TIME: THE FUTURE

Lux won.

The time hopping assassin from a war torn future was successfully able to eliminate each and every one of the targets that lead to the downfall of civilization as we know it. With the help of her young host Corey Smith, Lux completed her quest and thwarted the influence of the dastardly and mysterious Number 44, sending him crawling back into the black ichor that spawned him.

But what would come next is something no one could have foreseen.

Because in securing one future, and defeating one threat, Lux had unwittingly opened a back door for something far worse to steal in like a thief in the night. Something that would be spoken of mockingly, but only in the quietest of whispers, as.....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SARAH 2049~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The scene slowly transitions to the interior of a class room. Where typically we would see inspirational posters of cats hanging from clotheslines, world maps, and barely competent works of elementary school art class ephemera, we find every square inch of the room filled with shots of Sarah Lacklan. Posed shots, glamour shots, wrestling shots (one of which features a superbly photoshopped pic of her deadlifting not one, not two, but three pre-Adkins Peter Gilmour sized men). No trace of anything with any educational or inspirational value, just a wall papering of dead eyed red stares and pointless showboating.

With an abrupt squeal and a rattle, the PA system crackles to life.

PA System: Good morning children! Please rise for the National Lacklanthem!

The children all dutifully and unquestioningly rise to their feet. But something is unquestionably off, because each child is impossibly pale, with straw yellow to off-white hair. And not just that, but most of the children have blood red eyes. And the ones that don't have no eyes at all, just sealed eyelids rimmed with the jagged scarring of some sort of crudely botched operation. Still other children are disfigured otherwise, their eyes nothing but a sea of milky cataracts thanks to some other poorly considered procedure.

Solemnly, each child places a hand over their heart, as they robotically repeat after the adult voice over the PA.

I pledge allegiance, to Sarah Lacklan,
and the United Corporate States of Self Promotion.

And to the ur-Lesbian, for which I stand,
one insignificant speck, under Sarah,
completely invisible, with licensing agreements,
and jealousy for her.

The children shuffle back into their seats. Well, most do, one of the blind kids completely misses his seat and falls flat on his ass. The other students are not permitted to acknowledge such failure.

The teacher, also so pale she might as well be translucent, takes her place at the head of the class. Text book in hand (the cover features the image of Sarah holding the flags of multiple countries as fireworks explode in the background. She also has enormous watermelon sized tits), the teacher cracks it open and smiles at the class. The poor child who fell on his ass is still fumbling about, feebly trying to get to his chair and absolutely no one moves to help him.

Okay class, we're picking up where we left off with yesterday's lesson: with Sarah simultaneously solving the mortgage crisis while fisting the Statue of Liberty to total orgasm, despite it being an inanimate object. Who would like to start reading first?

Naturally, all the hands shoot up. Save one. Because the blind kid who couldn't find his seat still can't and now he's dry blubbering.

ELSEWHERE....

This time, the scene is set in a hospital room. A woman is seen laying in bed. Her white hair is in complete disarray, and her pale skin is wet with perspiration. If she was of a healthier hue, we might see that she has the familiar warm glow of a woman who has just given birth. A man, who is likely her husband, takes hold of her hand in his his, curling it up inside his palm lovingly as he drinks in the glorious sight of his life partner with crimson eyes.

How do you feel? He asks her.

Tired. She sighs, giving his hand a squeeze. But happy. I just want to see him.

Her husband leans in to plant a gentle peck on her pallid forehead. The nurse said she'd be back in soon. Turning from his wife, he picks up a piece of laminated paper off the table at her bedside. It's a list of pre-approved names. Looking it over, he turns it towards his wife. I'm still torn between Sarold and Saaron. We should probably pick soon, we're going to need to sign the birth certificate.

The woman glances at the list quickly, and then averts her eyes. She bites down on her bottom lip, bearing a guilty countenance. Yes, I meant to talk to you about that. She cranes her neck towards the door, giving it a furtive once over before returning her attention to her husband. Speaking quietly, she bends towards him with an air of conspiracy. Let's just pick one and call him something completely different at home.

His expression goes blank, and he blinks a few times in disbelief. Then, rushing to the door, he closes it and returns to his seat. Honey, are you still that doped up? Do you understand what you're saying?

I know, I know! She puts her other hand on top of her husband's, enveloping him. But it's just that all those names are just so damnably STUPID.

