lip, bleeds all over his potatoes. Asks in oneiric lull about the day he went to school ten years ago. Parents with nothing much to comment. He says, Did I kill someone?

“Carter. Kid.”

“What do you want?”

“Sorry for being so hard on you earlier.”

“It’s fine. It’s not easy getting old.”

“Fucking punk, that’s not what this is about.”

“It’s about Bennet.”

“Yeah. Look, you have your credentials, you’re highly recommended and all the rest, but I’ve seen your lifestyle these last few days. You’re sloppy. Sarah has everything riding on this—and I trust her—but I don’t know if I trust you. Your heart, maybe. But you don’t have the precision of the old ages. Not even I do. That’s why we don’t fuck around with extinction-level threats. The many ways this could go wrong—and it’d all be on Bennet. Sarah. I’ve worked with her a long time. After her run-in with Onus I never thought she’d see this side of intelligence again. Even if your Edmonton activates—and doesn’t cause the end of the world—he’s damaged goods. A full misfire could come down on us before we have any time to do anything about it. Think about Jacob’s retainers. Shot with one of their own guns, kid. What does that even mean? When I say you don’t understand the code, what I mean is that you don’t respect it. You’re no better than the CIA.”

“Fuck you, Geoff. Your King Armand is the weaker option and you know it. I’m not knocking your expertise—Armand could turn out spectacular if we worked him long enough. A year, maybe. We have four months to create a catastrophe in London. Something I learned today: Emil Jacobs was reconditioned in six months. Bennet brought me on for a reason; let me do my job.”

“I’m letting you do your job. I’m just making sure you don’t get ahead of yourself. You can’t cook a Nine-Eleven in a night, not with a faulty sharp like that.”

“Everything’s going to be fine. Have some faith. Or if you’re impatient, how about a visit?”

“A visit would be the least required. Bennet will need to make sure the sharp is at least functional. Tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“Hey, kid, before you go, how about a drink?”

“No can do. Gotta scoot, Ashdown. Maybe next time. Night guv’nor.”

Wake up every morning at the laptop login online message check open. This time nothing. Last message:

—i love you

There’s the hum of the distant static. All the drones are back at once. It doesn’t matter; cracks a beer; cigarette. Drifts through articles about legislation in Iran. Ejaculates. Looks through pictures of her. Megan. She is beautiful. He has seen all of her now, from sore-peaked nipple to circumcised penis to bony toes. The shocks of weeks now past were weaker, his current divided, energised by Megan. Parents still asking about therapy, etc.

—hope you are sleeping well

Always the quietest at these hours.

—you are literally the most beautiful woman in the world

—lol

—could we ever live together?

No immediate response.

Nothing to reach out to.

—i love you

He’s already said that. Delete.

—Delete for you? (The other participant will still see this message)

Whatever. He smiles at it.

Room is a wreck, starting to stumble through the refuse, rising need to cleanse. Sick of the smell. Crackles. Mostly regular breaths. Birds outside.

Noise downstairs. Door opening. It must be his parents.

Out on the landing, he can hear three voices.

One calls out:

“Fuck the world, burn in Hell.”

“Seen a sharp up close before, kid?”

“Yes sir, I have. And this one is perfection.”

Dusty, cluttered bedroom. Smell of rotten noodles and old come.

“How can you tell?”

“Observe the pupils. Dilation. Dilation. Constriction. Dilation. Dilation. You see how it rolls in waves? Constriction. The pulse. This sharp is completely keyed in, man. It doesn’t get any fucking better.”

“Anything you want to know in particular, Bennet?”

“The parents and sister are pleasingly scheduled, and even if they were to return, they have their own words and are incredibly compliant. In those respects, Edmonton’s perfectly and expertly sharpened. I heard you requested this visitation—so you have the floor, Ashdown.”

“I’ve already seen what I need to, Bennet.”

“Hah. This is fucking magic.”

“What?”

“Look.”

“We saw his eyes, Carter.”

“There. Carter. Ashdown. Bennet. Carter.”

“What are we looking at, Carter?”

“Watch for the blip. Carter. Blip. See? Bennet.”

“It’s cleansing our names?”

“Correct. This programming is golden. No wait-for-the-cleanup shit, this model is set to burn. I fucking told you, Mr Ashdown. It’s art.”

“Great. I’m gunning for you, kid.”

“Excellent. We’re agreed. I was comfortable before, but now I’m entirely satisfied. When do we begin?”

“Now.”

—I love you too, sweetie.

