Maniac


Journal 16.1

Subject #37659

Name: Mephistophilus D. Faustus
Age: Unknown
Caucasian male
Status: Inoculated



   Subject suffers from an undiagnosed psychosis. Cursory observations suggests fully developed schizophrenia, though it's impossible to tell the extent of his insanity without full testing. He was chosen for this reason: to test the effects of the Ravencroft serum on the deranged mind.
   Inoculation was administered approximately two hours ago. Immediately after injection, the subject showed none of the common side effects. My first thought was that he had a natural immunity. However, upon informing him that his staff was to be confiscated and that he would not have time to change his clothing, the subject became  impossibly irate.
   In the ensuing chaos, he killed four guards and injured three others. It is important to note that, during his rampage, the subject displayed very acute strength, to the point of pushing his staff entirely through the midsection of a guard. At the time, I was certain that this was a delayed reaction to the serum, however, recent discoveries have cast doubt on that hypothesis.
   A screening of the subject's blood shows a staggering amount of drugs [PCP, LSD, and no less than three different types of narcotics] in his blood. The fact that he is still alive is nothing short of amazing, and only possible by long term, continuous exposure. I am unable to confirm at this time how the drugs were administered.
   Subject was finally calmed by Inle, the winner from last year, then immediately collapsed. Subject displays unhealthy obsession with Inle; I must remember to investigate further.
   Currently, the subject is being shipped to his battle location. Last heard, he had curled into the fetal position and refused to move. Is this the usual after effect of the serum, or has his already twisted and drug addled mind simply shut down? I have not given up all hope that the serum played some part in his rampage, but until anything can be confirmed, I am resigned to watching and waiting.The real crime in all this, the thing that makes me curse the constraints of modern science, is that I can not observe the effect it has had on his thoughts.

                      -Albrecht Krieger


                                                            ------


   The workings of a man's mind have been likened to many things. Gears, onions, computers, etc., However, these views only serve from a perspective outside a human mind, a very alien place to any thinking person. No, to a sentient being, the mind is most like a television with multiple layered screens. Unconscious backgrounds and deliberate foregrounds collide in a strange show of colors and sounds that cannot even be said to physically exist. It is into this familiar, yet strange world we peer, into the mind of Mephistophilus.
   "Why why why did they take take break my things?" A constant sound like static nearly drowned out his thoughts as twisted images flitted passed his mind's eye like a movie on fast forward. There was a ache somewhere in his subcounscious mind, a numbed burning he took dull notice of.
   "They took it. My staff! My staff, my staff, my staff! And I can't change change change into my clothes with six-seventy eighths cents worth of change change change in the pockets. Why? Why!?"
   Screaming his desperate question, Mephistophilus jumped to his feet. He looked around violently, hoping he could do something equally violent to someone. When no one immediately came forward to accept blame, Mephistophilus began to wail in anguish and frustration. Suddenly, a naked woman appeared before him, causing him to bite down on his tongue as he clenched his mouth shut. The woman's face was almost featureless, yet Mephistophilus could feel her gaze burning him. Even without a face, he could tell it was her. Her lips were there, her smell was there. Tears began to well up in his eyes, hot, angry tears as he tried to refrain from sobs.
   Suddenly, there was a weight in his pocket. Realizing his salvation had just been delivered, he produced the gun from his pocket, the no-one-knew gun. Screaming in frustration and fury, he held the gun at the woman, but with a smile from her horrifying lips, she disappeared. With a fresh moan he began to tear out handfuls of hair, and his tears flowed freely as he placed the gun to his chin. With little hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
   *Blam!* *Blam!* *Blam!* the gun kicked, blowing off large chunks of Mephistophilus's face. His arms went limp first, his loose fingers dropping the gun and a bloody lock of hair. His body fell next, settling in soft, now wet sand. Still, the pain told him he was alive. As blood and fragments of tooth seeped out of his half-missing jaw, Mephistophilus... smiled. More than smiled, he began to laugh. With bits of flesh swinging from thin threads of skin and warm blood seeping down his throat, he rolled onto his back and laughed a laugh of absolution and freedom.
   The phantasy had been pleasant, but like all the ones before, it was soon washed away in the mad rush that was Mephistophilus's thoughts. His breathing began to slow then, his mind more lucid, fixed. "Okay, otay... Clanbrother Inle... gave me a job, mission, task. What... he said... staff next round... clothes this. Change clothes when round round around is over. Find staff when round is over. I must make the round round over, Rover. I must... I must...
   "Wake up," Mephistophilus whispered as he opened his eyes.


