Tiger Chronicles: Guide To Ruin

Chapter I: Concerns

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Calvin and Hobbes, Foxtrot, Curtis, etc. This is a fan-made piece of fiction designed to provide hopefully entertaining reading material and encourage thought among young readers.

DISCLAIMER 2: There have been so many tragedies between the last time I published and now that trying to address them all in a story would be both futile and insulting to the victims.

NOVEMBER, 2012

Matthew Wellfields had to get used to a number of very radical changes in short order when he joined R.A.W.

The first, and most difficult, was that he was not going to be in a significant position of authority. Things had gone south, Riley Goabes curtly noted, during the evacuation procedure. Some of the softer hearted members of his congregation did not take well to news that their children would not be rehabilitated but rather left to die in a fiery cataclysm. They had been shot. The effect that sight had on the former members of the "Church of the Unyielding Rod" had been severe, to say the least.

They no longer respected Matthew, who had promised them that while their children would be punished harshly, there was still hope that some might be saved. In wake of his promises being proven meaningless, there was more rioting, met with swift execution. Of the few that remained, they obeyed only out of fear, but it was obvious the loathing they had for Matthew would taint any authority he was given over them.

So they had been shunted off to fill the menial labors that Rod and Whip needed. Manual labor for most. The 'lucky' ones got assigned to be trained as Breakers, the euphemism R.A.W. used for those assigned to torture children. Many couldn't stomach the deeds assigned and were killed, but to Matthew's horror, some were becoming incredibly adept, bragged about by their instructors loudly.

It had been those few parents, the ones who saw their children as punching bags and nothing more, that had taken his teachings to heart, and that made it all the more worse- for years, Matthew and his wife, Grace, had preached a false gospel. They spoke of divine revelations that never came, of God telling them the only salvation for their sinful daughter was perpetual beatings and degradation. The initial reason for their lying had been a cover-up for her bruises, and it had spiraled into an intricate web of deceiving parents into beating their children daily to prevent disobedience.

The 'sinful' part was a lie too, he remembered with a shudder. Faith hadn't had a chance to do any actual wrong before they started flogging her every day, but that hadn't stopped Matthew and Grace from concocting wild stories about her trying to sacrifice small animals to Satan, dealing drugs, and getting into demonic orgies. She had fled the house eventually, necessitating the church's fleeing into the arms of R.A.W. before the law came down on their heads.

That was part of the other changes as well. No Faith to order around. He was responsible for his own food, his own messes, his own tiny little cot he shared in a room full of dozens of other men- he and his wife were not permitted to sleep together.

His dress consisted of simple, drab uniforms. He had little to no free time. When he wasn't sleeping, eating, or on the toilet, he was doing manual labor, cleaning, or "preaching" to the children locked up in the compound he was in, demoralizing them with twisting of scriptures meant to destroy any hope of salvation, in this life or the next.

He had learned quickly that R.A.W. was not content with merely making one's death as painful as possible, they sought to, if at all possible, damn the soul to perpetual torment as well. They had people like him for every faith- Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Shinto, Hinduism… an army of doom-preachers to ensure no matter what a child's religious beliefs, they would be convinced that only greater torment awaited them after death, making them hateful of whatever deity they believed in and, hopefully, blasphemous enough to be damned.

Riley had explained it as being a boon no matter which way your beliefs ran- atheist members saw the benefits of demoralization, while the religious members delighted in the idea that their prisoners would not escape their suffering even in death.

That was the final, worst change. He was no longer in any sort of façade of trying to redeem children. That was not R.A.W.'s goal now, nor ever would it be. Save for the rarest of the rarest children like Barry Wilkins so sadistic that R.A.W. recognized them as one of their own, the agenda was nothing short but utter physical, mental, and hopefully spiritual destruction. He could not, would not speak out. To do so meant death. His only option was, it seemed, to maintain a façade of stoicism until he went insane or his superiors deemed him a liability and shot him.

As of now, however, he and his wife were in a room, sitting at a table, awaiting instruction from a senior member of R.A.W. He had, somehow, suppressed the urge to hug her after not seeing her in what felt like forever, wary of the watchful eyes of their superiors, and to both his relief and sorrow, she had too.

She wore no make up. Her hair was briskly washed. She looked tired, irritable, and ready to cry at any given moment. She stared straight ahead, blinking at regular intervals, hands in her lap.

The dark green jumpsuits they wore were freshly washed, but still bore the stains of blood and grease that the quick, economical detergent they were allowed could not erase. His was too tight, hers too loose. It was just another minor, insufferable indignity he had learned to not openly complain about in what he now believed to be hell's military division.

Finally, after hours of waiting, Riley Goabes entered the room, carrying a briefcase. He was well dressed as opposed to the rank and file workers, almost like he was ready for another day at the office.

"I trust you have both gained a great deal of appreciation for what we sacrifice when we come here." He began. "We can spare very few luxuries, less so nowadays, with attention being focused on our camp fronts." He smiled as he took a seat. "I am pleased to hear that the substantial decrease in living quality, however, has not diminished the potency of either of your sermons."

So they had made her preach hateful, damning perversions of scripture as well. At least, he thought bitterly, it's something we're both used to doing.

"I do have good news, though. Your ability to lead and demoralize have been noted. It's a shame your former audience no longer respects you, but given the circumstances, it is understandable."

