November 29th

“So you’re the poo doctor?”

Irving Buchanen never imagined he’d visit the Pentagon. He certainly never imagined he’d be sitting in a tiny, windowless office deep within the basements, across from a general with so many stars and medals festooning his uniform that he clinked and chimed with every movement. And even if, by some extraordinary stretch of the imagination, he had conceived of such circumstances, he would definitely never have imagined that said general would have referred to him as a ‘poo doctor’.

“Ah, no sir. I’m–”

“So why are you here?” The general asked, “I don’t have all day son.”

The general’s aide leaned forwards, cleared his throat.

“Uh, sir? This is Professor Buchanen, sir. He’s the…the poo doctor.”

“I’m a palaeontologist!” Irving snapped.

The aide glanced down at a file, back up.

“You wrote a paper, ‘A study of oligocene coprolites’ correct?” He asked in such a way as to suggest he really wasn’t asking.

Buchanen blinked.

He chuckled, then broke out into full-blown guffawing. It was fully five minutes before his laughter petered out. He wiped tears from his eyes, looked from the aide to the general.

“That was a student paper. From three decades ago. Yes, I have an interest in coprolites, which are fossilized dinosaur feces. But poo doctor?” He snorted, “Not hardly!”

“Well golly, this ass is all we’ve got, right?” The general asked his aide, who nodded.

“Take him through and get him started,” the general continued, already turning to the next file on his desk, dismissing Buchanen and leaving him even further in the dark than before.

“Would you kindly explain to me what in the blue blazes is going on?” Irving demanded.

“Of course. This way, please.”

Irving gritted his teeth and followed, further down into the basement levels. The exited the uniform corridors into a lab, banks of computers and technical-looking equipment. White coats passed to and fro, clipboards and tablets annotated and exchanged.

One especially harried-looking young woman made a beeline for them.

“Is this him?” She asked.

“It is. We haven’t briefed him yet but I thought perhaps your people would prefer to do that.”

She nodded, “Best call. You barely comprehend what we’re talking about when we use layman’s terms.”

Irving liked her.

“I’ll leave you with Ms Childs. She’ll give you the tour and show you why we asked you here,” the aide told Buchanen stiffly, then turned and left, so quickly as to suggest he wanted to flee before Ms Childs found another opportunity to harangue him.

She gave Irving a cursory head to toe glance.

“You’re a palaeontologist, right?” She asked him.

He sighed happily, “I am, yes.”

“You should get a kick out of this then,” she replied, “follow me.”

They entered an even larger room, with some mysterious apparatus draped in tarpaulins. Atop a side table were boxes, all meticulously labelled, of various sizes.

Ms Childs stopped beside the table, turned to him.

“See the tarps? That’s a time machine. Or it will be, if we ever get it working. And we know we’ll get it working, because…”

Here she lifted the lid of one of the boxes and lifted out a very normal-looking coprolite.

Irving stared.

She hefted it, then passed it over.

He weighed it, turned it round in his hands.

“Okay, I’ll bite. How does a coprolite from the late Cretaceous prove that you’ll invent time travel?”

She took it back and led him towards a cabinet that reminded him of the x-ray machines in airports. She warmed it up, put the coprolite in a tray and rolled it inside.

“That’s not possible!” Irving exclaimed.

There was very clearly the mandible from a human skull inside the coprolite.

“What kind of elaborate prank are you trying to play?” He demanded.

“No prank. You can look at the sample again, study it, test it as much as you please. It’s legit.”

She retrieved a tablet, opened a file for him to read through. They’d subjected the rock to every test imaginable. It looked real, an authentic fossil, Cretaceous-era, most likely a large carnivore. His mind raced.

“There were no mammals of anything like our size back then,” he said, still disbelieving.

“See these boxes? We’ve been gathering them for a couple of years,” she explained, “Ever since an incident involving a collector, Francis Mayweather.”

Irving cocked his head, clearly curious.

“Mayweather has a fondness for fossils. One of which arrived at his home cracked. And inside were what appeared to be fingerbones. He started to look into it, until his fossil hit a lab that we were keeping tabs on. At that point we stepped in. Confiscated the fossil, the lab reports. And then we started to search. All these,” she gestured to the table, the boxes, “seem to be fragments from the same skeleton.”

“Hold on, why were you keeping tabs on that lab?” Irving asked.

“For the last decade, we’ve been aware that certain foreign powers have been funding research into time travel and so we keep tabs on any lab or university where there could conceivably be breakthroughs. It was sheer coincidence that Mayweather sent his samples there.”

Irving paced to and fro in a tight circuit, processing all he’d learned in the last hour. He could scarcely believe how radically his world had been altered.

“So why am I here?” He asked. “That still isn’t clear.”

She nodded, “I can see this is all quite overwhelming for you. You should probably sit down for this next part.”

There was something about her solemn tone he didn’t enjoy. Nor the look in her eyes, like she was delivering a terminal medical diagnosis. He sank onto a stool and clasped his hands tightly in his lap.

“This most recent find, the mandible. It has fillings. We were able to find a match through dental records.”

She paused. He waited. Continued to wait.

“You’re going to be eaten by a dinosaur, Professor Buchanen.”

“I’m sorry?”

“As am I, believe me. If it’s any comfort–”

He broke in, “Unless you’re about to tell me you’re joking, it won’t be any comfort at all!”

“We’ve no idea when this is going to happen, other than within your lifetime. But clearly you are part of our efforts to travel to the past, which is why we brought you here.” She continued, “That you’re also a palaeontologist is a happy coincidence.”

He frowned.

“Happy might not have been the best choice of words,” she conceded.

She stepped towards him, arm extended, and he shook the proferred hand automatically.

“Welcome to the Bureau for Chronological Surveillance and Security, Professor Buchanen.”


November 27th

The train raced down the track, and everybody who saw it pass gaped, astonished. If Dev had noticed, she wouldn’t have been surprised. A woman on top of a train fending off a gargoyle’s claws was fairly astonishing…

Days earlier, Dev had stepped off the plane and taken her first breath of German air. It was bitter, ashy almost. This was a country with permanent and terrible scars, although to the unenlightened it was no different to any other place. She hoped she could conclude her business here quickly. She didn’t want to be here long enough to grow accustomed to it.

