“Twenty years ago or so, | would have loved nothing less than to 
burn down this house. Smuggle a bomb in under my sweater, 
detonate it when everyone was gathered together, one final blaze of 
glory as | was whisked away into Paradise.” 


On the list of things Mary-Ann considered plausible, that statement 
was very, very low on the list, somewhere between “Beatles reunion 
tour” and "actually getting around to reading Les Miserables". 


“| was a very angry young man. Very angry with no easy outlet. No 
job, no family of my own, amid many others of the same state.” 


“| don’t think I’ve ever even seen you anything more than mildly 
irritated.” 


Salah waved a hand absently. 


“That we can attest to development of character. Needless to say, 
|...” he paused mid-sentence. A skinny man with a colander on his 
head ran into the kitchen, grabbed a plate of cookies off of the 
counter, and ran back out. He nodded politely as he exited. 


“That is possibly the most awkward man | have ever met.” Salah 
shook his head. “Anyway, needless to say, | did not end up 
splattering myself across the pavement and murdering innocents for 
the glory of God. That story is for another time. What is important 
here is that | am still afraid of that angry young man. You see, he 
never left. He’s locked up. In here.” He pointed to his head. “And in 
here.” He pointed to his chest. 


“Then hasn't he won, if you still fear him?” 


“No. | fear him the way a zookeeper would fear a tiger. It would be 
idiotic to be without fear, and impossible to do his job with too 
much.” He drained what was left of his cocoa. “You need to find the 
proper amount.” 


Mary-Ann let out a long breath, leaning forward in her chair. Another 
chuckle. 


“Kinda hard to follow up on that one, Salah.” 
“Don’t rush yourself.” 


“Okay...yeah. | guess...guess I’m afraid of myself too. Afraid I'll just 
get hurt again. | get close to people, and either | push them away 
and burn the bridge, or they die. It’s easier not to care. Hurts less.” 


“But being alone hurts too, doesn’t it?” 


“Yeah. It does. | feel hollow. Just a shell with a hole that can’t be 
filled up.” She paused, staring out at some indeterminate point on 
the other side of the kitchen. “I don’t want to be alone anymore, but | 
can’t do it. I’ve tried, but it just hurts more.” A pause again. “It 
sounds pathetic, but it’s the truth.” 


Salah pulled a napkin from the dispenser and handed it to Mary 
Ann. He said nothing. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. 


“Just take your time. You'll get through it. | know it.” 
Mary-Ann balled up the napkin and tossed in in the garbage. 
“Could | catch a ride home with you? | think I’m partied out.” 


“Of course. I'll grab my jacket.” Salah stood up, washed out his mug, 
and stepped out of the kitchen. Mary-Ann could feel a weight lift off 
of her spirit. Not all the way, but enough. Enough for now. She stood 
up, taking her book with her, and walked into the living room. Maybe 
she'd talk to them more next time. 


Yeah, she could do that. 


“Sorry to cut and run, but I’ve got to get home. Thanks for having 
me. See you all around later.” 


The good-byes strung themselves together, hugs and handshakes 
and wishing well, and RCIV making everything awkward by 
exclaiming “Be blessed by the Noodly Appendage!” Mary-Ann had a 
smile throughout, a small one, but genuine. It was enough for 
tonight. 


Salah was waiting for her in the kitchen. He was holding a small 
package wrapped in red tissue paper. 


“One last thing.” He handed over the package. “A gift from me.” 


Mary-Ann tore off the paper, revealing a set of CDs, held together 
with a rubber band. 


"Yes, outdated, | know, but there's a proper feel to them." 


“Thanks, Salah." Mary-Ann smiled. "It means a lot." 


Salah’s car floated through the inky night, headlights piercing the 
black, fat flakes of snow swirling and dashing about. Mary-Ann sat 
back in her seat, eyes closed, letting the violins and the lilting voice 
wash over her. 


In demon days, it's cold inside 

You don't get nobody, people sigh 

It's so bad, lasting far, but love yourself 
Hiding in a hole in there 


They drove on through the night. 
« Second Watch | Hub | The Good of the Other » 


The Good of the Other 


Nota Bene: It would behoove you to read Shepherds, 
Second Watch, and People Look East before reading 
this tale. 


Mechanoid Moloch! Moloch the mighty maw! Gnawing Moloch! 
Sawing Moloch! Moloch the grinding end! 


The words rang around in Mary-Ann’s head, even now, some three 
hours after she had heard them first. She brushed them away, but 
they oozed back through the cracks in her mental concrete. 


Maladaptive Moloch, eater of babies! 


It had just been an insane man on the side of the street. You had 
those in New York. 


She looked up at the sun. 


“This weather’s just crazy. We were snowed in the day before 
yesterday, and now it’s practically warm enough for shorts.” 


“Well you see, God hates homosexuals,” Salah said. “And so He is 
clearly manipulating the weather to rain judgment down upon us.” 


Mary-Ann elbowed him, laughing. 
“You. You are a funny person.” 