"Thank you, sir." They replied in eerie unison. Matthew tried not to wince at how broken his wife sounded. There was no joy, no emotion at all in her voice, just a flat, removed absence of a person.

"To that end, you two are being put in charge of a special project. It's going to take some adaptation, mind, but nothing too serious. Replace "God" with "Neo-parenting techniques" and you get the gist of it. The upshot is, we're giving you new lives as Mr. and Mrs. Malefides. You've just published this."

And he slid them two copies of a book entitled "Get With The Program!: Tough Love for Tough Kids", on which was a cartoonish mother and father simultaneously kicking the posteriors of a cartoonish boy and girl in punkish clothes.

"You will be provided accommodations, money, a car. Squandering any of your resources will not be treated lightly, do not do so. If you think you have seen the bottom of the barrel workers at R.A.W. can experience, let me assure you: it gets far worse. You will be attending a talk show interview and press conference about the book. It is imperative you both know it front to cover. You could consider it, for the time being…" he smiled slightly. "…your new bible."

Now they were being asked to adopt an entire new identity. It struck Matthew as how horrible it must be that the demand to discard the entirety of his former life for a new one was the best thing that had happened in months.

"Of course," Goabes shrugged, "if this is too much too fast, I can find someone else."

"No, sir!" interjected Grace quickly. She looked pleadingly to Matthew, who spoke quickly. "We'll do it. Give us the names, the history, we'll memorize it all…"

"I'm sure you will." Goabes said with no trace of sarcasm whatsoever. "Perform well, and your accommodations will be more permanent, and, dare I say, more pleasant that what you have now. Just remember- we will be watching you. Take this assignment as seriously as if your life depended on it, because, frankly, it does." Goabes' face was suddenly deathly serious. "I assure you- nothing R.A.W. will do to you if this flops will compare to what they do to deserters."

Then the grim mask was gone, replaced with a disturbingly serene smile. "Any questions? None? Good. You both have appointments with plastic surgeons in five hours."

They were going to change their faces as well?

Matthew's initial shock at the idea was squelched when he recalled just how damning going out in public with his current face would be.

The idea of discarding his identity entirely and starting over was becoming less and less terrifying with every moment.

"Investigations into R.A.W. have met with multiple obstacles. First and foremost is the complete isolation of most recruits from the outside world, making contact with agents a difficult, if not impossible endeavor. The stringent training process R.A.W. uses to decide which recruits graduate to anything beyond menial labor involves abusing children to such degrees that multiple agents have committed suicide upon retrieval."

"Reports taken from the survivors of Facility #23 in the Summer of 2012 have confirmed what scant reports suggested- there is no attempt at turning the children into soldiers, long term slaves, or reconditioning them into the level of obedience the camp fronts offer. The goal is simply psychological and physiological devastation, culminating in execution. Rod and Whip recruits known child abusers and molesters to this end. It is imperative that every report of R.A.W. activity be treated with the highest priority- this is, without a doubt, a terrorist organization with nothing but destruction on the agenda."

"Ransom demands are made, but have never successfully resulted in a recovery. Given the means at which they have at their disposal, it is doubtful that the organization can sustain itself on mere ransom demands. Investigations are being made into where the organizations considerable resources are stemming from…"

-Excerpt from CIA report on Rod and Whip

…...

JANUARY

Christmas came and went, residual cheer diminishing quickly. New Years celebrations were a subdued affair in Newden- there was a hospital to rebuild and people were still reeling in shock after the attacks perpetrated by Highweller.

School came early in the midst of slushy rain and freezing wind, forcing students to huddle together as they waited at bus stops. What had begun as the touted "winter wonderland" was quickly becoming a hell of ice, wet, and cold.

Calvin had found the upside of this to be that he and Susie had a very legitimate reason to be close, but that faded when both discovered, to their displeasure, it did little to alleviate the chill. Nonetheless, they were often seen walking side by side into school, shivering, thawing, scraping off snow off each other as they shrugged off heavy coats and trudged to class.

His reinstatement in the school newspaper had been well received by all, fortunately. Calvin's brand of snark and dry humor made his articles on school goings-on more tolerable, as otherwise his mandatory reports on school sports or new incentives would be as appealing as watching paint dry.

"For those of you who have regained enough feeling in your fingers to pick up a copy of the school paper and not use it for immediate kindling, I have good news- the school board has decided, at Spittle's insistence, that our time would be spent better learning than thawing. To that end several space heaters have been purchased to help with the defrosting process we have grown to know and love."

Yet he appreciated the dull monotony.

It was a break from people trying to kill him for stupid, pointless reasons, or Susie for even stupider, more pointless reasons. No more students dying because a grown man was having a temper tantrum. No lunatic cops trying to assassinate him in the hallways. His main concerns now were his grades, stable for now, and spell-checking the paper.

People still spoke to him, revered him as some sort of immortal, but they did so at a respectful distance, partly because Calvin had made it clear he was no god of retribution that held all the answers, and partly because no one wanted to gain the ire of someone who now had thirty confirmed kills, multiple injuries, and God-only-knew how many dead at the compound. In the eyes of the survivors of the Newden school shooting, Calvin was their avenger, the one who had made sure that each life taken from then was repaid with equal death and interest.

Andrew Derkins had taught him a mantra, handed down to him by his commander, to stave off the madness that inevitably threatened one's mind when they took a life, something to keep a semblance of sanity as he tried to act normal: "I did what was necessary."

