The Hall of Human Experience

Kingsley hauled himself up onto the ledge, and took a minute to catch his breath, surveying the fresh hell he'd stumbled into as the coppery taste began to leave his mouth. The zombie that had chased him stood on the edge of its balcony for a moment, its arm raised as it shouted. The piles of paper served to muffle everything, and the only audible sound were the stacks of green-bar paper slithering in streams where Kingsley had disturbed them. Apparently satisfied with its lecture, or resigned to its fate, the zombie let its hands drop, then it shuffled dumbly away.

Feeling comfortable and relaxed, Kingsley surveyed his surroundings. The zombie, the mysterious machines, and the hole he had entered from were all in a single structure at the far end of a courtyard, which was hemmed in with unremarkable mouldering buildings. Banners of continuous-feed paper fluttered from inward-facing balconies, and as he looked Kingsley could see eyes glowing orange in the gloom. Whatever the building was, it was staffed entirely by zombies.

Kingsley picked up a scrap of the paper and regarded it curiously. It was covered almost exclusively in easy-to-recognize Eblonian numbers, which Kingsley could not read but which he also suspected would not have been helpful anyway. A sheet full of numbers wasn't exactly a novel, after all. Pocketing the sheet, he decided that perhaps finding a new exit was his biggest priority. Zombies were naturally unpleasant, but the idea that they had been enslaved postmortem... he found the idea disquieting.

The Prophecy

Celie awoke with a start. She had had an epiphany, a dream of an echoing sound so familiar she was sure she'd been hearing it her whole life. A sound that made her want to listen closely. For a moment she forgot where she was and stood, mystified as she reached for the journal on her nightstand.

In the darkness, Kingsley's wide open eye reflected the moonish half-light, his body tensed and taut. He watched her for a moment and, sure that there was no cause for alarm, sank back onto his jacket, his arms cradled around his ruined eye. Past him, a narrow column of tobacco smoke and a barely-arched eyebrow insinuated that the Kark was awake. The cigarette shifted momentarily, and he nodded. The eyebrow uncreased and his chin tucked slowly to his chest. 

Celie sat then, alone in darkness, trying to recapture the sound. A deep two-note followed by a pause beat over a wavering, dull whistle. She pulled her transceiver from her bag and sat with it in her lap, the antenna extended. Slowly, she turned the dial and held the headset to her ear, surfing through a universe of garbled hums, broken signals and useless noise. She clicked through the higher broadcasting frequencies, although of course there was nothing to hear. There wouldn't have been, even if she'd been on the other side of the mountain; the broadcasters had only recently begun building towers even in Kinsbourne. She dipped into the communication channels, but the towers in the camp were incomplete and most of the crew had died back in the mine. There would be no chatter on local communication frequencies until they could be replaced with new conscripts in Kinsbourne.

She signed, turning finally to the command frequencies that necromancers used to control their zombie charges, scrolling through them. Squeals and clicks parted the static, but nothing

The Dream

Sharon grinned. The party was going wonderfully. She was a success, and she was popular. Beautiful people in gorgeous costumes swung casually back and forth in time to airy classical music; a sonata by Brahms. She surveyed the crowd as she descended the ornate grand staircase, slowly descending the red crushed velvet and rose petals. Swirling dresses parted as she crossed the floor, revealing a tall, handsome man with blue steel eyes, wearing a perfectly-pressed tuxedo. His eyebrows waggled charmingly as she approached, and a jocular smile revealed perfectly set, sparkling white teeth.

"Sharon! I'm having a lovely time. You really do throw a wonderful party. The Countess is so impressed she's asked if she could consult with you on her daughter's wedding plans. Oh! And the President has been looking for you. He said your plan for improving bipartisanship in the Senate is inspiring, and I believe he mentioned that you look rather fetching with the pearl necklace."

He paused to adjust his backpack
"Although I must say, I haven't been seeing you in class lately."
"What?" Somewhere in the distance, there was a sound like a violin string breaking.