The husband looks rocked by his wife's words. B-but what you're saying could land us all in a reeducation camp! Or worse, we could spend the rest of our days cleaning up after a Kenzi, mopping up vaginal secretions! He intoned plaintively, making reference to Sarah's legions of oversexed Kenzi clones that she kept at her various palacial estates the world over. Sarah had had the original Kenzi murdered in a fit of psychotic pique 25 years ago when she refused to go through with the skin dying procedure. This was of course, never to be spoken of under penalty of death.

Just then, a knock sounds at the door, and then a ghostly nurse enters carrying a swaddling infant in her arms. The man and the woman, their earlier concerns instantly forgotten, beam (or as much as either of them CAN beam), at the sight of their newest addition.

Heeeeere he is! The nurse says in a cheery, sing-songy voice. Then, to the baby. Here's your mama sweetheart!

Mom, overcome with pure joy, holds her arms out to take the infant. Then, bringing him close, she cradles him close to her chest. Oh my Sarah, he's just perfect!

Not as perfect as Sarah, of course! The man quickly cuts in, drawing the barest of desultory glances from his wife. The nurse, oblivious, drones on.

Such a sweet baby, too. So quiet. She clasps her hands together, looking on at the tender scene. Oh, but I almost forgot. He's scheduled for his Whitening at 5.

The woman's expression turns to one of dismay. She looks at her husband, and then at the nurse. Whitening? But he's a newborn! Whitening's aren't required until the age of 8! The woman shudders, recalling her own Whitening procedure when she as a child. The cold, sterile chamber. The mass of piercing needles, puncturing flesh and injecting bleaching toxins. The pure, unadulturated agony of it all. You can't do that to a newborn, you can't!

Oh, I'm afraid so. The edict was just handed down from the Ministry of Awesomesauce two days ago. “All children are to be Whitened within 24 hours of birth.”

She instinctively clutches her newborn closer to her bosom. Honey! Do something! She pleads with her husband.

He shifts awkwardly in his seat, considering his love, and then the nurse in succession. I...I don't see that we have any choice, dear.

No! The woman calls out, staring at the nurse in horror.

The nurse, now wearing a placating smile, speaks softly. Oh, it's quite alright, hon Initial data suggests that 82% of infants are surviving the procedure! I'm sure he'll be fine! Probably....

I refuse! The woman responds, her face taking on a frantic expression as she pulls the baby in even tighter. I'm not doing that to my baby!

Honey, now listen to reason....! 82% is pretty good odds!

NO! NEVER! She howls. The baby at her breast, alarmed by the shrill cries of his mother, starts to break out in high pitched wail.

By this point, the nurse has dropped all pretense of genteel good nature. Her face pinched like she just sucked a lemon, she brings her wrist communique up to her lips and speaks into it. Security, we have a Code White in Room 214.

Now quite terrified, the mother, wide eyed and frenetic, looks to her husband for support, but all he can manage is to shamefully avert his eyes and scoot his chair back and away from the bed. Honey?!

Just then, two armored guards burst into the room. Wearing chalk white SWAT style armor, the only color evident on their gear is the winking face of Sarah Lacklan emblazoned on the face shields of their helmets. The guards come at the mother from both sides, the husband helpfully skittering out of their way like a scalded rat crawling back into it's hole. The woman tries to cover up and protect the screaming baby, but the guard on the left side is able to pry it from her fingers and place it in a nearby cot.

Noooooo! PLEASE GIVE HIM BACK!

The nurse, stepping up to the foot of the bed, smiles maliciously. Ya know, now that I look at her a little more carefully, I'm thinking we should take a breast measurement. I think she's out of code with Edict 5489-A: “By decree of Sarah, no woman shall have more than an A cup.” Hold her down.

The guards each take hold of one of the woman's arms, and they pin her down to the bed. The woman, still kicking and howling, does her best to fight back. But it's simply not enough. The nurse removes a sizing instrument that looks like an old fashioned compass, and, leaning over one of the guards, starts taking multiple measurements of the woman's breasts. Yep, just as I thought. She never went in for the mandatory breast reduction 3 years ago!

By now, having been completely lost in her frustration and rage, the mother howls in fury. OH FUCK THAT BITCH SARAH AND HER MOSQUITO BITE TITS! But for all her righteous anger, even she can't dodge the truncheon as it careens towards her face, knocking her into oblivion.

ELSEWHERE....

