You are being watched. By the other people on the bus. Slitting your wrists in public is not an acceptable practice, emo boy.

>You are being watched. By the other people on the bus. Slitting your wrists in public is not an acceptable practice, emo boy.


I don't cut wrists, but I can certainly cut the throat of a talkative loon. I'm guessing the voices in my head signify some kind of side effect to the pills. I need to get clean sooner or later.

It's not the people in the bus staring at me. There's a couple humans sitting around and a few zviera in the back. Daily there's some guy on the Intranet video servers popping off those guys mutated beastmen abominations. Everyone's still pretty sore about the asskicking from War for Independace, I guess. I can't complain, without it I wouldn't exist.  

I'm digressing, though. My main concern is, I am a product. Without getting existential on you, who the fuck am I? My ID says Jon Tavares, but the real Tavares died in the war. At the very end of it, too. Two hours before the New Magna Carta was ratified, Jon took a concentrated ion charge to the temple, blowing his face out across the battlefield. There was no funeral, since, you know, the clone thing.

Not that it would have mattered. There was barely anything left of him, barely dental records. 

The blood on my hands isn't mine anyway. I wipe them across my khakis and watch the slums pass by. You asshole voices made me miss my stop, but it's not like I have much on my  itinerary today. Humour me, then. Please suggest an action.

Turn yourself into the authorities.

make love to a mutant and have half-mutant super kids.

>>368497
This sounds reasonable.

do you have any special abilities, and do you retain any memory from your original? This may become important, especialy if it turns out your prescient.

Shut up. No one is the same, the past always comes to haunt us. Everyone and each one is an ever-changing creature. You from a moment ago is just a memory now, nothing more. You're Jon Tavares. Not Mr. Tavares that had his life and face ended with a blast, nor the whining bastard Jon from a moment ago. You're Jon Tavares.

Don't care if you understand this or not. Maybe life will hit you hard enough to kill you or make you understand. Maybe you and your future selves will live in misery untill the end of your days. Anyway, stop refusing the call. You need to go. Dream your nightmare, every drop of it. Go after your despair and beat the shit out of it.

tl;dr
Get off the bus. You have company.

>>368491
If you killed people, how is that blood not on your hands? Were you a soldier?

In your situation... well, if nothing scientific works, why not try the occult?

Seconding the Sentiment here: >>368540
and the suggestion here: >>368542

If nothing else, know that the problem isn't that you lack an identity. You are who you are, whoever that may be. Let's start with the first step on finding out who that is: What do you know of Jon Tavares? You have implanted memories, I assume; do they feel different from 'genuine' memories you've made since... awakening as a clone, I guess?

As for the dream, you've tried chemical methods, so there are two avenues left: the psychological and the supernatural. In the first case, maybe the dream will fade as your identity issues do, or maybe it has to do with something else you're doing. As for the latter... it may sound crazy, but you've got voices in your head, hardly sleep, and are a clone; it's not like trying the occasional occult ritual is that much stranger.

I'd say tackle the psychological possibilities first, maybe with the occasional benign occultism stuff. In the more immediate sense, get off at the next stop and make your way to wherever your original destination was. (where was that, anyway?)

>As for the dream, you've tried chemical methods, so there are two avenues left: the psychological and the supernatural. 
I don't know where to find a shrink and only mutants dabble in voodoo shit. I'll keep that in mind though.

>do you have any special abilities, and do you retain any memory from your original? This may become important, especialy if it turns out your prescient.

I have the ability to make everyone who ever loved or cared about me disappear.
I'm handy with a pistol (not that I can find one) and I remember everything up until Tavares 1 died. 

>What do you know of Jon Tavares? 
This isn't as handy as you would think; he apparently was kind of dull, thought getting sleeve tattoos would be a good idea, smoked heavily and died a virgin.

Then I was not as much born as I was activated. I was given clothes and two thousand credits, most of it now down the drain. I took a cab "home" where I knocked on the door. The mother of the first Jon Tavares opens the door, looks at me, says "You're not him," and shuts the door. That was about a year ago. I'm either 23 years old or 1 year old, depending on who you ask.

>Turn yourself into the authorities.
I haven't committed any crime. Not for sixth months or so. On the other hand, I got in a fight two hours earlier but that fucker started it, in the parking lot of a greasy spoon. Some drunkard babbling about who knows what. All I gave him was a black eye and a good reason to get dental work.

Shit, I wonder if the dive bar's CCTV cameras recorded it. Oh well.

>You're Jon Tavares. Not Mr. Tavares that had his life and face ended with a blast, nor the whining bastard Jon from a moment ago. You're Jon Tavares. 
I don't know why I have a schizophrenic voice/conscience in my head, but you sure do know how to worm your way into a guy's heart.

>Get off the bus. You have company.
I reach up to the brake and pull, eliciting grumbles from the other passengers. Passing by the bus driver I ask him if this neighborhood is any good. He's a middle-aged fat man with half his teeth replaced with red carbon fillings. He's got as many wrinkles as he does jowls. He takes a long drag on his e-cig, sighs, and starts speaking.

"The midlands are a shithole, shittier than usual for New Manitoba. There's a dive bar called Agouri's to the northwest of here, but it's swarming with zviera, and you don't seem to be the animal-fucking type-" he spits, grumbling something- "but I 'unno for sure. I guess you could get decent enough food and directions there regardless if you can put up with mutants. To the east there's a rec center that's been torn down that I have to pass to get to the next stop, and there's a ton of squatters there. Keep going north and you head to Cragside."

The hover bus doors open and the driver regards me with a push to the outside, then speeds off.

I look up.

The sky is grey.

This is my new life.

Where to next?

What's up with this? Lover complains about something? Schizophrenia. Child has great curiosity? Schizophrenia. Boss wants something done? Schizophrenia. Within a chaotic multitude one voice tries to end pseudo-philosophical, pseudo-important and ridiculously immature suffering? Schizophrenia.

What's this prejudice against zviera, anyway? You need another speech, one about how stupid, egocentric and insignificant each and everyone is? Vice-shit of sub-nothing? Enough. You're already in a sorry state of affairs. No family, no friends, no home, no job.

In fact, this may be good for you. I kid you not. For one year you've been obsessed with your past. Time to enjoy your present and build your future. First order of business: look for a job. In addition to screwing with people around you and being pseudo-existentialist, what else can you do, Jon?

>>368574
man up.

>>368580
If he could do that we wouldn't be in this situation.

>What's up with this? Lover complains about something? Schizophrenia. Child has great curiosity? Schizophrenia. Boss wants something done? Schizophrenia. Within a chaotic multitude one voice tries to end pseudo-philosophical, pseudo-important and ridiculously immature suffering? Schizophrenia. 
You try explaining a cacophony of snarky voices to a doctor, see how far it gets you. I'm straying off the point, anyway.

>What's this prejudice against zviera, anyway? 
I don't hate zviera. In fact, I'm indifferent. I figure most of the public distaste for them is that they were genetically modified with animal DNA, and as a result they're pretty fucking good at whatever task their genes are suited to. On the other hand, they've always been considered mutants; second class citizens of the lowest kind. For the longest time, there was some pretty terrible apartheid going down, according to the newsstream archives on my NeroCom. Understandably the zviera got tired of this and a civil war began.