                                                            ------


   "Inle, a word?" Albrecht asked as set his tray down on the table. Inle's ears perked up for a second in recognition, but otherwise his question went unanswered. He apparently didn't warrant Albrecht enough of a threat or annoyance to stop eating. It was as good a confirmation as he'd get. Albrecht picked a seat across from Inle, an easy feat, as no one else was seated at Inle's table. No one ever was.
   "I had a few questions about the one you brought in..."
   "Mephistophilus," Inle said between bites.
   "Yes, him. I found something strange in his bloodwo-"
   "Drugs?" Albrecht was quiet for a second.
   "Yes, an absurd amount of them in fact. Could you tell me how they got there?" Inle's empty sockets rested on him for the briefest of moments. That small amount of time was enough to make Albrecht's skin crawl. Despite the many things he'd seen and done, Albrecht could still tell when someone was dangerous.
   "I could," Inle said, still eating. Albrecht folded his hands in front of him in irritation. He silently vowed not to be the first to break the silence. This was a battle of will, and that gave him the advantage. Several minutes passed, people came and went, and still neither of them spoke.
   "Tell me, will you be vivisecting him next?" Inle finally broke the silence. He asked it matter-of-factly, but there was an obvious bite in the remark.
   "Oh, so you found out about the injection," Albrecht said as he made a mental note to fire his blab of a nurse. "I assure you he will be fine. The Ravencroft serum is certainly less harmful than all the narcotics in his system," Albrecht leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. The two black holes in Inle's face suddenly focused on Albrecht with such intensity that it seemed he might lunge at him over the table.
   "You want to know?" Inle spat, slamming his silverware down with surprising silence.
   "Very much so."
   "Twelve years ago I was assigned a very cunning new pupil. I taught him well in the ways of the berserker. According to the Clanleaders, too well. In one of his rages he made a mistake, killed the wrong person, one with a high standing in the clan. Despite my protests, they decided that a hot blooded berserker would be more... 'manageable' than a cold blooded one. So," Inle placed two finger to the base of his skull, "they implanted a device that would release a stream of drugs into his blood at command. They charged me, his teacher, with the controls. When I was still in the clan, I was to keep him on a steady flow. However..." Inle smirked, his scarred cheek twisting it into something much more malevolent, "I am no longer a member of the clan. I needed him calm for transportation, but I suspect his system will flush out the drugs completely in a few days. Now," his smile disappeared, "I have work to do."
   Rising from his chair, Inle began to slink away, anyone in his way shrinking back several feet.
   "Inle!" Albrecht called, stopping him halfway out the door. Inle turned his head and glared.
   "After all you went through for the job, after swearing loyalty to the program and its judges... how can you hate me so easily?" Albrecht asked with a cocky smile. Inle frowned and pushed through the door, his final snarl only barely audible.
   "You would not know the bond of a brotherhood."