The bookish man came to under the stultifying heat of the lamp shined directly in his face. Blinking away the light induced spots in his vision, he picks his head up with a groan. It takes him quite some time before his full sight is returned, and when it is what he sees offers him little clue to his location. The walls are a dull gray, chipped and fading. All the windows have been covered over with ancient yellowed newspaper, each one bearing the title of a media source long since banned by Sarah's increasingly paranoid and solipsistic regime. Looking down, he realizes for the first time that his wrists are affixed to the arms of a plain metal chair by zip ties. He pulls on the bindings, but knows it's futile. He was not a strong man, as evidenced by the paunch of age that spilled over his belt, and the flabby inconsistency of his 68 year old arms.

Good morning, Dr. Lacklan.

The old man's attention is diverted to a shadowy corner of the nondescript room, where another man emerges from the shadows. He gasps a bit as it registers who he's seeing. A man who was rumored to be dead. A legend. A hero in the fight against Sarah's regime.

Corey Smith.

By now of course, the bottom half of Corey's face had long been overtaken by a shaggy and increasingly graying beard. His skin, lined with age and the stultifying effects of numerous battles. He walked with a slight limp, and Dr. Lacklan noted the glint off the metal brace that enveloped Corey's right leg. War wounds from a bygone battle. He was older than in his XWF days, the good days, the days when things like truth and beauty, and integrity still mattered. But it was, undeniably, him.

Oh no....oh.....you're going to kill me.... Dr. Lacklan breathed fearfully.

Corey brought himself more fully into the light. Then taking hold of the lamp, he readjusts it's angle so the light is once again shining directly in the older man's face. I thought about it. But, I still need you alive to answer some questions for me.

I see. But might I ask one of you first? The old man squinted in the face of the light. Do you still have Lux? That aspect of your legacy was always hazy, and it always sparked my curiosity.

No. Lux left me after her mission was complete, just like she promised. I wish she was still here. Corey pulls up another chair and sits across from the man. He gives him a reprieve from the light then, batting it out of his face. Why do you ask?

The old man sighs wearily. It's a shame, really. I would have loved to study her.

Haven't you done enough damage?! You and technology haven't always been the best of bed fellows. Corey watches with a degree of satisfaction as it dawns on the old man that he knows the entire truth. Yeah....yeah...I know. I know that the man she claimed was her father, the man whose face she put on all the currency.... Corey pulls a piece of paper money out of his pocket and slaps it down on the table.



I know that THAT man isn't her father. You're her father. In a manner of speaking.

It's true! I am. I created that damned monster. The old man spits bitterly. But I had my reasons!

Corey sits back in his chair, looking skeptical. He makes a sarcastic rolling motion with his hand, as if to say “Ok, out with it.”

The old man settled into his seat, suddenly looking weary. I loved professional wrestling, you know? And I was a dork, an outcast amongst my peers. Always picked last in gym. Mocked mercilessly for the size of my penis in the showers. It was an endocrine problem damn it, I WAS A LATE BLOOMER!

Corey makes an awkward, pained expression, but allows the old man to continue.

My penis was like a small cherub head, peeking out from a sparse forest of wispy red pubic hairs. They called me turtle head you know. Turtle head! I... The old man looks like he's about to break down and become emotional.

Do you think we can maybe get past the part about your junk?

Yes, yes of course. **Ahem** So, I think you get the picture. I was a loner in an in-crowd kind of world. But I was smart! I got accepted to RIT at the age of 17, fast tracked into their advanced robotics program. And I never lost my love of professional wrestling. Why...the good old days of Shane , James Raven, and Drezdin....

Not sure I'm feelin' the line up, but sure go ahead.

But I couldn't help but feel like the XWF was starting to lose it's spark. The wrestlers themselves were becoming something new and frightening to me. They started having all these wild gimmicks, like a pedophile, and a space man, and.....well, I'm pretty sure there was a pedophile space man at one point. The gist is this...it just wasn't the same! So I wanted to make a PURE wrestler. Someone with the confidence that I never had. Someone...someone PERFECT in every single way. Someone the complete opposite of me. And, of course, I made her look like a corpse to fulfill all of my sick necro-rape fantasies that I had previously only been able to share on 8Chan.

EWWWWWWWW!

Don't kink shame me! The doctor scolds, before returning to his sordid tale. Anyway, I created the android known as Sarah Lacklan. I built her in my basement in my off hours at RIT, and it took about 6 months. It would have taken less time if I didn't have to furiously masturbate every time I got to work on her. My penis was quite a bit BIGGER by that point you see and....

Okay, ENOUGH! GOD! Corey protests, looking seriously grossed out.

