Tuesday, May 30, 2023

The Butterfly Dragon: Night Boat - Episode 02 (First Draft)



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Changes: The Major Harris character has been renamed to Vice Admiral Harris, seeing as the United States Navy does not include the rank of Major. My first plan was to have the signals intelligence unit be a detachment of the United States Marines, though eventually I determined that it wouldn't make sense for the context of this storyline. Hence, Major Harris is not Vice Admiral Harris.


Excerpts From The Butterfly Dragon: Night Boat Episode 01

Captain George Steadman of the heavily modified Gearing Class Destroyer Many Faced Maiden has been informed of the presence of an American Naval fleet in the waters just north of the Marshall Islands. He quickly summons Alomera Zek to the bridge of the ship:


"That's the third fleet, isn't it?" asked Steadman.


"Correct sir. A Nimitz class aircraft carrier, two Aegis class destroyers and two fast attack craft. Missile Boat Drones. PHM2 Class. Completely unmanned, with stealth capabilities and armed with four harpoon missiles, and eight fifth generation HARM radar homing missiles. Undoubtedly they'll have the assistance of the coast guard of any country whose shores we get close to if they've identified us yet," Norman informed Steadman whose face seemed to pale as Norman spoke.


"Activate the veil if it isn't already!" Steadman ordered.


"Already done sir. I activated it an hour before sunrise as you ordered," Norman responded.


"So in all likelihood they haven't spotted us yet," Steadman asked his first Officer.


"Correct sir. All indications are that they're still in the dark about us," Norman replied.


"We need a distraction. Something to get their attention away from us," Steadman spoke his thoughts aloud.


"We need to use the blackmail database again," Steadman requested of Zek, who looked at him cautiously.


"Tell me who, and what do we need done?" asked Zek.


"We need the third naval fleet of the United States Navy recalled back to port. It appears they might be on an intercept course, and we can't afford a run in with the Navy," Steadman ordered.


"You want me to blackmail a politician into an order of that magnitude? That's going to take some weight, but I think I have just the man for the job. A Navy Admiral himself approaching retirement. A man implicated in an illegal arms deal with Iraq during the early nineteen nineties. He'd likely rather avert a court marshal and lengthy sentence, especially with retirement so close..." Zek offered.


"Ensure that nobody is harmed in the process," Steadman ordered Zek.


"Am I to understand that you're acquiring a conscience after all this time?" Zek asked in amazement.


"No. I just want to ensure that if we're apprehended, that my sentence is shorter than yours," Steadman replied honestly.


"Good, because a conscience in our business can be a liability you know," Zek responded, already growing comfortable with the weight shifting in his favour.


"My lack of a conscience is only a liability for you at this point. Do this, and I'll extend your decryption deadline another week. Don't do it, and I'll shoot you in the foot and throw you overboard into these shark infested waters," Steadman wasn't ready to give up his power so easily, but in the eyes of the crew, that weight was already dwindling.


"Aye Aye, my Captain," Zek gave a mock salute to Steadman as the guard led him to the communications room.


...


Meanwhile, sometime later, Steadman has discovered something affixed to the side of the top secret stealth technology that he had installed in the Many Faced Maiden before he left port with it. He summons a technician to help him troubleshoot the situation:


"I was hoping you could tell me. It appears to be a magnet. An industrial strength magnet," Steadman said as he attempted to pry it off of the veil.


"If that's true, that would really mess it up," the tech informed Steadman.


"Why's that? I thought this thing was super advanced," asked Steadman.


"Its basically a supermagnet so powerful that it bends radio and light waves at a convergence point about a hundred meters from the hull of the ship, so that they wrap around the opposite side. To anyone looking with visual or radio instrumentation, they'd essentially see nothing," the tech explained.


"So how would an industrial magnet stuck on the side of it affect it?" asked Steadman, who tried again with all his might to pry the magnet off.


"First of all, it would deform the convergence field so that parts of the ship might be exposed and visible on radar. Secondly, the metal parts of the veil would become magnetized and would give false readings on the data display, and once again deform the convergence field, further exposing the ship," the tech summed up the risks posed by the magnet.


"How do we demagnetize the metal siding?" asked Steadman.


"The veil is grounded to the hull of the ship, and would naturally demagnetize over the course of a few weeks," the tech explained.


"Any way to speed that process up?" Steadman asked as he took a third attempt at breaking the hold the magnet had on the siding.


"Not really. We're just going to have to wait it out and hope that its not so bad that the ship is visible on radar and satellites," the tech told him as he managed to free the magnet.


...


In another location on the ship, Alomera Zek has managed to procure a mobile phone which is usable thanks to the cellular towers on the nearby city of Enubirr on the Kwajalein Atoll. Unbeknownst to Steadman, Zek uses the phone to call Dantos, an old contact from Columbia during Zek's days as the most powerful criminal industrialist and ruler of the world:


"What is it. What can I do for our revolutionary messiah?" asked Dantos.


"I need you. I need a reputable crew. I need a frigate. You know the one I'm referring to, right?" asked Zek.


"She's safe in port, as we speak, but she may be deployed again soon. I can get the crew together in a day. We've been waiting for your signal. However, we're going to need a little help from above. Someone to coax the port authority to look the other way?" asked Dantos.


"Consider it done. I'll make the arrangements so that you'll have a window of opportunity tomorrow in the evening. About seven Columbia time. Are we clear on this request?" asked Zek.


"We are, but without a destination, we're as good as dead in the water," Dantos insisted of Zek.


"Within three days, we'll be south of Puerto Ayora, on the west side of the Panama Canal. I'd like for you to intercept us about a hundred nautical miles due south of that point, at -2.1690 degrees South by -90.2868 degrees West," Zek told Dantos, checking the coordinates he'd scrawled with a pen on his right forearm.


"If you take care of the Port Authority for us, you can count on my arrival," Dantos assured Zek.


"You'll need an armed boarding party if we're to procure control of situation, if you understand my meaning," Zek asked him discretely.


"Oh, I most certainly do. That brings me to another topic. You are aware that something has overtaken the Americas. North America especially. It is as if evil spirits have inhabited the people and is driving them crazy one by one..." Dantos explained to Zek.


"My allies here have mentioned that something strange is happening in society American and Canadian society, but they couldn't explain it to me in any meaningful way. You say that it is driving people mad?" confirmed Zek.


"It is like a communicable disease of the mind. It is driving some mad, while others become automatons, as if without a will of their own. These are obviously the end times and a sign that the time is right for a revolution! Who better to lead the people than our own messiah! Alomera Zek! Viva Revolution!" Dantos exclaimed over the phone.


