By Adrien Ladouceur

I'm looking for creative feedback! Email me at [email protected]

Chapter One

Awaken

The world was the same place it had always been, but for Aaron Blake, it was about to change completely.

Music, its lyrics indecipherable, pounded deep into his core as Aaron walked through the crowd. Four hooped backboards still hung around the square city lot. It was a popular basketball hangout during the day. Tonight, however, the lot was the address of an explosive, bustling rave. For Aaron, the kaleidoscopic human energy, the deafening music and the plethora of drugs and toxins were both terrifying and devilishly seductive. It gave the rave a kind of power, a kind of life. It said to all: surrender your self-control, your inhibitions, or I will crush the life from you. How easily the frenzied, intoxicated ravers could become a horrifying mob. Join us or die. Faced with the alternative, Aaron surrendered himself to the Rave; allowed its energy to saturate his senses, to flood his thoughts. Someone, he didn't know who, handed him a strange green pill and he immediately, without even a moment's consideration, swallowed it.

The music danced his body. The people seduced his soul. The drugs unfettered his mind. Perception began to lose its form. Reason lost its monopoly.

I . . . am free . . . not words, rather their formless meaning, resonated within him.

The people dance. Sunglasses on the red-haired girl. She smiles. Fire in the music, fire in the music. Air sweet and sickly - cover your eyes. Never! Let the pounding cacophony take over the soul. Open your mind. Wider! The city is painted tapestry; the stage has become reality.

Hooded eyes; dark sunglasses. Tinted-tainted perception. The red-haired girl stops smiling. The fire burns.

Panic chilled Aaron's heart. The music still blared, but now, no one danced. Everyone stood motionless, staring coldly at him. Everyone, save Aaron, wore a pair of identical, dark sunglasses.

I . . . am afraid . . .

He wanted to scream, but his breath came too shallow. He wanted to fight, but his limbs were too weak.

. . .h elp . . .

The fear was crippling. Aaron hid behind closed eyes.

"An' just what the hell are you afraid of, BOY?" boomed some unknown, almost inhuman voice.

The music had stopped. Aaron opened his eyes.

Gone now were the people, the music; even the muddled thoughts had left him. A bright circle of light illuminated the court like a spotlight. The rest of the world was reduced to shadow.

"Hel-lo'oo." the strange voice musically spoke again.

Aaron discovered the source of the strange voice. Standing opposite him, half concealed by the shadows just beyond the circle of light, was a figure that Aaron could only describe as Death: the Grim Reaper. Death took a step forward into the light.

Until that point, fear was Aaron's god; its icy grip held his soul tightly in its clawed hands. But when Death stepped forward, the fear vanished, leaving Aaron confused and numb.

"Who the fuck are you?" he heard himself say.

It was clear now that the figure before him, while in some ways bearing an uncanny resemblance, was not in fact the Grim Reaper; was not Death.

Like Death, the giant (Aaron estimated about nine feet tall) figure stood clothed in a great hooded robe that hid its face within dark hollows. Only a pair of thin, bony hands remained unconcealed by the robe, and hung loosely at the figure's sides.

But there were several peculiarities that refuted the possibility that this was the Grim Reaper. The first was the absence of a scythe, the great bladed instrument that it was said Death was never without. Even more noticeably was the great robe: not woven from inky, black shadow, this robe was Santa Claus red - bright like a cherry. Its bony hands, instead of holding a snowy white pallor, were a bright emerald green.

"Never mind who I am, answer the question: what ARE you afraid of ?" There was an angry fierceness in its voice.

For some reason, Aaron began to ponder the question: What was he afraid of? Well there was the regular stuff: death, taxes and being trapped in an elevator that played only Pat Boon music. But just now, when things went all weird at the rave, he was absolutely terrified. At the time he didn't really stop to consider why. But now . . .

"I was afraid of the people, the way they were just staring at me and all . . ."

What was wrong with him? This was a little too open, a little too honest.

"You were afraid of what they would do ?" the Red Reaper questioned.

Well, they certainly creeped him out, especially the thing with the sunglasses. But now that he thought of it, it seemed less a fear of what they would do, as it was what they were.

"I was afraid . . . of becoming like them. They seemed so trapped, or . . ."

" . . . or asleep ?"