—hey! how’s it goin

—It’s going well. I’m happy :3

—I was thinking about what you said

—About moving in?

—o yea?

—Yeah!

—Well just one thing is that it’s really dangerous down here lol.

—i heard london was pretty brutal

—It is. I often don’t feel safe walking outside on my own.

—Don’t your parents have a gun? Or guns or whatever?

—yeah but they’re hard to get to. 

—do u really think i’d need a gun?

—I told you this area has loads of thugs.

—I was just thinking like

—If I’m going to be your wife, you’ll have to protect me.

—I still live near my old school. All the kids there shout at me. I’m scared some of the older ones are going to attack me one day. I can get us a place, but you will need to protect me.

—i want to protect you.

—okay

—when can we movr in together?

—move

—As soon as you get a gun, and all the ammunition possible. You got my message, right?

“Next up, or should I say first up, I’ll have to get to know Mr Edmonton and his life intimately. This will be the longest part of the process, as it requires a concentration of psychomancy. A commitment. Bennet, you’ll have to be here for all of that. Geoff, you can be here if you like, or go for coffee runs.”

“You love testing me early in the morning, don’t you.”

Suits are clearer cut today. Professionalism. Scrubbed up. Usual breakfast array, smoke already churning.

“The first session of psychomancy will be today?”

“As soon as we’ve finished these pastries, boss.”

“Ashdown, get some coffees. Costa. Black. Bring sugar sachets. Brown.”

“Bennet?”

“I need coffee to help me concentrate. Costa, Geoffrey.”

“Sure. Sure thing.”

Room suddenly feels half-empty. Drawing board with Derek Edmonton’s face. Contrast with ten years prior: slightly chubby kid, now dishevelled, hunched. Yet oddly kind in his eyes, wide and open; the resemblance is striking.

“Carter, I want you to give me the no-bullshit short version of what we’re expecting here.”

“Like you’ve requested, a catastrophe-level event. You don’t need to worry about that. The programming is easy. Routing, training; already mostly in place. Daemons. Glitches, shadows. Usual fare, and that sharp is wired tight. We’ll be fine. Bennet, have you explained fully to your friend Geoffrey my past experience and qualifications?”

“Ashdown does not know who you are.”

“I’d assumed. An interesting decision, but thank you.”

“Continue.”

“As I say, daemons, shadows. It’s fine. You’ve done psychomancy before, that much is obvious. Need I ask whether Geoffrey has any idea of that, either?”

“He has some knowledge. We’ve worked together a long time. We don’t know everything about each other.”

“You’ve been toppling peanut dictators and reinstalling them some time now.”

“Just keep going.”

A close approach.

“Edmonton is a powerful exterior asset. We use him up, and get a nice clean resolution way ahead of schedule. But we don’t just sate Onus; we give them a reason to take notice.”

Just a nod.

“You understand this is a trade-off?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re understood. And I have your word? Ashdown?”

One linger.

“Yes.”

“Great. Let’s begin.”

She sends so many pictures of her breasts. The nipples are larger than the rest almost, ready to burst. He can barely masturbate anymore. Worn out and near torn. Cigarette.

—I was thinking about you again last night.

—i was thinking about you literally like a second ago lol

—Hot

—I wasn’t gonna ask you about the gun btw.

—Like I know it;s a lot for me to ask like even just for you to move all the way down here i’m sorry

—no its okay

—Like if u wanna u can do it in ur own time just lmk

—i wanna live with you so bad

—Me too :3

—ive been struggling with the lock

—ugh its annoying like i knew the code when i was a kid

—You knew the code when you were a kid? Did you forget?

—idk lol i either forgot it or they changed it

—sorry

—Did your parents know you had the code?

—no

—i spied my dad typing it one night when i was like idfk 13 i guess

—i knew it for years tho i know that i took them out a few times

—when they werent around

—Them?

—my parents

—No, you said them like more than one gun lol

—o yea they have like two shotguns

—farmer family lol

—look i never told anybody this

—Yeah?

—You can tell me, sweetie.

—idk like

—i used to like think about shooting up my school

—That’s okay.

—Me to.

—Too*

—no but like i had this drea,

—But I didn’t have a gun obvs lmaooo.

—dream

—where i actually did it

—i was blasting all these kids away

Coke can cracks open. Diet.

—it was like super real like one of those lucid dreams where i was in control, and i’d chosen to take those guns in and blast away the kids who gave me shit or eho i thought was shit.

—and i guess back then it was black kids, or muslims, or whatever, but also girls, and like also faggots and idk

—It’s okay, Derek.

