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PLAYING GOD

A Prologue of Sorts: Born in Sin

(Excerpted from the case notes of Dr Fabian Newton (Barn owl, 52), noted clinical psychologist specialising in insanity-related cases. Newton was assigned to interview the notorious serial murderer Finnley Sharpe, aka Mr Knives, and attempt to unravel his personality. Newton reported a certain... resistance on Finn's part during attempts to talk about the wolf's youth, and, theorising that this could be the key to his motives, requested permission for the use of certain "truth serum" drugs. Although the Degree of Sentient Rights clearly states that such methods are illegal, permission was covertly granted by [Redacted].

Mr Sharpe required two and a half times the average dose before he was sufficiently verbose, and resultantly may have been suffering from mild hallucinations during the course of this interview. This may explain why he repeatedly referred to his crimes as if they had been documented by some unknown entity. He seemed quite unaware of the presence of Dr Newton, speaking instead to a point several feet to the left of the doctor. The following is transcribed from a recording. )

Ah... I like that. Cutting straight to the heart of the matter - no pun intended, of course. In the months following my capture, it's seemed that every psychologist worth his leather couch had a thesis trying to explain what I did. They tried all manner of roundabout questioning and testing and who knows what else... but they never thought to simply ask me about it. I'm willing to answer, after all.

So. Well, I can imagine that, as someone who's read of my latest... exploits, you've noticed mentions of a desire for total control, a desire that lies at the very centre of what I do. You see, I believe that to destroy something utterly - and more importantly, to appreciate every last nuance of its destruction to the fullest extent possible - is the absolute zenith of control. Control is everything.

I will have control. I swore I would never lose it to another again.

(A tendon in the subject's neck tightens slightly, and at his side, his fist clenches. When he speaks, his voice is quite flat. No emotions, affected, real or otherwise.)

As is becoming more and more obvious, the world in which these tales are set in is not quite as prosperous as it might first appear. There are creatures like me, keeping to the shadows, striking only when they are fully prepared. The Authority tries to downplay their horror factor - although I'm pleased to say that Mr Knives' notoriety was too much to keep under control - but the fact remains that all too often, those who are innocents end up completely at the mercy of beings which have none whatsoever.

You've guessed by now, I presume. Don't ask what age she took me at, because she never needed to take me. I was hers from the moment I was born. She... she was my mother.

A history of mental health problems and violent crimes. Addictions to almost every drug under the sun. I was the result of a one night stand - well, chances are he raped her. Not the first, either. Just the first of an actually compatible species.

I understand that she gave birth at home, aided by a male prostitute and four times the medical limit of evonicius, a dangerously analgesic and highly illegal drug. Apparently, she was still screaming even with the painkillers. Born in screams, I was. Born in blood and pain.

And from the moment I breathed, I was hers. Sometimes she was merciful, and fed me, and washed me. Sometimes she was playful, and so I learned to speak and read and write. And sometimes, she was angry... and within my first five years of life, I believe I suffered a total of forty-seven broken bones. My first word was "Please..."

But always, always, she was in control. She decided everything, and I obeyed, even when I knew the pain it would cause me. Because to be "a bad little boy" would be far, far worse. So through submission, and pleading, and knowing when to take my blows like a "proper boy" and when to break down and give her the sobs that she delighted in disdaining, I survived to the age of seven. I don't think I had ever left the house. I don't think anyone knew I even existed. I do know that I could have died any day of my life with not so much as a ripple in the world. I was a nothing. A wretched little creature who came into this world and went from it without so much as a murmur from the outside.

Sometimes, I wanted this. I wanted to be properly punished for my sins. But this time...

In my youth, I was short - stunted - for my age, and she had the height and wiry strength that I was only to achieve in later life. She only needed her fists to give me what I deserved. But of course, the boy needed to eat, so that he could put himself back together after he got broken, and besides, cuisine was one of the things my... owner... cared about.

She could certainly cook - when she let me eat. Sometimes, she'd simply sit me on the other side of the table and consume every mouthful of my portion and her portion before my starving eyes. I didn't dare even protest my hunger. But I watched. I watched her chew and swallow the most basic item of life that I needed: sustenance. It seemed like that was when she gained the most power: when she was eating. I would stare, dully fascinated, as that slender, dark silver throat convulsed and her red-rimmed eyes winked at me, taking utter control.

