//------------------------------//
// Choices 
// Story: We're all a little crazy 
// by Draconaquis 
//------------------------------//

A few hours passed, Franky and Rose simply talking. Neither one of them could sleep anyway. The moon slowly rose out of the prisoners line of sight, his small window not providing much of a view. She chuckled slightly at something he had said. The pairs casual conversation was, however, brought to a rather sudden halt.
“I haven’t taken a shit in three days.”
“...What.”
Rose watched in concern as Franky, clutching his stomach, stumbled to the floor. “Ohoho.” He said, half laughing, half groaning. “That doesn’t feel good.”
“What- Why are you just mentioning this now?!”
The black haired man sat, moaning, head between his legs. “I don’t know. I said something to Intercom Guy the first day, but then I sorta… forgot.”
“You forgot.” Rose’s tone implied she was massaging her temples.
“It also didn’t start hurting until just now.”
There was the sound of keys clacking on a keyboard. “Alright dude, I’mma see if there’s someone who can take you to the bathroom.”
“In the middle of the night? Are you allowed to do that?
“I don’t know. But I do know that I’m not allowed to let you rupture something.”
“...That works for me.”
There was silence for a moment, punctured occasionally by rapid typing. “I have to turn off the mic so I can radio someone else.”
“Cool. I’m not going anywhere.”

The intercom clicked off, and Franky was alone in the dark of his cell. Well, relatively alone.
Wouldn’t it be funny if this was how you died? Crash laughed. ‘The Great Father of Chaos, Killed By Constipation!’
Then, Franky’s stomach gave a particularly painful cramp, and he stopped laughing.
Reggie spoke up. “You need to be more careful with your body, brother. It is our only way out of this prison.” 
The killer clenched his teeth as he was racked by another spasm of pain. A little reminder would have been nice. 
Oh, yeah, sorry about that.The redhead responded. Just been a little busy being tortured. 
Are you gonna keep whining about that? Franky’s eyes widened. Oh my god, you guys totally missed it.
Missed what?
He relayed to them the memories of a few hours ago, when Celestia had appeared in his cell, demanding that he answer her questions, and how he had refused and attempted to strangle her. Crash laughed at the killers response to her outrage, and Reggie was silent.
When he showed them how she had teleported away, the redhead asked, How are your hands?
Better, but they still fucking hurt. Franky held them up. They were red, shiny, and raw, but he would be fine.
“I wonder what she was trying to do to you?” Reggie pondered.
What do you mean?
“Watch when she gets angry.” The suited man answered. They all re-watched the memory. “When she says ‘You will tell me anything I ask’, her horn lights up. And then, when you refuse, she is clearly shocked. She was fully expecting you to do exactly as she said.”
Maybe that’s because she’s an entitled little twat who’s used to getting her way. Crash added helpfully.
Franky nodded slowly. Yeah, maybe. But look at right before she teleports away. Her horn lights up then too.
“I believe that is how she performs her spells. Which means,” Reggie said, “that you are immune to at least some of her magic.” 
I wonder what would happen if I broke it off? The killer thought, meaning her horn.

With a click, the intercom came back on, and Rose spoke. For some reason, however, it was distorted and garbled, and completely unintelligible.
“I couldn’t understand any of that, Rose.”
She spoke again, but it still sounded like she was underwater.
“Turn the mic off and on again.
She did. “How about now?”
“Yep. Loud and clear.”
“Huh. Weird. Has that happened before?”
“One time, with Intercom Guy. What’s up?”
“I found some guys to escort you. They want you to stand against the back wall.”

Franky stood, wincing as his stomach clenched again. He walked across the room, and leaned against the wall directly underneath his window. Light flooded the room as the door slowly opened, and two asylum guards walked in, both armed.
The prisoners eyebrows raised as they approached. “Guard Guys? What are you two doing here?”
“Turn around.” One said by way of answer, holding up a pair of handcuffs.
He did, and grimaced slightly as the cuffs pinched his wrists. “Seriously though.” He said. “Why are you guys here? It’s like two-o’clock in the morning.”
One guard, the one who had confronted Franky in the hallway before, muttered, “Shut up. Let’s move.” The other guard, who seemed slightly agitated, nodded, and began to leave the room. Franky followed, the gruff guard behind him with a hand on his shoulder.

They entered the hallway, and the prisoner noted the lack of employees. Or anyone at all. So why were his guards here?
“You guys don’t sleep here, do you?”
“Not normally, we don’t.” The guard in front said under his breath. Realizing he had spoken out loud, the man shook his head, and sped up slightly. The killer noticed other doors in the hallway, ones that probably led to cells exactly like his own. He wondered what those inmates had done, what deeds had they committed to get themselves labeled as dangerously insane. He couldn’t wait to find out, and for some reason, he was sure he would.

The trio passed the room where Franky had met Phelps, and kept walking. Eventually, they stopped before an elevator. One guard pressed a button, and the door slid open. As they walked in, Franky racked his brain for something fun or unsettling to say. But, something was off. As the nervous guard pressed the ‘1’ button, the prisoner felt the mood in the elevator shift. There was a palpable tension, a growing, building anxiety. Whatever was on the ground floor, the guard guys did not want to be near it. With a small jerk, Franky felt himself moving upwards. So I’m in the basement. He thought. Good to know. 

The elevator door opened again, and the first thing the prisoner noticed was all the black. All he had seen so far of the asylum was white. Pristine. Boring. But this room spotted with black. The second thing he noticed was that the black was the asylum guards uniform color, and and that guards were everywhere. The trio stepped into the lobby, and just in there the killer saw a dozen men. In some of the hallways and rooms adjacent to the lobby he saw even more. Most of them weren't armed, but even so it was an impressive security force.
“Jesus guys.” The killer said. “You know I’m cuffed, right?” At that, many guards turned to look at Franky and his escorts. But, much to his surprise, they looked away just as quickly.  Whatever they  were here for, it wasn’t him.

