The sun began setting on the sand covered dunes that sprawled along the derelict wastes once covered by a grand city, the water having dispersed into a nearby oasis. With all things dealing with giving life, of course there was law surrounding what was & wasn’t up to standard. The local town of Aurichasm was a small congregation run by a gang named “The Sickened Samara”. While the people of the springs were good, the law was a sacred and seldom fought against ruling. That was until some outlaws strolled in, a rare sight, especially in the times. With open arms they were welcomed by the folk, that was until The Samara heard of them. They were a band of gunslingers about forty in number and fifty in strength. Once the posse had been welcomed in, all hell broke loose figuring out what to do with them; that leads to me. I was a member of the higher echelon of members from the Samara, a figurehead for the rebel faction that was soon to be outcast in the nearest election. James Khinderlend, name of the beast. Myself and the band of stragglers that somehow overthrew the last members of the Samara were as follows: my brother, Arthur Khinderlend, Charles Furstenveldt & Elizabeth Sistanäc. Together we were the last members of the “rebel faction” known as the “Dando Vueltas Brothers”. See, the previous members of the Samara (of which I’ve blissfully forgotten the names of) were branded as magistrates of peace, when in reality (to them) peace meant only they should live. We four were the harbingers of a new dawn, our names sung on the wind as Charon to the River Styx, death. As such, once we got our foothold within the organization, the other living members who were indifferent to the Magistrates but allowing it to continue didn’t favor us. The Samara had been a deeply rotted system from the inside out, we were but mere spores that were lucky enough to cling onto the side of the cadaverous structure. In the town we were worshipped for a time, relegated to heroic tales of freedom. That brings us to the summer of what we believed to be fifty-nine (we had lost calendars in the calamity; no one had counted), The stars were as bright as a pistol-flash, letting us all know the half-decade election was beginning. As nature would have it, people hate having an open life. We were opposed to most of that the Samara wanted to introduce into the desert: drilling for oil, cave delving in the ruins, etc. We had been outvoted 30 - 4, it being clear people were interested in innovation instead of the sanctity of quiet. Collectively, bound together in the shame of defeat, had laid our weapons down on the feverish sand. The town cheered as the Samara had shown their new drawn plans for what the town could become, now that our fundamentalism was withdrawn from the occasion. The sun hung low in the sky and the cold air began to sweep in, that was until a scream awoke Elizabeth; myself and Arthur were still speaking late into the night. When donning our hats & vests, we noticed Charles was missing. That’s when I saw the head of the current Samara, Silva Argentlumen carrying a tied Charles on his back. The three of us tracked him long enough for the beginning of a sandstorm to kick up. Once he made it to his horse, Silverstead, we had to hang back as to avoid letting the Samara know we were seeing their treason. We carefully clung to the walls of the houses, creeping into our houses. While discussing what their motive could be, besides political assassanation, we came to the conclusion they were taking him to an experimental mine, as had happened in the old days of the Samara. The sandstorm was far too heavy outside to follow; we waited with baited breath until the sunrise, even hearing Silverstead return. As the sun arose the quaking from the sand was just as loud as it had been the days prior. We left our houses in search of Charles, leaving under the guise of checking on our late father’s house. As we suspected, the sandstorm had covered many of the tracks leading from the town to wherever Silva & Silverstead went. Eventually we found a small indicating path of tracks seeming to be from a horse. They lead, as expected, to a mine. As we walked in, the sickly smell of almonds & overgrowth was as potent as gunpowder on a barrel. We marched in defiantly only to find the resounding blasphemous sight of nothing. Silence. The only thing we - I noticed, was a small pocket of mushrooms growing on the corner of a reinforcement’s wood. As we were leaving I had told the others about the impossibility of such growth, having studied plant life and agriculture in my younger years. Of course, I was shrugged off with irreverent haste; nothing new. The hunt was for our comrade in arms, not a parasitic growth or lab experiment. We