"Perhaps it is best to to know whiskers from teeth first, before we leap directly into the jaws of the Jaguar. We first will deal with our obstacles at my location, then we'll uncover the mystery about which you speak, from the safety of our own little fleet," Zek assured him.



The Butterfly Dragon: Night Boat - Episode 02


ONE DAY LATER - 300 NAUTICAL MILES SOUTH OF WAKE ISLAND


The late evening sun was perched on the crest of the horizon, shimmering in the distance as it was magnified through the curvature of the Earth's atmosphere. The waters just south of Wake Island were remarkably calm, disturbed only by the advance of a small fleet American ships. Centered amongst them an aircraft carrier which was flanked on its port and starboard by two destroyers, who in turn were flanked by two autonomous fast attack missile craft. Of the five ships, only three of them were manned.


Vice Admiral Harris walked the deck of the Nimitz Class Aircraft Carrier Warren G. Harding, returning from a flight deck inspection when a communications officer approached him.


"Sir! This just came in. It's hot. Very hot!" the communications officer reported to Major Harris at attention.


"Thank you Lieutenant. Dismissed," Vice Admiral Harris accepted the package and maintained his pace  on his way back to the control tower.


He examined the package, which was marked SECRET, meaning that it was likely orders from Naval Command. He opened the package and pulled forth a single document which he stopped and read before he arrived at the door to the control tower:


United States Pacific Fleet
Joint Base Pearl Harbor - Hickam

Attn: Vice Admiral Alexander Harris, United States Navy 3rd Provisional Fleet

Orders:

Dear Vice Admiral,

The 3rd Provisional Fleet is to be recalled to Joint Base Pearl Harbour - Hickman, effective immediately upon your having read this document.

Admiral Davis Wyneman
Commander
United States Pacific Fleet


"Damn! They can't just recall us when we're in the middle of a huge investigation like this!" he said aloud.


He opened the door to the control tower made his way up to the bridge.


"Vice Admiral on the bridge!" one of the Ensigns announced as Harris arrived.


"As you were. I've got some grim news. We're being recalled back to Joint Base Pearl Harbour - Hickman effective immediately," Vice Admiral Harris informed the crew of the bridge.


"We're in the middle of investigating a serious matter. They can't just recall us like that!" Lieutenant Otsman, a tall sturdy office glared over to Vice Admiral Harris, obviously frustrated.


"Son, they just did. Now I'm not so keen on these orders, but I take my duty very seriously. Now the way I see it is if we could come up with a scenario under which these orders would be null and void, I'd be willing to entertain that possibility, though I might remind you all that I never suggested such a thing if the topic should ever come up in any other company. Do you understand?" confirmed Vice Admiral Harris.


"Sir," Otsman and the other bridge officers nodded in agreement.


"That goes double for you Ensign! This is your big chance to impress me. Don't blow it," the Vice Admiral turned to face the young ensign.


"Sir, yes sir!" the Ensign saluted.


"Now that we've got that out of the way, are there any ideas?" asked the Vice Admiral of his crew.


"I say we send a copy of that satellite image directly to Pacific Fleet Command and maintain course," Lieutenant Otsman.


"Son, they've already seen that intel and probably discussed the matter thoroughly before coming to this decision. Maybe we spotted something we're not supposed to know about. Maybe not. That course of action is not the kind of outright defiance of orders that I'd like to pursue. Any other suggestions?" Vice Admiral looked to the other officers on the bridge.


"Sir, the United States Coast Guard has been known from time to time to request support, especially when it involves intercepting larger ships suspected of trafficking along the west coast. I say we maintain an open line to the Coast Guard operating frequency, and treat any interceptions on their part as a direct request to the Navy? That way, we'd have an effective excuse at least and we could continue our search after responding to such a call," Lieutenant Gavies suggested.


"That's workable, though we're still going to need to throw Pacific Command a bone for them to accept it. We'll split the fleet. The Warren G. Harding and one destroyers and missile boat will return to port. The remaining destroyer and missile boat will continue the investigation from there," Vice Admiral Harris informed his crew.


"No offense sir, but the intel gathering capabilities of a destroyer versus a carrier are two very different things. On a destroyer, we might as they be searching with a crow's nest spyglass, sir," Lieutenant Otsman responded.


"Son, I know that the eye sight of a destroyer in the immediate theatre is like that of a driver in a Kansas rain shower compared to our carrier here, but that's the best shot we've got, and I'll take the best over none at all. Helm, set course immediately for Pearl Harbour - Hickman. I'll radio the Nicolas Walmer and let Captain Torran know they're taking over and that they've got the command token on drone missile boat two. Alright, let's all make this happen," Vice Admiral Harris.


MID AFTERNOON - TWO DAYS LATER - 400 NAUTICAL MILES SOUTH OF PUERTO AYORA


As the midday pacific sun shone down upon their ship, the crew of the Many Faced Maiden went about their duties maintaining the ship, while others took a few moments to get some heat. Despite the low morale of the crew, they still went on making sure their meal ticket stayed afloat and in good working order, though only a third of the two-hundred and seventy crewmen had experience as seamen aboard a navy class vessel.


Down in the hold of the ship, in what most of the crew called the tech room, Steadman imposed his menacing presence as he watched Zek and the team of technicians attempt to unlock Zek's encryption of the SY349. In an array of drive bays, sat the hard disk drives Steadman and his crew had recovered at the various secret locations Zek had stashed them. They were now spinning rapidly and as the recovery team accessed the data through their own database schema they'd written in python and compiled into machine code. Most of the code was designed to parse large chunks of the files on the drive, looking for any pattern that was consistent with the information content of written language.


The computer systems installed in the tech room were top of the line about a year earlier. In a small partitioned artificially cooled room, the servers were mounted within a rack. There were eight Intel based servers, each with sixty-four cores and the same gigabytes of ram. There were eight AMD servers, each with the same core and ram count. There were also an array of eight NVidia based AI servers, which assisted with complex pattern matching operates on large datasets like the one they were working with currently.


"I've been standing here watching you for the last three hours. Now, have you made any progress with the decryption?" asked Steadman impatiently.


"Its those last two digits I simply cannot remember, so this is going to take some time..." Zek said unimpressed by Steadman's interruption.


"Can't you just have these techs write a program to try every combination of those two digits? I mean with the hardware we have, surely it could do this very quickly," Steadman insisted to the decryption team, knowing very little about what was involved.