Sorry, sorry! But, yes, building the body was the easy part. All I needed to do was translate all my deviant, isolated, WASPy sexual fantasies into her physical form. But the mind....oh the mind....that's what doomed the world. I....I had no real life experience! The doctor stammers defensively. I didn't know HOW to create an actual person. So, in my ignorance and hubris, I programmed her to seem like she's amazing at everything. A woman who, despite looking like Casper the Friendly Anorexic and who was in a “personality defining” car accident that was so bad she needed a cane outside the ring to function is somehow a world class athlete. A woman whose only real weakness is being outside for a little too long, which let's be honest is kind of like giving the gruff main character of your story a facial scar to show how weathered and badass they are, and yet the scar in no way impacts their rugged handsomeness. And then, just to make her an extra unique daisy and beyond the ken of anyone with even a shred of knowledge of what makes a person relateable, I had her be the creator of her own steam punk bullshit clothing line. And I gave her a slew of perfect, globe trotting champion friends to use as ready sounding boards for her endless slew of self congratulatory promos. Incidentally, I created all her friends too and....

...yeah, yeah, you jerked it to all them too.

I was going to say I used a new poly-blend of plastics to craft their skin tones but yeah, I punished it to them pretty hard. Speaking of which, her wife Kenzi, also my creation I'm proud to say! I made her black so I could do this whole “ebony and ivory” thing with her and Sarah and give her a reason to feel progressive about breaching the divide between races or some dumb crap. I also made Sarah into this impossibly in your face media darling, loading her up with all the most cutting edge twee lingo so that she would appeal to young people. I feel now though that that aspect of her personality was probably my biggest misstep. It came off as less “modern and cutting edge” and more “obnoxious Poochie the Dog-esque try hard claptrap”. But naturally, true to form it didn't effect her ego in any way shape or form and she just insisted it was great because reasons.

Uh huh.

Also, if that wasn't enough, I made her the wealthy scion of a New England canning fortune because fuck it, why not give her a shit ton of money. Which led me to my next amazing idea! Using all that money to buy her way into learning more martial arts techniques than Bruce Lee himself. Techniques which are able to completely counter every other martial arts style that ever existed in history.

A “perfect” fighting style she's able to utilize on two busted up legs that she needs a cane to support herself on, conveniently whenever she's NOT in the ring?

Precisely. Plus, the cane was the perfect way to show off the stupid Victorian era esthetic that makes her such a unique and special person.

Okay, okay. But what happens when somebody like, say, I don't know...ME (30 years ago), is able to call her out on this shit?

Well, then I just programmed her to shift gears and delve into the kind of fun science fiction storytelling that she said was stupid when you did it.

Right! Well, I gotta say...this is all just the dumbest shit.

I suppose. But she'll just turn it around and talk trash about how stupid and unrealistic everyone else is. It's the circle of life. Dr. Lacklan looks like he's about to break into the song, but one withering glare from Corey convinces him it's probably best he doesn't. The doctor, looking defeated, lets out another audible sigh. Look, I'll level with you. I had very little life experience when I made Sarah. I was like Stephanie Meyer on steroids, fixated on pumping out the most unbelievably faultless, flawless, twinkle sparkling being I could conceive of. A being that no matter how obnoxious and hollow she seemed to anyone with two brain cells to rub together, nonetheless effortlessly drifted through life on a cloud of her own conceit. I understand now, with the benefit of decades of maturation, that what I crafted was nothing short of a callow abortion of a person. The equivalent of a five year old, hopped up on Dunk-A-Roos and telling their bored as fuck teacher how they made a newer better Superman who could shoot lasers out his asshole while he destroyed the universe. Like an awkward Goth edge lord creating their first Sephiroth fan fiction where he seduced the entire cast of every Final Fantasy game ever just by growling “Make my day” and plunging a sword the size of a Honda into the ground like a wannabe bad ass. Deep breath in. In other words, I know I'm a hack, and that Sarah Lacklan is the product of a hacky immature mind that was trying way too fucking hard to be good at all things at all times.

But it's pointless because there is no way to stop her now. When she merged her consciousness into the internet back in 2020, effectively taking hold of every banking and government institution all over the world, her cognition program marysue.exe metastasized. It drew on the unbelievably over the top try-hardedness of it's progenitor to become the most fool proof, unbeatable virus in the history of mankind. It effectively slipped the bounds of what is possible, transgressing into the realm of the hypothetical. It just cannot be stopped. Sarah can not be stopped.