prodded around the area for a while until we realized there was a door half buried in the sand; this was no mine. We were instead in the ruins of an opulent building from the before times. As we descended the stairs unto the - frankly terrifying - structure, we heard sounds of struggle, someone fighting another. As Elizabeth was our stealthiest member, myself and Arthur being more suited for upfront fistfighting, we sent her into the shadowed corridors leading into the complex. She quickly discovered and called us over, the lifeless body of Charles. Heartbroken, we three quickly shared our words to each of our makers, blessing their names for the time we had with him; cursing them for our decision to act leisurely. Despite the tragic loss, there was still a threat looming around us, seemingly coming from every direction. After our short peace, unbefitting for a man of Charles’ stature, we continued searching for our unseen predator. As we weaved through the narrow passages of the building, finally we’d seen our threat: one of the oldest members of the Samara: Octavio Insufin. We’d hid in the dark, our coordinated being black helped with this endeavor. We watched as he was raiding the cabinets of the lower rooms, though it looked like he was searching for something in particular. As he began waltzing our way with no care in the world, we ducked into a separate room, quieting our breathing so as to not alert him. He passed by with the same nonchalant stride as someone would have walking to their house after a nice day. Once he left back up the stairs, I had Arthur and Elizabeth ascend to follow him; I went lower. As I went further into the decaying near-weald of what was a former civilization, I realized just how much they’d hid from us in the 10’s. There was an entire world that inhabited this dead machine we were inside. The sounds of struggle we had heard were quickly discovered by me, not being Charles but a second party raider (victim?) who had been at the wrong place - wrong time. His neck had severe blunt wounds and he wasn’t decayed more than a freshly butchered cow. To imagine someone being so laidback after strangling someone is a sickening thought, though it got me thinking: “There were no wounds on Charles”. Seeing how vast this structure was, I decided against venturing further in myself, opting to return to the higher layers, checking Charles’ corpse one last time. As suspected, there were no wounds, instead, he looked the same as he had been alive. Cautiously I removed his large leather overcoat he always preferred to wear when out in the sandstorm, hence his nickname from the former Samara: “Beige Death”. Once more, I noticed the lack of wounds and or any sign of injury, decay or rot. He looked as though he had been alive near moments prior, even his eyes were still dilated. His knife had no blood on it & his clothes were immaculate. I left the building, meeting back up with Arthur & Elizabeth, hearing that Octavio simply rode back to town. I told them the inner machinations of the mega-complex and the discovery of the anomalous Charles’ corpse. While interested in the building, they suggested that the cadaver could’ve been poisoned. Lending credibility to that theory was the intense smell of almonds, but that raised another question, where would the Samara had found cyanide in this area? I went along but didn’t believe them. As we rode back into town, we were met with the inquisitive gaze of the rig-building Santiago Ocars. He asked where we had been: we explained that the sand had kicked up and we got turned around for a few minutes until the sun was at a specific angle on its axis. Of course, he didn’t buy this for a minute, asking us once more where we were trying to go. To avoid suspicion we told him our Father’s house, informing him that Elizabeth was following because there was nothing better to do that day. He continued asking question after question about how the house was, how it looked, something was abnormal. Eventually we stood our ground and walked back to our houses, only to hear his voice shout a harrowing comment: “I ONLY ASK ‘CAUSE WE TORE IT DOWN LAST WEEK!”