Terminality: RUNARK (Version 2)

Prologue:

He awoke in the corner of a white-tiled room, stained with mold and populated by nothing but a metal table by a dark, monolithic door. The door was cracked slightly, and the light from outside was so bright in comparison to the room that it was powerful, and the single ray beaming in was painful to the eye.

He was a wayward knight. Gray gas mask, hoody of red, gray t-shirt beneath, jeans, tennis-shoes, and his body seemed encased in some kind of protective suit. It served as a pair of gloves, as well, which were light gray.

His conscious was in disarray; as soon as he awoke, he wondered where he was. It seemed entirely unfamiliar as it did completely commonplace to him. Had he fallen asleep? He he just awoken from a coma?

As soon as he protracted, as his joints and bones has cracked from stiffness, he stood up straight and yawned stretched again. But his hands hit the ceiling, so he had to contort himself to gain space. Staggeringly, he walked, and he thus stumbled towards the door and swung it open to a burst of light. It was too much as once; he raised his arm over his eyes and cringed. But soon he grew used to the light and discovered that there were three suns.

He stumbled out to a walkway. Evidently, he was in some manner of Grecian temple. It was white marble, smooth but old and decayed. His mind was particularly blank, but some random and disconnected memories surfaced here and there. He didn't know his name, but he somehow knew his hair was black. He didn't remember who his family was or where he was from, but he knew he always failed history tests in school.

How old was he? Had he been through college? He wagered that he was rather tall, because of his relative height to the height he assumed each column at the edge of the walkway to be. Outside the temple was what looked like an infinite desert. It was dry dirt for as far as he could see. Behind him, he found the room from which he emerged was within a great pillar holding up the roof, which was upwards of, by his judgment, sixty feet high. It was white, but had a blueish hue to it.

The pillar-rooms were evenly distributed around the outer ring of the temple, and the walkway was housed by a smaller roof held up by smaller columns. After some further examination, he concluded it was simply a great temple.

He heard voices. They came from the center of the structure, where he saw men lounging in the circle around a purple bonfire. Slowly, he staggered towards the bonfire, observing everything he saw. On the other side of the temple, he saw something extremely curious - there was a great pyramid in the center of the horizon, and on either side of it were two smaller temples. The sky was pink in that direction. There was a crescent moon in the sky on the left and a sun on the right, but neither were too bright to look at; they were dim.

Around the fire he found a congregation of men in togas, and their tone of voice was such that it seemed as though they weren't exactly enthused by whatever they were talking about, but still they persisted endlessly. The lot of them were feverishly lounging over whatever furniture they sat in, as though they had melted over it. They sat in thick, oaken chairs and on sofas; before each sitting arrangement was a coffee table littered with all kinds of glorious delicacies and beverages. There were what looked like wine bottles, crimson grapes and olives, fingers of rich meat, bouquets of glistening vegetables and plates of sauces.

They all looked the same, and so the only way the evident protagonist could differentiate them is by direction; thus, they acted in a group. And one of them said unto the protagonist,

"Pardon me, o pardoner of a grey mask, but might I ask you what your business may be here?"

With this, the lot of them fixed their attention on the guest. The guest answered, through the filter of the gas mask, "I'm not sure. I awoke in one of those rooms, and I'd like to become more familiar with my present circumstance."

"Ugh," said a man around the fire, "another one."

"At least this one is respectable," said a compatriot.

"He seems rather composed, as well," commented another.

"He's very tall."

"Have we worked out his name yet?"

"Claire, can you fetch more wine?"

"No, tell her to bring out the nectars."

At last, one of them motioned their hands around and said, "Alright, alright, alright. We need to explain a few things to our viator here - for a viator he is, indeed."

"Let Pteurathys explain it to him," said one of them.

"Yes, Pteurathys - tell him."

They all looked at a very morose one who was staring into the distance. His eyes were very blank and blue, his hair was shaggy and brown, and he looked rather strong and young. His attention shifted to the evident protagonist and he sighed before saying,

"You are a viator, friend - that means that you are on your way to do something else important. Those who awake in one of those rooms are on some form of journey which they must fulfill. Now, I suppose you're wondering a few particular things about your present circumstances. I'll try to answer them all.

"We are an assembly of philosophers. We've been sitting here for thousands of years, contemplating all reality. We have developed our own mode of thinking to understand our world which cannot possibly be explained to anyone who hasn't been here the entire time. We began as an underground society in Kongorok, a grand kingdom, but became beneficial to the kingdom and the world as a whole, and so our fame granted us this temple.

"I don't want to try to explain how I know this, but I can tell you for sure that your name is Alexander Kaplan. It's all in the way the clouds over there react to the sun, Karthos, which is indicative of the space-time behavior in regards to the assembly of matter of which you are comprised. You were, indeed, named at some point. I'm positive that that is your name.

"As I said, all people who emerge from those rooms are given some kind of journey. However, you are different not only from normal people, but of those people, who emerge from those rooms. You are a Chosen One, as you might say. We call you a viator, but we know you're from earth, so we'll try to accommodate your way of speaking.

"Your faction in this world is Stalkster. This is obvious, because you wear a gas mask and a hoody. Usually, people who are given factions must work to fulfill their roles in this world, but you have stumbled upon us, and we must acknowledge viators thus:"

He motioned his hand towards the fire, and above appeared a Kalashnikov rifle, a worn satchel, and some kind of worn sheath for the rifle.

"Take these," said Pteurathys. "The satchel bears an infinite pocket of ammunition, which is ceded through a reserve in an alternate dimension, in a point of space which is experiencing a physical paradox. Even then, that's as far as I can go in terms of explaining it; it's very complicated.

"Now, because you are a special viator, you live according to a very unique set of rules. Everyone on this planet, which is called the Planet of War - or War Planet, as convenience grant us - lives to be very old. In fact, very few people have ever died of old age. People live so long, they have to be killed in order to meet with eternal peace. But you, on the other hand, are technically immortal. I say technically, because you presently exist in a terminal state. That means you will not be in this realm or on this world forever; you will be claimed by divinity at some point and sent on to another place, but not to death.

"This also means, most importantly, that you are invincible. Because of this, divine premonition holds that you are here to change something important. We don't know what that will be - in fact, you can only choose for yourself. But you are on some form of journey, to change things, and you must make your own way. Now, please, take the items above the fire."

And so, the evident protagonist - Kaplan, as he will be called - approached the fire and grabbed the items from the fire, fixing them on himself appropriately. Having collected them, he stepped out of the circle and practiced unsheathing and re-sheathing the rifle out of impulse.

Pteurathys spoke again: "Remember, viator - you are meant to do a series of amazing things. We don't know how long you will be here, but we can tell you that it is destined that you should happen upon great change and move civilization forward in unfathomable ways. The people of this world have met with many great events, but none like what you will probably invoke. That's all I have to say. Do you have any questions?"

"Where do I go first?" Kaplan asked.

"Well," said one of the philosophers. "Probably to The City of the Rune Arcs. It is presently the most populous metropolis in the entire world, and it can be accessed by following a path directly to it from here."

"That's convenient," said Kaplan.

"Indeed it is."

"We haven't used it in years, though."

"The last time we used it, we ran out of olives and our messengers were on strike."

"Our messengers are beautiful women. It's great."

"Unfortunately, we have no chance of romantic endeavors."

"He's right; women don't want a man who will just sit around and explain the universe."

"How much do you know about the universe?" Kaplan asked.

"You probably want to know if there's a god or not."

"Yes," said Kaplan.

"There is," said Pteurathys. "Nature and the cosmos is, itself, god. It works in mysterious ways to earthlings because men have yet to fully comprehend it, and there are many mysteries still. This also explains your concept of 'God giveth and god taketh away,' and also the fact that you men were made in 'god's image.' In fact, you were made in nature's image. That's why your persistent arguments regarding science and religion are so absolutely annoying; they're both in favor of the exact same thing. The same goes for a matter where there are two parties arguing 'against' any one thing; all two opponents seek a similar object: therefore, it is most intelligent to come together and concede to such a flagrant and empowering sensibility."

"Okay," said Kaplan. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

"He can't really explain it any more simply. Not that it's your fault, though; it's actually rather irrelevant."

"It's irrelevant because every philosophical conjecture can be trumped in scale by something infinitely greater. If you believe earth is the ultimate aggregate of life, then one can argue that the universe is more important. And even then, someone can argue with them that the universe and everything outside it is more important. Still, someone could argue about something greater. The moral is, philosophy is directly related in importance by quantities, which will always be outdone, because they are infinite."

"And if you ever get back home, tell your friends that things exist where infinity does not. If there was infinity, there would be nothing as well as everything, because oblivion is nothing, therefore it is infinite and comprised of nothing at all."

"You don't have to tell them any of this," said Pteurathys. "We're just trying to wow you with some elementary knowledge, but you don't get it anyway."

"I think he gets it."

"I really don't," said Kaplan. "You said no one else would really understand."

"Indeed, we did. But we can still have a laugh. We don't have many laughs anymore."

"Have you any more inquiries, viator?"

"I can't possibly think of anything," said Kaplan.

"Excellent," said Pteurathys, smiling. "Now, behind me is a path leading to The City of the Rune Arcs. You can call it The Arcs for short. It's called this because it is overshadowed by a random placement of great and ancient archways around the metropolis, which were established by an ancient people known as the Kongorok. The people of the city are still known as the Kongorok, but they don't much like it, because they don't take kindly to the tribesmen who used to inhabit the country there. In fact, it's absolutely illegal to say 'Runark,' the Kongorok name for the city. It's punishable by death. A long time ago, there was a bloody war for the city, and the native Kongorok caused them much tragic grief. Be wary of this, viator. You cannot die, but they may detain you until your time is done."

"I'll remember that," said Kaplan.

"Now, I suggest you go on your way, viator."

"Indeed, you mustn't waste much time. You might only have a few years at your disposal!"

"They're right," said Pteurathys. "You should go. It's been a pleasure, viator, but you must depart."

"Cool," said Kaplan. "See you guys."

They all waved and parted ways. Soon, Kaplan found himself at the edge of the far walkway, on the threshold of a raised path above a great ocean of sand. The sand shifted to his northwest in waves. The path itself was barren, as if some kind of ancient bridge. It continued out from the pristine temple, which sat on the very edge of a cliff. Some great support beams were engaged in the face of the cliff. In his satchel, he found a canteen of water, olives, mysterious meat and bread.

He kicked the dirt and didn't stop until he came upon The Arcs.

Part 1

His journey took many days indeed, but the suns never seemed to set. The food in his satchel grew scarce in time, and he grew dubious of his business in this strange city. The bridge was perfectly straight, and seemed to lead directly to the massive pyramid on the bare horizon. The city in the distance grew more detailed as he approached. He saw walls between the pyramids, emerging from the film of sand above the ground. The sound of the wind was all that comforted him.

And one day, he came upon a table. There was a bulge in the path, and in the center was what looked like an oak table. And on the table were a bountiful sandwich and a tall glass of what looked like water. He tested to see if it was a mirage – it was, indeed, real. The water was real, as well. Kaplan thus decided to challenge the idea of his invincibility and consumed of both through the automated sort of “mouth” on his gas mask, which he didn’t quite understand, but used fluently.

The sandwich (which turned out to be a ham sandwich with cheese) was delicious, and the water was crisp and clean. He carried on, leaving the plate and the glass there, constantly keeping himself in check, waiting for these delicacies to backfire somehow. But he carried on across the narrow bridge, seemingly unfettered. And alas, when he grew hungry, he came upon another table just like the one before. There was a different sandwich, but another similar glass of water.

Kaplan wasn’t to be indulged so easily. He looked around, looking for some kind of guardian. All he saw were the distant mountains lining his the east and west of him, the ominous pyramids ahead, and the ant-sized image of the pristine temple far behind him. Were the philosophers sending this?

Though he stopped occasionally to ponder such curiosities, still, he attempted to refrain from stopping his feet. Sometimes, he stopped to sit down and rest his joints. Strangely, he never felt tired enough to sleep. It was a consistent journey that, to his amazement, ended on a whim of success.

For days onward, the great pyramid grew to dominate his forward line of sight. On the day he reached it, he found himself at a loss. The path widened and disappeared into the pyramid, which was stacked with blocks the size of ten men. The eye, it seemed, was simply paint. There was no door, and he saw no means of entering the city. He could hear, faintly, the sound of industry. He knew he was on the verge of entering this mysterious metropolis.

Slowly and unsurely, he began to move his hand toward one of the blocks. He touched it. There was no response, and so he hit it. Then, he knocked. He ranged himself back, then ran towards the wall and tried to run it vertically. But alas, it was too steep.

There was no evident point of entry at all. A very annoyed feeling in the back of his head pulsated heavily. Perplexed and perturbed, he stood and stared at the pyramid. And so, he stood, and intended not to move until he had it figured out. Within ten seconds of his still and silent contemplation, he heard a rumbling. Then, soon, he felt it. The pyramid was vibrating.

The foremost bricks receded in towards the pyramid and folded backwards, into a great hallway. It was completely dark, save for the other side, which seemed to be a pinpoint of light. The length of this tunnel left him dubious of actually walking the whole way. His hesitation brought to him a favorable alternative.

A strange buzzing approached him, and a figure emerged in the pinpoint of light. Soon, it blocked the light. It stopped directly in front of the evident protagonist. It was what looked like a shiny black mannequin with no features, and it had no head, except for a face floating appropriately in place. He stood upon a slab of great gray stone, which was the apparent source of the buzzing.

This new figure spoke to Kaplan, and he asked, “What is your name?”

“Alexander Kaplan.”

“What business do you have at The City of the Rune Arcs?” asked the dark figure. Its voice was low, ominous, and metallic.

“I am a viator,” replied Kaplan. “My journey is undefined, and I was destined to come here.”

“Your admittance to our city will be judged by our Congress. Please, come with me.”

The dark figure extended his hand to the wayward one. Kaplan took it and stepped onto the slab. As soon as he was standing securely on the gray square, it began to slowly pick up speed. Adequately, it gained unfathomable velocity. The pinpoint of light grew and grew, until they merged with it, and Kaplan found that they were flying over the grandest metropolis he had ever seen.

It was vast, expansive, complicated, majestic, bustling, and studded with the most curious structures he had ever seen. It was constructed entirely in what he assumed to be white marble, but the structures themselves were of many diverse and complicated architectures. There was yet another pyramid, though it wasn’t quite as big as the one from which they came. There were great, monolithic archways towering high over the city and over them as well. They were dark, decrepit, and decaying, as well as mostly overgrown with immense vines. They rose perhaps two hundred feet into the air and were all slanted and uneven.

The figures on the slab slowed as they approached the pyramid. There was, it seemed, a hole in the top, the dimensions of which seemed comparable to the slab. Indeed, the slab fit perfectly through as they dropped into the massive pyramid. Like an elevator, they passed all manners of floors, which bore all manners of purposes and offices. The floors, according with the geometry of the structure, grew larger as they went down. And according to this, each grander room seemed of increasing importance. Offices turned into assembly rooms, which became theatres. Ultimately, they slowly dropped into the greatest assembly room, and stopped when they hit solid ground. There were, like a Congressional house is commonly arranged, growing and expanding tiers of great, circular desks. At the bottommost desk, populated by only five people in a circle of perhaps only thirty feet in diameter, there sat the apparent speaker of the house, in a slightly grander chair than all the others.

As the slab hit the ground softly, there came a shrieking voice from the direction of the speaker of the house.

“O endearing guest, please step off from the platform.”

Kaplan stepped off the platform, towards the man in the amazing chair.

The platform rose behind him, back towards the ceiling.

Kaplan looked around the room. All the congressmen were dressed in dark coats and all looked somewhat disheveled. Most of them ignored the matter at hand and wrote upon great slices of papyrus and parchment. However, the circle of five at the bottom fixed their eyes hard upon their endearing guest. The speaker assumed a pair of spectacles and looked at a list before him up and down. He amended something with a quill. He put it back down with his spectacles and looked at Kaplan.

“You shall not speak lest asked a question,” said the speaker, in his piercing voice. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” shrieked the speaker. He closed his face in on the paper and scribbled something. Then, he looked up and said,

“Now, what business have you in our fine metropolis?”

“I am a viator,” replied Kaplan, “and I’m on a journey. Evidently, I was destined to come here. I don’t know what my first business is.”

No other congressmen paid attention to Kaplan’s words. They seemed bored, depressed, and not much more interested in whatever they were writing or reading on their desks. The great cabal pit was much unlike everything else Kaplan had seen so far – the temple of the philosophers, the structures of the city, and the pyramid itself were all made of some form or other of fine, bright stone. However, the interior of this room was carpeted, dark, wooden, and lit only by bright candles on each portion of desk and various oil-lamp chandeliers hanging around the ceiling.

“Very well,” the speaker said again. He cleared his throat and harangued Kaplan with a speech from his sheet of papyrus thus: “In accordance with the sentiments of my constituents, I have obliged myself to capitulate your presence in our kingdom. As we have concluded unanimously to allow your passage into our kingdom, we have, as well, disenfranchised you for the safety of all peoples in this metropolis. My constituents have constituted the impassible right to sovereignty and granted you thus, but my suspicions of your incongruity persist unimpeded. Therefore, interrogation alone will grant us a finer understanding of your intentions.”

A few congressmen had assumed rather annoyed postures. They squeezed the space between their eyes, laid their heads on their desks, and, just as the speaker had finished his sentence, one congressman behind him eagerly and noisily arose from his chair and walked off.

The speaker and a few “constituents” watched him walk towards a door behind the fourth row, up a narrow flight of stairs.

“Now,” shrieked the speaker again, in a very arbitrary tone. “Where were we?”

“You were going to interro-“ Kaplan began. But he was interrupted as the speaker screeched,

“SILENCE! Your words could be dangerous! You could kill us all in a single clause! Perhaps you were going to employ a future active participle and assume the slaughter of all of us? You may only speak according to however we may grant! Now, tell me, where did you come from, and how did you happen upon our metropolis?”

“I awoke in a room,” replied Kaplan, “at that temple of philosophers. They gave me things to help me on my way, then sent me along this long, narrow bridge straight to that big gate. I have no memories of anything before I woke up in that room. I just think about random stuff here and there.”

“The philosophers?” said the speaker. “How do you credit yourself to their acquaintance?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But Pteurathys told me about myself and this world. He was a depressed young man with blank eyes.”