It wasn’t often that she was called to Europe; the Guild had originated here after all. The world’s greatest monster hunters tended to come up in Europe. The problem was the location. A powerful geas lay about Cologne, dating back to the town’s founding in 34 BC. Dev’s heritage made her uniquely qualified to deal with trouble in Cologne. She was the only hunter that could enter the Old Town limits. There was an understandable panic surrounding the killings. Nothing supernatural should be able to enter the Old Town, so half a dozen gruesome mutilations with no trace of the killer’s dna, an indeterminate weapon and bodies being moved yards without a trail was definite cause for concern.

She was exhausted from the flight, but her determination to make this a short visit inclined her to head straight for the Old Town and start her investigation. She took a cab from the airport to the Old Town border. Standing at the edge of the warded area, she was aware of a…pressure, as though the air was thicker. The geas definitely still held, so anything magical or unnatural should be incapable of passing beyond this point. And yet. She’d studied the casefiles. Victims attacked, blood and flesh everywhere. But the bodies were moved yards away and dumped. No trail of blood, no tyre tracks, and no witnesses. Dev figured on two likely methods. Translocation, which was a significant magic to use for a seemingly trivial purpose, or flight. The geas still held, so a flying monster of some description seemed highly unlikely. None of the monsters local to Europe could pass the Old Town limits, and transporting a more exotic beast would be incredibly difficult without leaving some trace for the Guild to seize on.

That left a spellcaster. Which was only next to impossible, as Dev herself could attest to. But why use such a potent magic to move corpses such trifling distances? That suggested the location the body was dumped held some significance. Perhaps a mage was marking out a spellform of some sort. It would have to be of great importance to go to all this effort.

Having satisfied her curiosity for the moment, Dev made her way back to the Cologne Guildhall. It was located on the city limits, an acknowledgement of the geas. She left her bag with an orderly and was shown into the Guildmaster’s office. He was old, looked ancient. He shook slightly as he stood and extended an arm across his desk. Dev shook his hand gingerly, afraid of hurting him.

A smile creased his face.

“Ms Wing, a pleasure it is, to welcome you,” he said in heavily accented English, “From what I have heard you will be getting to the root of our little puzzle very quickly.”

She returned the smile and bowed slightly, replied, “With any luck I shouldn’t be here more than a few days.”

His smile faded slightly.

“No time for taking in the sights?”

She cleared her throat, a trifle embarrassed.

“The city’s aura is…a little hard to stomach,” she told him.

Best to be honest, she thought. Understanding dawned and he smiled gently, sympathetically.

“Well, your trip was long and I think maybe you are tired. I certainly am,” he replied, chuckling. “We shall talk more, come morning. You must breakfast with me and out Chief Hunter.”

She returned his smile gratefully.

“Thank you,” she replied, “that would be a most welcome honour.”

The same orderly from before was waiting outside the office. He led her to the chambers prepared for her, then withdrew. Sleep dragged her down into a jumbled, disquieting succession of dreams; pain and conflict, the sensation of a great, oppressive darkness…it it hadn’t been for the warded walls, the nightmares would have been terrifying.

She awoke the next day feeling far from refreshed, and was gratefully swigging black, bitter coffee in the commissary when she was approached by a small knot of hunters. Journeymen, to judge by their sash, the same rank she herself held.

“Is it true,” asked the young man at their head, “can you move beyond the barrier?”

“Yeah, it tingles but it’s passable,” she replied.

She pre-empted the next question, explaining the Guildmaster’s theory that a hunter descended of stock relatively clear of Indo-European roots could potentially thwart the geas. Her family was pureblood Japanese, although she herself had been raised in the USA because her parents had wanted to spare her from being taken and inducted into their homeland’s equivalent of the Guild. Its teachings and training were strict to the point of cruelty, and there was no life outside of service to the cause.

Devala Wing was unique, and that always came at a cost. In this case that meant notoriety. She rose, waving away further questions.

“Busy day,” she explained, “Really should get cracking.”

She returned to Old Town and strode through the barrier, trying to ignore the tingling. Dev headed straight for the first murder site. It was unlikely that any trace remained, but no hunter worth their salt would ignore the chance of catching a weak trace that might later be repeated elsewhere. She could feel the tension ebb away as she walked. The geas must block the psychic trauma of the land as well as most things supernatural. Maybe she could play tourist after all. For now though, she was more concerned with the feeling of being watched. Everybody is prone to those brief paranoiac chills that lead you to believe some unseen watcher is stalking you, but Dev hunted things that bumped in the night; when she got those chills the unseen watcher wasn’t imaginary.

It was a little after ten in the morning, a brisk but sunny day. And there was no screaming. This eliminated a lot of possibilities. The attacks had all occurred at night, but if her quarry-cum-stalker was moving about, unseen, in daylight then perhaps her mage theory held some weight. She would have to read for signs at both the kill sites and the locations the bodies had appeared. Hopefully the sites would give her something to go on. She consulted her map, trying to picture a pattern overlaying them, but there didn’t seem to be any. Unless the chronology was irrelevant. That didn’t fit with her understanding of magic but she didn’t specialize in human quarry. She’d have to ask back at the Guildhall for assistance on that front. Dev continued down the winding streets, lost in her musings, when the vague unease of being watched apiked. She glanced quickly about, one hand reaching inside her jacket and clasping the sword hilt hanging from her hip. A shadow flitted before her. Dev cursed and threw herself forwards and down, tucking into a roll towards the side of the street. There was a huge downwards draught and the snap of sails billowing in the wind, followed by a sight that chilled her blood. The creature was the size of a small man, just topping five feet, although it was crouch-legged and hunched over. Its hide was the colour of weathered concrete and looked like it would be almost smooth to the touch. Its limbs were long and thin, its body compact and rounded, barrel-like in appearance. The head, which sat atop the narrow, drawn in shoulders was straight out of a nightmare. Beaked, needle fangs, flaring bat ears and furious furrowed brow were bad enough, but the cold, dead stare of its eyes, pale grey and featureless, was causing Dev’s instincts to yell, Run! Hide! Pray! A pair of enormous wings flared out from its shoulders, dark membranes tipped with talons.

