A Plea From An Infected Person

Well it's - it's just one of those things that can't be helped. No, no, maybe if I'd caught it sooner, maybe if I'd had more self-control, back then, back then when it started - too late now, it's too late. I'm caught.
But it's the same thing as fate, isn't it? Really? Who can expect the child of that age to know any better than self-indulgence! Who indeed can blame me for what a stupider self did, when I have changed!
I have changed everything I can, to keep myself under control. I'm disciplined now! I'm not like - not like the rest. Fools, selfish fools, every one, acting like they are right when any sane man knows we are wrong!
So please. You know the difference between you and them, you and that man who stands and tells you all that you are lying to yourselves, that you are like him! I am not like him either. I am you! Please, please understand!

Rainy Days in Unnamed are Always Terrible

Into the room burst a black silhouette that even the roaring fire could not illuminate, save for the droplets of rain upon its hide. From behind the eyeless mask through which they somehow saw, a pair of drowsy green eyes turned to watch the shape as it stormed in, casting off its cloak to plop down in the next chair along.

Karl looked back at the fire as Klar shook her hair out.

"It's the absolute worst out there!"

"Oh, I'll bet it is. Don't leave your wet things on the floor." The smoke of the fire rushed up the chimney, with the occasional stray raindrop bursting through to be obliterated by the heat. The room was still smoky, though, for Karl had been experimenting with cigars.

His sister grumbled and waved the smoke away. "You remember we're having visitors, right?"

"I don't. Remind me."

"Antakristo's coming in half an hour."

A wave of black smoke poured out through Karl's mask, separated into four by the grill before joining up again and rising to meet its elders. "Fuck."

Gogglebox

They're in the television. The television is watching me!

The abomination...I can see it, I can see its eyes. They're hidden in the static, white eyes, black eyes, the pupils are all wrong and there's so many of them. They don't blink, they just sit there, sat in their flat expanse of grey flesh. Is that a face? I can't tell. It's like I'm seeing a close-up - how much more could there be? How many eyes are watching me?

It talks, too, talks to me at night when I fall asleep watching the static, keeping an eye on it. One time, one night I was drunk and I thought I could answer back and it would leave me alone so I shouted at it.

What are you and what do you want?

You must remain here until you die and then you will be with us.

What the fuck.

Do not say you will resist, do not think you will resist. We are enticing. Soon enough you will not tear yourself away from the screen.
Oh, and from now on any attempts to leave the house will be met with resistance.

It was right. I tried to leave the next afternoon and there were crows everywhere and my fence was collapsed by the wind. No coincidence I swear. Every step I took they pecked until I bled and the wind blew and stuff began falling off balconies, right above me I swear.

I went back inside and watched TV.

Watch Out

I could feel its eyes on me.

I tried to concentrate on my work, but it just wasn't happening, not with that sensation of being scrutinised...all day, it hadn't taken its eyes off me. Wherever I went, I could look and be sure to find a pair of wide, pale eyes - almost blank - staring deep into me. Often it wouldn't even look up to face me. It glared at my laces, or my fingers.

When I'd first seen it, I'd boggled at its appearance. It was almost laughable; looked almost like a...robot monkey. A humanoid, no taller than two feet, with sleek, steely skin and a ridged tail. It slunk noiselessly, the joints well-oiled. The very idea of a tiny robot coming after me was amusing at first; as always, reality makes things more serious.

My boss chastised me for my apparent laziness. I felt sick just looking at his pudgy face. Nowadays, though, I felt sick just looking at any of the people around me. I wasn't meant to feel like this, but I was glad I did. The humans I surrounded myself with were vile.

I snuck a glance back to the vent. The monkey was still there; what did I expect? It was so...graceful. A smooth example of perfect design. Perfect. Yes. That was the word.

Perfect.

The word echoed in my brain, somehow, for some reason. Perfect. Perfect.

I didn't notice what the monkey did. That everyone else stopped. If I'd looked, I could've seen a drop of water hang perfectly in the air. Perfect. A shining orb of light...perfect, like the monkey, like me.

I am too perfect to be myself. I must let go of time and mind and self. I must become like the monkey. Wash away the dirt.

Perfect.

Perfect.

So...

Ms. Bacon - A dark-minded individual made of smoke and dust. Dresses in brown leather rags. Always carries a cigarette holder. Channels spirits through herself, somewhat as an extension of her being. Very interested in messing around with natural norms, just a little, enough to twist them from their usual state.

Mr. Ach - A Posc with the behaviour of a packbeast but a sharply-honed intellect. Feels a compulsion to mutilate himself. Formed from blood and dust. Doesn't much interact with mortals. A good companion of Ms. Bacon and Sir Chickenshit.

Sir Chickenshit - The most thoughtful and contemplative Posc. Formed from pure air. Also the least human-looking of those we've seen, appearing more like a creature of the deep.

Sargeant Beaky - A rather angry fellow. Formed from two kinds of blood. Dresses in thick woolen robes and always wears a mask of some sort. His presence tends to cause others to swear profusely - though perhaps this is just because he does.

Madame Midden - Made of algae and saliva. A filthy Posc with the mind of a predator and little common sense. Constantly feels the urge to feed on the formative material of other Posc, such  that no-one can discover for sure how intelligent she truly is.

Sargeant Beaky and Madame Midden

"Fucksake."

The man in red wiggled his bare toes. Fuckin' stones, he thought, shifting pebbles out of his way with his feet. Fuckin' stupid stones.

A cold wind blew. The man hugged his robes tighter around himself. Though we was well-dressed and larger than most Posc, out in the wastes he was a tiny pillar of blood in wide open space.

'Blood' meaning both his stained clothes, and the lifeforce which flowed inside his humanoid shell. There were others who would steal such things...

...Such as the woman who was tracking him.

She sniffed close to the ground, following his trail. Even as she did, she left her own - her thick, sticky drool running down from her chin to the pebbles, tracing back into a thin line of frost.

The Sargeant had spent too long hanging around, shuffling the earth. Madame Midden, a hunter most famous, was looming dead behind him now.

Mr. Ach and Sir Chickenshit

"How's the weather today? Good?"

"Good, good, yes."


Mr. Ach and Sir Chickenshit were on a hill of sand, looking out at the wasteland before them. Sir Chickenshit had been sat there a long, long time - most of the week - and Mr. Ach was getting impatient. It was in their nature for one to ponder and plot while the other urged onward.

"Then we will be going soon?"

Sir Chickenshit curled a whisker around his fingers. "I don't know about that. Tomorrow's looking better."

"You keep saying that!"

"Shut your mouth."

Mr. Ach gritted his teeth. Literally closing his mouth was impossible, due to the wooden bar forced into it - which also ensured his mouth split wide up to the cheeks and was kept in a permanent smile.

Sir Chickenshit rolled his head on his shoulders, then heaved himself up (with a lot of puffing and grunting). His left arm, the one with a hand, pointed to the horizon.