"Sir, he doesn't know which of the two digits he forgot. So it could be any one of the eight, and don't forget that digit doesn't necessarily mean only checking from zero to nine. I think Zek meant that he forgot two characters, which could be any one of a hundred and twenty-eight different symbols. It could be a letter. It could be a number. It could be a punctuation. Not to mention that every time we try a new combination, we have to check it against the data, and that takes about three minutes," one of the techs advised him.


"Then why the hell did I pay all that money for this hardware then!" Steadman raised his voice, frustrated by the lack of progress.


"Because if you didn't, it would be impossible. With it, we're looking at another month at the longest," the tech informed Steadman, though they were not the words that he wanted to hear.


"A damned month?!" Steadman's frustration level was rising.


"Sir, we're checking every combination. That's one hundred and twenty-eight raised to the power of eight, combinations. That's 9,223,372,036,854,775,808 combinations. If we'd have tried brute forcing it, it would have taken five years. Thankfully, with Zek's input, we were able to optimize the search for the key and get that number down to a month. Don't forget, that we might find it a minute from now or next week. We could get it early and that chance increases the more numbers we crunch," the tech explained to Steadman, trying to calm him.


"If this whole process is automated, then why are you even here supervising it? You could be somewhere else on the ship working on other things! Can't you just hit the run key and let it do its thing?" asked Steadman, frustrated at his lack of understanding or  seemingly so.


"Every time we try a combination, there's a chance we'll get short consistency matches, which we can then use to optimize the search even further. Each short match shortens the search time by about an hour. We've already found fifty-nine short matches since we began decryption. That's more than two days cut off the search time over the course of three days. At nine days, we'll have cut the search time down by six days total. That's almost a week. This is worth doing and this equipment is worth doing it with," the tech stood by their process.


As he finished his sentence, the alarms on the ship came on. Sirens and klaxons began to blare throughout the Many Faced Maiden as confusion mounted.


Steadman immediately left the tech room, running for the stairs. When he arrived at an intercom, he grabbed the hand unit and spoke into it firmly:


"All crew! Get to your stations immediately! This is not a drill!" he yelled into the hand unit, depositing it in its cradle when he'd finished.


He then ran up the stairs and down another length of corridor where he stepped through another metal door out onto the deck. He quickly scanned the horizon on the port side first, and then the starboard. He nearly froze in terror when he saw another approaching ship. It was a smaller craft, however it was military in nature and he could clearly see its deck guns pointed at the Many Faced Maiden.


He quickly ran for the tower and the stairs to the bridge.


He emerged onto the bridge, where First Officer Norman was shouting orders to the rest of the crew.


"Sir, we're in the middle of an engagement with an unidentified enemy frigate off the starboard!" Norman shouted in the heat of possible conflict.


"I know, I saw it from the deck..." Steadman responded, clearly out of breath.


"I don't know how they spotted us through the veil. They seemed to have known our position and gotten close enough to spot us by visual reckoning. Once they'd breeched the inner shell of the veil, that's when I raised the alarm, sir!" Norman told Steadman.


"Good job, officer. So. You're the navy man here. What do we do next?" asked Steadman of his First Officer, though Steadman was shaking with battle fever in anticipation of what was to come next.


"We try to make communication with the frigate anonymously by radio first, masking our unique radio id, and then by loudspeaker if they don't respond to the radio. If we haven't made contact, we'll fire a warning shot with our forward Bofors cannon, just off their port bow, but not before advising them through the loudspeaker first. If they don't recede and retreat after three warning shots, we open fire and sink their ship," Norman informed his Captain.


"Very well. Alright, let's do it. I just hope the men remember their training," Steadman responded.


"So do I sir, so do I," Norman replied as he picked up the radio handset and tried the international frequency to make contact with the frigate.


"This is the unnamed destroyer on your port side. You're trolling our starboard. We are advising you that if you do not make contact or respond to this communication, we will be forced to fire upon your ship. Please acknowledge, and if you are having equipment problems, then send up a marine flare immediately in the direction of your bow," Norman spoke over the radio.


"Now what?" asked Steadman of one of the few real navy men on board the Many Faced Maiden.


"We wait for a response," Norman replied cautiously.


The other smaller ship closed in along the starboard, coming to within a hundred meters of the Many Faced Maiden before aligning its course. The two ships traveled side by side for three minutes of unsettling silence until those aboard the mysterious ship responded.


"We are low on fuel and medical supplies and we have injured aboard. We need to use the services of your larger and well equipped ship. Is this not the custom of good seamanship?" a man with a thick Spanish accent spoke over the smaller ship's loudspeaker.


"What in the blazes? They want our help?" Steadman confirmed what he'd heard.


"Sir, its customary to after necessary precautions have been taken, render assistance unto fellow vessels on the sea. Its an unwritten courtesy that's been in place for a very long time," Norman explained.


"Tell them our supplies are low and that we're on our way to Panama City to resupply. Also, ask them why they haven't radioed Puerto Ayora on the emergency channel. A ship that size should have a some satellite communications," Steadman observed, knowing enough to apply some of his own common sense.


"Very well sir," Norman replied.


"Unknown vessel, our supplies are precariously low and we're en route to resupply at Panama City. We'll escort you into radio range of Puerto Ayora, where you should be able to make contact with their port authority and request emergency services given the fact I can clearly see several satellite dishes on your vessel," Norman said, looking out of the window on the bridge to check on the smaller boat.


The sound of small arms fire erupted from somewhere on the deck of the Many Faced Maiden.


Steadman quickly grabbed another handset and switched the radio channel to local network wide communications.


"Who the hell is that?! What's going on?!" he asked his crew.


"Sir, we're so short handed that we don't have enough guards on deck. That's where the gunfire appears to be coming from," one of the crew replied.


"Well then send some men up to deck! Where's my tactical team?! They should be handling this!" he yelled into the radio, panic setting in.


"They're split up assisting the operators of the main cannons on the ship," the crewman replied.


"Well get them onto the deck and send somebody else to replace them!" Steadman responded angrily.


Steadman slammed the handset into its cradle and wiped his forehead.


"Sir? They've boarded and are attempting an incursion!" the radio came to life as Steadman and Norman heard the sound of gunfire in the background amidst the radio squelch.


"Engage them and hold your positions until the tactical team..." Steadman was cut off when a large caliber shell from the deck guns on the smaller ship impacted the Many Faced Maiden.


"What was that?!" asked Steadman, now livid.