Impossible, but undeniably there before her. A gargoyle. It should not have been possible for this native terror of Europe to pass the barrier. Dev willed herself calm, felt her breath slow, her breathing even out. She stood slowly, sword hilt still grasped but not yet drawn. It stood up straight, studying her. The air of menace it gave off was palpable. As it stepped towards her, reaching out with one granite claw, she noticed a peculiar detail. There were seams running round the gargoyle’s arm, down its chest. She slid back, shuffling steps, eyes fixed on the monster.

Steeling her will, Dev drew her sword and leapt forwards, blade clanging as it beat aside the gargoyle’s claw. It reared back as though startled. The creature was unused to prey that fought back. Dev pushed forwards, moving the curved blade in big, upward swipes. The gargoyle flapped its enormous wings and lifted slightly into the air, back and away from the stinging nuisance facing it. Face set in a look of grim determination, Dev powered forwards and leapt. Her outstretched hand grasped the creature’s ankle but it flew on undaunted.

The rooftops blurred as it picked up speed. Dev tried thrusting up at the creature but her uncontrollable twisting made her best efforts ineffective. Not far above her gripping hand was one of the seams that criss-crossed the stone terror. This close, she could see the faint blue glow of a spell of some sort. Playing a hunch, Dev laid her sword against the seam and pushed. The creature bucked and twisted, its mouth open in an eerily silent roar. Dev grinned fiercely and pushed harder. With a sharp pop like a blown fuse, the seam parted and Dev found herself falling away from the gargoyle.


Her descent was halted abruptly and painfully. Wincing, she glanced around. The world still flew by, except for the floor. Her stunned brain identified the rhythmic clattering. A train, she lay on the roof of a train. A shadow swept across her field of vision, angled towards her. Cursing, she struggled upright and swung her sword. The gargoyle arrested its dive, cautious now of the blade’s bite.

The train raced down the track, and everybody who saw it pass gaped, astonished. Dev didn’t notice, too busy parrying stony talons. She stumbled as the train swayed, and her sword slipped from her grasp. The gargoyle immediately closed in, and Dev ducked away. Blows thumped against her back and shoulders, painful but not the tearing, rending pain she’d expected. She looked about her, noted the multiple lumps of rock that lay around her, some tumbling off the roof of the train. Taking her bearings, she realized the train had crossed the barrier.

She muttered a prayer of thanks to her ancestors that the barrier’s prohibitive qualities worked both ways. Dev grinned at the mostly intact foot she had kept ahold of. With any luck the culprit could be traced and the Guild could get some answers. Setting a murdering fiend loose where no Hunter could reach may have been simply for the sake of mayhem, but Dev felt certain that this was a mere hint of darker designs.

November 26th

“That dog just said woof”

I rolled my eyes.

“Brilliant observation Willis. A dog barked like a dog. Thanks for sharing,” I said, pouring sarcasm into every word.

My best friend, my only friend, glared at me from under his moppish fringe.

“No, Art,” he replied patiently, in a tone suggesting he was explaining to an idiot that water is wet, “the dog spoke. It said ‘Woof'”

I stared blankly at him for a moment. Then I switched my gaze to the dog in question. It had stopped at the mouth of an alley and I’ll swear to my dying day that when it realized we were studying it intently, the dog muttered “Shit!” before it bolted down afore-mentioned alley.

“Follow it!” I shouted, pointlessly it turned out, as Willis was already past me and gaining speed.

I pounded along in pursuit. We’d been trying to find a lead for weeks, and couldn’t afford to let the hound escape. Believe it or not, a talking dog wasn’t the ends we pursued, so much as a means to an end. The dog was a symptom which we hoped would lead us to a very particular cause.

Willis and I appeared to most people to be unemployed. The fools. We were, more correctly, employed in a great and noble cause. We guarded humanity against everything they couldn’t understand, countenance or comprehend. Not just ghosts or ghouls, oh no. Incursions from different dimensions, harbingers of…whatever the plural of apocalypse is; you fail to name it, we put ourselves in direct opposition to it. At last count, we’d saved the world seven times. The fact that you’ve never heard of us just proves how good we are.

All the portents suggested something big was coming. The signs hinted at impending doom. Frankly, I’d have preferred something more concrete. Like an anonymous text saying “Prepare for the zombie apocalypse.” Or a billboard warning of a plague of locusts on May 18th. Alas, the world is seldom fair.

A talking dog is a definite sign that something odd is occurring. Fortunately for us, the alley was a dead end. Unfortunately for us, the dog had really sharp teeth.

We prevailed, which explains how an hour later we found ourselves wishing we hadn’t. Willis and I share a flat. Simple, some would say bare, with basic furniture (some would say upturned crates and pallets). The dog was tied securely to the table by all four paws. I was stood in the corner of the room, video camera trained on the dog. Willis was sat a few paces away, glaring at the dog and dabbing grazes on his arm with iodine.

“Okay,” I announced to the room at large, “interrogation begins approx. three pm.”

“What’s a prox?” asked Willis.

The dog wheezed. Or chuckled. Probably chuckling.

“It means approximately, Willis,” I explained, “Saves time.”

Willis blinked.

“This is saved time? Whatever Art,” he replied.

I hate that technically he was right.

“Subject is apparently a canine, suspected of human speech,” I continued, “Officers Art and Willis present. Go ahead Willis.”

Willis nodded.

He placed his hands on the edge of the table, then screamed in the dog’s face.

“What the fuck!” exclaimed the dog, then muttered, “Oh bugger.”

“Did you get that Art?”

“Sure did. Nice job,” I congratulated Willis.

Willis grinned smugly at the suspect. We had him, and he knew it.

“What are you, then?” I asked the apparent pooch.

The mutt remained stoically silent.

Willis  circled the table, slowly, almost nonchalantly.

“We know you aren’t an ordinary dog,” he said calmly, “so you might as well level with us. We won’t necessarily hurt you, we’re just trying to find out what’s coming.”

The dog sighed, sounded tired.

“Willis, I’m you,” he said.

We stared at the dog. At each other. Back to the dog.

“I’m from three days into the future! I’ve come back to give you, me, us…to deliver a warning,” dog-Willis continued.

We’ve seen a lot of peculiar stuff, Willis and I, but this was hard to swallow. Time travel was a first for us.

“Why are we a dog?” Willis asked.

Dog-Willis whined, snuffled uneasily.

“We…we don’t exactly have a body anymore, in my time,” he explained sadly.