. At this point, we had no defense. Whenever we needed reconnaissance, we would call upon Charles. Since we didn’t actually check the house, we couldn’t know if this was a bluff or a truthful statement; we went quiet. He laughed and thankfully walked away. A week went by of trying to cypher out what our best course of action was, now that we were down one member and our power (politically) had been stamped out like a match on a tavern floor. Our town had just under five-hundered people living, only about ten of them had any actual power over what happened. Without our fundamentalism to the act of silence, nine of the ten were now Samara. Mentioned before, had we strictly went guns blazing into the town against the Samara, no matter how much of a good shot we were collectively, we would be forty to three. I rang the town bell, calling all out into the street. I waited for the bi-weekly meeting, where the Samara were busy talking to each other inside, unable to leave until they’ve all decided on each other's ordinance. I began trying to make a case for a revolutionist point of view, the polar opposite of what I had been known for before. “Can ya’ read the writings on the walls? Do the caravans still tread the sand? Do the seasons still change with utmost regularity? Does the wind still sing? We are all uncertain during these times, however we must band together for one thing: revolution. The new laws being imposed by the Samara will be nothing short of dictatorial, forcing us to live under loaded guns, laughing at us for showing our faces when our skulls are being crushed under heels. Look around you! Ol’ Auric had been prosperous under the law of silence, as to such I say an echoing ‘WHY BREAK IT?!’. Some were receptive, others turned a blind eye; that’s when I heard a clap. Silva. Silva had come out, pausing the meeting solely to listen to my speech. He yelled over his clapping: “That’s pretty good ol’ son! If I weren’t… Well… The head of TSS, I might’a thought about what you said!”. He snickered a vile laugh. “Heard ya been down a partner recently, ol' boy. Ever cipher that out?”. He turned and walked back into the Samara’s meeting hall. We had started a spark, now it was time to kindle the fire. Slowly the Samara revealed what it would cost from town members to build the new oil rig. People grew more and more restless with contempt. Forward a few months of biding our time and once building had begun, constant bedevilment of the construction site took place, landing suspicion on us. Slowly but surely, people started noticing the town growing more and more silent week by week, seemingly people started staying inside more. Even the eternal oasis (our water source, which kept refilling from an unknown source, which sparked my vow to silence) was more full than usual. One day the tide changed, I had woken up to see Arthur and Elizabeth missing. I was always the first one awake, it was unlike them. As I stepped outside, I was tackled by an unknown assailant. Eventually I landed a pounding right hook into the man’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. As I stood up, I noticed the Nine Samara crowded around a corpse: the last non Samara in the electoral system we had built. Noticing I had knocked the man over, the nine took to fighting hand-to-hand, surprisingly none took to their pistols. Later I learned this was because they had another member that was their de facto leader that had escaped the execution of the original Samara. A nine to one fight is nearly impossible to win, eventually I was knocked unconscious, waking up in a cell. Silva stood at the door, leaning back against the wall on the opposite side. “We know you found Charles’ corpse, ol’ son. I didn’t wanna do this, wanna make that clear. I’m with the boys n’ brown but I still got my morals, get me? They wanted to gun you down; you have me to thank for your life. Hear me? I found that lil’ speech a’ yours quite a’ sumthin’. Maybe we could’a been partners in another age. Oh, your boy Charles’? We didn’t savage em’ like you been thinkin’. Octavio went against our order and… Well, I done said too much now. I’ll come’on back sometime.” His words only added to my head-trauma induced confusion. I could hear the sounds of at least twenty others banging on the walls. From the limited visibility I had out of my cell door, I could see a bridge. I knew this bridge, it was the same one that led to my Father’s shack. “ARTHUR!” I screamed through the door, to be met with a shocked “JIM?!”. I knew it had to be him, from that specific slur he had and the fact that only the closest people to me would say “Jim”. On the way out, Silva gave a glare, raising two fingers to his nose. An old adage of peace. While observing the walls of my cell, I noticed there were cracks in the door, small enough to miss. When pressing against them, I could tell they were deep enough that I could break through, given a few days. Constant surveillance by another member of Samara, Elsie Phrino, made this escape attempt harder than it realistically should’ve been. Coupled with the dwindling water they gave us per day and exhaustion began setting in, that was until a bar broke from another cell. Elizabeth had snapped through her cell door while Elsie was on the other end of the building, Arthur quickly joining. Upon their breakout, they began quickly