Chapter 1

Project circadia

That visual venom was the only thing in existence as the haze surrounding my consciousness began to dissipate. I wanted Jemma's arms, my bed, the moon. But there was nothing, not even comforting darkness. Not even abyss. There were only those words.

At least those words had been contained. Hopelessness, desperation rushed in when words eventually broke open and the rest of reality started to exist again, make sense. Not make sense exactly, at least register. As far as I was concerned nothing might ever make sense again. What was sense? I was too broken to want an answer.

First things first, I instructed myself shakily, knowing I could not yet sort out the words on the file, Take stock: I was sitting on my curled up knees. That was a start.

The fire was dying, though it still coated the remains of the computers, the file cabinets, the walls, the cubicles, the dripping glass—nearly everything that lay around me—in its black veil. I could sense rather than see it softly brush the rest of the building into ash, like the last leaf falling off an autumn tree. Not just the training…labs I guess they must have been?... But my library, my study, my room…my bed…my lif.The haze began to come up again. No, no more. I struggled weakly to keep my tears where they belonged, though the damage was already done. They were all gone but I couldn't decide whether they had deserved it. Couldn't consider it now. Couldn't consider anything.

A huge blank wall of fog began to close back in around my mind at the half-formed thought.

Too much, Hon, too much for today. Wait. The sound advice stymied the wall's advance, but it hovered, waiting to crash like a wave back upon me.

In the meantime, the dark fire had crept onto the heinous file and it began to char in my hands. Good …

…

…

...

I felt the flame gently pat my hands, promising to take everything away.

I wish you could.

The bodies wouldn't burn, I instinctively knew. The echoes of life were enough to keep away this particular waning flame. But even when that life had been more than just an echo, it hadn't been enough to stop my tears. They'd reaped everything. I forced myself to think the truth, barely: Everyone. My vision gravitated to the solid black orbs on the face of the corpse to my left, but they stared past me in, no longer in horror but still reflecting its ghost.

Butbutbutbut. The thought was weak but desperate.

Later, I soothed myself again, Stock first, comprehension later. Deep breath. I complied.

The file disintegrated.

Well—breathe—that was what what was gone.

Everything.

What was there to be left? Me, I suppose. What did that matter? Was I anyone after the lifelong lie? After all that manipulation? I pressed my knuckles to my head, trying futilely to physically halt the guerrilla war between confused fear and sickening fury that arose from the question. Being was too big a question for now.

Stick with the fact that you're alive. That, I had to concede, was true, whether or not I wanted it to be.

What else is left? part of me urged. I couldn't remember what I had grabbed before I had gone off like a cloud of chlorine. Another deep breath and my hands fell away from my temples: the left onto my hip, the other to my necklace. Yes, the moonstone pennant was still there on its chain. I rubbed it, hoping the contact would give me the comfort and strength I desperately needed, as usually did. But the stone was tapped, completely drained by the night's events—only a rock, no sense of the reassuring moon. I realized my other hand was clutched around my harmonica. So that had survived. Good. I almost considered trying to play it, but between the cinders on my lips and the fact that there still didn't seem to be any sound in the world, the thought died before it had really begun.

I could feel something else tucked at my right hip. I released the exhausted moonstone and felt shakily for the object. Worn terry cloth kissed my fingertips and I nearly collapsed with relief that in my earlier knot of muddle and destruction, I had saved Hym[1]. My eyes burned again, from happiness and pain. He was a part of me, my life, my past, not merely a greying wolf toy. He seemed intact, but was he? Were we? What was left of me at this point? Again, I forced the question into the background and concentrated on the fact that he was there. As long as that anchor existed, the world continued to turn.

I sat there, clutching him to my breast, slowly stroking his head, for enough time for the ash to be swept into oblivion and the fire to go out, not enough for the rest of my senses to return.

That's why my body shivered with the pretense of a jump when behind me I heard:

"My dear, you have been thorough."

My shock prevented any more of a reaction than that initial twitch, but I remember the voice that finally penetrated my isolation; even in my condition I analyzed it, felt it out. It was a solid voice, masculine, smooth and hard like marble. It wasn't comforting, it wasn't cold. It wasn't condemning as I had feared—at least, not enough for me to have detected it in my frozen state. It might have had a touch of resignation but mostly it was simply matter of fact. It waited for a response. I wasn't up to the task.

"You should get out of the weather."

It had started to rain, I realized. The cold sort of rain that marks the end of summer and curdles under your skin. I hunched over Hym to keep him dry. The droplets lighted on my dark hair and sat there like jewels, but I had no eyes for its beauty. I may have heard a foot step.