Willis shot me a frown.

“Thanks a bunch, Art,” he said bitterly.

“Oi! It might not have been my fault,” I retorted. I asked dog-Willis, “Was it my fault?”

“Sort of,” dog-Willis replied.

“A-HA” yelled Willis.

“I mean,” dog-Willis continued, “if you hadn’t of died tomorrow, you could have probably stopped me from sticking that device on my head.”

“A-HA!” I yelled, pointing triumphantly at Willis.

He shrugged, said very calmly, “You heard me, if you didn’t die then I wouldn’t be a dog.”

I gaped, speechless. Nothing new, when trying to to argue with Willis.

“Wait,” I turned back to the Willis-hound, “I’m going to die tomorrow? How? Why!?”

He shrugged, “No idea.”

“Why don’t you know?”

“You vanished. Vanish. And then you die. Died. I don’t know, it was pretty irresponsible of you.”

I threw my hands in the air, exasperated.

“But why are we a dog?” Willis asked.

“I can’t tell you,” Willis replied.

“Sanctity of the timeline?” Willis asked.

“No, I just don’t understand what the hell happened,” Willis replied.


“Can we focus,” I interjected, “on what’s going to happen?”

Willis and Willis both looked at me.

“I die, circumstances unknown. Then you turn into a dog and travel back in time to give us a warning. Great; warn us about what?”

Willis-hound cleared his throat.

“Art. You’re going to die tomorrow.”

I screamed.

“Now, Art. Calm down. Panicking about your impending doom isn’t going to help,” Willis said impatiently.

“You’re both arseholes,” I bit back bitterly.

“What exactly leads to us becoming a dog?” Willis asked himself.

“I wanted to help Art-no idea why, he’s kind of a dick-so I found this guy on the internet who said he could view the past. I thought I could at least find out what happened, maybe exact bloody vengeance on his killer.”

I interrupted, “Wait, you said you didn’t know what happened.”

“Well, no. Because once I got there, I thought maybe he could send me back instead. He said it would be too dangerous, but I convinced him to try. And he was right. My body, like, disintegrated. But I was still there. This weird window the guy used to see the past showed the street we saw me on, so I tried to go through it. I kind of floated around until I saw that dog. It looked familiar, so I tried, uh, to move into it. And it worked. And here I am. Warning you.” Here Willis-hound glared at me.

I sighed.

“Sorry. Thank you Willis. I’m just a little on edge. Impending doom, ya know.”

I paced. I was worried. I had no idea why but I was about to die. Given our line of work there were any number of possibilities. Add to that, my genius partner apparently absented himself so if there was an impending apocalypse, nobody was around to stop it.

“What state was my body in?” I asked Willis-hound.

“You were decapitated. They didn’t find your head.”

I rubbed my neck, a little uneasy. That sounded rather painful.

“No other weirdness?”

Willis-hound cocked his head.

“Not…especially. Well. There was a strange message.”

I could feel my calm slipping further away.

“A message?” I asked, trying to sound reasonable.

“Yeah. It’s what gave me the idea to find out what happened. It was butned into the wall; the words ‘Find out what happened’ and a url.”

“Willis,” I said through gritted teeth, “Was it the url that led you to the time window guy?”

“Yeah. I figured you must have left the message to lead me to your killer. Didn’t work out though. Nice work, genius.”

I lost my temper then. I’d had enough, and was good and ready to tear into Willis-hound. Never got that chance though. There was a brilliant flash at that point and a thunderous bang.

A figure stepped out of the smoke, coughing. He-maybe it-wore a hood that obscured his-its-face and was carrying a large case of some sort.

“I come with a warning!” said the figure.

I wanted to cry.

“What’s in the box?” Willis asked.

“My head,” the figure replied.

He threw off his hood. He was old, very old. And he looked ofdly familiar.

“But I can see your head,” Willis replied.

The old man sighed. I sighed too.

“Art! He’s you.” Willis said, “I’d recognize that sigh anywhere.”

I turned to me.

“What’s going on? Who cut off our head?”

“I did,” I replied. Old me, I mean.

“I assume you have a reason for doing so. And that the explanation is compelling enough to persuade me to allow you to decapitate yourself,” I said.

At this point my head hurt so much that I wouldn’t have minded having my head cut off.

“Not really,” I, he, old me replied, “This is just the way I recall events occurring.”

“You mean,” I stopped, rubbed my temples, “You’re saying I travel back from the far future and cut off my young self’s head, then take the head and leave a message for my highly suggestible and irresponsible partner so that he’ll get his body disintegrated and project his consciousness back in time into a dog so he can warn me I’ll die. All so you can bring my head back to this point. And you do this, if I’m following, because that’s what you remember happening?”

Old man me shrugged.

“I was expecting it to make sense once I got here,” he said.

Willis frowned.

“This is a nasty tangle,” he said, “There must be a reason you did all this Art, but for the life of me I don’t see why. You’ve made a fine mess.”


“This was all your idea,” he said.

“I don’t even believe in predestination!” I shouted.

Willis-hound cocked his head.

Old man-me looked uncomfortable.

“I won’t do it!” I screamed, “I refuse to travel back in time and cut off my own head!”

Old man-me and Willis-hound blinked out of existence.

Willis looked at me and shrugged.

“You must have meant it,” he said.

I shook my head.

“Willis,” I said, sounding very tired, “sometimes I wonder if maybe the world deserves to be saved.”

He shrugged again, said, “What else are we going to do? Get jobs in a burger joint? This is fun!”

He had a point.

“Promise me one thing,” I said.

“Sure, buddy.”

“No time travel.”


November 25th

He dragged the whetstone along his blade, the slow rasp sounding unnaturally loud in the aftermath of the battle. Most of the nearby soldiers he judged to be but recently conscripted; they stood or sat quietly and barely moved at all. Shock. He had seen it before. He had experienced it himself, the first time he went to war. He’d set out in mis-matched armour and carrying a halberd he barely knew how to use, full of enthusiasm and determination. The noise and sights of that first battle had wrung that from him, leaving him with the same hollow, unthinking stare these men wore. From their age, he could tell they were the Duke of Coran’s men; it had been a long time since war had reached that far east, and so these men had made it past several decades without witnessing the horrors of the morning gone.