                                                             ------


   Mephistophilus moaned as he leaned against an adobe wall. His world was full of such houses, as well as crisscrossing dirt roads that seemed to very much enjoy spinning and distorting around him, while a strange band of buzzes, rings, and whistles played discordantly in his ears. Sinking to his knees, he vomited, the contents of his stomach splashing onto his pants.
   "Wh- Where am I?" he groaned as he struggled to stand. He put his hand out for a wall that, according to him, was close enough to touch. However, his hand sank straight through, and the wall suddenly receded a few feet away, causing him to fall to his stomach.
   "Wh- Who am I?" A thick fog swirled around his mind and his vision. Trying in vain to stand, he slammed his fist into the dirt. He felt the dirt deserved it, so he punched it a few more times. He vaguely recalled this happening before, quite often in fact, but he had only a tentative grasp on the present, let alone the past.
   "Clanbrother Inle... game... the covenant..." Mephistophilus grunted, willing himself up to a crawl despite the earth's apparent ADD. He finally managed to stand, relying heavily on the wall that had betrayed him earlier. He would have to watch that wall, in case it tried anything funny. He blinked several times to clear his vision, but the mist and distortion remained. Mephistophilus ground his teeth and growled.
   "Hold still damn it!" he yelled as he took a step away from the wall, staggering like a drunk for a few feet before regaining his balance. He stood there with his arms out, waiting, almost egging the ground to move again. For a few moments, all was still and silent. He took another step, and then another, each with growing stability. When he made it to the opposite wall, the mist had begun to clear, and he could think again. At least as clearly as he was used to, that is.
   "I did something bad wrong incorrect..." he thought as a fresh wave of nausea swept over him. He always felt sick when he thought about the button.
   Feeling somewhat confident in his ability to walk without falling over, he stumbled and staggered back to his bag. A few minutes of fumbling and cursing ensued as he tried to undo the zipper. Finally, in a fit of frustration, he grabbed one side of the bag with both hands, stepped on the other end, and yanked.
   The contents of the bag came tumbling out as the fabric on one end tore open. Dropping to his knees, he closely examined each of the items.
   "Booookkkkk for writing, brrrrrusssshes for writing, camera for writing- wait... no, for pictures proof pic pic pictures. Eating food, drinking water, map map map. Clothes for changing BUT NOT YET!" he yelled to the sky, just in case it was in league with the wall. "And no bobo bow staff; for latersssss...." he hissed, thinking of all the terrible things they must be doing to his precious staff. "Oh... and what what what do we have hair?" he asked, picking up the chainsaw by the chain. A dozen little cuts bit into his palm and fingers as the weight shifted down, but Mephistophilus continued to stare at it. Something was working in his mind, something from beyond the haze. It was as if he could hear someone whispering to him a forbidden secret.
   "Too also very disweildy," he decided, unceremoniously dropping the saw on his foot. Without noticing any pain, he returned to his bag and placed everything but the chainsaw back in. He began to pick up the bag then, but a vague thought occurred to him. He squinted his eyes to concentrate, causing one to go into a twitching spasm. Slowly, he put the bag back down and threaded his arms through the straps, creating a make-shift backpack. He jumped in place to see if it would hold, then decided not to jump anymore when the ground started to move again. The ground was definitely a wall lover.
   Shrugging his shoulders to readjust the straps, he began to stagger through the deserted city with not a clue as to where he should go, let alone what he should do. Game, DA, Royalty... it all meant so very little to him, since he could remember so little of it. He was beginning to grow accustomed to the colors and sounds and the peculiar way the ground twisted away as if in revulsion to his steps, when something penetrated the perpetual buzz in his ears.
   "Hey, are you playing, Mr.?"
   Mephistophilus wrenched his head in the direction of the voice, causing him to become somewhat unbalanced. A few more steps and a very wide one legged turn allowed him to steady himself and come face to face with the owner of the voice. Mephistophilus looked at the girl, or at least, what he thought to be a girl, and his eye began to twitch.
   "I've been watching you for about five minutes. I saw you ditch the chainsaw, so I assume you're not playing?" Connie asked. "If I can get this mook on my side, I might be able to use him as a bodyguard... or at least a meatshield," Connie thought with a hint of a smirk.
   "Playing? Paying? What are you saying?" he asked as a memory slowly came to him.
   "The Game? The Battle Royale? The thing that'll kill all but one of us?" Connie asked with a frown. "Could he be that thick?" Mephistophilus tried to think, to remember past the colors and sounds that tried to squeeze out every thought of past and future. He had heard of a game... Clanbrother Inle had told him, so it must have been important. How could he have forgotten?
   "Think... think!" Mephistophilus quietly hissed as he gripped his head and shook it to dislodge the memories. All he got for his efforts was a crippling desire to vomit. He fell to his knees, spitting up bile and blood from his empty stomach.
   "Oh my gosh, are you okay?" Connie asked, feigning worry. He took a few tentative steps toward Mephistophilus, but came short of arms length.
   "Urrrg. Grrrraah!" Mephistophilus grunted as he desperately tried to think, his head in his hands. There was something very important he was supposed to be doing, but he couldn't remember what.
   "You're not okay, are you?" Connie frowned. He'd seen enough episodes of Battle Royale to recognize what had happened. This poor soul couldn't stand the pressure of having to kill his peers. Connie had always found it pleasantly surprising to watch the players descend into insanity; it made the show so much more unpredictable, which made gambling much more interesting. Still, watching it up close unsettled him. Eventually, someone would come along and see an opportunity. Someone like Kiriyama from season eight. Connie shivered despite himself. Connie understood cold hearted; he'd sold and bought kids younger than him, but people like Kiriyama were beyond his comprehension.
   Coming out of his thoughts, Connie looked down at Mephistophilus, shivering on the ground and muttering to himself.