But anyway... So she kept a pretty well-stocked kitchen. All under lock and key, of course. But that one time she was careless.

The drawer was already open.

And oh, they glittered.

I knew what a knife was for. I'd seen her, peeping round the door as I contemplated whether to dare to come and grovel for her forgiveness, chopping vegetables for whatever excellent dish she desired. Chopping Vegetables. Slicing meat.

The knives were so beautiful... I could almost hear them singing. Calling to me.

That night, they gave me what I had never had in my entire life. Control.

I thought I could do it quickly, get it over with. My hands weren't even shaking - I can remember that. They were steady as a rock, calm and accepting - and she was unconscious, unafraid: I would never dare to lay a finger on her, knowing what would happen. I did was I was told to do.

And... perhaps that's right. The knife I held seemed to be telling me what to do, that night. But it was my voice. It was me. I was in control.

Even when the knife missed her jugular by inches, and she woke up with her lifeblood pouring. I looked at her eyes as she died, and they were a beautiful deep brown. I'd never notice what a lovely creature she was, until I was destroying her. She died without a sound, but the silence was the fanfare of my freedom.

You wanted my first? That was it. I kept the knife, of course. Even three decades later I was still using it for the final act. It had saved me, and I intended to repay it in full.

(The subject is asked to continue, and smiles, raising an eyebrow.)

You're taking this all quite calmly. Not bad.

Well, it is clear even back then that I was starting to ... starting to become what I am today. But that doesn't mean I took it in my stride. I was young, disorientated, and, to be frank, I was terrified. So I did what I had learned to do over the course of my short life: I did what I thought I had to do to survive.

There was no shortage of flammable alcohol in the house, I can assure you. Plenty of lighters, too.

Knives may have become my little motif, but I find that there is a strange... beauty in fire, as well. It is wild, dangerous, and will eagerly harm its wielder as readily as its target, but if you can master it, if you can gain control... then that is a notable achievement. Even back then, I recognised that, and it took a while to set up the house so that the flames would consume it all and nothing else. What did I feel then? I didn't, really. I retreated into myself, and simply... did what I must.

I still had much to learn - that was clear. By the time the blaze was put out, half the street was ablaze, apparently. No casualties, however... well, apart from one female wolf, with a history of drug addiction, petty crime and violence... who lived alone.

I say "apparently". Once I had dropped the lighter into the bin full of paper, I... fled? No, that doesn't sound right. I walked. I left the house over the garden fence, and was two blocks away before someone realised the rundown old house was on fire., and I kept walking. Where? I didn't know. I was still on autopilot, still obeying my simplest survival instinct. I kept walking.

Past the edges of town.

Into the depths of the forest. I was barely conscious of what I was doing. I honestly have no idea what I was doing - it was the first time in living memory that I had been outside. Perhaps I was just overwhelmed? Perhaps I wanted to punish myself for what I had done? Regardless, I kept walking. Until it was night and too dark to see. Until I tripped over a tree root and... just shut down. It wasn't sleep. I was too exhausted, mentally and physically, to sleep.

I woke quite suddenly the next day, and could think clearly. I'd like to say I considered my options... but the truth was that I just talked to myself. I invented personas and alter egos, all trying to suggest the right way to go, trying to suggest a way out of what was very definitely reality:

(The subject ticks his points off on his fingers as he speaks.)

(1) I had just murdered my own mother. Despite my calmness, I can assure you that I have never underestimated the gravity of such an act. Never in my life.

(2) No-one in the world outside was aware of my existence.

(3) I was lost in a vast forest, miles deep, with no idea where I was.

Now, these problems were not easily solved, and it is quite likely that had I continued discussing my plight with myself, I would have descended into madness. Base, animalistic and unintelligent madness. Not insanity - that had been there since the age of two, and has only grown stronger with age. The madness of a fool, of a drunkard. A madness which would have caused my slow death.

The cause, you see, was purpose. Before, I had the simple - but by no means easy - purpose of staying alive, and staying unharmed. To that end, I was forced to devote all my energy. But now I was free, and I had no purpose, no thing to concentrate my efforts towards. I was at a loose end. And I was in danger of unravelling completely.