But was it? Could there have been a better way to evacuate those he had in the compound, besides gunning down adults set on killing him? Would the world be better off if he had been less murderous in the applications of his power when he rescued Susie? Could he have stunned when he had killed?

Then the bitter, cynical part of him offered its counter-argument, that these… sadist scum and their single-minded destructiveness were too rigid to allow the transmogrifier to work in such ways. Quicksand bogs to slow them down, their pants all simultaneously dropping, any number of non-fatal obstacles… these would not fit into the reality they saw. They only understood fire, violence, and gunshot wounds. Even if he had spared them, what then? Would Highweller have had more troops to rally? Would the mop up operations have gone as smoothly as they had?

"I did what was necessary." He said aloud.

Not that anyone heard him. He was alone, the sole occupant of the newspaper room, at a monitor that held the unfinished version of his article for the paper. It wasn't very insightful, nor did it offer oft requested methods as to how to survive a gunfight. (Spittle had outright vetoed those.) It was rather dry despite his attempts to spruce it up with snark, but there was only so much enthusiasm he could possibly drum up for heaters and athletics.

He typed and typed, stared and stared, and finally produced something passable. Finally, that was done.

The bell rang, jarring him slightly. There were three more classes to go. Not that he had a whole lot to worry about: the teachers had been disturbingly lax after the events of last year.

Not that he could blame them.

There were still empty chairs and lockers that no one dared to touch, unadorned memorials to teachers and students who it was becoming tragically apparent would never again be there.

One of them had been Alex Penderson, the boy with fake piercings who had asked Calvin what it was like to "kick so much ass." He had been gunned down along with others when he had rushed the stage to try to prevent Candace Maple's abduction. Another had been his English teacher, Ms. Jenna Banners. She was firm but kind, had encouraged his writings both creative and analytical, and he looked forward to her class even when she was passing out tests. She was shot as an example, her only crime being within range of sadistic judge-worshipping fanboys with automatic weapons.

He had went to see Highweller after New Years, mainly to mock him, only to be informed that Highweller was in no state to be mocked- the official story was, his fellow death row inmates had been none too kind to him, and he had retreated deep into his mind to cope with daily assaults.

Calvin's own theory was that Andrew Derkins had gotten hold of him and made his displeasure known about the way Highweller had treated Susie. Even as he condemned torture, the atrocities inflicted on him, on Susie, on the city were too great for him to conjure up any sympathy. Confronting Andrew about it would do no good whatsoever and possibly infinite harm. Highweller could very well go free or be placed somewhere he had more freedom. Susie would not take the news well. And Calvin would lose an ally and gain an enemy for what would likely be perceived as a betrayal.

Besides, the bitterness inside him spoke, shouldn't there be a few people like Andrew around? People to make R.A.W. afraid? People that aren't afraid to get their hands dirty?

The idea, before all of this, that there could be an organization dedicated to nothing but child abuse was an insane stretch to even Calvin. That a judge would go so far as to shooting up schools and blowing up hospitals over a war against a solitary student because he didn't think she was completely altruistic was laughable. Now he lived in a world tainted by well-founded paranoia and fear. Wasn't it reasonable that R.A.W. and people like Highweller had something to be afraid of in turn?

He snapped back to reality, only then aware that the teacher had been talking for several minutes and he hadn't heard a single word of what she'd said. Social Studies, 5th period.

For roughly two more hours, Calvin would have to pretend that he still cared about school.

The bus ride home was, for once, tolerable. People didn't ask him questions about what his kill count was at, how he got from Newden to Texas in such a short time, what it felt like to be the hero of Verdant Junior High…

…except he felt nothing like a hero. He didn't remember the people he saved- the boy who had lent him the paper clip stood out, but he'd directly interacted with him. Mr. Heighs, who had begged to be allowed to die in peace, and apologized later for his negative outlook. Beyond that, the only ones he really remembered were the ones lost.

Rhonda Lee. 15. Brilliant with a flute, could have gone on to be a master musician in college. She was gunned down in the first burst of gunfire, fired for no reason other than to demonstrate what would happen if anyone resisted.

Vincent Porter, 14. Quiet kid who kept to himself and expressed his worldview through art. He'd already done three commissions and had a fourth lined up. He too perished in the first burst of gunfire, head ripped open. It had left his father suicidal and his mother institutionalized.

Jerry Harper, 43. Science teacher who tried to make hours of memorizing formulas exciting with the occasional baking soda and vinegar explosion. Gunned down when he rushed the stage to try and help Candace Maple along with several other students.

He was asked to speak at funerals. Asked to talk about that day over and over, remember what scant shreds of those people's lives he could through memories of blood.

It was these tragic, senseless losses that made him harden his heart against feeling the slightest shred of remorse for the things he had done. That he had to do.

I did what was necessary.

With no funerals to go to this afternoon, no homework, no murderers or madmen gunning for him, Calvin resolved to spend the afternoon vegetating in front of the TV. His mind needed cool-off time, even if it was just watching cartoon characters blow each other up…

He surfed for several minutes for something dumb enough to soothe the aches and pains of the year's mental rigors, when he heard the words "stringent discipline is necessary".

He flipped back two channels.

"…today have an incredible sense of entitlement, and the recent events, while tragic, do nothing to alleviate this sense of "I deserve whatever I want". The time to start instilling a sense of humility and obedience is before a child disobeys, not after." A blonde haired, stern looking man in a fancy two piece suit addressed the audience.