The nervous guard led them across the room, through a door, and to the prisoners relief, a bathroom.
Once inside, the prisoner paused. “Isn’t there a bathroom on my floor? Why’d we have to come all the way up here?”
“None of us had the key.” The gruff guard said, holding open a stall door. “You have five minutes.”
The killer scoffed. “You’re gonna have to make it longer than that. I’ve been holding this one for three days.”
The guard chewed his cheek. “Five minutes. Then we check on you. Then you keep going.”
“Alright.” The black haired man said. “Uncuff me.” The guard gave him a look, which he matched with his own. “How am I supposed to get my pants down without any hands?” They held  each other's gaze, until the guard caved.
“Fine.” He growled, motioning for his partner to remove the cuffs.

Franky rubbed his wrists, smiling, and stepped into the stall. The ordeal took less time than he had anticipated, and suffice to say it provided much needed relief. When he emerged, his smile was even wider, and the guards faces reflected their musings that they had not signed up for this. One moved to put the handcuffs back on, but the killer stepped back.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Aren’t you gonna let me wash my hands first?” Both guards rolled their eyes, but let him go to the sink. He winced again as the cold water ran over his burnt hands, but left them there. Hopefully, this would help them heal faster. He squeezed a dollop of soap out of the dispenser, working it over his hands, and lathering slightly up his arms. Then, he attempted to stand in front of the hand dryer, but by then Grumpy Guard Guy was impatient.
“C’mon.” He growled, and wrenched Franky away by the shoulder. The other guard clapped on the handcuffs, and together they departed.

The walk back to the lobby was quiet, because the guards didn’t want to talk, and Franky seemed to be doing something behind his back. Unbeknownst to them, he hadn’t washed the soap off of his hands and arms, and was attempting to maneuver them through the handcuffs. He didn’t particularly want to escape, nor did he think he could (they could shoot faster than he could run). But, if he was only allowed to leave his cell in handcuffs, it would be handy (heh) to know he could get out of them.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, he couldn’t, at least not without breaking his thumbs. Oh well, I tried. By now, the trio was back in the lobby, and the prisoner noticed the strange energy again. There was even more security in the small room, though none of them seemed to be doing anything but stand around and talk mutedly. Something was going on, but Franky had no idea what. And he didn’t like being out of the loop.
“This is the worst pool party ever.” He whispered conspiratorially to the guard on his left, who happened to not be part of his escort. At the man's confused look, he just shrugged. “Just sayin.” His guard guys dragged him towards the elevator, but were stopped by a man in front of it.
“You’re gonna have to wait, guys. Elevator’s bringing people down from the top floors.”
The nervous guard shifted from foot to foot.”We need to get him back to his cell. Fast.” The man took a moment to examine the prisoner, and recognition flashed in his eyes.
“Alright.” He said. “You get first priority as soon as it’s back on this floor.” Grumpy Guard nodded, and led Franky to a corner of the room to wait. The black haired man took this opportunity to scan the lobby. He was looking for the guard from the hallway, the one who had crossed his chest. Before he could locate him, however, there was a stirring in the center of the room.

An imposing figure stood there, barking out orders and pointing at people, as official looking as one could be. He was as tall as Franky himself, and held a fierceness that the prisoner found invigorating. His grey hair spoke not of age, but of steel.
“You, you, and you.” He said, selecting three guards at random. “I want you with the team I’ve posted outside. They’ll fill you in. Move.” The three in question nodded an affirmative, and one snapped a clumsy salute before they headed down a hallway.
So there’s an exit that way. Good to know.
The fierce man continued. “Alright.” The rest of the room shifted their focus to him, if it hadn’t been there already. He glanced at a watch. “It’s 02:30. As you know, we’ve got-”
“Sir!”
The grey haired man's eyes narrowed, and he turned to release hell on whoever dared to interrupt him. As Franky’s shocked stare would tell, it had been Nervous Guard Guy.
The skittish man gulped. “Sir, I strongly suggest we do not discuss details in front of this particular prisoner.”

Suddenly, Franky felt the fierce man's eyes on him. An inexplicable knot formed in his gut, and while he wanted to smile or wave, he was unable to do anything but stare back. I wonder if that’s what people feel like when I look at them? And then, the grey haired man looked back to the guard. And, fortunately for him, seemed to agree.
“How soon can you have him out of here?”
“As soon as the elevator comes back, sir.”
A curt nod. “Alright. Five minutes then you take the stairs. Briefing when he’s gone.” He turned back to the room at large. “Everyone who knows where to be, get there.” A few guards peeled away at that, going down hallways and through doors. But most stayed in the lobby, awaiting instruction.
Franky turned, slightly awed, to his escorts. “Who is that guy?”
Neither answered, but a guard who had been standing nearby overheard. “Gregory Machand. He’s the warden. And chief of security.”
Franky shook his head. “He’s cool.”

At that moment, several fates collided in one single, subtle action.
At the front entrance of the asylum, the three guards sent by the warden exited the building.
Closer to the lobby, a guard paused, holding a door open to wait for his partner.
And finally, in the lobby itself, one security member, coming from the bathroom, knocked on a door that had locked behind him. The warden himself opened it.
That instance, that split second when all three doors were open, allowed something from outside the asylum to slip in. A single snippet of sound, a contact form the outside world, made its way into Franky’s ears. It was only a hum, a buzz, a static that could have come from anything. But before he had time to analyze it, the second passed, and the lives that had intertwined for a moment separated. The doors closed. The prisoner blinked and felt disoriented for some reason.
What was that? He thought. It sounded like… a clothes dryer, or something. The sound had washed over everyone else as well, and he could tell it made them uneasy. What…?