"In class? It's finals week. I mean, you haven't been there in weeks. I wish I had your confidence, I mean, this is really hard material. If I wasn't studying eight hours a day I'd be totally unprepared, and you don't even come to class."
"Oh my god! Graduate-level Advanced Philosophical Calculus! I have it every Thursday, and I haven't been going! I'm screwed!"

She covered her mouth, leaning on the chalkboard. Her tooth was loose. Gingerly, she tugged on it, and it gave easily. It clattered to the ground, and she looked in the bathroom mirror. All of her teeth were loose! She tugged one out, and another, staring in horror as the sink slowly filled with her teeth. Her adult teeth, and she'd never get them back!

"Ms. Sharon?" It was the President. "I... oh. I see you're busy."

Nick sat innocently in the next seat on the bus, watching Sharon with interest as she groaned, her face pressed against the glass. She was furrowing her brow and biting her lip, and she looked cute. Scared out of her mind and confused, but cute. Carefully, he glanced around. The girls were in the back, reading magazines to kill time. Philo was chatting with the bus driver. Lisa and Kris were playing euchre, and everybody else was asleep. It had been a long bus ride.

Satisfied that everyone was busy, Nick carefully placed a hand on either side of Sharon's head, and lifted the headphones off her ears. He then slung them around his neck and lowered his hood over them. Notebook in hand, he watched as her expression calmed. The flush left her cheeks, and she relaxed. He made a note, adding "Malevolum" next to her reaction, then checking his playlist.
"Yup. Malevolum seems like a success."
"Huh? Nick? Is that you?" Sharon stirred, then shook her head as she woke up.

The Police Force

Rodney Rourk rolled over in bed and glared at his alarm clock. It was 12:59AM. Before he could move, the digital face flickered, and his apartment filled with insistent buzzing. A bolt of lightning arced across the room, missing the clock and leaving a fourth scorchmark on the wall. The clock continued to buzz aggravatingly. Struggling out of bed, he stalked over to the clock, and wrenched it out of the wall.

Sitting on the side of his coffee table, he began getting dressed. The leotard was a trick because it was too tight--he was due for a new one, but he couldn't afford it. The heat wave had broken, but it was still too early to switch over to the combat boots. He was tired anyway; the climbing shoes would have to do. He tugged the strap of the Dynamo Trigger and tightened the utility belt over his blue and yellow jumpsuit. He surveyed his apartment as he straightened up. Empty takeout containers covered the kitchen table, a stack of crumpled letters and notices were beginning to spill out of the cushion of his favorite chair. A spider hung smugly from a poster of a handsome man in a mask. "Yeah. Really clever. My life is full of subtle metaphors." Standing, he pulled on his lightning-bold smile balaclava, and it was the Lightningrod Kid that climbed onto the fire escape.

"Anything tonight?" The Reticent Rodent settled into a folding chair next to him. The Lightningrod Kid shook his head.

"Just, you know. Some drunks. It's bar time. I was going to spark a guy, but I don't need another lawsuit, y'know? He only tipped over a moped." The Rodent nodded.
"You bring the Mother's Ear?"
"Yeah." The Reticent Rodent dropped the cheaply made ham radio onto the table. There was a hand-stenciled J on the lid, an artifact of the machine's original owner, the Justice.
"Don't know why I bother with the damn thing. Most places can't even use the Crybaby any more. You know I found out that Behnke Insurance will drop anybody with a working model Crybaby in-house? They don't want customers that deal with us." They lapsed into silence for a moment.

"Hey, you hear about the Detonatrix? She got off. Turns out half the evidence was contaminated because Captain Justice collected it and he refused to reveal his identity. He even stole a crucial piece of evidence so he could 'examine it on the Justice Computer'. Without all that stuff, they couldn't convict her of anything. Not a thing."
The Rodent snorted. "She's been involved in a dozen heists in the last two years. Heck, last week I busted her for blowing up parked cars down on Second Avenue. She said she just needed to unwind after the preliminary trial."
"I know, man. She's been operating a long time. I can't believe they can't pull any usable testimony anywhere. I mean, I was there when she worked for the Hurtful Stereotype and crashed the East High prom."
"You went to East back then? Holy crap, I bet you knew my... uh." The Reticent Rodent ran his hand across the back of his cowl.
"Nah, it's okay. I didn't go there; my girlfriend did. She broke up with me, though. I ditched her to fight some of the 'type's goons, and she thought I rabbited. It was ridiculous. I almost told her my secret identity just to get her back. "

The two superheroes sit in silence for a minute, leaning over the roof. The Reticent Rodent wiped his eyes.

