mug labeled "#1 Researcher!", also a gift from when he figured out 
how to make D-Class transportation systems 2% more efficient. His 
"In" box, mercifully empty, followed closely behind by his "Out" box, 
obscenely filled with neatly stacked and filed papers. Almost 
unconsciously, his finger found the handle to his top drawer. 


He tugged it open. 


It was filled with various odds and ends, office supplies, the 
occasional rubber band ball. They rattled softly as the drawer slid 
open, but Church's eyes were drawn to the 9 mm sitting on a stack 
of old printer paper. A standard issue Foundation Beretta M9 15RD, 
another "gift". Distributed among all researchers at Site 19, itwasa 
fairly common firearm as far as hand guns went. He remembered 
the day they signed him on and gave him his office. There hadn't 
been a whole lot of ceremony to it; they'd shoved him in, handed 
him a stapler, gun and name tag, then told him to get to work. 
Unsure what to do with it, he'd stuck it in the drawer and tried to 
forget about it. It was always there, though. Tickling the back of his 
mind; an instrument whose sole purpose was to end life. It was not a 
tool of construction, of contribution, nor of production. It was a tool of 
destruction. And it was sitting in his desk drawer. 


He picked it up. 


The smooth, machine-wrought curves passed under his fingertips as 
he examined the thing, the matte finish soaking up light like a hungry 
maw. There was no part to this weapon that did not have purpose, 
he realized. Every sliver of metal, every groove, every nick, and 
every curve fit together, sliding over one another, resisting where 
resistance was needed and giving where give was needed. It was 
fascinating. Dr. Church hefted the lump of metal, appreciating the 
weight, the coolness of steel in his palm. With a flick of his thumb, 
he let the magazine slide free, catching it and placing it on his desk. 
His attention followed along the carefully planned chain of reactions; 
as the trigger depressed, the levers and pins spun, pulling the 
hammer back. The spring would resist, of course, as was its 
purpose, but it would give way, allowing the hammer to pull back 
father and farther before-snap. The tiny bit of metal rocketed 
forward, hitting the flint. He manually operated the rest of the 
sequence, pulling the slide back as the gases expanded, the 


Qappik: Promise you wont think I'm lying? 
Filigree: Sure. 


Qappik: Well, | woke up and | was 
underwater. | could see the sun coming 
through the waves. It wasn't cold though, or 
wet. | felt safe. | felt warm, like | was wrapped 
in a fur blanket. Oh, and | saw a whale. 


Filigree: Uh... 


Qappik: [Excitedly] And then | felt a wave, like 
| was riding a wave in to shore and then | 
came out of the water on the island where the 
old buildings are. It was like surfing only under 
water. | bet whales feel like that all the time. 
Anyway, my friend — 


Filigree: Your friend? 


Qappik: My fish friend. | was scared at first 
because she looked weird, but she's nice. 
She's the one who caught me when | fell, or at 
least she said she did but | don't remember 
because | hit my head. But she took me out of 
her amauti and | was dry and she told me 
where to find stuff for fire and brought me meat 
that she helped me cook. | stayed on a pier in 
a fisher shack. It was our secret place. 


Filigree: Did your friend have a name? 


Qappik: She said "Piitchug®" but that didn't 
make any sense. Anyway, can | see her? She 
seemed sad and lonely. | don't think she has 
any friends. Nobody should live like that. 


Filigree: Did she hurt you or do anything 
strange? Did she say where she was from? 


cartridge flying out of the chamber in slow motion in his minds eye. 
He let the slide slip forward, knowing it would scoop another round 
into the chamber as it did so. He sat there a moment longer, running 
through the process in his minds eye once more. 


He pressed the barrel against his temple. 


His pulse jumped immediately, then settled as logic kicked in. It was 
empty; the magazine was on his desk, he'd just checked the 
chamber, what he was doing was perfectly safe. Still, the tiny kick of 
adrenaline at the simple move caught his attention. His breathing 
was elevated, and a slight tremble had entered his hands that he 
couldn't wholly attribute to sleep deprivation. Closing his eyes, he 
tried to imagine what it would be like. Holding a gun to his head, the 
trigger depressing. The spring creaking as it gave way, the hammer 
pulling back. He frowned. It wasn't quite right. It didn't feel... real. He 
glanced at the door, wetting his lips. 


He slid the magazine in. 


Still safe, he reasoned. He had the safety on, and even if he didn't 
the chamber was empty. He was just getting a feel for it. The weight 
of the bullets definitely made it more realistic, made it easier to 
imagine. Closing his eyes, he replayed the scenario once more. The 
trigger going down, the hammer coming back, the bullet leaving, the 
slide rocketing, the casing flying out... yes, he could imagine it 
perfectly. Almost perfectly. The almost nagged at him. Almost 
perfectly. There was no bullet in the chamber. That degree of 
realism was still removed. He held his breath and listened to his 
pulse pound through him. He felt on edge, he felt on fire, he felt 
alive. If this was as excited as he got without actually being in 
danger, what would it be like if- 


He pulled the slide back. 