"Poor thing." The voice was closer. Whether or not it was mocking or pitying was irrelevant. A hand lowered itself to my shoulder. Its relative warmth began my thaw. I looked over my shoulder, into his face.

His eyes were hard. He was bald. He wore a suit. He wore power. That was all the impression that made it to my awareness. Normally with the touch I would have been able to tell how he wielded that power, but there was nothing left of me to resonate and register his signals more thoroughly than what I'd felt from his voice. My attention gravitated back to my moor.

"There's nothing left for you here. You made sure of that, and had you not, I would have." He paused, as if reconsidering his previous statement then continued. "At the moment that is irrelevant. I must eventually have the full story out of you of the night's events, but I suppose that must wait. You're no good to anyone if you insist on eroding away like this." I could tell the words were meant to spur me, as a few hackles responded to his accusation, but it was still a secondary reaction, a cheap imitation. Noting my lack of response he let out a sigh somewhere between exasperation and acquiescence. It seemed to draw a second figure that held out an umbrella over my would-be confidante. "I am a busy man and I do not have time to let the mud soak into my Salvatore Ferragamo's." I imagined he mentally added, though I do have the money. "It would be to both our advantages if you would accompany me." There was some steel now. "You will have a place to stay, which—I'm sure you realize—you need if you wish to recover. Those are your options: to stay here and wither or to come in the car."

"I can't." I wanted to croak, but as always could not. My instinctive response made part of me giggle and I mentally gagged myself to prevent it from becoming hysterical and cracking me through. Of all the things to say after such an agonizing night, that was my answer? And it wasn't and 'I can't leave' or an 'I can't get in the car with a stranger'. It was an 'I can't get in the car because I will cause it to break'—Pretty much anything electrical or mechanical that requires a class to understand inevitably rejects my essence and collapses, particularly when I am distraught or emotional as I was that night. The 'I can't' was a Pavlovian response to the idea of getting in such potential high speed death trap of my own creation. I wasn't even up to trying to sign the words; I just shook my head.

"You are more drained than the accounts of my most recent corporate victim; it is unlikely that you will affect the vehicle." It should have alarmed me that he had understood my exact meaning from just the shake, but I found myself somewhat comforted by the knowledge that in my rampage I had not completely severed my ties with humanity. I clung to that comfort like the drowning person I was.

Without looking up I reached out a hand; my legs refused to move without external directive. After a pause a gloved hand pulled me up. The bald man was already headed towards his black vehicle where yet another person held open the door. The man with the umbrella stood unmoving as I leaned against him, shaking life back into my stinging legs. As soon as I took my first tentative step, he escorted me briskly to the vehicle.

The overhead light had been turned off. It was another consideration I was too thankful for to question. Mr. Umbrella gave me a hand in like a proper gentleman and shut the door. I found the car claustrophobic, but the darkness embraced me and those fears at least ebbed.

The engine growled and the car set off through the forest. I looked over to the bald man, but he seemed to have forgotten my existence. I never liked being disregarded, but I hadn't had much success doing do anything about it, and tonight was no different. I'd become accustomed being a background figure, and now being ignored only seriously bothered me when I actively tried to enter a conversation. So I didn't anymore. Despite this, it still should have angered me that I was treated like cargo. Just because I couldn't manage to bring attention to myself didn't mean I deserved to be treated as an object. No one did. In this instant at least, it really wasn't in my interest to bring attention to myself in such an unknown circumstance.

Try, say something. A voice still whispered, but it was weak and pitiful.

Instead of speaking up, I looked out the windows onto the night. The windows were tinted, privacy I suppose, but they didn't impede my sight, nor did the raindrops racing down the glass. I'd never really paid attention to the forest road before, but a sense of finality hung over me and despite the general numbness that was blanketing my earlier rage, a bit of remorse at how my actions would change my life forever seeped through and forced me to study the trees. It might be my last chance, my last view of home. My stomach clenched in revulsion at the mockery they had made of that word.

Home is here. Home is Hym. Do not worry about that now. We will deal with it when you are ready. I know. Thanks. Always.

When you are alone as often as I am, you begin to keep yourself company. It's a comfort, not an aberration; after such a night, I needed it. So lay off.