"All cannon stations. Return fire immediately! Sink that vessel!" Norman raised his voice while giving the orders.


"Good call sailor!" Steadman had by that time got a hold of himself, his heart pounding heavily.


At that moment, he spied the gun rack on the bridge and grabbed an SMG and several magazines.


"I'll be back! The bridge is in good hands," Steadman said as he stepped out of the door.


From the top of the stairs, he could clearly see where the firefight was taking place. It appeared that a small force had boarded the Many Faced Maiden at the starboard quarter (near the rear of the ship) and were mounting a full scale invasion.


As he made his way quickly down the stairs, one of the 127mm cannons came to life, firing a round, though Steadman could not tell where it impacted for he was covering his ears with his hands. He quickly reached into his pockets, searching for his ear plugs. When he'd found them, he inserted one into the ear without his radio headset and continued down the stairs.


The cannon fired again, which was followed by another cannon further down towards the mid section, near where the fire fight was taking place. He heard the sound of clanging metal, which he assumed was one of the rounds impacting the other ship. Surprisingly, this energized him and he found the momentum to move much quicker.


When he arrived on the deck, he ran along the length of the ship, relying on cover where he could until he arrived at a position held by his own armed guards who were staving off the attack.


"Is the tactical team here yet?" asked Steadman, yelling over the sound of gunfire and warfare around him.


"Not yet!" the guard replied.


"What's the situation?" asked Steadman.


"They're holding three emplacements, using the vent, and two tool containers for cover.


"How many of them?" Steadman moved in closer to hear the man's answer.


"I don't know... about thirty?" the guard replied as a round ricocheted off one of the nearby railings.


Steadman peeked out from behind the cover they were using and when he saw the five pointed star pattern of a muzzle flash, he ducked behind the cover.


"I just spotted one!" he yelled.


He counted to three, and then peeked out from behind cover, his SMG aimed in the direction he'd seen the muzzle flash moments earlier. When he pulled the trigger, nothing happened. He quickly cocked the SMG and tried again. Nothing. He suddenly remembered the safety of the firearm and switched it, pulling the trigger again.


A stream of rounds erupted the SMG, causing the muzzle of the weapon to rise. He struggled against the force, firing in short, well aimed bursts. When the same position that had fired upon earlier attempted to return fire, he fired back. The rounds plunged into his target, and the man fell lifelessly to the deck.


"That's one down!" Steadman yelled to the guard.


"I figure we've got at least five already. Six with yours," the guard responded, reloading his SMG before he peered out from the opposite side of the cover they were using.


The suddenly careened as a shell from the other ship impacted the Many Faced Maiden's hull.


At that moment, two of the larger cannons fired at the smaller vessel, hitting its fuel stores. The ship erupted in fire as a series of explosions spanned the rear quarter of the vessel.


The tactical team arrived just as the enemy force attempted an advance. Two of the tactical team members quickly flanked the enemy force on their right as the rest of the tactical team setup a quick ambush. As the enemy force advanced into the ambush the tactical team emerged from their cover, cutting more than half of the remaining force down. 


"Looks like the tide of the battle is turning!" the guard informed Steadman.


"That it..." Steadman didn't have time to finish his sentence as the guard he was speaking with was shot in the dead center of his forehead. His eyes rolled and he fell to the deck, dead as the metal beneath him.


Steadman looked for the direction in which the shot came and saw nothing but a group of five of his own crew walking cautiously towards him, their guns leveled in his direction.


"Its me! Steadman! Hold your fire!" Steadman yelled.


A burst of rounds erupted from the SMG of the first of his crew, just missing his head.


"Zek wants him alive!" yelled one of the five crew advancing on him.


Steadman quickly got up and ran for alternate cover. As he sprinted, the five man team fired upon, just barely missing his legs. He continued along the length of the ship towards the bow along the starboard side. Three hundred meters away, the frigate had slowed to a crawl, its read quarter immersed in a raging fire whose flames crept high into the air. The smoke alone had already risen a great distance, and Steadman surmised that if it was spotted, there would soon be an intervention by the American Navy.


When Zek found a suitable place to return fire on the five guards who'd obviously mutinied against him under Zek's leadership, he radioed the rest of his crew.


"All hands! We have a full scale mutiny on our hands! Repeat, Zek is leading a mutiny! I want the tactical team to retreat to the bridge immediately while all other guards are to report to the mid section deck to protect the ship at all costs!" Steadman ordered his crew.


Steadman was chilled to the bone when he heard another voice over the radio.


"To the rest of the crew. If you join my mutiny, I promise you each a million dollars up front and a high paying position in my new organization. If you bring me Steadman alive, I will up that payment to ten million dollars and promise you a position on my board of directors. You see, his leadership has failed to produce the kind of results to which you're entitled, especially my pendejo brothers and sisters. Join my team and you'll be rewarded and respected for your effort for my organization. If however, you'd rather remain loyal to a man that on his way out, I can only promise you a quick death. The choice is yours," Zek's voice cut through the static of battle, catching everyone's attention.


"Don't listen to him! Remember all of those thousand bodies littering the harbour of Treadwater Island? A thousand of them they pulled from the water. If you join his organization, there's a good chance your fate will end the same way. He plays by his own rules, and if you don't fit into his plan, you're as good as dead, and he'll try to push you in that direction just to cut down on his costs after he's enlisted you. I'm prepared to offer every one of you the same exact same deal. Bring me Zek alive, and you'll be paid ten million. Those of you who mutiny against my leadership and the rest of the crew will be thrown overboard. As simple as that," Steadman responded to Zek's gambit.


As the five mutineers found Steadman, he turned with his SMG, ready to mow them all down if he had to. Instead, the tactical team cut down two of them quickly, the three remaining ran for cover, regrouping with the remaining members of the boarding party. Although Steadman did not see it, they used a hidden hand signal to let them know they were friendly to their cause.


"Let's get you to the bridge sir!" the leader of the tactical team said to Steadman, who got to his feet and ran for the stairs.


From that point on, the crew of the Many Faced Maiden was split in two.


To be continued in... The Butterfly Dragon: Night Boat -  Episode 03

Credits and attribution:


Artwork: Amy Wong, Wendy Pusey, Ghastly, Brian Joseph Johns, Daz3D, Unreal Engine...

Tools: Daz3D, Corel Painter, Adobe Photoshop, Lightwave 3D, Blender, Borderline Obsession...