Depending on which side you align with you can call it either the War for Independence or The Separation. In history infostreams it will go down as one of the most one-sided battles ever. These half-wolf, half-lion, whatever, these zviera- beastmen as some call them, they wiped the floor with the regular humans. About a year of fighting went by before the New Magna Carta peace treaty was passed- just hours after Jon Tavares 1 had his shit pushed in. 

There is still a strong contingent of humans still angry at this embarrassment. In the other camp, zviera are still pretty distrustful of any non-zviera citizen. 

Jealousy too may add to the bitterness. You see these tall, lean, athletic wolfpeople or equines or lizards or whatever and they're always gorgeous. They're humans without the stupid physical flaws. They wreck athletic competitions and, curiously, have a stronghold on the pornographic industry.

Without them, though, Tavares 1 wouldn't have been killed in the war and I wouldn't have been activated. 

I'm not sure whether to be thankful or resentful as a result.

>Man up.
If all goes well, I'm in the process of doing so. Let's make a deal- you annoying voices help me get back on my feet and I won't see a shrink.

I glance at my NeroCom's interface. It's 4;09 PM. in about another hour the skies will get dark from the combining smoke and smog and shit and air pollution. You can't see the sunset, but you always know when it's getting late.

On foot, the Cragside township is at least a walk of two hours now that I'm vehicle-less. It'll be pitch back by the time I get anywhere. I'll get tired and then I'll have that fucking dream again and that will ruin everything.

Let's not talk about sleep right now.

That leaves Agouri's, the zviera bar, and a squatter's row to the east as the two locations I know right now. I spit out a tooth. It's been ajar for some time now. Those fights in the back of greasy spoon lots are seemingly a lot more common than I first let on. But the past doesn't matter.

It's all about now and forever. My future is my path. I can't serve as fuel to this rusting machine.

Food or frenzy?

>You see these tall, lean, athletic wolfpeople or equines or lizards or whatever and they're always gorgeous.
Most voices would say that you need to get laid. Me? Adopt a plant. If it survives for a year, adopt a pet. If it survives for three years, you're good to go. If any dies, do it all over again. See? Getting laid when five? Awesome, isn't it? It should be a crime!

Anyway, no. The most flawed thing we have is our brain. Fucking radioactive dynamite in the hands of monkeys! What, mother nature? You want to give an absurd advantage, but keep the survival instincts? Might as well throw a goddamned star at this shity planet! Here, just take your biped wizardry pigs!

Oh! Maybe that's what! Just two sides of an eternal one-upmanship! Both of us! Man, are we fucked!

>Food or frenzy?
Food, you son of a brooder with a hatcher. Let's get this fucking poison you have accumulated out of this premature body. Maybe this will help you in getting your facts straight.

I head to Agouri's.

>Most voices would say that you need to get laid. Me? Adopt a plant. If it survives for a year, adopt a pet. If it survives for three years, you're good to go. If any dies, do it all over again. See? Getting laid when five? Awesome, isn't it? It should be a crime! 

I'll adopt a cactus. 

>Anyway, no. The most flawed thing we have is our brain. Fucking radioactive dynamite in the hands of monkeys! What, mother nature? You want to give an absurd advantage, but keep the survival instincts? Might as well throw a goddamned star at this shity planet! Here, just take your biped wizardry pigs! 

I literally have no idea what you're talking about anymore. I haven't slept in days. Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy. 

The benefit of living like this, is that nothing can touch you. The inverse is that you begin to forget just how to live.

>Oh! Maybe that's what! Just two sides of an eternal one-upmanship! Both of us! Man, are we fucked! 
At its core, I figure this is really just immolation.

May 2nd, 198X. Henri Toivonen driving the S4 Lancia Delta in the Group B rally series, crashed off a ridge. He and his co-driver wouldn't have been able to make it out alive in any way possible. In seconds the fuel tank, sitting directly under the driver's seat, ruptured and burst into flame. By the time track marshals got there, Toivonen was charred ash and his primitive wheeled car was burned down to its chassis and unrecognizable- at first they thought that they had stumbled upon spare scrap metal and not the crash site.

There was no skid plate underneath the driver's seat. If there was, it would most likely had kept Henri alive. In Group B, however, these were the elite, and the cars were built for speed, something that a skid plate reduced. To be frank, Henri Toivonen died of Lancia being obsessed with a trophy. 

Henri Toivonen himself isn't related to this situation in the least. He died nearly a century ago. His death, however, is related to the point I'm making.


When you're chasing brightness you lose concern with the damage done.

>Food, you son of a brooder with a hatcher. Let's get this fucking poison you have accumulated out of this premature body. Maybe this will help you in getting your facts straight.
I enter the bar and it's readily apparent I'm not entirely welcome. The patrons are exclusively zviera and almost all of them stop what they're doing to either glance, gawk, or glare at me. This isn't exactly an uptown spot, but with my dour look and bloodstained khakis, I don't look like a pleasant person to be around, mutant or no. I do my best to grin and wave, though it's more like a grimace and a militant salute or something. All these people have a look on their face like "Is this Zouave fucking serious, coming in here?"

I take a seat up against the bar counter, between a bear two times my size and a scraggly coyote female staring daggers at me. I avert my eyes; it's like she's staring into my soul. Or lack of one.

Do clones have souls?

The bartender is some rabbit girl wearing all black and piercings in her ear, eyeing me with some blend of contempt and and pity.

"How can I help you, street carp?" She smirks.

Are you religious? There's no scientific evidence of something like "soul". Don't think that any holy book addresses the existence of clones, anyway. Never mind. If everyone has a soul, you have a soul; if no one has a soul, you don't have a soul. My opinion? You're better off believing in one thing: yourself.

Do you like racing? Morbid news? Stories with morals? Metaphors? We should look at this later.

>I'll adopt a cactus.
You do that.

>"How can I help you, street carp?" She smirks.
Why, yes. You need food, sleep and work. And getting out of this bar in one piece. Who's better than a bartender to ask that? No jokes, no flirt, no sarcasm. Treat all with the same seriousness that your expression demonstrates. Be prepared to abscond.

"Hi I am a clone with voices in his head and horrible nightmares can I get a job here"

If that fails, use your ninja clone soldier powers to rob the place.

>use your ninja clone soldier powers to rob the place.
I'm a lot of things, but suicidal ain't one of them.

>You need food, sleep and work. And getting out of this bar in one piece.

"I'm at the bottom of the well in my life, to be frank," I tell the lagomorph bartender. "No home, no friends- clearly none in this establishment "-barely any money and just the clothes on my back. I need a job and a place to stay, but I'll start by asking for some goddamned food." 

I try to make myself sound as gruff as possible, but I look more like a wino or a vagabond than a dangerous drifter. 

"That's a load if I ever saw one," there's some lion in a black shirt and white tie calling out from one of the booths near the corner of the bar.

"There's something incredibly ironic about a fucking skinhead talking about having a hard life," the bear sitting next to me snarls. I can smell alcohol on his breath. "Something funny, too."

From what I read in infostreams, skinhead used to be a term for bigot, now it's for any non-zviera human. In the eyes of most zviera they mean about the same anyway.

"I don't want your pity," I reply. "And I'm not looking to start shit, either. All I want right now is a sandwich and some whiskey, honestly."

I've never had whiskey in my life, but they don't know what.

