Tiger Chronicles: Exodus
Chapter VI: Hedonism and Nihilism
…
You may wonder why I've been slow in updating. I've been thinking of how to end this book, and unfortunately it will end sooner rather than later- I don't want it to be all filler, you deserve better than that.
DISCLAIMER: Certain preacher-types in this story, even though they have good points in some areas, are not, I repeat, not persons you want to emulate. At all. Seriously.
…
The good news, as it was, was that the effects of the food delivered were found only after a few people, and those afflicted were subdued before they could cause anyone- or themselves- severe harm.
The bad news was that no one was stupid enough to think that a crate of semi-automatic weapons and hallucinogen-tainted food and drink arriving on the same day was a coincidence.
It was concluded it was an attack; an attempt to make them destroy themselves.
Up until that point, many dismissed the Exodus as a bunch of whiny teenagers throwing a glorified temper-tantrum…
…
Barry Wilkins knew direct criticism of R.A.W.'s bio-warfare department, at his level, would result in nothing but pain for him, and pain for him, he had decided long ago, was to be avoided at all cost.
He was nevertheless biting a hole in his tongue refraining from what he felt were critiques of very obvious flaws.
Fortunately, Gathwells did the venting for him, animatedly raving.
"Potency levels that trigger within seconds of ingestion, so that everyone is immediately aware the food's poisoned, and a crate full of loaded guns right beside the food. Idiots! We are fucking saddled with idiots!" she railed.
Napalm. Lots and lots of napalm.
It was a crude solution, and he hated to be so uninventive that the best idea he could offer at the table was 'burn everything really good', but they had tried subtlety- or what idiots they had working for them considered 'subtlety', and that had got the Exodus brats sympathy and real, untainted donations of food in exchange for handing over the guns.
So now their targets looked mature as well as capable of rational thought. Lovely.
Burning a campground and hundreds- thousands?- of whiny teens alive appealed to him on a basic level, but he knew that it would martyr them and rally others.
He had been given an unthinkable reprieve with the nukes gaffe by virtue of some asshole named Superman fucking things up. There would not be another reprieve.
Superman? Seriously? The indignity of having his magnum opus foiled by someone with not even enough imagination to think up a better name for himself still rankled him.
Grant, by now, would have called order, or told Gathwells to sit down and shut up, but it was clear he was upset with the situation as well. Landers tried to remain calm, but her posture indicated disappointment. Derricks was on his fifth cup of coffee, trying to recharge from several sleepless nights.
Only Malefides seemed truly calm. "It's a setback, no doubt." He said quietly. "But I would not go so far as to say that all is lost just yet."
What would have to happen, Barry wondered, for Malefides to finally concede shit had hit the fan? Would an army of metahumans beating down the reinforced titanium doors be enough to make him lose his cool?
Because the teens of the New Exodus had not acted as erratically as they'd hoped, the media was all too ready to paint them as victims, with the tainted food and weapons being an obvious attempt to drive them to kill themselves. The intent, of course, was to make them appear erratic and out of control, with the spin on the story being that they had smuggled the weapons into the park of their own volition.
Having a few heroic teens subdue their drugged friends, call ambulances, and shut down what was supposed to be a bloody massacre did not help their cause. Nor did the generous donation of food and sanitation equipment from Wayne Industries.
"The problem as I see it," Malefides said unprovoked, "is that the general attitude of this room- and R.A.W. in general- is that our battles should be won in a single stroke. Granted, there are situations that call for unsubtle, direct application of firepower, but to say we're losing just because our opponent didn't fall down in one punch is giving up far too soon."
"What our long-term goal should be is to make the common mentality that it's adults vs. kids. That our targets feel they have no one to turn to in authority, and that the adults feel that if they take the kids' sides, they'll be stabbed in the back." Malefides explained as he continued. "Let's remember- if a person survives a carjacking, they typically don't feel good about surviving. That the attack occurred rattles them, and every other instance of crime just aggravates the paranoia. That's what we need to shoot for: making these kids realize that every single moment of every single day, we will be out there, ready to rip them apart, and any resistance is only delaying the inevitable."
Barry kept his mouth shut as he surveyed the reactions in the room, deciding to not betray his conclusion:
Malefides wasn't playing their game anymore.
The game R.A.W. was playing, always was playing, was hurt as many children in the worst ways possible, and if it brought about a utopia of obedience then fine, if not, repeat step 1 until the sun burned out.
The game Malefides was playing was something else entirely.
He had no friends here. You were valuable as long as you had something to contribute, and what Barry felt he brought to the table was insight on how to hurt children and a demonstrated willingness and proficiency at handling operations. There was no delusion in him: if he became a liability, the most grace he'd get was a warning his time was up, time enough to use one of many cyanide injectors on himself.
He didn't need an enemy.
He had heard enough to know rivalries and animosities bred like rats here, and that while on paper you weren't supposed to kill members without a good reason, what constituted a good reason was a lot broader than the outside world. Hence, you had to be very careful about what you saw and what you claimed you saw, what you heard and what you claimed you heard, etc. If an accident happened to a rival and you proved you could do their job, there were only shrugs.