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Friday, May 26, 2023

The Butterfly Dragon: We Who Stand On Guard - Episode 02 (First Draft Finished)

 



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Excerpt From The Butterfly Dragon: We Who Stand On Guard - Episode 01


Brad Stanton sits in his pickup truck amidst the wreckage of Electrical Transformer 132. On his dash phone, he's in a conversation with Dave, a fellow electrical engineer back at the Pickering Power Plant. Though Dave and Stanton are good friends, Dave has no idea that Stanton leads an alternate secret life. It is during the course of an investigation that Stanton asks Dave about the explosive power of an overloaded heavy duty super-capacitor.


"How much force are we talking? How many kilopascals?" asked Stanton.


"For a big one? We're looking at metric tonnes per square centimeter at the epicenter. Enough to give you a real bad day if you're close enough," Dave responded with a clinical precision.


"Thanks Dave. I should be back at the shop in about an hour. Give Elena my best wishes on her date tonight, will ya?" asked Stanton.


"My money's on an overnight at his place, but I'll give her your regards anyhow. Chow for now!" Dave said, hanging up.


"So that verifies how they crafted their device. They remotely short circuited the payload, causing the capacitor to blow, which triggered the RDX and then the Nitrogen Dioxide compound..." Stanton noted aloud.


Stanton then got out of the truck again, and headed over to the twisted hunk of metal that was once the outer housing of the transformer unit. He swabbed a sample of the burnt dust from the blast caked against it, and put it into a sealed plastic bag. He then sealed that in an unmarked envelope, which he pocketed for the CSOR Nuclear, Biological and Chemical team.


Though he played ignorant, he was well aware that he'd been watched carefully the whole time. Not by the firefighter crew, but by someone else. By someone with skill and then some. By a professional not unlike himself.

...

Meanwhile, at the crime scene of the MindSpice bombing, Inspector Tricia Camden and Inspector William Halmand work with Detective Farnham examining the destruction for any clues. Detective Farnham leads Tricia and Halmand to a particular site that has been heavily covered with markers by the technical forensic team.


"So MAZ is still alive?" asked Tricia.


"MAZ right now, has better chances of surviving the next week than her daddy: Gabriel Asnon who is in stable but critical condition at this time," Farnham told them.


"Detective, I assume there's a good reason that you're telling us this?" asked Halmand as he examined the technology amongst the debris.


"That I am. I though you might like to hear something that one of my technical team found. A tech head I recently enlisted onto my team. Let me show you," Farnham led them over to the wreckage of what appeared to be a speaker and PA system. 


On the ground beside it was a car battery someone had jury rigged to the PA system. Farnham clipped one of the leads with an alligator clip to a metal pin sticking out from the wreckage. When he closed the connection, the speakers came to life:


Mentis And The Millions Of Minds... Macill... Mentis And The Millions Of Minds... Macill


The Butterfly Dragon: We Who Stand On Guard - Episode 02


Unravelling MAZ's Mystery

"Let me get that on recording..." Halmand fished out his pocket recorder, holding the high sensitivity microphone near the speaker, letting it play through several times before he stopped.


"Now that you've heard that, perhaps you can tell me what a Mentis And The Millions Of Minds might be? Don't hold out on me, after all we've been through together," Farnham stood up after disconnecting the alligator clip from the metal lead jutting up from the wreckage.


"Mentis? That's latin I think," Halmand thought about it momentarily.


"Certainly is. Its the root of the word mentor, and generally means mindful teacher or leader of the mind," Tricia responded.


"Impressive. You're up on your latin, aren't you? Personally I thought it was a waste of time, especially when we've got the internet now," Farnham responded, jotting down a few notes.


Tricia ignored Farnham's comment, instead focusing on the rest of the AI's repeated phrase.


By that time, Halmand had already produced his field phone and had just finished a search on CPIC.


"Look at this. Looks like this Macill fellow has quite a lengthy record. Male, single. First name: Habus.  Last name: Macill. Born February 3, 1981, an only child. Lost both his parents in a train wreck when he was three. Raised in several foster homes until he was twelve, at which point he was remanded to a care facility for wayward youths where he got into his first real trouble. Apparently he organized a coupe against the management of the facility and held them hostage for over two weeks as the self proclaimed leader of youths. By the time the dust had settled, there were no deaths fortunately, but Habus accrued a lengthy list of charges from that one incident. Of course, still being a minor, he got a slap on the wrist and finished his stint in the youth care facility four years later. That's when things get real interesting," Halmand said, scrolling down the list of charges for which he'd been found guilty.


"That's better than what I've got. Mentis And The Millions Of Minds is a poem written by Allison Trendel, a resident of the Leeds Care Facility in north Toronto," Tricia added, hard filtering the criteria from her internet search.


"Just a hunch, but what are the chances that those two names are connected? Allison and this Habus fellow?" posed Farnham thoughtfully.


"What was that name?" Halmand asked.


"Allison Trendel, with an E, like Grendel," Tricia responded to Halmand's question.


"Oh, right. Let's hope the similarity ends there," Halmand typed the name into the CPIC search interface.


"Bullseye! Looks like Allison was at one time a successful legal assistant, when she got mixed up with Habus. Apparently years after his stint at the youth care facility, he started his own... ideology for lack of a better word," Halmand began.


"Don't keep us baited with your breath, Halmand. So this Allison joined I'm assuming?" Tricia confirmed with Halmand.


"That she did, along with over a hundred and fifty other people initially. Turns out their proselytizing became known for its invasive and aggressive nature, eventually catching the attention of Provincial and Federal investigators. They opened an official investigation when the daughter of a prominent politician joined the group. Apparently she began sharing sensitive family information with Habus and his followers and they started using it to puppeteer due process through said politician, even trying to expand their grip onto other members of office. They improved their tactics, luring in more followers, eventually getting up to a thousand before they were busted in a series of raids throughout Ontario. It says here that Allison was deemed unfit to return to the public sector and was permanently housed in the Leeds Care facility for the Mentally Ill, while Habus served five years in Penetanguishene, " Halmand orated for his peers.


"Thanks for the help, Farnham. I'll put your candy in my report," Tricia smiled as they she began the trip back to their car.


"That means you're leaving I take it? Where to?" Farnham asked.


"With any luck, we can get out to the Leeds facility to see Allison before they stop accepting visitors today and get a good head start on this," Tricia said as she continued.


"Thanks for the tip, Farnham," Halmand said, quickly catching up with Tricia.


"You two kids go on ahead without me. I'll just stay here and clean up the mess," Farnham said to them as they left.


"You do that, Farnham. We'll talk again tomorrow and let you know what we've found so far," Tricia said as she disappeared amidst the crowd of first responders that were now preparing to leave the site.