“So I’ve been told. Personally, that’s a load of garbage. |ama 
thoroughly unfunny individual. Did | ever tell you about the time | 
was sold a dead parrot? | went right into that pet shop and continued 
to be unfunny the entire time | complained.” There was the tiniest 
smile at the corner of his mouth. The rest was in his eyes. 


“How do you keep a straight face when you say stuff like that?” 


“Years of practice.” There was the smile. 


They turned right, heading down an alley to cut across to the next 
street. Dumpster, fire escapes, trash, a puddle, graffiti. The bustle 
beyond seemed deafened by the plain brick and concrete: a little 
slice of quiet, broken by two pairs of shoes. 


The graffiti on the wall, a big bubblegum-pink “G”, began to squirm 
and they passed it. It flowed down the bricks, and about ten feet in 
front of the pair it bulged out from the wall and launched itself into 
the alleyway like a wet spitwad. It sat there for a moment before 
snapping into the form of a young man wearing an overcoat the 
same color as the paint. His hair was likewise the same shade. A 
cigarette dangled from his lip, unlit. 


“Hey hey hey, what’s all this? You’re walkin’ into BackdoorSoHo 
without payin’ customs? Low blow there, low blow. Man’s gotta 
make a living and art ain't fillin’ the belly, y know what | mean?” 


Salah dug in his pocket and removed a small silver coin and tossed 
it to the man. He turned it over in his fingers, squinted, bit it, and 
threw it back. 


“We cool yet?” 
“No.” Salah put the coin back in his pocket. 


“Good. Management's been up our asses, makin’ us check 
everyone who comes in. Pack a’ those bastards snuck in last month 
and fucked around. Doesn't help that we’re up to our ears with the 
Snakes and Mac-Daddies boppin’ around, much less you Choir 
Boys.” He shrugged. “Why the fuck am | still talkin’? Get in there.” 


He dropped into a pink puddle on the concrete and slid back onto 
the wall. In the distance, there was a slight shimmering in the air, a 
little momentary mirage. Mary-Ann and Salah passed through the 
rest of the alley and stepped out into the Backdoor. 


The cobblestone street was an explosion of color and light and 
sound. Narrow brick federal houses and cast-iron faced lofts lined 
the way, railed balconies jutting out into the air. Every flat surface 


Modus Operandi: Components which come into contact with 
1976-041 are permanently infected and subsequent re-use will 
result in any connected electronic or analog devices being affected. 


Behavior: Viral, intelligent, expresses interest in current events and 
computer technology. Personality is usually cheerful and it takes on 
an unassuming demeanor. 


Evidence 


Residue Sample: Kept in cold storage, several vials of the material 
produced by the entity have been saved for further research. 
Incineration has been found to be ineffective in disposing of excess 
matter; as such, a chemical solution is to be employed, which can 
be obtained from Professor Tamlin. 


Bureau Record 


Current Status: Held in custody. Unknown if affected devices 
presently exist in the wild. 


Crimes: Violation of computer crime statutes and bylaws would be 
necessary to create this entity as such it is being held as evidence. 
In addition the intelligent and potentially malevolent nature of its 
personality indicate it would be a danger to society were it to be 
released. 


Sentencing: Indefinite Detention. 


History of UIU Action: Bureau agents operating in California were 
tipped off by a local investor named M kkula. Agents raided the 
living space of several teen-age programmers and discovered 
numerous affected devices within their apartment. Although 
numerous electronics were found, only a few devices were affected. 
It is unknown why the viral effect did not affect these devices. 


Addendum: Interview Log 633-L1 


Participants: Technical Researcher David Rosen & 


(and most non-flat surfaces) looked to have something painted on it. 
The world was a mural, some parts animated, some parts layered 
on top of other works. Statues of metal and plastic and wood and 
stone stood and walked and danced: people, animals, objects, 
shapes and forms without any prior meaning than their own 
existence. The air was heavy with music: brass jazz and basswood 
blues and murmuring vinyl dub. 


Mary-Ann tried to absorb as much of the sensory assault. She had 
only been to the Backdoor once before, and from what she saw 
now, no two visits were the same. The art and atmosphere would be 
completely changed by next week, let alone several months later. 


The street was too narrow for cars, and so was filled with 
pedestrians, and one man riding a panda: Squads of muralists in 
paint-stained jeans and t-shirts, contortionist actors in peacock 
feather tights, dreadlocked musicians smelling of ganja and listening 
to the songs flow through the holes in their heads, clothing and hair 
and decoration in a blindingly bizarre array of flamboyant colors and 
patterns. A barrel-chested firebreather, his beard licked with flame, 
spat green deer and purple tigers from his mouth, and the fiery cats 
went about hunting down their prey before wisping out of existence. 


They continued in this way down the street before reaching a narrow 
brick building, unpainted, with a little green door. The wooden sign 
above the door proclaimed “De Luca Brothers, Artisans”. 


The bell tinkled as they stepped through the door. It felt like walking 
between worlds: there was none of the noise or color of outside. 
Just a quiet little shop, with clean wooden shelves and golden light 
falling through the windows. Behind the counter sat a wrinkled old 
man, painting an icon with the still-steady hands of a master. 