He had sloth on his side- if you acted like you had no clue someone had done something they shouldn't have, you weren't a threat, and thus the attitude was 'dealing' with you was a waste of energy and precious time.
But Malefides was not like the others. He had little care for rules, regulations, or, disturbingly, the laws of physics and thermodynamics.
He didn't need him as an enemy, but…
…and this was a massive but…
Just because someone here wasn't an enemy didn't make them an ally. No one would speak up for another, certainly not for the neoidentified.
It sank in, as he took notes on their next plan of action, just how truly alone he was.
…
"I've been accused, already, of trying to make you all hateful."
Somewhere in the back of Kyle's mind, the fact they would sit and listen to him, a boy at least four years their junior in multiple cases, preach to them, was beyond staggering, but he pushed it aside, and let the voice within him speak as it had.
"Let me bring the accusations out into the open. I appreciate you reposting my… uh, what'd we call it? A 'sermon'? Okay, fine, sermon. Yeah. Some people came to the same conclusion you did when I just… stated the obvious- that the situation is fucked. This isn't a divine revelation or a Holy Jesus prophecy, it's just me saying what everyone's thinking."
It was a simple tactic. I'm no one special, I'm just pointing out facts.
"Other people, mainly Malefidiots and their sympathizers, are saying that I am trying to deliberately make all of you hate them. That deep frying kids, shooting kids, trying to poison kids, demonizing kids, holding down and raping kids isn't making you hate them enough, that I'm trying to make you hate them even more."
"You know what?" he said, pausing to let them listen.
"They're right."
Disturbed looks, concern, blinking in confusion. Time to act fast.
"I am definitely, 100% absolutely trying to make each and every one of you hate their guts."
Some of the gathered began to look at each other in confusion.
"Because without hate, without hate… if you have the counter-argument to the enemy's lies about you, if you know their misdeeds, if you can point out every single wrong they've done and every law they've broken, but you don't have the hate to do it, then you're a plastic spork in a knife fight."
The understanding began to spread among them, a few sat back down after standing up in indignation.
"If you can hit a bullseye at the range at 80 yards with a glock, if you can make molotovs, thermite, and IEDS, if you have knowledge of every martial art and can disembowel someone with a pocketknife in two seconds, but you don't have the hate needed to take a life… you are an empty clip with a broken spring in Afghanistan."
There were shouts of agreement, the fire began to build.
"If you have the power to leap buildings in a single bound, the strength to shatter mountains, the speed of a bullet… If you have the gift of sorcery and can make the seas and mountains bow at your command, if you can call down fire on those who have wronged you, but you DON'T. HAVE. HATE, THEN YOU HAVE NOTHING!"
There were amens and applause. Oh, the irony…
"Without hate, you won't have the strength to drive home the killing blow! Without hate, you'll waste time arguing about whether or not it's right to fight back against the people who are killing you! WITHOUT HATE, YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD!" he roared.
There was a silence.
"Hate sustains." He said softly. "Hate allows us to survive when all else fails. When your parents turn on your, when your teachers lie about you, when the police conspire to frame and kill you for kicks, when the entire system is rigged to not only make you lose, but to ensure you suffer, every step of the way, hate will sustain you when by all rights you should have put a gun to your head long ago."
"And oh, yes," Kyle continued. "Hate has been demonized. Hate is always called a bad thing. I'm not talking about pithy racial hatred or religious hatred. I'm talking about hating those who hurt you. That's not being evil. That's not being mean-spirited or violent. Hating those who have deliberately and repeatedly hurt you is a natural response. And doubtlessly you've been taught that this perfectly natural, perfectly reasonable response is wrong. I mean, sure- if you do something wrong, your parents are justified in reminding you of your unforgivable failure day in and day out, your teachers are justified in their draconian punishments, and the police are justified in making swiss cheese out of you because you put your hands on your head the wrong way. But if you so much as show reluctance to trust the person who was plunging a knife into your back five minutes ago, you're…" he paused, sighing. "…I got told it's 'harboring resentment'. What else are they calling it? 'Rejecting God's gift of forgiveness'? 'Dwelling on the negative'?"
Kyle allowed his exasperation to show through.
"But I'll be straight with you. Hatred or forgiveness, holding on, letting go… many of you already know this, so forgive me for saying old facts- Either way, you lose. Forgive and they'll plant a fresh knife in your back, and call it forgiveness therapy or some other nonsense. Hold a grudge and they'll decide to make your life hell to teach you 'humility'."
"Now you would be within your rights to say, 'Holy shit, Kyle, that's a pretty bleak image you're painting there! Are you saying I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't?' Yes." He said sadly. "Yes, I am saying exactly that. For some of you, that's a massive kick to the gut, knowing there's no option that ends with you not being someone's punching bag, and I'm sorry for that. For most of you…" Kyle shrugged sadly. "It's par for the course."