Yeah she can. Corey responded simply. He reached up and, digging his thumb underneath his eye, scooped it right out of the socket. The doctor winced.

What are you doing?!

Corey holds the eye ball up. It's a camera. And we just got every bit of why she's a huge heap of bullshit straight from the horses mouth. Corey reaches under the table and pulls out a simple padded mailing envelope. Then, with a big black marker he addresses it “To Sarah” and writes on it, “Badass Corey promo you must respond to immediately!”

The doctor looks at the envelope, his face ashen and slack. You-you tricked me!

Corey shrugs. Kind of figured I would have to. After all, like most creators I figured that deep down you probably DO see what's completely broken about your creation, but would never admit to them publicly. Tricking you was the only way to get the goods. Sorry bub.

The doctor looks down at his bindings. So what are you going to do with me?

Oh, I don't know. I figured I'd let you sit here for a while to think about what you've done. Maybe just long enough to crap your pants a few times.

I don't deserve to live for what I've unleashed upon this world. He closes his eyes solemnly.

No, no you probably don't. But in a weird way I do have some sympathy for you. So I'm not going to kill you. Anyway...I've got some stamps to buy. Be back later. Corey gets up, envelope in hand and heads for the door.

LATER....

The Kenzi, naked flesh jiggling in all the right places, ascends the numerous steps to her master's massive golden throne. Sarah is seated in it, and extended out from her like so many arachnid-like appendages, are a series of cords, each one tethered to a monitor suspended from the ceiling. And on each monitor, a different form of media is being broadcast. Internet video sharing sites, 24 hour news networks, internet message boards. There must be at least 100 of these such monitors, creating an eerie image reminiscent of the cluster of eyes of a deadly spider.

The Kenzi bows before Sarah, ensuring her nipples reached all the way to the ground just like Sarah liked. With an imperious gesture of the hand, Sarah addresses her minion. What do you want?

The Kenzi doesn't speak, she merely holds up a simple padded envelope, before averting her eyes from the majesty of her boss. Sarah gets up from her throne, the massive tangle of cords jacked in to a series of ports covering her body, follow her like some kind of demented cape. Sarah takes the envelope from the Kenzi and tears it open, withdrawing Corey's false eye. She sneers at it in disgust, and then parts her lips in surprise when a hologram starts to emit from the iris. Recognition hits her like a ton of bricks. Father?

She watches her father's revelations play out over a series of minutes, transfixed but with a growing horror yawning open wide within her as all of her gilded pretensions were laid bare. For the first time in too long, she started to feel a genuine emotion. Shame. Tears started to flow from her eyes like rain, unchecked, like a flood. The Kenzi looked up at her and cocked her head like a confused dog. Finally, when it was all over, she dropped the eye to the floor, where it rolled to the edge of the dias and bounced down the stairs. The tyrant stood there, stock still, for a series of moments. And then, muttered one simple request of her Kenzi. Chainsaw.

The Kenzi giggled viciously, knowing what this request was usually a precursor too. Usually it was Sarah's preferred means of personal torture, using it to gruesomely murder anyone who was prettier than her, or had bigger boobs than her, or who was just plain better at cutting a promo than her. The Kenzi scampered off and returned quickly with her master's request. Sarah took the tool in her arms, and then, planting herself, she pulls back the cord on the chainsaw, trying to get the motor to turn over. She struggles with it quite a bit though, because she's got two busted up legs and literally zero muscle on her spindly arms, but nevertheless it does eventually roar to life. The Kenzi claps giddily, but then it dawns on her that there was no prisoner here to torture. Looking about in confusion, she misses the sight of her master turning the whirring blade on herself, plunging it into her abdomen. The blade shreds her guts mercilessly, spraying blood everywhere. The Kenzi, now alerted to her master's plight, turns to face her just in time to catch a shower of arterial spray to the face. But, because the Kenzi is programmed to be sexually aroused by ANY action her master takes, finds herself inexplicably turned on by the gruesome spectacle.



Sarah sobs openly as she murders herself the only way she knows how, in an over the top spectacle. Miraculously, she remains standing as the chainsaw's blade punches through her spine. Her throne and the stairs leading up to it run red with gore. Finally, with a sigh, she careens forward, face planting onto the floor with the chainsaw still running. But this moves the chainsaw's blade, causing it to cut further deep down into her abdomen, right into her intestines where she unfortunately had a full bowel's load of shit stored. The continuing motion of the chainsaw disgorges the shit, kicking it into the air like a fecal fountain that splatters all over everything. The Kenzi can't help but moan in ecstasy at the disgusting scene, and so overwrought is she by sheer sexual passion, her own programming becomes completely overwhelmed, shorting out her brain and dumping her atop her master's body.