His thought process was interrupted yet again as the elevator door opened, and security personnel began filing out, making the lobby more crowded than it already was. As soon as it was empty, his escorts ushered him into the elevator, and as it slid shut. The Chief of Security started to brief his men. “Alright gentlemen-” And then it was closed. But that sound. It stuck in the killer's mind. It felt so...familiar. 
“Hey guys, what was that?” He asked the guard guys. Neither answered, but nervous Guard flicked his eyes around, and Grumpy Guard made a growling sound in his throat. Claire does that, Franky noted. “Seriously though.” He said. “It sounded like… something.” With a whoosh, the trio was exposed to a hall, lined with doors and rooms, normal building things. But, for no discernable reason it made something click in the killer's brain.
Cross my heart. A flash of a thousand faces, all uplifted and screaming with a fierce joy. Franky spinning around slowly, arms outstretched. Hope to die. The indescribable feeling as he raises his fist and roars, and is swept into a primal state of joy as his voice turns into thousands.
They’re here, he thought. That was why he recognized the sound. The sound of a crowd, the beautiful, chaotic hum that only comes from a multitude of humans in one place. He grinned. That also explained all the security. It had been no secret that he had been taken to AACI. And the Children of Chaos couldn’t be legally prevented from assembling, despite the countless legislative acts trying to label them as a terrorist organization. He laughed out loud, startling the guard guys. By now, they had passed several rooms and were approaching the hallway containing Franky’s cell.
“I don’t suppose,” He said, still smiling, “that it’s too late for me to go say hello?” His statement was vague, but the guards reactions confirmed his suspicion. They both gulped, nervous guard practically stumbled, and suddenly they were hauling ass down the hallway. Franky was laughing as hard as he could, struggling to do that and not fall over. When they arrived in front of his cell, tears were running down his face, and breath was coming in short gasps. The door swung open, and the cackling prisoner was thrown inside, where he landed face first on the thankfully padded floor.
“Hey! You forgot to take the cuffs off!” The guards looked at one another, and the door slammed shut.
“You fuckers.” Franky muttered, but he was still laughing.

When he finally subsided, Rose declared, “Dude, that must have been one helluva shit.”
That almost set him off laughing again, but he managed to ask, “What?”
“You were gone for a long time.” She said.
He started working on getting up, which was harder than it sounds with his hands behind his back. “Yeah, we had elevator trouble.”
Rose interrupted herself midsentence. “Elevator trou-Why the fuck were you on a different floor?!”
The prisoner was pretty sure she was trying to make him laugh. “None of the guard guys had the key to the one down here.”
“Oh my god.” He couldn’t see her, but he knew she had a thumb and forefinger on the bridge of her nose.
“Yeah. So hey, Rose?”
“Hmm.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
A pause. “Tell you what?”
“That today's Tuesday. The fuck do you think?”

“I get it.” He said, finally on his feet. “If I knew, I might try to escape, but… I don’t know.”
“Today’s Sunday.”
“They’re here, Rose.” He said. “My people are here, my friends, my followers. The Children of Chaos.” One would be hard pressed to miss the pure glee in his voice.
She sighed. “Yeah. You know I can’t talk about it though, right?”
“Why not? We talk about other stuff you’re not supposed to.”
“Yeah, but that’s like… protocol and shit. Things that, err, Intercom Guy gets weird about. This is- I could be locked up if I told you. And not in some cushy asylum with my own cell.”
Franky nodded. “I get it. It’s all good. I’m just happy they’re here, is all.”
“...Had a hard time getting to my car yesterday.”
“Really? Why?
“They were all in the way. Shouting at all the employees, saying to let you go.”
“Huh. That’s...rude. Hey, next time, just cross your heart, and say, ‘Cross my heart.’ they should let you through.
Rose barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”
“Why not?”
“Would I be allowed to work with gang members if I started throwing up blood signs?”
Franky pursed his lips. “That’s a solid point”

There was a pensive lapse in conversation, both of them pondering one thing or another. The prisoner bounced on his toes, feeling his legs. If they weren’t too sore, he would do some exercise...Well, maybe not. Instead, he walked over to his cot and sat down.
“So, Rose.”
“Sup.”
“What time is it?”
“3:17”
Franky groaned. “I’ve only been awake for three hours.”
“Yeah, well, stop falling asleep at these fuck-random hours.”
He tried to rub his face, but was prevented by the handcuffs, which did wonders for his mood. “Yeah, well, I didn’t have a choice last time.” He said, attempting to blow the loose strands of black hair off of his face.
“What does that mean?”
“It means…” He paused, shaking his head wildly about, before tossing his hair back with a flipping motion. “It means that I can afford to indulge the hallucinations when I don’t have anything else to do.” He knew nothing about his other life was a hallucination, but he hoped that he could derail her from this line of questioning. Distraction.
“What am  I doing for the rest of the day?”
There was the rustling of papers. “Why can’t they just fucking email this to me? Hold on.” Finally, she said,, “Alright. 8:30, you go to Phelps.”
“...That’s it?”
“Yup. You ain’t got nothin else on the schedule.”
Franky groaned. “Great. So not only do I have to go talk to a short, bald, nazi motherfucker, for the rest of the day I just sit in here.”
“Supposedly though, today is the first bit of your psych evaluation, so if it goes well, you might be able to go to the cafeteria and stuff.”
He grunted, and sat back on the floor, where he began to work on getting the handcuffs in front of him.
“Hey homo.”
The prisoner snorted. “What?”
“Remember a couple of nights ago when I asked how you first became a serial killer?”
Franky looked up. “Oh yeah! Where did we get with that?”
“Uh, Intercom Guy walked in before we even got started.”
The prisoner stood, his hands still cuffed, but at least they were in front of him now.
“Well, storytelling is definitely a fun way to kill time.” He walked back to his cot, and sat cross legged on it, facing the camera. “Hmm. Where to start.”
There was the wet ‘clack’ of Rose opening an energy drink, then a slurp. “How about when you first realized you were a serial killer?”
The killer ‘hmmed’ again. “Yeah, that could work, but there's a bit of backstory you would need, or it wouldn’t make much sense.” He tilted his head. “Or it might. Fuck it.”
“I’m pretty sure I was 22-”

Cozy. Cozy is how you would describe that night. The bar was warmly lit, bustling in a quiet sort of way. Clinks of glasses, quiet  conversation, a friendly calm occasionally punctuated by drunken laughter. The bartender, a burly man with huge, tattooed arms, hummed softly to himself as he cleaned a shot glass.