"But what your book is suggesting amounts to constant punishment regardless of behavior and "gaslighting" children repeatedly. These are techniques that would frowned on in military training, let alone child rearing." Argued the host, a glasses wearing woman in her 40s, red hair in curls as she regarded her guest with an incredulous look.

"I'm not arguing that the methods I'm outlining are harsh, Ms. Davon. I firmly advocate "Toughest Love". What you have to understand is that nowadays, the loving, kind, warm parenting we're used to advocating doesn't work. Children nowadays are, frankly, inherently criminal in nature, so what I am suggesting isn't meanness for meanness sake, its rehabilitation of an inherently rebellious, violent criminal mind that literally has no capacity for altruistic or even non-destructive actions."

"Then how, Mr. Malefides," responded Davon, voicing the argument Calvin was about to say aloud, "do you explain the actions of Susie Derkins? Or the actions of her fellow students? Or Calvin Halgins, who helped bring a corrupt judge to justice?"

"Ah," nodded Malefides. "Susie Derkins is… an unusual case. What you have here is someone who thinks they're doing the right thing, but as history has shown us, time and time again, the repercussions of allowing an immature child spearhead attempts to positively change society is a bit like offering poisoned food. If you consider Highweller's analysis of her actions-"

"Highweller?" disbelief showed in Davon's face and voice. "You're basing your argument off the teachings of a terrorist?"

"Before Susie and Calvin," Malefides replied solemnly, "he was a respected judge. As I was saying, Highweller's analysis, paraphrased from his site, was that even if, and that, taking into account the inability of minors to think with genuine altruism is a big if, she was genuinely doing the charity as a benefit to the homeless and not as a smokescreen operation, then someone else would, namely one of the hundreds of kids who joined the charity. A few friends join? I could see that. Her whole class? Maybe on a good day if they were bored. The whole school gives up a weekend to help out for no pay? That at the very least speaks of the school being dangerously impressionable by one student."

"As for Calvin…" Malefides took a deep breath. "…well, you've read my chapter on him, haven't you?"

Chapter? Calvin thought numbly, as the disgust with Malefides' stubborn insistence that Susie was either delusional or deceptive faded. He wrote an entire chapter about me?

"Yes, and it's libelous-" Devon spoke, but Malefides held up his hand, interrupting her.

"The word 'terrorist' gets tossed around a lot. We've seen it used on Highweller and his community, but in reality, it was less terrorism and more a desperate attempt to force his world to make sense- Susie's actions demanded he address them, and then Calvin struck repeated retaliatory blows by blowing videos out of proportion and painting Highweller as a sadistic child-hating monster, and as psychology has shown us, if you treat someone like a monster, if you tell someone they're a monster, they will eventually act the part." Malefides said with a sad downcast look.

"Calvin, on the other hand… what defines a terrorist? When we hear the word, we think of manifestos. Of disorder. Of trying to upset the government. Of body counts. Of our hometowns being attacked without provocation. Highweller's actions, while by no means legally justifiable, were retaliation against repeated assaults by Calvin, which began as simple written undermining and escalated into a full blown attack on the Highground community…"

"…which was done in response to a school invasion and bombing attempt, Mr. Malefides!" Devon shouted, patience finally snapping, some of her audience echoing her exasperation.

"It's tit for tat, Miss Devon. No matter how sympathizers like you want to sugarcoat it, the upshot of the facts is Highweller was a strict but fair judge who was pushed over the edge by the acts of a terrorist in the making, and the world deserves to know about it!"

Calvin clicked off the TV as the discussion devolved into both of them shouting at the top of their lungs. He had known, at the back of his mind, it wouldn't possibly end with just Grindstone or Highweller. Rod and Whip was still out there. There were still Highweller sympathizers.

He should have seen it coming, then, he concluded as he stood in the quiet of his living room, that they would start attacking him as he had them.

First things first. He had to get a copy of the book, and see just how big a bastard Malefides had painted him to be…

"Let me begin by stating that I am well aware that using a living person as a strawman for an author's arguments is usually a poor decision, as is ad hominem attacks on said living person. These are, typically, the last resorts of those who have no more ammunition to rationally debate their position. However, in this case to ignore the person in question, Calvin Halgins, would be an even more grievous error, and so I hope, dear reader, you will understand the position my wife and I have taken."

"Calvin's actions come off, at first glance, to be something of a modern day hero. Boldly questioning the actions of supposed tyrants and leaping into actions when the supposedly innocent are wronged. But let's take a step back and ask ourselves the old riddle of the chicken and the egg. Which came first- Calvin, or the criminal actions of Highweller off of which he boasts so much acclaim?"

"Highweller's past as a judge is, admittedly, checkered from a standard point of view. Harsh punishments levied on minor offenses and a distinct disfavor for those who challenged their charges, even when they proved to be innocent. But was Highweller simply, as Susie Derkins claimed during her trial, lording over those brought into his courtroom for a power trip? Hardly. Examined closer, his rulings indicate a deep concern for the state of the nation, in which nowadays any disciplinary action is met with accusations of child abuse. In the cases where his teen defendants challenged their charges, we do see intensified efforts to threaten and coerce them into rescinding their defenses, but this is not the vindictive "hanging judge" Calvin has painted him to be. It is a rational, justified concern that if a minor successfully challenges the law and wins, they will aspire to greater acts of rebellion. We have seen such behavior in Calvin Halgins, whose actions began with badmouthing Camp Grindstone and escalated into an assault on the Highground Community, leaving thirty dead."

