Let me just be completely honest with you. I jumped into this project without much thought. I had an idea and a rough outline, I figured the details would come to me. I assumed I’d be able to glean more meat from the voting and comments… so far… it hasn’t worked. A month into this experiment and I have slowly watched the vote count dwindle. Comments, have become non-existent. I depended to heavily on outside interest in this project to carry me forward. Maybe it’s because I went with a different setup, six characters introduced before you’d see how your vote’s effect the story… Yeah, might not have been the best idea.

Anyway, I’m going to go ahead and slide 38-919-121 into the scrapped projects pile and work on something new. Maybe do some actual promotion this time. Little build up. Less… out-of-the-blue. I forget that while I might think of something for months, unless I tell people about it they don’t know. Anyway, 38-919-121 is over. Its been fun. I have four stories I’m proud of and maybe someday I’ll pick it up again. Until then, you’ll just have to wait for The Miskatonic Chronicles.

“When are you going to get off your lazy ass and get a job?” Loretta asks as she throws an empty beer can at Paul’s head.
“Shut up woman.” Paul’s retort is that of a man who’s already lost.
“You’re such a looser, Paul. I’m getting a divorce.”
“Suspected as much. I’ve lost everything else, why not my wife and kids too?”
“Fuck you Paul.”

That conversation was three years ago but it plays over and over in Paul’s head. He hasn’t been able to hold down a steady job since he was bounced from the force five years ago. Even his own private investigation practice went under in a few months. Luckily the bottle was there and when his wife ran out the whiskey didn’t. Loretta must still love him though, she pays the rent on their old apartment and it’s really the only thing that’s kept him alive. He couldn’t survive below Tier 12. He can’t afford a mask or anything to protect against the sand. All of these thoughts flooded out of his mind as quickly as they came in when the door rings.

Paul pulls himself out his chair and stumbles half drunk to the door. He doesn’t even bother to check anymore, he just buzzes them up. It’s never for him anyway, just some idiot with the wrong number. Then he makes his way to the fridge, grabs another beer, and returns to his beat up recliner. Not five seconds after he sits down there is a knock on his door. Curses erupt from Paul’s mouth and he slings his full beer at the wall. He pulls himself up again and makes his way to the door.

“Wrong apartment asshole.” Paul screams at the door.
“I do not think so. Is this Mister Paul Steven Wiht?” A digitized voice responds.
“Oh fuck no. Go away. I don’t want to talk.”
“I apologize for the intrusion Mister Wiht but I’ve been instructed to speak with you. I will destroy this door if you do not let me in willingly.”
“For fuck sake…” Paul says as he presses the open button on his door.

A two foot tall metal box rolls into Paul’s apartment. There is a projector mounted on the top of it that is transmitting a generic human face as a crude hologram. When the box rolls in and Paul steps out of its way. He knows the sensors on these things are shit and last thing he needs is a bruised shin. The box makes a circuit of the room, clearly scanning its environment,  before coming to a stop facing Paul. Paul still hasn’t moved from the doorway.

“What do you want machine?” Paul asks gruffly.
“I would like to offer you a career Mister Wiht.” The computer continues to respond without inflection.
“Stop calling me that you stupid robot. My name is Paul.” Paul says robot like ru-butt.
“As you wish Mister Paul. My employers are willing to pay you twice what you made when you worked with the C12PD plus the same hourly expense rate as what you charged when you were freelance.”
“Who the hell would want to pay me that much?” Paul’s voice is sobering up as the realization of getting back to work sinks in.
“That information is privileged. I can not tell you who you would be working for until you sign the contracts.”
“Of-fucking-course. What can you tell me, bolt bag?”
“We need help tracking down people. Five people total. We do not have an estimated deadline for this assignment, just as soon as possible.”
“Alright, I won’t ask any more questions. I need the cash. Give me the papers.”

The top of the rolling box  slides open and there are a pile of papers laying inside with a fountain pen. Paul picks up the bundle and pages through everything. The guy who wrote all this up knows a thing or two about contracts. Everything is filled out, he simply needs to sign on the last page and he’ll see himself pulling in an income thirty times higher then he’s had since being bounced from the police. Paul signs, then thinks of Loretta. Maybe after this job he can get his family back. Maybe this robot delivered more than just a job to him. Sobriety. A family. Happiness. He lets himself hope.