There was a light bell chime, and a crisp autumn chill slipped in as the door to the bar opened. Other than a glance, no attention was paid to the newest patron, a tall, black haired youth with his hands tucked in his pockets. He surveyed the room, casually but consciously, and made his way to the bar.
“Hi there.” He said, finding a stool.
The bartender eyed him suspiciously. “Howdy. What can I do for you?”
Franky examined the shelf behind the large man. “How about a J&B?”
The bartender chuckled. “Mhmm. Got an ID?”
The younger man sighed dramatically. “Not on me, I’m afraid.”
“That’s what I thought. Can’t serve to minors, kid.”
Franky locked eyes with him, grinning fiercely. “What if I swore I was 22?” He poured all of the persuasive energy he could muster into the gaze, feeling it work it’s way over the bartender's soul.
“Nope, sorry.” The man chuckled again. “Wish I could take your word for it.”
A sigh of defeat. “Yeah, alright. Can I have some Doctor Pepper?” One of the downsides of being off the grid, not having an ID. The bartender placed a glass of soda in front of him, and Franky glanced to those seated around him. He-

“Wait, wait. Why were you off the grid?”
Franky looked up at the camera in annoyance. “That’s all backstory. Doesn’t matter right now.”
“Well, you have to tell it to me sometime.”
“Yeah, but I figure we have a few months at least of storytelling ahead of us. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
“...Yeah, alright.”
“May I continue?”
“Please.”

There were five people seated at the bar, with Franky in the middle. To his right there sat a man who looked to be in his late 20’s, chatting casually (desperately) with a woman probably twice his age, though she hardly showed it. She didn’t look as if she minded the attention either, but Franky was willing to bet she liked em a little younger. He turned  his head, now looking to his left. Sitting next to him was a man who looked like he’d seen  some interesting years. His outfit said logger, his face said retired, but his posture said soldier. Probably a ‘Nam vet, Franky reasoned. Further past the old man, almost in the corner of the room, there was someone who very clearly didn’t belong. A middle aged, very well dressed business man. He exuded white collar wealth and class from his very pores. Or, he would, if he wasn’t sloppy drunk. As of then, he was halfway through a glass of whiskey that had been refilled a few times already.

The young man's interest was fully piqued at this point. This wasn’t a shady part of town, by any means, but it was the industrial section. Of a  lumber town no less. Not even the owners of the mills dressed like that. He grabbed his soda, and walked over to the suited man, selecting a stool next to him. The man didn’t even look up.
“Rough day at work, huh?”
His bloodshot eyes and disheveled hair made him seem quite pitiful as he groaned into his drink. “I guess you could say that.” He tipped the glass back, draining it, earning a whistle from Franky.
“You know, there are healthier ways to forget your sorrows.”
The man motioned to the bartender to refill the glass. “Yeah, but they aren’t as fast.”
The younger man took a sip from his soda. “I hear venting helps quite a bit. Need a pair of ears?”
The man glared at him suspiciously. “What are you, a homo or something?”
Franky put on a winning smile. “Just a concerned citizen.”

It took some time, and a few more half pints of whatever he was drinking, but the man's story began to spill out.
“I’m a lawyer, right? A defendant. I make cases for people…” He stared into his glass, and apparently decided that Franky knew what a defendant was. “I make pretty good money.” He chuckled. “Great money. Me and my wife, we’ve got a house. Cars. Great house. Anyway, this client comes in one day, this lady.” He struggled to turn and look at the black haired man. “Stunner.” He said. “Ten outta ten. Eleven outta ten. The body on her…” He slumped back to his drink. “I took her case, if you know what I mean. She starts coming in the office, all the time, we made these appointments.” The story from there was hardly coherent, but Franky pieced together the basics. Somehow, (Franky thought he heard “Receptionist), the lawyer's wife had found out about his mistress. Now, she was divorcing him, taking everything, including the great house.

Classic, the young drifter thought. He expressed his deepest condolences, nodded when necessary, shook his head in disbelief when expected. Eventually, the bartender announced last call, and told the patrons that the bar was closing.
Franky helped the well dressed man stumble to his feet. “Well, you’re in no shape to drive.” He said. “Where are you staying?”
“Uh. S-south of here. A hotel.”
“I’ll drive you. Lemme see the keys.”
The drunk man fumbled in his pockets as Franky practically carried him outside. He produced the keys, and almost handed them over, when he asked, “What about your car?”
The black haired man laughed. “No one’s gonna steal my old rice beater. But if we left your car here all night…” The lawyer conceded the point with a “huh,” and Franky snatched up the keys. The drifter figured that response would prompt less questions than admitting he didn’t have a car. They finally made it to the vehicle, a brand new Chrysler, pitch black and shiny. Franky helped the man into the passenger seat, before getting in himself.
Watching the man's head loll, he said, “Hey, before you pass out, where’s your hotel?” The lawyer weakly lifted a hand, pointing down the road. Then, the hand fell, and he was conscious no more.
“Guess I’ll just have to find it.” Franky muttered to himself. He ended up rooting through the man's pockets until he found the key card, which had the hotel name and room number on it. With some more searching, he found it, just a little further downtown. Then, he had a hotel employee help him carry the unconscious man to his room. When the employee departed (with a generous tip form the lawyers wallet), Franky closed the door behind him.
“Ugh,” He groaned. “Why is this always so much work?”

Hours later, the sun had already risen, and was beginning to peak in the sky when the lawyer awoke. His eyes started to peel open, caked and crusty, but the sunlight forced them shut again. His head was pounding mercilessly, and his body was all kinds of stiff and sore. And Jesus Christ it was cold! 
I’m going to get up, he thought,  close those blinds, get a damn blanket, and go back to sleep. 1. 2. 3! His eyes snapped wide open. He couldn’t move, and soon, he discovered why. His arms and legs were firmly tied to a chair. And he was definitely not in his hotel room.

The morning air was crisp and cold, not because the window was open, but because he was outside. Well, mostly. The ruins of a large, open building surrounded him, walls crumbling to reveal pine trees outside, and the floor being overtaken by weeds.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Said a voice very close to the lawyer's head. He gave a startled yelp, and jerked to see who was behind him. This did not help his hangover, and he winced as the throbbing escalated.
“You’re thinking, I’m never going to drink again! And you’re right.”
A tall figure strode into his view, and when the figures face was revealed he gasped. “You!”
Franky grinned. “Me!”
The lawyer struggled with his bonds. “What is this shit?! Where are we?” He opened his mouth to say more, but noticed the large knife in Franky’s hand.
The black haired man chuckled, and placed his free hand on the lawyer's head. “Well, if you’ll give me a second I’ll explain.” He found a place to sit, across from the lawyer on the floor.
“Last night,” He started, “I brought you to your hotel, intent on robbing you blind. But, as it turned out-”
“I don’t have any money!”
Franky nodded. “Exactly. And what you did have, I accidently gave to a guy at the hotel.”
The other man whimpered, not to mourn the loss of his money, but because his captor was running the knife up and down his leg.
The black haired man continued. “Now, if I had you go to an ATM, we’d only get about $1,000, and I don’t really feel like holding you hostage to go make a withdrawal. Not that you’d have that much anyway.” Franky sighed. “Man, your wife really cleaned you out.”
The lawyer burst out. “Then what do you want? Why am I here? You know I don't have anything!”
The other man stood up. “Well I was getting to that, buddy, just hold on.” He walked to stand in front of a hole in the wall that served as a window.