"Thirty dead people, with hopes, dreams, aspirations, whose only crime was to gather around the one person who made sense to them. I can already hear the rebuttal- that this attack was deserved, because a day ago members from the Highground community attacked Verdant Junior High. Allegedly, students involved in this attack identified some of the dead as the same who had participated in the attempted bombing, but let's remember a few things- our sources for this attack ever happened are students who rallied behind Calvin and Susie. One of the military responders to the Highground Massacre was Susie Derkins' father, Andrew Derkins. I hesitate to propose conspiracy theories, but I would be negligent if I failed to note this as suspicious."

"In short, looking at Highweller's aggression towards innocent parties protesting their charges, and looking at the events that led to his tragic downfall, we can see less of a tyrant judge and more of a person who was well aware of what problems could occur from such legal victories. In the end, what is more important to the longevity of this nation? One presently innocent teen being able to emerge victorious in a courtroom? Or avoiding yet another Calvin and another Highground?"

-Excerpt from Chapter 10 of "Get With The Program!"-"Combative Anarchic Lying Vindictive Irresponsible Nightmare."

Jason Fox fought the urge to laugh as he read the title of the tenth chapter in what he was now certain was a manual to drive minors criminally insane. Acronym insult titles and a heaping amount of insane logic would have made the read funnier if the author wasn't so depressingly convinced of their own reasoning.

Calvin was, at the very least, a lunatic. That was not a point he was going to argue. With all due respect to the boy who had helped them escape the facility alive, what other terms were applicable to someone who topped off a summer spent taunting child abuse cults with a commando assault against a sociopathic judge's vanity hometown?

That being said, even a lunatic could have a valid point, and Calvin's blogs had put forth little that Jason or any intelligent person could argue with. The first and most often repeated argument was that Rod and Whip's methods- or anything approaching them- were surefire ways to either kill a child or instill in them the rebellion so feared in the first place. The second, more recent argument had been about one particular girl's trial.

Susan? Sue? Susie, yes that was it, was the focal point of his recent entries and apparently his movement from Omnijournal to a personal website. The girl had apparently run afoul of an out of state judge by running a charity event that offended said judge because he interpreted it as a deceptive act. It had been such an utterly ludicrous idea at first that Jason had dismissed it as Calvin turning to attention whoring.

Then he had heard about the assassination attempt. The kidnapping and torture. The raiding of his school, the abduction of Susie and her friend, and somewhere around reading a headline about Calvin having stormed Highground and rescued Susie he had developed a migraine that necessitated medication.

It seemed insane, the very notion that a thirteen year old boy could be responsible for a full fledged rescue mission.

But the world, Jason reminded himself, had gone insane.

He had been attacked in his own home, forced to kill multiple attackers, then kidnapped by sleeper agents posing as cops, tortured and imprisoned by a group of madmen and sadists who killed kids and called it discipline, broke free in what could only be described as a miracle, and in the process of accidentally freeing two other people, he had gunned down-

…and here, as Jason's mind wandered into waters his therapist had warned him not to, he groaned, aches of healed wounds lingering, memories of carnage returning.

He had gunned down so many people he had lost count. It was one thing to lose count when the victims were virtual, it was another when they were flesh and blood. The fact that they were as close to pure evil as Jason had ever seen was, however, a major mitigating factor, to both his conscience and to the public eye, but still sometimes the images of bodies spasming from being riddled with bullets and visions of armed assailants plagued his sleep.

What truly haunted him were the children. Up until then, Jason had heard of child abuse, of molesters, of all manner of hypothetical boogeymen that lurked on unwatched corners and offered candy to unsuspecting little kids, but he had comforted himself with the idea that they were evadable, and that with the right precautions one would never meet them.

Then he had met Rod and Whip, an organization of who-knows-how-many, with exceptional resources, that actively sought out youths solely, as far as he could discern, to torture them to death. He had, in the desperate hours after the facility's self-destruct was averted, used the facility's internet and phone to summon as much medical assistance as humanly possible, but it still had not been enough.

Children died before their parents got to see them. Or were found to have died and been cremated long ago despite ransom payments. Many of the survivors were crippled physically, emotionally, or both.

Not that Jason could exactly hold them at fault. How did you get back to normal after being kidnapped and taken to a place of torture and hopelessness, or, God forbid, sent their by your own parents? How could you ever trust anyone after that sort of experience? Even now Jason jumped whenever the doorbell rang- he had greeting Marcus with a flamethrower super soaker, and when he had (admittedly reasonably) demanded to know what the hell was going on, he had told him.

Marcus hadn't believed it, initially. Again, who could blame him? It was only after being shown evidence that coincided with Jason's story that he eventually grasped, with a deadened look in his eyes, the new world they were thrust into.

And so he had helped with the current project. Researching the names of victims, alive and dead, of Rod and Whip and the Grindstone camps. Trying to find leads. Jason knew there were other facilities from what he had seen in the files- but whether they were operational or not was beyond him.