Bear-man spits and turns back to whatever conversation he was having. The coyote girl sitting next to me is still looking at me. I shift around in my seat uncomfortably. The bartender laughs, pouring vintage spirits into a tumbler. The wine in the cabinets on the wall probably cost more than the whole building. 

"You guys hiring?" I ask again. 

"Yeah, but I can tell you flat-out you're not getting the job." Bartender girl says. 

"Because I'm not zviera?"

"Because I can already tell you aren't a fucking bartender, street carp." She laughs again and slides a glass of whiskey to me.

I flash my best smile and down the drink, and it's readily apparent it's the dumbest thing I've done in a history of dumb things. The firewater is coarse and almost biting, about half gets down my throat before I'm coughing and gagging and all-around making myself look like an ass. The glass spills- right into bear-guy's lap. He stands up and turns, and his beady bloodshot ursine eyes are the eyes of a hunter looking for his next prey.

"You got a fucking problem, skinhead? Because I certainly have a problem solver if you keep fucking with me."

I've never been the type to turn down an invitation to brawl. On the other hand, this guy's easily got a foot or two in height advantage and, quite obviously- he's a bear. A drunken, angry grizzly bear. One part of my brain thinks "I can take him" and the other says "Jon Tavares is about to die- the second time."

Fight or flight?

You son of... Why the stupid comeback to the bartender? Don't think that labor laws are good enough to save your sorry ass! And why the fuck you take more poison!?

>Fight or flight?
Blame it on the whiskey, but you're not the most brilliant creature right now. Now that you called everyone's attention, you can't abscond! And without your toys that spit fire, you can do little against several opponents! What, you think the fight ends with your angry friend?

Don't give in to his taunt. Calm down. Ask that smirking bartender for a towel. Apologize briefly and offer a drink to your drunk friend and to the girl that can't stop staring. Nothing too expensive, of course. At worst you will be thrown to the other side of the bar, something that would pave the way for a getaway.

stand up to that asshole! Running away will just make you look like a punk and you probably won't get very far without getting disemboweled.

Apologize profusely.

>Don't give in to his taunt. Calm down. Ask that smirking bartender for a towel.
"It was an accident, guy." I raise my arms to the sides, palms raised. "I'm not looking to start shit, I've had a rough enough time as it is." 

The air is thick with fog and e-cig steam and sweat and the atmosphere of a culture still looking for a scapegoat. If you lit a match you'd probably start a fire.

He's looking at me still pretty askance but he hasn't tossed me through a window yet so I'll take what I can get.

I turn my head to the bartender. "Can I get a towel?" 

Giggling, she reaches under the counter and hands me a rag. I take it and offer it to bear-guy, who snatches it, grumbling and still glaring.

"Shit," I add. "Have a drink on me. Sorry for the mess."

The coyote female behind me laughs as well. I flinch but I'm able to save myself before spilling more drinks. 

"He has love in him, after all," she states in a heavily accented, trilling voice. I'm not sure if she's referring to me or bear-guy, but the bar seems to be turning their attention back to whatever they were doing. 

"Buy a drink for this girl, too," I say. 

The bartender gets back to work, pouring some horrible gargle blaster that the bear downs in seconds. He seems for the most part no longer interested in tearing out my intestines and using them for rope; that's a plus. He sits back down, grumbling. 

I'm so relieved I don't even mind when the bartender slides me a glass of Goldschläger. I shouldn't even be drinking in the first place, but who dies she think I am, a common college frat boy? I ignore the slight and leave the glass sitting on the counter.

"You said you were looking for a job," the coyote female says. He has fur the color of a tanned buffalo hide that Indians used to wear centuries ago, brown-grey almost. Her eyes are hazel, but she never fixates her gaze on me- just looks off into oblivion talking in that hypnotizing creepy immigrant voice. 

"And a place to stay," I add.

"You said you were looking for a job," she says again. "I can help you, fauteur, troublemaker."

"Help me how?"

She lowers her voice so I have to learn forward to hear her over the cacophony of voices and music in the bar.

"Prosim, ascolta!. I have an... Employment opportunity."

Swell.  This chick is a little creepy, to be honest, though.

should I take her up on her offer?

Well done! Another step towards becoming a smooth motherfucker! But let's not trip over our own feet. Nonchalantly, ask her what's the deal? You need to know where the hell you're putting your hands.

After that, take a (fake, maybe) sip and excuse yourself to the toilet. Not giving a fuck, take a look around. Someone is watching you two? You know the deal. Prepare to abscond.

she wants to fuck

Ask what's the job and more importantly the payment/benefits.

If it's like stupidly cheap, decline it. Don't be a gold digger, but don't mess wit no broke niggas, nawmean?

We still need a place to say unless you like sleeping on the street with those squatter guys.

I don't like this at all, to be honest. Why randomly hire Jon? From what I've read so far, Jon is a drunkard with identity issues. No offense.

You may be a clone but you have common sense. Ask her what the deal is.

>Ask what's the job and more importantly the payment/benefits. 
I fold my arms and casually lean against the counter. I'm looking at the prairie wolf right in the eye and it's still like she sees right through me. 

"What's your job, then?" I ask. 

"I need a courier," she says matter-of-factly. "That is the essential part of it. Traversing across Gaia's green earth, delivering items, news, and whatever else."

A glorified mailman. Swell.

>After that, take a (fake, maybe) sip and excuse yourself to the toilet. Not giving a fuck, take a look around. Someone is watching you two?

"It's an interesting offer," I tell her, doing my best to keep a straight face. "If you will excuse me briefly, Miss..."

"Call me Alta Sabbat." her eyes flash. For some reason I doubt this is her real name.

"Right, Alta, I'll be right back."

She's giving me this weird sideways smirk when I stand up, and looking at her makes me think I've made an ass of  myself again. I look around the bar as I head for the restroom. It's a decent enough establishment, pretty much all wooden with paintings depicting tranquil landscapes that have been since plowed over to make apartment complexes and supermarkets and bulletrail terminals. No one appears to be watching us when I glance about.

The bathrooms, thank whatever deity you want to, they're clean. By the time I'm walking out, Alta is still there, leaning over the bar counter. She hasn't touched her drink. Those eyes staring into oblivion.

"It's a very interesting job," I tell her when I sit down. "But I can't really beat around the bush, to be honest. I'm effectively homeless and have very little to my name. What do I get out of it?"

I cringe, because that came out sounding like I'm a selfish pompous jackass (who would've guessed?) but she just flashes a smile full of teeth.  

"I can provide you with a bed and a small stipend, but your earnings will most certainly come from your courier jobs."

"What kind of earnings am I potentially looking at?"

Alta laughs. "Zouave, I cannot tell you that here, but believe me when I say that we receive very generous payments from our contractors."

When I'm still unconvinced, she crosses her legs and shrugs. She's wearing a silken blue dress that long ago was probably worth a lot of money. 

"It is, ultimately, your decision," she says. "But I can most likely find someone else very quickly to take the job." 

"It is my decision."

"Yes, and you seem like a good man. A good, but very troubled young soul, running away from something." She looks me in the eye, in the heart, in the soul. "You wish for a new life, do you not? Consider this job your rebirth."

Should I accept?

>"I need a courier," she says matter-of-factly. "That is the essential part of it. Traversing across Gaia's green earth, delivering items, news, and whatever else."
And here she is, recruiting a self-absorbed prick who can't take some booze, nor keep a straight face, and without a place to drop dead. Sounds legit, alright.

