Kowalski shut her eyes as soon as she saw a long arm with corpse- 
like skin phase through the wall as if it weren't even there. 


The gunshots rang out in quick succession. The smell of gunpowder 
filled her nostrils as her ears rang and she stared into darkness. She 
heard screams. She heard bones snapping. She even heard a 
sickening slurping sound she wouldn't want to see the source of, 


be entirely hygienic to keep about, but this will allow me 
full-time observation of the larvae. | almost feel guilty 
dragging the thing back here, but there’s nothing for it. 
Reminds me a bit of how | felt back in my undergraduate 
studies, when | didn’t want to drown those helpless rats. 
Ah well. This fellow was already dead, and must have 
been for some time without anyone going to look for him. 


Page 60 
15/ 19 


I've examined it all very closely, and it seems I’m 
fortunate to have stumbled upon the larvae at all. 
They've all retreated as deep as they can within the 
body, seeking the darkest, tightest nooks and crannies, 
as if prematurely exposed. And I’ve folded the skin back 
into place, at least what's left of it, and now | see he’s 
split open by a very even, clean-cut slash. The larvae 
weren't the ones responsible for the wound, a knife was, 
or some sort of blade. I’m going to be well pissed off if 
this corpse is a piece of murder evidence. | don’t think 
they bother with that sort of thing as much out here, but 
I’m going to make certain no one finds this body. Not 
about to lose my discovery. 


Page 75 
AWS ALS, 


They’re in cocoons now, and | think my original suspicion 
is correct, they're some sort of ichneumonoid. [Text 
scribbled and illegible.] Although this is fairly 
uncharacteristic of me, I’m spending more energy on 
worrying than data collection. | returned to the place | 
found the body originally, and what do you know, the 
murder weapon sitting right there. | hadn’t noticed it 
before. It’s a big machete, still has dried blood on it. I’m 
frightened because if anyone finds me, they might think | 
killed him, and then | might not be the one awarded all 
the recognition. Definitely not contacting the authorities. 


even if it wouldn't kill her. After a few minutes of pandemonium, 
agony, it was quiet again; save for the same awful breathing she 
remembered. 


Eyes still shut tight, she felt her way to her front door. So much 
blood had soaked her carpet, every step she took made a sloshing 
sound. The smell of what just occurred would never come out either. 


"Run along now, Zero Nine Six," Kowalski told her savior. "There are 
worse monsters in this world than you." 


A Life that Was Simple 


Life, for as long as he could remember, was simple. Exactly how 
long, he could not know. He could not remember when it all started, 
nor did he know of any stable cycles for the measurement. The 
rotation of stars and planets were too insignificant, as they 
themselves are mere specks on the cosmic background. 


It didn't matter, however, as he didn't care. Life, after all, was 
consuming and digesting and growing. Driven by hunger, he swam 
around aimlessly in the dark void, and devoured all the smaller 
meaty things he encountered. He fought and won and gradually 
became bigger. Eventually, he grew so huge that for as far as his 
many eyes could see, there were only beings smaller than him. 
Eventually, he found a great abyss and nested there. A breeding 
ground where the tiny entities spawned and died and were born 
again. 


Life was simple, and he was contented. He became less hungry, as 
food was plenty. He no longer had to hunt things down with great 
effort. All he needed to do was to open his countless mouths and 
those meaty things, newly-born, blind and dumb, would swarm in, 
mistaking them as sanctuaries. He was just like them, but much 
larger. He did not consider this, however. He only relished the taste 
of the withering flesh in his mouths, and longed for more. 


But one day, he found something else. He didn't understand it at 
first, as he bit into the being's body and found it tasteless and solid. 
He released it, as he was not interested in tasteless things. Then, 
with his many eyes, he registered that the being was almost as 
gigantic as him, but quite different. 


Different how, he could not describe. He only understood that the 
other giant being was tasteless and not flesh. The being, unlike all 
the other living things he had seen, had a regular shape, anda 
smooth, reflecting surface. The being — she turned and took a quick 
glance at him. In that moment, she examined him briefly, with a sort 


of curiosity. Then, she simply looked away, and left. 


He too, looked away and left. He had food to consume and taste to 
relish, and wished no quarrel with tasteless non-flesh. They crossed 
their paths many times after, only briefly each time, and he 
understood that the abyss was her home too. 


Unlike him, life didn't seem simple for her. She was always busy, 
engaged in her task. He didn't understand what her task was, until 
he found that wherever she went, the tiny beings were trapped and 
helpless, unable to move. Tiny barriers she had put up, an insane 
effort to patch up the great abyss, the abyss many times bigger than 
both of them combined. 