Back to the book at hand, it seemed to be little less than a love letter to both the Grindstone mentality and Highweller's assertion that all pre-adults were monsters. Its chapters alternated between advice on discipline- gaslighting children and punishing them for following rules (with the stated intent that eventually being allowed to follow an order without punishment would make them happy to obey) and long rantings about how everyone that so much as suggested Highweller and Grindstone might be wrong were either horribly misguided or in on the "Violent Youth Conspiracy".

He turned to a new chapter, and for a moment, stared at the title- Jumbled Anarchic Sociopath Obscuring Necessities.

For a moment, he felt offended that whoever wrote this associated his name with such a nonsensical acronym, then he read on.

"Hero. Genius. Wonderkid. These are some of the titles that many have given Jason Fox after the media ate up the sensationalized fabrications of the Grindstone story. Reviewing his past, however, reveals a disturbed egoist whose life is anything but heroic. Whether it has been water balloons or illegally modified model rockets, Jason Fox seems to have only one passion, and that is destruction. While his supporters point to his disarming of the alleged bomb at Grindstone, and that said methods supposedly helped to disable yet another hypothetical bomb set at Newden Junior High, his past speaks of an attention demanding sociopath who is willing to endanger random citizens for what amounts to a cheap laugh."

Jason envisioned setting the author on fire, chuckled, and found that he couldn't really argue with that last point.

"Was there really a bomb in Grindstone? Were those children really beaten so hideously and cruelly? Or did a combination of a trigger happy Jason and an overzealous S.W.A.T. team necessitate an intricate lie to cover up the deaths of children who desperately needed reforming?"

He paused, reread the last few lines, unsure he had read correctly, but there it was- a blatant denial of facts reported on by multiple angles and news stations, dismissing hundreds of articles of evidence and government investigations for the sole purpose of blaming him for those children's deaths.

Kids as young as three flogged, denied food and water, their hopes crushed for nothing more than some sadist's… enjoyment, and this idiot, this scandalmonger puts their deaths at his feet, claiming that the horrible tales recounted by the survivors were nothing more than falsehoods to cover up his crimes, that every single child and teen who didn't die was in on the whole thing…

The red haze broke for a moment, and he saw that he had torn the pages that offended him to shreds, his breathing feral and ragged, acidic rage burning the back of his throat.

It was one thing to dismiss him as an attention whoring fool. It was another to call him a murderer and a monster.

…...

"What is External Parenting?"

"External Parenting is something we've seen in many forms over the years. Time was, if an adult caught you doing something you shouldn't and gave you a spanking or licking, your parents thanked them, not sued them. Recently, it's been the concerned phone call when someone suspects abuse or neglect. The forms of EP that society tolerates are all concerned with making life better for the minor in question."

"But what do we do when we have an out of control minor? One whose parents can't- or won't- discipline? The answer is logical- take action yourself. Step in where their parents decided not to. In cases of child abandonment, we don't give the child money and expect them to just get by, we get them into a foster home."

"It's time we stopped being afraid to discipline other's children because we're afraid of what society will think. Society thinks that teens who rampage through a rehabilitation center killing everyone in their path are heroes. Society looks at a boy who brags about these misdeeds and then commits more in a twisted expression of love for a con-artist and says "He's a hero!" Ladies and Gentlemen, if you are concerned about what society thinks about you, look at what it thinks about the dangerous ones."

"When a delinquent's parents cannot or refuse to do the bare minimum of the job that society requires them to do- ensuring their offspring do not grow up to be sociopaths with an entitlement complex- it is up to you, the Concerned Elders, to use External Parenting to your best judgment. And if someone asks who gave you the right, feel free to tell them I did."

"Because I'll take liability over another Calvin or Jason any day."

-Excerpt from Chapter 8 of "Get With The Program!"-"Tough Times = Tough Measures"

James Malefides looked himself over in the mirror.

His brown hair was dyed blonde. His sagging cheeks now tight. His nose more shapely. He was the model appearance of perhaps, a middle aged tv-show host, charismatic, handsome. His wife had come off the surgeon's table looking years younger- her dull brown hair flecked with grey now a crimson red. Bigger breasts. More shapely. Liposuction. The visually perfect companion to his TV-star looks.

Their accommodations were small, a one floor house, but more than decent by today's standard, luxurious by what they had been getting used to back at the R.A.W. facility.

Luxurious, and doubtlessly bugged. There was no way, considering how stringent they were inspected back at the facility, that they would be allowed absolute freedom.

They had been watching the interview, at least.

He had expected a tongue lashing at the very least for how the interview went down- Devon had adamantly refused to allow any point to go unchallenged, eventually calling the book a child abuser's handbook- but to his surprise and relief, Goabes told him that was expected and to simply press on.

Not that it helped his wife one iota.

Penny Malefides, once Grace Wellfields, was well enough on camera. At a glance, no one could tell anything was wrong. She was enthusiastic in defender their joint project, "Get With The Program", she had rehearsed her stances and defenses as R.A.W. had dictated them, but behind closed doors James saw that this had killed her spiritually.

Not that they had any small reason to feel guilty or ashamed. Forty-four children of their congregation, dead. His own daughter hated them both with a passion and wasn't shy about condemning them at every opportunity in the press. They were one of thousands now wanted in what was quickly becoming a global manhunt for the most despised terrorist group in history.

Penny couldn't even bring herself to cook much. It reminded her of Faith's sandwiches and all the cooking she had done- they had eaten mostly takeout. She cleaned, but obsessively and to the point of exhaustion, collapsing into bed when she was done. Intimacy between them had withered during the four years before they had joined R.A.W., and now it was wholly dead.