Stop messing around. If her smile is any indication, you get a dental plan? It covers any other kind of injuries and deaths? You know very well how to respond in accordance with these questions. I don't need to hold your hand for everything, junior.

>"But I can most likely find someone else very quickly to take the job."
>"You wish for a new life, do you not? Consider this job your rebirth."
Wait. Forget I said anything. You definitely don't have any choice here. Take the job.

I got a bad feeling about this.
On the other hand what else can we do? Its not like thee are many other jobs available. If the job is dangerous we'll just skip out and run somewhere or something.

Yea well, see how it goes.

>And here she is, recruiting a self-absorbed prick who can't take some booze, nor keep a straight face, and without a place to drop dead.
You certainly paint me in endearing terms. I swear, if I had money for Sarafem pills...

>I got a bad feeling about this. 
What else do I have to lose?

The world is a horrible place and I am no longer afraid to die. My problem was that I'm afraid to live.

I've never told anyone this but for several months I carried a matchbox with a dead insect in it as a good luck charm. This dead hornet, curled on top of the matches and pressed against the cardboard packaging. I named the dead bug Akira. I gave a fucking dead bug a name. This good luck charm I dumped in the sewers after I was swindled out of a cool hundred credits and my old PDA. I purchased a shitty wristwatch NeroCom with holographic function from a peddler. The jacket, the shirt, the shoes, the pants are all from consignment places. The last actual breakfast I had were these nutriment bars with no taste and the texture of a brick two weeks ago. I am skin and bones and scars and bad intentions. To the world I am nothing, not even nothing.

So it goes.

This is how low your life can get.

I don't want to live like this anymore.



>You definitely don't have any choice here. Take the job.

"Well, Alta," I say. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

She's quiet for what seems like an eternity.

"You always have choices in front of you," she replies. "It is a matter of choosing the right one."

"Have I made the right decision?"

"I do not know," and she looks me in the eyes. Not through me, but directly in the eyes. "Did you?"

A chill runs up my spine.

"Watch where you're stepping, asshole!"

I turn around out of instinct, but to my relief, I'm not the asshole in question this time. Near the other of the bar, below the watercolour painting of some placid unyielding lake that has since been bridged over, below that in one of booths, a canine is shoved to the ground by a blue-feathered avian wearing plaid and black. 


"You don't want to fuck with me, hermano," the golden-furred labrador glares past broken imitation glasses. He's got a white turtleneck, jeans, leather jacket and a bad attitude. 

"Go away with your ass in a pussy!" The blue jay retorts. Creative.

I shift back to Alta. Without knowing it I place my hand on hers. She flinched and looks up.

"I think it's best that we get out of here."

She nods. "I agree. It is best to get you familiarized with your new residence, right?"

Strolling out of Agouri's with a girl on my arm- even if she's a creepy coyote- makes me feel like a million credits. 

As I pass Moreno Parkway, crossing the intersection where I was unceremoniously sent out on my own by a northbound hoverbus, I'm thinking: 

This is my life.
#•#•

"Here we are," Alta says.

It's bigger than I had first imagined. A modest rowhome, top to bottom a little smaller than the bar. Four tiny bedrooms crammed with bunkbeds. Two bathrooms. A wardrobe where everyone puts everyone's clothes. A malfunctioning icebox, paper plates and ramen noodles. The bare necessities.

I am blown away.

"I can't put into words h-how grateful I am," I stammer.

"It is nor much, but it is definitely home for the group," she adds. "Soon you will meet the others working here."

As if on cue, a shirtless wolf enters the kitchen. He's tall and muscular with grey fur with a white patch above his eyes. Reddish eyes, so that suggests one of his parents were human and the other zviera. He's got baggy sweatshorts on.

"This is Mr. Carl Florian," she says.

"Hey," I call.

He casually turns, waves, and turns away. About five seconds later he turns back, eyes like saucers, staring at me like he's seen a ghost, shaking.

I blink and Florian's on me with a knife to my throat. 

Alta screams. "Off of him! What are you doing?"

"I killed you," he hisses. "You're fucking dead! I saw you through my scope, man! Bang!? How are you back?! Why are you back?!"

Now what?

>You certainly paint me in endearing terms. I swear, if I had money for Sarafem pills...
Hahaha! Honesty and innocence are your charms, Jon Tavares! Don't worry! I don't hate you, I'm just sick of your attitude! That's why I'll make you strong! Stronger than ever imagined!

>To the world I am nothing, not even nothing.
Poor thing! Time to face this bully of yours! Did you know? Nothing has meaning, everything is nothing! Only you can create and assign colors to things! What was the last time that you took the brush, the control, of your own life? Don't be afraid! I'll take the place of dear Akira! You're not alone anymore, Jon Tavares!

>"I killed you," he hisses. "You're fucking dead! I saw you through my scope, man! Bang!? How are you back?! Why are you back?!"
Why, what a warm welcome! Laugh! Laugh like the miserable pile of bones and skin that you are! What a wonderful coincidence! Show your gratitude! Thank Mr. Florian for this miserable life you have been given! Ah! Introduce yourself! You're Jon Tavares, one year old!

well. its interesting.

Well, at least we know who killed you now!

I could be wrong, but I feel like this guy MAY have killed us

>>36922
he killed the jon tavares before we got cloned.

we should probably tell him that.

>Laugh! Laugh like the miserable pile of bones and skin that you are! 
>we should probably tell him that.
Many thoughts race through my mind and I'm trying to untie my tongue and he's got that knife and I'm having the hardest time 

I try to say anything, but all I can manage is to croak out a weak "Huh?"

"In the War for Independence," Florian snarls, but his eyes are full of confusion and possibly fear. "Final battle at Remedios Bridge right before the peace treaty. I had an ion title, an honest to god Lloyd Acu-LX7E submachine one that fired atom bolts or sone shit. I saw you down my iron scope and I saw your face crumple in two."

"You saw me die."

"And I pulled the fucking trigger!"

"Mr. Florian, your actions are over the line," Alta declares. She starts talking in another language, one harsh, foreign and bestial. Judging by Florian's cringing, it's colorful profanity.

"Why is he back, though?! How is he back?"

>Ah! Introduce yourself! You're Jon Tavares, one year old!

I do my best to slide away the bladetip from my Adam's apple. The point's sharp enough, so I try to use the flat surface of the blade. But this guy Florian's too much for me physically.

"Put the razor down and I'll tell you just how you didn't kill me," I say, palms up. "I'll tell you how you're the reason I'm standing right here." 

"Put it down, tonto," Alta insists. 

Glowering, Florian drops the knife and I see it clatter to the floor from the corner of my eye. For a fleeting moment I think about diving for it, but almost immediately he pins it down by placing his right foot on the handle. 

"Explain it, then. Why aren't you dead?" He turns to Alta with arms outstretched as if to gain empathy. "I killed him."

"I'm not/I] him."

"Bullshit. I know what I've done in the past."

"The guy you killed was Jon Tavares, key word being was and he's dead in the ground somewhere. Has been. I'm a [I]clone. I look the same and my name's also Jon Tavares, and that's where the similarities end. I don't give a fuck if you killed the old Jon Tavares or invited him over for dinner, he's dead and gone. Fuck the past, you hear me?"

Florian steps back cautiously. For almost a minute we're curiously regarding each other, then he breaks out into a wild grin. "A clone, then? Well, I'll be damned, Jon Tavares. You'll have to forgive me for my outburst. Welcome to the fold."