If he recalled the battle order correctly, that put him just a short way from where he was headed. He rose to his feet and sheathed his blade, wincing at the twin spikes of pain that drove through his knees. He wasn’t sure how many years still stretched ahead of him, but there were undoubtedly fewer than lay behind him. Still, by his reckoning it should only take a few more jobs before he could hang up his swordbelt for good.

He headed east, unsurprised by the orderliness of picket lines and encampments he passed. The general in charge of this force was a superior tactician to his employer. Were it otherwise his services wouldn’t be needed. The knapsack he carried thumped gently against his back. The straps had come loose in the furor of battle. Not a concern, this close to his goal. Now came the tricky part of his mission. He uncinched his swordbelt and wrapped it round the blade, then bent beside a cart and wedged it up beneath the bed. Willingly disarming in the middle of the enemy’s camp wasn’t the typical behaviour one might expect from an assassin, but murder wasn’t on his agenda today. It took very little time to locate the baggage train, wagons and carts of supplies strewn throughout the small woods. His age worked in his favour here, just a grizzled old man no longer fit for battle, consigned to the baggage train.

He whistled quietly as he started to work through the the carts, rummaging through crates and baskets. His search yielded results, and with half a dozen small wooden bowls and a jug of vinegar added to his pack, he moved on.

This enemy general didn’t have his tent set up separately from his troops. By appearing to be down amongst his men, one of them, he garnered more respect. Even the assassin’s employer’s troops spoke with begrudging respect of the man. This made the assassin’s job easier to get in close. He moved through the camp, weaving through tents and getting the lay of the land fixed in his mind. He couldn’t help smirking cynically; the general might want to appear to be “one of the common folk” but his tent was fully five times the size of a common soldier and there were guards discreetly posted around it. They certainly looked like normal soldiers, but they had better quality equipment than a normal footsoldier and their stance and glade betrayed their purpose.

The assassin moved into a seemingly random tent and pulled back the tarp on the ground. He dug a small hole and laid one of the bowls in it, then filled it halfway with vinegar. And then from his backpack he pulled a small sack. Inside were seven azure crystals the size of his fist. He placed one in the bowl, where it began to glow. He pushed the tarp back, satisfied that the glow was concealed. Five times more, five more bowls and crystals placed. The light was failing; working his way around the sentries was time consuming and weary, bloodied soldiers were returning, crawling into their bedrolls. With every passing moment, discovery became a real danger. He pulled back the final tentflap and bit back a curse. The bedroll was occupied, a soldier snoring softly. He moved quietly, gently, until he was crouched over the snoring man. He lunged, hands wrapping about his victim’s throat and throwing all his weight into it, crushing and silencing the man with a calm brutality. It took mere seconds until the gargled last breath escaped. He continued with his purpose, preparing the final bowl. Task complete, all that was left was for him to retrieve his sword and leave. Rather than beat a retreat immediately, once he reclaimed his sword he clambered atop a cart. From his elevated perch he had a clear view of the general’s tent, and waited, curious to see what would happen.

As dawn broke, horns sounded to rouse the troops and signal preparations for the day’s battle. From seven points spread throughout the camp, columns of azure light shot up to the sky. A glow spread between them, bathing the general’s tent in blue light.

The assassin squinted against the glow, and was perhaps one of the few people to see the general’s tent and a dozen close to it blink out of existence.

From far across the battlefield there was a brief, blinking blue light. Given the hue and cry being raised, the assassin doubted anybody else had noticed. The mage’s rigual had worked. Granted, only the general should have been teleported away but if his employer’s troops couldn’t handle a dozen disoriented men, then this war had been even more one-sided than it at first appeared.

Content his job had been done, the assassin climbed down and started to make his way out of the camp. It was possible this conflict was done, now the master tactician had been captured. It didn’t matter of course. There was always another war brewing among these small countries, another payday round the corner.

November 24th

Alexander Bensen had a hard time believing in luck. Mainly because his was always bad. It seemed impossible, for everything in his life to go wrong, and yet here he was. The odds of all he touched turning to crap being mere coincidence were almost infinitely high.

Missed his exams due to roadworks and an exploded gas main. Couldn’t get into his back-up college because of a clerical error. A string of jobs that never lasted more than a month or two. Estranged from his family after the incident at his sister’s wedding. A string of misunderstandings that left him friendless. The flat he was forced into was small, damp, and prone to power outages.

This all seemed, to him, to go beyond coincidence. He had no way to explain it but he knew, deep down, that there was an explanation.
Bensen was sat in a coffee shop, brooding over job ads in a newspaper. His coffee tasted awful; he wasn’t sure exactly why but he knew there was no point asking for a replacement.

“Anybody sitting here?” asked a cheery voice.

He glanced up at the young man opposite; cheerful, loose curls to his shoulders, eyes positively twinkling, as though he alone was aware of an in redible joke. There were other tables, empty tables, visible. The stranger remained where he was, still smiling 

“Well, why not?” Bensen replied, waving to the chair the stranger was already settling in to.

He continued scanning through the ads. The he glanced up. The stranger was still smiling. At him. He sighed.

“CanI help you?” he asked the stranger, trying to stay polite.

“Not right now. But I can help you. Alex.” The stranger leaned back, and his smile widened.

Bensen laid his paper down calmly, folded his hands in his lap. He looked up.

“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. How did we meet?” he asked.

“Oh, we’ve never met, Alex. Or do you prefer Alexander? We couldn’t figure it out,” the stranger replied.

Bensen shot to his feet and strode away. He left the coffee shop, but had barely gone ten paces before a hand clasped his shoulder. He jerked away and spun round, ready to snarl at the stranger. Except somebody else entirely stood before him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Can I help you madam?” he asked.

The elderly woman before him smiled gently.

“Hello Alex. We’re here to-”

“Bloody hell!” Bensen cut in, “Are you with that lunatic from the café?”

She laughed, unashamedly.

“Jonas? Yes. We wish to help you ” she said.

He sighed. Ordinarily his bad luck didn’t manifest in such a way. But running into strangers who seemed to be obsessed with him certainly would fit the pattern of his life.

“Help me how?” He asked.

“If you’ll come with us, I think you’ll find it most beneficial,” she said.

The stranger, Jonas, sauntered up to join them.