They had instructed him to regard the book as his new bible, and he had done so. He had memorized every detail, every argument, elaborated on every false anecdote, praised for doing so by Goabes. To be honest, for someone who was facing charges of child abuse before, James was doing good for himself. He wasn't the most popular person- authoring a book about child discipline had that effect in this day and age. Yes, he was still… frazzled was the best word. His life had been turned upside down. His former congregation was certainly displeased with how things had turned out. But all things considered, he felt that life had taken a better turn.

All he needed to do now was convince his wife of that.

The cellphone Goabes had given him rang. He picked up immediately, delays were seldom tolerated. "Hello?"

"Adjusting well, Mr. Malefides?" Goabes voice was congenial. "Your Press Conference has been booked for tomorrow afternoon. Hundreds of people who bought your books will be in attendance as well, so it goes without saying that it is crucial you keep up the level of performance we've come to expect from you."

"Absolutely, sir." Malefides agreed.

"One more thing, though. One adjustment to your speech- so far we've asked you to be subtle in the condemnations of the targets."

The targets. Jason Fox, Calvin Halgins, Curtis Wilkins, Chutney Darly, Veronica and Hope Miles, and his own daughter, Faith. All children and those who spoke against abuse were hated by R.A.W., but those seven held a special place in their hearts. Out of a need for subtlety (or what passed for subtlety by R.A.W.'s standards) the accusations had been kept to a bare minimum, though Malefides felt, personally, painting Jason Fox as a murderer was begging for a lawsuit.

"That changes today. Rile the people there up. Get them angry at the targets. If you have to out and out say it was all a plan by them to get attention and sue Grindstone, do it."

With some horrible mix of pride and shame Malefides knew he was up to such a task. "Should I call Calvin the Antichrist?"

"If you can make them believe he is Satan, go for it. I want them leaving that conference thinking that if they met a target on the street and shot them, they'd be doing the country a service."

Out and out war, then. That sort of attack screamed slander, but R.A.W. claimed they would defend them against lawsuits…

"Right. Anything else?" Malefides forced himself to sound confident, cool, collected. He needed this time with his wife to adjust her to their new reality- if she was sent back to the stifling R.A.W. center he would never be able to rekindle anything between them…

"No, that's it. Poor on the venom, avoid using references or phrases you did as Wellfields. We'll contact you again when it's done."

And with a click, Goabes hung up.

So that was that. He was going to outright encourage the murder of his own daughter and six others whose only crimes were speech and survival.

He dared not give voice to the thing he dreaded, for fear the walls had electronic ears and eyes, but his only hope now was that whatever deity presided over the world was every bit as cruel and vindictive towards children as he had preached.

There was no hope for him otherwise.

"…in response to the gentleman's question about whether my writings on Calvin and Jason could be interpreted as advocating outright warfare on them, I ask in response, have they not already proved they are willing to do so? Against the law? Against authority? Against anything that so much as chafes them?"

"Incidentally, I spoke with a former employee of Grindstone's boot camps, forced to resign after the scandals ruined his career as a youth counselor. He was devastated to learn that the methods of tough love he used as desperate last resorts to reform tomorrow's drug lords and mass murderers into passable citizens were ignored in favor of outrageous lies. It's bad enough Calvin goes out of his way to deny all the good work people like this man did, but to paint these detestable falsehoods about "kids being chained up" and "daily floggings with barbed" wire isn't just libelous, it's indicative of the horribly depraved mind Highweller feared."

"Oh yes, I know what's coming next. 'But they have proof that there were tortures!' Funny how that proof only came out after five days of the FBI and several SWAT teams skulking about in that facility. Five days is an awful lot of time to a group like that with resources. Time to hide things, and time to bring in new things."

"I must sound insane, insinuating that there's some great conspiracy between Calvin, Jason, Ms. Miles and the FBI. No, I don't believe this premeditated on the government's end. What is frighteningly more probable than Calvin's sensationalist tale of horror is that he and Jason conspired with Ms. Miles to perform a false flag operation. All it probably took was a few shots from a zip gun and they had the panic they so desired. A few calls to the FBI later, a few snap judgments in who to shoot by responders, and to keep it under wraps, Calvin agrees to concoct one of the most outrageous campaigns of slander in history."

"As for my contact, he remains unemployable, abandoned by friends and family, his life in shambles. All because a few people decided to play up a lie. Years of job experience gone. All he has left is his dwindling savings he has to consume to stay alive."

"But he is not the only one to have suffered from the indignities of lies. You may have heard the story about the "Church of the Unyielding Rod", supposedly acting as supporters to this mythical "Rod and Whip" organization. Most of the information on the church comes from Faith Wellfields, whose tragic tales of abuse and humiliation come conveniently before the dust has even settled."

"But where is my proof? Where indeed? I don't have logs of Calvin and Jason plotting. I don't have a tape recorder or a video to show you. What I do have, however, are numbers."

"153 children ranging from ages three to 15 dead during the Grindstone incident. 47 personnel working at the facility killed. Nineteen dead at the Verdant Junior High incident. 30 dead, 22 critically injured in a personal rampage on the now ghost town of Highground, Texas. In the Newden Central Hospital bombing, a total of 58 people dead, 45 injured, and millions in property damages. Ladies and Gentlemen, everywhere Calvin Halgins goes, people die."