Seeing my still wary expression, he shrugs. "Consider me indebted for the way I acted, but imagine the sort of cosmic coincidence needed to put us in the same room, you and I. Imagine your granddaddy who's been dead for some time is making sandwiches in the kitchen."

Alta says something else and Florian grows sheepish. "Not that it 'xcuses my actions."

"Now that we have the issue resolved," Alta cuts in, "I must be on my way to handle business."

She's gone. Florian's already gone back to digging things out of the icebox, almost completely forgetting he was set to kill me earlier. "How'd you get swept up in this sort of thing?"

"Working as a courier?"

"You could say that, I guess. Regardless, you're the first new guy in probably six months." He fishes out a loaf of bread. "Hungry?"

I nod. Not long after we're leaning on the kitchen counter eating ham on rye. The easiest way to a guy's heart is still through his stomach. So it goes. 

"So it sounds like you've been through the fucking wringer already," Florian concludes while I do my best not to choke on the first meal I've had in weeks that wasn't a nutriment bar or dry instant noodles. "Guess you did your learning quick, because there's no way you would've gotten this job without being street smart."

"How'd you get affiliated with Alta?" I ask. 

"After the war, I didn't have much to do. Before it though, I was a pretty decent mixed martial artist."

"Cage-fighting?"

"Occasionally. Prefer PRIDE rules, but those went the way of the dinosaur. Like I said though, I had a reputation for being one of the best, if you don't mind me being a little cocky. But when you're good, especially in a sport filled with sleaze, it's easy to end up on the bad side of someone."

"What happened?"

"They locked me out." His face grows grim. "Figured if they couldn't beat me, they could avoid me. They all instituted foolish rules banning me from competing for anything significant. Within months I was out on the streets."

"Where did Alta come in?"

"After the war she found me drowning my Veterans stipend in a bar. Said she needed muscle for some under-the-table operation. I wanted cash, but I was afraid she was peddling drugs or something."

"Well, is she?" 

Florian cackles, clapping me on the back. "We've got more integrity than that. Alta's a strange foreigner, a little aloof, but she's a good girl. She sees the good in people no matter what. When we work as couriers, we have an opportunity to inform someone, inform the world. We make the world a little smarter and a little happier. Knowledge is power."

"That sounds really noble," I say. "If you don't mind me asking, though, why would you need... Protection sought out?"

He just grins at me again with that wild look in his eyes. "There's some knowledge that some people don't want you to know. Dangerous people. If you've survived on the street until now I don't doubt you can handle yourself, but there's some shit that goes beyond thinking. Believe me, you step the wrong way and we'll need a third Jon Tavares."

He glances at me, then up to the clock on the wall. "I've got about two hours to kill. How about this? I'll show you the ropes or how to defend yourself-" he frowns at one of my scars, one just above the eyebrow- "properly defend yourself. Pick one and we can do the other tomorrow." 

Learn the basics or learn to scrap?

>>370122
Neither. Please teach me your flashiest and most impractical Mixed Martial arts moves, because I know I'm going to need them for the firefights and katana battles that are soon to come.

>"The guy you killed was Jon Tavares, key word being was and he's dead in the ground somewhere. Has been. I'm a clone. I look the same and my name's also Jon Tavares, and that's where the similarities end. I don't give a fuck if you killed the old Jon Tavares or invited him over for dinner, he's dead and gone. Fuck the past, you hear me?"
Wha? Eh!? You're making me blush and giggle like a schoolgirl, Jon Tavares! Although it still sounds like barking of a sick and hungry mutt, I'm so proud to see you holding your ground, affirming your identity! I'm so happy I could cry!

>Learn the basics or learn to scrap?
What vigor and cheerfulness! No one would ever imagine that a few moments ago you were on the verge of a mental and physical collapse! This isn't courage and determination, it's stupidity and irresponsibility! You need more information about this work! And a good rest! Now, if you want to give some vent to all this "energy", go learn the basics!

I ask Florian for a run-down on the basics, and maybe a brief instruction in some self-defense. "In case I end up with people firing lasers or swinging energy swords at me." 

Most couriers are given their information for a new job as soon as possible. One of the "employees" here is a stout ermine who calls himself Martin Fröde speaks with a nigh-undiscipherable accent, but I'm told by Florian that he's an experienced reconnoiter. Whenever possible, he'll do his best to outline a map.

The items being delivered vary. Sometimes It's messages and letters (pretty old-timey for my tastes), sometimes it's objects, keepsakes or something of the like. Occasionally they'll get jobs from hush-hush counter-culture groups that demand everything's confidential. These pay the most.

On most jobs if the courier hasn't returned to the Midlands in 7 days time it's considered a failed job. If they're still AWOL after two weeks, by all intents and purposes that courier is considered deceased.

The authorities differ in terms of handling the firm, Florian says. In itself, being a messenger isn't a crime. "But sometimes depending on the location and how ornery the cops are feeling, they might pull you over." 

"Has anyone ever been arrested?" I ask.

"Depends on the payload. A year or so before I joined, back when New Manitoba was a State of Emergency and split up between these stupid fucking segregated apartheid boroughs, one guy, this goat guy called Sven got caught smuggling bombs between resistance groups. I think they either exiled or executed him. Since then Alta only delegates those kinda jobs to the elite runners."

The pay's decent enough; 300 credits a week as a stipend, which is enough to get groceries on and rent in a shitty flat, with additional credits added for successful jobs. "A lot of guys working here are flush," Florian remarks. "They could buy a home southeast of Eden but still have money to spare. They do it because they love this job." 

I meet several members of the Courier Pool, as it's called. Sean Durden is an "enlightened" avian who joined after backpacking with monks for a year. Chris Castillo, an immigrant feline with a prosthetic arm. Tyler McInerney. Mona Sabbat. Georges Erreip. Sharon McMahon. Tina Ballard. Ethan Benoit. Names and faces. 

One sticks with me. By the end of my makeshift introduction ceremony, a human woman pulls up to the compound. I peer out the window. Leather jacket, black pants, black helmet, riding a motorcycle.

Who uses motorcycles anymore? Hoverbukes have been mas produced for decades. 

She takes her helmet off, and it's a shock of black hair, spiked back like a pixie. Her eyes are blue.

"That's Daria Guerrero," one of the introductees mention to me. It's Cameron Shea, some sort of canine looking pretty vulpine but with grey fur. "La Catrina. Best courier I've seen since I worked here. She's a killer. No cop ever fucked with her."

I'm not sure if he means killer figuratively or literally, but she strolls into the compound. We lock eyes for a moment. 

It felt like Alta was looking through me, but this girl's looking right into soul. 

"Hey," I say, voice cracking.

She just nods and walks past me into the next room.

"Knockout, ain't she?" Florian asks. 

"I didn't mean it like that, fuck," I snap.

"Relax, kid. She wouldn't go for you anyway. She'd just as kill you as look at you."

"She works here too?"

"No, she's a freelancer. Alta usually gives her the big jobs, though, and Sabbat gets it done. Aside from that we rarely see the girl." 

For about an hour after that, Florian and I go out back where he demonstrates 'basic defense techniques'. More often than not it ends with him judo hip-tossing me or throwing me clear across the yard with some Greco-Roman move.