"This sucks, man."
"What, about my ex or the Detonatrix going free?"
"No, yeah, that too. It's just that I got fired two days ago."
"You got fired? From what?" The Lightningrod Kid grimaced behind his balaclava. Obviously he wasn't getting fired from hanging out on rooftops in the middle of the night. C'mon, Rodney.
"My job. I mean, I was out here almost every night. I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since that kidnapping attempt of my-- of that woman I know. So my performance at work started suffering. I've been doing six hour patrols for three weeks because I can't sleep. I knew it was coming, and that just made it worse. Last week I caught a drug dealer and I hung him over the side of a building until he cried for his mommy, and the only reason I didn't drop him anyway was because Foxtrot pulled me back. I'm so tired, man."

The Lightningrod Kid looked at him. He had known the Reticent Rodent for as long as either of them had worn the mask. They had foiled bank robberies, museum heists, and more than one inexplicable plan to hold the city hostage with a weather machine. He'd never thought of RR as having a job or anything. Nobody asked--it was rude. No, it was worse than rude. It was suspicious, and capes were paranoid and violent. Most of them had tons of psychopathic personal enemies, not to mention lawsuits, summons, and probably a couple warrants. The less other people knew about you, the better, and it held true for what you knew about them. After all, if you knew something about someone else, you were a target, right? Psychopathic enemies and all. The Kid realized he'd never even wondered what RR might do for a living. That he might even have a life outside. Unsure of how to respond or what to do, he just clapped RR on the shoulder.

"You'll figure it out, man. This stuff passes."
"No, it doesn't. I thought about it, and I'm out. Done with this bullshit. I wanted to tell somebody. Let 'em know I'm okay before I retire."

There was a shrill cry, and a light on the Ear lit up. The Reticent Rodent slumped in his chair. "You kidding me? My last freaking night and we get a robbery in progress. What're the odds."

The robbery was the type that the Lightningrod Kid had gotten used to. Punks smashed in the window in a third-rate jewelry store. No evidence of planning, lots of yelling and ski masks.

Metaphors

The Kark settled comfortably on the creaking boards and regarded the room critically. A hole had been torn into the wall and part of the floor, leaving an opening that emptied out into one of Eblinfort's familiar, vertiginous avenues. The Kark idly pondered the strange architectural convention; small, shed-like buildings haphazardly tacked onto vast, wooden walls. From his vantage he could see dozens, leaning on thick supports over the inexplicable precipice.

He exhaled comfortably, and watched the blue column rise through the rafters. Little yellow flowers bloomed in the haze, then turned orange, and drooped. The sun blazed a magnificent, fiery red as it set over the vast panorama. Through the lone, narrow doorframe, the Kark could hear a vicious clank and hiss. The flat metal head snaked out on a sinewy neck, and slowly the body sidled behind it, metal claws scrabbling for purchase in the tight corridor. Finally it was framed by the doorway, hind legs pressed against the wall, front legs crouched to hurl its entire bulk against the still figure of the Kark. Shriveled petals drifted with smoke on a lazy breeze.

"Go ahead, jump. Not as though I have a bunch of time left, anyhow." Across the chasm, a red figure was dashing along a rooftop, pursued by hunched creatures struggling to level heavy rifles. The Kark put out his cigarette.