But my ramblings did not go unnoticed. As I wandered, slipping from voices to voices like a pebble slips from rock to rock in a waterbed, I... I heard another voice. The first I had heard that had not held contempt or anger or drunken cruelty. I remember it perfectly.

(His eyes close, but flicker behind his eyelids, as if watching something only he can see.)

"What are you doing?"

I managed to focus, and realised that the forest had cleared. No, it had been cleared. I was standing on the edge of a large, eastern-styled garden. It was simply and beautifully maintained, with no fence to divide it from the all-encompassing forest. At the end of it stood a house, equally large, equally simple in design, and equally beautiful.

The forest hadn't ended. There was simply a residency in the middle of it, isolated from the rest of the world. With one inhabitant.

Well... I don't know if it's been detailed yet, but have you heard of Armstrong Steelworks?

It's the largest metalworking company on the planet. Industry, weapons, smaller items.... if it's metal, if it's good, it's Armstrong. That's the motto. It was in business in the Tsangian empire - over there, far on the Eastern Fringe - before the Authority was even formed. It is worth billions.

And, as it turned out, the elderly but wiry palomino horse, looking at me with mild curiosity and smoking a short wooden pipe, was the owner of the entire thing.

Marcus Armstrong. Early seventies at the time. Ranked Number 17 on the list of richest people in the world. He'd taken early retirement after being injured during an arms trip to the Southern fringe, selling arms to troops fighting in the 2nd rebel wars. Vanished almost two decades ago, and though the company was kept running by his subordinates, he had never been seen again. Rumours had it that the wound went bad, and although it healed, his mind didn't. They said he'd been retired after he hospitalised his secretary, nearly killed her, and the company covered it all up. Rumour has it the old equine was now mad and senile.

Of course, I knew none of this at the time. All I knew was that I was seven years old, and no matter what my mind had become, I was still a child. I just stood there, and... I started to cry.

I'm not sure if I went to him or if he came to me, but I do remember that he carried me inside. I remember feeling the warmth of his arms, and shying away, scared of contact.

He washed me, brought me to his kitchen, and gave me a meal - without ever saying a word. I didn't dare speak either, too terrified that my secret would blurt itself out. So our first day passed in silence.

The next morning, I went and asked him why? Why had he done this, instead of calling the police? Why had he taken me in like this? The old horse simply shrugged, and said that if I wanted to come into his garden, that was fine by him. He spoke more - hesitantly, quietly, and i learned more: Marcus had not seen another being face to face for the past decade. He had despised his job, and now he just desired to... let things happen. He didn't mind my company, and he didn't mind where I had come from.

...I now realise that the distinctive aroma of the pipe he always smoked was in fact pure evonicus - the same drug that my mother had taken during my birth. Perhaps he was insane... but so was I. Even then, I was quite certain of that. We seemed to fit together quite nicely.

I left, and the next day, when he saw me at breakfast, he simply nodded politely.

Marcus had goods driven in from the outside, down a small and half forgotten road. He never met with his suppliers, communicating by computer only - it is doubtful that they even knew who he was.

The first few days passed in a daze of wandering, of sudden freedom. I explored the house, discovering that it had a very well-stocked, library, a pool, a training dojo, a musical studio, and for some reason, a forge, amongst others. Marcus seemed happy to cook for us both, and for a week or so, I was content to be a child - something which I had never experienced before.

But it wasn't right.

I didn't know what was missing. But my life lacked... something, something it had had even when I was a terrified toddler, begging please mummy no, I'll be good this time...

I tried to think...

...and then I remembered having spent an entire afternoon, watching Marcus sit completely still on the rear porch, his eyes closed. I expected him to do something, but he didn't move an inch for four hours straight. I'd asked him later, and had been baffled by the concept of meditation. Doing nothing? Now that I was free to do what I wanted? No, thank you very much.

But now... I wanted to think. I wanted to decide about myself.

It took a while, but with Marcus' patient and somewhat inane tuition, I was a natural... Or, at least, I'd had years to practice hiding inside myself to avoid the outside world.

After two months, I could remain in the state for half an day straight, and only then did I try to think properly about it. I looked at my life - what had happened, what might happen. I looked at what I was.

And I realised: I needed purpose. I needed a desire to work for, an ideal to strive towards.

And then I remembered my mother's eyes as she died by my blade. Chocolate brown and beautiful.