"Most likely, though," he laughs as I faceplant to the ground from an Aikido move for the umpteenth time, "I don't think you'll need to use these right away. I doubt you get thrown to the sharks on your first job."

"That's good to know," I mumble.

"It's getting late for me, Tavares, so I gotta check out. The beds are on the top floor of the compound."

"You guys just call it the compound?"

"Well, no. A long long time ago, this place was an apartment building called the Subheim House, but for some reason than not, all the tenants upped and left. We scared off the squatters and we've called it home ever since." 

"That's cool, but I'm not tired at all."

"Bullshit, when was the last time you slept?"

I pause, sitting on the ground. Florian kicks dust at me. "Exactly. If you don't go to bed I'll clock you senseless and throw you on a cot myself. You're a weird fucker and a bit annoying, but you're endearing in a way, like a little brother that doesn't know what they're doing."

"Florian, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to take that as a complement or not." 

"Whatever, kid. Go to sleep."

With that, he drags me by the collar and sends me to bed much like a parent does to a bratty child. I protest, but he's made a good point. As soon as I'm on the little army surplus mattress I yawn. As the veil of sleep blankets me I  don't even worry about the nightmares.


I open my eyes and it's sunny in a location I've never seen. People are screaming. Palm trees swaying. I have a gun in my hand. Unconsciously I pull the trigger while aiming at the ground- it leaves a crater the size of an apple.

"Stop wasting ammo, you fucking idiot!"

Someone yanks me down. A second later, the wall I was standing in front of explodes.

"You want your arse shot off?" A youngish human barks. "Keep your head down! We need to secure Alpha and neutralize our man."

What the hell?

_{I apologize for the spike in activity along with the quality of this update. Appendicitis is a bitch.}

No need to apologise. We should be thanking you.

>"I don't think you'll need to use these right away. I doubt you get thrown to the sharks on your first job."
Oh!? Tempting fate!

>"Keep your head down! We need to secure Alpha and neutralize our man."
Stop daydreaming in his nightmare! Time to face them! Pay close attention! Let us get to the bottom of this!

>Pay close attention! Let us get to the bottom of this!

"What the fuck," I begin, then scramble behind a broken-down hovercraft as more gunfire erupts. To my left, a muscular balding man fires off shot after shot. In the distance I hear more screaming in foreign, harsh tongues. 

"Get moving to A!" The man exclaims.

"Where the fuck is A?" 

"The fucking library, stupid," he hisses, then shoves me out from cover. "I'm doing as much suppressive fire as I can-" 

And a bullet tears right through his face, right above the left cheekbone, exiting through his lower right jaw. Wide-eyed and almost incredulously, he topples to the ground. This is all the motivation I need- I'm scrambling across the ground, clutching my gun and trying to keep my helmet from obstructing my vision. To my immediate left, a hulking pachyderm wielding a rifle takes aim. Instinctively I roll to my side, crashing to the ground and landing on my back. I pull the trigger wildly and I don't even think I hit him, but the elephant retreats, and I continue sprawling across the landscape on all fours. 

Smoke in the air. Eyes burning. Up ahead, a bunker with the insignia of an eye and cross on it in blue.

I have never seen this logo before, yet I'm running for it.

In my ear, a calm female voice says, "This is AWACS, kill confirmed. Target neutralized." In the background, I hear a low fwup-fwup-fwup, like spinning blades. Then the radio switches to abrasive static and I'm hearing gunshots, like they're doing field recordings. Someone is yelling.

"Alpha's negative! Shit, our one chance to secure and Alpha's not here, was our intel off by a mile or what?"

"This is AWACS, detecting treq-"

"They duped us! SHIT!"

More gunshots.

This is AWACS.






This is AWACS, please respond.





I reach the bunker spitting up sand from the many times I fell. You'd be surprised how fast fear makes you run.

"Piss," I say to no one in particular.

"'N vinegar," someone remarks.

I glance up and there's the barrel of a gun inches from my nose. Looking down the scope is a scruffy, bearded man wearing a hooded sweatshirt.

"I thought we told you fuckers to keep your fight out of Ridleybank," he says in a thick accent. "Tell me, kid. Why are you here?"

_{once again, apologizes for the shitty update.}

Look lively, man!

>"Tell me, kid. Why are you here?"
Tricky. Makes you wonder, does not? What is real? It is an existential question, or he just wants to kick your ass? Perhaps a secret test of character! Where his nightmare ends? Where your madness begins?

How I would like to make this easy! However, I like you! I really do, Jon Tavares! You need to grow and get stronger! Good! You do not want to end like your partners, right? You want Alpha! You just want to get out of here! Now!

Hahaha! Of course not, silly! Be honest. You are here by yourself! You are here to end nigthmares that are not yours! You need to get to the bottom of this! You want Alpha!

You're here because you are a weird guy looking for a library and can people please stop aiming guns at you?

>Tricky. Makes you wonder, does not? What is real? It is an existential question, or he just wants to kick your ass? Perhaps a secret test of character! Where his nightmare ends? Where your madness begins? 

I'm not in the mood for philosophy right now, but you make a good point regarding the question of where exactly do I end and y-

"If you're gonna sit there like a mute, I'm going to fucking send your ass back to the NMG chopped up in my mother's purse," the man growls. He looks not all that older than me, but if it's even possible, he looks shittier than I ever thought I ever looked. The circles around his sunken eyes, you could see them from a mile away. He has a lip piercing underneath all the facial hair, and the tip of some star tattoo on his neck sneaks out from the sweater's collar. 

I try to say something, anything, but under the barrel of a gun you can really only talk in vowels.

I look up at the gun and weakly croak, "Wuh?"

This is not a right answer. 

I close my eyes. He'll blow my brains out. Maybe I'll finally find peace.

Instead, he lowers the gun, glaring. "You look like you've pissed your pants-" and both of us cringe, because in the distance an artillery shell has just hit its target, bomb loud and leaving our ears ringing, but fortunately my bladder stays continent. 

I don't know who it hit, but there's more pained screaming among the combination of gunshots and warcries.

>You're here because you are a weird guy looking for a library

"I don't know," I say, getting into a kneeling position. "I'm looking for-"

"You don't know your own name?"

>Be honest.

"I'm Jon Tavares." Think so, anyway. "I'm twenty something years old and despite this army gear, I have no fucking idea what's going on. I swear on that. All I know is, someone told me to get to a library, but then this guy died so I don't know much el-"

"The Yorke Library?" The man looks like he instantly recognizes what I'm talking about. He probably does.

"I guess so, I have to secure somet-"

In the midst of bloodshed, this guy breaks out in a grin, a wild smile. "They're sending you to the underworld, boy. That place is fucked, it's a zviera stronghold."

"Why do they- we- want to capture it so badly?"

"Why do you?" He shrugs. "I don't keep up with this war shit. I'm on border patrol for this town's militia to keep it from spreading to Cragside."

That seems to be working.

"Where is the library?"

"Why would I tell you? I'm trying to keep out the war."

"If it's not in Cragside, there's nothing to worry about, right? You can still keep your home."

He laughs. "Pragmatism, not idealism, you weirdo. I'll give you the way if you deliver something for me."

"What is it?"


He holsters his gun and reaches into his pocket. In his taped right hand he holds  two coins, none I've seen before. What looks to be an eye motif is scratched onto one, a cross onto the other. 