sawing through others locks. I was fortunate enough to break through mine with renewed vitality. Suddenly a horde of angry townsmen were loose in the halls of this jail, which I had now seen was paved over where my Father’s house stood. Fullerton bridge was an instantly recognizable landmark, standing as a monument to when people first made their comeuppance against nature. Elsie flung her pistol out, snapping a few shots towards the horde. Some four died but she was eventually overtaken. As we communally walked outside, the truth became abundantly clear: they hadn’t paved over my Father’s house, in fact, they made it into the living quarters for the “guards”. It was a freezing desert night and none of us had any layers besides one shirt and pants. With Elsie being the only one that had been watching us; no new prisoners coming in for nearly two weeks, it was safe to say they had caught all their unbelievers. They had made three new houses by my Father’s, having room for twenty each. We collectively began living there for nearly a month, the Samara were too busy with their Oil Rig to care. Having taken over the small villa, us twenty shacked there for a small time, the Samara having supplied more than enough water for some-fifty people. They had also supplied oil to burn a fire, keeping their “guards” warm at night. With this water & fire, we formed a new gang: “Suns of Revolution”, a band of anti-Samara ‘slingers. Having traveled the surrounding area, it being a fair distance from Aurichasm, we tamed horses for our men and stocked up on weapons made by one of the arrestees, John Kilmin. After nearly a month of preparation, we knew the schedules of the Samara, when they would be active, when they left, when they took breaks. We collectively agreed on a plan: we’d ride into town and douse everything in oil, burning it alight once there was only one of us there, that being me. Arthur & Elizabeth were hesitant at first due to the loss of Charles, but I was steadfast. The less men involved the more frightening, the more frightening the more legend. That night, we rode out, watching the Samara leave towards where they had planned construction, the rig now visible above the mounds of sands. As we arrived, we had just under three hours to get the set up complete. Precisely on the time, we had doused nearly all essential buildings, the others could be taken by the winds of change. In my old abode there I had found my hat, a perfect last gift from the place I was born. I donned my old “man-in-black” look, I stood in the town center, waiting for the moon to strike its cardinal position signalling the hour of returnal. Once it arrived to its mark, I had The Suns start a long fuse and let them get away. As they stepped over the hill, witnessing the lone horseman, they stopped. I was never a lip reader but I could see from there that they were ciphering what to do. I raised my pistol and launched a round into the air, timing it with when the flames started. They began to run in after seeing the smoke. Me? I took a direct left, going nearly vertical over a large hill of sand, once on the other side, I dismounted my horse: “Wheel” and stood, scimitar in hand. They did their best to put out the fire, looking over towards me as I bowed and (to them) vanished over the hill. A few weeks went by when some of the Suns went into the town, seeing wanted posters for a “St. Aurelias”. As I had planned, they had made it a tale of a myth. See, St. Aurelias was a mythological figure that one of the first survivors said lit a fire with lightning next to him, keeping him alive. With their production stalled, I rode back one night to the megastructure underneath the earth. When delving into the burdened edifice, I came across several more of those peculiar mushrooms. The more obscure thing however, was that Charles was gone. No where to be seen. The other corpses that demon Octavio had left behind were decayed as they should be, except for a minor infraction on one near the mushrooms. It’s flesh was still semi-intact. At this point it had been months, there should’ve been no way it was that fresh. I noted the difference between the two and continued in, now being able to freely explore the bizarre place to its fullest. The longer I stood inside the superstructure, the more alien it felt. As stated before, they never taught anyone about something like this back in the 10’s, explaining that there were things we "shouldn't toy with”. To see it in all this glory & splendor was a treat unlike any other. A look into a dead society, visions from the past. As I went lower into the building, the more decayed it looked, almost as though something was eating it from the bottom-up. The writing was on the wall at this point to