Asleep? Yah, "asleep" was a good way of describing it. It was like most people were sleepwalking through life, not really aware of everything around them. Back at the Rave, it felt like his senses were hyper-aware, like he had just opened his eyes after a dull sleep. Even now, as unreal as things seemed, he felt more "awake" than ever. A thought then occurred to Aaron: the green pill. This fantastic sensory experience was nothing more than the toxins in his blood playing havoc on the brain.

The Reaper was suddenly very close, having moved without Aaron's notice. Some of the lost fear returned as the great, red cloak pressed closer, as though it would envelop him in the next moment. Instead of fleeing, as his fear demanded, Aaron stood his ground and turned his gaze up into the shadowed folds of the giant hood, where he assumed a face lay hidden.

"Yes, it could be that this is nothing more than a drug induced hallucination ," the figure boomed, reading his mind. "Or it could be that all the drugs did was give you the courage to wake up. Now, what I'm telling you is this: IT'S your CHOICE as to which is true. If you decide that this is just a hallucination, then I'll leave you alone to ENJOY or SUFFER whatever ILLUSIONS your mind decides to weave. "

Aaron's insides shook at the sheer power of the Reaper's unearthly voice, and it was many moments before he could even attempt a response.

"Who the fuck ARE YOU?"

"BUT," the Reaper continued, ignoring Aaron's question, "if you decide that this isn't a hallucination, that you are RIGHT NOW experiencing reality, AWAKE for the first time . . . well, then we can talk."

With that the red-robed figure took a step back, turned, and began to walk back toward the shadows, beyond the circle of light.

Aaron was too stunned to act, too stunned to speak. His mind frantically tried to find a solution to this uncanny dilemma. A task made all the more difficult as the muddled, drugged confusion returned to him with every step the strange Reaper took.

"Wait . . ." Aaron blurted.

The Reaper stopped, now at the edge of the light, and cocked its hood in Aaron's direction.

"I want . . ." the words formed as a whisper in his mouth.

Aaron experienced a strange fear, as if he were about to lose something so precious that is was one of those things that comes within your grasp maybe once in a lifetime.

The Reaper turned to face Aaron fully, but said nothing, and did even less.

"I want . . ." Aaron repeated, louder now.

Want? What the hell did he want? He's at some party, takes a funky green pill, and then some nine-foot freak in a red cloak shows up and starts spouting off about hallucinations, reality and being "awake," and he's supposed to figure out what he wants from all this crap? Mental note: avoid green pills. Well, he was here now, so he might as well make some kind of decision.

The Reaper had told him that it was his choice: Reality or Hallucination. If this were a hallucination, then reality was a full time job and weekends spent searching for an escape - not really so bad. Not really. But if it wasn't, if this was some hyper-aware vision, then reality was far more mysterious, complicated and downright incomprehendable than he ever believed or imagined. This seemed almost too much all at once. If being "awake" meant believing that this vision was real, that this was a state of "hyper-awareness," he had to ask himself, was he ready for all this?

"I want to be awake." Fuck it, Aaron thought to himself, 'safe' never was my style.

The strange Reaper didn't respond, at least not verbally. Instead, two small pricks, like eyes of white light, began to shine from the shadows of its hood. The light from these "eyes" shone brighter and brighter, till it hurt to meet their gaze. But Aaron did not turn away. Brighter and brighter still, until it was as though he had fallen into the sun itself.

In a brief, flickering moment, Aaron Blake tasted eternity. It was a little piece of heaven, a little piece of hell. It was a purification of mind, body and soul - powerful, indescribable, indomitable. He was everywhere, saw everything.

This was not, Aaron knew without the fetter of knowledge, something bestowed. It was something rediscovered.

********************

Pain aroused Aaron from sleep. Slowly he picked himself up from the cold, hard pavement. He was still in the basketball court. The sky had just begun to change the colour of dawn, and only a dozen or so people remained from the previous night's rave. Most were just milling about in small groups of intoxicated conversation; a few, like Aaron, had passed out along the wire fence.

Every step Aaron took was a fantastic rediscovery. It was the same hypersensitivity he had at the rave, only without the drugged confusion. He was aware of so many details that were normally ignored or overlooked: the faint aroma of a bakery three blocks away, the sensation the bits of stone made on the bottom of his shoes, the taste of alcohol still lingering in the air, and more. No sensation was taken for granted. The world was the same place it had always been, but for Aaron Blake, it had changed completely.

Chapter Two

Death Took A Step Forward Into the Light

Dance the moon, auspicious sky.