"But that's the bottom line, ladies and gentlemen! I've said it before, you've heard it before, but I'll say it one. More. Time. There is no win condition. Too many of you are far too familiar with that one teacher. It doesn't matter what you write. It doesn't matter what kind of paper you use or whether you use pencil or ink. You will always get a zero, no matter what, and the most he or she will ever say is "I never got it." In that kind of case… when there is no pleasing those in authority… you may as well do whatever the hell you want."
"Am I being nihilistic? Fuck no! This isn't just emo-whiny 'I tried so hard and went so far' bullshit, we live in a world where the reality is that there is a cult, growing every day in number, of adults who hate us for being young and want to ship us off to even worse adults who torture little children to death. That's the comparison of our goals right there. You want to get a good job, have fun, and fool around with a guy or girl, and they want to let some sadistic pedophile flog you to death with barbed wire while they praise themselves for being wise."
"I know I've talked your ears off, so I'll get to the point. We are unequivocally at war with these assholes. They've killed our friends. They've demonized us and are trying- yes, even now- to get the government to give Malefides authority to set up more camps and yearly 'draft buses' to pick up any kids or teens they deem a threat and ship them off to camps to die horribly. We are at war… and the only sane thing to do is hate the enemy."
…
"ARE YOU FUCKING OUT OF YOUR MIND?!"
Elly Patterson recoiled at the viciousness of her eldest son's shouted interrogation.
She had expected understanding and another person in her corner, who would understand that there weren't any pedophiliac overtones in what they'd done, that April was, as teenagers were wont to do, taking things way too personally.
That wasn't happening, here.
"I've known you two resented April for being born for years. We all did. And I bet you anything that you succeeded at least several times in making her wish that she hadn't. But I thought you'd have the decency to just tell her to leave at eighteen, not try to hand her over to a pervert!"
Mouth agape in fury, Elly could not believe the accusation.
"How dare you?" she hissed, wounded. "How dare you accuse me of-"
"How dare I?! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU?! You two stripped her naked-"
"Not naked, just down to her underwear-"
"-forced her into a slime machine or whatever for his sick fantasies-"
"-we didn't know he had those fetishes, he said it was for entertainment-"
"Oh Jesus Christ, mom! He paid you five hundred dollars to humiliate your own daughter so he could get his rocks off!"
"Listen, you-" she snapped, pointing a finger at him, trying to cow him into submission even as she realized the 'I am your mother' card wasn't going to work… "-April's always been full of herself, and she needed a lesson in humility…"
"Oh, FUCK YOU! Humility?! You, of all people, have no fucking right to tell ANYONE they need to be humble-"
SLAP.
He only winced briefly. There was no contrition in his eyes, only pure, undiluted hate.
It then occurred to Elly Patterson, that maybe, just maybe… she'd finally crossed so many lines there was no going back…
"You're dead to me." He said coldly.
Her son slammed the door so hard the window cracked as he stormed out.
Her husband stood beside her, mute and useless, giving her a helpless look as her son and his wife drove off.
Elizabeth's reaction to the news had to simply cut her off completely- refusing to return calls, texts, or emails. Old friends had reactions ranging from stunned disbelief to vehement disowning.
She summed up her thoughts as adequately as she could.
"I need a drink." She grumbled, heading to the kitchen.
…
John Patterson was making some very hard assessments about his current lot in life.
It was very steadily, very slowly dawning on him that years of resentful treatment of April as a burden would not mitigate the damage caused by the actions done at the end of the year bash at April's school. It hadn't been the final straw, it had been the final anvil.
April was gone. Not just gone for a while, not just moved out, but, he realized as it hit home just how badly he'd burned bridges, completely and utterly gone. She wouldn't return- she'd ask to live with Elizabeth or Michael. Whatever threadbare bond he'd had with her was vaporized.
Everyone- everyone was turning against him and Elly. His dentist business was tanking as clients bluntly told him that they'd be taking their business elsewhere. His assistants had quit one and all. He'd be selling his equipment at a loss at best.
The only person left in his corner was currently working on her second bottle of discount red wine.
One voice in his mind suggested it was time to start over. Somewhere else. Maybe explore a career as a hermit. Breaking the news that he felt it was time to separate to Elly would be a nightmare, though…
Another voice chimed in.
Why tell her?
Sinking ship rules- Your loyalty was to the lifeboat. There would be time for apologies after survivors were counted and the dead were tallied for.
A glance at Elly confirmed she was drinking wine in great gulps, something that preceded a long nap from which she was not easily awakened from.
John Patterson looked around him. One daughter had already openly disowned him. His son had explicitly said they were dead to him. It wouldn't be long before all he had left in his corner was a soon-to-be alcoholic wife.
If ever there was a time to bail, it was now.
…
Susie took a drink of her water bottle, focusing on the reporter rather than the camera.
She hadn't dressed up or put on make-up. She was a t-shirt and jeans girl, bare feet because it was her house, and if the world didn't like seeing the scars from where psychopaths had tried to kill her, then that was their problem.
"So, Susie, what's your take on why so many teens are leaving behind families to go to these Exodus camps?"
Katherine, a blonde smart looking thirty-something reporter, was civil enough, and that had made her humor her request for an interview- the reason why she'd chosen Susie, of all people, was that she was someone who had been through something that outweighed most of the complaints the Exodus teens had.