—i just idk

—you know

—i was blowing these kids into clouds of blood

—like it felt so good and awful because i knew everything was over

—like i knew it was a dream but

—it was like so real

—apart from at the end when buddy holly appeared and starting singing and playing acoustic guitar

—he said like everything is going to be okay derek and played this really great song

—but it wasn’t one of his normal songs

—or released or wtf idefk but it was really good lol

—and i woke up after that and idk meg like

—i think i forgot the code for a reason

—but i really fucking wanna live with u

—like i could take self-defence lessons 2 protect u

—Fuck the world, enter the exterior.

“Coffee, Sarah? Fucking Costa? What’s happening?”

“It’s nothing, Geoff. Leave it alone.”

“How am I meant to leave it alone? You’re pushing me out. I want the kid to succeed as much as you. More than you know. So I had hesitations, a different first choice. I’m on board now. Don’t keep me out of anything.”

“That a threat?”

“No. Fuck, Sarah, how could you say that?”

“I’m the chief, right?”

“Yeah. Of course you are.”

“Then keep the line clear, Geoff.”

“Fucking extinction-level? It’s a joke, you’re getting played, Sarah.”

“Bennet. You call me Bennet.”

“Sarah. Goddamnit. That sharp is a dud. Trust me, I know.”

“Carter says the sharp is coded correctly.”

“Fuck the code. My experience is that fuckery like this never ends well, and it’s better to just stick to drugfucking the poor souls. Tie them to a skateboard, strap a jerry on, push them out into oncoming traffic. Old school. Afghanistan days. Let the terrorists take turns claiming responsibility. I like King Armand.”

“I like Armand too, Geoff. But I need this.”

“I know, Sarah.”

“Like Carter says, that Edmonton sharp is ready to shape straight off. Coded tight. We can come back to Armand after we get this catastrophe out of the way. How about that? Like old times?”

“I like the sound of that. Sure thing, Bennet.”

Scenes play out like a flick-book, he has the guns—remembered the code—takes some money, says goodbye to his parents and sister, stores the guns in a padded suitcase, and walks to the station. Short gaps of missing time, white-outs, images of farewell, something in his ears is ringing, as if space itself had prolapsed.

Drones perch on buzzing wires to watch his step. A late journey, by the morning he’ll be in her arms. Sight flickering, jerky. Can’t focus. Just about: reflection in the window. Looks like him. Older, maybe. Desperate. Has to sneak the loo to masturbate over images of Megan’s penis. It all feels all right, pretty good. Pants a bit sticky after but looking at himself smile in the reflection makes him smile. Checks message login phone app login message received.

—Can’t wait to see you. <3333

—i love you so much

—I love you too (((:

Slight electric jolt from phone.

Sleeps it off, London crawls into itself, diving headfirst into the filth.

He sees the drones.

Hobbling, crooked, oddly dignified. Whispering.

No music. Just a groaning grind, psychic toxin, all contaminated in city-spread dirt.

Cigarette.

Sneaks a wank on the bus. At the back. Megan makes him bleed like an angel.

It can’t be long. It can’t be long now.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“Hit me.”

“Your Edmonton isn’t home.”

“He’s not? Where’s Bennet?”

“Hiding, if she’s heard and sensible.”

“What does that mean?”

“Edmonton’s gone rogue, triggered like Jacobs.”

“Hold on, Geoff. That’s ridiculous. We’ve barely started work on Derek. We haven’t even made full contact. So, he’s not home—what does that matter?”

“His parents and sister are dead.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Fucking shot to ribbons by a twelve-bore.”

“Anyone else in the area?”

“One neighbour made a call we intercepted. Told her to keep quiet about it until they arrived. Cleansed the whole flat, just in case.”

“Whole family?”

“No, numbers-wise it was acceptable. Just the woman and her son, who was an adult. No children.”

“A piss drip in the ocean.”

“I said almost the exact same thing. Hah. Well, I’m sorry your boy didn’t work out.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“How’s this: give it one day for Edmonton to turn up. If he’s AWOL after that, you start work on my boy King Armand. Time is of the essence, kid.”

“Well, quite, which makes it all the more miraculous that our mutual friend Derek is in the room with us right now.”

“The fuck? Oh, shit.”

“It’s okay, Geoff.”

“Christ, Chris, say the words. Fuck the world and all that.”

“Look, he’s already dazed. He recognises your voice saying the first part of the phrase, and it puts him into a brief stalemate condition, they call it. Marvelous craftsmanship. Won’t last forever, though.”