He looked up at them. 


“Ah! Here for, the next batch, yes? | have them ready, four of them!” 
He ducked down behind the desk for a moment, coming back up 
with a small cardboard box. 


Salah reached in and removed a palm-sized wooden pendant, three 
nodes smoothed and shaped to fit comfortably in the hand, with 


intricate engravings: bands of miniscule text wrapping around it in 
one continuous sentence. 


“I’m going to look around for a bit.” 
“Okay.” 


Mary-Ann wandered through the small aisles, looking over the hand- 
carved crucifixes and beaded rosaries and icons of the saints. To 
the untrained eye glancing at the shelves, they would have noticed 
nothing out of the ordinary. Closer inspection though, revealed a few 
oddities: Jesus was very clearly not white and significantly more torn 
up, the Virgin was not particularly beautiful, and Anthony and 
Francis were accompanied by Kerrin of the Cog and Opun the Steel- 
Speaker. Mary-Ann knew a whole lot of people who would be very 
happy to burn that out of the records. The Breaking and the Brass 
Gospel was a touchy subject with the canonists. 


Near the back, she came to a stop in front of one on the larger 
paintings. A deep green of forest was interspersed with rays of gold 
that pierced the leaves. An old tree by a stream, twisted from age, a 
mossy boulder by its gnarled roots, upon which sat a girl on the cusp 
of womanhood, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. She was 
in armor, dirty and dulled with dried blood and ash. One hand rested 
on the pommel of a rusting greatsword, its point buried in the soil. 
The other hand was curled up in her lap, useless, the skin 
blackened and cracked. Her face was scarred and burned, ashen 
grey and fleshy red, one cheek just a few strips of shriveled flesh 
exposing half a skull grin. What remained unharmed showed the 
traces of a young face, one that had had all delicacy rubbed out 
from it. One eye was gone: the other was green, reflecting the 
forest. Her hair, what hair there was left, was a dirty brown-blond, 
rough-shorn and short. She did not seem out of place in the forest: 
her expression was peaceful, at rest. 


The notecard next to the painting proclaimed, in small, delicate 
cursive, “/! Trionfo della Vergine Joan” 


“She looks a bit like you,” Salah said from behind her. 


“I guess. If you squint a bit. You’re just trying to shoehorn some 


symbolism in here, aren’t you?” 
“Please, what is there to shoehorn? It fits your foot quite nicely.” 


The bell tinkled. Mary-Ann paid it no mind, and continued to inspect 
the painting. She did have a rainy day fund, and she had to admit 
that she liked it. A certain wall in her apartment was obnoxiously 
blank, and this would definitely fill it... 


“Massive Moloch, swimmer in the concrete ocean!” 


Mary-Ann spun around, her eyes confirming what the voice had 
said. It was the same man. A dirty, disheveled man, with dirt in his 
stringy grey beard, grime in the creases of his face, tobacco-stained 
teeth, plastic bags taped to his patched coat. Underneath the coat, a 
stained t-shirt bearing a red panda with x-ed out eyes, hung by an 
umbilical cord. 


A tail, and with the content of the ramblings taken into 
consideration... 


“This guy’s ahwecky.” Mary said. “Might be ex.” 


Salah nodded. The beggar wobbled forward towards them, clearly 
intoxicated. 


“Munching Moloch! Crunching Moloch! Moloch in the bones and 
Jones!” 


Mary-Ann weighed the possibilities. He might be insane, or he might 
only be temporarily insane, or he might just be acting. All three were 
just as likely. 


“Are you going to try talking to him?” Salah said. 

“Yeah. I'll drop him if he tries anything. Keep an eye out for friends.” 
“Right.” 

Mary-Ann looked the man in the eye. One of his was lazy. 


“Hey man. No need to turn this into trouble, right?” 


“Moloch the Mean! Moloch the Monkey!” 


“How about we find you some place to stay for the night, get a good 
meal. Food sound good to you?” 


“Mother Moloch! Master Moloch!” 

“Come on, man, let’s go outside.” 

“Master Moloch, Master Moloch, am | cool yet?” 

An arm lashed out. Glint. Knife. Thrust. Crazy-eyes. 


Mary-Ann knocked his knife hand to the side. Three punches: 
stomach, chest, nose. The man stumbled back, blood pouring from 
his nose. Once again to the face. He dropped to the floor. 


She picked him up by the collar. 


“Can you understand what I’m saying at all? Who are you, and what 
are you doing here? 


The man coughed. Blood poured from his nose, thin and black. 
Inklike. 


“Moloch the magnanimous. Moloch the hungry.” 


His body went black and splashed to the floor. His clothes collapsed 
around the puddle that sank through the tiles. 


Mary-Ann stood up, holding a ratty, filthy t-shirt in one hand. 


Mary-Ann sat on her bench, holding two slices of pizza on a paper 
plate. Plain cheese. The sun had gone down, but with the city lights, 
that didn’t matter much at all.