Paul signs the papers and before he can ask any more questions the robot rolls out of his apartment. Paul lets out a deep sigh and goes into the bathroom for his first shower in weeks. He shaves his face clean and runs the electric razor through his straggling hair. He leaves a quarter inch, he can’t stand the bald feeling. Paul brushes his teeth and puts on deodorant. All cleaned up he moves into his bedroom and pulls out and old suit he hasn’t worn since his days as a PI. The fit is tight now, but it feels good. Paul finally feels like he’s getting his life back together. Finally feels like he has something to work… to fight for. Then his phone rings.

“Agent Wiht. Time to get to work…”

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The demon’s arm sweeps out high while its writing tentacled underbelly shoots forward towards Malcolm. With a deft slash of his knife Malcolm parries the beast’s hand to the side but his legs get caught in the tentacles wrapping around his feet. Slamming down hard onto his back his wide-brimmed hat flies off and his knife slides into the darkness behind him. The creature opens its maw, filled with teeth churning like a powered saw, and the tentacles start to draw Malcolm forward. Saliva drips down into his legs and a rumbling from the demon’s gullet shakes the floor beneath him. Against all logic, Malcolm produces a pistol from his waistband and shots the monster in the mouth a dozen times before the gun starts to dry fire. The tentacles release and the creature roars in agony and anger.

Malcolm scrambles to his feet and drops his gun, it doesn’t have the stopping power he needs to kill the beast. His legs hurt but he puts it out of his mind as he reaches over his shoulder to draw his sword. As the blade slides free of his scabbard Malcolm presses his thumb into the hilt just below the blade. Jets of liquid fire pour out of small vents on either side of the blade and roll down the groove carved in the center of the blade. Malcolm charges the monster and in the illumination of his sword he sees the unimaginable horror of the demon. Hesitation was the first thing he learned to kill and a swift mental jab at his brain prevents him from faltering in his course. He launches into the air, sword held tight in both hands, and falls onto the beast. The pummel of his blade digs into his gut as he uses his own weight to drive the flaming sword into what he assumes to be the creature’s face.

“Back to hell with thee.” Malcolm whispers as the monster screams.

Malcolm falls into the creature as it dies, its body turning into sticky  green ichor. He chokes back vomit and presses the button on his blade again. The flames die off and he lets himself descent through the corpse of the beast until his face touches the cold steel floor once more. He lets a moment pass before he pulls himself to his feet. The he makes his way over and retrieves his lost hat, gun, and knife. While reloading his pistol he assess the situation out loud to himself.

“Five gutters down. Sohog Queen came close to the surface, odd. Fire and light worked. Dangerous for her. This is not good.”

Malcolm trails off in his thoughts as he glances down at his burning legs. Whatever slime those tentacles produced it wasn’t for lubrication. His pants are almost completely dissolved just below the knee and his legs look badly burned. He watches for a moment as the slime continues to eat away at his pants before pulling his knife back out and cutting the fabric. If he wasn’t such a dower man Malcolm would look comical standing in his newly cut-off shorts and big black steel boots. He makes his way over to where he dropped his satchel early in the fight and pulls a flask from inside. He begins to unscrew the cap and the pungent odor assaults his senses. He gags as he pours the fluid over his burned legs, from one sick smell to another. White foam starts building up wherever this new substance comes into contact with the monster’s slime and soon his legs stop burning. The pain remains.

“Bless Saint Roberto Francesco Romolo Bellarmino” Malcolm whispers to himself as he cleans his wounds.

As Malcolm begins his long walk back to his parish a man steps out of the shadows and addresses him by proper name. This newcomer smiles a devil’s grin that sets Malcolm on edge. His attire doesn’t help either. The suit the man wears is high-waisted, wide-legged, tight-cuffed, with pegged trousers, and a long coat with wide lapels and wide padded shoulders. It’s a fashion not seen on Earth since before the end. His coat and trousers are black but the shirt underneath is crimson red, the forbidden color. Malcolm assesses him quickly and determines he’s unarmed, he doesn’t stand like a man with a hidden gun. This all goes to make Malcolm extremely uncomfortable.

“Padre Malcolm Travers Francis MacGregor. Pardon my intrusion. I surveyed your battle from the shadows and was most impressed. Your skill and prowess are unparalleled. The stories I’ve heard about you are not of mere legend. Allow me to introduce myself, you may call me Mister Coat.” The man is practically speaking through his grin.