“Shut it down, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Fucking hell, man. He nearly went Jacobson on us.”

“Jacobs.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m freaked man, never seen a sharp look like that.”

“It is a wondrous thing to behold. Fuck the world, enter the exterior. They’re far beyond anything in robotics in terms of precision, at least as it stands now. And control—it’s glorious. Can’t help but love sharps, in their own inanimate way.”

“Scariest fucking thing I’ve seen, Carter. And I’ve seen some things.”

“I know you have. You’re right, though, finding yourself on the receiving end of a sharp is a rather specific terror for those of us in our profession.”

“He’s got two guns in the case. How the fuck did he find us, Chris?”

“Emil Jacobs. Like a reverse programming. Code shit. Daemons. With one of their own guns. You know the numbers on that, Geoff?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Whoever designed this guy was a genius.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“I disagree. I think Derek Edmonton is a great sharp. He’s no Emil Jacobs, but he’s got spirit. Whoever built him was a real human.”

“He wasn’t a human. He was a fucked up idiot who couldn’t make it go off.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over, kid. We start on King Armand tomorrow.”

“All right. Armand it is.”

Geoffrey Ashdown smiles as a bullet pierces and exits his heart. Before that is a brief muzzle flash and aural discharge.

How vile London had felt in the dream. He’d been forced to shoot any passerby he saw for their hideous stench.

In reality it’s not much better. Cigarette. The streets are hostile with architecture, bulbous growths and shaking electric billboards that read psychic insults in wretched, sultry groans. Yet his phone login maps app search does not fail him, and although those around him seem distracted, he closes in on her.

And her door opens, and it is Megan.

—Omfg Derek !

She hugs him and he’s inside the house her notices her clothes much like the pictures he had masturbated to she smiles.

—You brought the guns?

—yeah i did lol. it was weird getting here.

—Don’t worry about it. Come sit down!

Her place is small. Not much stuff, like, half-empty. He stumbles around her like he’s chasing his tail, sitting down, hiding his shame. Cigarette. Opens a beer at last.

—Great. Not much ammunition, though. Sad face. Lol

—it’s ok i mean like Meg i’m not going to be shooting anyone lol

—super weird being here btw

—in a good way lol

—Cool! Do you want noodles?

—i think i ate before i got here idk. i dont think im hungry

—but like if u make some i might eat some

—if thats ok

—Of course! I’ll see how we feel

—Do you like this band?

—i dont think i know them.

—They’re great. Like this Belarusian band with just one member. This guy like I forget his name, recorded it all himself in like ’88. All the drums, the synths. And the vocals.

—i like it. pretty cool

—honestly just cant really believe im here lol

—It’s so good! I love having you.

—you’re just as beautiful in person

—Cute. Thank you. So are you <3

—Hey forget food. You know what I say?

—what lol

—Do you love me?

—yeah ofc i do

—Would you do anything for me?

—i would die for you Meg

—like ur incredible. ur beautiful. i don’t deserv

—Fuck the world, enter the exterior.

“Don’t look so shy, Sarah. You knew it was coming.”

“Yes. I know, Megan.”

“I’m not Megan for long. Glad to be rid of Carter. So long, Geoffrey; and in a few hours, Edmonton will be dust. It’s much neater working this way, you know? Just the two of us.”

“I’m glad my suspicions about you were correct. I knew your name.”

“One of many, sweetie. You aren’t Sarah anymore, either, by the way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Officially, we were shot to death by Derek Edmonton alongside Geoffrey Ashdown. We will be listed as police officers and given posthumous awards. We are dead. Choose a new name, a new cut, what have you.”

“So I’m in? With Onus?”

Image flickers and he’s back in her bedroom. Her penis is rubbing against his thigh. He also has an erection.

—God. You’re going to be glorious, Derek. Derek.

No immediate response.

—Hmph. Leaving all the fun to me.

With her fingers she guides him to her shaved anus. She is already lubricated, and he enters her with surprising ease. He instantly ejaculates, his yellow beads squirming out of her rectum lacking potency he cries out. She continues to move him, smothering him, cold fingers wrapping his mouth and throat.

Derek’s image flickers.

She pulls her nails down his face, lightly drawing blood.

—Derek. Don’t leave me alone here. Derek.

—Ah. You’re going to get rid of the meanies, aren’t you?

—For me, Derek? Blow them to pieces. I believe in you.

Like releasing steam from her throat, closed and detached, cold.

—Derek. Don’t let me down.

He’s already flaccid, but has enough give for her to masturbate to completion with him inside her. Thin come streaks her face.