There was a gentle buzzing. The ghoul shifted its shoulders, causing its glassy-eyed rider to loll his head. Slowly, one huge claw extended into the room, and set down gently on the floor. Nothing happened. Suddenly, it hauled itself to its feet and jammed through the doorway, cracking the frame and leaving deep scores in the wood. Forepaws closed on leather-clad wrist, and the ghoul wrenched the Kark onto his back, pinning his arms. The flat head swiveled away, revealing a neck composed principally of glossy surgical implements. There was a flat slap, and the Kark's head was pinned to the floor under a strap. He kicked brutally against the machine's steel underbelly, rolling on his back to try and free his head. There was the gentle whirring of a circular saw, and a sickening crunch.

The saw stopped, and the head twisted back into position, casting around.

The Diagnosis

Kingsley lay on his back, completely silent except for ragged breathing. His chest ached and his throat whistled as he struggled to silence himself, listening for the familiar sounds of pursuit. There it was, pistons pumping, the arrhythmic thumping of footfalls, and the always-faint sound of buzzing static. Dust rained from the ceiling in time with the mechanical juddering. Then, there was a pause, and the keening static sharpened. Kingsley felt his lungs kicking and screaming, begging his mouth to open for just a tiny second. The roof groaned in relief, and the ghoul's mechanical cacophony faded. Kingsley inhaled deeply, then caught himself again, listening intently. He gratefully heaved a series of truncated, wheezing sighs.

He quickly took stock of the room. Spears of afternoon sunlight decorated the room, illuminating floating dust particles. There was a chair, and a mostly bare table. A cabinet leaned away from the table, slumped against the wall. Scraps of rotten felt hung from its face, revealing transistors and tubes inside. A pair of dials poked tantalizing from the face, below a line of numbers. Kingsley put his ear to the machine and gently turned one dial as far as it would go, then all the way back. Nothing happened. He tried the other, and nothing continued.

Kingsley idly adjusted the dials, and smiled dizzily. The dial smiled back. "Hi. Hey, listen, could you watch my back for me? I'm so tired. I haven't slept in days and it feels like I've been running for hours. I just need some rest." He stared at the machine, and, nodding in satisfaction, slumped to the floor fast asleep.

Hours passed. A chirrup of static startled Kingsley awake. Eye wide, he struggled to get on his feet. His arms flailed wildly. He was tangled! Something had caught him in a net. He nearly got his feet, stumbled, and hit the ground. Frantically, he rolled, kicking his legs wildly and overturning the table. In his peripheral vision he saw the dial. "You! You did this! You betrayed me! I trusted yo--"

Kingsley paused in mid-sentence, crouched halfway across the room. A small bird was looking at him from a roost behind the tattered felt. It chirruped and hopped to a tiny crossbeam, head tilted inquisitively, then fluttered away. His jacket lay in the middle of the floor, the buttons ripped where he'd struggled to escape them in a sleepy panic. Embarrassed, he pulled it on and tried to recover a sense of dignity in case anybody was watching

The wall on the far side of the room was different from the others. Kingsley pressed his palm against it, and it tipped over. There was a whispering sound. As Kingsley gingerly stepped over the demolished dividing wall, he saw stacks and stacks of paper. Paths with deep grooves had been carefully established; moveable walls, desks, and chairs had been conscripted into stemming the encroaching mounds. Machines mounted on stands and joists stood above the paper, stretching to make themselves seen, and past them was a square of darkness. Kingsley strove towards it with purpose.

"We're making progress. Put a door between you and it, then another door." The paper-whisper quiet was making him nervous. He picked his way through the stacks, pausing to inspect the mysterious instruments. Striated paper hung from little doors, imprinted with Ebling's familiar blocky language. Suddenly, there was a terrifying squawk, and the paper began moving. It fed jerkily out onto the floor, pulled by the weight of sheets fed out into the disarray. The trail of paper led outwards between stacks of yellowing paper, and spilled over the edge of a balcony into a vast atrium. Stacks graduated to heaps, and heaps to mountains. On the slopes of green bar, impressive trees groped along with gnarled roots. Continuous stationary blew in streamers from high windows and hung vinelike from balconies, and a light wind gently rustled the peaks.