Safety on. Still safe. Still secure. Still-GOD, everything was in such 
crystal clear definition. He could see every grain, every nick, every 
stain on his shitty little office door, every greasy fingerprint on his 
desk, and every fleck of dust that wafted through the air. His breath 
came out in ragged gasps, his finger tip trembling on the trigger. He 
mentally berated himself, disgusted at his own excitement. He still 


had that safety net, that little pin of metal holding the bullet in check. 
He still had his finger, and the final line he wouldn't cross. And yet, 
he was acting like he had just ran a marathon. He gulped wetly, 
letting the thoughts spin through his mind. He felt oddly detached, 
almost dizzy even, from the gallons of adrenaline his body was 
dumping into his veins. So high, such excitement, and the safety 
wasn't even turned off- 


He flipped the safety. 


Everything was quiet. God damn, it was never this quiet. He could 
hear fucking EVERYTHING. The air whistling down his throat, the 
soft clatter as the gun shook in his hand, the soft creak in his finger 
as it tightened. He focused on that, his eyes staring straight ahead, 
unseeingly. He focused on his finger, tightening around the trigger. 
He knew exactly how far it had to go before the hammer tripped. He 
squeezed half that distance. His heart was beating a thousand times 
per second, pouring the barely oxygenated blood through his 
system. He pulled half the remaining distance. It was hot. So fucking 
hot. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was because of 
the blood pounding just below his skin, pouring his body heat into 
the room. That part of him was quickly smothered by the roaring in 
his ears. He depressed half the remaining distance. Just an eighth. 
Just an eighth of a pull left. Such a tiny amount. He pulled half, then 
half again. A thirty second. A pitiful, tiny amount; insignificant. Barely 
larger than a hair. His eyes dilated, black pinpricks as the world 
narrowed. It was just him. Just him, that gun, and a thirty second-no, 
a sixty fourth of a pull now. He could feel it. He could feel the 
hammer straining, begging the spring to release it. Begging to be 
reunited with the flint. Begging to spark, to ignite the gun powder. It 
pulled back, just the tiniest amount, nearing the point of no return as 
his finger tightened, the tendons and nerves and muscles pulling the 
trigger that last, indivisible amount- 


"Doctor, | Know it's late, but | was looking over the 892 report and | 
thought that maybe-" 


Assistant Researcher Wilkes paused at the door, holding a stack of 
paper and staring at the doctor stupidly. Dr. Church hastily pulled 
the gun away, dropping it into the drawer and pushing it shut all in 
one smooth motion. A moment of awkward silence filled the tiny 


space as they stared at one another, neither moving a muscle. 
"Doctor, what were-" 


"An experiment," he cuts him off. "Just an experiment." His eyes flick 
to the thick sheaf of paper, and he held out a hand. "If | may." 


Wilkes clumsily handed him the report, fumbling with the papers as 
he stammered out, "I-| noticed a few consistent cells in the, uh, uh- 
DH block, and I, uh, thought that if it were a pattern, we could... " 


He trails off, gesturing helplessly at his report. Dr. Church flipped 
through the papers, nodding thoughtfully. 


"Interesting. That could work... but only if the cells didn't change 
over that period... Get a copy of the last twenty iterations. | don't 
think they were perfectly consistent, but it should give us a control 
group.” He returns to the report, mumbling quietly to himself. 
Another moment of awkward silence passes. He glances up, 
noticing Wilkes was still there. "That will be all." 


"Doctor, when | walked in, what were-" 
"That will be all, Doctor Wilkes." 


They stare at one another a moment longer. He fidgeted, then 
nodded respectfully. Slowly, Assistant Researcher Wilkes turned 
and exited the office, casting back a final, lingering glance. Dr. 
Church ignored the look and picked up his pen. With a certain tired, 
methodical pace, he started scribbling notations in the corner, 
reading through the report carefully. He stifled a yawn and turned 
the page. 


He had really been hoping to get some sleep. 


Different Kinds of Nihilism 


harmpit: di dyou eevr meet him @bluntfiend 
bluntfiend: | have no idea who you're talking about. 
lesbian_gengar: yeah hey bluntfiend have you ever 
heard of [mystery noun] 

harmpit: we wree justtal king about the art boys who do 
yuo think im talkin about 

polaricecraps: called context clues, dumbasses. 
bones: Is this friendly banter, or is there enmity? 
polaricecraps: just playn around, big guy. 

bones: Good. 

bluntfiend: You mean Mr. The Critic? Not to be 
confused with that one cartoon made by | think the 
Simpsons people with Jon Lovitz and he'd go “it stinks” 
and that was his catchphrase. | mean, like. | saw him 
once or twice. We never had a big conversation. He was 
kind of weird. He was way older than you'd think. 
hetcopogg: you're fucking old, too, bluntfiend. 
bluntfiend: I'm the oldest one here, aren't |? 