“Last night,” He said, “I had a choice to make. I could leave you there, on your bed, and no one would have ever known I was there. I could have taken your car to a chop shop, and be on my merry way.” He spun to face the lawyer. “But I came to realize something. About myself. I had a moment of clarity into my own mind.” Franky held his arms out, as if for a hug. “I don’t do this for money! I never did!” He twirled about, indicating the abandoned warehouse. “I don’t make much money anyway, I’m homeless for fucks sake!” Suddenly he was very close to the lawyer, their faces almost touching. “I do this,” He said, his voice almost a whisper, “because it’s fun.”
The other man gulped, and he was shaking uncontrollably. “Do what?”
A smile split across the killer's face. “Oh, you’re about to find out!”
He would find out later rather than sooner, because Franky left him tied up to find some creative way to kill him. It was an abandoned mill warehouse, there must be something interesting. However, he returned, frustrated, about half an hour later. “There is nothing here! Not even tools goddamnit!”
“Please let me go.” The lawyer's voice was raw from screaming for help.
“I hope you realize,” the killer said, “that we’re in the middle of nowhere. Also no.”

The black haired man's spirits were greatly lifted when he found an old wood chipper, but fell again when he couldn’t get it started. After another half hour, he returned to his captive, brandishing a board with several rusty nails sticking out of it.
“This is the best I could find.”
His victim whimpered as Franky lined the board up with his head. “Please…” the killer let loose a vicious swing, connecting with a solid ‘thwack!’. The man screamed and then sobbed, blood pouring down his wrecked face. But when Franky inspected the damage, he realized it was only superficial, and the nails had pushed out the back of the board, instead of penetrating the skull.
“Huh.” He said. “I guess I could just use the board.” Just then, however, something caught his eye, and his smile returned full force. The warehouse sported a sort of office building, maybe five stories tall, but it was boarded up and Franky hadn’t been able to get inside. But, from his new vantage point, he could see a single pulley mounted on a pole on the top floor, with a long, thick rope trailing all the way to the ground. It gave him a wonderful idea

He dragged his captive (and his chair) outside, although it took longer than it had to because the lawyer kept squirming and wrenching around, occasionally knocking himself over. Eventually, the pair was underneath the pulley, the killer looking up at it with his hands on his hips. A moment later saw him sweating profusely, despite the chill. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, and he was slowly but surely hoisting the lawyer into the air.
“I really don’t know,” Franky gasped, “if leaving the chair on you was such a good idea.”
The other man responded with a trembling scream, much less energetic than his previous objections. This may have had something to do with the fact that he was already two stories up, and each wobbly yank from the killer made him think he was going to fall. The rope wasn’t actually tied to him, instead being firmly knotted onto the back of the chair.
“W-wait!” He shouted down to his captor. It hurt to speak at all, thanks to the mess the nails had made of his face, but there were bigger things at stake here.
“Just… just let me down. Slowly. I can get you money.”
The killer paused, wrapping the rope around a nearby pole so he could wipe his brow.
“Yeah?”
“”Yeah! I have friends! I could- I could take loans, I could just steal it for you-”
“Look, I’m sure you could, but that’s not the problem at this point.”
The man practically choked. “What is?”
Franky put his hands on his hips and gazed up at the dangling lawyer. “The problem is I’m putting everything I’ve got into getting you up there. If I started letting you down now, i’d probably drop you. And from that height… Well, you’d just break a bunch of bones. It’d be super painful.” The man started to interject that broken bones were better than death, but Franky continued.
“Also, didn’t we just have a huge talk about how I wasn’t after money?” With that, his break was over, and he started hoisting again.
“Please! Don’t do this!”
“Please, I’ll do anything you want. Anything!”
“Why are you doing this? I’ve never even met you before.”
“Oh god, please!”
Eventually, the desperate cries shifted from pleas to insults.
“You fucking...asshole! You filthy rotten piece of shit!”
“You’re crazy! You don’t deserve to be alive! Your parents should have drowned you!”
Spittle and blood flew from the man's lips, and his eyes bugged out as he raged at his captor. But Franky steadfastly ignored him, humming softly to himself as the lawyer rose higher and higher.

Eventually, the cries faded away altogether, giving way to a quiet sobbing.

An hour passed, and finally the black haired man stopped, tying the rope firmly to the pole. He raised a hand up to shield his eyes from the glaring sun, which, paired with his intense efforts at the rope, had left him quite drenched. Five stories up, swaying softly in the crisp autumn breeze, sat the lawyer, almost comatose and unaware that he had stopped rising. The killer peered up at the broken man, contemplating exactly how this next phase would go. I could just leave him up there. Let him starve to death and dry out. The thought of some random hiker discovering the lawyers mummified corpse amused Franky greatly. But, the risk of someone stumbling into the mill while he was still alive was rather high. How long do people take to starve to death? Two weeks? I think it’s two weeks. No, he would do this as originally planned. Besides, after all the work I did to get him up there, it would be anticlimactic to just leave.
He drew the knife from his belt, and tapped it gently on the rope.
“Hey! Lawyer dude!” There was no response, and the captive remained motionless. Franky seized the rope, and shook it violently.
“Hey! Wake the fuck up!” When the silence continued, the killer began searching the ground for rocks. When he found a good fist sized one, he eyed his target with a squint. I don’t know if I can even throw that high. He cocked his arm back, but thankfully for his tired limbs, the lawyer chose that moment to start moaning again.
“Hey! Lawyer guy!” he saw the man's good eye open, and the living pendulum swayed a bit as he struggled once again with his bonds. Then he noticed how high up he was, and panic overrode his comatose silence.
“Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.”
“Hey hey hey, calm down man.”