The shot drifts upwards to the series of monitors dangling from the ceiling. The monitors are now one, each and every single example showing the same image.

BACK TO REALITY (or some varant thereof)-COREY TIME

Corey, laying back on the hotel bed, cracks his knuckles with a satisfied smile. That should do it.

The mental projection of his deadly counterpart Lux, clicks the stop button on her tablet, right as Corey's promo video closes in on the Rekt gif. Lux, looking like she's struggling to process the lunacy of what she's just seen, slowly turns to look at Corey. I fear there is something profoundly wrong with you.

Corey laughs. Yeah...yeah....maybe. But hey, it's not like I didn't have a helping hand from “you know who.” So it's not ALL on me.

Lux nods in a conciliatory way, well aware of who Corey was talking about and the man's promotional predilections. So how do you think Sarah will respond?

Who cares, she's losing her mind over this though. She's even imagining some kind of relationship between us and the Dukes that in no way exists. Like she's drawing on information from some parallel universe because of how shook she is. I like to call that universe the Out Of Context universe. Something about the letters...
He drifts off dreamily.
Lux turns the tablet off and lays it on the bed. And how much of that “Fuck You” promo money do you have left after that?

Corey scrunches up his face. Like, $40 bucks....

You blew through a million dollars?!

Hey, do you know how much it costs to bring together that much CGI on such short notice?! I had a team of 100 working for 48 hours straight to pull that together! Still, it's pretty impressive how realistic they can get a shower of poop to look nowadays. I was FLOORED.

Lux shakes her head, like she's well past ready to be done with the topic. Well, I did leave this part of the job up to you.

Yes, you did.

But now, we have to get serious again. Lux considers Corey with a tight lipped expression. I found my next target. We need to move.

Corey frowns, and rubs his face with some consternation. I was afraid you were going to say that.

You knew it was coming. And I have to tell you Corey, it's quite a bit more dangerous than I was expecting. I thought the target was going to be relatively undefended but that's....not so....

Corey sits up abruptly. How “defended” are we talking?

Very. I mean, I can handle it. But it'll be dangerous. And I'm going to need to focus completely....

...meaning you need me to stay out of the way. Corey finishes with annoyance.

We talked about this.

Well, could you at least do me the favor of telling me more about this target? I mean, we're PARTNERS, right?

Lux closed her eyes. I'm not having this conversation again.

Corey smacks his lips with annoyance. This is bullshit, you know? You don't trust me! And why, because you still think I'm “manic”? Oh, poor little crazy boy can't handle it!

Oh knock it off! Lux actually stuns both herself and Corey with the uncharacteristic break in her usual stoicism. Recovering, she continues. You're acting like a child. You know how important this is to me, to you...to EVERYONE. Botching this task means true and final death for me and you, and essentially guarantees a bleak future for everyone we know and love. Why are we STILL having this conversation?

Corey, cowed a bit, looks away. I just don't like that you're hiding things from me.

Corey, please trust me, there are some parts of this that you would just rather not know about. I'm not doing this because I don't trust you, I'm doing this because I don't want you to bear the burden of some of the terrible things I have to do.

Who IS this person? Corey snaps to, like he just had a flash of insight. Oh my God, are we killing the president?

Lux sighs. No, actually he doesn't really factor into the future all that much. Corey, look, please....PLEASE, I'm begging you on this. This is something you don't want to know.

Whatever. Corey mutters, accepting that there was no way he was going to get this information out of Lux the direct way. So when do we have to go?

Tonight.

So soon?

Yes.

But what if I have to cut more material?

We'll do it on the road. Corey, we have no choice here....

Yeah...yeah....

Lux and Corey both look at each other for a time, polar opposites of the same two headed coin, each struggling to fashion a future for themselves in radically different ways. Each knowing, deep down, that an appointment with life changing destiny was close at hand.

But there was something else on the wind too. A strange tune carried by the gentle breeze, a familiar tune to some. But a harbinger of things to come for all. A twisted tune, a fleeting tune, a piercing tune, like a nerve twisted by a cruel hand into knots.

For a moment, Number 44 thought he could hear it. But then it was gone. And he dismissed it out of hand. Because it couldn't be. Couldn't possibly be.

Couldn't possibly be....