The Pursuer And The Pursued

Stanton started his pickup truck and pulled out onto Kennedy Road, driving north where he'd need to take the westbound 401 back to Pickering and the power plant. He drove casually, only looking in his mirror when he needed to and for his own specific reasons.


On the top of his mind was the fact that he'd need to drop off the package for the special operations group, so their team could perform a chemical analysis of the device. Once he'd done that, he'd need to start going through the Hydro company's roster to see if any field technicians had been out to service transformer 132 at any point recently. The locks and keys they used for the boxes were the privilege of technicians and operators, though it wouldn't be too difficult to forge one Stanton assumed. They were seriously tough locks, but they were nothing that a professional couldn't handle and from the signs so far, a professional was definitely involved.


Getting your hands on Nitrogen Dioxide was a fairly trivial matter, though in the kind of quantity one would need to make a sizeable device, it would certainly raise some flags. Whomever had procured the material components for the bomb had likely done so with several different identities in order to avoid the alarms that were now in place for tracking such transactions after the turn of the millennium. As far as RDX went, one would certainly need a license to buy such an explosive, and though it was available for industrial purposes such as civil engineering and demolitions, RDX was a carefully tracked explosive due to its ease of use and its yield. RDX could even be found in the warheads of many military class munitions.


Stanton knew that it was likely going to be a long night and upon seeing a coffee shop, he pulled into the parking lot and found a spot right outside of the front door. He got out of his truck, and made his way into the shop as the vehicle that had been following him since he'd left the site of the blast pulled into the neighbouring strip mall and parked in front of a convenience store. The driver then got out of the vehicle and went into the convenience store at roughly the same time that Stanton had entered the coffee shop.


"I'll take a large double cream, double sugar M'aam," Stanton ordered his coffee.


A moment later, the lady brought it to him and he paid for it. He then turned and walked casually out of the side door, with his coffee in hand.


This seemed to have caught the attention of the man in the convenience store, who immediately left and began jogging over to the coffee shop. As he got closer to the shop, he slowed and walked casually, looking into the store for any signs of Stanton. He then glanced at Stanton's vehicle quickly, certain that Stanton hadn't somehow circled back.


The man continued along the side of the store and around the corner, passing the door through which Stanton had left the coffee shop. As he approached the back corner that would lead to the back of the store, he heard what sounded like a staticky handset radio. The man pulled a heavily modified nine millimeter fire arm from his jacket under his left arm and leveled it as he rounded the corner.


There, on a small cylindrical garbage bin, sat Stanton's phone. It was set to speaker phone and a recording of some kind was playing back over the speakers. The man quickly turned but by that time it was already too late. Stanton had the man's firearm firmly under his control, and quickly with one motion, removed it from his grip. With his other hand, he forced the man against the wall, pinning him by his throat, with the gun against his forehead. The man's face was turned away from Stanton.


"Both hands up high where I can see them! Start talking now. If I don't like what you have to say, then this here gun of yours is going to do some talking of its own," Stanton spoke in a firm voice.


The man quickly raised his hands, unknowingly telling Stanton that the gun was loaded.


"You're getting slow old man," the man said to him in a somewhat familiar voice.


Stanton forced the man to look at him, and was caught off guard by the face he saw.


"Foller?!" Stanton responded, shocked to see his face.


Foller immediately took advantage of the distraction and forced the gun away from his head, grasping it with his other hand after he'd delivered a solid punch to Stanton's lower left jaw, purposely impacting the lymph node at that point.


Stanton's eyes began to water as the pain shot through his head from the punch. Taking only a tenth of a second to overcome the effects, he quickly brought his knee up into Foller's groin. Foller winced in pain, but hung onto the gun, forcing Stanton backwards over the garbage bin as Stanton's speakerphone continued its staticky babble.


Stanton was now bent over backwards against the garbage bin, as Foller worked the gun up trying to get the business end pointed at Stanton's head. Stanton with his right leg, kicked the garbage bin out from under the both of them, rolling over its side and onto the cement surface, throwing Foller down full force onto the pavement beside him. Foller's shoulder hit the pavement and he cried out in pain, but still held onto the gun.


Stanton got to his feet, holding Foller's body in place as he twisted the gun, and Foller's arm into a locked position. Any further and Foller's arm would dislocate.


"Uncle!" Foller cried, tapping the ground a few times as he released his grip on the gun.


"Stay on the ground face down. Why the hell were you following me?" Stanton backed away enough so that he was beyond Foller's reach.


"Things are different now, Stanton. Its a whole new game out here and to tell you the truth, there's no room in it for you old timers..." Foller spoke, his face to the pavement.


"You're not exactly a spring chicken yourself, Foller," Stanton responded, having caught his breath.


"The ten years age difference between you and I in this business, is the difference between making or breaking an investigation. Its the difference between life and death old man and you know it!" Foller lay unmoving as he spoke.


"Really? I guess so, judging by your current position. Experience pays its dividends well don't you think?" Stanton responded firmly.


"There's a lot more riding on this than the life of an AI, or even the life of the parent of that AI, Stanton," Foller responded.


"And who would that parent be?" asked Stanton, unsure about that to which Foller was referring.


"Where've you been old man? Still locked up in that Nuclear Power Plant? Too much time around all that U-235 and the radiation's messing with your head..." Foller replied sharply.


"...It's U-238 at the reactor. U-235 is weapons grade uranium and we'd better not have an issue involving that. What's the matter Foller, gave up on being a poor engineer so you could be an even worse soldier?" Stanton challenged Foller.


"Asnon. Gabe Asnon. He's the parent of the AI in question," Foller responded.


"That's progress. Now what AI are you talking about?" Stanton demanded.


"MAZ. The AI that got fried in that bomb blast. Don't you read the news anymore?" asked Foller sarcastically.


Stanton moved closer and began searching him, tossing everything he found from Foller's pockets in a pile a few feet away as he kept the gun focused on him.


"I'm still with special operations. No need to go through my stuff. We're on the same team old man," Foller responded while Stanton cleared everything from his pockets.


Stanton checked Foller's identification and when he found his driver's license, he read the serial number carefully. Stanton did some quick math in his head with the last two pairs of five digits and then, with the resulting modulo, counted that many letters up from the first letter in Foller's license number and compared the result to the next number in line.


"Alright. You check out. Get on your feet and pick up your stuff slowly," Stanton ordered Foller.


"So what'd you find?" asked Foller.