The lawyers bloodshot eye locked on Franky with a desperate intensity.
“Let me down.” He whispered.
“What?”
“LET ME DOWN!” The ferocity of his scream tore at the wounds on his face, and droplets of blood pattered into the dirt next to Franky.
“No. Afraid I can’t do that. But,” He said, “I’ve had a change of heart.”
The lawyer let out a choked sob. “What?”
“If you want, I’ll take your last words, and get them to whoever they need to get to.” The dangling man gasped, and hung his head to his chest. After a moment of silence, Franky moved his knife to the rope.
“I mean, if you don’t want to-”
“No! No, just let me think!” The man's eyes were darting around frantically, as if he were trying to read a book that would save his life.
“I can’t-...alright. Tell my wife. Tell her…I’m sorry.” He began to sob in earnest, fitting words in between wracks of grief and pain. “I’m so sorry! I never should have- tell her to remember me from the early years! When we married. We were happy…” His breathing began to slow, and so did the tears. “That…That’s all I can think of.”
“Hey man, that was great.” Franky craned his neck to look the lawyer in the eyes. “You know, I just realized, I won’t be able to deliver that if I don’t know your name.”
The man gave a manic chuckle. “Oh yeah. My name is-” There was a loud snap, and his answer devolved into a strangled scream as he plummeted towards the ground five stories below. The rope whipped away from Franky, lashing around like a viper with its head cut off.

A sharp crack split the morning, echoing in between the abandoned buildings and into the woods. Franky remained where he was, knife still poised where the rope had been cut.
“Oops.” He examined a splinter of chair that had landed near his feet, then went to inspect the crash site.
“Well goddamn. That’s a mess right there.” The lawyer had attempted to swing the chair below him as he fell, a last ditch effort to soften the landing. All it had done, however, was slam broken chunks of chair into his body, and not really absorbing any of the momentum. Blood was pooling rather quickly, so Franky stepped back from the mangled pile. After staring for a moment more, he turned around, and started making his way to where he had parked the lawyers car. Victims were great sources of fun, but dead bodies were generally pretty boring. Unless you just happen to stumble on them, I guess. He swung his arms, grimacing at how sore they were, and then at the thought of how much they would hurt the next day. Totally worth it.

He went over the details in his mind. The lawyer was divorced, living in a hotel, no money, no job. Nobody would come looking for him, not for at least a week. If anyone did, they would go to the hotel. Let’s see… who saw me with him? Franky blinked. Well, everyone at the hotel lobby. And the guy I tipped to help me get him in the elevator. He pushed through an overgrown trail, and finally found the car. I can definitely make it out of state by then. The killer sat for a moment in the driver's seat, then fished around in his pockets for the keys. Thankfully, he found them, along with a $20 bill he didn’t remember putting there. But first, lunch!

There was silence in the cell for about a minute.
“Damn.” Franky couldn’t tell what Roses tone meant. “That’s some rough stuff dude.”
He nodded slowly. “I can see how it would be.” He had purposefully left out all the witty banter with Crash and Reggie, and their absence from the story made him seem colder and more calculating than he actually was. But for some reason, he was unwilling to share the knowledge of their existence with Rose. For now at least.
“I’m... not gonna defend my actions.” He said, leaning back into the cot. “I know my choice cut me off from most people, and I’ve made my peace with that.”
“Your choice?”
“The choice to… I don’t know, give into myself, I guess. I knew I was a predator at heart, and it’s not like I hadn’t killed before.” He grinned. “That day I decided to be a professional.”
“So, this was your plan from the start?” Rose's voice spoke of intrigue, not accusation, and before Franky could ask her to elaborate she continued. “I mean, to become the ‘Father of Chaos’ and all that.”
The killer barked out a laugh. “Oh hell no.Back then I was just a dumb kid indulging myself. There was no purpose behind any of it.”
“You said you were 22 right?”
“Yup.”
“How old are you now?”
The prisoner fixed a quizzical gaze on the camera. “You guys still don’t have my birth certificate?”
“Nope. Or any type of identification, or record of your existence before the Chicago Police started to make a profile. Whoever vanished you did a very thorough job.”
“Thanks. I hid a box of stuff before going off the grid, and among other things it’s got a copy. I’ll tell someone where it is before I die.”
Rose sniffed. “So you’re not going to tell me how old you are?”
He chuckled. “Nah, I’ve kept it a secret for this long. Besides, you didn’t answer when I asked you.”
“That’s fair. Alright, how about this one: why did you torture the lawyer?”
The killer frowned. “The thing with the board wasn’t as clean or sophisticated as I would have liked, but I wouldn’t say I tortured him.”
“Although that is fucked up, that’s not what I’m talking about.” She took a deep breath, and Franky thought for a second that he heard some shakiness. “I mean the last words. Why did you tease him with that at the end?”

The killer was silent for a long minute, his chin resting on his knees as he pondered the question.
“I honestly don’t know. I didn’t really think about it.” He tilted his head. “I guess I thought it was funny.” Still do, actually.
“Couldn’t you still have sent a letter or something to his wife? What happened to the whole ‘always keep your word’ thing?”
He levelled a glare at the camera. “I was 22! I didn’t have ideals, and I was trying not to get caught. Also, you might have missed the part where I didn’t know his name.”
“You said you had his wallet, right?”
“Yeah.” He said cautiously.
“So you had his ID.”

That made him pause. “Yeah, I guess I did. But there’s no way I could have delivered his last words without letting his wife know he was dead, which would have led to his body being found, his car being tracked, and me getting caught.”
“Alright, that’s fair. I’m just trying to figure out your motive.”
Franky tapped his head. “You’re trying to psychoanalyze me is what's happening.”
“...Well, yeah. We’re both professionals at something and it’s not like I can turn it off.”
“Well, is it working? What have you figured out so far?”
“Uh. It’s kind of hard to explain, actually. I haven’t reached any conclusions, I’ve just got a bunch of questions.”
“Like what?”
“Here, like this.” There was the sound of a notebook or pad being flipped through. “You mentioned you don’t care about dead bodies, as opposed to living victims. But a large number of your victims, in recent years at least, have been positioned post mortem for whoever happened to find them.”
He chuckled, some of his best masterpieces rushing to mind. “Ok, but that’s not a question.”
Rose scoffed. “But it poses a question, you ignoramus. If you don’t get any enjoyment out of playing with dead bodies, then why did you spend that much energy on making the crime scenes so… extravagant?” She took a long gulp from her drink. “My theory is, the attention from the press made you feel like you had to one up yourself.”