Most. Not all. She still believed in a just and loving God, but what Calvin had told her- and she knew he was holding back the worst, to try and spare her- made that difficult.
"It's because they don't feel safe anymore."
"You mean, due to the R.A.W. attacks?" Katherine pursued.
"It's not just a feeling of being unsafe in their city, it's about feeling safe at home. I don't know what it's like to have a parent betray you, but I imagine it's like having your heart ripped out of your chest. And the thing people that say 'they're just overreacting' forget is that these betrayals… they're not just showing off baby pictures or embarrassing stories. These teens have been assaulted. Framed. Humiliated. Their parents threw them into life-threatening or degrading situations and then demanded forgiveness and obeisance."
"But don't you believe in forgiveness?" Katherine asked.
"Yes- when someone else is sorry and won't do it again." Susie clarified. "We've all heard the story of Rebecca Johnson. Dropped off a week before her birthday on her uncle's farm, celebration canceled so she could help him with farm work. Not great, but not abuse so far. Then he worked her like a slave and flogged her with a whip he had deliberately dragged through manure."
Katherine winced visibly.
"That's the attitude we're seeing more and more of in 'punishaholics' today. They might not always have a copy of 'Get With The Program', or be a R.A.W. agent in disguise, but the sadism and the need to hurt someone weaker than them is still there. Corporal punishment is addictive for the punisher. It's an instant solution to instill fear, pain, and humiliation, and like any drug, as the addiction progresses, the punisher needs a bigger and bigger dose. Rebecca's uncle is a prime example of the later stages of the addiction's progression- punishing with the intent to do serious and potentially fatal harm for the sheer sake of punishing."
"But I digress. Her parents, as we know, demanded forgiveness for her uncle, with the threat of hitting her with the hospital bill- for treatment of septic wounds inflicted by said uncle- then said she needed to show she'd really forgiven him by giving him another chance. That's not teaching forgiveness, that's teaching that a grown man can inflict a punishment that would have been lethal had it not been for outside intervention, be granted absolution, then given another chance to do it again. In that case, the only sane solution is to leave."
"You're advocating them running away?" Katherine tried to clarify.
"Yes," Susie nodded. "and I know that's a really terrible thing to have to say, that you're better off taking to the streets than living some place where you could get killed, and I hope they find their way into foster homes, adoptive parents, someplace other than these unsafe homes. I mean, me?" She gave a dry laugh.
"I have parents who supported me through that hellish nightmare. A lot of these teens had parents that threw them under the bus repeatedly. False rape accusations. Public humiliation. These are actions that, if one adult did to another, no one would think twice if the offender served jail time, but in the cases of teens and children, they're expected to instantaneously forgive the offender, or accept responsibility for their own suffering."
"I know I keep coming back to that," Susie admitted, "the 'abuse then demand forgiveness' bit. But that's the beginning of a long cycle of abuse. If an abuser can get their victim to believe that they are responsible for the abuse, and not the abuser, it becomes all that much harder to break free. Highweller tried that with me, repeatedly. When that failed…"
She took a breath, trying not to shake.
Unwanted, flashes of that… monster's attacks hit her. Students and teachers mowed down in a murderous example. The kidnapping and trial, hours on hours of driving to a place where Highweller savagely beat her, then put her on trial for a bombing he attempted… a hospital barraged by bombs and homegrown terrorists.
She swallowed. That monster was locked away, beaten and broken, awaiting a needle in the arm.
"…when that failed, he was willing to hurt anyone he could. These people… these Malefidians, or whatever they call themselves are nothing new. Be it Highweller devotees, Malefidians, Concerned Elders, or whatever name they choose, it's all the same- abusive people trying to seek what amounts to permission to continue the abuse."
Katherine nodded. "Regarding the Malefidians, do you have anything you want to say to them?"
Susie thought for a moment. "No."
Katherine blinked, confused. "Nothing?"
"They've made it very clear. 'We won't think, we will kill. We won't listen, we will steal. We won't stop, we'll destroy.' That's the war chant of an irrational people, and you can't reason with someone who chooses to be unreasonable."
Katherine pursed her lips. "One last question- are the rumors true? Is there something between you and Calvin Halgins?"
How the hell was she supposed to respond to that?
How did you explain that a boy had replaced your dreamtime fantasies, and that the happiest dream you'd had in a while was him chasing you through a rainy field, that you needed him in your life, and that…
"Yes."
Simple. Succinct.
She'd say nothing more.
…
CONFIDENTIAL: TOP SECRET
ACTIVITY LOG OF CALVIN HALGINS
CURRENT THREAT: ALPHA-5 (Subject is capable of potentially causing catastrophic damage, but shows no inclination towards wanton destruction. Interview with Sergeant Derkins also suggests energy issues may prevent subject from continuous manifestation of powers.)
Three more confirmed cases of activity consistent with 'warper' capabilities were confirmed across the U.S. recently, the victims of which were offenders whose victims had agreed to interviews with Calvin Halgins.