I watched the dark trees: pine mostly, with a few maples, oaks, and birches interspersed. The deciduous ones were still fully green despite the inevitable approach of fall. The leaves dripped, their waxy coats preventing them from soaking up water to the point of being torn off. We passed little stone shrines dedicated to something or another, almost completely obscured by moss and ivy. I saw eyes of porcupine and possum watching the car pass from their burrows and perches, recognizing a kindred night spirit? My body shivered, a solid once over that started at the nape of my neck and traveled down my spine, into my arms and tailbone, to my fingers, legs and toes. I still wasn't remotely done emotionally thawing, but the shudder acted as a sort of reset and I felt a touch more restored. I sensed a hint of fear from the night creatures—fear of the death that still cloaked me—before my resonance once again cut out. I was just too done to keep up the effort and too saturated to add their repulsion to my own. There still was a fair amount of non-reporting from my physical body; surely that needed taking care of before I could possibly extend my senses out. As the bald man had said, I was as drained as the assets in a corporate takeover. I didn't need to be able to feel him deeply to recognize the truth of that statement.

As my thoughts drifted onto the bald man, so did my eyes. Glancing over I saw that he had fallen asleep. It was obvious that he could be awake at a moment's notice, but equally obvious he was certain that that moment would never arrive. Really, it suited me fine, though it still made my skin prickle. Instead of trying to figure out why, I began to focus on getting myself back in order. Smell, for example, had still not come back, and until it had, I couldn't be sure that this wasn't all one of my dreams...nightmares—smell is the mark of reality.

Start with the easy things, I thought. I tapped each finger methodically. One. Two. Three. Four.

By the time we arrived at the mansion, I was physically back on the grid, though emotionally and cogitatively I was still experiencing severe brown outs. All major reset attempts caused power surges.

One could say the house glowed cheerily in the gloom, but to me, the light speared menacingly into the night. I didn't want to face the illumination, but it didn't seem like I was going to be given much choice. I'd been through brighter, right? Yeah, but not after such a thorough sapping, even if it was mostly self-inflicted, I thought dejectedly. Not helping.

The driver and Mr. Umbrella exited in unison. Mr. Umbrella turned, opened the bald man's door and, true to his given name, spread out the umbrella. I didn't warrant such attention as the driver opened my door, pulled me onto the thankfully dim driveway, returned to his seat, and drove off. The lack of cover was actually more of a kindness than the bald man could have known; the rain cooled my skin and its' caress was a surrogate for the tears I couldn't allow myself to shed.

The bald man had started towards the house, up a grand stair. I could run off, instinctively I pleaded with myself to run from this unknown entity and his gilded domain. But the bald man was right, I needed a place to stay, and this was the option. But the lights… I countered my rationality with my habitual unwillingness to be exposed.

I guess the bald man must have noticed my hesitation though distained to do anything about it himself because it was Mr. Umbrella who gave me the meaningful glare.

I can do this. Easy. I've done this before, no problem. You got this. I braced myself and climbed onto the illuminated step.

It could have been worse, I supposed. I could tell the bulbs weren't full spectrum, and they were not particularly bright. Looking back it was probably about 40 lux, and therefore should have felt like walking on small river pebbles in bare feet, except all over my body. Unpleasant, but utterly bearable.

In my state, the smooth stones had turned to dull, rusty nails.

I couldn't help it; I whimpered in silence. I couldn't even hate myself for doing so. Every inch of me tensed in protest, straining to go back where I belonged. My eyes pricked like someone had taped them open and then thrown in sand. You've been through worse, Hon, I know. You can do this. Just think of the bed that waits at the end of this gauntlet, even if it isn't yours. I acknowledged my own point. This wasn't lethal and was the price of the peace of sleep. Really, not such a high cost. Still, each fresh step up the stairs was a battle between body and mind, instinct and practicality.

I reached the top of the stairs and swayed. Another step was not in the cards; my constitution declared that I had a choice between moving forward and remaining conscious. Blacking out was a welcome option: all the recovery I had done in the car had evaporated. Still, losing consciousness was dangerous; I couldn't afford to let my guard down before I knew more about what was going on and where I was going, if possible. While I pondered my next move, I noticed another person, this time a woman, barely inside the door. She wore a stiff skirt suit of grey, strait as her dark brown hair. Though her skin was tan, her posture radiated cold, not the warmth you'd expect. For some reason I couldn't make myself look into her eyes.

At a nod from the bald man, she came over and held me up. Her shadow created what should have been oasis of darkness. But it was impossible to relax, the oasis was tainted; even in my state, her touch repulsed me, was wrong.

"Sir, you really should not have left the house without me." It should have sounded like a scolding except coming from her it was a fact, void of emotion.