“His eyes have a hue,” said the speaker. “What color are they?”

“Bluish,” Kaplan replied.

“Very good!” said the speaker. “But you still may be of wretched intention!” His voice changed to something much more vile. It truly pierced the ears when he screeched in such a manner. But still, he lectured to Kaplan, stumbling over words.

“Now, my constituents acclaim on the highest regard a sense of solidarity in which it is commonplace for all peoples to be assumed – or rather, assumingly – evil and of completely ill intention. Safety holds that all persons are obliged to position themselves as being…terrible. Persons are dark! And the sentiments of my constituents…are inclined towards a dark state of mind, yes. Therefore, it is imperative for my…”

“Marcus,” said an annoyed, bedraggled congressman off to Kaplan’s right. “Give it up.”

The speaker looked back at him with a face of cowardice. He looked disappointed and meek at the turn of an instant. But his face hardened again, and he beat his desk fiercely as he screeched, “SILENCE! On what ground do you interrupt me?”

In a perturbed, demeaning, serious tone, the bedraggled congressman declared to the speaker, “A viator walks into our court and you have the audacity to waste our time with your worthless interrogations. He’s obviously not of any danger to us. He’s even at a loss as to where he is, or where he came from.”

“But I’m trying to decipher his intentions,” pleaded the speaker, who was Marcus, as his voice began to change in tone to something slightly more reasonable.

“Stop using words you can’t grasp,” said another congressman. Marcus looked at him, posturing as though they were closing in on him. This new congressman said further, “Now, the only reason any of us are still here is so you can play your games and pretend we’re all professionals. We’re not professionals, Marcus. And all of us are very annoyed.”

Complaining and mumbling spread throughout the room, and Marcus dropped his head on the desk. He rose again and waved his arms about, motioning for silence. His voice was no longer piercing and shrill as he said, in what was actually a rather deep and comforting voice,

“Very well, very well. Dear viator, I apologize for interrogating you in such a manner. It’s true – we’re not professionals at all. The emperor chose us because he believed us to be the most adequate for the job, but all we are is a bunch of sardonic morons. It just hasn’t been the same since we had the philosophers to look up to – they were senators until the emperor granted them an eternal haven. Now, we don’t know what to do.”

“Well,” said Kaplan, “what are you going to do with me?”

“You can stay,” said Marcus. “Just don’t cause any trouble, please. Since the population of the city rose from 2.7 billion to three billion with the great immigration front, we’ve truly slipped off the edge of jurisdiction. I’m the only one who cares about their job here anymore.”

“Sounds to me as though you’re trying to aspire to something that just doesn’t work,” said Kaplan.

“Yeah,” said Marcus. “That’s evident now.”

“You might enjoy being more like the philosophers,” Kaplan suggested.

“What do you mean?” asked Marcus.

“When I met them,” our definite protagonist explained, “they were lounged around a fire in comfortable, oak chairs. They were feasting on fine food and drink and discussing things really casually. Of course, they had servants to bring things out for them.”

“Goodness,” said Marcus. “That sounds wonderful. I wouldn’t mind something like that. But lounging is not something a congressman does. We need desks, coffee, parchment and business to attend to. And we need a community to condescend upon. What would you suggest, then, viator? We’d be honored to hear your opinion.”

“Do you have people to serve you coffee?” asked Kaplan.

“No,” replied Marcus. “But we ought to accord that. In fact, that would be a good idea. We have a massive surplus in our budget, anyway! We could pay for the labor by the year!” He began madly scribbling on another one of the many scrolls of parchment on his desk as he continued, “Oh, and we could buy beds to sleep on when we’re particularly tired! Perhaps we can order black beans and fine meats and sprouts as well? Oh, viator, you’ve saved us all!”

“I’m very glad to hear that,” said Kaplan.

“But alas,” said Marcus, “we’ve resigned as professionals. At least now we’ll maintain the capacity to complete business. This professionalism seemed only to put a damper on our operations. I’m sure discussions in the future will be much more amorphous, but benefitting still. And as soon as we've signed your papers of sovereignty, you'll be free in the City of the Rune Arcs."

"That's it?" asked our hero.

"Yes," answered the speaker. "We could send you through a more intricate process, but it's honestly all pointless. All we need are your papers, and we're very positive you mean nothing but good. These processes all mean nothing, but emperor Smithicus demands that we do it. Unfortunately, he's a little intoxicated in his own will. Recently, he's made a lot of terrible decisions. This used to be a democracy that meant something - it was really a revolutionary concept, all because of the rabbits."

Kaplan laughed, and asked, "Did you say rabbits?"

"Yes," replied Marcus, unfettered. "The race of rabbits who migrated here from their home country and settled this kingdom alongside the Kongorok tribe. Then us humanoids grew massively in population and took over their kingdom over the course of many years. Since then, unfortunately, nothing has been good. More dishearteningly, we, the Congress, are very responsible for its continuation."

"What are you going to do?"

"We don't know," replied Marcus. "It's going to be a matter of time and serious politics. Humanoids just aren't good at politics - or economics, philosophy or law or order. But still, humanoids have claimed these positions in the grandest city on the planet. Rabbits should be where we are; they settled this city, raised it to greatness, and were robbed. All humanoids did was...make it bigger."

"I think I've found the first conflict in my journey," said Kaplan, rubbing the filter on his mask as though it was his chin.

"Oh," said Marcus, "perhaps you have. Well, if you do wish to pursue this, then please do not tell the emperor. We'll all be killed, without being sent through any processes."

"Trust me," Kaplan assured them, "I won't tell anyone who doesn't need to know."

"Thank you," said Marcus. "Now, there's somewhere you need to go. It's a great, black temple - a monastery - in the forum. It's the Monastery of the Combatants of Madness. They're a legal mercenary group instated by Smithicus, but they've recently become something more like bounty hunters, what with their laziness and addiction to Spam. Campyogne and his old friend, Mandrake, also a senator, aligned themselves with the Monastery and disappeared when it took an ill turn to write for the press in peace."

"Where did they go?"

"Nowhere, really," replied Marcus. "They live in the attic of the monastery now. The ladder to the attic is broken, however, and so the only way up is through a hole in the ceiling of the pantry. Go to the Monastery and find a way into the pantry. If you ask for food, they'll probably take you there."

"Sounds like a specific operation," commented our protagonist.

"Campyogne is the wisest politician this world has ever seen," said Marcus. "Ask him about this matter with the Monolithm - he'll be able to work things out."

"The Monolithm?"

"Oh, right," said Marcus. "The Monolithm is the name of the government of the Rune Arcs. We're part of it, but we're the most publicly connected. Every other branch is, for the most part, completely self interested. They only maintain law anymore so the people won't have a reason to turn on them, regardless of how evident their greed really is. Anyway, you really must be off - we'll send Hickory Joel to take you to the forum."

Kaplan laughed again. "Hickory Joel?" he asked. "Who's Hickory Joel?"

Again, Marcus was straight-faced. He shrugged and said, "That's the dark figure who took you here. What's so funny about that?"

"Nothing," said Kaplan. "Anything else I should know?"

"Yes," said the congressman next to Marcus, who was rather callously leaning on his desk and twirling a pen in his hand. "If you really want to piss off the Monolithm, write "R-U-N-A-R-K on a wall somewhere in huge letters. The Law and Order Administration will try to jail you for life, though, so I suppose that's your last chance as any sort of revolutionary."

"I'll remember that," said Kaplan.

Part 2

Our protagonist waited until this figure known as Hickory had returned. During this time, a messenger was sent with haste to the Requisite Offices, where was commissioned the employment of servants for the Congressmen, who arrived just before Hickory entered through the portal in the ceiling. The smell of coffee was emanating through the entire room. There was the smell of a bonfire, hazel, wood, and of morning dew. Kaplan watched the Congressmen recline in their chairs and share conversation between each other, sipping at the dark and mysterious beverages. They discussed the times, the worth of reason, and of good things, for a change. But soon Kaplan was in the next room, and soon the next - eventually, he was soaring past so many floors it was little more than a blur.

They merged with the outside, and slowed to a halt mid-air. Smoothly, they began sailing towards a place of great commerce, which Kaplan assumed was the forum. Their journey was low to the ground, near the buildings, and soon just above the roofs. They were temples, like of ancient Greece, all white and pristine. The streets were great, gray slabs, and there were statues here and there of those respected throughout time. The corner of every wall, the lining of the sidewalks, and the details in every statues were fine as stone can be, refined down to the atom. As well, things were clean. Surely, this was not the work of men.

At last, they came upon a great, open circle - perhaps the width of a football field. The dark figure on the platform announced, "This is the Arcish Forum. It is the center of all commerce in the city, but only few have any business here. You should be honored with such a right. To the north, you will find the Monastery. It is the only temple of black in all the city. Once you have stepped off this platform, your journey will have begun. Please treat your time in this world wisely."

"Thank you, Hickory Joel," said Kaplan. He looked down at the ground again and tried to appropriate his thoughts. But he had never really been on an adventure before, so he wasn't quite sure how to think. His feet met with the ground, and he heard the platform hum away, into the sky.

He surveyed the area around him. Great temples fronted by high columns encircled the shape of the forum. The ground was a mosaic of some great battle. He took his time in traversing the forum, because there was no evident hurry, and he thought hurrying might cause strange thoughts to circulate about him. To him, at least, it was very strange to see a man with a rifle and a gas mask hurrying across a populated area.

Various amorphous congregations of pedestrians populated the forum here and there, mostly dressed in dark attire like those in the Congress Cabal, as Kaplan would thereafter refer to it. No one seemed to pay attention to him. They spoke of politics primarily, but occasionally there was talk of a performance or a good book. The entire forum smelled of bread and warm drink, such as tea or coffee. It was warm there, but the air was cool. It was a very curious contrast.

As he rounded the left passage of the forum, through the pedestrial maze, he saw to his left a great, blank wall of what seemed like smooth sandstone. At its foot was a stage, a slate of sandstone as well, perhaps. It was very curious a place in the forum, but our protagonist concluded it was a place where men may speak, and many would hear their voices.

The source of the smell of tea and bread became evident to him; there were people sitting on their balconies, sipping away at coffee and reading away at the times. On the back of one print were the words, “KINGDOM PRESS.”

He pressed on. Although he was fixed on reaching the other side of the circle, he hadn’t given himself a place to which he was specifically headed; he found himself wandering. Thus, it came to a shock as him when he looked to his left and saw the black temple there, looming and ominous in the daylight. Indeed, it was made of a dark marble.

From the forum, it seemed to be rectangular and completely retained by great columns. The steps leading up clopped beneath his feet, and by the time he reached the top, he was huffing. There was no one else around at that point; the forum was completely disinterested in this curious place of colonnades. Inward, he only saw darkness. But still, he pressed onward.

Through the immediate portal of columns, he saw before him what seemed to be a great hall full of statues, each of which were perhaps four meters high. They were what looked like great, noble, godlike figures. But before his tour of this strange hall took way, he read an engraving that lie just inside: “The court of those who have succeeded us.” He proceeded into the hall lit only by lamps above the magnificent sculptures.

The first statue was of a man named “Stoupid Doudle.” He stood beside “Snowz”; the engraving on the platform beneath them read, “The artists of all times – craftsmen of hereafter.”

The next statue was of a fierce and menacing warrior, who was called “Autlet.” He had spiked armor and a helmet forged with menacing countenance. The eyeholes stared Kaplan down as he approached. It was brazen of majestic robes, stocked backheavy with an arsenal of undisputable anarchy. The gauntlets were broodingly still. Indeed, this statue yearned to see life and destroy the onlooker.
“We owe the heavens, that he did not destroy us all.”

The statue following was that of “JPE,” a noble man of peaceful air but a dark countenance. He sat at a desk and wrote furiously upon a scrolled parchment with a tall quill. The scroll flowed over the edge of the desk and out upon the platform, whence grew a tree.
“He who harnessed creation by word.”

Next was, as was engraved, “The Guilded Fox.” This was nothing like a man, but stood like one, and was, instead, something consistent with a rabbit or, appropriately, a fox. It wore light armor, which was grafted from the marble, but in its hands it held a golden sword and a golden shield. And it wore upon its head a golden helm, from which stemmed two great, fluffy ears, each tipped with white as though the snowy peaks of mountains.
“He who was lightning itself.”

Behind this fox was an ominous sight, indeed. He was. It seemed, darker than all the other statues. In spite of the dark marble that comprised them all, he bore a greater shadow, and so Kaplan knew his name before he read it: “Shade.” There were three swords on his back, an ax at his belt, and a halberd in his hands. He stood as though guarding the path ahead. In some ways, he appeared complacent. But it struck Kaplan hard: he had no eyes.
“Fierce, and blind to all things; he never saw mercy.”

Next was a man named “Kalo.” He had the beard of a wise man and held a rifle in his arms. His form was masked by a great, majestic robe. There were no features on his face, save for a single cross, which was cut into the marble deep. It didn’t seem like a work of the sculptor.
“Swallowed in the raptures of time.”

There was “The Vagabond Lord.” He was a plain and simple man, but a lamb rested at his foot. His clothes were torn, his hair was mussed – but he looked noble no less.
“He who saw the depths of humanity and lived to tell the tale.”

“Zen” was old, weathered, and hunched. He held a scepter in one hand and a scroll in the other.
“Lord of the Adventure.”

There was a statue of a man in a great coat, and his hood laid low. His face was stitched, as though missing pieces were replaced with fabric. One eye was a button. A rifle leaned against his shoulder, the stock held in the palm of his hand. His other arm carried a harpoon. He was “Charles.”
“He ventured far, wide, and forever – and hopefully, still is.”

There was a statue of a longhaired young man who looked rather plain. But despite this, he was laden with all manners of weapons and ammunition, and had a scorned look upon his face. He was called “Kai Burgy.”
“Driven by rage, succeeded by none.”

There were many more statues of various nobles – Wibumba the Scribe, Spyes, Stielo, Sygon, Omni, Kadaj – and Exavier, who was “The pioneer of intellect.” But at the end of this tour, Kaplan found one final platform, on which stood the two most revered statues of all.

They were “Dyvaith” and “Marz.” The sculpture of Dyvaith seemed very meticulously crafted, as though there was something strange about him. He had long hair and a flowing robe. He stood straight and generally had no particular characteristics about him. Alternatively, the sculpture of Marz seemed very off. One arm was apparently broken off, and the other seemed as though it had been glued back on. There was a sickening, rotten wad of meat plastered against his face. The engraving read,
“The Lords of Commonplace.”

A voice rang out from down the forward hallway. “Hello? Is someone there?”

“Yes,” replied Kaplan.

“And who might you be?”

“Alexander Kaplan,” replied Kaplan.

The voice emerged into the very dim light, and he appeared to be a very moderate man with dark, curly hair, and a red robe. He gazed inquisitively at our protagonist and asked, “What business have you here, Stalkster?”

“I am a viator,” replied Kaplan. “I was instructed to come here and seek someone out by the Congress of the Arcs.”

“Ah,” said the man. “An associate of ours predicted your arrival here. Kaplan, is it?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Bryn,” said the man. “I am the present administrator of the Monastery. Please, come with me.”

Together, they walked down the hallway until the administrator came to a door, before which he stopped to swing open quietly. It was a massive and great hall with a pool in the center and a hole in the ceiling directly above – it was an atrium. And all around the room, there were what looked like phantoms hunched over computers and laptops on sleeping bags and makeshift beds. They wore dark apparel of tunics and robes, and there were piles of guns and ammunition all around them. The walls were adorned with all manners of swords, axes, maces, halberds, spears, pikes and other weapons incomprehensible to the vocabulary. These adornments reached from the floor all the way to the ceiling, and so ladders on tracks were in place to make retrieval more convenient.

The pool in the center looked contaminated, as though pink. There seemed to be pinkish meat slathered around, and it made the room smell rather bad. The eyes of the evident Combatants were dark and deep, and they seemed dirty and stained all over, perhaps with that meat.

“I understand you came here to help with something?” Bryn inquired.

“Yes,” replied Kaplan, as they slowly drifted into this new room, which was lit only by the sunlight pouring in.

“And what might that be?” asked Bryn.

“I’m not sure yet,” replied Kaplan. They walked around these phantasmagoric figures very casually, despite how repressed and unsatisfied they seemed. The computers were adorned with intricate designs and symbols, and the displays were so bright they illuminated the faces of their users. They all wore headphones. They paid no attention to the strange visitor.

“Well,” said Bryn, “in that case, I might as well take this opportunity to introduce you to our congregation. Oh…do you know the history and nature of The Monastery?”

“I’m sorry,” replied Kaplan, “but I don’t.”

“Years ago,” began Bryn, as they walked around more spectral figures, “we were commissioned to act as an agency of legalized mercenaries by the great emperor Smithicus, who still rules with an iron fist. We became heralded as great warriors, but grew in fame as we began to harbor the intellectual elite of the times.

“Exavier was the first one of us to produce works criticizing the government itself. This caused much controversy and almost shut us down, but the people rather agreed with his writing. This empowered other members, such as my great and old friend, Marz, to speak out more openly on other subjects. The monastery ceased to just be a place of war; we were a center of the forefront of logic and reason.

“But soon, The Arcs fells under siege by a great and seemingly unstoppable army. They laid waste to many other cities besides ours, and, The Arcs being the largest city on the planet, they sought well to win this war, as well. But the valiance of our fighters prevailed over the throes of millions, and we fended them off swiftly and quickly. A hundred men wielding the most elementary firearms subverted the most impossible siege in history.

“We became the most famous names in the land for quite some time. The main hall was constantly bustling with the press, delegates of high authority and amateur journalists, all questioning and reporting to the popular prints of the day. The combatants had to sleep in the kitchen, because even their bunks were infested with people asking questions.

“Unfortunately, our fame died away eventually with a new era of peace, and our government endorsements drove us to find newer measures of passing our time. We grew bored, depraved of activity, and hateful towards each other. Things truly fell out of proportion as our founder, Krinkel, left and never seemed to come back. One day, someone brought a can of spam into the monastery, and soon the whole place became addicted. As you can see, there are still some cans lying around. Those days are gone, but the attitude has yet to pass. And, of course, we had succumb to vidya.”

“Vidya?” asked Kaplan.