Christina Butcher, a teacher at Klein High School in (REDACTED), recently charged with filing a false police report and conspiracy to commit defamation, reported her apartment robbed. Reports indicate that the apartment shows signs of wear and tear- foodstains, dust, etc., but everything not initially installed in the apartment (plumbing, light fixtures, etc.) was removed. Security footage shows no tampering with Butcher's apartment from the outside, but does indicate activity in attached file (REDACTED) where a refrigerator suddenly disappears. Given more pressing concerns, recovery of Butcher's property is not a priority.
Orville Dregs, currently facing charges for sexual harassment and exploitation of a minor, surrendered himself to the police recently, suffering what initial reports say to be fits of paranoia or a psychotic breakdown. While no footage exists of the supposed events, what information was gathered from Dregs and police reports indicates a short campaign of using warper abilities to wage psychological warfare on Dregs until he finally suffered a psychotic break.
James Johnson, recently cleared of assault charges against Rebecca Johnson, was involved in an auto accident that resulted in multiple life-threatening lacerations and sepsis after being hurled from his car through a barbed wire fence into a cow pasture. Given that Rebecca Johnson's interview recounted how she was savagely assaulted with a bullwhip coated in manure, the likelihood of the crash's location and projection of James Johnson's body being coincidence is unlikely.
The insinuations of these events are something of a relief- we have evidence that Calvin will not always resort to lethal means of taking down a target- assuming he meant for Johnson to survive. Compounded with the notable lack of projected activities we'd expect to exploit warper abilities- rigging of lotteries, gambling, etc.- this report would recommend we have a softer group contact Halgins to direct him.
As suggested by many of our members, full investigations will be made concerning the parents of the victims recorded in Calvin's blog concerning their ability to safely raise a child and possible criminal charges.
…
He wouldn't mind waking up from a coma, he'd decided.
Calvin Halgins was more than willing to accept that the past year or so was nothing more than a self-martyring, self-exalting fantasy if it meant that one day, he'd wake up and none of it were true.
And sometimes, he dreamed he did.
He woke up in a world where R.A.W. was just a crazy conspiracy idea he had, and there was no Malefides, no Highweller, just him, his tiger, and a girl he was going to start being nicer to, slowly mending fences…
Yet every time, he woke up to hell.
The girl he loved had been shot, beaten, kidnapped by walking cancers that had filled him with so much hate that he'd seen Highweller, reduced to a catatonic, PTSD-laden vegetable, clearly tortured in ways profane and vehement, and all he could think was- Good. He deserved it.
Children had died in droves- were dying in droves- there were places where R.A.W. was torturing them to find new ways to torture them even worse, and people were buying their book, even after the author had been revealed to be a disgraced pastor who joined R.A.W. after condemning most of his congregation's children to die.
Grown adults listened to horror stories about torture-facilities hell-bent on killing children, and in their infinite wisdom, said "Hey, could you teach me how to do that?"
The Exodus poisoning should have surprised him. He wished it surprised him.
He sat there, in front of his computer, not doing anything. Emails to be checked, interviews to be done. Outside of his computer, he could do any number of things. Play outside. Play video games. Go over to Susie's house and kiss her one more time, because the reality was that any given hour one or both of them might die due to some idiot who read Malefides' books…
Idily, he checked on the outcomes of his latest flagrant abuses of his power…
Butcher was now facing charges and without a functional place to live, reportedly refused service at several hotels. No one wanted to give refuge to a teacher who devoted herself to ruining her students' lives, it seemed.
Dregs had been allegedly "involved in an altercation" in the county lockup he was in while awaiting trial, which he knew was was so much jargon for 'he was knocked down while multiple biker gang members took turns riverdancing on his face'.
James Johnson was suffering from multiple lacerations, fractures, and sepsis the likes of which you would normally only expect to get if you were flogged then flung into a septic tank. News of what he had done had gotten around, and a fundraiser started by Rebecca's parents to help pay for his hospital costs was quickly quashed, meaning the farm owner would be footing his own bills.
Many of the comments for the articles detailing the fallout called the havoc he wreaked 'the judgement of God' or 'karmic justice'.
"You've been busy." Hobbes noted, keen eyes taking in the sites as Calvin browsed.
A pause.
"Sooner or later, you're going to have to make a decision." Hobbes voice was grave, unlike any other time he could recall- this was the kind of tone a friend took with you when a matter of life and death was at hand. "People want you dead. Not arrested, not disgraced, dead. Right and wrong won't matter to them, and neither will collateral damage. Each time you use your powers, you make another thread that can be traced back to you. It's not a matter of if, it's when. You'll make a mistake, or forget to account for something- a reflection caught by a camera, a witness, whatever. And when the people who want you dead realize what you're capable of, they're going to drop any pretense of subtlety. It will be like Good Friday every day, with them going after your mom, dad, Susie, anyone they think hurting will hurt you."
Calvin opened his mouth to retort, but no cunning one-liner or clever rebuttal came.
"I know you're angry." Hobbes' voice was sympathetic now. "No one with a shred of their soul left could hear these stories and not be angry. But fucking with the individuals doesn't accomplish anything in the long run, and just gives R.A.W. another lead. They're already using nukes, and that's with you just saying that they're wrong."