He was happy to see this however, as his hunt for more flesh was 
made even easier. The hunger was almost negligible. The barriers 
wouldn't even hinder his steps, but made his prey completely 
helpless. So he followed her around, consumed the packed meat 
she had left behind, and was able to observe her more. 


She registered his existence, of course. Cautious at first, but 
gradually got accustomed to it. She needed not be cautious though, 
he contemplated, as he would not eat things that are not flesh. In the 
end, she allowed him to take the tiny things she had trapped, and 
observed him in return. 


Unlike him, she didn't consume, but instead, created things. Eerie 
structures, intricate webs, that would spin and hum and tick and 
move in cycles. But eventually, they all succumbed to the pull of the 
great abyss, and broke apart. She built these things again and 
again, every time more intricate and elegant. But each time, her 
work was rendered useless. He could not understand why she did 
this, yet, she continued. An endless cycle of futility. 


One day, the things she built, the machines, as she would call them, 
broke once more, and were never built again. The small meaty 
things roamed free, and she was nowhere to be found. Life was 
suddenly no longer simple and free, and he was not happy. He 
sought her out, and found her at the deep end of the abyss. She 
said things to him, things intricate as the machines she made that he 
could not understand. But he didn't need to, as he pulled her out of 


the dead center of the void. 


He told her about the life, the hunger, and other things he knew. She 
listened, but there was only so much she could understand. They 
were so different, after all. But she contemplated, and then cut a 
piece of flesh off him. It hurt him, as he had not fought and been hurt 
in a long long time, but he withstood it. He understood that unlike the 
creatures of meat, she had no need to eat him, and he had no need 
to hurt her. 


Again, she began to create. Not out of the shiny or intangible things 
she was so used to, but with the piece of flesh, that small part of 
him. Six small creatures were born, and they were not like things out 
of the abyss, as they were part of him. Their minds connected with 
his, and they communicated, whispering words so intricate that only 
she would know. They discussed and calculated, and led him to 
wherever prey was the most abundant . 


Life was simple again. All he needed to do was to listen to the six 
machines she crafted out of his flesh. He did not cross her path until 
much later, and found that she was attending to the tiny stars, and 
the smaller rocks around them. She again built many different 
things, but no longer around the abyss, but around these spheres. 
This time, her creation was somewhat stable. He was happy for her, 
as she no longer had to engage in futility and that her life could be 
simple as well. Their path crossed less and less, but they would 
often nod in regard to each other when they do. He was happy with 
his new life, and so was she. 


But it all changed. As he one day passed by some of the spheres, 
she attacked him. She cut him and it was not friendly, and the 
machines all soun wild and ticked loudly. In confusion and fury, he 
fought back, but she was only trying to force him away. 


She screamed and begged but he didn't know what she was asking, 
and didn't know what he had done wrong. He knew of her creations, 
and would never attempt to damage them. And he knew that she 
always built them tough and solid, so that his passing by wouldn't 
disturb them. 


He felt confused and angry. It was unfair that she attacked him, 


when he wanted no quarrel with her. So he attacked, and she could 
not stand against him. After all, he was much larger now, and ages 
of creating exhausted her. 


She looked at him, and begged for one last time, which he could not 
know the meaning of, before suddenly, breaking apart. And 
suddenly, the world swirled around him, and the dark void was gone, 
the abyss was gone, and the spheres were gone. He did not 
recognize this new place. 


She was all around him now, but not all of her, just one large piece. 
He could not understand this. He called out her but she didn't 
respond, he shook her but she would not let him go. She seemed 
very much like the things she had created now, but more silent and 
still. 


Life was suddenly complicated, so he asked his six advisors, his 
archons. They informed him that the spheres were important to her, 
and that she was angry at what he would have wrought. He didn't 
fully understand, and had less of a clue of what happened to her. 
Finally, he decided that like her machines, she was merely broken. 
And machines, unlike the things of flesh, can be built again. He 
would wait here, until she was no longer angry with him, and 
decided let to him go. 


He left the decisions to his archons, as they know better than him. 
They linked him to one of the spheres, a blue one, and passed out 
pieces of him. They brought tiny creatures from the spheres, even 
smaller than those of the abyss, so that they may one day serve as 
bridges and tools. They lived on his back, and he tolerated this, as 
the archons promised that he would be out of here, and things would 
be fine again. He always trusted them. 


And so Yaldabaoth slept in the Great Brass Cage, and dreamt of a 
time when life was simple. 


A Long Time Past 


May 10, 1997 
A black moon under a hill of snow. 