   "Better to go fast than slow," Connie decided. He trotted over to the discarded chainsaw, mentally preparing himself. Killing an evil bastard like Sir was one thing...
   Turning onto his side, Mephistophilus watched Connie walk farther away, then slide back a few yards, then turn purple and green. There was something he was supposed to be doing, and it was eating at his mind at least half as much as the drugs were. A question formed in his mind, one that seemed paradoxically inconsequential and yet vitally important.
   "What's you're name?"
   "It doesn't really matter, but..." Connie cooed like an old nurse as he primed the chainsaw. "Connie LaClair."
   "That's it," Mephistophilus thought, though it was a dull thought, like one thinks about the weather. The reality of the revelation sank in a moment later, burning the fog away from at least one part of his mind.
   "That's it," he whispered as he rose to one knee. "That's it!" he shouted, jumping to his feet and raising his hands to the sky in triumph. "I remember!"
   "What do you remember?" Connie asked as he tried to pull the chord on the chainsaw with enough force to start it.
   "That I am Mephistophilus, that I am Me, and what I am to do, Connie LaClair," Mephistophilus said in a brief moment of lucidity. Without another word, he reached into his sack and produced his Polaroid instant camera. Closing his eyes after snapping a quick picture of Connie, he let the camera drop to the ground as a new picture slowly slid from the slot. Feeling the comfort of familiar routine, he began moving through his mind and found the force that had caused the ache, the burning. Without thinking, he opened a door to it with the same ease one opens the door to their bedroom. Immediately, whatever was on the other side of the door consumed him. It was torture and pain and fire and death and it felt so very good.
   "Grrrrraaah!" Mephistophilus screamed as he began to stagger and twitch. He gripped his head and began to seethe, breathing in quick hisses through clenched teeth. Every muscle in his body grew tense, jerking in odd directions at random moments. Connie watched, one eye half cocked in confusion and revulsion. He had doubted his decision when Mephistophilus showed some signs of sanity, but now he could see it had been fleeting.
   "I'll try to make it quick," Connie promised as he pulled with all his might on the chord. At last, the chainsaw sputtered to life. So did Mephistophilus. In an explosion of movement, Mephistophilus closed the gap between Connie and him faster than Connie could react. In one fluid motion, Mephistophilus scooped Connie up and kept running.
   "Put. Me. Down!" Connie screamed as he punched Mephistophilus in the ear, his former sympathy gone. Mephistophilus did not seem to care or even acknowledge Connie's existence. A few more futile punches convinced Connie to try a new tactic, namely, gouging. However, he would never get the opportunity, as the next moment had him slamming into a wall. All the wind went out of Connie's lungs, and a sick *crack* came from his left shoulder. He cried out for the pain, and then again when he looked into Mephistophilus's face. Foam was collecting at the sides of his mouth, little rivers of drool cutting small valley's through the walls of white. The spasms he'd experienced earlier were much more sever now; they had developed into full blown shakes so violent that Connie unconsciously questioned how he managed to keep such a firm grip. Any such thoughts were driven from his mind soon after the first punch.
   Mephistophilus became an animal, tearing and biting, screaming and howling, punching and kicking. He threw Connie to the ground before the boy knew he was moving. With wild abandon Mephistophilus threw himself on top of Connie, his arms and legs a blur as he lashed out. He missed as often as he hit, but each hit was with such force that it more than atoned for his inaccuracy. Connie's pathetic attempts to defend himself were either countered or ignored and then quickly snuffed out altogether as his eyes began to swell closed and his fingers began to break. Still, Mephistophilus would not relent.
   There was no malice in what he did, no personal qualm that drove him to such frenzy. His rage was fueled by something much more primal, something modern society represses: the blinding, intoxicating urge to hate and kill and destroy that bubbles underneath our ingrained civility. He was Jeffrey Dahmer eating his victims; he was Jack the Ripper carving up whores; he was the Zodiac Killer murdering at random. He was berserk.
   For nearly an hour after Connie had stopped moving, Mephistophilus did not stop, did not tire. Even when insects began to emerge from Connie's wounds and burrow into his skin, he simply used the fear and anger to strengthen his own attacks. Bones stuck out of the now purple flesh at odd angles, Connie's eyes were no more than goo, and his lips had been torn, ripped, and bitten off.
   Yet Mephistophilus could not go on forever, and steadily he began to slow and at last stop, rolling onto his back, panting with exertion. His knuckles were red and purple from bruising and blood, and he could no longer ignore his growing headache. Closing his eyes, he let the anger and rage sink back into its box then slowly slip away. In his mind, he heard the all too familiar voices. They were speaking to him. Despite his exhaustion, he listened with a reverence bordering on holy.
   "Fulfill the covenant," they hissed. They repeated it again and again, layering their command on itself dozens and hundreds of times. Mephistophilus's eyes shot open, eager to obey. Rising to his feet, he stumbled about the streets until he found his bag once more. He reached through the torn end to retrieve his book and a brush, then walked back to Connie's body, stopping only to pluck his camera from the ground. Sitting down hard, Mephistophilus crossed his legs and opened his book to a fresh page somewhere in the middle. With all the collected calm of an ancient librarian, Mephistophilus smeared his brush in Connie's blood and slowly began to write, each letter lovingly written in the finest calligraphy. It took many minutes to write each letter perfectly, but he wrote with a cold urgency that would not let him stop.
   "Connie LaClair," Mephistophilus read once the blood was dry. In one deft movement, he took another picture of Connie. He placed the two pictures of the young red head next to the name, Connie's two immortalized images a ghastly before and after. He then snapped the book shut and smiled. The voices grew quiet as the task was completed, and, as payment, they granted him rest. As if a switch had been flipped, Mephistophilus fell backwards, unconscious. All was silent.