“Oh,” said Bryn, “you’re an earthling? Well, the vidya is a theoretical network of games, which are adaptable by a user, or an aggregate. It becomes extremely addicting. And since our fame truly died, we have directed all of our attention to nothing but vidya and spam. Sometimes, someone comes to us and asks us to find a murderer or save their cattle from bears. But we always decline; we have a right to.”

“I’m very sorry for you,” said Kaplan.

“They’re just not the same anymore,” said Bryn. “Kaos has been here since forever, and was the finest Heavy Weaponsateer we’d ever seen. Voltaj was a fierce politician and a pioneer in theatre, but he’s long since gone, and we’ve yet to establish a statue for him. We would make a statue for our founder, but he returns occasionally to partake in vidya and spam. I believe he has lost his dignity.”

“Who else is here?” asked Kaplan.

“There is Sir Shoven, who was the rhetorical theorist of yore. Now, he drinks and writes obscure stories about his childhood, and of winters and strange men. Brilliant as these stories are, our power to secure publication has been long since abandoned by our compatriots. They said they wouldn’t publish anything written by a bunch of ‘spam-addicted lunatics with guns.’”

“That’s harsh,” commented Kaplan.

“As well,” said Bryn, “there are more humble users, such as Chetoz, the Sheriff of the city, Spenar, Schauk, Tazers, and Popadopalus. Popadopalus is our oracle and prophet; we believe he was once aligned with the philosophers, which would explain his unexplainable ability to understand patterns in nature. Tazers was the first warrior of the lightning whip, the Sheriff is our connection to the Congress, and Schauk is a long and loyal knight. Fleek is somewhere around here; he’s generally apt to subverting whatever policies we try to establish. That seems to be his only intent.

“Our Medic, called Kiten, has been loyal to us from the beginning. And, like everyone else here, he has a very long and epic past. But there is only so much to say these days – the dignity and glory we once knew long ago has gone, and we are left with only the most practical ways of life. Sir Shoven was raised in the Campyonian Library of the Arcs, and has established himself time and time again as a leading rhetorical scientist. Popadopalus became a master of fables, and once compiled them into a single volume. Oh, and I wouldn’t be soon to forget Zodan. He’s our political representative, besides the Sheriff. Zodan, we believe, is a master of appeals. He once cuddled with the queen just so we could be reimbursed for spam money.”

“I understand you once knew two particular members here,” said Kaplan, “named ‘Campyogne’ and ‘Mandrake’?”

“Ah,” said Bryn. “They left their seats as senators to join us in our push towards reforming the government. Unfortunately, the movement, along with everything else, died away slowly. They disappeared long ago, and we don’t know where they went. They’re probably very far away now.”

Part 3

Kaplan watched the sky through the compluvium. Very quickly, the luminosity of the room changed from gloomy to bright, but still, the clouds maintained something like a sick and incomplete aura. Bryn's words eluded him. Our protagonist found himself standing in one place, staring blankly up at the sky.

"Mr. Kaplan?" said Bryn.

He broke his concentration slowly and looked down at his host. "Sorry," he said. "The weather is pretty weird. It changes quickly."

"You're from Earth, aren't you?" asked Bryn.

"Yeah," replied Kaplan. "Earth changes really slowly there. Even weirder, we can't seem to figure it out."

"You still haven't figured that out?" inquired the guide.

"No," replied the protagonist.

"I'll have to tell you about that, then," said Bryn. "But right now, is there anything we can do for you?"

"I feel like a complete douche for saying this," said Kaplan, "but I am in desperate need of some food. I had to tread the desert to get here."

"You came from the philosophers, didn't you?" asked Bryn.

"Yes," said Kaplan.

"There were no sandwiches?" His voice echoed off the marble wall and bounced back. Then Kaplan replied,

"Not at the end. For the last thirty miles or so, there was nothing. Maybe they fell off?"

"Well, I hope they fix that," commented Bryn. "But anyway, come with me. I'll show you to the kitchen."

The kitchen was massive, and at the end of the room, the floor dropped down to an area around a great fire pit, which was a combination of two pizza ovens, a fireplace and three generic ovens. The chimney could be seen from most places in The City (even though Kaplan didn't notice it as he was walking in). The cabinets required ladders on tracks as well, the stovetops were as wide as a generic earth bedroom and the frozen room housed live animals, as well as frozen vegetables and other quickly applicable dishes.

They approached the pantry. It was considerably long, as expected. It was a long hallway with a hole in the ceiling at the end - that must have been the way to the rabbits.

"We have plenty of food in general," said Bryn, walking down the corridor. "Take anything you want. If you want meat or something like that, we'll have to be more careful; those things are rare these days, and in spite of our plentiful stockpile, we don't abuse our blessings."

"Rather righteous if you ask me," said Kaplan.

"We like to think we're the righteous dark knights of the empire," commented Bryn. "Although now, we just sit around and vidya."

"Dark knights?" Kaplan repeated.

"Something along those lines," said Bryn.

"That's awesome," said Kaplan.

"Well," Bryn commented, "I'm glad you think so. So, see anything you want?"

"Can I have this loaf of bread?" asked Kaplan.

"Absolutely."

"And this...can of condensed fish?"

"Sure."

"What about this container of perforated beetroots?"

"Sure."

"Can of contingent cauliflower?"

"Sure."

"Cow slaughter excess?"

"Sure."

"Do you guys have any soda?"

"What?" asked Bryn.

"It's like this bubbly, fizzy stuff that makes you hyper."

"Oh, pop," corrected Bryn. "Everyone in The City calls it pop. It's the law."

"That's fucking terrible," said Kaplan. "On earth, we call it soda. Yeah, everyone calls it soda. It's just obvious to everyone, regardless of where you live."

"Sounds like a wonderful place," said Bryn.

"It's not."

There was a commotion emanating from outside the pantry, and outside the kitchen. Bryn looked down along the corridor, and the commotion clarified to the sound of some heated argument.

"Damn," said Bryn. "Something's up. Sorry, I've got to check this out. Take whatever you can stuff."

The administrator took his leave from the pantry. Our protagonist ran towards the end of the corridor and climbed up the cramped shelves until he had a hand on the rim into the hole. He forced his way upwards into the darkness and felt his way through. It was a tunnel that had evidently been carved into the marble, but it wasn't rough; it was seemingly designed and appropriated for climbing. As his hand met with a plateau, he pulled himself upward, and found himself in what seemed like an attic; the ceiling was slanted - although very widely, based on the size of the structure and the roof - and around a corner in front of him was what seemed like a room.

As he stood up straight and began to walk towards this corner, he heard footsteps. They padded into the dim light and stopped - there, our protagonist saw two tall ears sitting on top of a curious form.

A voice called to him, "Who's there? Who are you?" It was very deep, weathered, and slightly raspy.

"My name is Alexander Kaplan," replied our protagonist. "I'm a viator, and I was sent here by the Congress of the Arcs."

"A viator?" repeated the voice. "Oh, dear. I knew they would find someone like you one day. Mr. Kaplan, please come into the light and sit down."

The figure disappeared behind the corner, and Kaplan followed. As he turned into this new room, he saw something quite strange. There were stacks of papers and parchment from wall to wall. In the center was a circle, a clearing, in the center of which sat a white rabbit in a dark coat, who scribbled furiously away at a scroll on a wooden desk. Above him, there was an immense hole in the ceiling, which admitted great luminosity. The other figure was a brown rabbit in gray robes, who used a walking stick. He shuffled around the desk and swung around to face Kaplan. The rabbit had spots of gray in his fur; Kaplan deduced quickly that he was an old man.

"Before we carry on," said the brown rabbit, "I must ask, what business have you here with us, in this attic in particular?"

"I couldn't possibly tell you that," replied Kaplan. "Viators have to find things to do, don't they?"

"Indeed," replied the brown rabbit. "So do you come to us seeking work? More appropriately, some philosophical fulfillment through harrowing deeds?"

"Either will do," replied Kaplan.

The brown rabbit grittily heaved out a couple laughs. "Very good," he said. "Now, I must introduce my friend and I: my name is Campyogne. And this is my oldest friend, Mandrake. As they may have told you, the two of us served as Senators until we retired to align ourselves with this monastery. But it fell apart, and our work was jeopardized by the smell of addictive meat and the neglect of our work. Now, we write for the kingdom and have our work sent by eagles to the emperor himself. But don't think we're Promono's; we're Demonos by heart."

"I'm not sure what those are," said Kaplan.

"Oh, of course not," said Campyogne. "The name of this government is The Monolithm; it's been around longer than the kingdom has, and it took over politically a couple hundred years ago. Since then, it's ruled unquestioningly. It's vile, discombobulated, emotionless, and unwise. It is based entirely off of mediocre and uninspired accessions of thought, some manner of push-button philosophy, as the wise Bronowski* put it. Mandrake and I write for the most revered press in the kingdom, but are trying to divide the populace by making our ideas subliminal. Anyway, those who are for the Monolithm are called Promonos. Their opponents, who are against the Monolith, are Demonos."

"That's very interesting," commented Kaplan. "So you're rebelling against the powers that be?"

"That's not a very good way of putting it," replied Campyogne. "We rabbits are strictly opposed to violence and grief. That's why we are so furious over the present state of things; the Monolithm is killing and oppressing in the most unreasonable fashion, and we're trying to reform the government itself. But first, we need to divide the kingdom on the subject. Then, we have to gain a majority who are opposed to the Monolithm and threaten with violence, without actually carrying it out. They'll have no choice but to concede."

Kaplan focused on the white rabbit, Mandrake, who was quite intent on finishing volumes on his single scroll. Our protagonist asked, "What's he writing?"

"Presently, he's finishing the three-hundred and forty-fifth issue of our Kingdom Opinion, which we write as often as possible. They've only published perhaps a hundred. Alas, Mandrake is far more intent on writing than I; he's the one who writes, and I am more comfortable in simply thinking. He does well to extrapolate from my ideas. Besides, he has had a long and furious argumentative run at the Monastery, and he's received a bad reputation. He wishes only to write in peace these days."

"You said that rabbits don't like grief, right?" asked Kaplan.

"It's a disdain that has been naturally impressed in our minds," replied Campyogne. "We are strictly against hardship."

"Why's that?" asked Kaplan.

The two rabbits seemed to stop. Campyogne stopped in his tracks, and Mandrake slowly put down his quill. The standing one moaned painfully and pinched between his eyes.

"In order to answer that," spoke the rabbit at the desk, "he'll have to recount the history itself of rabbits."

"I'm sorry if I've offended you," said Kaplan.

"I suppose," spoke Campyogne, "that if you are seeking purpose in your journey, that you should align with us. We are presently attempting to reform the most powerful government on the planet, and to have a viator at our disposal would not only infallibly ensure the righteousness of our ways, but also the effectiveness. In such a case, it would be relevant for you to hear the history of the rabbits. Please, friend, have a seat."

Part 4

Campyogne spake thus:

"Long ago, in a very quaint corner of this world, there was a dark and ancient land known as Leporia. In the time of my species' youth, we were bound to the marshes of this land and were seemingly unremovable.

On the outside of the island was an endless expanse of sea, which voyagers reported as ominous, mysterious, and violent. Beneath the waves were hidden all manners of material evils, whether it be jagged crags or beasts twice the size of the rabbits themselves, which thirsted for their blood. The brooding tales brought back by those voyagers thwarted our dreams to one day traverse its wake.

But on the other side of us was something quite contrary from the distant abyss. The rabbits settled upon marshes; villages were built on great basins of wood constructed by the males, and the greatest town could only populate a thousand. There were vile creatures afoot, whether they be crocodiles or alligators, serpent beasts, spiders as wide as our waists, or frogs which swallowed two of us whole. There was only one place on the island of Leporia that was not like this dysmal marsh; we called it The Blessing. In the center of the island, which was very round, there was a great plateau, like a massive mountain sliced two-thirds the way down. The steep up to the flatland was so harrowing and dooming that only the most fit among us could scale it. Those who didn't come back either died, or went on to a finer mode of life.

It was uncontested - not questioned even by the most frivolous of the ignorant among us - that The Blessing was a garden of the utmost complacency. There was an instinct in the back of our heads which was ingrained in our nature, and it harangued us endlessly about the peace and love that laid behind us in this wondrous garden in the sky. And each morning, us rabbits climbed as high as we could to watch the clouds perforate above the plateau - and when it did, there resounded a great and golden glow from the heart of this mysterious and wonderful land. Truly, this was a land of myth and legend for which we so yearned. But bound were we to the filthing pits of our incongruous marsh.

In fact, we were soft, fragile, and nothing at all like the hard, dark, vile creatures of the marsh. Perhaps we grew in The Blessing, which seemed as fragile as us. There were rumors, as well, that traces of the most ancient rabbits still stood in ruin in this high haven. These were the things that brought tears to our eyes.

Many trained day and night to be fit to climb to this haven. But most of us failed. Occasionally, one man did not return. And, again, it was then evident that he either died along the way, or found a finer reserve. Our sedentary life brought us to very ill terms. There were feuds and wars constantly between all provinces and tribes. There was always a subtle hatred between every individual rabbit, even between siblings. The chief of one tribe may kill his brother, a mayor of a village, over something as petty as slander against his methods. There was always a dispute over the properties of fertile land between the most powerful and intelligent among us. And, of course, there were grave, but vain, attempts to rationalize returning to The Blessing and staying there.

In the greatest settlement of High Lonia, the town on a hill, there were endless rabbles in the square. There was always someone pushing for a mass immigration to the foot of the plateau or the development of a great ladder. Some just wanted to vent their furies and took to screaming thoughtless developments. Every day, there was war. There was always violence. And there was no hope for the oldest and wisest civilization on the Planet of War, the race of the rabbits.

One day, a very particular man stepped forth, into the square at Lonia, and he harangued the crowd with a speech that resounded forever thereafter in the minds of every rabbit. They say that important memories recur genetically in rabbit offspring, and that this is the most common recurring idea, the voice of a humble farmer, after whom I am named, bearing salvation on the crowd:

He stood on a wagon by the pub and shouted, 'My friends! My brothers! My sisters! Please, allot but a moment of your time! Should you, I'm sure I will grant you inalienable liberty from your errors! Please, I entreat, do not believe violence and conceitedness will aid our dispositions. From the furthest depths of my heart, I can conjure tears darker than the cruelest midnight, fears and dreams and hopes unsound, and stirrings of rage which seem, at times, to overpower me, and send me into an unreasonable fit. These days must end, my friends! For we are all dark and stygian inside; please, I entreat, believe that one day, we will solve the horrible enigma that rides the river of our sorrows.

'I hail from the province of Galadia; I was raised a humble farmer, as my family was vexed without end by the feuds and quarrels that so plague the basin of our society, and my days in this world have been marked by the deepest fervency of malice. As my parents passed on with time, I was blessed with a beautiful wife. We lived peacefully in Galadia, if not by common contrivances of disconcertion among the townspeople, and eventually came to bear three beautiful children. My wife was Aera; my children were two strong boys and the sweetest girl that ever was: Blackaver and Kehar, and my daughter was named Persephone.

Fourteen years ago, the feuds between Galadia and Peleponia began. In the night, my home was raided by Peleponian fiends; my family was taken from me, one and all. My wife was raped and murdered, and my children killed outright. Alas, I fought them away as I watched them take my family from this world before my very eyes, and thereafter, I was left in eternal sorrow. At every dawn, and in every evening, I am left with an undying sensation of morbid grief, and wish upon myself nothing but a simple, calm, and peaceful existence.

I have seen the accomplishments of my brothers and sisters, the rabbits of this great island of Leporia. We are an intelligent people; our politics and hardships are bound only in the reality we believe, not in the reality that is. Truth is all that binds us, and our sorrow is met in the places where we have wrongly assumed what really is.

As well, we are a fragile people. There is no sense in believing that we were raised in this dysmal abyss; I believe there are ruins in The Blessing left behind by rabbits of yore. I'm sure that, at soem point, we disbanded from that place and moved outward. We barred ourselves from that garden by our own reserve, at the expense of our complacency. Intelligence, progress, and the exploration of the world at large brought us to this horrid marsh. But such is the nature of reality; to feud over our disconcertion is the folly of rabbitkind; it is our destiny to leave this place, leave our grievances, leave this childish premonition of once day returning to a land of ignorance and delusion and take bravely upon the waters of our discontent. The shores are cruel, but we are a people of strength and valor and, most importantly, of intelligence.

Look upon yourselves; what shall become of The Blessing, should we return to it again? We will destroy it, that is what! We are greedy, self-centered, and senseless! Imagine what may happen to such a beautiful, fragile place! But may we not scold ourselves for that which we cannot help; it is the nature of all things to seek complacency without condition. Our grief happened upon us not when we saw each other, but when we stopped at these violent shores. It is not the purpose of life to brood over the days of yore, over things that are evidently good, over things that are behind us now, but to face brutality for what it is, and know that it is intelligence, optimism, and the fascination with progress that will grant us finer reserve. Please, my brothers and sisters, lay down not your hatred upon me, but your hope; for hope is all that we shall ever know. I invite you.'

This rabbit was named Campyogne. It was on that day that the rabbits of Leporia found their savior - a messiah, you might say. Word spread of his speech rapidly. Within weeks, the entire island knew of the name 'Campyogne.' They flocked to the town of Lonia, where he was granted the will of the people.

He commissioned his fellows to design and perfect vessels of the sea. Over the next few years, he did nothing but work from dawn to dusk. As he had no family to love and no purpose but to regulate salvation, he handed all manners of his time over to the prospect of traversing the sea. They say he was so efficient, that if one problem was not immediately solved, he would grow frantic. Sometimes, he would panic so violently that his colleagues would pin him down until he lost his energy struggling. Then, he would climb back into his seat and proceed to write more documents.

Several years passed, and the rabbits found themselves with a fleet fit to carry a thousand. About that many went, perhaps a few more, as the remaining thousand stayed, should the journey fail, and the rabbits bound for the new world are lost. (And some rabbits were simply bound to their homesteads, fully uninterested in leaving for no particular purpose; we rabbits are quite sentimental.)

