11.

The smell of copper and death assaulted me as I entered the silent, two-story building. Both scents that I had become distressingly familiar with over the past few months. I swallowed hard, and my throat clicked audibly. I told myself that this was idiotic to turn back – but what if there were survivors inside? Besides, there was a high likelihood that what my senses were reporting back to me was a fabrication, anyway.

I could see several tripped booby-traps straight from the anarchist cookbook. All of the entryways were pure carnage, but it was impossible to tell what had happened exactly. Just as I yearned for my weapon, I yearned for the Synthesis; but it had become like an involuntary muscle, no longer under my control. Blood-covered, shredded Carhart jackets and steel-toed logging boots with feet still in them were scattered around the abode. I retched, adding my own finishing touches to the horror show around me.

And then I found him – the impossible lone survivor. Or, more accurately, he found me… And once again, I was facing the wrong end of a gun. I trembled, looking upon the living face of my dead brother, and was very, very silent.

12.

I said before that I would describe the previous night's Dissonance. Now seems as good of a time as any.

As the melody had faded, and I could feel the millions of microscopic coprocessors bonded to my synapses firing to life. I shuddered. The room was black, but from above came a spotlight that cascaded down onto the desk of a late-night talk show host. The man at the desk wore a rictus of a grin and said, "Our next guest hails from the great Pacific Northwest, put it together for your favorite and mine... Philip Millworker, ladies and gents!"

The spotlight flicked around the room, searching wildly for an elusive guest. I felt frozen; somehow, I knew what I would see next. I don't understand how... I don't understand anything about the world anymore. The roving light finally settled on a nightmare version of my younger brother. On the wall.

13.

He moved like a gecko, skittering this way and that down toward the stage. Watching his powerful frame move in that jarring way was somehow so WRONG. When he settled in the guest’s chair, I could see him clearly. He was missing his right arm, a wound he suffered in the Proxy Wars... but not the cause of his death. He was also missing his eyes... or, more accurately, there were two black holes where his eyes should be. I don't mean empty sockets, but literal black holes -- as in the celestial gluttons.

Both Phil and the host sat in utter silence. Unmoving. Staring at me like two gargoyles. It may have been humorous in a different situation, in a different life. I tried desperately to search for meaning in the macabre scene; why was this being shown to me?! But all I could think about was how often humor snuggles up to the horrific.

Then the host uttered the following...

14.

M R ^(OvO)^

M R NO ^(OvO)^

S A R

C M E D B D BEAK

NO

M R ** M R

M R NO **

O S M R

C D E D B D I's

O S I C M

M R ** M R

15.

After the garbled, unfathomable message from the host, his horrible smile only grew. It curled upward impossibly at the corners of his mouth. It curled so that it began to spiral in on itself. The spiral grin was all I could see, ever-increasing fractally. It became my entire existence. I was looking at the madness of God; I was being unmade on a subatomic level.

THEM ARE SPIDERS//THEM ARE SPIDERS//THEM ARE SPIDERS//THEM ARE SPIDERS//THEM ARE --

And then I was back in the little room in the little house of a teacher, retired long ago. That's the Dissonance. That is our penance.