“Evangeline! You’re the best. How you do it, I shall never know,” he said, his smile still infuriatingly broad. Bensen gritted his teeth.

Evangeline sighed, and Bensen felt somewhat reassured that she shared his annoyance. She turned to Bensen.

“Will you accompany us?” she asked.

“Oh certainly! Why not? I love trailing total strangers around,” Bensen replied, unable to resist a sarcastic jab.

Jonas clapped.

“Let’s go then,” he said.

There was a flash of light. Bensen blinked to clear the spots from his eyes, then gaped disbelievingly at what he saw. The street was gone. He was indoors. In a house. He was pretty sure there were no houses on the high street he’d just been standing on.

“What…what happened?” He gasped.

“We moved somewhere more comfortable, dear. So we could have a chat in private,” the woman, Evangeline, spoke as calmly as though what was happening was normal.

“We moved? We moved. Of course, yes, of course we moved of course we did.” Bensen started pacing, hands clasped to his head.

Jonas slouched into an armchair. He was still smiling.

“Calm down Alex,” he suggested, “catch your breath.”

Bensen stopped dead in his tracks. He let his hands drop to his sides. His thoughts were a blur, nothing made sense. He was afraid he might be going crazy, that this was all just delusion, and he was lying on the floor of a café, drooling.

“Oh my no, you aren’t crazy Alex,” Evangeline said. She’d taken a seat, too. She patted the sofa beside her and Bensen moved to sit, too stunned to speak.

“Should we wait for him?” Jonas asked, motioning to the ceiling with a jerk of his head.

“He’d like me to begin. Jonas, perhaps you could fetch me a cup of tea? This will likely leave me parched. Alex would you like something?”

He laughed, short and harsh.

“Yes. I’d like a reset button for today. In fact,” he snorted bitterly, “can I have one for my life?”

Evangeline just smiled and patted his hand.

“Where to begin. Well. We moved from the street to here through teleportation. It was instantaneous. I couldn’t possibly begin to describe exactly how it works because I do it purely by instinct. Apparently- oh, yes. I have a gift. So do Jonas and the other people who live here. So do you, my dear. My, I really do a terrible job of explaining this. There are people in this world with powers. I say ‘gift’ but not everybody agrees. I have a feeling you might be one of them. I know you probably have a lot of questions, and I will try to aswer as best I can. Ah,” she looked up as Jonas returned,” thank you Jonas.”

Bensen shifted uncomfortably. He couldn’t dismiss what he’d been told, especially since he had undeniably witnessed something fantastical.

“You say I have a…a power. Okay. What is it?” he asked, sceptical.

“I’m sure you’re aware that you’ve experienced a life of great misfortune. We believe this to be more than just very bad luck. There are people who can alter probabilities, to a greater or lesser degree. These people often experience unnatural luck of some sort, until they learn to control their abilities. Judging by the rather extreme misfortune you’ve experienced, you could be very powerful.” Evangeline sipped calmly at her tea.

Bensen couldn’t help laughing. How many times had he wished for an explanation, a reason that neatly explained why his life was so crappy, why he couldn’t catch a break. He desperately wanted to believe and here it was.

“So…you’re saying I can turn this around?” He hated himself for sounding so needy.

Jonas slid into the seat beside him and laid an arm around his shoulders, gave him a little shake.

“Alex, I promise your problems are nearly over. You can relax.” The young man’s grin seemed to grow.

His eyes still seemed to twinkle. Bensen was looking straight into them, and could feel his concerns melting away. Jonas was grinning so broadly his face was almost split in two. His jaw seemed to unhinge as he moved closer. Something tickled at the edge of awareness, but he couldn’t seem to focus. All he could see were twinkling eyes and that broad grin; the wide, gaping…

Jonas snapped his jaws shut as he lunged forwards. Like a steel trap his teeth smashed through Alex Bensen’s neck. Jonas’ throat bulged and distended as he gulped and swallowed the head. He took out a handkerchief and wiped blood away from his lips. A somewhat pointless gesture given the fountain of arterial blood that was painting the room with gore.

:Are you finished?: asked a disembodied voice.

“Oh yes. Did Evie slip away clean?” Jonas replied mirthfully.

:She did. After all this time she’s nailed the timing:

“Oh, pooh. That’s no fun. Still, I’ll be along once I’ve showered. I’m sure you’re both eager to share the bounty.”

November 23rd

“Barrage four away,” the young officer at Missile Control reported.
Captain Anders sighed.
“Acknowledged,” he said, waving dismissively.
Eight years he’d been out here. He held the rank of captain of this station, but he was purely an administrator. The crew of 50 men and women under his command were technicians and mathematicians, not soldiers. This conflict was fought in abstract; they’d never see the enemy. God willing, they would never see the enemy’s warheads either. The paycheck was incredible. It had seemed worth it. Four years of hibernation and eight years sat staring into space-quite literally-later, and he was beginning to have second thoughts. He’d thought his old job had been dull, running herd over a department of statisticians running numbers for a banking consortium. All he had to do then was make sure reports were filed on time, that targets were met and egos didn’t clash. But at least there, when he clocked out, he could go to a bar, or go dancing, see a new film, eat at a five star restaurant. Not that he often did. No, he’d go home, stream some show, drink crappy beer then go to sleep and do the same thing the next day. He’d leapt at the opportunity to serve Nashcorp in a new role. And now here he was, sat in a multi-billion dollar tin can in orbit around Neptune. At the end of his shift his only option was to go to his quarters, stream some show, drink crappy beer then go to sleep and do the same thing the next day. He’d never really appreciated his freedom until it was gone.