"But that's just IT." countered Calvin, turning around. "They're resorting to using nukes. This isn't going to deescalate if I just shut up, they'll keep doing worse and worse until one of us dies!"
Hobbes' face was grim. "Then are you prepared?"
Calvin blinked. "Prepared for what?"
"Are you prepared to kill them? All of them?"
It should have been such a stupid question. He had killed them. In numbers that made conspiracy groups think he was some sort of vat-bred killing machine. But always in defense of himself or another. Never as an act of aggression, always as a response.
Even the bombs he set off during the attempted nuking were in defense of his city.
The closest he'd ever come was with Johnson, whom he'd not cared if he lived or died, but even then he hadn't had the urge to make sure that the man stayed dead.
Was that what it was all going to come down to? Either waiting for R.A.W. to eventually kill him, or actively seeking out their bases for termination? Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he'd known he'd eventually have to become more aggressive and lethal in his dealings. Every time he chose to only react to threats, R.A.W. learned what didn't work and what came close.
"So you're saying I'm going to have to eventually choose between dying and mass murder?" Calvin asked, trying to get a clarification that didn't confirm his worst fears…
"Yes." Hobbes said with finality.
Kill or be killed.
The law of the jungle.
…
'Eureka' moments came to those of all walks of life. Good, evil, the bookwise and bookdumb, the lawful and unlawful.
Sometimes these moments were just common sense, like a drug dealer deciding to wear decent clothes and not blast rap music on their way to a drop, or a cop realizing that a ten-year old probably didn't fit the profile of the criminal they were looking for.
Other times, the moment gave insight on things no one else would pick up on. A detail just out of place. The realization that things were too perfect, too organized, and that a façade had been erected…
For Barry Wilkins, the Eureka Moment came as he researched the problem of burning a campground to ashes.
The Feds were already breaking down their doors- two more compounds had fallen to special forces, costing them training dummies and manpower. A napalm attack would only exacerbate that problem.
As they convened in the white room, the confidence his stroke of genius around 2 AM must have shown in his face, because Grant raised an eyebrow as he sat down.
"I trust you've got a solution?" he asked acidly.
"If I may, Judge Grant… as has been stated repeatedly, one of our major concerns is that these insurrectionists are being seen as rational, responsible persons. A firebombing would be investigated, and when traces of any chemical agents, say, napalm were found, they would be martyred."
"However… if they were seen to be destructively irresponsible, even if the death toll was none or only in single digits, then we've regained ground. We've shown that allowing them any time by themselves is a recipe for disaster; that they are incapable of acting on their own without their actions resulting in wanton and massive damage… say, a campfire away from the grounds in the woods sparking a wildfire."
That got their attention. Judge Grant was clearly contemplating the tactical value of such an operation, and Malefides…
Malefides looked surprised. And impressed.
"And you propose to do this how?"
Barry shrugged. "Tranq a male and female in the night, drag them off the campsite, set up a campfire with a large sleeping bag, condoms, and booze. One-night teen stand gone wrong. Hell, maybe even do multiple instances and with drugs, just to hammer home the point."
Quickly, he added. "I am dismayed as much as anyone that burning all of them alive is no longer a feasible option." He said quickly. To suggest a swift death for a non-adult, unless such a thing was unavoidable, reeked of treason here. To suggest avoiding killing or torturing was nothing short of obscene. "But according to the standards we have repeatedly analyzed for determining whether we have succeeded or failed, martyring our victims is one of the worst case scenarios. If we make them look like idiots who can't control their hormonal impulses or simple campfires, we're one step closer to making people like the Liemaker Calvin look like lunatics to be ignored."
Derricks and Gathwells shared looks. "Once all is said and done, we can start promoting our as of yet unlinked camps. Then we can burn or boil them as we please. I should note that if we are to act, we must act soon. So far, weather in the area has been overcast and sunny. Any rainfall will make starting a natural looking forest fire all the harder."
Grant looked to Landers and Derricks.
Derricks looked into his coffee. "It's cheap, it doesn't take a lot of manpower, and we're running out of time."
Landers shook her head. "I've got nothing. If nothing else, it will make them look stupid, and that's what we need now."
Grant nodded. "I'll begin putting a team together."
…
Bruce Victor had been told, in fiery revival services, that one day the profession of being a pastor would be outlawed. Martyrdom fantasies about black-armored troops with Mark-of-The Beast armbands beating down the doors of clandestine churches, desperate attempts to hide the last bibles, providing salvation to anyone who would listen before Jesus returned. He had been prepared to go to prison, to suffer for Christ.
Now, he was in prison, but for very different reasons.
The courts were not sympathetic at all to his reasons for waging a six year long campaign against a child, six years old when it started, over less than two hundred dollars. The eventual revelations that his parents had sought his counsel to force Kyle to forgive both Jennings for assault and Mallory for sexual assault had only damned him further. That both crimes had continued well after he had spent eight hours breaking Kyle down, pleading then demanding total absolution of both…
Bail was denied with prejudice.