Off-tune humming jarred Kingsley from his curiosity. He bit his lip and crouched, fighting the urge to rabbit for the door. His caution was rewarded; a tall figure slouched through the doorway, leaning heavily on a cart. Its eyes betrayed a now-familiar glow; the zombie bobbed his head in time with its own humming, swinging a thick cord that stretched from the side of its head to a canister. It drew up alongside one of the machines, and with a smooth motion jerked the end of the cable out of the cart and into a jack on the face. The machine began its litany of protest, and the scurrying paper trail fluttered over the edge. In the midst of the horrifying noise, Kingsley saw his opportunity and ducked low, slinking purposefully towards the exit.

"Ah! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Kingsley froze. The zombie had rotated to face him, a hand on its chest.

"Don't creep about like that! You'll catch hell, sneaking up on a body like that. You're late, too, you know. You were supposed to come in here and give me a break. Do you know how long I've been here? Six hours. Six hours without a break!" The zombie pointed at a motionless clock mounted on the wall.

"I've been here, you know, getting the readings, recording result, entering in all these numbers. It's been exhausting, I don't mind telling you. Sometimes I don't think it's ever going to end. Seems like the clock hasn't moved an inch in ages." A spring ricocheted out of the clock and landed, spinning, at Kingsley's feet.

"I tell you they work my fingers to the bone, without any thanks. Nobody cares! Nobody appreciates me! I've been putting collecting the results all day, but I don't think they've sent someone down from cataloging to pick them up at all. Until I saw you there, I thought I was completely alone in this place. Had half a mind to just go home. Leave a note for the supervisor and just go home. Anyway, listen, I'll be back in a few. I just need to pop out, stretch the old legs, you know." The cable clicked out, and into the cart, and the zombie scuttled away.

As soon as it reached the door, Kingsley dashed to the balcony. The paper would probably soften his fall of he jumped. So there was an option. He considered trying to climb back through the hole in the roof. There was a mechanical clatter and for an instant Kingsley could see the ghoul as clear as day in his head, metal claws gleaming, sinewy neck twisting the head back and forth. Kingsley took a running leap. As the paper became more legible, Kingsley began to ponder the wisdom of his decision. Paper crumpled as he connected with the first peak, rolling down the side amidst flapping, ripping sheets. The paper avalanched, and again Kingsley wondered if hole would have been a wiser decision. Finally he came to a stop, rivers of paper still flowing into the valley. The balcony looked far away, although Kingsley rarely trusted his depth perception any more.

The zombie came bursting out onto the balcony, yelling inaudibly from his position and shaking his fist. The amicable yellow glow was red-tinged now. "Ripped... lazy ba... running out on the job... unsorting... stacks!"

Kingsley stumbled away, struggling to right himself on the paper. Streams of papers drifted past, words shouting noiselessly at him.

For a moment Celie just felt weightless, hanging in space. There was no sound and no feeling, just the sickening realization that she'd been pitched out of the window. Kingsley and the Kark leaned after her, arms outstretched, mouths moving noiselessly. Hadn't she been here before? She definitely remembered the falling.

Sensation got its bearings and suddenly Celie felt wood. And pain. Her arm was broken, and from the feel of it, so was at least one rib. The dispassionate analysis of her own body's frailties made her feel better, and the pain at least let her know that she was alive; few people were better acquainted with the dead's threshold for unfeeling. She righted herself and peered around in the gloom. A canopy of floors hung high in the air over her, supported by flimsy beams and columns loaded with arches and superfluous looking hoses and pipes. A pool of light descended from the cracks where the building above was leaning out of the way, its supports bent at vast multi-edged hinges. She set one hand on the boardwalk that had broken her fall and bones, and leaned back to look for her friends. A pack of cigarettes landed at her feet, and the rushing sound of two bodies falling through space.

Kingsley landed heavily in a falling roll. Celie was impressed, it didn't look as though he'd broken anything. Out in the water there was a splash and muffled cursing. The Kark became visible, bobbing amongst concentric rings. "M' cigs make it okay?" He began swimming towards them, and overhead there was a cacophony of creaks and crunches. Their former hideout suddenly swung, supports straightening and columns leaning back into place. Huge arms descended from its neighbors and gentled worked it back into place, sealing up the tiny portal of light.