"An inexperienced special operations officer who has it out for old men," Stanton replied sarcastically, handing Foller his gun.


"Cut it out. I meant at the transformer. What did you find?" continued Foller.


"I'm sorry, who put you on this case?" asked Stanton as he picked up his phone.


"That's classified and on a need to know basis only," Foller replied.


"Well if you need to know, then you're going to tell me. Otherwise, I found a lot stuff blowed up reeeal good. That's all you'll get," Stanton walked around to the driver's seat.


"Let's just say I received my orders from the same office. Different tasking, same office," Foller told him what he could, getting in the passenger seat.


"Alright. Fair enough. The device was built by a pro. Someone with engineering knowledge who used one of the capacitors as the detonator. Military class explosive coupled with Nitrogen Dioxide. Most likely because of security hurdles and cost, meaning they may have limited finances," Stanton told Foller.


"Or maybe that's what they wanted you to believe, old man. My car's by the convenience store over there," Foller replied, pointing to where his vehicle was parked.


"I know. If you'd have turned out to be playing for the wrong team, that would have been my second goal after taking you down," Stanton admitted to him.


"Let's just start playing for the same team?" Foller responded.


"I always have. So what makes you think that the way that they crafted that bomb was just a decoy to mislead investigators?" asked Stanton.


"You said it yourself. The bomber appears to have been a professional. They must have had access to RDX one way or another and that takes both resourcefulness and finances to finagle," Foller continued.


"But if it was someone with sizeable finances and no experience, and they had access to RDX in the first place, the whole device would have been RDX rather than Nitrogen Dioxide," Stanton retorted.


"Regardless, I'm going to be keeping an eye on you. Orders are orders. So maybe we can work together on this?" Foller said as he opened the door to Stanton's pickup truck.


"From a distance. Now get out of my truck," Stanton ordered Foller.


"I'll be watching," Foller responded, putting his right finger to his eye.


"So will I," Stanton responded before Foller managed to get the door closed.


Stanton left the strip mall parking lot on his way back to the power plant as Foller watched.


When Stanton was gone, Foller got into his car and pulled out his field phone and dialed a number.


"What does he know?" without a greeting, the voice on the other end of the line asked him.


"He's still way back there in the dark. I don't think he has any idea," Foller answered the man on the other end of the line.


"Keep it that way," the voice on the other end of the line responded and then hung up.


Allison Trendel


Inspectors Tricia Camden and William Halmand sat at a table in one of the private visitation rooms of the Leeds Care Facility, just north of Steeles Avenue off Bayview.


"Tic Tac? It'll help with the end of the day dry mouth," Halmand held out a small container of mints for Tricia.


"Thanks," Tricia accepted the container, shaking it over her other hand and retrieving two mints from inside, which she then popped into her mouth.


At that moment, the door opened and one of the orderlies escorted a woman in her early forties into the visitation room. Both Tricia and Halmand stood up to greet the woman.


"Inspectors? This is Allison. Allison, this is..." the orderly began.


"I'm Inspector Tricia Camden Allison," Tricia introduced herself.


"I'm Inspector William Halmand," Halmand smiled curtly once.


"Is it noisy out there?" asked Allison, her face looking a bit fearful.


"It can be at times," Tricia answered diplomatically as they all sat down.


"I'll be back in fifteen minutes," the orderly let herself out and closed the door behind her.


"How are you feeling today Allison?" asked Tricia.


"Something happened. Didn't it?" asked Allison astutely.


"Things happen everyday Allison, but sometimes bad things happen and we have to figure out how, why and who," Tricia responded to Allison's question.


"You didn't say what," Allison observed.


"You were friends with Habus Macill, weren't you?" asked Halmand, diving right in as Tricia barely visibly smirked at him.


"Mentis? I still hear the voices. Especially when its noisy," Allison replied, her face void of expression upon the mention of the name.


Halmand began to take notes of that fact as Tricia continued.


"Did you hear voices today, Allison?" asked Tricia.


"Lots of them. Especially in the late afternoon, even though it was quiet in here. Even though I had lots of my medicine," Allison told Tricia.


"When did you start hearing the voices, Allison?" asked Tricia.


"When I first met Habus. He has a noisy mind. Noisy people always around him. With noisy minds..." Allison described for Tricia.


"Did you hear his noise immediately when you met him, or did it take some time?" asked Tricia calmingly.


"It took time. I was with his first Cloister back in 2000. When he was only a hundred people. I couldn't hear his noise at first, but then after about six months, I started to hear them all the time," Allison explained to Tricia, seemingly excited by the memory.


"So it took six months from not hearing... him or them at all, to hear him the first time?" Tricia confirmed as Halmand continued writing.


"We used to stay in the Cloister on weekends and all night, there would be voices speaking. People talking in their sleep. A constant babble of what sounded like nonsense to me. I spent three nights a week and two weekends a month at the Cloister for six months. And then, one night when I was sleeping at home, I began to hear them again. As if they were right there beside me. The only thing is that I wasn't at the Cloister. I was in my town home near York Mills Road and Yonge Street. Yet, I could hear them all talking in their sleep as if they were right beside me," Allison recalled the that moment.


"Did they say specific things to you?" asked Tricia.


"Not really. It sounded like a crowd at first, and then it got to the point where I could focus in on specific voices, or they were focusing in on me..." Allison started to tremble.


"What's the matter Allison? Did they do something to you? Did they hurt you?" asked Tricia.


"No. Not my body, they didn't hurt. They hurt my mind. Gave me headaches... made me feel like I wanted to die..." Allison recalled, curling up as she spoke.


"What makes you think they did that to you Allison?" asked Tricia compassionately.


"I was working at the law firm at that time. I was in charge of all the case files for the entire law firm. I had access to everything. One day, the voices started telling me that I needed to take one of the case file folders, and put it all in the paper shredder... all of it..." Allison recalled that day.


"What happened then?" asked Tricia as Halmand wrote quickly trying to keep up.


"I told the voices that it was wrong to do that... I refused... and then... I started getting migraines... unbearably painful. And depression... like my feelings at one moment were calm and happy and then the next moment I felt like I wanted to die. Like my head was going to explode..." Allison told them, hanging onto her head as she remembered.


"What makes you think that it wasn't your own health issues Allison?" asked Tricia calmly.


"Don't you believe me?" Allison asked Tricia.


"I want to Allison, but I need to ask you these questions. They're difficult questions, but talking about them might help you, and save a lot of other people," Tricia assured Allison.