Franky was plainly affronted as he faced the camera. “Excuse me?! Attention from the press?” He stood up from his cot. “Absolutely slanderous!” He declared. “That’s only partly true.”
“Obviously, the first few were about making a statement-” He started.
“What kind of statement?”
“The kind you can’t translate into words, Rose. The kind that shakes people. You saw them, I’m sure, you felt what I’m talking about. Words can be twisted around, taken out of context, and most importantly, words can be silenced.” He smiled. “My message was heard very, very clearly.”

The killer began stretching his arms, trying to touch his toes despite still being cuffed. The skin on his hands was dry, red and cracked from his altercation with Celestia, so he made sure to face away from the camera.
“I’ll admit,” he said, standing up, “that getting a reaction was a huge part of it.
I knew that whatever I made would be marveled at, and at least one person would have to take pictures. You know some police photographer has put together an album of all of my kills, an actual account since I confessed so much during the trial.” He cackled. “HahaHa they dug up so many decaying chumps. But anyway. That album would be worth a lot of money one day.”

“What the hell are you talking about !?” Rose shouted. “You’re saying you’re statement is an art piece? Or an essay written by some college student about how clever you were?”

Franky spun to stare directly in the camera.. “Do you really think those crowds of chanting people would be outside if all I’ve achieved is an essay?”
“Oohoho! Got her!” Crash chortled. “Finish it off.”
Don't tell me what to do. 
“I will be remembered, Rose. I will have books and songs written about me, government failsafes written because of me, and that’s if I’m not the destruction of government itself. And I may be conceited, but I think there will be religions formed around me when I’m gone.” He huffed at the camera, daring her to prove him wrong.
She scoffed. “So it is for attention. You’re so focused on being ‘remembered’ that you’d kill other people? Torture other people?”
“I kill people for a lot of different reasons Rose. I’m playing a bigger game, and making a difference.”
“You think your ‘bigger game’ is more important than morality?”
Franky laughed. “Well, having morality in the first place would probably help that.”

There was silence in the cell, both parties fuming.
Heavy breaths played over a speaker in two rooms.
“Your lack of impulse does not excuse your terrorization of society!” Her shout caused him to laugh outrageously. It meant he was winning.
“I am excused by no one. I do what I want, and whoever wants to try and stop me, well...they can try. I am an absolutely free human being, living to the fullest,” He flexed his arms, “in my prime, and I’ve got the highest kill count of anyone I know. Because I’m a professional.”
“...That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. You’re a free man that lives in a cell.”
“Ha! Because I turned myself in! How do you know I’m not exactly where I want to be?”

When she finally responded, it was a change of subject. “It’s 8:15. I should call for the guards to bring you to Phelps.”
“Good. Finally a break from this nonsense.” He huffed again and turned his back the camera, trying and failing to cross his arms.
Silence returned to the cell once again.
I don’t have to justify myself to someone I just met.
“Shut up about it, pussy. Do pushups.”
Franky got on the ground and began pumping out push ups, as fast as he could considering he was doing diamonds. After a couple dozen, he stopped, staring at the ground.
“I wouldn’t actually rather be around Phelps than you.” He said, not looking up.
“Ha! I know.”



…





The sun shone into through magnificent stained glass windows, each easily over twenty feet tall. They scattered colorful rays of  light all over the throne room, and splaying onto the floor. The murals depicted grand scenes, masterfully illustrating the history of a nation. The rest of the room was enchanting as well, white marble floors and pillars accentuated by great banners that hung from the ceiling. The massive gilded doors opened onto a beautiful red carpet which led up to the throne itself. Actually, there were three. A central, golden and white throne that was flanked by two smaller ones to either side.

Normally, this courtroom would be filled with ponies, talking, watching, waiting to appeal to their leader about one thing or another. The childlike imitation of politics that Celestia allowed to exist flourished here. But not today. Today it was empty save for the two beings in the center of the room.

The Princesses faced each other, a determined look in both of their eyes. They each took deep, somewhat nervous breaths, and bent their heads down in unison. Their horns began to glow , and immediately the room grew cold, as if sucked out into a vacuum. The beaming sunlight seemed to fade, still shining, but now sickly somehow. The light on the floor began to flicker, bending and swirling in ways that shouldn’t have been possible. Both of the Princesses were grimacing, struggling to maintain the spell as a powerful wind whipped their manes across their faces. Then, with the sound of tearing metal and a great crash, everything snapped back into its place. The air rushed back into the room, bringing the warmth with it.

Celestia tentatively opened her eyes and glanced around the throne room. Nothing seemed to be broken, but the shadows were still crawling, and one small table appeared to be floating in the air, but after a moment nothing else happened.
Luna sighed in obvious relief, and Celestia felt herself ease as well. Maybe it didn’t work.
A timbre voice dashed her hopes into the ground. “Generally, when I’m sent off to do a task, I expect to be allowed to finish it before I’m called back.”