"Give these to a pretty lady calling herself-"


And my head explodes.

Not in a literal manner, but the inside of my head, my sinuses, my skull, my brain, everything shrieks in pain. I clutch my head. The light's killing me. It feels like my head's coming undone. I scream, and blood torrents out of my mouth.

Everything 

Is going








So blurry.


 I look up and the man is standing there, still smiling.

"Call me Charon," he says. The light is blinding. All I see is everything bleeding into white with a cacophony of noise.

Light.

W h i t e.


White.




Then everything goes







Black.








A different kind of black.








Eternity passes.


I open my eyes again and it's dark. I'm in a bed, in a room. With a bad migraine. The clock on the wall says 6:47 AM.

Take a deep breath. Rub the sleep from my eyes, tenderly massage my temples trying to find anything. 

It was a dream.

Just like the other times. I breathe out. Breathe in. Just a dream.

Just a fucking dream, I always wake up. Can I somehow wake up from here and all of this be a dream, a bad joke?

Well, voices, now you know the shit that I deal with.

On this little desk at the foot of my bed, there's two bags, one a backpack, the other looking like a small pocketbook. Between them there's a note saying OPEN ME, but it doesn't say which bag to actually open.

Which one to pick? And how do I even get myself from what happened?

> Can I somehow wake up from here and all of this be a dream, a bad joke?
Come on! That would be awesome! This gives a good script for a film! Something like a dream within a dream within another dream? Wait. No, scratch that. Something like that would never sell.

Looks like your predecessor memories reserves more mysteries than a simple head blown off. You will have to look at everything as real, as if your life depended on it. Believe me, it does. You will have to do your best to get to the bottom of this issue. No rest for you yet, Jon Tavares.

Anyway, you still did not wake up. Now, repeat after me.
> My name is Jon Tavares, one year old. I am a clone, hear meddlesome and obnoxious voices, suffer nightmares about the life of my predecessor.
> However, things seem to be improving! Now I have a roof and a job! Not to mention the possibilities of adventure, friendship and romance!
> What this glorious day holds for me?

You did not said that, did you? Anyway, time to take care of your hygiene and breakfast. You have company? Something strange about the bags? Any message on the note? Open the bags at the same time. Let us be Santa.

Hey Jon, ever heard of a movie called Inception?

>On this little desk at the foot of my bed, there's two bags, one a backpack, the other looking like a small pocketbook. Between them there's a note saying OPEN ME, but it doesn't say which bag to actually open.

i bet this is our first job! shit, lets be santa!

on the other hand, it's awfully polite of alta/florian/whoever to leave us bags and not actually tell us what's the deal with it. open the smaller one.

>Hey Jon, ever heard of a movie called Inception?
Motion pictures are archaic.

>it's awfully polite of alta/florian/whoever to leave us bags and not actually tell us what's the deal with it.

I look around. It's hard to see through the general haze of darkness, but I'm certain that I'm alone. The scar on my eyebrow isn't sore, so I'm guessing that my face isn't swollen from the beating I took during the "lesson" Florian gave me.

Actually sleeping in a bed was a start, though.

>Anyway, you still did not wake up. Now, repeat after me.

I am Jon Tavares.

>You did not said that, did you?
I paraphrased the first part.

>Something strange about the bags? Any message on the note?

Not at first glance. The one on the left seems to be a messenger bag or backpack or something. If it had a brand name, the tag must have been torn off. It looks worn and used.
The smaller bag looks no different than a tiny purse. I'm assuming this isn't a joke directed at me or something.

>Open the bags at the same time. Let us be Santa.

This backpack is seemingly impossible to unzip. I think immigrants made it.

I turn my attention to the smaller bag. Inside is an envelope. Naturally, there's a large DON'T OPEN ME scribbled on it.

After some struggling I'm able to get the backpack open. Inside there's some fruit, clothes that are probably too big, a NeroCom and notepad with something written on it.

"Your first assignment is to deliver this telegram to Rebecca Yorke-Hardt, of Churchill Valley. She is blind; you will have to actually read this to her then and only then. I expect you back in six days or less."

Underneath it is Alta's signature.

A little below that:


"Good luck, kid! I packed some things for you because I already knew you were out of sorts. Just enjoy the sights and try not to get yourself in any shit. Would've told you in person but I've got matters to attend to."

That one, FLORIAN is scrawled underneath it.

I place the envelope in the bigger bag and head into the bathroom and clean up. It's good to note I'm looking more and more like a human being again- not so much a collection of welts and scar tissue.

I head into the kitchen and, truth be told, I don't immediately recognize who I'm looking at. Momentarily, I'm able to place a name to the face. The black and white cat is Sergei-no, Chris, the one with the amputated left arm. I'm not sure where I got the name Sergei from.

"Hey, Tarreñas, you're looking less and less like a phantom," he says, metallic hand carrying a carton of orange juice, the other, vodka. "Already got a job?"

I nod. "Hitting the ground running."


"That's what I like to hear," the feline cackles. "Screwdriver?"

I politely decline, because the last thing I need to make a good impression is to projectile vomit on someone like I did at Agouri's.

"You're probably smarter than I am when it comes to empinar," he says. His eyes are green, and they look much older than the rest of him, like he's already seen so much. "I really shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach. ¡Buen provecho!"

With that, he downs an entire highball glass without a second thought, much to my surprise.

"I'm not sure if I'm impressed or horrified," I say.

"You'll get used to it," he replies. Then he lets our a hearty laugh. "You are a good man, Tarreñas. Anything you want to know before you leave? I'll try and help to the best of my ability."

>You are a good man, Tarreñas.
Are you? I do not like him. Ask about his first work. How it went, what you should expect.

Ask this guy how do we actually get to Churchill Valley.

What does tarrenas mean?

>>374451
Google says it means "bones" in Spanish.

This guy is weird. That or you're getting really unhealthy, Jon.

Ask him about the nerocom thingy in your backpack.

Ask him how to do this whole courier thing

>Are you?
I dunno, am I?

>Ask him about the nerocom thingy in your backpack.
I know how to use a NeroCom. You strap the thing on your wrist. They have their origins in old "smartphones" from a hundred years ago or something as stupid. It's got time, a phone, messenger, PDA, and it functions as a pretty handy credit card when needed. Some people, they hack them to add all sorts of things to it, but I've never really thought much of it.

I don't even know why he gave me the second NeroCom, I have one on my wr-




It was on my wrist.


Goddamn fucking Florian.

>Ask about his first work. How it went, what you should expect.
"Well, I'm still getting used to this whole job," I tell him. "You've done this before, right? What should I be expecting?"

He puts down his glasses and reaches for his prosthetic arm. Much to my horror, he removes it with relative ease.

"Well, Tarreñas, my first time, I still had an arm, and it wasn't working for these guys," Chris shrugs with his one arm and shoulder. "This, my friend, this was when the war was still going on, yes? And bestia didn't, and still don't have the infrastructure or numbers like you have. Non-mutants, if that is what you still call it."

"I don't really identify much with the rest of humanity through orthodox means." What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Being a clone has really only caused shit to happen for me. On top of that, with my life, my new life, I have no reason to sulk over that anymore.

"So I can skip the formalities, then. What we did have, was guerrilla warfare, and we were very good at it. But even with this, we were still heavily spread out. No central leadership. Radio waves get intercepted easily, so many of us went with something more sincere when it came to getting orders out."