His lawyer was advising insanity.
And his cellmate had introduced his face to the edge of his bunk seven times before a guard had tazed him into submission.
Alone in a cell. He'd never believed that would be an improvement.
Broken, facing a short trial with a judge who had no sympathy for religious fanatics, Bruce Victor did something he hadn't done in decades, and prayed.
On his knees, quietly, as to not wake the other inmates, "Father God, I come to you in my darkest hour. Please, show me your will, and how to make this right."
Silence.
"You know," came a voice from behind him. "If I didn't know you, I'd think that was almost sincere."
He turned.
Kyle Creekson sat on the unoccupied bunk adjacent to him.
"How the hell did you get in here?" Victor asked when he found his voice.
"Does it matter?" he asked. "I'm the only one listening to you, after all."
Victor blinked.
"Oh, come on. You haven't listened to Him for fifteen years. You tell people what they want to hear, then pick verses that support your sermons, and somewhere after telling me I needed to 'forgive Mr. Mallory in silence' and before you told me that all the head-stomping was discipline, God gave up on you."
Victor recoiled, like a child rebuked.
"Even your prayer is hollow and empty. Meaningless spiritual form apologies, peppered with ritualistic words and gestures, hoping He's a genie you can evoke whenever you need to. Maybe it would have a little more meaning if you'd bothered to try listening or talking to Him within the last decade, but you had more important things to do, like encouraging people to flog me with belts or punish me for stealing church offerings. Yes, even as you would look down, mid-sermon, see the edge of that envelope sticking out from your podium, and realize, "oh, I guess he didn't really take the money after all.""
He knew?
Of course he knew. Kyle wasn't stupid. He knew Jennings wasn't sorry. He knew Mallory was going to continue the games. The only way he was able to get forgiveness out of him was a concentrated, hours-long session that amounted to psychological torture with food and bathroom deprivation, breaking him until he'd say anything to get it to stop…
"Hurts, doesn't it? Breaking down to the point that you try to speak to the man upstairs, and He won't even take your calls. I can sympathize, you see. Six years of praying, begging, offering the rest of my lifetime if he would just make it stop… and the only way it did was because some homeless schmuck you hired to look good happened to push your podium aside to sweep."
"And when you were forced to admit you were wrong? Forced to admit I didn't do it? You didn't apologize. You didn't even say you'd made a mistake. You sat me down in that room, with my homework-ripping teachers, my abusive parents, Mr. "Fuck-Kyle-In-The-Ass-Until-He-Shits-Blood" Mallory, and that cunt from hell Jennings, and tell me I need to forgive everyone and keep mowing the bitch's lawn and keep having 'discipline sessions' with Mallory." Cold, calm fury radiated from Kyle as he listed the wrongs done him, young eyes pinning him to the spot.
"Even after that? God didn't bother to speak to me. No, the author of creation couldn't be assed to say sorry to a kid whose childhood makes the crucifixion look pleasant."
Then, after a moment of silence, Kyle's mouth twisted into a smile.
"But His competitor? Much more understanding."
Oh, fuck.
"The other guy understood that what happened to me was wrong. That after someone goes through what I did, the last thing on their mind is forgiveness. What someone like me wants is vengeance. By the way, did you know that Jennings was afraid of clowns? Or that Mallory was pyrophobic? I didn't until a few days ago. And let me tell you… for all Jennings bitchiness, and all Mallory's tough guy exterior… they both screamed like bitches."
"You sold your soul." Victor said, horrified and shaken to the core. Had he failed this badly? Had his failure as a minister been so utter and complete that Kyle thought burning in hell forever was worth-
"Yes, you did fail that badly." Kyle snarled. "Jennings was the worst of you all… she went beyond me, made sure three kids that tried to question what I went through or, in Jesse's case, help me… she made sure they all got shipped off to that death camp and tortured to death. You remember Jesse, right? You screamed at him when he tried to help me up, calling him a sympathizer to the devil. Mr. Mallory I have a personal hatred for, but I admit being biased. Being sodomized repeatedly as a kid will do that. But you?"
And now the scarred face of Kyle was absolutely furious, and Victor, knowing full well that prayers for protection or rebuking would be unheard, backed against the wall, scourged by the fell might of his death glare.
"You made it very clear to hundreds of kids that torturing a suspected thief- a thief you knew was innocent- that was fine, but showing mercy or questioning evil was wrong. That's your legacy, Victor. You taught every teen and child in our church that when you saw someone being beaten mercilessly for a crime they were only accused of, the right thing to do was to either join in or shut up." Kyle shook his head in disgust. "Jesus would be so proud of you."
Kyle was silent a moment. "You know… I had trouble, thinking of what I was going to do to you. Jennings? That was simple. Killer demon clown, rip her apart, and continue to do so in hell. Mallory was dead by the time I got to him, so he's playing 'the floor is now lava' for all eternity. Spoiler alert: he hasn't won. My parents I'm going to have to spend a whole week planning for. You? I asked Lucifer for ideas, and even then, I was coming up short. Entire histories of torture and barbaric executions, and nothing seemed to fit. Then, finally, I came up with the perfect idea."