All things seabound sailed smoothly for the beginning of the journey. They communicated by relaying messages by flag, and Campyogne found it convenient to administrate each ship. But the hearts of the rabbits were tried at each dawn, and there was always a rumor somewhere that Campyogne was completely wrong, or that the sea is endless. In due time, in accordance with the emptiness of their journey, and having passed the first field of crags and serpents, the voyagers became outraged. There was no trace of land, the food was running out, and people began to get sick. Campyogne himself grew ill in his studies, and so he stayed in his cabin at all times, only emerging occasionally to make sure he saw the sun once per day.

One morning, they saw land. It was everywhere around them - as far as the eye could see, whether left or right. The leader gained apologies from his compatriots, which he took kindly, and felt in himself a great relief. But the journey was not over. Before there was land, the worst of the journey had come.

There were crags again - crags for which they had not accounted. As well, they met with a truly unforeseen consequence - Kyre, the serpent of all the seas. If you stand on a straight beach and face the shore, then the extent of your vision left and right will show you the length of this beast. The rabbits saw it flying into the air in the distance, its red scales shimmering in the sun, and then worm back into the dark abyss. It grew closer every day. It let out malicious squeals that stroked the fears of every rabbit.

One day, it emerged, and swallowed a vessel whole. One hundred rabbits were stolen from us before a single rabbit could blink. And with this, the serpent took off, far away, and left the rest of us to fear for our lives.

But as the shore grew closer, the crags grew ever more dangerous, and the ships met with vile turbulence. There were newer serpents of the sea - although smaller, they were far more vicious. As on the last day, the shore could be grasped in their fists - but the serpents and the crags got the better of them. Ships fell like flies, and the voyagers were left grasping onto chunks of wood that were being beaten and devoured by a legion of writing, hissing, chomping beasts. Some rabbits could fight them off, but others fell victim.

At last, the call was cast, and the final dash commenced thus: "Ships down, ships down! Swim to shore!"

Five hundred-and-a-half rabbits took to the waters and swam madly towards the shore. Only three hundred felt its sands. Those who could not fight were devoured. Those who could saved the women and children. The waters themselves, as violent as they were then, grew red with the sight of relentless death. There were sounds of tearing flesh, screaming, violent thrashings. Panic bestowed upon us all. And as we felt the sands, we collapsed. We helped to the shore all whom we could. We salvaged canteens of fresh water. Some still died on the shore.

And those who were fit managed to sit on the shore and breathe simply the fine airs, relish in the nectars of salvation. But there was a question that quickly arose among the survivors - "Where is Campyogne?"

He washed up through the waves like a log of driftwood. Weakly and almost effortlessly, he managed to slide his way towards the shore, until a group of younger rabbits helped to drag him further in. But they left him be; he was mortally wounded. There was a great gash in his side, where bones were snapped and flesh adjourned. He turned upon his stomach on the ground and clasped his fist in the sand, taking with him a handful of its fine textures. His head rose and his eyes met with the forward image.

There were emerald canopies and barks of rich burgundy. There were lofty mountains far away, clearly rising above the world, shrouded in fine slights of clouds. The air was crisp, clean, and galvanizing. There was promise in this land. There was peace. There was silence. There was a new adventure to be had.

His fist let the sands run out through the cracks of his fingers. He breathed in and out passionately. He moaned quietly, 'Alas, we found it...my work...is done.' He laid his head upon the sands and peacefully passed into a finer state of being. He died there, and the last thing he ever saw was the world he had only ever known in the world of dreams.

His compatriots reviewed what they had seen since. There were their prejudices, there was ignorance, and there was violence and hatred behind them. Their past was done, and it was then that the rabbits on that very shore realized the folly of discontent. The first order of business, after establishing a settlement, was to build a memorial in the honor of Campyogne. A statue was crafted by a survivor, a fine mason, and he engraved in the epitaph, 'Weathered art you, O Great Campyogne; rest you eternally.'

Thereafter, all rabbits were of good heart. Their consciences were burdened under the woe of Campyogne's demise. They educated their youth adequately on the tragedy that was their journey to the new world, that less than half of them saw peace by the cruel hand of incongruity and random displacement. They were lucky to live and be peaceful. Rabbits became, then, the oldest and wisest creatures ever to walk this planet. I hold that statement in the utmost modesty; even the most frivolous of the ignorant will agree. The legacy of The Great Campyogne was set in stone, and he was honored for the rest of time. I, as an advocate of peace and righteousness, am proud to carry his message and intent, as is every rabbit.

And so, the rabbits repopulated and dispersed about the land. They made villages at fertile sites and allied with natives. In this area, the one in which we now stand, they allied with an ancient tribe - the Kongorok. They were a people of light skin who made structures of stone. With these people, they shared technology and splendor, and together, they forged a massive metropolis. It was called Runark - simple Kongorok speak for 'Rune Arcs,' which were the archways you see built here and there, which divide the districts.

But as the empire grew old, it saw many influxes of immigration. Other people came to seek financial and social splendor in this metropolis, but soon, rabbits and their culture became scarce, and only the humanoids and the modern Kongorok remained. It was a bloody civil war which granted power to the humanoids - pale-skinned assimilators who took in an incorrect manner every single maxim in the political doctrines of old. But they were powerful none the less. And with this power, they outlawed the nature of those from whom they stole the kingdom, and now they rule with iron and blood. I suppose it it here, where your journey begins, wayward knight."

Part 5

With the conclusion of his tale, the room fell silent to the sound of industry from the city outside. Patience dusked on the compatriots of the attic, who reveled in the spirit of that sacred story. There were moments of silence, if not minutes. The old Campyogne had taken a seat in the chair opposite Mandrake, who stared down at his parchment, his hands clasped and placed neatly on the desk.

"I'm very sorry for your tragedies," said Kaplan.

"There is no due sorrow, my friend," the wise one reassured. "For through our endeavors we have found that all persons are good of heart, but are thronged by the brooding doubt and fear within them, objects which are beyond their control. There is no sorrow due, and never has been; there never will. For now, wayward knight, all we can do is pray for each other and hope."

"It should be appropriate to ask," said Kaplan, "what it is I may be able to help you with."

The two rabbits looked at each other, perturbed. Their countenances were grim. Campyogne answered, "Our efforts towards reform are strictly peaceful. A viator like you has little to do but cause commotion; perhaps you are not fit for this."

"However," said Mandrake, "we are met with a prevailing issue of cynicism among the populous. People are simply self-intellectual. No one is open to debate, save on grounds of preconception."

"What do you mean?" asked Kaplan.

"There may be violence," replied Mandrake, frankly. "We are at a loss as to how to transcend a revolution with words, when the people of this land are, in all manners of speaking, confined to themselves...

"All rabbits are in absolute opposition to all manners of discontent. Whether it's genocide, a fight on the street or even a lemon missing on the rim of a cup of tea, we are persistently conscious of that which subtracts from the forward progress of all persons. It is a worldwide concession that high comfort combined with high necessity breeds genius. But alas, we are, it seems, physically begrimed by the thought of violence."

"So you're saying," said Kaplan, "that you are horribly distraught in denial that violence will be the only way to solve this reformation?"

"It's a pessimistic conjecture," insisted Campyogne. "We have many theories on the matter, but this seems to be the most prevailing of all. It is a very detailed and realistic thought. Besides, the idea of simply emerging from the attic and walking into the great hall to rally the Combatants into action again is just as simple as it sounds...It seems that Mandrake and I have everything planned for violence in our heads, but we try in vain to suppress it. Violence is an alien thing to the empire today; there hasn't been any violent protest here in ages. Circumstances would become horrifically real."

Kaplan took a deep breath. "I wouldn't say I'm as smart as the two of you," he said, "but I think there will have to be violence. At this point, I'm with you all the way. Congress sent me here, after all. Now, I don't know why, but my class as a Stalkster makes me feel like violence is going to have to be the answer here. "

"That's rather common of Stalksters," assured Campyogne. "You feel right."

"I see," said Kaplan. "Well, I'd be willing to partake, if I must. I'm still not entirely sure where I am, where I came from, or where I'm going, but this is clearly a pressing matter, and I'm evidently in the middle of it now."

"No, Kaplan," said Campyogne. "You are free to leave us at any time."

"I'm not capable of that," Kaplan corrected. "I believe I'm an American, and in America, on earth, injustice is known forthwith as the bane of mankind. It is fought furiously. My nature inclines me to choose to fight."

"Are you sure?" Campyogne asked. "Are you sure you want to accept a course of violence?"

"That's not for you to ask," said Kaplan. "That's for me to ask. You said it yourself - rabbits are grieved by violence. What I need now is confirmation, and I will aid you to the best of my abilities."

The rabbits looked at each other. They looked away. They lounged in their seats and looked out the window. Campyogne walked over to the hole in the wall and placed his hand on the rim. He surveyed the revolving lives of all those people there in the forum, the fragility of their ascent, and the intricacy that comprises the clockwork of the physical world; how sacred it all was. How threatening the eminence of violence. Campyogne conjured with all his worth the premonition of violence; he observed the cruelties that will come, the ostentatious malices that will arise, and the follies of all sentient things that will show themselves plainly. He graduated from the idea. He looked into Mandrake's eyes, and they traded their feelings.

"I've conditioned myself appropriately," said the old one. "The people of this city are not reasonable; they are lost in their own political delusion, into an animalistic world of fallacy and myth. If only I could shake from me the folly of man, or the the belief that folly is avoidable; but folly, I have found, derives not from man, but from nature. It is inevitable, at times. Perhaps it is the true folly of man that he finds it to be evil. In any case, this is in your hands now, Kaplan. And I have constituted that violence is all that will reconcile with the humanoids of the Arcs. I will go now, and rally the Combatants."

With this, Campyogne alighted from his seat and, staff in hand, began hobbling over towards the exit. Mandrake followed shortly after him. Kaplan followed by obligation. As the old rabbit approached the narrow hole in the floor, he stopped.

"It's a long way down," warned Mandrake. "Please, we can find an easier way down."

"No, earnestly," protested Campyogne. "I've still got it in me to get down. Just hold my staff."

He handed the white rabbit his staff and sat on the rim of the hole. Slowly, he began to lower himself down. And suddenly, he seemed to disappear. Mandrake gasped. Kaplan jumped. There was silence for a few moments, until Mandrake called down, "Camp, are you alright? Have you fallen?"

"Nonsense!" a voice rang back almost immediately. "I've just reached the bottom, now get down here!"

By the time Kaplan and Mandrake reached the bottom, which had taken quite longer than Campyogne, they found him leaning on a set of shelves, casually eating a bag of riced salt basins.

"You are old, Campyogne," the white one said, "but you've still maintained your nimbleness! How is that?"

"I'm a rabbit, aren't I?" Campyogne remarked. "All rabbits are as spry as they please until the day they die. All you youngins think you've over the hill by the fifth decade! That's nonsense. Now, come along."

Acquiring his walking stick again, Campyogne led his two compatriots out of the pantry, feeling his way along the shelves and then along the wall as though he was slowly processing and recounting the images of the temple. He looked around the kitchen in awe and, slowly, slipped into the main hall.

As he entered, the old one announced to his comrades, "Friends, alas, I have rejoined with you."

Everyone in the room looked up from their vidyas and spam and gazed absently at first, but soon Kaplan could see it in their eyes that gradually, they reclaimed their humanity. And so, they crowded the old rabbit. They harangued him with questions, on his state, and his whereabouts, and so on. But the wise old one calmed them by a raising of the palm, and he answered thus:

"I've not been far away. In fact, Mandrake and I have holed up in the attic for the last year, writing for the Kingdom Press. Why do you think there have been eagles around here? They take our messages to the king. Alas, we have slowly been trying to subvert order with our writing. And we have successfully split the kingdom in two politically, but our work has yet to revere any resounding effects.

"As you know, the government is in grave danger of destroying not only itself, but the people, as well. After an entire year of thinking and writing in vain attempts at generating a physical response, we have all but given up. It was when this gentleman graced us with his presence earlier today," he said as he directed attention to Kaplan, "that we decided, against our will, to formulate a violent response."

With this, his tone dropped. The graveness in his voice arose.

"Mandrake and I are strictly against this violence, but, we fear, it may have to be necessary. Now, although the lot of you are agents of the government, I know in my heart of hearts that you honestly despise it. If this weren't true, then the volumes that arose from our attempted subversions would not populate the sections they do in the Kingdom Library, or on the shelves of our political colleagues. Although this idea brings to me the greatest of pain, I must ask of all of you a favor - please, for the sake of all people, join with me and let us arrange a violent uprising."

"Also," Kaplan announced, "the Congress is on our side. They sent me here and told me to seek Campyogne out. If this violent rebellion goes through, then we'll be backed up by the buffer between the people and the govenrment. There may not even be any government resistance - just guard resistance."

"Indeed," said Campyogne. "So, friends, what say you?"

Part 6

They were a murder of black bodies, huddled around the girth of the round dining table in the kitchen. Sitting was Campyogne; they gathered around him. Mandrake sat beside him. Kaplan looked over his shoulder. The old one spoke:

"There will be a protest in the square outside in two days. The Promono will be advocating the government and denouncing dissenters. Dissenters will be there, as well. As usual, the northern stage will be occupied by some howling lunatic. As he steps off, we must alight. It must be a smooth transition; on first notice, we must only seem to be there to listen, or perhaps shout. We must partake accordingly, as though we never changed. Should they suspect anything funny at all, someone will take action. Fortune has it that we often carry our weapons - this means we won't have to conceal them, because people expect us to have them."

The poor, old rabbit took a sip of coffee from the mug in front of him to calm his head. He rubbed his nose, furrowed it, and carried on.

"As we take control of the stage, we'll have to assume a particular arrangement, a line. I suggest A1-09; Kaos in the center, Schauk leftwise and concluding his squad; tazers rightwise and concluding his. Kaplan will stand guard in the back. He will not have to shoot; there will be plenty done regardless. No political message must be transcended outright. As the chaos heightens, we must fight our way back to the Monastery and initiate an immediate lockdown. It will be impenetrable, except for the hole in the roof. We must barricade it before the protest."

"I think we can handle that," insisted Schauk. "Plus, we have plenty of time to prepare. A few of us can patch that hole."

"Is this really a necessity?" asked Spenar. "Is this the end of the road?"

"It's not absolutely necessary," replied Campyogne, "but we have tried words not just for the last year, but for our entire lives. The subliminal relevance of our political strife has been evident since day one. And day one was decades and decades ago. As hard as it is to bring such words upon myself, I believe now is the time for violence. People are immune to words these days. How deluded they are to believe there are no radicals left."

"I doubt they'll perceive us as being this radical," Dovi commented. "So I'd imagine we'll be able to pull it off."

"Maybe they'll be happy to see us," suggested Zodan.

"I'm glad you approve," said Campyogne. "I expected a more energetic response. It's a very serious matter."

"We don't quite find things serious anymore," commented Shoven, as though speaking for everyone else.

"It's good that we can approach this soberly in that regard, however," commented Popadopalus.

"The next few days will be spent in detail and in progress," said Campyogne. "Now, I need to speak with Bryn, and I need someone to send for Sheriff and Chetoz. They'll be instrumental. Please, now, organize and task."

Kaplan observed the Monastery come to life in the following three days. The main hall was ripe with galvanized noise, there was always armor being organized or echoes from the shooting range, and, curiously, there was always someone making their bed. Kaplan heard from Zodan that that was a healthy routine, in the same way that shaving was a healthy routine.

On the second day, Campyogne fell suddenly quite ill, and he was escorted to the attic, where he was placed in a bed in the writing room. With this, he constituted a change of plans. He decided to have secured the pantry, and the attic would be the center of negotiation with the government. They couldn't legally torture a sick man (or so they said) and he wouldn't talk unless he had coffee, muffins or some other form of comfort. Such was a common characteristic of the modern rabbit.

Mandrake began to worry. He was by Campyogne's side almost all the time, and he was always pacing back and forth, sweating, talking to himself under his breath. An anxious rabbit is never a good sign, as history as taught. They have been anxious on the cusp of unforeseen tragedies, whether the assassination of a monarch or a sudden and rapid climate change in a fragile portion of the world. Of course, those were the most general cases. You can find a panicking rabbit anywhere, and, soon afterwards, find a tragedy befallen.

"Is Campyogne dying?" Kaplan asked Schauk, out of harm's way, in the Main Hall.

"Fuck," replied Schauk. "Don't say that. Campyogne's got more dignity than that."

"I'm sorry," said Kaplan. "But I'm not sure I quite follow with this anxious thing."

"Rabbits are anxious," remarked Schauk, who was loading a very complex machine gun at the time. "And every time they've become anxious, bad shit has gone down afterwards. That's really it; in this case, anything bad could happen. Maybe the massacre won't go well; maybe someone else is going to die; maybe the Monastery is going to collapse on us in our sleep. Seriously, don't immediately conclude like that. It scares us."

"I'm really sorry," said Kaplan. "That was a pretty low thing to say."

"Hey, you can shoot, right?" Popadopalus had approached our protagonist and threw at him these words.

"Probably not," Kaplan replied.

"Are you serious?" said Popadopalus, slightly confounded. "You're a Stalkster, aren't you?"

"Yes," replied Kaplan.

"All Stalksters are really good at shooting," said Pop.

"Really?"

"Yeah, dumbass. Come with me."

They took to the shooting range. It was a room sound-proofed from the outside by insulation made from white panther fur, the most attenuating of all materials. The targets were straw men, and were densely packed. Almost effortlessly, smoothly, Kaplan assumed a rifle and beheaded each straw man in three seconds flat.

"Wow," he said.

"Yeah," said Pop. "I told you."

..."Alright," said Kaplan.

"That's really all I wanted to know," said Pop. "Just in case you have to shoot."

It was an awkward, if not negligible, point in Kaplan's affairs.

Chetoz, the Sheriff, and a multitude of other surprising faces turned up on the second day. Kadaj, Sygon, Kalo and The Lost Prophet appeared. They all bore their signature weapons. It was a traditional rejoining. On the grounds of contributing to something of the utmost importance, they sharpened their blades, they locked, and they loaded.

There were sleeping bags all around the atrium, and the aggregates slept soundly. The thought of violence, of incongruity, was brewing in the air. Slowly, the fear and doubt of everyone synthesized and formulated not just a gloom, but a very frightening sense of impending destruction of human life. It was tenfold as terrifying to think peoples' lives will be denied existence for thousands of years, as opposed to a few decades. It was at this point that Kaplan truly considered the ramifications of what he was doing. He did not sleep on the night before the massacre. Somehow, he felt accustomed to violence. But equally, he felt great grief over it. In the morning, he drank an energy shot. He was alert for the next twenty hours.