"A week after I'd refused to shred the files for Calder case, I felt much, much better... I could think clearly. I wasn't constantly depressed, but then the voices ordered me shred them again... and I refused again... and this time it was a hundred times worse..." Allison began to sob.


"Its alright Allison. Nobody's going to hurt you here," Tricia assured Allison.


"Night after night I was hunched over the toilet, thinking I was going to vomit... but I never did. My head was pounding and I felt like I should slash my wrists..." Allison recalled her experiences.


"Did you try going to see a Doctor?" asked Tricia.


"Yes. I did. He prescribed me painkillers. Codeine I think... I took them but it didn't help completely. I felt numb and depressed all the time... my headache still pounding but not as painful..." Allison recalled.


"And then what happened?" asked Tricia.


"Then, about a week later, it all stopped again. It was quiet for a while and I really got a lot of work done at that time, which was good because one of the partners in the law firm had pulled me aside and told me that I needed to pick up my pace or I could lose my job. Of course, I did my best but when I was sick, but I just couldn't concentrate on anything. When I eventually felt better, the voices told me once again that I needed to shred the files... I remembered the pain of what I'd experienced when I didn't do what they'd said, and so I grabbed the entire case folder, and waited until after both the partners, the receptionist and file clerks had left that afternoon for golf, and I took all the files of the Calder case and shredded them. Then I took the shredded documents in a black garbage bag and dumped them in the bin behind the office tower... That night, I felt like I was in heaven. Like I was the of the best health that I could be. Like I was twenty again... That same feeling continued for a week..." Allison explained to Tricia.


"Until...?" Tricia asked without interrupting.


"Until it was found out that the Calder files were missing. The partners held a firm wide meeting, with all of the employees and we were each individually grilled about it. The Police were called in, and they interrogated us, but at the end of the day, they didn't have anything to go on. So fortunately, I kept my job. The voices continued but from that time, they didn't ask me to do anything again, though they got stronger and stronger. Then, about a year later, one of the partners decided that he was going to run for office. That's when the voices began telling me that I needed to do them favours again..." Allison looked up at Tricia.


"What did they ask you to do?" asked Tricia, leaning back a little so as not to intrude in Allison's space.


"They wanted me to share the contents of his daily itinerary with the followers of Mentis. I refused the first time they asked, and I went through a week of utter hell once again... The second time they asked, I did as they said. I'd copy the itinerary to a text file every day, and sent it to one of Mentis' followers by email. That's when I started noticing that when I was reading the itinerary, the voices would speak what I was reading, aloud, as if they were there to see it..." Allison told Tricia.


"You mean they were spying on your computer?" confirmed Tricia.


"No. Because this initially started happening when I was reading the itinerary from a print out I'd made for the partner's secretary," Allison admitted.


"So you're saying that they were seeing exactly what you were seeing? At the same time?" Tricia confirmed what she was hearing.


"No. I'm saying that they were looking at the itinerary through my own eyes..." Allison told them, almost pleading with them to believe her.


That's when the voices in her head began once again.


"You've been talking again Allison... haven't you?" the voices asked her.


"Noooo... go away!" Allison suddenly grabbed her head, shaking it violently.


She felt a tingling feelings in her abdomen, and near her privates, followed by the gushing sensation of hormones being thrust into her system from her glands. A moment later, she was in the height of a serious panic attack.


"Make them stop! Make them stop!" she screamed as the migraine headache arrived.


The depression set in as well, and she suddenly felt that all was lost. That everything in her life was  without hope. She felt that she was merely a walking meat stick of despair.


By that point the orderly arrived and began urging Allison onto her feet.


"Nooo! Nooo! Get them away from meee!" she screamed as the orderly pulled her out of the visitation room.


A Nurse then addressed Tricia and Halmand.


"I'm sorry but we're going to have to cut this visit short. Allison has been having delusions coupled with anxiety attacks and she's going to need at least a week or two to recover," the Nurse told them.


"That's alright. I think we were done here anyway. Is Allison going to be alright?" asked Tricia.


"Eventually she will, after she rests for a bit," the Nurse replied.


"Does Allison have any family in the city?" asked Halmand.


"Let me check her file for you. Just come with me to the reception desk and we'll have a look," the Nurse gestured as they could hear Allison's screams down the hall.


Tricia and Halmand followed the Nurse to the desk, where she checked the computer for any information of that kind.


"She's got a brother living in Bloor West Village. Would you like his contact information?" asked the Nurse.


"If you could, please?" Tricia asked.


"Here you go. I'm sorry, but Allison really has some bad days and perhaps something you said to her might have triggered her?" the Nurse told them, indirectly blaming them for Allison's reaction.


"We're sorry. We were just following up some loose ends to a case from 2000. I guess we don't really have much. We'll check with her brother. Thank you," Tricia addressed the Nurse as she turned and left.


"Have a nice evening. I'm sure it will  be better than the one Allison is having," Halmand added as he left.


They waited until they were out the door and in the parking lot before they spoke.


"So you got the same feeling about that Nurse, right?" asked Tricia.


"I sure did. She was hiding something," Halmand observed.


"Not only that, but she said it would take a week for Allison to get better. Now either Allison still has regular episodes with these voices, who then punish her for a week at a time, leading the care facility to believe that her episodes generally last a week. Or, the Nurse knows that the standard punishment time used by Mentis is a week long," Tricia pointed out.


"I didn't catch that, but I certainly saw the way she regarded Allison's case. She had an air of distaste for the woman," Halmand added.


"This is like the Ron Forseth case all over again, but this time we have a modus operandi," Tricia opened the door to their car.


"Want to grab a quick dinner and discuss this more? I'm not flirting. I figure if we keep this fresh on our minds we'll have something more by tomorrow," asked Halmand.


"I suppose a quick bite wouldn't hurt, but not too late. It's going to be an early day tomorrow," Tricia reminded him.


"Oh yeah. Those orientation meetings. I almost forgot," Halmand said as he got in the car.


The two of them drove off to find a restaurant at which they could finish their long day with a healthy meal.


Inside the care facility, the same Nurse who'd given them the contact information of Allison's brother, left an extra-long length of bedding and sheets in Allison's locked room. Enough to tie to the sprinkler pipes on the ceiling for a suspension hanging.


Allison lay in bed all night looking at them. The sheets and the pipes.


To be continued in The Butterfly Dragon: We Who Stand On Guard - Episode 03

Credits and attribution:


Artwork: Amy Wong, Wendy Pusey, Ghastly, Brian Joseph Johns, Daz3D, Unreal Engine...
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