leave; I had to see more. I went further down, seeing a corridor so long that the bottom was not visible nor heard when I dropped a nearby chair into it. I peered over the edge for a while before I heard a shuffling sound behind me. Quickly I dove into cover, dancing masterfully around the tortured terrain. A whistle began singing from down the way (the plane I was on, not the corridor). I peaked around the corner, noticing the same brown attire that was common by the Samara, yet, this wasn’t just Octavio, it was another member as well: Sam Arocat. A well renowned sharpshooter back in Aurichasm. I watched as the two traversed through the broken down halls. The two’s voices echoing around the facility. They were talking about how their rig was almost complete, how they can find what’s below. Just about then is when Octavio snapped and stormed upwards out of the building, his footsteps louder than any man I’d heard up to this point. Sam had sat down, looking rather dejected. I threw an object across the room, it distracting him long enough for me to ambush him. He looked over with even more of a despondent glare. His words echoed into the open air, practically startling me from how bleak they were: “Listen, Octavio already has the Ten in shambles. We’ve fallen apart fundamentally, we’re being forced into building that Rig, even though it’s going to achieve nothing. Only he & Santiago are even part a’ the equation. You can pull that trigger right now and nothing will change. Only thing you’ll be down is a bullet n’ a friend.”. I stood in stunned silence for a while, he continued: “I recognize you. You’re St. Aurelias, the Galloping Redeemer. Burned our sorry village down in retribution to that mad bastard. I carried on with his plan but, hell, I say let it burn.” Under the guise of the redeemer, I request a meeting with the other rebels. Upon my arrival, there were two, three if you count Sam. Otto Ekko, & Grant Elfeind, These three had been under the rule of Octavio, being forced into building that Oil Rig. We talked for a pleasantly long amount of time, sharing words of unity, hope, perseverance. We parted ways, Sam giving me the rough location of the meetup location for any future occurrences. I met back up with Arthur & Elizabeth to fill them in on what was happening, only to be met with a silent villa. The two were there, sure, but there was not another soul in sight. Samara had come in the night, slashing several members in the left most house, thankfully not having enough time to go through all of them. We lit a flame in the honor of the fallen, who had been cut down so immorally. Sin had swathed the ruins of our small villa, taking those poor souls from our ground with an air of pure vile tinge. We packed the most of what we could and began to move. We started living out of tents, like the nomads people used to mention in the 20’s. It wasn’t always comfortable; we managed. A few months had passed since I last met with Sam, though we had seen what they’d been doing. Samara now had a mile-long compound built around the middle of this Oil Rig, pounding the earth with each blast it bounded into the earth. While Arthur and Elizabeth began ciphering a way into the compound, a final time I went to that abandoned building to get a look at where Sam and Octavio had last met, only to find a whole other surprise. When I began to trek down the stairs, I heard shambling from several rooms. Upon my entrance, the corpses that were once inhabiting the rooms were now walking and breathing like any normal person would, though they were still decomposed in some parts, the skin that wasn’t part of the mushrooms was flawless. I watched as the shambling corpses shook hands, looking like they were trying to be human. They grabbed items from off the ground, shaking them in the air. Parts of the jawbone were visible on one, the other's entire ribcage was out; they kept moving. With enough moxie to kill a 21-streak duelist, I made my way down to them. When they turned, their breath let out a green cloud of dust. With haste, I dispatched of the two corpses, furthering my way into the building. Upon reaching the point where Octavio last stood, I realized they had built the drill directly through, into the long corridor. As much as I despised Samara, this was above and beyond a horrible idea. Those two corpses were reanimated by the mushrooms and they’re drilling even further into a facility that harbors them. With fierce haste I rode back up to our campsite only to see the sky had darkened a considerable bit, the world being blanketed in the same dark fog as Aurichasm was when they lit it on fire. I rode Wheel all the way to our nomad lookout site, waiting for Arthur & Elizabeth to return. What felt like