It was a sunny day in the square. Promonos set up shop with pickets and great posters plastered on the walls. Demonos invaded and tried to do the same. There were disputes over the stage. It was a crowd in the faceless elite, diversified by minor dissimilarities, marked by their common conformity. Even between the two parties, there wasn't much to tell apart. Some held signs that slandered, others held signs that deified. There were police present in royal attire to split up minor disputes here and there. Yes, these police could be overwhelmed; the accumulative militant prowess of the Monolithm, which was so readily on-cue at all times, was enough to strike dead the breaths of every protestor present. It was only a matter of time before the murder of crows arrived.

Many faces turned and were rather happy to see them. Campyogne and Mandrake were not present; they stayed safely tucked away in the attic, awaiting the negotiation. The murder, however, was busy shaking hands and exchanging laughs with their old compatriots - whom they knew by the scores. Whether Promonos or Demonos, they were friends. But anxiously, the small group of men in black jackets with rifles on their backs made their way through the crowd. They were frighteningly swift.

There was a man shouting on the stage at the top of his lungs. He was outraged at the ignorance of those who disdain those who serve them. He believes, divine or not, those who orchestrate a life of peace are worthy of praise. Men are screaming at him. One of them collapses to his knees and rips his hair out by the fistful, his head growing bloody in the process. He looks back up with blood trickling down his face and continues to scream.

Men tear at each other violently here and there. They're torn apart by a crow or two, so as to regulate peace before the paradigm shift. As the speaker on the stage ends his speech, he descends into the crowd again. The murder of crows makes its way onto the stage.

Kaos assumes the middle. He's sided by Schauk, Zedon, Popadopalus, Kadaj, Nill, Dovi, Spenar, Kadaj, Sygon, Kalo and The Lost Prophet. They face the crowd.

The murder fires wholesomely upon the congregation. There was nothing between the heavy cracks that impacted the deepest of all personal fear, you could hear the sound of agony, and occasionally, the sound of blood splattering on those surrounding. They fired so rapidly, so precisely, and so swiftly that they killed a hundred in a matter of moments. It was a violent effort. They ran for their lives, but even then, they seemed to remain amassed. There was always someone in the crossfire. The bullets ripped and tore at them all. They were all unsuspecting. Their screams tore through the extremities of all that was terror.

The police fought back. Although most of them died, they sent for reinforcement. And accordingly, reinforcements arrived. They were dark figures in gas masks, wielding rifles of the highest technology. But the Combatants were better; they were the best in the land. They harangued all opposers with a rabid and relentless shower of organized lead. In no time, the Combatants walked in pools of those slain. They stomped hard, and the blood crawled up their legs in splatters. Still, their rifles pounded away at those who opposed.

But they were met with heavier opposition; Promonos came back with guns of their own, and in vast quantities. There was no cover, but for the fear of being shot, and your attempt at flight. The Combatants were fearless, but this confidence was soon becoming subject to reality. The charade slowly and surely began to subside. Kaplan, standing on the stage behind still, as the others had advanced forward, fired over their heads when necessary. But he read in their panicking nature that they were beginning to falter. And as Chetoz reloaded, he looked back at our protagonist and shook his head, screaming something that was incomprehensible amongst the pounding.

A crowd had amassed. Lead flew, and all that saved the Combatants was the dark mithril. Kaplan couldn't think straight, and he began to accept failure. The crowd gathered in and assembled their strength and courage, no matter how easily they would fall victim to the attrition at hand. It was a loud, horrifying flurry of cracks. Thousands of people torn to shreds and puddles of blood. The comparatively vast population of The City was split in two, and upon word of the violence, quite everyone became involved. They fell by the scores to the lead and the roaring of the rifles and the bleakness of mind that had been erased in order to comprehend such a desolate demise. The day darkened for the Combatants. There was no time to think. Logic was of the essence. Zodan fell victim. Kaos roared. Everyone strained. The crowd died in bravery. Time was lost. Kaplan was lost. But suddenly, it burst into his head -

It was so obvious.

He grabbed the body of a Promono and dragged it towards the backboard of the stage. He ripped from it the massive eyesore of a political poster, revealing a clean wall. Shooting the corpse open a little more, he knelt down and bathed his hand in blood. On the wall, he wrote in that crimson lifewater the word,


R U N A R K



Part 7


As the last stroke of the message was made, a silence spread across the crowd like a disease. One at a time, the quarrelers calmed and stared at the red words scraped on the side of what Kaplan only assumed to be sandstone. In time, there wasn't a noise to be heard in the square. Everyone gazed at the blasphemy. The bourgeois on their balconies, the dark Combatants, the Promonos, the Demonos, and even the police and backup riot control stopped to behold the image of the word "Runark" written huge, imposingly, loud and clear on the empty wall of the square in the forum.


Kaplan turned around and grabbed the grip of his AK on his back. He cocked it. He aimed it at the face of an onlooking Promono and turned it to shreds.


The square exploded.


Not everyone used their guns or their blades to kill this time; it was a mess of animalistic rage. People pulled at each other, slammed against each other, bashed skulls with their skulls, broke backs with their feet, smashed faces with elbows, shoved arms down throats, ripped navels open, twisted arms, removed heads with their hands, turned men to piles of flesh in matters of seconds. The rage was such that they lost all sense of control. The Combatants stood back confidently and watched. The two parties were infatuated in the utter annihilation of their opponents. The sky closed in and grew dark. Thunder rumbled above their heads.


Soon, the entire city mobilized. Word spread so quickly that, within a matter of less than three quarters of an hour, the majority of the city was crowded massively around the forum, kicking and punching, chomping and ripping, and trying in vain to kill someone, somehow. The image of RUNARK on the wall was not a unilateral arbitration; it was the overlying hatred of all people who lived in the city (with the exception of the Underground Apathy League). Written in the blood of someone who loved emperor Smithicus with all his heart, the image was tenfold as enraging. The neurological barrier between sentient sophistication and absolute animalistic chaos was destroyed then, and even those who hadn't heard of what was happening still took the opportunity to kill their neighbors.

There were people killing their bosses. There were mobs of men raping women known to be community sluts. There were women stabbing their husbands. There were children stealing soda and stabbing random passer-by's in the sternum - they wielded menacing blades they came across and slaughtered with haste the forms of those who, in their angst, they saw as their oppressors. In the same way, there were perfectly normal men and women scrambling for the throats of their district representatives. There were old people hitting each other with canes. The suicidal took up arms against those who made them depressed.

Those rebels on the stage took only to shooting away whoever happened to lunge at them in a chaotic effort. They watched the elements at work with the crowd, and they saw firsthand the nature of madness spreading throughout the entire city. Eventually, they found they were watching something ever more curious: the Demonos and the Promonos were separating into two crowds. Kaplan felt the ground rumbling. There was a loud, cracking sound behind him, which he found to be a rift in the wall opening in the center of RUNARK, between the N and the A. It lengthened fast. It spread far across the square in an instant and through the apartment complex on the other side. The complex collapsed. The buildings behind it collapsed. It grew wider. And wider. And soon, it was evident that the empire had begun to split.


The Demonos jumped to the side of the split in favor of the Monastery. Kaplan and the Combatants did the same. Very slowly, the rift grew wider and wider, leaving a deep and great crevice. But still, it grew wider. The two parties took to dismembering the ground to hurl at each other. In the rest of the city, the angry and the tired jumped to the Monastery's side; the successful and ordinary took the opposite end. The sky overhead turned from dark to overcast. The rumbling of the rift grew evermore silent as the two halves began drifting on the seas of sand directly outside the walls.


During this transformation, the two empires took time to recuperate from the bloodshed. Everyone was tired. Kaplan and the Combatants took time to comprehend what it was they had done. Accordingly, they all returned to the Monastery overlooking the great half-circle of the square and slept for many days, trying to overcome what it was they had just witnessed. Even for the grizzly elite, such bloodshed was hard to understand. The people, as well, were devastated. But moreover, they were still hungry for blood. Matters of importance were on reserve for the Combatants, who hung around the main hall in an aural gloom. They seldom spoke. They ate nothing but spam and drank nothing but herbal sedatives.


Schauk, Kaos, and The Lost Prophet congregated in the attic with Kaplan and Campyogne. Mandrake paced around anxiously, occasionally pouring another cup of tea and drinking it quickly and furiously. "As though it's not enough that my oldest friend is sick," he would say, "now I have to consider what will happen to me once they capture the new kingdom and arrest the lot of us for the deepest of all treasons!"


"Well," rationalized Kaplan, "consider that it was our side of the empire who took the first step to splitting the kingdom in two. At least we're more bloodthirsty than them."


"They're the ones with a real army," said Schauk. "They could annihilate us if they wanted to."


"But what if they decide to wage a Classical War?" asked the Prophet.


"What's Classical War?" asked Kaplan.


"It's a war without guns," replied Campyogne, struggling to speak. "It's fought with blades and bows. in common war, there are conventions and orders which must be applied to assure competence and success. Classical War eliminates this entirely. It is a war fought by rage and determination. It's employed when all matters have become obsolete except for the simple impulse to murder and claim glory. They are the bloodiest of all wars."


"Wait, there are only blades?" asked Kaplan.


"Should we use guns," said Schauk, "we'd be shunned as an empire until distant generations are long gone. We'd probably get taken over by everyone else soon after the war. Classical War is the greatest measure of empirical ingenuity."


"So we're pretty much pressured into this by everyone else?" asked Kaplan.


"Yeah," replied the Prophet. "It's really the only thing we can do."


"Well," said Campyogne, "before we go off talking of war or death, we must first establish a true government here. For the time being, the monastery will be the capitol. This attic will be the head office of all governmental affairs. Because this is greatly my problem, and because I'm bound to this bed, it will essentially have to be."


"What's the name of this place, anyway?" asked Kaos.


"Kaos is right," said Mandrake. "This is a new empire; what's its name?"


The lot of them looked at Campyogne. Campyogne looked at Kaplan.


"So I should name it?" asked Campyogne. "Nonsense; none of this would have happened had Kaplan not appeared, albeit hardly a week ago. He was the one who liberated Mandrake and I from the bonds of peaceful thinking, however unrighteous and catastrophic this movement may have been. For the longest time, we contained the prospect of a righteous empire by violent insurgence since our youth, but only recently did Kaplan really set it forth. I believe he should be the one to name it; he's the one who made it."


They all looked at Kaplan.


"Jeez," he said. "I have no idea what to call it."


"Any kind of name will do," said Campyogne.


"Yeah, but it's a whole goddamn empire," argued Kaplan.


He stood and thought for a moment. He remembered, amidst his collection of random and disconnected memories, that he once heard of an old and important empire called Babylon in school. Unfortunately, he failed every test he ever had over ancient civilization. Hoping to give the name Babylon some meaning, he said,


"I'll name it Babylon."


"Good name," said Schauk. "Excellent."


"Indeed," said the Prophet.


"Is that a name from earth?" asked Campyogne.


"I think so," replied Kaplan. "It was the name of a very old and important empire that I know nothing of." He then remembered that Babylon was ultimately burned, but chose to keep that tucked away in his head.


Footsteps preceded a familiar voice coming from the entrance to the attic, and the voice said: "Emperor Campyogne, we request your audience."


"Who's there?" asked Campyogne, straining to look over.


Kaplan recognized the man and all of his compatriots as none other than the Congress of Runark.


"It's the Congress of the Rune Arcs!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"


"We've come to help govern," said Marcus. "Campyogne! Mandrake! It's been so long, how have you been?"


"Haha," said Mandrake, "awful. Just awful. Nothing is good."


"Ignore the bunny," said Campyogne. "We've been just fine." He coughed. "Well, I've been somewhat sick lately, but besides that we're doing quite well. This empire business seems to have come across."


"Indeed," said Marcus, somewhat sarcastically. "I assume Kaplan was instrumental in this transition."


"He was," said Campyogne.


"It happened rather fast, too," said a Congressional constituent.


"It was a fragile matter," said Campyogne. "All it took was a little more grief, and it pulled through with flying colors."


"He seems to be good at saying a few things but physically changing lots of things," conjectured a Congressional constituent.


"Yes," siad Marcus. "We've been drinking coffee nonstop ever since you've left our chambers. We've been able to balance the effect by ordering to be played the most romantic of beats and lyres in the whole kingdom. However, now, I'm not sure what kind of musicians remain."


"Are you joking?" said Campyogne. "All musicians were Demonos! In fact, all artists in the entire kingdom were Demonos! We have on our hands the greatest musicians in the world, my friend!"


"Good heavens!" exclaimed Marcus. "Is the messenger here? I need a messenger and someone to notarize officiated declarative documents."


Two constituents stepped forth as he seized a blank piece of parchment on the desk and rapidly inscribed a document accelerating the active distribution of the sonically adept to harmonically lull morale through collective cooperation between them, wresting power in them alone to decide such cooperation.


"You, notarize this," said Marcus, handing the document to a constituent. He signed his name on it.


"And you," again said Marcus, to the other constituent, "go off and tell the entire city that all musicians must contribute to morale by playing music in the streets cooperatively."


"By all means," said the constituent. In a flash, he hastened to the hole in the floor and disappeared within. Marcus went to the hole in the ceiling and sat on the bottommost ridge, seemingly waiting for something. In the silence, there broke in a single drumline. Then, another drumline responded to that. A flute responds. Then a bunch of strings, then more drums, and soon there was a powerful symphony of street music flushing through the streets.


"Very good," said Marcus. "Now, is there any other business to which we must attend?"


"None for now," said Campyogne. "Mandrake, do you know of anything?"


"There's plenty!" he exclaimed. "What of the weaponry - the arms? Who will draft the men? Who will fight? On top of that, who will be our ambassador to The City of the Rune Arcs?"


"It's not known as that anymore," said Marcus. "They just call it Runark now."


"Are you serious?" said Campyogne. "Why the hell would they do that?"


"It's a horrible mess," replied Marcus. "They act like animals now. They spare all order and sophistication for their preparations for war. Even then, their views on killing are quite warped."


"How do you mean?" asked Campyogne.


"I think we've mentally broken them," replied Marcus. "They don't know how to deal with something like this; it's far too outrageous for them. We Demonos are quite used to dealing with terrible or awful matters, whereas the Promonos are so married to society that they don't quite know anything else. They are simply unable to comprehend anything other than persisting peace. They're reacting strangely."


"Then we should have the upper hand," said Campyogne. "Oh, how it pains me to say that. I never thought I would speak of war again. The grief upon Mandrake and I has been unfathomable."


"I'd imagine," said Marcus. "And I am sorry. But for now, we need to set up shop somewhere and sort this all out."


"Take the kitchen," said Mandrake. "We'll have coffee made for you while you work. But, of course, we'll have to hire some lackeys to that extent."


"Very good," said Marcus, as he is commonly inclined to say. "Now, I suppose it's time to do some governing."


Part 8


There was a young man standing in the street with a hood around his head. There were the artistic elite jamming all around him, in the storefront of that cafe at night. The sound of the drums and the strings were resonating down the street. Slowly, the sun began to rise, and the horizon was bright. An hour passes still, and the city harnesses the sunshine.


The music persists, but the young man has changed positions. He's sifting through the crowds - of men forging weapons from iron and steel, of bows being carved from the strongest of oaks, of strings being strummed from the bottom of hearts, of politics hammering away in the jaws of men whose veins are thrusted thusly against their furrowed brow. He was swift. Around every corner was a man on a box of soap, and the populous emanated thickly from the forum. There was his destination.


He bumps rudely into a gentleman leaving the Monastery.


"What in Azura," declares the begrudged man, pulling the cigarette from his lips. He sees the young man, who has stopped to face him, and says, "Oh, Fleek. What are you doing?"


The young man waited for a moment before replying, "nothn u"


"I'm going to find some more ale," the constituent replied. "And I need to get my coat re-darkened. It's starting to brighten up with dust."


"col"


They parted ways, and Fleek sped swiftly up the great stairs, through the corridor of memories, and into the bustling great hall. Jawz looked up from his rifle, which he had been cleaning, and said, "Oh, hey, Fleek is here."


He was greeted by a crowd of mumbles.


Kaplan studied him for a moment, sitting beside Schauk, who was poring over the armory inventory, marking things off, for whatever reason.


"Who's Fleek?" Kaplan asked.


"He's amazing," replied Schauk. "He's the reason we all got addicted to spam, really. We found him wandering around the wasteland, and when we approached him we discovered he was some insane wizard who could harness chaos. We promised to buy him all the spam he could ask for and house him here if he didn't leave, so he wouldn't ravage the world with his power. There was a surplus of spam, and we all slowly bought into it."


"Christ," said Kaplan.


"...Christ?" repeated Schauk, inquiringly.


"It's a long story."


The young man in the hood swifted his way into the kitchen. He beheld the cold closet for a moment, then decided there was nothing worth eating. He was at a loss as to where he was going, what he was supposed to be doing, or what his next move would be. In an instance of confusion, he opened a chaotic rift and appeared in a random place in the city.


There was an old man sitting at a table, with a sandwich in front of him.


"What's your name, young man?" he asked.


"flek"


"What the Azura are you doing here, anyway?" the old man asked. "Where did you come from?"


"iunno fuck you"


The old one shouted "YOU SON OF A BITCH" before attempting to alight from his seat and dying as soon as he was standing upright. He fell solidly to the ground. Fleek beheld what had just happened for a moment. He was standing in front of another cafe, which was completely empty. It looked as though it was old and decrepit. He looked at a brick in the wall and chaotically removed it with his mind.


The building collapses where it stands.


There was a hollow space between the other two storefronts, and the cafe fell forward and backward, into the street ahead and into the alleyway behind it. No one was killed, and the young man was chaotically murdered.


But, as the philosophers have written, death is chaos. In a chaotic part of town, where two men were locked in a bloody fistfight, he appeared again. There was a circle of spectators around them, empowering them with words against each other. He stared at them. He forced into their minds images of violence and rage that drove them into a great fury. They tore the flesh from each others' faces. They punched each others' bones to shards. And soon, they were struggling on the ground in a terrible, floundering mess. They died soon after. A gaggle of cannibals in black robes civilly emerged from the alley and collected the two deceased men. The crowd dispersed, and the young man went unnoticed.