"Letters?"

He nods. "Delivering messages and items that weren't all legal. The reason why I lost my arm, Tarreñas, is I did something very stupid. I was caught smuggling explosives, really cheap ones. You know what happened?"

He puts the metal arm back on, ears pinned back, grimacing at some past mistake. "Sometimes, there are battles you cannot win. I thought to myself, ¡No huyas, pendejo!, and ran through fires, through firefights, threw stealth and sublety to the wind. It worked, sometimes. Other times it comes back to bite you in the ass. I'm running with these explosives in my back, and I'm thinking, I've been shot at and I'm running through flames, and nothing has happened to these bombs. Esta madre no funciona! This shit doesn't work! Déjate de leches, those things did what they were designed to. They exploded."



He sees me standing there, a little more pensive than when I had entered the room. He starts laughing- what is with these guys and laughing? - and shrugs. "You wanted to hear my first job, right? Expect nothing and everything. Deliver everything like your life depended on it- most of the time, someone's life does depend on it."

>Ask this guy how do we actually get to Churchill Valley.
"In that case, I had better get going," I tell Castillo. "I'm supposed to be delivering this to Churchill Valley. Do you know how I can get there?"

"Where is Martin Fröde? That weasel should know. I think he's gone off on a lark again, probably down to the bar. Me, I haven't been to the Valley, but I know about Churchill itself, which I passed on one assignment. It's to the south of Moreno Parkway, the intersection outside Agouri's, I think a hoverbus has a line that heads down to a train station. But I'd still rather go with the first option. Agouri's for Martin, if he's not in there for directions, then try the bus line. Good luck, Tarreñas."

He strolls out of the kitchen.

I can go back to Agouri's or try and find a route myself. How about it?

Back to Agouri's, Jon Tavares.

>Back to Agouri's, Jon Tavares.
I am standing out in front of Agouri's, staring intently at a poster from probably decades ago, of a movie I've never seen. The Eternal Worm, it says. I'm standing here, looking at what appears to be a rotoscoped image of some type of centipede, with a screaming androgynous human face for a, well, face. For some reason, I'm really fucking freaked out at this poster and I avert my gaze, but that worm is still looking, cripes- And desperately I duck inside into the dive bar.

More or less, it's not dissimilar to the way I left it- full of zviera, none of which appear to be too pleased to see me; though the atmosphere is less tense than it was the previous day. They're probably thinking if I somehow came back the next day I must be somewhat competent.

"Oh, it's the wino from yesterday!" The bartender calls out. I realize that even with Florian's crash-course, I am still far from a model citizen. That and I still kind of look like a scraggly goon.

"Yeah, hey," I respond. The bar is somewhat empty in comparison my other visit, which I assume is due to the fact that it's still somewhat early in the morning. "I have a name, you know."

"I know you do," the rabbit retorts, crossing her arms over a Descendents band shirt. The shirt's clearly old, it's ragged, too tight over her body and I've never heard of that musician. And whoever they were, they couldn't get their name right.

The bartender says: "I know your name."

"You do?"

"Street C-arp," and she giggles. She is incredibly irritating, but somehow it's a relief to have a somewhat good-natured back-and-forth with someone who doesn't want to disembowel me.

"Not really, but it's a start," I reply, straddling the torn bar-stool at the edge of the counter. "Anyway, I wouldn't really be here, but I'm looking for someone."

She raises her eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? It wouldn't be that coyote girl you ran off with the other day, would it? Because sh-"

"No, I'm looking for an ermine named Martin Fr-" I begin to interrupt her, but I pause. "Wait, what did Alta- the coyote girl do?"

"All I ever see her do in here is work the telecomms, talking with whatever people. Not trying to gossip or 'nything, though." This bartender is a terrible liar.

"Yeah, okay then. You heard of Martin Fröde?"

"He's getting hammered right now."

I turn around, and almost if on cue- the ermine, white fur stained by beer or some other drink is bent over one of the booths, chatting it up with some unseen character.

"There are actually much worse things that can happen aside from eternal damnation, if you believe in that stuff. Elder gods. Snuff films. Paedophilia. Murder. The government. All of these things can kill you a lot quicker than Beezlebub's seventh sanctum ever could." He is slurring, and it's hard to understand his words through his already thick accent, but despite the fact he appears to be drunk, he's otherwise pretty lucid judging by his vocabulary.

"Hey, Martin?" When I walk up to him, all I can smell is vodka. I still can't see who he's talking to, because his wide shoulders are blocking off the booth.

"Dietyl ether oxapentane is pretty much the old standard, been around for centuries probably, and- hang on," and he turns around to face me. "Can I help you?"

"It's me, Jon Tavares. From the Subheim house. I uh, need help with directions."

He studies me intently for a moment, tilting his head- and I can see enough of the space behind him to realize that in the booth, no one's sitting in the chairs.

It's completely empty.

"Oh, yes, Tavares. What can I help you with? Or I suppose, where do you require directions to?"

For the core of your being. No, seriously. This guy may be able to pull it off, Jon Tavares. Otherwise, Churchill Valley and the the nearest coffeehouse.

>For the core of your being. No, seriously. This guy may be able to pull it off, Jon Tavares. Otherwise, Churchill Valley and the the nearest coffeehouse.
It's an interesting proposition to ask Martin for instructions to Nirvana. However, I have a creeping feeling that if I want to learn me- about me, regarding me, and so on- it's something I can only do accurately. It's up to me to learn...

I'm not sure exactly what I'm learning, or looking for, but I suppose it's going to have to be me that makes that discovery. Only I can successfully trace out my body map. I don't even know what that means, but anything else is just painting the black hole blacker.

"Do you know about Churchill Valley and how I could get there?" I ask.

"Oh man, that's like a week's trip away, where are you headed there for? To die?" Before I can protest, the ermine smirks. "I am just fucking with you- it's not that far. Why are you headed there?"

"I have to deliver someth-" I let out a muffled yelp as Martin covers my mouth with a grimy, furred paw.

"You don't talk about your jobs out in public, Jon Tavares! Who knows who may be listening! It may be a girl with a watering can, it may be the police. You are headed to Churchill Valley on business, right?"

Staring at Martin Fröde with a combination of wonder and execration, I can only nod, alcohol fumes burning my eyes.

"Churchill Valley is a shithole," he continues. "Not physically, not upfront like a lot of places, but morally bankrupt. 9-5 desk jobs, cubicles plastered with self-help/motivation posters, sprinkler systems going off at 2AM in the dead-end of winter. That's the kind of place Churchill Valley is. Humans acting like mutants and mutants doing their damnedest to act like humans. They are so scared of the world. I've heard it's popular with the elderly. I believe it is not a stretch to say that it is where both people and dreams go to die."

Sounds like my kind of place.

"They have a coffeehouse?" I cough, jerking away.

"Probably."

"They have a Rebecca Hardt, Yorke-Hardt?"

He screws up his face, and I briefly imagine him using his favored dietyl ether oxapentane to knock me unconscious. "I can get you there, but not there. I find paths, not people."

"Find me the path, then, Martin."

"They aren't all easy, wayfarer. You got a NeroCom?"

I nod. He spins me around, pointing for the door- why does this seem like a familiar sequence?- and nods. "After you leave here, head west, then check your messenger for the directions I'll send you."

So continues the venerated anthology of dead ends labeled "my life".