years went by, finally they had arrived. I told them about the corpses that were now living. Arthur fully understanding what need be done. “You did say that Charles was nearly perfect looking…” Elizabeth stated with an inquisitive tone. “They have to all know about it. Why else would they take him there?” Arthur said with conviction. We settled on raiding their compound in a way not previously heard of. They had been using this Rig for a month now, the people using that oil had to be infected, as I must’ve been by this point. Storms brewed overhead as I donned the St.’s attire, setting forth on Wheel with Arthur & Elizabeth by my side. Along the way we caught a glimpse of the three dejectors, picking them up as we went. Sam, being the renowned sharpshooter he was, managed to shoot down four of the entrance guards, destroying the first line of defense in a measurably short time. Once we got up to the door, Otto leapt off his horse, barreling through the first few houses, taking down nearly twenty people before he got caught in crossfire aimed at us. Grant was a highly respected swordsman, dueling the best of our lifetime and surviving to this day. Once way made it through Otto’s wake, the last living Samara of old, Maub Niaul stood face to face with Grant. They shared words of hatred towards each other, Grant having hated her from day one. Upon sparring, Grant showed utmost respect in his fighting posture, surviving not only against Maub but three other duelists at once. Finally, Santiago caught sight of him and poured some kind of oil on the five of them, dissolving them one by one; a horrible end for a patriot. We pushed on, Arthur scoring a lucky shot against Santiago, wounding him mortally. Sam made one last dash through the front line, riddling several with holes in his path before finally getting hit with a lucky shot from a far out henchman of Octavio’s. “Thank you, for this retribution, St. Aurelias.” he said, before launching dynamite at the last closed door of the compound. Upon the explosives landing, the door shot open, creating a shockwave that could knock over a mountain. We pushed through. We had made it to the last line, we heard Octavio screaming at Silva about shutting down the Rig for safety concerns. “You have to hear me, son! That poor bastard Charles, he was walking back and forth like a mindless zombie!” “I don’t care what you think you saw, Silva! There is no such thing as the living dead! We-no- I am the future!” “If we restart this Rig, son, we’ll all be infected by whatever this disease is.” “This is our chance to prove them wrong! James, Arthur, Elizabeth, St. Aurelias? What a joke!” “You’ve lost your mind, son.” “Are you saying those heathens are right?!” “I certainly ain’t saying they’re wro-” Silva’s words were silenced by gun fire, being replaced by screaming. Octavio left quickly as Silva stumbled to a cabin. The last of the three, Marligo Rigers had stormed the frontlines in an attempt to stop us. Arthur & Elizabeth both stood stalwart against her, Elizabeth taking a bullet to the shoulder. I pushed left in order to divert her from Arthur, letting him score a shot against her left hand. She whipped her pistol towards me, getting hit in the leg from Arthur. I walked over to her, pistol drawn. “You’re…” she stopped to try and speak. “I bring retribution,” I said back firmly. She laughed and laughed until she started coughing. “I was on the wrong side… How’d that happen?” she said in a solemn tone. “Heaven calls me home; so does it you.” I said quietly. She smiled, as blood poured from her head. Elizabeth was critically wounded, bleeding from her shoulder. Arthur lulled her into moving back to rest for but a minute. I moved forwards cautiously into the cabin that Silva had gone into. I looked inside, he turned with his gun to my face. “You! Of all people… James Fuckin’ Khinderlend! This is the last thing I see?!” “Listen Silva,” I said, taking off the disguise. “Lower your gun, we can fix this.” “I’m plumb out of worth, ol’ boy. Flew right out of it. The last little bit a’ hope I had was tryin’ to stop Octavio but he’s too far gone.” He said as he pointed his gun directly between my eyes. “You said you flew out of worth, huh? No one is outta' worth. We all have our place, whether it be a marine, carpenter, hell, an electition. We all have our place. "Why are you so calm when I has' a gun between your eyes?!" “I've seen greatness. I've seen what this world has to offer. Whether you pull that trigger now or leave me hangin', all you'll be down is a bullet n' a friend.” He steps back and sighs, bashing his hand against the metal bars on the window. “Our town was ravaged by Aurelias, Octavio’s lost his mind, I’m out of commission..” “Aurelias didn’t light the