I had kept the knife with me, and wore it always. It was my secret. But now I felt it's weight against my thigh. I felt the power of it. I wanted to use it again.

I wanted to see people as they died. People I knew and understood. People I loved.

Did this register as wrong? No. My only concept of morality had been whatever my mother deemed worthy of punishment. Now that she was gone, nothing I did would be punished, so nothing was wrong. Simple. My mind approved.

But I was young, and frail, and shy, and the world was big, and strong, and alien. I needed to learn how to control it. I needed to start that, by learning to control myself.

So I decided to grow up.

When I opened my eyes, the sun was just about to rise. I had spent the whole night thinking. I saw the wooded horizon, with just a hint of that blinding brilliance peeking over the edge of the world at me. It had so much left to be revealed. It had so much to do.

It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen.

I went and explained my epiphany to Marcus. To be frank, I have no idea why. He could have turned me in for murder, or sent me away, or done anything. But the old horse simply listened to me with quiet interest, and then said simply, "Would you like me to help you?"

...Yes. He was insane. Drug addled, senile, mad... but so was I. We fit together perfectly.

From that new day forth, it was decided. I would gain control over every aspect of myself, mind, body and soul. In every way. I read my way through every book in Marcus' library by the age of twelve, and then discovered his computer and the internet, and read my way through everything I could find. I trained for hours on end, running marathons through the forest without pause by the age of thirteen. Running them in under three hours by the age of sixteen. I learned everything I could - gymnastics, martial arts, yoga, ballet, dance, music, art... I armed myself. I metamorphosed.

And I meditated. After four months, I could ignore a straight punch to the stomach from Marcus, who was pretty damn strong, I can assure you, and certainly had no qualms about it - he viewed it all as a moderately interesting exercise. The pain would register, but I could isolate it.

It wasn't enough.

By the time I was fifteen, I didn't so much sleep every night as simply enter my own mind. I created artworks in there, vast monuments that defied possibility and defied logic. I wrote symphonies for a thousand instruments. And I dreamed of what I could do, what I could control, with proper tools.

It was about this time that I started working in the forge. Marcus' family had all been expert steelworkers: they had been practicing it for literally hundreds of years, after all. He showed me the most basic techniques, and then the less basic techniques... and then I started experimenting. I knew what I wanted.

Many of the instruments in my collection were artefacts. But many more, I invented myself. Hours on the lathe and the whetting stone. Failed prototype after failed prototype. Dozens of red lines over my body, bedraggling the silver fur with scarlet. I had to learn a lot about anatomy, too.

So the years passed, and I grew stronger, taller, faster, better. Boredom did not enter my mind at any point. Why would it? I was doing what I was destinied to do.

What made me decide I was ready? I'm not sure, really. I simply looked out at the world one morning, having just turned seventeen - almost ten years since that event - and wanted to take it.

The old horse simply nodded again when I said I was leaving. But I couldn't just go. I had one last thing to do...

Marcus stopped nodding that dayIt turned out that I'd been replacing his evonicus with plain tobacco for the past month, so that all the pain wasn't dimmed. It turned out that behind the amiably uncaring persona, he'd regretted so much. It also turned out that my home-crfted toys worked... beautifully.

The first time I cut, his mantle seemed to just fall away, and he screamed. I looked the old horse in the eyes that day, and I saw him truly for the first time. Saw the things he had done in power to stay there, saw the lives he knew he had ruined. Saw his guilt. I didn't mind what he had done. It was exquisite.

But eventually, when the poor old man was barely aware of my cuts, I knew it was time to end. And the knife that had sat in my pocket every day of my transformation, so, so patiently, came out to play at last.

Marcus died with beauty incarnate in his eyes.

I took what I might need: the knives i had forged, a few favourite possessions, money enough to start a new life, enough to forge passports and contacts and become a new person. A new person... with a new name.

Finnley Nero Sharpe. Finn to my friends.

Finn to my victims.

It was time to have some fun.

(This was the second last interview between Mr Finn and Dr Newton. After the effect of the serums wore off, Finn was returned to his holding cell. Upon learning of what he had said while under the influence of the drugs, Mr Sharpe requested one last talk with the doctor.

The contents of their final interview are unknown, as, after speaking with Mr Sharpe for two hours, Dr Newton destroyed the recordings of their session. He later attempted to commit suicide by hanging himself.)