"By now, many of you expect me to put on a tinfoil hat. Laying nearly 300 deaths at the feet of one child's ambitions is certainly an outrageous claim. But are his claims not more ludicrous? That there is an entire cult dedicated to the torture of children and he was just lucky enough to invade one of their 'torture facilities' and shut it down? That Highweller's actions were completely unprovoked? Finally, I must ask this final question: if everything he's said is true, then by what logic is he still alive?"

"Calvin blends opinion and fact like some sort of poisonous cocktail, giving it to anyone who will listen. Jason bolsters these lies with a willingness to commit murder and acts of wanton destruction. Veronica Miles, through her child's 'testimony', has made an entire career out of building on lies, and people like Curtis and Chutney go along with it, because to them, the destruction of order and hard work is the epitome of recreation. I therefore feel completely justified in giving my own opinion- with someone who spreads death and destruction wherever they go, boasts about it, encourages rebellion, demonizes authority figures and makes saints out of subversive individuals… if someone were to stop these people's insatiable lust for chaos once and for all, I say that would be not a crime, but a service to all mankind!"

-Conclusion of James Malefides' Press Conference regarding his new book, "Get With The Program!"

Jason Fox's recent days in eighth grade were by no means comfortable.

It was bad enough that the army wannabes asked him how it felt to shoot someone, that the hippies condemned him to his face for violence, that the whole school believed him to be a hero, a hardened killer, or a psychopath ready to explode, depending on who you asked and when you asked them.

Then the adults had joined in.

It had started relatively small, at first. A few complaints to the principal, largely ignored, brought only to his attention when the complaining parents had called him at home to rant blindly and suggest he check himself into a psych ward.

Then several teachers suggested that Jason was too 'damaged' to return to school, others espoused that this was some big conspiracy, quoting from Malefides' guide to psychological warfare and torture statistics that had no basis, facts drawn from thin air, and concluding from the whole mess that Jason needed to be locked up. Some could be talked into something resembling sanity, given the evidence and testimony of the survivors. Others had firmly convinced themselves of Jason's criminal status and refused to change.

Now Jason was sitting in a cramped counselor's office, called out of class in the middle of a test, no less. He glanced at his watch. It had been fifteen minutes since he'd been told that the counselor would be with him shortly.

Finally, someone entered, a man in his early thirties, brown hair with a bad spot on top, a rotund belly, wearing a plaid shirt and khaki pants. He lumbered into his chair behind his desk with all the grace of a drunken hippo, flopping on the desk a folder.

This was no one Jason knew. Yes, he had been to the counselor before, during August, and the frumpy yet kindly old man's sole concern was that Jason wasn't going to kill himself. He had been blunt, but understood that it was incredibly hard to focus on schoolwork and deadlines when you were still waking up each morning choking back screams. He had been able to be frank with him, because even if he didn't understand what it meant to have done what he had, he still understood it was traumatic.

No such empathy showed in this man's face as he leaned on the desk, pushing his glasses up onto his face. "I'm very concerned, Jason."

Jason suppressed a groan. No conversation that began with a school administrator saying they were "concerned" ended happily. He resolved to end this quickly.

"I'm not sure what there's to be concerned about, Mr…." he trailed off, inviting the unidentified lummox to introduce himself.

"My name is Mr. Baxter, and I'm here to help you make some important decisions."

Condescending voice. The 'I'm here to help you' routine. This conversation would not end well at all.

"This is about the complaints, isn't it?" Jason cut to the point, irritation building in the back of his skull. "Yeah, I'm still scared, but that's no reason to treat me like a criminal."

Baxter looked down at the desk, opened the folder, retrieving a few pages. "Let me read you something. 'Jason needs to get help before he kills again.' 'I don't want my daughter going to school with that lunatic.' 'He's dangerous and needs to be locked up.' The thing is, Jason, a lot of people are having a hard time believing your story, and lots of people are concerned about whether or not you're able to function in this school."

"It's not my story." Jason snapped. "There's evidence. Videos they took of children being beaten, ransom letters they were going to send out, bombs, weapons, witnesses, the FBI is still trying to find the other facilities…"

"Jason," Baxter said calmly, "I think you and I both know how easy it is to make something up with a computer these days."

That settled it. This overweight idiot was going to shove aside a literal mountain of evidence to entertain some quack child-psychologist's idea of a conspiracy theory. He got up from his seat, grabbing his backpack.

"Jason, sit down, we're not done-"

"Yes, we are. You're not listening, so neither will I."

He swung open the counselor's door.

There, blocking his way, were fifteen angry men and women. Some he recognized as parents that had came over, barging into the house to squawk at him and his parents. Others he recognized as the teachers who believed he was a ticking time bomb.

His hand dove into his pocket for his cell phone, when two of the men stepped forward, grabbing him and pinning him to the ground, one crushing their knee into his back. He had finished dialing and hit call, desperately clinging as they tried to wrench the phone away, eventually knocking it out of his hands as he heard someone pick up. "MOM, THEY'VE GOT-"

*CRUNCH* One of the others brought their foot down on the phone, crushing it in a crumpled heap of sparking plastic.

"I tried to make this easy, Jason. But just like Malefides said, Liemakers like you won't listen to the truth. By the authority granted us as your Concerned Elders by Malefides' law of External Parenting, we are taking you into rehabilitative custody."