He seemed to have forgotten I had ears, "I know, Mercy, but I really couldn't risk your special skill set until I knew exactly what state she was in. You know how irritating it is to have to fix you."

My annoyance at being referred to as if I were absent evaporated as I heard the last two words. What was off about her—the arm that she was holding me by, it wasn't alive. She wasn't human. But she wasn't a machine either. The unnatural medley made me shiver. She broke every rule of… of energy, the universe's rules, that I instinctively accepted. Cyborg, I thought like a curse. But it wasn't only her mechanical nature that made her so alien. She didn't seem to have any substance, any soul. Just… empty.

"Please escort her to suite nine." My host instructed. He headed up an interior staircase and the cyborg pulled me down a hall. She opened a door on the right, and without hitting the lights dragged me to the bed. She deposited me there and left, closing the door behind her. She didn't lock it, but there was no need; the instinct to run had been replaced by something stronger. It was practically blissful to be back in the dark and lying down. It wasn't as soothing as moonlight would have been, but the cessation of the pain was enough.

I would have liked to have fallen right into a natural sleep, but the entirety of my brain was finally starting to come-to after being essentially on autopilot since I'd first lain eyes on the words. My mind, usually a busy place, compelled me to at least try and sort through the night's events. After all, some processing happened in sleep, so the more I primed myself now, the more would happen unconsciously, painlessly. At least, that's the conclusion I kept coming too. It was worth a shot—sleep was not about, and it was…like coming home, to have access to all of myself again. As much home as was left.

I tried to think back on what I had happened in the compound. I remembered… flashes. Screams. Black flame. And then black eyes on a familiar face staring straight to my core. That gaze, a barbed arrow flying straight through my heart—Twisted viscously—I was splintering again! I was—

I mentally screamed and involuntarily, a solid brick wall came sharply up between my conscious and the memory, the injury, as I shied back into my own mental arms, sobbing as I bolted away from the remembered blank eyes. In my mind, one me hugged the other and hushed. Later, later, we will get there later. Eventually I was reassured enough to collect both of my pieces back into one and turned instead to what I was already sure of, what I didn't need (or want) to drag from the hidden places within my own head.

Project circadia, the file had spat at me. Project—the brick wall became an inferno of spite-filled indignation and started to set off a conflagration comparable to that which had started this whole thing. I pushed it away, pushed everything, except breathing, away.

…

The fires smoldered, then smothered. I could not consider in any way, shape, or form, that I had been someone's project. Acceptance, at least for now, was impossible.

What about Circadia? Though I felt resentment at the word, it was manageable, and there was a balancing curiosity at the word. Damn my curiosity. Was that really what they had believed of me?

I reviewed what they had known: I could draw strength both from the sun and the moon. I could throw fire and travel by shadow. Technology died, sometimes violently, around me when I did either, sometimes even when I did not. They knew I had some extra sense, resonance, with others, though not really the extent. I always knew the time. Come to think of it, what time is it? I'm not sure, still offline. Great, I mentally sighed, anyways… The first two abilities showed an obvious indication that my power lay in the day-night rhythms. And the time thing, yeah, I guess Circadia must have made sense to them.

They were wrong though…

I thought of the file tab, and the yin-yang came back into my conceptual picture. They thought I was the whole; I'm not. I'm the yin, with the bit of yang. I'd always known so, but this was the first time I had ever explicitly defined myself as such. I am night being who has a component of the day, exactly like the yin has that one spot of light. It wasn't natural or easy for me, but I'd learned to use that piece of me, as they'd encouraged me to do. It was frustrating, taxing, but I could do it at need. Working in your opposite requires… extreme amounts of focus. Like keeping magnets apart, fighting nature. Uncomfortable at best, painful at worst.

As I said, they hadn't known the full extent of what I could do. There hadn't been to be a need for them to. Although I guess based on the fact that I was their project they would have liked to. I hissed to myself. Even when they had been family, I had never shared everything, I don't think anyone does. Had they known everything, the truth of my being would have been clear. Starting with tonight. Nothing that is capable of what I unleashed could possibly be a true neutral being.

What had happened that night, to clarify, that hadn't been me. Not really. It was something that could happen, but I didn't have access to those abilities except in extreme situations like that night. Apparently. It was like the legal difference manslaughter and murder. Fine, the black fire I could occasionally conjure consciously, but never those lethal tears. I was never an actress, crying on cue, nor an executioner, killing casually. I had never cried after sundown before tonight, knowing unconsciously the chaos it would unleash. My memories of the exact events were still beyond reach, but I intuitively understood what my tears had done. My anguish at learning—No don't think about it—had boiled over, into anything capable of being a vessel for such raw emotion. The tears had been a vehicle, had consumed others with my excess despair and terror, forced them to bear my feelings of being used, that life was too unbearable to live, too harsh, too isolating. They had buckled under the weight of my desolation. Had I not had that outlet, I would have as well.