The royal pair jerked around, trying to find where the voice had come from.
“Show thyself, demon.” Luna growled.
“Demon? That’s a little harsh don’t you think?” the sisters jumped back as a grinning mouth materialized directly in between them. It was followed by a pair of yellow eyes, and then an ear, and other random body parts until an entire being stood in the throne room. Well, a conglomeration of whole beings. One hand the paw of a lion, the other the talon of an eagle, a unicorn horn, an antler, the tail of a serpent… The creature was an offense to any natural system in existence.
He rested with his cheek on a fist, elbow propped on a wall that wasn’t there.
“Hello darlings.”
“Discord.” Both ponies were tense, either from nerves or fear, but they hid it well. Now was not the time to show weakness.
Luna spoke first. “We have need of your...assistance.” She spit the word like it made her sick.
“If you’ll recall,” the spirit said, “I’m already assisting you.” He stood up straight, and began popping the joints in his long tail. “Which I was actually in the middle of, before I was so rudely summoned.”
Celestia noted something. “Why are you bleeding?”
Discord looked down at himself, and gave a small grunt. A rather large gash ran down the side of his body, from which he was very much bleeding.
“Well, you know.” He snapped his fingers, and a roll of duct tape appeared in his claw. “The life of an ambassador is a dangerous one.”
They watched with mild disgust as he patched himself up, before something else clicked in the princesses mind.
“An ambassador?” Celestia eyed him suspiciously. “I sent you to find the minotaurs and then report back to me.”
“Oh that? I did that ages ago!” He twirled a finger, and all of the blood that coated his side and the floor drained into a vial, which he tossed at a surprised Luna.
“As it turned out,” He said, “The minotaurs were having a little inter-tribe conflict, and needed someone as a go between.”
The Princess of the Night almost incinerated the vial, but stopped as she considered it’s potential value. She teleported it to her chambers instead. “This doesn’t explain your injury.” She said.
To that he simply shrugged. “Minotaur tradition. If you want an audience with the chief, you wrestle for it.”

Celestia interjected, her eyes narrow. “So while you were out wrestling minotaurs-”
“And winning, until you pulled me away.”
“-you simply forgot the instructions that you must report back to me?”
Discord stopped grooming himself. “Wait, he hasn't got here yet?”
Luna spoke slowly, her voice as dark as a ponies could get. “Who?”
The white princess sighed. “You may not have been aware, Discord, but this was actually a very important task.”
“Which I would very much like to get back to.” He said, turning towards the huge throne room doors. “So if you’ll kindly excuse me-’
“No.” Celestia said sharply. “You have a new objective.”

The spirit of chaos spun on his heels, causing the room to spin with him. A large grin split his face, his single fang gleaming. “I thought so.”
Suddenly he was much closer to her, their faces almost touching. “So what is this objective, this thing so important that you would call me back into your beloved kingdom?”
She simply glared at him, her violet eyes steadily gazing into his manic yellow ones. It was as picturesque a scene as any could ever hope to see. The Eternal Princess of Equestria, a pristine symbol of purity, order, and peace, locked in a silent battle of wills with the physical embodiment of chaos. The room crackled with the intensity of their stare. Luna was the only witness to the moment, and she knew it wouldn't be one that would soon leave her memory.

Celestia took a deep breath, and finally spoke. “Your objective is...to teach me the ways of chaos.”
Discord blinked, and a his mouth slowly opened. The princess celebrated internally, for having won the battle, and for having successfully caught Discord off guard.
The chimeras laughter echoed throughout the throne room, and shook her out of her reverie.
“This.” He cackled, holding his face in his hands. “This is too good. I knew whatever you summoned me for would be delicious, but this.”
“Don’t think that you can corrupt me, Discord. You are to simply be an instructor, guiding me through the mindset and performance.”
“Performance? You intend to learn chaos magic as well?” He clapped his hands together in childish glee, a cloud of small black butterflies appearing as he did so.
Luna snorted as one flittered near her nose. “And I will be present for the whole ordeal, demon, so thou would do best to avoid trying anything.”
“Oh my dear Luna, I would never!” The strange creature chuckled. “Besides, why would I sabotage this wonderful opportunity to bond with the two of you?”
“I would remind you of our agreement.” Celestia drew herself up tall as she could, but she still wasn’t eye level with the chimera. “You remain in our lands, free and unleashed, as long as you follow our commands, and cause no harm to any ponies.”
“Yes, yes. And I am not to attempt to subvert any of your precious subjects minds.” He waved his hand. “I won’t be harming anyone, and since you came to me, I won’t be breaking any rules. But enough of this, let’s dive right in to the deep end of the pool.” He pointed at the ground, which now sported a long swimming pool. He prepared to jump in, before he was grabbed from behind with magic.
“Not yet. Our lessons will begin tomorrow night, in the garden.”
Discord rolled his eyes, but complied, letting the pool vanish. “Very well then.” He turned to the princesses, and gave a dramatic, sweeping bow. “My ladies, I take my leave. I need to draw up... a lesson plan.” With that, he vanished, the sound of a loud belch echoing through the courtroom as the only indication he had been there in the first place.

The ponies shoulders sagged with relief. They shared a longsuffering glance, but neither spoke or moved. The birds chirped happily outside, and bells could be heard coming from the city, no sign that it was anything other than a beautiful day.
Lunas speech was hesitant. “Sister, are you...certain that this is the right course of action?”
Celestia trotted over to a window, and looked out over her city. “No, I’m not. But I am certain that chaos is a threat we have fought for much too long, with no end in sight. One must understand her enemies.”
Her sister didn’t look convinced. “We have been at peace for centuries. The only threat, the only enemy I can see is Discord himself.”
The princess continued staring out the window. It was that peace, that centuries long golden age, that really scared her. She had thought it was too good to last, but she knew it too good to last forever. She had been alive for millennia, and she had never before witnessed an unbroken calmness such as the one her nation saw now. The dam would break. It had to. And when it did, whatever the cause, she would be ready for it.

At the far end of the throne room, one of the huge doors creaked open. There stood a tan pony with a bag around his neck, looking like he had seen better days.
“Your highnesses!” He gasped, obviously out of breath.
“Citizen!” Luna boomed. “Were you not instructed to leave us in peace?”
The pony flinched and almost ran out of the room, but Celestia called him over.
“What is your name?” She watched as he dragged himself to her, his coat covered in burrs and scratches. “And what in the world has put you in this state?” She touched his forehead with her horn, and restored his energy through a spell.
He sighed with relief, and drew himself up straight. “Thank you, princess. My name is Tango, and I’ve been travelling for three months to get here! I just arrived in Canterlot, and I had to see you right away!”
She looked at him curiously. There wasn’t anywhere in pony controlled lands that was three months away, even if you were just walking. “I appreciate your spirit, Tango. What is it you travelled all this way to see me for?”
He reached into the bag and produced a book. “To give you this!”
Celestia floated the book to her to examine. It’s cover read, “My Report”, and sported a hand drawn picture of a minotaur.
It was also signed, Discord.