Last year I finally started coming out of my shell. I have a few wonderful siblings, but lately, the closest relationship I've had with any of them is with my brother. He's a real bro. He dragged me down to the seaside TWICE to get drunk and party, which we did (mightily I might add), and we went off to the Iron Maiden concert in Cluj-Napoca with a few friends (we had the great, good fortune, of grabbing some tickets CHEAP off of someone who cancelled . After the concert, we stayed up late with a group of cool people, in a nice quiet neighborhood and shared a couple of beers.
That's when I met Chris face to face for the first time. Fellow nerd, Dungeons&Dragons fanatic, much the same hobbies as me, swell guy. We met in a D&D chat room, and became fast friends. He's lived in Bucharest before moving to Cluj from job to job and before that, he's run a game of D&D - which many of our fellow nerds who knew him describe as "BEST CAMPAIGN EVER" - for a group of friends from abroad.
Guy was a legend among nerds.
I, being a budding Dungeon Master, started grilling him for the juicy bits, having heard in various chat rooms about his mad l33t skillz, hoping for a tale of epic proportions – of battle, of hardship, of lulz. He bade me to come closer. I followed him to a park bench two meters away from the group. There, in the evening dark, he confided in me – that this particular campaign had been most unusual.
That it was a true story.
I said, "Of course it's a true story – I mean, you've played it, for fuck's sake. You're messing with me man. Good one, you had me going there for a bit. Now I REALLY have to know what happened!"
He chuckled, a bitter, knowing sound, and for a second there, he seemed decades older than 24.
Chris leaned in close. Whispered, "I know you think I'm messing with ya, man, and believe me, I wish I were." Then he reached into his pocket, and withdrew something. As soon as I recognized it, IT gave me the chills.
IT was a minuscule contraption of black plastic, with what looked like a miniaturized microphone set-up. I'd seen stuff like this only on conspiracy theory websites, late at night, when I was pretending, hoping maybe, that the truth behind cover-ups, mysterious sightings and black helicopters would finally reveal itself to me.
That it would make my pathetic excuse for a life exciting. Worth living.
"I found it this morning. It was concealed in a small cavity in my bed. And this one," motioning to another one of the little techno-terrors, "was carefully hooked into my PC. It was redirecting info to whoever put it in there. Passwords, copies of files and folders, the works. The hardware equivalent of a trojan Most likely they have software trojans in there as well, ones I couldn't find. No signs of forced entry. I clean my own room, the landlords don't snoop around in there, and the only ones allowed inside are my friends."
That last bit made him wince visibly. "At least, there were no signs of forced entry I could find."
He leaned in closer, whispering even more softly, "Whatever rumors you've heard, what happened to me and my friends was a series of real, honest-to-goodness unexplained phenomena. Conspiracy, voodoo crap, aliens, mind-control experiment, I'm still not sure. I'm frankly too scared to even start asking around. I have NO idea what to do, who to turn to. Too frightened to throw out my notes," he motioned to a decrepit-looking manila folder stuffed with paper, "too terrified to post online, or burn them, and too shaken to write about it. I'm fucked."
He closed his eyes, shivering like a goddamn shadow had reached into his very being.
He fixed me with his feverish stare, the stare of a forsaken soul, lost in the desert, with his salvation at hand, and continued.
"For the love of God and all that is decent," he thrust the folder at me, "take it. Write it up. Post it on whatever site will accept it. We did our bit, the truth must go out. THEY cannot keep it hidden forever. My comrades are in agreement over this. We have friends in high places, we have the resources. Our allies can protect you."
"I," he motioned to himself, "am already compromised. They've infiltrated my circle of friends. They can come and go as they please in my house. It's only a matter of time until I vanish off the face of the world." His bitter laugh was like the cawing of a hungry raven, like a bell signalling motherfucking doom and damnation.
I wish I were joking.
"I'll transmit the necessary countersigns; you will be safe from retribution. No, no, I am already a dead man. There is no hope for me. I've wasted most of my life, with games, hobbies and trivial jobs. This 'll be my magnum opus. This will be worthwhile. Something noble to die for." His eyes started gazing into the past.
"You know, all my life, whenever I was seriously depressed, I started moping and wishing that, at least in death, I could do something valuable, something noble. Save a life, tackle a suicide bomber out a window, you know. Adolescent fantasies..." He became serious. "Be careful what you wish for," he hissed, "'cause you just MIGHT get it."
"Show it to NO ONE. Write the tale as fast as you can. Post it with this recognition code", he thrust a dingy A4 notebook at me, cover depicting a scene from The Two Towers, "with these EXACT grammatical errors at these EXACT positions within the text. They will recognize you, and keep you safe."
"...master troll is masterful." I wasn't buying it.
He ignored my jibe, and transfixed me to the spot with this desperate, pleading look. Kind of like the look I give when trying to pick up chicks, except, you know, he wasn't trying to pick me up.