“Silence devil. Thou speaks of lies and trickery. I shalt not hear it!” Malcolm bellows and places his hand on his knife.

“Padre Malcolm Travers Francis MacGregor. You are mistaken, I am not an agent of the Morning Star but a simple and humble agent of the gutters. Now please, dispense with your archaic tongue. It makes you hard to understand.” Mister Coat says, wolfish grin still in place.

“No proper man could live this far from the light.” Malcolm, slightly confused by this creature, holds fast over his blade.

“Padre Malcolm Travers Francis MacGregor. You are correct, I am not a proper man.  As I said, I am an agent of the gutters.” Mister Coat shimmers as he says the final words.

“I don’t understand you. What are you, Mister Coat?” Malcolm says quietly.

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Johnathan Eastin stood on his balcony, sipping red wine, looking down at the hive below him. He was captivated by the distance. Miles below him there are millions of people and if he started looking out across Tier 24 he would be looking billions more. He was always amazed by that. Billions of little worker ants toiling for his sake. Eastin was the sole owner of one of the largest non-franchised industrial manufacturing and residential storage companies in the nation-state of Chicago.

“John, come back inside. You’ll catch cold.” His wife beckoned him back into her warm arms.
“In a minute dear, I’m enjoying the night air.” John smiled, grateful for his wife.

He would only dally a minute more, the sun had recently set and he had a big night ahead of him. Tonight was a grand banquet in his honor, celebrating seventy five years of successful leadership of one of the largest industrial manufacturing plants in the entire nation of Chicago. John was proud of that too. He took formal control of the company when he was only seventeen and this company had been his life ever since. Ninety two years old, still looking twenty five, and the sole owner of a successful company. Yeah, John was proud.

John walked back into his corner suite and closed the sliding glass door behind him. His wife, Loryan, was already half dressed for the party, her chestnut hair falling loosely down her back as she fixed subtle diamond studs to each ear. Her dress was white silk with splashes of light purple running vertically up the sides, strapless, elegant. Every single time John looked at her he was taken by her beauty.

“You look…” John paused for a long moment “Lovely.”
“It’s not you that I need to impress tonight, it’s those greedy investors after our fortune.” She replied clipping the last earring closed.
“You should worry less about the bank and more about the church. You know they hold real power.” John said as he put his wine glass down.
“A bunch of old doddering fools worshiping the false idea that there is a benevolent being controlling all of us.” Loryan cursed, hating the idea of religion and angered even more because her husband disagreed.
“You know it’s not about the God but the Father, honey.” John said, ever patient with his young wife’s rash outbursts, still smiling.

The two finished getting ready. John wore a traditional black suit with dark purple bow-tie, his long black hair tied back. Loyran got after him to cut it from time to time, saying was unbecoming of a man of his age. John told her time and time again that its his hair, he’ll do as he pleases, and at his age he’s allow to have long hair. The general conversation was light, the almost forty year age difference made them not always see eye to eye.

They finished getting ready and left their suite, arm in arm. John flagged down a rickshaw and the couple set off through the winding corridors of Tier 24. It took them over an hour to ride to the banquet hall, having to descend three Tiers to do it. Loryan, as always, was nervous about surface gas seeping up to their level. She never liked being on any Tier under twenty. John assured her that the gasses never make it higher than Tier Ten. She still worried.

The rickshaw pulled up to the front door of the hall and John over tipped the driver. He always did. This didn’t sit well with his wife, she thought he wasted his money, but it made John feel good. This driver had a wife and kids. It was hard work for crap pay and John had a soft spot for the little guy. A trait he learned from his mother.

John and Loyran walked into the hall arm in arm. No sooner than they walked through the door were they greeted by the cheers of hundreds of friends and coworkers. They split up, a political tactic used to cover more ground, and began mingling. John made his way left, towards the buffet with the intention to start this evening off with a snack.

That was when the lights went out. The room was covered in blackness for what felt like an eternity but was only a few second. Then the yellow emergency lights flooded into the room with a dull buzz. Panic hit the crowd. The panic of a room full of high Tier nobles that have never had to deal with a real emergency before. Then a voice, unnaturally amplified and echoing around the room, rang out.

“Johnathan Clinton Eastin the Second! Your seventy five years of tyranny are coming to an end tonight! Troops! Move forward!”

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An audio promo for 38-919-121 can be downloaded & played here.