Burn the reason, deceive the lie.

What path is this?

What treasure there?

What god is this?

Quest: invocation.

Quest: divine salvation.

Aaron's voice trembled with each word, each note, each emotion. His fingers danced like fire along the strings of his guitar, weaving a glorious, luminescent melody. The notes connected him with his audience; he could feel their pulse rise, their emotions blaze and whirl about, caught in his musical rapture. "Quest" was his best song; it'd taken him weeks to write. Now, in this glorious first performance, it was the ribbon from which Aaron wove his magic.

Aaron liked the small downtown club on what used to be the city's main strip. Called, The Seven Knights, the club had a very welcome "come as you are" feel. A place you could go if you were looking for a quiet drink, or a loud party - the Knights' seemed to satisfy both at once.

Tonight, even those looking for a quiet drink found themselves drawn into Aaron's musical rapture. It was a strange quickening, slow at first, but building in intensity. This was Aaron's gift. He was far more than a musician playing a tune - music was his bridge of Power. It linked him, intimately, with the heart and soul of his listeners. With such a bridge, he could influence then in anyway he desired. He could turn the crowd into and angry mob, or a drunken orgy with a well-placed note, if he wanted. Tonight, though, tonight Aaron's message was not so devious: Live, Be Free, Spread Joy . . . All of this and more Aaron whispered into their hearts; all of this and more.

As he played, Aaron let his eyes dreamily drift over the pulsating crowd. Here, then over there, he caught glimpse of a cherry-red cloak and green arms, rippling with the crowd. The sight almost made Aaron miss a beat - the sight of a red and green Grim Reaper was odd enough, let alone the sight of one dancing. Even odder was that none of the crowd seemed to notice the Reaper; perhaps only Aaron himself could see him.

Aaron let himself slip back into the music, into the power, letting it ignite his performance on to epic heights, into a final, soul shaking climax. An eternity passed. Light fought shadow, pleasure wed pain. The crowd's energy was so overwhelming, so enveloping, that it took Aaron some time to realize his physical senses. Sight . . . sound . . . then and smell. . . one by one they returned to him. The crowd's energy, however, hadn't diminished. If anything, it had grown. They screamed and cheered, danced and hugged. Soon, they were moving into the streets, sweeping others that they found there into the rapture. What Aaron had created had taken a life of it's own, and not even Aaron himself could deny it.

Licking some of the blood off of his fingers, raw from the stings on his guitar, Aaron paused a moment, and only a moment, readying himself to sample the crowd's many pleasures. With a devilish smile and a wink to a young, pretty woman, he stepped from the stage. . .

* * * * * * *

The previous night had been a night of magic, of Eden; a party that spread from the Seven Knights Nightclub out into the street's surrounding it. It was Mardi Gras, it was New Years, it was Christmas in August - Aaron's tiny spark ignited into a blazing forest fire of merriment and joy. Aaron had danced every inch of the streets, flirted with a hundred women, and found a lover for the night in the dorm room of the nearby university.

The morning brought with it a bleak, sickening hell. The local news showed pictures of armoured police officers beating a "deranged rioter," as the TV label read, screaming obscenities and hate. It was live, and station couldn't, or didn't, cut out any of the man's harsh language, allowing it to echo unbedded into Aaron's heart. Soon after came scenes of tear gas house clearings, drug raids and worse; all happening live and not two blocks from where Aaron now stood, in the student lounge of a the dorm.

The news anchorperson blamed the rioting on a chemical leak coming from a nearby chemical truck accident. The leaking chemicals, it was reported, caused people to become uncivilised maniacs - fighting, looting, and killing anything in their path. The public was advised to stay away from the eight square block area, dubbed: "the Quarentine Zone."

"Fuck . . ." Aaron hissed between clenched jaws.

He felt noxious and lost. How could joy so quickly turn to hate? Aaron had danced every square inch of what the Police were calling a "Quarantine Zone," and no where had he seen anything even remotely like the images on the television. And if this "chemical leak" were responsible for the uninhibited actions of the people at the party, why wasn't he effected?

For that matter, why wasn't anyone HERE effected? Aaron looked around the small lounge at the seven or eight slumbering partiers. They'd fallen asleep anywhere they could find: on the floor, the couch, even the counters. The rest of the dorm looked the same. The world here was peacefully asleep.