I finally collected my wits and said, "This is some Foucault's Pendulum slash Illuminati slash Montauk Project shit right there, son. You're kind of scaring me. Look, I wish I could help, but how the hell can I trust you? How can YOU trust ME? For all you know, I could be an agent for the bad guys, here to cover everything up and make you VANISH." The mountain air was refreshing. It lent me its coolness, its strength. I would need it.
"This is PROBABLY way bigger than me, Christian. It's way bigger than you. Hell, I don't have your connections, whatever they may be. I'm just some nerd, dreaming about becoming a famous movie director with a harem of admirers."
His eyes went wide, then chuckled. "You're a man of modest ambitions I see."
Good. I'd broken the somber mood. Now it was time for the hard sell.
"I dunno what to say, Chris, dude, I don't wanna endanger my family. I mean, I've DREAMED of unveiling the, quote, terrible truth, and unquote. But I never..."
"... thought it would be this way? Well, the Universe works in mysterious ways."
Somber mood was back. Shit on a stick.
"What am I ultimately?" I tried to defend myself," I'm NOBODY in the grand scheme of things. IF what you say is true, these shadowy assholes could crush me like a bug, sweep me under the rug, and it'll be like I never existed. They will burn the documents, the will suppress the truth. Just like they often do." The fear came forth, unbidden, with its old ally, paranoia. The ancient instincts that guided our ancestors and kept them alive as long as possible had engaged full-power. DANGER WILL ROBINSON DANGER, it screamed at me. STAY CLEAR OF THIS BULLSHIT.
"Not you, no. They cannot crush everyone. They can't hide the truth forever. I swear to God, you will be safe. Be our mouthpiece dude, write our story, do something great with your life. Be part of something glorious." It was the puppy-dog eyes that did it, I swear.
"I... alright. But I'll keep this stuff only until I'm done, then I'll return it. Or destroy it, in case I can't find you." His tense posture relaxed visibly. The sense of relief in the air was palpable, the doom and gloom was gone.
"Now," he said, putting on his best DM face "let me tell you a tale of epic proportions – of battle, of hardship, of lulz."
"Cool."
We laughed – that slightly-nervous laughter people associate with nerds... and which heralds the coming of relief. But this was a hearty laughter, and a merry time did we have, until the dawning sun warmed our faces.
Next morning we spent loitering about the town, our afternoon snoozing and reading in the train station, and our train ride sleeping, or trying to. Chris bought us breakfast and entertained us throughout the morning, then dragged me aside to remind me of the seriousness of the situation and to give me the now-infamous code book and manila folder. Sleep did not beckon me for a good hour after we left Cluj. Chris' haunting look as he told me his story – or hallucination, I could not tell which – had nailed itself to my grey matter.
One thing was for sure, I was intrigued by this.
It begins.
PROLOGUE
I'm assuming that the title hasn't scared you away. Nor has the tag of Dungeons&Dragons made you snort and say "Oh it's one of THOSE stories..." - and apply to me titles like "wannabe Tolkien" or some such. Maybe it intrigued you, curious to see for yourself what this all is about. Or you're just plain bored.
I have been taught some important lessons by life so far, sometimes learned the hard way:
1 – Not to expect that everything will come handed to me on a silver platter.
2 – Not to insult people, but to instead try and understand them.
3 – That a small degree of conformism is necessary in order to function in society.
4 – That for some things, you have to struggle in order to obtain them. If they are given to you, they lose all value they might have held, because it is NOT your achievement, but someone else's.
All things require that you work at them, whether with mind, muscle, words, feelings or all of the above. Those achieved with "daddy's money/power/influence" - they do not count.
Some... require blood, of your own, and others, taken by force... or freely given. Wise man named Tertullian once said that, "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church"; this has a depth of insight which is all too often lost on believers today, of any religion. I say that the blood, and not only, of martyrs is the fuel of Mankind. Probably not ONLY Mankind.
Many of the things you read, the content of perhaps half of the books published today is fantasy, because it helps us escape from the realities of an often mundane life. The majority see life as mundane because they do not know HOW to see.
You might think I'm going with this for one of two clichés – that of enlightened one, or poor bastard that's tearing his eyes out because he's just noticed that the shoggoth having a wank in the corner WAS ALWAYS THERE. Or there's the one so shaken by his revelation, that when he gets home he decides to put it on paper, so he can pound some sense into the thick heads of his fellow slack-jawed mortals.
I'm all or the above, in some measure. Except, you know, eyes still there. Not for lack of trying. 'nervous laughter'
This is a true story.
Did that shock you? Are you amused? Confused? Frightened?
I know I was all of the above.
Sometimes I lie awake at night, and can still feel it with all senses.
Blood – thick, life-giving, coppery in smell.
Fear – acrid stench, danger Will Robinson, DANGER! GET AWAY!