Victor tried to pray, but all he could manage was blubbering bits and pieces of the Lord's prayer, eyes locked on Kyle in some vain hope he could evade his initial strike…
"Nothing." Kyle said venomously.
For a minute, Victor was certain he'd misheard. The boy had confessed to tailor-made hellish tortures for two of his worst enemies, and the punishment he had for him- the pastor who knew his innocence but kept silent- was nothing?
"Nothing is the very worst thing I can do to you, because you will never repent. You will never say 'I'm sorry' and really mean it, because that would involve admitting you were wrong. And with every year, as your body starts moving slower and the arthritis gets worse, you'll know the day is coming when your pathetic little husk of flesh finally gives out, and you get to explain yourself to God."
"And you'll keep telling yourself- 'I'm just working up the courage'. 'I'll repent and admit all my wrong doing once I'm prepared'. But the years will go by, Victor. People will spit on you and rage at you, and you'll keep insisting that you really meant well all along, just like you did with me. Then, one day, time or circumstance will end you. Maybe it'll be a heart-attack. Maybe the shame of all of this crashing down will drive you to alcoholism and you'll die with a record BAC. Or maybe you'll just get a bullet in the head from someone who thinks you've earned it." Kyle fantasized, gleefully imagining all the ways Victor could meet his end.
"However you bite it, it won't be by my hand. I want you to watch your church, your legacy, the reputation you've built up for decades crash down like a house of glass cards, and I want you to try to desperately put the pieces back together as they crumble in your hands. I want you to realize just how screwed you are a little more every second of every day. I want you to hear the doors and windows slam shut one by one. The classmates from Theology class shunning you. Your mother disowning you. Your church falling apart member by member, until one day you come ready to preach for an audience that just doesn't come."
"Oh, I know what you're thinking." Kyle said dismissively, as what Victor misinterpreted to be mercy turned out to be someone much more horrifying. "You think you can cheat me; repent and then hang yourself or blow your brains out. And hypothetically speaking, you could." Kyle shrugged. "But both actions would mean admitting you're wrong. That you fucked up, big time. And you've never been one for that, Victor. It's why Jeannie left you after you couldn't admit being in the wrong about anything- a few days before you were going to propose, wasn't it? It's why you got fired from two jobs, and yes, if you'd just fessed up it was you made the mistake, Wilson would have promoted you. But no. You lied and said it was someone else's fault, and Wilson had no room for someone who didn't have the guts to fix their mistakes. So you told everyone you had a 'calling from the Lord'." Kyle shook his head. "It's just one big stack of lies, isn't it? Stacked sloppily, hastily, just barely balanced, and now they're all tumbling down."
Kyle glanced at an imaginary watch. "Well, it's been fun watching you realize just how thoroughly you've ruined your life, Mr. Victor, but I really must be going. I've got my own sermons to preach now and a budding congregation. Oh, just for clarification- I can't control your free will, so feel free to prove me wrong on either or both about the repenting or offing yourself… if you can."
Then he wasn't there. There was nothing he'd expect, no distortion in reality, no puff of smoke or even a 'pop'. Kyle Creekson simply was, then wasn't anymore.
There was no making this all go away, he finally realized. This wasn't a temporary setback that would end with him having new sermon material- he would be in this jail until trial, and from there go to prison for God-only-knows how long.
All his life, he had been- and there was no other word for it- a coward, unable to face his mistakes, blaming them on circumstance or other people. He'd always seen himself as a flawless martyr, unjustly put upon by hordes of idiots and slews of mishaps. The church was supposed to prove them all wrong; Bruce Victor wasn't some Know-Nothing-Know-it-all, he was a man on a mission from God!...
And now, his church, his last shot at proving them all wrong, was going to crumble, with a foundation built on happy lies, feel-good thoughts and delusions of victimhood.
How many times did he have the opportunity to bring the decline to a screeching halt?
How many times had he failed? Certainly the prime time was when Jennings made the accusation. If he'd calmly refuted her, chastised her for baseless accusation, he'd have lost her and earned the respect of his congregation for wisdom.
No, even before that. A wise pastor would have called the police to deal with Jennings the second abuse was evident. A righteous pastor would have shot Mallory the second he admitted- with a nauseating smile- he liked hurting Kyle.
Here, in a cell slightly less filthy than his soul, Bruce Victor understood he was nothing even remotely approaching wise or righteous.
He was the false prophet, and he was going to perish horribly.
He was still screaming when the guards came to drag him to the prison medical room.
…
Malefides, for the second time since the power had entered him, was impressed.
Kyle's surgical disassembly of Victor's false faith wasn't given to him by the same power. The power had provided the revelations about Victor's past, it had shown him the pastor's thoughts, but those were so much paints and brushes, and what Kyle had created was nothing short of art.
So this is what the holy bastard felt when he was dealing with the centurion. Maybe the apes had something to them after all.
Satisfied, Malefides went back to planning the next moves he would need to make, feeling more pleased than he could had dared hoped to feel in a long while.
It was good to work with professionals.