He looked at the sky, and the clouds quickly accumulated. There was thunder and lightning in the distance.


He looked at the streets, and sewage erupted from the tunnels below. There were delegates of constituents with great cleaning utilities.


He looked up and down the storefronts at the musicians, and they played harder, louder and faster.


The young man appears in the attic of the Monastery.


"Ah, Fleek," said Marcus, poring over a scroll. "Have you completed your tasks?"


"ye"


"You killed those ruffians?"


"yes"


"I see you made it rain."


"ye"


"Did you give my delegates something to do to keep them busy?"


"y"


"Very good," said Marcus.


He threw him a slab of spam.


Part 9


Kaplan is sitting in the kitchen late one night, when everyone has uniformly gone to bed, and the only other one stirring is Mandrake, frantically watching over his friend in bed. Kaplan spent this time here thinking. He tried to comprehend all the violence he had inhibited, and how much more there would be. It was always hard to think about. He was in an armchair in front of the primary fireplace, which was lit and flickering quietly.


The door to the kitchen opened, and he turned his head to see who had entered. It was the messenger constituent.


"I've a letter for you," said the constituent, "from Smithicus."


"Smithicus?" Kaplan echoed.


He accepted the letter.


The seal on the back was rough and crusty - it must have been blood. He ripped it open and unfolded the letter inside.


"Dear Mr. Alexander Kaplan,


Royal inquiry has requested of you immediate audience to our emperor, Smithicus. You are to arrive at the empire yourself, and with no one else. Peaceful escorts will be sent for you. As your pass through the streets, no stone will be thrown upon you in disgust. They will be silent as you are taken to the main hall. Please be at the front gates of your empire as soon as possible, for the escorts are most likely already there.


Sincerely,
Secretary of Runark"


"It's a very brief letter," said Kaplan. "It seems like he didn't have much fun writing it."


"What did it say?" asked the messenger.


"I have to go meet with Smithicus," replied Kaplan.


The messenger was stunned.


Kaplan added, "There are escorts at the gates. I ought to leave now before anyone's awake to protest."


"But what if they try to kill you?" asked the messenger.


"I can't be killed," replied Kaplan. "It's a destiny thing." He alighted from his chair.


"How does that work?" the messenger asked.


As Kaplan was walking out, he stopped and replied, "I'm a viator."


"Oh," said the messenger.


Kaplan left the kitchen.


There were a few straggling musicians strumming lonesomely in front of the shops, with candles or inconsequential fires supplying for them a few loose ends of light. Occasionally, there was a criminal or a scoundrel running from one alley to another, or there were eyes staring from the rooftops. The streets were full of anger. But Kaplan was not to be touched; he was the designated savior of the city. Babylon was his doing.


The random memories of his past began recurring in his head again. There were images of the suburbs, of trips to the beach, and of video games. There was something about these images that seemed central to his youth. He didn't know how old he was, but he felt like an old man. Here and there, he arrived at blurry images of what seemed like complacent life. There was something ominous about these images. He felt as though they were terribly incomplete, and he tried as hard as he could, in his long walk, to fill in the gaps, but to no avail.


As he emerged from this contemplative stupor, he began to focus more on the streets themselves. There was always a bad smell and always some subtly chaotic noise resonating from the alleyways. Combined with the memories of a place clearly foreign to his present standpoint, he realized how strangely alone he really was. There were politics he didn't understand, wars he didn't believe, and people stranger than he could possibly imagine. He had spoken to rabbits about the philosophy of all sentient persons and reconciled a massacre with a gaggle of ruffianic warriors. He was sure about nothing at that point.


After a long and reconsidering walk to the gates, he arrived at the makeshift portal, and found on the other side none other than Hickory Joel and a similarly-structured white compatriot. They were standing on the slab. He stepped on, and the dark one named Hickory said to him, "Hello again, Kaplan. It hasn't been long, and I'm very sorry. You are still a friend of mine."


They were off.


There was a vast wasteland all around them. There was no sand, but rather, what seemed like fertile soil, from which only a pepperage of dark weeds grew. The sun was dark and the moon was bright in the sky. Runark was, as expected, covered in lights and emanating with the sound of industry in the distance. There was a particularly greater volume of noise coming from it, since the inhabitants were about to receive one of the most violent revolutionaries the world had ever known. The trip was short and to the point. After what seemed like only a quarter of an hour, the journey was done, and they stopped at the gates. Everything fell silent.


They were great, wooden doors reinforced sheerly by that slick, solid stone. They creaked open loudly. There were, on either side of him, people lining the street. It was absolutely silent, and the look in each citizens' eyes gave him a grave feeling of dread. There were only the sound of his footsteps to lighten up the noise. Some birds flocked over the rooftops. Everyone looked tired, morose, demented, as though they had become slaves. Their eyes were dark with grief. And all of them wore a morbid face.


There were morbid people for a mile. Their gazes made awkward every step he took; the lives for which he was credited with reaping bore heavy on his feet as well as his shoulders. But he carried on behind the black and white figures ahead of him, never stopping even for a moment. They came to the pyramid in the center of the city. A few bricks in the bottom parted, and they stepped into the dark opening. Everything was a dream to Kaplan now.


They stepped out of the darkness and into a bright hallway of what seemed like perfectly smooth chrome. Kaplan saw himself in the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. There were bright lights on the walls and the elevator was perfectly chrome. It opened silently, and the interior was perfectly white. As they stepped in, they soon discovered everything inside the elevator was silent. Hickory's white companion turned to Kaplan and said, in an identical voice,


"We are now in the white zone. All unnecessary noise is attenuated. The only thing you will hear will be voices."


The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. There was a room of indeterminable dimensions, in the evident center of which sat a man at a black table. There was a cup of coffee and an ash tray on the table. He sat depressingly back in the chair on the other side and puffed away at a cigarette. He looked like a morbidly distressed businessman on the edge of suicide.


Our protagonist assumed a seat opposite of the melancholy yuppie. Smithicus earned about him a serious aura of professionalism that was refreshing, illuminating and galvanizing. Unfortunately, this was all demented by an uneasy feeling of dread that seemed to be running rampant in his empire of perfection and planning. He had black hair which, Kaplan could tell, used to be neat. He wore a suit that used to be straight. He had a face that used to smile. The force of feeling around him was palpable.


"Do you know who I am?" he asked Kaplan. His voice was lathed with authority and resonated through the attenuation of the white zone flawlessly.


"Are you Smithicus?" Kaplan responded.


"Yes," he replied. "I'm Smithicus." His brow was low and harder than steel. His mouth was solemn. His face was brooding. He took another puff from the cigarette.


"Did you want to talk to me about something?" asked Kaplan.


"Oh, nothing in particular," he replied. "I just wanted to reconcile about ALL THOSE PEOPLE YOU KILLED."


He had practically jumped over the table just to exert this burst of voice. The ash tray and the coffee cup were disturbed but not upset. He sat back down and took a sip from the black liquid. The sound of his voice was simply influential. As he sat back down, the sound of the silence resumed. His morbidity resumed. He sat back in his chair.


"I used to be the emperor who never stopped smiling," he said.


It was very ironic.


"Really?" said Kaplan. "What happened with that?"


Smithicus was still for a second.


Then he replied, "I came into this city with a very legitimate and humble vision. I wanted to create a system by which anyone could succeed and live peacefully. Living peacefully is a constant struggle, however. Eggs will never stop breaking, because we'll always need omelets. I'm sorry, Kaplan, but that's just how it is. Now, the problem here is that you killed a lot more eggs than we needed to break. And we don't like it when we have to break eggs."


"I think you need to stop eating omelets," Kaplan remarked. "There are better ways to eat breakfast."


"No, Kaplan," said the emperor. His handsome features came out with his frustration. "You've only been in this realm for how long?"


"Not very long at all," he replied. "It's all gone by really fast."


"How could you possibly and credibly claim that you know anything at all about how things work?" asked the emperor.


"I can only hope," Kaplan replied.


"Yeah, exactly," said Smithicus. "People like you are the reason we're all fucked. You think you can just think all freeform and come out clean. Why do you think we got the philosophers out of here? Because they were making everyone think that you could just do away with greed, aggression and hate like it's no big deal. They're full of shit, Kaplan. They made you fucking crazy, and now look at what you've done. You fucking killed a million people, Kaplan. You killed a million people in one day. They were humanoids, rabbits, Argons, Kajets, Dunemars, Nourds - you fucking killed everyone, Kaplan. Is this what you want? Do you want to kill people?"


"People die," said Kaplan. "I don't know what to tell you."


"What if you died?" asked Smithicus, almost rhetorically.


"I'd be dead," Kaplan replied. "That's literally asking how I would feel if I couldn't feel anything."


Smithicus was frozen for a second. As he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, a very professional pair of glasses appeared on his face. He pulled them off and squeezed the area between his eyes. "You're fucking me right now," he said.


"You fucked a lot of people," said Kaplan. "A lot of people died because of you."


"And is it not the fucking same for you?" the emperor asked.


"We're in the same boat," Kaplan remarked.


Smithicus was frozen again. "You're right," he said. "I killed a lot of people. So fucking what? You gotta break eggs."


"We were basically throwing that concept in your face and showing you how bad it is," Kaplan explained.


"Oh really?" the emperor instigated. "How the fuck does that work?"


"You can kill all the people you want," said Kaplan. "That's not why things are good. That's why things are bad. And when things are bad, we try to extrapolate good, and that's how that works. But that's not the only way to live."


"I really fucking doubt you have a better way," said Smithicus. "This is how it's always been, alright?"


"That's the only reason you do it?" Kaplan asked.


"That's not actually the reason," said Smithicus. "That's just how it works."


"That's not logical," said Kaplan. "That has nothing to do with peace. That's the opposite of peace."


"What's your fucking solution?" Smithicus asked.


"You work it out intelligently," Kaplan replied. "I don't think I could tell you how, specifically. You should have come over to see Campyogne. He knows how to run a government."


"Holy fucking shit," said Smithicus.


"How do you know how to curse like that?" asked Kaplan.


The emperor's face was buried in his hands. "I'm from earth," he responded. "I'm a viator."


"What a coincidence," said Kaplan.


"Yeah, really," he said.


"What made you such a fucking asshole?" asked Kaplan.


Smithicus looked up at him. "This place is fucking nuts," he replied.


"Yeah," said Kaplan. "And?"


"They need to be governed like fucking sheep," said Smithicus. "This is not where I fucking grew up - I know it. This isn't where you grew up, either. This is just fucking different."


"So?" asked Kaplan.


"The fuck do you mean?" Smithicus uttered. "Are you saying you're getting along alright?"


"Yeah, basically," replied Kaplan. "People think I'm a local deity. They work for me. They're gonna fight and die for me. I'm gonna fight, too, but I know I won't die."


"Same for me," said Smithicus.


"Only you're not going to fight," remarked Kaplan.


Smithicus just looked at him. "Well, no shit," said Smithicus. "Are you really going to fight this dumbass war?"


"Yeah," said Kaplan. "I gotta. I started it, and I gotta end it. I'll fight even if I lose all my limbs. I killed a lot of people, you know."


"Jesus fucking Christ," said Smithicus. His face buried itself back into his hands.


"What are you gonna do?" asked Kaplan.


"I'm gonna sit up here," said Smithicus. "Why the hell would I do any of that? I got fucking machines working for me to win this war. They're going to win, no doubt. I don't know why you would even try."


"Because you're assuming you're going to win," said Kaplan. "That means you're allowing yourself to be outdone."


Smithicus had lost his momentum. In the closing of his last words, he began to abandon his initial state of mind. He didn't immediately accept the views of his opponent, either.


He was relaxed as he said, "Kaplan, I want you to go now. Tell everyone I want a Classical War. I want you to fight, Kaplan. I want you and all your minions to fight hard. Now, go on. Fuck off."


Part 10


The skies grew darker every day. The front gates had been completed, and their sentries reported deranged Runarkians, always one at a time, slamming their fists against the gates and screaming gibberish. They were always pale, blood-shot, and their veins stuck out like vines. "They worked themselves insane," explained Campyogne. "They did nothing but hate us, and this is what happened." Pale, thin bodies peppered the area outside the gates. They had bullet holes all over them and were crusty with coagulated blood. Their hands were always wrought and their foreheads were always teeming with veins.


"These are the people working on the armies of Runark," said Campyogne on a gray day, with Kaplan and Mandrake at his side. "They are quite literally slaving over armor, swords, axes, shields and the training of horses. They probably hadn't slept in a month, since the day we left."


"Why did they run over here, though?" asked Kaplan.


"They found themselves on their first break in a long time and there was only one way to vent their rage," replied Campyogne. "In order to burn off all that stress, they would have had to sleep for days and spend a week punching a wall or something. They do a lifetime of work in one day."


"Why?" asked Kaplan.


"They're driven by success," replied Kaplan. "They have no wisdom, no valid or applicable intelligence, and know nothing of how the world works, only of how their immediate community functions in a perfect world. They fear failure above all else."


"Smithicus was a very tense man," Kaplan said, nodding his head. He sat relaxed in his chair.


"You're a very strange person," said Mandrake, squinting at Kaplan. Mandrake was practically shaking.


"Yeah, pretty much," said Kaplan, looking over his present attire, and then around at the room.


"No," said Mandrake, "I mean, you're so relaxed, even though you're presently between tragedies. You just witnessed the massacre of a million persons and you're on the cusp of the greatest war in history. How can you relax?"


"No reason to get worked up about anything," replied Kaplan. "Panicking just makes things worse. Besides, if you let yourself get too down in the dumps, you'll never get back out."


"Good heavens," said Mandrake. "Are all earth people like this?"


Kaplan laughed. "Maybe," he replied. "Most people are tense as hell and need to relax so they can think straight, but at the same time we don't really do anything unless we feel comfortable with it. Any uncomfortable occurrence is called awkward."


"Are there lots of awkward occurrences on earth?" asked Mandrake.


"It's an artform down there," Kaplan replied. "I think there was this show about an office..."


Suddenly, Kaos busted into the room through the thicket of old and useless documents, with a bunch of meat and bread hanging out of his mouth."HEY GUYS," he shouted, "BRYN AND THE SHERIFF ARE MUD WRESTLING IN THE MAIN HALL. YOU GOTTA COME CHECK IT OUT!!"


The trio of humble, wise, stately men sat complacently in their seats, staring at the massive man who spoke like a Russian.


"That's alright," said Kaplan.


"Augh, forget you fucking little girls." The huge man promptly left the room.


"That was an awkward occurrence," said Kaplan. "Just for reference."


"Oh," said Mandrake. "I'll remember that."


"You know," said Campyogne, mostly in a groan, "most earthling viators who come here are looked down upon for being so petty and remorseless. They're commonly stereotyped as being vicious and corrupt. But you, Kaplan, have made it very far in a very short amount of time. I believe you're going to achieve a lot in your time here on the Planet of War."


"Thank you," said Kaplan. "But, to be fair, I'm not quite sure I have a grasp on this place yet, and a lot of the things I've done have been performed pretty mindlessly. I mean, I've already killed a million people."


"You should be disheartened to know," said Campyogne, "that people here are usually much more valuable than people on earth. Along with the commonality that people generally just don't die of age, it is usual for someone to undergo heavy tragedy earlier in their life. We've had many different races from many different planets teleport mysteriously onto our planet, and we've begun to deduce that The Planet of War is, by and large, the most dramatic planet we know of. Surely, amidst the vast obscurity of the cosmic ocean, there is a more dramatic planet, but we've yet to meet anyone from there."


"You'd be surprised by earth," said Kaplan. "Some pretty insane stuff has happened there."


"Like?" asked Mandrake. "We'd be quite interested in hearing your stories."


"I think one time," said Kaplan, "there was a guy named Ulysses or something. He went away to war for ten years, and when he was coming back, he got blown off course. Now, back then, navigation on the water was primitive, and so he and all his men were lost for a long time - I think another ten years. During their journey, they saw a cyclops, they dealt with the gods, they mostly got killed, and when the guy got back home finally, there were a hundred guys trying to marry his wife. So he makes up this fake contest to prove one man comparable to Ulysses' strength, only Ulysses is actually participating. He wins, kills all the suitors, and bangs his wife at last."


"I suppose that's good," said Mandrake. "Is this a famous story?"


"It's the most famous," replied Kaplan. "Most modern stories are based on it."


"That's pretty terrible, really," said Mandrake.


"Well, what's a story on War Planet like?" asked Kaplan.


"The most famous story is of the founding of civilization," replied Mandrake. "The First King, Aerolyon, was a nine-foot giant from the north, whose power was unmatched across the entire world. He reaped the earth of its people freely and acquired many followers, who soon formed a massive army that swept across continents, murdering and pillaging everyone they found. At last, a resistance of the small arose and, using intelligence, conceived of devices with which to destroy the Aerolyonians, which were swords and shields. But when Aerolyon saw them, he forfeited immediately, because he realized the ingenuity of the small people was far more valuable than the blind desires of those who are greater or more desirous.


"But still, his army thirsted for blood, and war ensued no less. Caught amidst a storm, Aerolyon fought hard and long for peace, but was eventually overwhelmed by the girth of the two armies clashing. For many years, his popularity plummeted, for he lobbied day in and day out for peace in the pubs and on the training grounds. A stronghold arose not far from here, which housed the king of all people, Horgath. He was the designated promulgator of violence and war. Children were being raised from birth to thirst blood. The world was inhabited by beasts. Death and self-degeneration was a delicious indulgence in those days.


"But alas, Aerolyon emerged from his darkness and fought his way through the citadel, until he came upon the king. In front of the highest oligarchs of the day, he tore the small man in two with his bare hands, then unsheathed a hearty sword and challenged the dissent of any man in the world, if not every man in the world. One brave soldier emerged from the crowd with his sword flailing, a young lad he was, but he was slew forthwith by the original king, Aerolyon. Thereafter, all people in the world conceded to adhere to his word, and his voice resonated peace for the rest of time, until recent events."


"Good God," said Kaplan. "Are you saying the violence I caused was the first since the beginning of civilization?"


"There have definitely been smaller and inconsiderate feuds," replied Mandrake, "but news of the massacre has probably reached the other side of the planet at this point."


"Is that story the reason it's called The Planet of War?" asked Kaplan.


"Exactly," replied Mandrake. "War founded the modern world."