Adrenaline – from man to superman.
Intellect – gears turning, data processed, ideas formed, considered, discarded.
Camaraderie – which the Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines as "a spirit of friendly good-fellowship".
All of the above characterize our tale.
Without shedding Blood, our own and that of friends and foes, we would have perished a thousand deaths more heinous than the deepest pits of dread can conceive of.
Without Fear, we would have been fools, blundering into danger we were not prepared to face, and we would all be Dead. Yes, dear reader, even You.
Adrenaline kept us alive, kept us moving, kept us fighting, when horrors both familiar and unknown struck at us with weapon and claw, fang, tentacle and worse.
Intellect helped us overcome our challenges through the boon of Planning, Cunning, Strategy and Tactics – brute force, physical or magical, no matter how great, are useless without Control.
Camaraderie kept us together in the midst of all the danger, all the terror, all the Adventure that we did not ask for, but which we received regardless. For when the Universe calls out for Saviors, it's sometimes the ones that seem least suited to the task that are thrown into the breach, to stem the tide of Horror and Unreality.
The definition of Camaraderie does not do the feeling justice, but then, few things would. What would a statue built to honor Camaraderie look like? I hope it's not us on the pedestal – many who have statues built in their honor are gifted by this with a mythical air, so aloof, so far above "the common man", that they could never hope to achieve THEIR greatness.
Not true. The ones that have statues commemorating them – scientists, leaders, artists – were NOT born with some magical "seed of greatness" up their bums; they got there through their own struggles. We were just there, at the wrong place, at the right time. My comrades would agree that we barely scraped through, were saved by outright Miracles, and that we were probably not the best people for the job. We're modest like that. I, personally, would LOVE a statue, but I'd never accept if they were not in it. No statues for us, thanks.
One September evening, after my homework was finished, I sat down and started channel surfing. Flipped past some image of these... massive towers burning, frowned, then on to Discovery Channel. My grandpa, God bless him, asked me to switch back, and then stood there in shock, watching the burning buildings. "So what?" I thought at the time. "You see disasters on TV all the time. Why is this one special?" I was still young and naïve at the time. What did I know?
It didn't hit me until later that this was no ordinary disaster, but a man-inflicted one. The evil that men do... When our ordeal was all over, I sat down at my grimy keyboard, still shell-shocked, just like the day I realized what happened on that Sept 11, and started writing -
- a true story.
A prophet, when they have experienced a revelation, they WILL write it down, if able. To transmit the message further than their mortal mouth can, to enlighten their fellow man. I guess I'm a prophet too, of a sort, although not a very good one. Cut me some slack, dear readers, I'm new at this whole prophet thing.
This is a work of human and inhuman experience – of camaraderie, fear, bloodshed, lessons learned, of life, death, war, the desire for peace, and religious conviction.
It is, functionally speaking, an adventure/fantasy/war novel. An after-action-report. A chronicle of our struggles, lives, dreams and deaths. Imperfect and incomplete, for now, it will have to do.
Most of the names, genders, nationalities, and other details that might be used to identify us, have been changed in order to protect the privacy and lives of the aforementioned persons and their loved ones.
Most of the people and events depicted in this work are real, corroborated from interviews with survivors, first-hand experience, speculations and written accounts.
Bound in digital format, written in blood, sweat and tears, this is our novel, our work, our Gospel.
Open your senses to the world. Feel, don't think. Open your eyes, then open them again.
Not all is as you perceive it.
This is a true story.
Dark Days Are Coming.
Ooh, creepy.
Writefag here. This is apparently all that Chris has managed to write out of his story. Until further notice, this here's the prologue. Now, I'm writefagging this as I go through his notes – personal diaries, military-style maps, reports, notes scrawled on scrap paper. Some of it is illegible, and some of it incomplete. But I sure as hell will try my hardest to put it together.
I have to admit, it's pretty detailed, and damned interesting. If the man wanted to write a fantasy novel, he wouldn't have needed a ghost writer in the first place, namely, yours truly. Bet he's just damned lazy.
What was he trying to pull, shoving some amateur spy shit under my nose which he probably got off eBay for under 10$? Dude's a conspiracy nut. I mean, I like conspiracy theories too and all, but he's just taking it too far. It's like a bizarre game of alternate reality role-play to him.
Who knows, maybe this will turn out to be the next Lord of the Rings or some such. And maybe, I can grab a piece of that fame for myself. You can never tell.
Until then, I remain, yours humbly
The writefag
Dumbledore Is Gay
Author's Notes 28th May 2013:
Prologue has been partially re-written and uploaded – now with 20% more awesome and better grammar/formatting! RADICAL! Any questions that have gone unanswered, any bits that don't make sense, any nitpicking – post it. Post it, and I shall answer. Ask, and ye shall receive. Aloha!
My intro – 1554 words. Prologue by Chris – 1186 words. Author's Notes – 257 words.