bones: | am much older. 

gaycopmp4: you dont count thats cheating 

bones: | don't cheat. 

lesbian_gengar: that show owned honestly. 

harmpit: waht was he like? the critic 

bluntfiend: Like all of them. Shit fiends. Self-interested 
assholes who thought they were funny. 
lesbian_gengar: so like us :P 

bluntfiend: They were bullies. Geeks who got hurt a lot. 
And they internalized it until it fucking bursted out from 
them and hurt anyone around them. AWCY? didn't care 
who they hurt whenever they made some bullshit point. 
polaricecraps: some of their shit you told me about was 
funny, tho. like that fucking robot you guys made to troll 
the janitors? 

bluntfiend: | mean, fuck, don't get me wrong. That shit 


was funny. But for every one of those, every joke, 
lovingly created to own the fuck out of someone, they 
had a shark, or some stupid shit, that was like “not really 
there guys” and “maybe panic is more dangerous than a 
shark” but the fucking shark killed people, dudes, the 
fucking shark ate people and they died and it hurt people 
that didn't need to be hurt people that didn't need to die 
for the sake of some bullshit artistic point that could've 
been better served written on the fucking back of a 
goddamned cereal box. 

hetcopogg: aren't they all rich kids or something? 
bluntfiend: | mean, kind of? It's not, like, they were all 
fucking children of billionaires, but the dudes tended to 
recruit from top art schools. So normally, you'd get a lot 
of people who were good at art and also lucky enough 
that mommy and daddy had enough money to get them 
into school. There wasn't a lot of, like, outsider art stuff 
with them, you know? All very “in the academy.” 
gaycopmp4: how did you get into it were you in art 
school i cant imagine you going to classes and shit like a 
normal dude 

bluntfiend: | went to art school, yeah. | guess | got into it 
‘cuz of my whole, you know, magic shit. Maybe it's like 
stand users, you know? Stand users are fated to cross 
the paths of other stand users. 

jockjamsvol6: If | had a stand and it turned out not to be 
a punch ghost, | would cry. 

gaycopmp4: if my stand had a destructive power lower 
that was c or lower id jump into a ditch and die there in 
the ditch where i belong 

hetcopogg: what about soft & wet? 

gaycopmp4: im breaking up with you over this betrayal 
harmpit: im otahts a childish way 2 look at stands 
bones: Bluntfiend, may | ask you a question after this 
initial question? 

bluntfiend: Go wild, dude. 

bones: What made you leave them? 


It had to have been 2008. The promise of Obama's inauguration 
was still sweet in your mouth. It meant something to you, then, didn't 


it? The good guys won. Too young to understand that he wouldn't 
be delivering on those promises. Too stupid to realize that the 
capitalist system would never be overthrown by a capitalist. But you 
were happy. You weren't an idealist, but you had a kind of peace 
within you, right? Everything was going to be okay. They were 
gonna close Guantanamo Bay, and a country built on the backs of 
slaves had its first black president. 


You were happy. It was simple. Maybe it was even childish, but you 
were happy. It's cheesy, stupid fucking bullshit, but wasn't it nice? 
Wasn't there hope in the air? 


The first time you realized you weren't right for them was right 
around the inauguration, right? So close. Maybe it was before. 
Maybe it was after. It doesn't matter. You smoke too much. Who 
cares when an event goes before another. All that matters is they 
both happened. 


One of them had an idea. Just a little joke, right? The normies were 
so happy, and in such large crowds, and wouldn't it be fun if we 
snuffed out what we could? The world's just absurd. And you were 
there to add to it, weren't you? 


Ossify Wall Street. That had been fun. Show those fucking fatcats 
what kind of shit they had to look forward to. But they all weren't like 
that, were they? The violence was never kept to the upper echelons. 
Indiscriminate. But wasn't art indiscriminate? What about Guernica? 
the Critic would ask. Doesn't there need to be destruction for 
something beautiful to be made? 


It meant nothing to you. It meant nothing to you the longer you 
thought about it. You let it go through your brain, leave your lips, and 
hang out to dry in the air. Why did you need to destroy to make 
anything beautiful? What was the point? It seemed childish, didn't it? 
Guernica was a crime. Nothing about it was good. What was that old 
motherfucker thinking? 


You remember the statue. The Dali thing, or whatever. The rape 
statue. Someone had made that. Someone you knew. And it had 
been praised. You were uncomfortable. Of course, you were. You 
were young. And you just didn't understand art or the point they 


were trying to make. Too filled with things that mattered in a world 
where everything was shit. 


But that was stupid. People had worth. Ideas had weight. The world 
was filled with meaning, and you left them. Made a big show of it, 
too, didn't you? Do you think anyone died? Would that make you a 
hypocrite if they died? Is this just like Batman, and is killing the 
spree killer actually somehow morally reprehensible?