A light beam stretches slower than a shadow upon a windowsill. Bricks are nowhere to be found.

Cicero has been in this secure facility for a while. A while more than a while, but he digresses.

And he tells you why. #why: D (put on your belt-buckles and strap yourselves on your seat for this one Ladies and Not-so-Gentle-men!)

Immense cold fire searing out your truest of shell, like tearing flesh with trusted nails ;) (I thought you might like that Eliza, oh Eliza; the beautiful willow leaf that ever/never lands, I saw her die and swore a geis that was within my power. It did not prevent the sea from swallowing the entire hyperborean landmass. Forgotten, but in ink and dreams and by my not-so-humble self.)

Total darkness, but only because the brilliance of afterlife is so precious to some, me… not a fan, as you can fathom, but not properly understand.

Hell is other people.  No iät is noet. I can’t say. Only born to heavyn and blank. With their orderly Archons guarding something that needs no protection, good be praised and all that jazz, always asking the same question.


(They ask a for different answer every time, but to tell you the truth it’s all the same.)

I. Can. Not. Die.

You might have read them asking. I’ve grown accustomed to it. Keijo surely did not, but well, we can’t all choose our fate? Or can we? Do eternal possibilities become infinite failures one after another? Would my life been have been happier living in his skin and membrane? Same difference, because it always leads me to the dark/light to answer their insipid question.


Blaah… blaah… blaah.

A thudding sound and the doors are opened. She’s there.

“Get the fuck up and let’s get the hell out of here.”

“I see you haven’t lost any of your delightful demeanor, sunshine.”

She’s nonplussed.

“I wasn’t even… getting up should be easy, you bullet-sink; so do it and let’s go.”

We ascend in silence.

I follow her through the building marveling at the sight of crumbled forms, none dead nor seriously hurt, that she has lain them low. She’s really kicked the shit out of a few of the heavily armored ones. I check, and they still draw breath.

Some more of the blue vested ones emerge in perfect symphony of tactical movement.

“I need my backpack.” I scream.

“It’s not here. But think fast.” She throws a satchel over her shoulder while disarming and dislocating a guard’s shoulder.

I draw the gun out of it and put a shot through each of the fife left. She looks at me like I’m insane.

A foreign thing alltogether. (No don’t say it out loud!)

“You better kill that one too.” I say while rumbling the satchel for my chalk. It is made from bones of mammals uknown to modern man and their history.

“It is a thing, a shadow-fang.” I assure her.

She looks disgusted, somehow soiled even by proxy; and proceeds to stamp the creature’s head to an inky pulp. She’s like that you know, or must know by now.

“I need to see Anwaar.”

“Who?” Helana asks while wiping her boots on the back of one of the fallen.

I inquire, “Why did you call me “the Faller” by the way?”

“It’s a trick of the mind and who do you think is recounting this story anyway?”

But she digresses with a wink.

“At least let me put in a good word for myself, please?”

“I’m going to fuck your story up for mentioning Eliza you know.”



He uses the chalk and they step through walls. Cicero has decided to visit one person before they head out.

After a blessing and bestowing an emblem to his dear detective, Anwaar lives to a ripe age of two hundred. Sometimes she wonders who that grey-eyed stranger was and why did he bring down a skyscraper...


#longtower #Aureliosorwhatisface #badguy

When I faced him at last. Or may we formally call it an it and let it stand?

Well the “it” had given me and my bereft Faller quite a chase to the pent-house apartment level. The Dabawi really know how to build themselves towers.

The seed is fuming blood and puss at the mouth and chest wound I'd given it. Still it had cut a bloody swathe throught the guards and I was not going to wait for a second shot.

I could feel my blood getting lighter, more fluid. If you catch my drift.

It opened its face like a maw of dark abyss and cried. Truly cried in vain. My shot through its knee-cap made it kneel.

We stood and pointed our weapons while Cicero did his thing·a·ma·jig. Brass nibs-and-bells-on-top. He drew signs in the very air with that chalk and beckoned the seed closer.


They appeared through the firmament and mortar of the building shrouded like I would expect of my beautiful enemy. The Head-Taker. Rounder of Secrets. He was longest of lived, but still I am his favorite prey.

We and he go along quite many varied ways. Most of them end with me dying.

The bone-charm forced them out of the walls. Four assassins bleeding into reality through the concrete. Two stood between me and the seed.


Katelma of the thorns, she who slew a plant with just a whisk of her hair-braid, the god that no-one-knows. And sweet Harmol, ever-smiling, the devil.

Faoorae of many facades and illusions, eternal harrower of animals that dare to dream of it. And Banshee holding Helena by the back of her neck and shrieking well… like her namesake.

I shot Banshee first, one shot through the heart. Faoorae died instead. Good guess on my part. For the spell-veils dropped and Mark Antony appears, as spiteful as ever, in the place of Banshee. Non-plussed he yanks Helena's head back.

Harmol smiles, Katelma undulates; both with equal malice.

“Well met... to your death again we will toast. And you brought me a gift this time still-dead?” Anthony caresses Helena’s neck with his sword.

We all move in perfect symphony. Helena shrugs herself from Antony's grasp as I throw myself forward impaling myself on his gladius. With a practioned move of a professional he kicks me free of the blade, using the swirling maneuver to spatter my face with my own blood, cloaking my sight.

Helena riddles Harmol's head with bullets until he cannot smile no more. It falls with a resounding thud to the floor.

"See if you can live through this." he says and Katelma opens a gate and they step through.

A parting shot from a gun Mark wrenched from my hands hits dead center of the seed's forehead. It welcomes it.

The waves of unlight start to unravel reality like unforgiving brush-strokes upon three dimensional canvases.

The building starts to swirl. Helena picks me up.

"You're hurt!"

"I've been worse." I whisper.

"Don't let me die?"

"You would not know anything about living if I thought of you, forever. Some stories just don't work like that."

And she is always right. Men can only live... for some time.

And the seed has become a steep path. She carries me through before the whole building is ripped to shreds.