The messenger entered the room and spake, "The enemies are advancing. They're closing in on the middle of the rift. War is close to come."


The trio again sat still. They looked at the messenger and, again, employed an awkward occurrence.


"Thank you," said Kaplan. "But if you don't mind, we were enjoying a nice, quiet conversation."


Mandrake and Campyogne looked grave. Kaplan stared persistently at the messenger before he added, "But thank you."


Silence ensued as the messenger left the attic.


Part 11


The gates flung open, and the mad stragglers dashed in ranting and raving, shot down in their prime, dropping in thuds in the enveloping mud. Abreast the field were the fogs, and the fogs carried on until your eyes could carry no more. The air moaned from there, the unrecognizable distance. It lulled and laughed. Intentions dropped but to accommodate the march of a million dark soldiers, strapped boot and bullocks with solid iron, the hair of the defeated dead and the fur of wild wolves. Horns of war strapped the sidelengths of the walls of Babylon, sounding out upon the distance powerfully, oscillating in the wind. Drums from the streets, the artisans of sound, carried the beat into the heavens. It was a good day to die.


So it was, this day, the day to forfeit your soul. The men in their armor were men no more, but the walking dead. Pain became an inexcusable inconvenience as soon as their boots slapped the mud on the latter end of the great gates. Thereafter, they were souls sifting through the mist. They carried with them swords and shields and halberds and axes and spears and pikes and harpoons and maces and flails and hammers woven with the finest irons, cased in a thick layer of grime which had since grown cold and strong.


Bright as the beginning permitted, it grew only darker. The muddy ground became cold, solid, tough, and dark, as did the sky. In some places, the sun showed through. But these places were few and far between, and the souls of the men died at last when they saw there was nothing left - not the heaven or the earth, but the plains of the cold, the dark, and the eternally unforgiving. Not once in that great eternity after their death will they ever hold the honor of an apology; they are doing evil upon themselves.


But these thoughts were maudlin. There were more important things to worry about, such as surviving, fighting, technique, and what glory would do for them once the bloodshed was done. Most importantly, they thought of the remainder of the life of Babylon. Should they fall in mediocrity, the New Empire will go with them, and four thousand years of injustice would go on without reckoning. The idea of failure became a foreign concept.


"What are the horns for?" asked Kaplan. He sat at Campyogne's side, sipping tea with Mandrake.


"The horns are the last acts of peace before war," replied Campyogne. "They signal chaos. It's how it's always been on this planet."


"Perhaps the war will be over soon?" suggested Mandrake, trembling. His eyes were wide and worn.


"It really depends," said Campyogne. "I remember the war of Neygoris. It was ten thousand against five thousand, but it lasted for years. The five thousand there in the fortress were reinforced by the notion that they were weak, and needed to fight harder, legitimately. War is just a conflict of ideals."


"Who do you think is in the wrong here, Runark or us?" asked Kaplan.


"We'll only know when the war is done," replied Campyogne. "Or we won't, and we will have exercised poor military tactics."


"Are you really suggesting the outcome of war is decided by the quality of popular belief?" asked Mandrake.


"Exactly," replied Campyogne. "It depends on what's going through the soldiers' minds."


Mandrake barked, "Then how in the name of Azura would you rationalize the war of Gond?"


They transacted facts in a war of history.


Kaplan looked out the grand hole in the ceiling, at the army pouring out through the gates.


The sky was black, and all he had to see was a single candle on the desk.


He flung himself from the chair and took immediately to marching for the hole that led to the pantry.


"Where are you off to?" asked Mandrake. "You're not going to fight, are you?!"


"I'm going to stop myself from going insane," said Kaplan. "I'm not gonna make it if I have to sit here and listen to people die in the distance all night, waiting for the savior of the world to get better."


He took off again.


Eagerly, he sat himself on the rim and began pawing his way down. There were ribs in the side of the passage, but you still needed a tight visage. It was awkward, but he made it. He marched through the silent temple and entered into the main hall to gaze around at the sight of those laptops and computers strewn all over the place, idly waiting to accommodate someone again. Without a moment of hesitation, he gathered them up and began lugging them into the attic three at a time. He spared the desktop-style ones for last.


Once they were there, he had to think again. He needed tables for them to sit on, and a nice desk chair for himself. But he wasn't that strong a guy, and already had enough trouble assembling the computers alone. So what was he to do?


"Campyogne," shouted Kaplan, entering into the attic again, "how well did you know the philosophers?"


"Oh," replied Campyogne, "we had tea at a fine cafe every Loredas."


"What did you know about their abilities to influence physical events using nothing but powers of the mind?" asked Kaplan.


"That's easy," replied Campyogne. "It's all in one's ability to denounce doubt as a valid restriction on capability."


"So you're saying anything can happen if you believe it will?" asked Kaplan.


"Good heavens," replied Campyogne, "that's the worst explanation I've ever heard. You have to assume fluency with the flows and rhythms of nature before you do that. Your mind taps into the natural algorithms. I think you earthlings call it 'zen' or something."


"So I have to be a zenmaster?" asked Kaplan.


"It's not hard," replied Campyogne. "Here on Runark most people are masters of that kind of thing."


"Then why don't they all use it to do insane stuff to each other?" asked Kaplan.


"Because they know better!" replied Campyogne.


"Jesus," said Kaplan. "This doesn't help. Uh, how do I tap into zen and assume the algorithms?"


"Just let go," replied Campyogne. "I'm letting go right now. You just have to get used to it."


"I can't do that," said Kaplan. "I'm a human. Humans can't do that shit."


"Oh, right," said Campyogne. "Um, Mandrake, what's that tea called?"


"Oh, acid," replied Mandrake. "I picked some up from another earthling who called himself Hunter or something. Do you have things on earth called 'tompsons'?"


"Probably," replied Kaplan. "I don't really remember."


"Well," said Mandrake, "he hunted those."


Part 12


Thus it was, the fogs were upon them.

There were tents, smelting irons, anvils, and flames rising above it all. The peaceful wasteland was now bustling with mindless men forging weapons, crafting plans, assembling, training, and calculating. There was talk of doom, and of success. There was no such thing as hierarchy of intelligence, of opinion, or of sociality. There were the living, and everyone expected to die.

The sound of hammers and anvils rang out and deep into the air. The clanging resonated to the monastery. Kaplan was staring at the wall, sitting on the floor. There was an empty teapot next to him.

"I can feel it," he said.

"In a few moments, you'll see it, too," said Mandrake.

The slanted ceiling remained blank and unresponsive. Then, he began to have some notion that it may have been expanding, or perhaps that he was flying into it. Then it began to deteriorate around him, as though he was flying through it. Soon, he was just sailing over a great canyon, and the sky was blue as it ever will be.

"I'm flying over a canyon," he said. "I don't know how to stop or land."

"You're just seeing it," said Mandrake. "You can change it to whatever you want. You're just accessing desires and ideas directly."

Like a television, he switched over to his thirteenth birthday. There were friends there, whom he recognized. He got a new skateboard - an Enjoi - and $200. He was blowing out the candles. He lived in some manner of generic suburban home, in the temperate forests of the midwestern United States. He switches to earlier on.

He's walking through a great garden. It's based in grass, and exotic flora arise from mounds of mulch. There are signs sticking out of the mulch, explaining what the plant life is. The hills toss and turn all over the place, and the plants become great, elegant trees. There are willows, great burning bushes, and colossal Japanese maples. As he rises over the crest of a central foothill, he sees a man in a white suit. The man has a white head of hair and white skin. The man was staring at a lonely azalea bush.

"Well?" said Mandrake. "Have you freed your mind yet?"

"Yeah," said Kaplan. He snapped back.

"You could probably make a desk out of the wall now," said the white bunny.

"Let me try," said Kaplan.

He stared at the wall as random pieces of information began to cloud his thought. He measured the approximate angle, how far it would have to come out from the slanted ceiling, how it would be supported, and all these things he couldn't keep track of.

Then it was as though he was holding it. Because he felt this, he decided to pull. And as he did, a portion of the ceiling came out, towards him. It slanted down towards the floor and then leveled off, to form some kind of low table, about coffee-table height. He let go, and everything made sense again.

"Good work," said Mandrake. "Now what are you going to do?"

"Hook everything up," Kaplan replied. "I freed my mind, right?"

"Yes," replied Mandrake.

"So I'll be able to reconfigure these computers and find a way to logically scope out how the war is going," suggested Kaplan.

"I suppose you could," said Mandrake. "Oh, and by the way, we lied. Only a few people know how to free their minds. The only reason you managed to is because we destroyed all doubt in your mind before you did it."

"Wow, thanks," said Kaplan. "Good thinking."

"I suppose," said Campyogne.

It was a matter of minutes before Kaplan had assembled a grand schematic of alienesque computers, burgeoned by flowering engravings on their exteriors. Through existential logic, he managed to decipher that the engravings represented the most primitive kind of language, which was "crevicial recognition," the same way by which the human brain functions. The type of computer, the brand, and the specs are all denoted in these engravings. He fancied himself central to what he would find comparable to a Mac. He took a chair from the rather convenient Generic Chair Repository in the basement. It was from that vantage point that the Combatant Omnialt assassinated Bryn in a game of JFK Reloaded. Omnialt was banned on grounds of aimbotting.

Mandrake busied himself with his anxiety, which he used to make himself spry so he would replenish his tea and cracker supply. Many condiments were laid out on the small table next to him, on which was a mountain of candles now melting away in the dark, pouring all over each other, sitting on similarly burgeoned engraving-pedestals as the computers. There were only the gray and white walls forefronted by mounds of old parchments to keep the rabbits company. Out of desperation, Mandrake seized a familiar piece of parchment with tea rings on it and showed it to Campyogne.

"Look at this," he said. "I remember writing this when I was only three decades. This landed us a lot of sincere flak, didn't it?"

"Ah, that one," agreed Campyogne. "I believe it did. What was it about, again?"

Mandrake began to read: "Sentimentally, constituential belief holds forthwith that the political neuromonial matrovrestion demits unpalpological sussertation in blithing condomenstrueity."

"What a mess of language," said Campyogne.

"It took me forever to write," said Mandrake. "Oh, look - I remember this."

He retrieved a bound volume from the pile and began reading it aloud to Campyogne. It was of rabbits, diplomacies, warriors, and bright eyes. It was of waterships long since drowned in the ocean of myth.

"There," said Kaplan. "I've logically altered the functions of this MacBook."

"What's a MacBook?" asked Mandrake.

"It's this really, really annoying computer we have back on earth," he replied. "This one is a lot like a MacBook, so I'll call it one. And I like it the most."

"But you said MacBooks are annoying," said Mandrake.

"Doesn't mean I don't like them," contested Kaplan.

"Whatever, get to the point!" barked Mandrake.

"Right," said Kaplan. "I found that it was based absolutely on binary information, so I took out and put in a few ones and zero's here and there, and now I've got some rudimentary information regarding the status of the battle on the field.

The computer screen read thus:

"ERROR: NONE


YOU ARE LOOKING AT A COMPUTER SCREEN


STATUS: THEY FORGE THINGS


HELLO WORLD!"

"They're forging things," said Kaplan. "Didn't they already make their weapons?"

"Work is never done until the war begins," said Mandrake. "They work until work becomes a dangerous task, in Classical War."

"You guys have weird traditions," said Kaplan.

"I can't believe you still find things weird on earth," remarked Campyogne. "It's just a matter of understanding!"

"Whatever," said Kaplan. "I'm watching shit go down."

The STATUS had changed to "A BUNCH OF CHALLENGERS APPEAR."

The loam was arbitrated.

A gridded abyss of white figures, blank faces, and great blades looming over their heads approached the dark ones at work. They looked polycarbonate. And as they drew close enough, their feet stopped in unison, just as they had came. They faced a crowd of figures quite unlike themselves: they had helmets of the heads of fierce beasts, ragged fur adornments, strong crests on their breast, spires on their shoulders, pates on their calves and thighs and knees, and boots that broke the ground beneath them.

They stood on either side of a great rift, perhaps only a hundred yards. The clouds drew denser, and the red glow grew ever finer. Strength conjured in the darkness, but the light was static and steadfast. Some manners of thunder rumbled from above. The sky was as dark as the ground, and there was only a sanguinal mist between them. The world could have been upside-down.

There was a hissing sound, and then it struck metal. A white soldier screamed and fell limp to the ground from the first row of the phalanx. The plates upon him fumbled off and rolled down the face of the stygian rift, into the darkness below.

Those comrades above saw upon him and let their shoulders down, ever calculating still. But their calculation fell, soon, as well. And the sight of their comrade dropped into the arid tarn like a ragdoll drew into them a fury, which penetrated their minds into malice. They cast forth their arrows, drew forth their blades, and pushed forth their pikes into the animals.

They swarmed, dispersed, multiplied, subtracted, sustained, released, decayed, attacked. The armies met at the bottom of the rift.

Blades clashed between plates, blood flew and splattered, and it pooled beneath their feet. Hands grabbed at helmets, threw them away, ripped skulls apart. Blades slashed men in two, arms fell to the ground, fists pulled apart cages, spines were torn, organs hurled, brains were cast throughout the mist, and legs ran off with nothing but a waist.

Those without legs fought with their hands. Those without limbs fought with their jaws. Those with nothing were many. The blood pooled up to their knees and continued to rise, as the flurry of fists and blades grew ever more furious, and the nectars of war were drawn thus. Men dropped and were trampled, or were left to drown and soak in blood. Within minutes, the pool drew to their chests, and it was a war of drowning. A pile of corpses mounted upon the pool, and grew greater with every moment, until the mountains of corpses redefined the landscape.

It was a mobid mountain range. Where in that domain was a moment of mercy, but a thousand miles up? Silence was a hilarious myth. There was no time to laugh, lest the beasts who throng you grab not your lungs or throat.

A lone, crawling, white soldier found respite in the abysmal loam far off from the crowd, bearing only one arm and one leg, and a jaw struck into two, which hung down lifeless and wagged. He drew himself upon his hand and his knee and studied the soil, staring deep into his mind and his memories. And with this, he conjured an image of the old world and all the things that comprised it. He understood the worst wars that had ever been, and the bloodiest tragedies ever known. The War for Babylon, he wagered, would be the darkest time there ever was.

He was seized by a man in black and twisted relentlessly, and a pile of flesh fell upon the loam.

Kaplan watched the canyon of corpses rise gradually. From the vantage point of the hole in the roof of the Monastery, he and his compatriots could see above the dark clouds. The night was rich with stars, such that the light dimly illuminated the room in royal blue.

He had calibrated every computer to his will, and managed to set them all up on the low, newfound desk. He sipped the tea of liberation carefully and comfortably. His hands flew here and there, from keyboard to keyboard, besting the language of Pythonia, in which the keys were written, and his fingers stopped only occasionally if some strange fact appeared on one of the screens for a brief moment. He was quick to correct it.

Mandrake's face was between his knees, and he was breathing heavily, trying to vent the grievous image of the war outside. Campyogne had fallen asleep for an hour or so, and Kaplan listened for his breath carefully, should it give out. Kaplan watched the screen attentively still.

"What's this?" asked Kaplan, pointing to the screen.

Mandrake arose from his seat, drew his coat around, and neared his baggy lids to the screen. "Oh dear," he said. "Those are the Titans."

"What do they do?" asked Kaplan.

"I'm not quite sure you want to know," he replied.

The walls of Runark shook. Seven great and monstrous groans filled the mist, and slowly, the Arcs began to fall.

First, the center split in two at the crest and fell in either direction.

Another soon crumbled.

A third fell straight over.

They all fell, and in their place, there rose a great procession of towering beasts. They were thin, tall, and slow. They were silver. They had legs that met at the bottom in pinpoints and arms that extended to three thin fingers. There was a great hump in their backs, and their heads were like vultures. Slowly, they crept from behind the walls of the city and began treading the abyss, towards the summit of the battle.

As well, seven beasts emerged from Babylon, and one of them stepped straight over the Monastery, obstructing the view of the war. They were colossal, dark, and complex. They were of greater girth than the Titans of Runark, but lanky still, and they swung their limbs over the walls.

Part 13

The titans stood amidst each other fast, staring well against their comparable foes, and the bloodshed had stopped, if only for a moment. Silence fell upon the canyons, and the death climbed to the giants' knees.

A horn resounds the cry for war from the side of the Dark Ones. More join in. Soon, the horns filled the air heartily. But as the black titans began to advance, a white one flew forth and drew its hand through the breast of a shadowy behemoth. And then, the other arm. And its legs drew in as well. He contracted, if only to expand again afterwards suddenly; he tumbled backwards through the air, and the black colossus was left to scatter through the air in pieces, raining upon the soldiers.

The carnage resumed.

The Titans grabbed each other and tried to pull each other apart like children. They bashed against each other vigorously, stabbed each other, and let malice take over. The ranks below grew thinner. Occasionally, a Titan would fall, and in rage, would grab a fistful of men and clench his fist. Blood would then drip on the helmets of soldiers like rain, if only to add droplets of anger to a river of rage.

The Titans fell in pitfalls of rotten corpses, for the corpsical canyon had grown harrowingly deep. Men crawled from its depths, gasping for air. But soon, fear crept over their consciouses, and they grew frail, but fierce. Their hands quickened and their blades grew evermore drenched in the nectars. The fervor grew to fever, and the men, as well as the Titans, grew intoxicated by war. The loam was harrowed in the name of malice.

~~

The stars were galvanized, and they moved across the sky diligently. The horrors of war rumbled away in the distance.

"You're pretty fast at that," said Campyogne, who was circling his bed limply.

"My mind is free," said Kaplan. "We had this hero on earth named Neo. He was the chosen one. A billion people around the world worship him."

"What did he do?" asked the old rabbit.

"He killed Agent Smith," replied Kaplan. "I'm a lot like Neo, and Smithicus is a lot like...Smith."

"Maybe you are destined to beat Smith," suggested the rabbit.

"I wouldn't invest in a belief like that," said Kaplan.

"Nor would I," said the rabbit.

~~

A hand stirred beneath the surface of the canyon. Frantically, it crawled over the cold girths of bloated limbs, stomachs, rotting faces. At last, it reached the air. Slowly, a man buckled by only a few remaining white plates, stained all over with coagulated blood, emerged into reality, from the morbid abyss.