—Good boy. Fuck the world, enter the exterior. Become annihilated.

“Sweetie, we are Onus now. Ashdown’s contacts, sharps and code, are you kidding me? He was holding out on you. If what I’ve seen so far from this model is accurate, what we’re about to see will be divine. Real British human engineering. So, “extinction-level” was a slight exaggeration, but it’s going to be a game-changer, okay? Take a seat, honey. We’re going to show those American dogs over at Mandalay Bay and Parkland how to operate with genuine class.”

Fuck the world. Scrawled on his bed the night before. He sighs and stretches, grunting. Shaking sleep from his face. Packs his schoolbag, remembers to bring the special satchel. Birds outside. Robins, sparrows—spuggies, they called them—finches darting amongst the unsettled brush. Lone starling sailing the skies.

The path is like that to hell but today is special. He isn’t scared today. He has his special satchel. Bravely he marches onwards, holding back tears. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Silence in the smoky room. Stunned.

“I knew it. I knew it from the start. Even still. Fucking hell.”

“Can we contact anyone? Find any official statistics?”

“Well, it’s clearly a world record.”

“Yes. It is. Fuck’s sake.”

“Let’s break it down. Three full schools, whatever that means. The nursing home, which was a nice touch—and then this other school. So four schools?”

Nervous tapping.

“Four schools and a nursing home. Is he done?”

“Who knows. There’s no going back from here.”

“How is he reloading so much?”

“Timed drops. I planned the whole route but had no idea he’d go on this long. I thought he’d get downed around the second school. Goes like a firecracker. Fuck me.”

“The fuck do we do?”

“Lady, you wanted a catastrophe.”

“This is obscene! I didn’t agree to this kind of—fucking—barbarity.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. You’ll see it as a masterpiece in time.”

“In time? I’m going to get fucking killed for this.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve been through what you’re going through. Lateral escalation.”

“Lateral escalation? You mean acausal responses?”

“You know it. It won’t be retaliation against you, silly, nor I. We’re in the clear. But the West can’t be hit like this. Certainly not London. Things are never going to be the same again, and, personally, I say we get in at ground zero. This is what you wanted, after all. The big leagues. They’re here, baby.”

“Fucking hell. Onus.”

Crackle from the radio and television. Orange.

“Derek’s done. Popped off the C-4. Fuck me. Well, here’s to our champ. Four schools and a nursing home.”

Silence.

“Hey. Listen. It’s over. The hard part is done. Now, we kick back and wait for the numbers to come in. Think about the guy who did Nine-Eleven, okay? Think about how he felt that fateful morning. Think of the terror. The adrenaline. The cold sweat as he watched that second plane hit. Of course, there were doubts. Of course, he probably wanted to run off and hide—despite everyone wanting to blow off Bin Laden’s head, not his. But he made it through, and kept on living. He did valuable work in Africa, so I’m told. This feels crazy right now, but give it a year, and everyone’ll be doing them.”

Television, burning rubble, and blood everywhere.

One is barely standing.

“What angle are we thinking for this, anyway?”

No immediate response.

“I’ve got an idea for a kind of White Muslim thing. I had this whole discussion going about Iran with him—it’d spook all the right people, and I can spice it up with the tranny thing. Something of this magnitude deserves the deluxe treatment. I don’t know. I want to get my hands on some more of those reactivators, though. Absolute fucking cosmic dynamite. They’ll be in tight supply. When they run, out we could bring in our old friend King Armand—get him through the Nation of Islam. A whole non-Arab Jihadi series. Derek had links to Darkfire, so we could even get a Neo-Nazi thing going. Repressed tranny-chaser fascist’s crusade against state and public schooling. Breivik, eat your heart out. What do you think?”

One nameless woman shuffles off in silence, whilst the other stops speaking and sits and watches the distant imagery of black smoke purring through ravaged schoolyards. She smiles weakly, falls back to porcelain desponce. Screen flickers. Photograph of two young men: a decade apart. Definitely a likeness there. Handsome guy. Screen flickers. She grits her teeth, works a loose one around gently. Piles, small heaps. Red through. Solemn tone. Thoughts and prayers.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Hello son, I’m Buddy Holly.

Me? Well, I was just passing by, I hope I’m not intruding.

I’d love to play you something. I’m not rusty—I practice on the road.

No, nothing’s wrong, friend. It’s all just a bad dream you’re having.

That’s right. Listen to the guitar, son. Sounds good.

I wrote this one with the Crickets. It’s in G-Minor and it’s called “Next.”