Two more years. Just two more years and the journey home would begin. He’d be so rich, he’d never have to work another day in his life. Hopefully it would seem worth it.
“Oh! Sir, uh…captain,” said a startled voice.
Captain Anders glanced round, mildly surprised. Although there was a communications station on the bridge, it was manned as a mere formality. The long-range communications from earth were run on a strict schedule, reliant on specific trajectories between them, comm satellites, and earth. This unscheduled interruption meant they were receiving a short-range communication.
Anders leaned forward in his chair. “Lieutenant Lane, was there something you wish to bring to my attention?”
Lane nodded, stark amazement writ large across their face.
Anders struggled to sound calm as he added, “Please, do so.”
“Ah, of course.We’re being hailed. Sir” Lane added, unused to having to fulfil their role.
“You’re certain?” Anders replied.
“Yes sir. There is a hail coming in, range…180 kilometres,” Lane reported, hesitant over read-outs from equipment they’d never before used over the course of eight years.
A strained silence had fallen over the crew. Eight long years, and every day of it routine and exactly by the book. Every head turned in unison to stare at Anders. The moment seemed to stretch into an eternity.
“Right. Well,” Anders grasped for protocols he’d learned over a decade ago. “Okay! We need an identity for our visitor. Lane, ask who they are.”
“A-aye, sir.”
“Lieutenant Chambers, please run a check on the station’s armaments. We need them brought up to full readiness but, ah, don’t target our visitors.”
Chambers glanced down at his control board, then back up.
“All of them?” He asked.
Anders nodded, “Better safe than sorry. Now…what else?”
“Sir, if I may?”
Of everybody on the bridge, one man seemed alert, prepared. He stood to attention, ramrod straight, and giving the impression of straining at an invisible leash.

Anders sighed. Ensign Tremaine. This assignment was his first, straight out of college. He knew every rule, protocol, guideline and procedure and could recite them on request. He was just so darn eager.
“Ensign. Feel free to jog my memory,” Anders told him.
“Sir! We need to go to amber alert and lock down the long range warheads, sir!” Tremaine replied eagerly.
“Very well, see to it. Lane, do you have an ID on our visitor?”
Lieutenant Lane, against all odds, actually looked more nervous than before.
“Sir,” they replied, “it’s, they. They claim to be from the Barsenas Consortium.”
Their opposition. The reason they were out here. They were supposed to be all the way across the solar system. It would have taken them years to travel to meet them. Anders couldn’t fathom why they’d bother.
“Sir, we should target them!” Said Ensign Tremaine.
Anders sighed and rolled his eyes. The ensign was exhausting.
“Perhaps we should determine their purpose in dropping by first, Ensign.”
Tremaine wilted visibly, disappointed. Understandable; years of tedium could make anybody eager for a break in routine. But there must be a very good reason for this extarordinary circumstance.
“Lieutenant Lane, any further communications?” Anders asked.
“Yes. Sir. They’re asking to come aboard, they have something of great importance to discuss with you, sir.” Lane reported.
“Very well. Let them close and dock. I’ll meet them in briefing room four.”
“Sir!” Tremaine bristled in outrage, “We can’t just let them–”
“Ensign, enough!” Captain Anders snapped.
He strode from the bridge, thoughts racing. He wasn’t entirely certain he should be having a sit-down with their “enemy” in this conflict but the situation was well outside of anything that could be expected. Any break was welcome.

He sat at the end of a long table. Nashcorp believed in strictly enforced chains of command, so rather than a round table that facilitated open discussion, the head of a department held court from the head of the table. Anders wasn’t a big fan of this set-up as a rule, but on this occasion he was glad of it. It allowed him to feel like he had control of the situation.
Down the table was the representative of the Barsenas Consortium. She was quite the imposing figure. Military background, actually deserving of the rank that he had never felt cofortable with. He’d never met her before, never even heard of her until they identified who exactly was visiting. But they’d been out here eight years due to her skill. Every barrage they had launched had been intercepted and destroyed.
“Welcome aboard, Captain Winger,” he began, “I believe there was something you wished to discuss?”
“Right to the point? Very well. Earth has been destroyed.”
She stated it the same way she might have said her hair was grey, or that she took her coffee black.
Anders smiled uncertainly, “Destroyed?”
She nodded.
“Specifics, of course. To be more precise, half the earth is gone. As best as we could determine, there was an impact event of a magnitude beyond anything we could recreate artificially.”
“So…” Anders struggled to find the words, “an asteroid? You’re saying earth was hit with an asteroid?”
She shook her head, “A lot worse. It was the moon. The moon collided with earth and smashed a very large chunk of it away. There’s nothing left alive.”
His mind reeled at the enormity of her words, his pulse raced. It seemed impossible.
Ah, when? When did this happen?” He croaked.
“Five years ago. We discovered it about a year later. We could ‘t get a signal to you so I decided to come and tell you in person. You deserve to know. And, we should discuss what comes next.” She replied, still calm.
He envied her that, although on reflection she’d had longer to come to terms with it.
“Sorry, this is a little overwhelming…what comes next. What is there to discuss? We float around out here until we die!”
Winger shrugged.
“That’s one option,” she replied, “But it seems a little senseless. I propose another. A quicker solution.”
He stared blankly at her. He could think of only one way to interpret her words, but didn’t want to believe it.
“You’re suggesting suicide?” He asked.
Another casual shrug. Her calm was infuriating.
“Technically it would be murder. You give your staff the same gift I gave mine. The quickest way is probably detonating your warheads. This station will be destroyed in an instant, no pain for anybody, no suffering,”  she explained it in the same off-hand manner as she had the devestation of their homeworld.
“You can’t be serious!” He exploded in outrage, “I can’t just kill my crew. There’s a hundred people aboard this vessel, they don’t deserve to die!”
She smiled at him, condescendingly he thought. “They’re going to die. Soon. How many years will your supplies last? How long after that will it take them to die?”
“This is insane! I-I can’t just consign them to death. How could I possibly hope to explain–”
She cut him off, “You can’t tell them, man.”
For the first time she sounded ruffled.
“You need to deal with this quickly, and quietly. If you let them know what’s happened, what will happen, it would break them.”
Anders couldn’t help himself. He giggled.
“I can understand that. I’m not exactly coping too well myself.”
She glared at him.
He giggled again, waved his hands as he tried to compose himself.
Her frown lessened.
“I understand, Captain Anders. I had difficulty processing this myself. The decision I made was not an easy one to make, but I assure you it was the correct one,” she told him, calm once more.
His mind raced, weighing the options. Hours ago he’d been bored, wishing for something to break the tedium. Be careful what you wish for, right? He didn’t want this responsibility. He could see the sense behind her words. All this time, for nothing. No amazing payday, No returning home. No point. But to kill his crew. Kill them, or live out the short remainder of their lives floating around Neptune in a giant tin can. But surely he should give them the choice.
“They’d panic,” Winger spoke up, interrupting his musings, “better to give them a peaceful, oblivious end.”
The intercom in front of Anders bleeped.
“Yes?” He answered absently
“Oh. Tremaine. What is it?”
“Can I speak to you in private sir?” The ensign seemed to be whispering. “It’s a matter of some urgency”
“Of course.” He looked up at Captain Winger, “I’ll be back in a moment.”
She huffed impatiently, but inclined her head to dismiss him.