His brother had been born first, but the younger was the stronger of 
the two. The omen had been marked, but its mark was not for a 
babe at the breast. Destiny was fit for a man. 


A scene of two boys wielding spears, each fighting a ferocious 
animal. 


Two boys became two men. Manhood brings a mark, which brings a 
name, which begins a destiny. 


A figure of man, dressed in furs, holding a spear. A woman, fat and 
healthy, stands beside him, as do five childlike forms. Another, 
smaller man stands to the side, with feathered staff and headdress. 


He did not have the clays of the River now, not the rich red nor the 
earthy brown nor the smooth grey. Nor did he have the deep black 
of the charcoal of a fire over which the sacred stories were told. He 
had nothing but blood and spit and pus and bone. 


It was enough. 
More monstrous animals, each with a red slash across the belly. 


The storytellers and elders whispered of the brothers’ feats, how the 
warrior smote the beast and the shaman healed the sick and drove 
out evil spirits. They spoke of their great destiny... 


The smaller man stripped of his headdress, walking away from a 
faceless crowd. The larger man points in direction. 


But destiny is a heavy weight: Slip, and it will crush you... 


The woman, dead, smeared with the blood of childbirth, the 
deformed infant in her arms. 


And destiny takes what it will from those it does not destroy. 


A spread of grey land, a swathe of black sky, a tiny white figure in 
the center. 


You took nothing into the cave. Took not your spear, nor knife, nor 
fire, nor sight, nor hearing. The dead allowed only the soul to pass. 


A figure in shadows, bone white face and blood-red hands. 


For the spear will break and hides will rot and fire will dim. All things 
die. Only the soul may be tested. 


A pale, ghostly figure, plump and long-haired. A child holds on to 
one hand. 


And in time rewarded... 

The same figures, smeared out. 

But destiny is fickle with its rewards. 

The light of the entrance to a cave. 

The test was passed. Life, power, and loneliness were the reward. 
The figure alone, surrounded by darkened trees. 

Seasons were born and died. 

He did not. 


The figure standing on a hill, many figures surrounding him. Another 
woman, many children, many others, all fed and strong. 


Death turns to life again. It continues. 
Bloody red fire. 


And again all things die. He did not. 


The figure stripped of his hides, bloody and beaten, surrounded by 
tall, cloaked figures with the skulls of animals. Chains bound his 
arms and legs. 


He could not die, so he watched. 


The man marked with crests that were not his, standing in a river of 
blood, the dead around him thick as the fallen leaves of autumn. 


He could not die, so he lived a slave. A tool. 
A cold, black monolith. A tomb in chains. 


Tools are stored when they are not used, and disposed when they 
have worn out their usefulness. 


Able, son of Ablaln, Chief of the Mountain and the River, He Who 
Returned from the Land of Death, Wanderer of a Thousand Winters, 
the Smiting Blade, The Sleeping God, scowled with bared teeth at 
the last of the paintings. A name echoed through his mind, to the 
very depths of his soul, boiling up hatred a thousand times over, 
hate that burned, consumed, that left nothing but more of the same. 
Hatred against them. The invaders. The slaughterers. The 
slavemasters. The filth. The Daevas. 


When a man has nothing left to lose, then his soul may be stripped 
from him. 


Able roared, slamming his fists into the wall. By all means, they 
should have crumbled under his blows, were they normal stone. His 
fistfalls thudded dully through the cube, not a crack appearing. 


No...the walls of this prison were not to be broken by the tantrums of 
a child. Able ceased his barrage, panting. The echoes froze and 
faded. 


Why had he brought those memories to bear? Had he not buried 
them ages ago? Had he not torn down the walls of Daevon with his 
own hands? Had he not ripped the high priest in twain and 
destroyed their foul idols? Had he not sent them screaming to their 
black gods as their most twisted sorcerers sacrificed themselves to 
lock him away a final time? They were dead, dead and gone, and he 


had bathed in enough blood to forget himself in his madness. Why? 
The answer came to him. 


Able stood up straight to his full eight feet. He knew now. He knew 
why he remembered. It was all happening again. He reached down 
to the rent torso he had been using as palette a last time. His hand 
wet with viscera, he painted one more figure on the cold, uncaring 

walls of his prison: A man with a smile, but no true face. 


A man made a weapon at the call of masters beyond. 
They were the same. 


They were kin. 


A Long Ways from Home 


Transcript of briefing for Mission 453-07-01, Code name 
"Waypoint" 


Begin Transcript 
Agent Walters, Agent Christensen, have a seat.