A scrupulously honest part of me contested, It's not accurate, that you have never cried after sunset. Conceding the point, I amended, What I meant was I had never cried as a night spirit, a shade. I gently nudged my thoughts back to myself self-defining endeavors, feeling it act as a balm.

To elaborate on the yang metaphor, sunlight was the only thing that allowed me to shed my shade form, I assumed because it called to that small light part of me. If I could, I would never choose to return to 'neutral', but embracing my essential darkness had a price. Full spectrum and/or bright artificial lighting, as I've mentioned, hurt. Its synthetic character was too discordant with my nature. In such a day and age, it was impossible to avoid artificial lighting after dark, and therefore impractical to live as I would ideally. Speech was also not possible as a shade, but with next to no one to communicate with this was hardly a problem. Signing didn't convey the depth of emotion in a voice, but was serviceable on the rare occasion when I needed to convey a more complex idea. On the other hand, on the rare occasions that I did tap into the sun, I didn't need the moon to return to neutral. I simply let my natural duskiness draw me back to what passed for normal.

Really, I was me,me to the core, only under moonlight. To be under moonlight, felt like I'd been breathing smoke only hadn't realized it until I was allowed to breathe fresh air. I only needed the initial sighting of the moon to change and, as I explained, I stayed like this until sunrise. But the more moonlight I absorbed, the stronger I felt.

They had known that as a shade I could travel by shadow, from one known location to another. I'd explained it to them as a delocalization, which was true. The process took too much effort to learn to hide my efforts from them. But I could also be shadow, localize. I could travel between any locations, known or not, as long as shadows connected the two. Under doors, up walls, whatever, so long as there was enough width for my person.

That was just the superficial. The true power of my abilities lay in my interactions with the shadow world. I could manipulate objects by their shadows. Moving an object by its shadow was easiest if it crossed with mine, but I could do it at a distance as well at need. It was harder when the thing was not directly connected with its dark mimic, e.g. floating. With effort though, even that manipulation was not impossible. Living things resisted, but as long as I was connected to the person's shadow, my influence was like reins on a horse, a strong suggestion that could be countered only at a cost. Usually.

There were other types of shadows that people didn't consider as such which were subject to my influence. Sleep, for instance. I couldn't call sleep, or else I'd have already done so that night. But when it was around, I could tell, and it generally listened to my nudging. Over the years I'd figured out a way or two to attract it at need. Funnily enough, though I could never see sleep, I always pictured lilac sheep. There was always the faintest smell of the flower and wool.

Then there were dreams. I could travel between them like I could with physical shadows, but dreams are much more labyrinthine in nature. Unless I had an anchor, I'd never been able to easily get from one to another on purpose. I mostly used this skill to find nocturnal entertainment, randomly flipping through the worlds like TV, which I obviously had trouble watching most nights between the shorting out electronics and the sensitivity to artificial light. In a dream, I could also sense a person's secrets more clearly, clearer than my normal resonance when strengthened by touch. Usually I respect secrets; I had mine and people had theirs—I usually didn't pry, but some things just jumped out. As I've said, even at neutral though, if I resonated with a person, I got the gist of what she was about.

I realized with a start that I had managed to answer the question of my existence which had so plagued me earlier in the night. Though it was a bit expositive, my thoughts, both verbal and general, had defined me. When push came to shove, I was still me, dominant and dark, regardless of the fact that I had been used. And just as importantly, my self-definition had ordered my thoughts into a smooth continuum rather than the broken-brake pad feel of earlier in the night.

With that reaffirmation of my being and return of normal mentation, I started to finally relax, finally escape from both numbness and tension. I moved Hym from my waist to his customary slumber spot over my heart. The clouds parted and the gibbous moon came out. Its soft light fell upon my palm and held my hand. Sleep wandered in, attracted by the glow, and finally let me slip away.

[1] I don't actually have a name for my wolf, he transcends nomenclature. However having no name is not conducive to writing. Therefore, I chose to represent my schema of my wolf using the title Hym rather Him because I feel that being able to write the y as the y with the curly bottom rather than my normally writing y with a straight edge is a physical way to express special nature. Also, it avoids pronoun confusion.