Ensign Tremaine, it turned out, was waiting right outside.
“Captain, I thought you’d want to see this,” he said as he handed over a datapad, ” it’s a scan of the enemy, uh, the visitor’s vessel.”
Anders scanned through the report.
“Is this correct?” He asked, “That ship’s been in the vicinity of a nuclear detonation?”
“Yes sir,” Ensign Tremaine confirmed, “And there’s scoring that suggests debris impacting the vessel as it fled the explosion.
“But sir,” he continued,”this is the most exciting part; analysis of the energy signature of the explosion confirms it was one of our missiles. Is that why she’s here? To surrender?”
Anders leaned heavily against the corridor wall, fighting rising gorge. The thought of what had been about to happen…

He straightened, tugged at his uniform.
“Ensign, prepare a communication for home announcing that we believe we have been victorious. As soon as we reach position, send it.
“I need to talk to Captain Winger.”

November 22nd

Content warning: cannibalism

She had a favourite story she told to horrify people. An anecdote about a friend who was being bothered by an especially creepy man in a nightclub. This creepy man kept trying to dance with her friend, and even leaned in close to lick her face. The terrible punchline to this tale was; her friend developed a nasty rash on her cheek and went to see a doctor. It was determined that the rash was actually caused by bacteria notmally found in mortifying flesh. That this man could only have spread this to her if he was regularly coming into contact with dead people. Guess what, she would say to her horrified audience. He was regularly coming into contact with dead people. He was killing them. And eating them. Her friend had come that close to being next on the menu. Victim number six. Apparently she hadn’t been to his taste.

This slightly grim young woman loved a particular cannibal psychiatrist too. Read the books, watched the films and television show. She had alerts set up on her laptop to follow news stories of cannibal killers. She read with fascination the account of crash survivors forced to feed on one another. Something about the act of consuming another human being held her enthralled. It seemed like the most extreme violation, to her. She couldn’t imagine a worst fate than to be slowly consumed, whether by zombie or hungry maniac.

And in her darkest moments, to herself, she could admit to a curiosity too. To wondering what the sensation of teeth sinking into flesh and tearing skin and muscle would be like. Her teeth. Oh yes. This normal girl with a grisly glee about zombies and cannibals was secretly obsessed with the idea of consuming human flesh. And it was a very secret obsession. Occasionally somebody might wonder that she enjoyed cooking pork and bacon but otherwise tried to avoid mealtime chores. And she might be tempted to joke that she’d read that human flesh cooking smelled similar to cooking pig. She was always very conscientious about clearing her browser history too. If google were to auto-complete “What does…” with “human flesh taste like?” then she’d be hard pressed to explain that away.

No matter how deeply she delved, the answer always appeared to be the same; somewhat like pork. Or at least, this was the consensus among cannibals such as Karl Denke, or Fritz Haarmann. But since they appeared to also be deranged criminals, she remained unconvinced. Needless to say, she didn’t consider herself to be a deranged criminal. And rightly so after all; she hadn’t resorted to killing and eating somebody. She didn’t view that as a viable option; although she’d happily dine on steak (rare) and bacon and lambchops and game pie, the notion of taking a life horrified her. She hadn’t even been able to put an eviscerated pigeon out of its misery, but had instead had to convince a passer-by to do so. The whole concept of animals (or people) suffering was an upsetting one to her. A common enough double standard to be sure. And yet the curiosity still burned. She had read about a journalist similarly obsessed with cannibals who had purchased a lump of flesh from a medical student working in a morgue. A possible solution, if she knew the first thing about gauging the comparitive desperation/shadiness of morgue attendants. Then, too, there was the question of how fresh the flesh she obtained would be. No, far too unreliable. Not to mention, google searches had failed to turn up any handy faqs about bribing people.

So how to satisfy this unusual craving? It was a vexing question. She often fantasized about stumbling on a secret society of gourmands whose palette was on the macabre side. Imagined that one day she would read a comment on an article about cannibalism that posed the question; how would human really taste? Would include a link to a dining club, the sort of thing most people would dismiss as a tasteless joke, but that certain otherwise normal citizens would follow, their curiosity demanding satisfaction. There would be a cautios exchange of e-mails, building trust, until finally, an invitation! Ah, if only. She hadn’t seen any possibility of this admittedly outlandish scenario playing out. Of course in certain parts of the world the consumption of human flesh aas de rigeur, but she wasn’t convinced she’d be able to avoid ending up on the menu so taking a holiday to satisfy her appetites wasn’t really an option either. Poor girl. Whatever would she do?

As it transpired, the Fates intended to show a sort of mercy on this young woman. There came a day when she was unfortunate enough to be involved in a tracfic accident. Six car pile up, multiple fatalities. She had been on foot, but had been caught a glancing blow by flying debris of some sort. The paramedics determined that she wasn’t in shock and had probably avoided concussion despite her nervous behaviour, and let her leave once she’d given a statement, advising a period of bed rest and a list of possible symptoms to be on the alert for. She thanked them for their diligence and rushed home, bag clutched to her chest as though it bore a precious, delicate treasure. Which, after a fashion, it did. In that terrible automobile accident all manner of things had been sent spinning through the air. Shattered glass, twisted bumpers, an errant windscreen wipers…an arm. Oh yes. Some poor soul had been partially dismembered in the accident. What strange fate had sent it spinning through the air to crash into her? Surely it was no random chance. Initially she’d been shocked, struck by the heavy weight. When the nature of what had knocked her on her arse registered, she’d acted. Stuffed it into her bag. She’d barely kept it together while being checked over, certain that at any moment she’d be found out. But here she was. Home. Safe.

She packed the arm into the freezer. The terrible secret, her macabre craving, was within her power to satisfy. But…was she really going to do this? Yes, she absolutely was. It was just a matter of deciding on how to prepare it. She had a pretty well-stocked kitchen, she just needed to pick a recipe.

She sat back, laid knife and fork on her plate. And she wondered how on earth she’d get more.