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A peek at the future..."Sir, If I may say; we've dealt with much more severe occurrences before..."
"Indeed we have, Dostoevsky, but we invariably caused more trouble than we cured."
"But..." Marco Dostoevsky straightened his suit jacket. "Do we really need... Him? We could hire a Paradox, or even call Shane back into service, you know, one of the people we can trust! Do we really need one of them?"
Dostoevsky became aware that the commander's attention was no longer on him, and turned slowly to see the person now dominating the mood of the room. The man was in his thirties, with a mane of unkempt dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and a scruffy goatee barely standing out from the stubble shadowing his face. The man nodded at the commander, who smiled back, and took a tube of mints out of his pocket. He looked Dostoevsky up and down, and sucked on a mint from the packet.
"Am I interrupting somethin'?" The man queried, giving Dostoevsky the distinct impression the man didn't care either wa
Allos SententiaOf wire and purpose, or Wire we here?
The first thing translated from the hieroglyphs of the Allos Sententia was, ironically, their commandments. Large twisting symbols indented on a large copper sheet on the wall. The language was almost impossible to crack until we acted on a theory - and a wild one at that - stating that the way these creatures, each made of several strands of twisted wire, communicated was using a combination of static electric coded shocks and microscopic imprints, sadly temporary, self-inflicted on their skin. The language was deciphered into an electronic circuit, and from there translated painstakingly into our own English tongue. The result was astounding: it seemed that there was no other force giving life to these creatures apart from some distorted sense of purpose. Below is the translation of many copper hieroglyphs, aluminium records and microscopic indentations in the very wire the Allos Sententia, (Or Living met
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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