He found his legs and groaned as he sat over the edge of the skeletal cliff. Before him was a vast range of dips and plateaus withering in the grey sunshine. A silver titan stomped around and stopped lankily over a tall pile of the dead. It put out a hand, and the three long fingers turned into a funnel. Swift, arid noises assumed; the corpses flew into the air, but only there flesh was taken - the skeletons were deposited to drop back to the loam. The titan skinned the dead.

A voice behind him said, "Titans eat the flesh of men. They came from mountains, and great cities harness them, and satiate them with the recently deceased."

The young man who crawled from beneath looked behind him, and saw an elderly man in dark armor, who had only one arm, and stared into the sky. The old man said,
"You didn't know that, did you?"
"No," said the young one. He was shaking.
"Of course not," said the old man. "They teach you nothing."
He rose up and took a blade in his hand. Vigorously, he beheaded himself, and joined the bosom of the newfound loam.

The young man turned around and stared over the edge of the cliff, at his feet dangling above a dark depth. He looked back up at the stalking titan who walked peacefully beside a dark colossus, and headed straight for him, as though fixed upon him.

He felt the cliff edge slip out from beneath him as he fell into the depth.

~~

Kaos had fashioned himself a bed of corpses, on which he snored generously.

Schauk moaned as his joints cracked, and he slowly stood upright. He was covered in blood, which he pulled from his flesh like dead skin. Still, his face was stained with the stuff. He was at the bottom of a small dip, and so he took to grabbing limbs to climb to the top, which would rip off, or to stomachs, which would burst open. He scaled the bank and looked around at the top, surveying the wasteland for what it was. The Combatants were slowly regathering around him.

Tazers approached Schauk and said, "The titans have become completely indifferent. They're just going to wander off sometime soon. I think there are only four left, two silver and two black."

"What do we do now?" asked Schauk.

"It can't be over," said Tazers. "No one's won yet. There are still plenty of people alive. I think the Runarks are returning to their side of the city."

"People are passing right by each other like the titans," said Jawz. "Anger has left; we are just tired now."

Awe came to his side and said, "As well, it appears to me that the heavens have relieved us of our malicious state; the war has satiated all the bloodshed that should loom. Perhaps it is over, after all."

Schauk found himself at a dire loss. It was of principle to return to Babylon and wait for another battle to come about, for the war was finished for now. But it was in his present interest to take up blades against the Runarks still. This impulse was killed slowly by the fact of his weariness. He was simply too tired to fight, and the reasons were too light on their approach.

"Wisdom would suggest now that we should not fight or go home," Schauk announced to the Combatants, who had congregated around him. "The problem will still go on long after we have made the decision either to go home or to fight on. At this point, it is in the interest of us all, whether Babylonians or Runarks, to quell our energy, and to come to a solution of indicative thought."

"Heed well his words," said Bryn, who had come to join the rest of his fellow monks. "I remember the days when we were the elites of Runark, whether by gun or blade or thought or word. Now, we rely on those above us, or we rely on our impulses to guide us. It is evident now that intelligence prevails over even the most vivid of premonitions, that we fall to the wills of impulse, but thrive on the concept of self-thinking. Our days of being the intellectual elite never left us; under some false assumption, we found it fit to assume that we had, at any point, forfeited our intelligence. It has always been with us, and still is, quite strongly. I believe, as Schauk would agree, that we should employ it now, in a time of great need. Let us sit, and think a while."

And so, the Combatants sat, and they thought, and they slowly began to believe again in the prospect of productive thought.

~~

"They're thinking," announced Kaplan. "They've sat down, and now they're going to think about the war."

"That's a good sign," said Mandrake, still trying to quell his awful anxiety. "I think that at this point, had my fur been another color, it would have turned white by now. Perhaps it is white because I never quite learned to disown my fears."

"You have condemned yourself to abide by folly, friend," suggested Campyogne.

"But folly is necessary in maintaining oneself," argued Mandrake.

"You've yet to free your mind of limitations," remarked Campyogne. "You have just plainly demonstrated this folly."

"Oh to hell with you," the white rabbit said, and he took another swig of his tea.

Kaplan's eyes twitched as a message flashed over the screen,

"SOMETHING ERROR"

"Guys," said Kaplan, "something is error."

~~

Dovi found himself walking on the edge of a cliff in the canyon, harshly stepping over broken limbs of deceased patriots and traitors. Something wasn't right. He looked up, looked around, and looked behind him. There was a white wall, advancing steadily from far away. He saw that it was the Runark army, and the soldiers stopped occasionally to kill soldiers wearing black armor on the ground; they were sweeping the field.

He hurried to their front lines, over many a crevice and cavern, thoroughly intent on reaching them without a moment to spare. At last, he came to their front, and he began to speak,

"Foes! Though we have known hardships upon each other, I beseech you now, lay down your arms once and for all! My comrades and all the Dark Army remaining have stopped in an effort towards peaceful resolve, means by which they so righteously abide. Please, I invite you to stop and think with us, rather than shed any more blood than, as we may agree, need be shed!"

"Be still, Dark One," said a soldier up front, an officer by regality. "Resolve is no longer a choice. We have fought, and we will fight again, lest we take action. War is no thoughtful affair."

"I beseech you," cried Dovi, who dropped to his knees and through his hands in the air, "from the depths of the hearts of the finest persons which history has dealt us, please, think it possible, you may be mistaken. War cannot be solved, but by arbitrary convention that all men, regardless of thought, intention, or belief, lay down their blades and walk towards the sanctuary of intelligent complacency, rather than complacency by means quite contrary to the ends."

"Do you believe that the ends do not justify the means?" asked the officer, whose countenance persisted, unfettered.

"Indeed, I do," said Dovi. "I shall never rest or recant this."

"Then you believe in dreams," said the officer. "Let me free you of this world, and you shall wander the world of dreams forever. Steady your throat where you sit, and it will be an effortless affair."

Dovi stood and unsheathed his sword, took the shield from off his back, and said unto the officer, "Stop! I wish not death, but a peaceful finality. I shall wager you a chance still before we strife, and you should pray that your words please me."

"The ends," spoke the officer, holding his ground strong, as his legion closed in behind him, "shall always justify the means. That we deny this evident truth means that we deny absolution. That we deny absolution means that we deny the furthest application of our imaginations. The ends shall always justify the means: pray you now that an angel of reason will swoop from above and save you before your head rolls forth into that yonder ravine."

Indeed, Dovi had been enclosed, and his heels were pressed down upon the rim of a cliff. He stepped away from it, and towards the officer. The officer said, "Very well. I have allowed you a moment, and so you have taken, be it unwisely. You shall not see past this day, friend."

Dovi descended upon the officer in fury, and their blades clashed. They swung at each other for a fruitless few moments before the officer had disarmed the dark soldier, and his sword and shield were cast away with vigor. Dovi fell to his back and crawled to the edge of the cliff, where he began to panic with great fervor. The officer closed in upon him, and blocked out the suns. Dovi took his horn in his hand, and sounded well the song of Babylon.

Just as the officer's blade had begun to fall upon the dark warrior, a shadow swept him away from the edge of the cliff, and the officer struck the ground instead. He looked up to see a short, hooded man carrying Dovi on a flashing mosaic cloud, which was inverted and covered in digital artifacts. And so, he rode with Fleek to a place of respite.

Dovi was taken back to the Combatants, who were circled around each other, and he said to them,

"The Runarks, they have taken to cutting down the weak Babylonians, trying to kill us while we're weak! They're sweeping the field and cutting down anyone they see, taking on the strong ones with their numbers."

Schauk, as well as the remainder of the dark warriors, looked upon the other end of the field, and indeed, the Runarks had accumulated and set out to attack again. They were a white wall closing in. Schauk could not think or reason then. He heard the ghostly voice of Dovi carry on in his head, through a fog of rage:

"I tried to reason with them, truly. I told them of our intentions. I approached them as I went for a contemplation, walking along the ridges. But when I approached them, they intended nothing but to kill me. The officer was indifferent to my words; he was confident that the ends justified the means, and he would have killed me, hadn't Fleek taken me from beneath his blade."

From the attic of the old Monastery, Kaplan stared attentively at his screen, reading the numbers and letters that appeared in systems, and he felt his mind go blank. Mandrake and Campyogne inquired at his discontent.

The Combatants had abandoned their peace. They acclimated to the oncoming truths, and began to look around at each other. They shared hard gazes. Schauk reached down and felt his fingers tighten around the shaft of his ax.

Kaplan announced, "The White Army has abandoned Classical War and now marches on the Dark Army, taking advantage of this recess. The remainder of the Dark Army still on the field is slim in comparison. They show no sign of letting up, and they have cast out reason for false justification."

Mandrake stared out the hole in the ceiling as the viator fed him these words. Kaplan watched as the eyes of the white rabbit squinted, and his face relaxed to a subtle imposition. He looked angry.

"Kaplan," said Campyogne, "there is a wardrobe piled beneath a mound of old parchments there in the corner. Inside this wardrobe is a collection of blades, but among them is a halberd. It is the halberd that my great uncle, Rylon, used to fight in the Leporian War of 66,855. Please, take it, and take to the field with it. I believe its hour has come again; I believe its facilities have arisen once more."

Kaplan looked at the wardrobe. He looked at Mandrake. Mandrake looked at him. Schauk rose to his feet, and the Combatants followed close behind.

As the combatants basked in the nectars of contemplation, there came word of an all-out extermination. While the soldiers were weak and down, said the messenger, the enemy conceded to exterminate them, faceless in regards to the tragedies known before, the tragedies which struck down their brothers and comrades.

The Combatants stiffened their necks and faced the distant horizon, only to behold a procession of white soldiers cutting down everyone in their path.

O malice, the Combatants grew fury inside them, and it blossomed into a fiery lotus, which drifted on soundless rivers. But, misery, they were tired and worn, wrought by the rigors of war. They had no rationale, no reason, and no energy to fight. In spite of their condition, they took up arms. And soon, many joined them, the weak and the worn.

In the broad of sunshine, the blades of the white reckoned death on those nearly slain, and the whites knew no compassion, but reason. The officer at the forefront of all the ranks, separated from his legion, saw in the distance a dark cloud settling on the ground. Then thunder roared. The loam began to tremble.

And then there were horns. They crescendoed in perfect harmony, and at that moment, the war itself had forfeited a common cause. This was not the war for Runark, but for Kongorok. And by the setting of the sun, only one name would remain on the plains:

Babylon.

The skies grew dark and dense. The beating of drums resounded in the distance, and the shrill blaring of the horns carried along the thumping. Fear settled in the hearts of the Runarks as they stared into that black fog, which had since enveloped them, and enclosed them. And as they brought up their blades and charged forth, there stepped in their path a wayward knight, a traveler through the sands of time, a viator by his name. As their feet came to a halt, the man in the gray mask swung his halberd forth, and the ranks were brought to their knees.

They emerged at large from the cloud and wrought hell upon the soldiers in white. Blood flew like rain. The blades of the black soldiers killed without contest, as the exterminators quickly became the exterminated. Their legs and arms and bodies and minds were dashed furiously against the loam. With each turn of a blade and each carving of flesh, the Babylonians wrote history into the corridors of time. Swiftly did they cut the legions down in their prime; fervently did they thrust their arms against their aggressors; rawly did they regard the sanctity of life.

The violence only grew heartier, the horns only grew louder, and the drums only grew deeper. The cloud was all around them, and upon them, and eventually, the cloud had imposed itself within them, and they fell cold with a common contrivance of oblivion. The Runarks were slain, every last one of them.

Part 14

The sky cleared, and the horns and drums had long since let up.


The Babylonians walked longingly for home, and the soldiers who remained fell asleep in the streets, waking only occasionally to feast or relieve themselves, as they indulged on a long-deserved rest.


Kaplan had traveled through the city of Runark, accompanied by Fleek on a technicolor cloud, in an attempt to reconcile with Smithicus.


He found him huddled in a corner in the deepest and darkest alleyway. He was shivering, his skin was whiter than milk, and his eyes were red. His suit was torn and tattered. Kaplan asked him, "Where is your contrivance now?"

"You are all animals," said the broken man. "You are animals, and you will die. You are going to die. How does that make you feel, you goddamn fucking rabid beast?"

"It makes me feel pretty human," rejoined Kaplan. Smithicus stared at him as our protagonist held out his hand. Smithicus was taken on that cloud and flown across the great canyons of the dead.

The old and defeated leader was dropped off in the newly completed congressional house, where he was treated to tea and muffins, hot off the stove, and he soon found himself amidst a favorable bunch.

Kaplan was let at the hole in the roof of the Monastery, where he found Marcus and the Combatants crowded around Campyogne's bed.

Kaplan approached, and Mandrake looked back at him. The white rabbit was crying, and he said to Kaplan, "He is close, friend. He will not be here for much longer."

The protagonist approached the bed and saw Campyogne's eyes twitch open. Kaplan spoke, "I have good news, Campyogne. We've won. Kongorok is Babylonian now; rabbits are the rulers of the new kingdom."

The old rabbit was galvanized by these words. Soon, his limbs beneath the covers shifted, and he was trying in vain to scurry from the bed. Kaplan took his arm as he rose and escorted him limply over to the hole in the roof, everyone else following loosely behind. Campyogne was sat on the rim of the hole in the roof, and he looked out, over the wasteland.

He saw before him a land of peace.

There was no hardship.

There was no conflict.

There were no problems to solve.

There was no jeopardy.

He saw a land divided between those who lived and those who died. He saw a land contrived by sorrow, refined to a status of perfection.

And it would remain that way until the end of all days, until the days are done, and the universe turns its last page. All of his work and effort had finally been applied, in the last age through which he was to live, and he welled up with tears. He understood the pain there felt, and the slaughter that has ensued, and he knew it would never be experienced again. He couldn't quite comprehend it. But still, he cried, and he saw upon his brave, new, sensible, peaceful nation - a nation founded not on politics or numbers, but on people.

"It's beautiful," said the wise, old rabbit. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my entire life...

Thank you, my comrades, for you have manifested the deepest dreams of my imagination.

Thank you, Mandrake, for you were the aggregate of my contemplation.

...Thank you, Kaplan..."

He paused, breathed, and continued:

"You truly are...

...A wayward white knight."

He was smiling ever so lightly as he closed his eyes, and that harsh breathing died, and this beautiful image of ultimate prospect faded from his vision. He lapsed into an infinite peace. Mandrake approached him and grabbed his hand, which was limp and still, and he said, "I wonder...

Had Campyogne the Great experienced a similar sight? Was his view from the shore as fruitful and serene? Had all the efforts he accumulated through his majestic life resolved so perfectly?"

"He will be known as Campyogne no more," said Marcus. "He is Campyogne the Wise, now. And, I'm sure, he will meet with the Great one somewhere in the afterlife. They share a common complacency now."

A grand garden was devised, and Campyogne the Wise was left to rest in peace. Before his grave, there stood a valiant statue of the finest masonry, which depicted he and Campyogne the Great, sitting at a table, fashioning fine tea, and discussing at length the most pressing of matters.

The whole of the city attended his funeral. His accomplishments were lauded, and his final days were praised. In the aftermath, Mandrake, Marcus, and Kaplan found themselves discussing the future of the Babylonian government.

Mandrake said to Kaplan there in the garden, "As I have known Campyogne all my life, Kaplan, I would imagine that he would choose you to lead this kingdom. We do, in fact, need a leader, and I feel obliged to nominate you, of all people."

Kaplan stopped, and looked to the ground. The delay of his response was observed by the citizens around him, and a silence drew upon the crowd. He looked at Mandrake and said,

"I am in a terminal state, mind you. I have done many things here, as impulsive and uneducated as they were, and I have witnessed a lifetime of hardship. But I cannot remain here much longer. My efforts and capabilities are needed elsewhere, before I am taken from this world, for I must do upon it as much good as I can conjure. My work here is done. I cannot rule."

"Then who will rule?" asked a curious onlooker.

"Men can't rule the new world," said Kaplan. "Only rabbits can do that. Their sense of suffering is the finest in the world, and they have been refined to the most inconsiderable detail to promote peace and civility among all people. They are flawless in this regard. Mandrake, you can rule, can't you?"

"Well," he replied, "I'm a rabbit, aren't I?"

Marcus intervened, "Oh, and I think the first order of government from here would be to draft a constitution."

"I think that's beyond me now," said Kaplan. "I'll leave that to you."

"But where will you go now?" asked Marcus.

"I will take to the wasteland," replied Kaplan. "I'll find something else to do, somewhere else. My time here is limited, and I must do what I can, where I can, to intervene. I cannot create adventure; adventure will happen upon me. I may spend some time here, but one day, I'll have to go off and be on my way. I don't know when that will be, and I don't know where I'll be going, but it will have to be someday soon."

He was paraded through the streets and celebrated. He reconciled with the officials and eventually conceded help draft the final constitution. But, all in all, his final days were spent peacefully, and he lived in this peace for a while, but only to search for a perfect morning to go on an adventure.

He awoke one day in the great hall of the Monastery, and there was something quite remarkable about the sunlight pouring through the compluvium that galvanized him with the thirst for leaving. Not soon afterwards, he was packing his bags full of necessary goods, of things he knew he would need for the great journey ahead of him.

"Are you leaving?" asked Mandrake, who found him in the kitchen.

"Yes," replied Kaplan. "I was just about to tell you. I don't know why, but today seems like a perfect day for an adventure."

"It's rather nice out," agreed Mandrake. "But I don't know what would constitute something along those lines."

"It's a day on which I did not expect to do anything important, until it unexpectedly hit me just as I woke up," said Kaplan. "I was searching for the perfect impulse."

"So you're not going to use that bed anymore?" asked Mandrake.

"No."

"Thank Talos," sighed Mandrake. "Now I can stop sleeping on parchments in the attic."

The masses formed around the streets, and Kaplan was waved off, through the gates, and he did not leave until the onlookers had left the walls, and he was all alone.

He looked out at the now skeletal abyss. He felt within himself a morbid disturbance, but he knew now that such a matter was done, and the way of the wind had taken its toll. Mandrake, Marcus, Campyogne, the philosophers, and Hickory and the Combatants were all memories to him now. He smiled to himself beneath the mask, and laughed a little, surveying that beautiful morning.

And so, he started walking. He knew no direction, and never asked anyone. He knew that adventure was incidental. Somewhere between there and forever onward, there was an adventure waiting prudently.

The End.