fire.” He stopped for a moment, turning to me and looking mad “Are you hearing yourself, ol’ boy? I’m sure it was him, black cloak and all.” See, I wasn’t being exactly truthful this whole time. I guess I’m tryin’ to save face, make myself seem some hero. I wasn’t there. I never even saw the fire, I only saw the smoke. People branded me as something I wasn’t. “It was his posse.” Silva stood still, his gun slowly lowering as he understood what I said “You never..” “We have time to fix this, Silva. We had our differences but there's only time for revolution.” Silva looks outside, seeing all his men killed. “What have I done..?” he ponders before sitting to rest his shoulder wound. I went back outside, seeing Arthur and Elizabeth running towards the Rig. Silva marched defiantly towards the Rig while I hurried in on Wheel. We arrived at the Rig, going down it’s stairs, only to find it leads right to another section of that complex, this place completely decayed as though fifty years under the sand should look. We all explored the place a little bit, seeing signs on the walls for a machine called “The Lightreal Rete”, which described itself as an interconnection to other worlds. The more we looked around, the less real this place seemed. We split up for a minute, searching separate sides. I found a type of pod-like structure which contained a person. They didn’t seem to match the time period at all, being dressed in clothes you’d see sometime in the future. We took one last look around before meeting back up. “James, this place is crumbling, we have to leave. Octavio isn’t here and both Elizabeth and Silva are bleeding out.” “I hear you, Art. I’ll help Silva, you take her. We should-” A loud explosion cut us both off, or at least, what we thought was an explosion. Octavio had returned the drill to full power. “James, after we stop this Oil Rig, we should have a duel.” Silva laughed through his pain. We got outside, Silva and Elizabeth laying down to rest. I started feeling some pain in my arm around this point, yet I had no wound, Arthur said he’d been feeling it for a while. When we found Octavio, he was nothing more than a chunk of mushroom material. His face had been distorted by the growth, barely being able to speak. Anytime his mouth opened, green sludge would pour out in a sluggish manner, releasing clouds of dust for every other word. “I TOLD YOU! THIS IS THE FUTURE, WE CAN ALL LIVE FOREVER NOW!” He stumbled, looking at us, laughing as his body began rapidly morphing, grabbing onto the walls and filling the room. We shot at it all we could, yet he didn’t budge. Arthur sustained an injury to his left leg, rendering him unable to walk. I picked him up but it was too late, his eyes had started fading. I laid his corpse down on the sand outside the room, Silva began speaking: “We wasn't careful enough Jim. After all these years. You were right, son.” He chuckled, swaying his head side to side, flowing auburn hair twisting around his vest. "I reckon.. well, doesn’t matter anymore but, I reckon you knew about this..? Didn't wanna say nothin..? Then again, I 'spose, who'd believe you? The skeptics, mad men? Ah well… I'll see you on the other side. Maybe then we could have that duel." He chuckled once more, faintly with a cough. His right arm began growing in size. "Listen, you might wanna move.." he smirked. "Aurelius." He lit a match, putting it to his chest of dynamite, giving me one last look of spite and glory before he marched into the chamber that was now Octavio’s body, exploding inside of him with extremely high powered explosives. He was so infected with the parasite that his body stayed intact, though the infection had been removed. The corridor wasn’t a corridor. It was a monorail. I remember some things now. Inside that hole is a glowing orb, which from some of the things I’ve read in this facility claim to be what can take you to another time. My brother crawled in with his dying strength, Elizabeth leapt in despite her pain. I tossed in every one of the Ten’s corpses. I’m not sure why… Maybe there’s a dying wish in me to have done better. As for me? I’ve been sitting here, staring at Silva’s corpse. And I've been staring at that corpse for three days now. Sometimes I think he moves. Sometimes I think he smirks. Sometimes I think he chuckles. Whether it works or not, I threw his corpse in. Hopefully wherever, if ever, he wakes up, it’ll be nicer. I just can’t stop thinking, what could I have done differently? How many lives could I save? All I managed to do here was achieve a vicious freedom. A freedom that so many can’t share. Why did I write this? Was this for someone? I guess it’s my time to go now, too. If anyone finds this, I’m sorry. ~James Khinderlend, the False Saint.