Aaron felt a cold hardening within his chest. SOMEONE didn't want or like Aaron's paradise. SOMEONE didn't want anyone to know about it, and this SOMEONE had the power to cover it up.

"That's fucking stupid," Aaron mumbled to himself, not really sure if it actually was or not.

He didn't really have much time to debate the point, however. The news showed the riot troops nearing the campus, and Aaron had no desire to be caught up into that.

"EVERYBODY UP!" he hollered, "COPS ARE ON THE WAY!"

People began to dreamily stir. Others more alert began passing the message along, and soon everyone was quickly collecting discarded clothing and moving away from the campus.

Aaron stopped long enough to watch the police riot wagon surrounded by troops enter the campus. The few foolish enough to get too close were quickly arrested. It was a dull consolation that these police troops didn't seem to be using excessive force on the submissive post-partiers.

Not wasting any more time, Aaron quickly exited the dorm, ducked under a walk bridge, and ran toward the "cleared" area of the Quarantine Zone.

The streets, the same ones that were vibrant, young and alive not more that several hours ago, were now empty, garbage filled and lifeless. It was a modern ghost town, with newspaper tumbleweeds. Three blocks, Aaron walked before seeing another soul, and then only scarcely. The few that were left here were too old to be bothered with, others, too proud to run, yet had managed to avoid the Police Riot Squads.

It was more than just the people that had been taken from the area. Even the colours seemed faded, the light, dimmer. Everyone that Aaron saw had their eyes fixed on the ground, rarely looking away from it, and then only when necessary. No voices could be heard, save the occasional murmur of a television. Whatever joy that once lived here was a thousand miles and a thousand years gone.

Aaron did his best to take in as much of the devastation as possible without seeming to. Though the Zone only stretched four blocks in any direction, he spent the better part of the day wandering its streets. By late afternoon, the police had abolished the quarantine and people were returning to homes and businesses, all quietly working to rebuild their shattered world. By early evening, the regular sound of the city crept back in. Aaron kept walking, trying to out pace his own troubled thoughts.

Finally, Aaron allowed himself some respite. He found, drawn by the rich smell of coffee, a small street side diner; the kind that still had a "family business" feel even when surrounded by a faceless urban chaos. Though the walls inside were yellow with age, the place seemed modestly clean and welcome. Slumping onto one of the round counter stools, he motioned for the grizzled old waitress quietly busying herself here and there to bring him a coffee.

Aaron stared at the counter top. Soon a cup and saucer were placed in front of him, and a green hand poured coffee from a glass coffee pot. It took a moment for Aaron to process what his eyes had just seen: a green hand. Startled, Aaron looked up, into the large red hood filled with shadow.

"Hi, remember me? I gotta' tell you this, Aaron: you do NOT look like you're having a nice day."

Aaron almost burst out laughing, so absurd the situation. 'Oh god, it wasn't just a hallucination - I must be going crazy . . .' he thought to himself.

Before him, of course was the Red Reaper, standing behind the diner's counter, holding a pot of coffee and wearing a white, frilly waitress frock over its billowy red cloak.

"Let me tell you though, that was ONE HELL of a party you started last night." Aaron had the impression that the Reaper was smiling somewhere hidden in the shadows.

"Who ARE you?" Aaron asked, nervously aware of the diner's three other patrons.

"Still wondering about that are you? Well, I'm a friend - like a fairy godmother or a cosmic guru."

"So what's your name." The other patrons took only passing interest in Aaron's unearthly conversation. Aaron hoped it was because they didn't, or couldn't, see the great red Reaper, and not because this sort of thing was common here.

"I dunno. Call me whatever you want."

" . . . How about 'ZEN'," Aaron suggested after a moment's ponder. " I kinda like the sound of it, and it seems to suit you somehow."

"OK, I'm Zen, pleased-to-meet-you-Aaron, so 'watta 'ya 'gonna do now?"

"I didn't know that I was supposed to DO anything. I played a gig, had a blast, and everything got all FUBAR'ed in the morning. What exactly am I supposed to DO."

"FUBARed?"

"Fucked Up Beyond . . ."

"I KNOW what FUBAR means, but if you think that things just got a little FUBARed-this-morning-and- it's-over, BOY are you in for a RUDE Awakening."

Aaron took a moment to draw a cigarette out of his pocket, light it, and take a long, deep drag.

"Really," Aaron replied, letting the smoke trickle out his nose and mouth as he spoke, "and just how much worse is it supposed to get."

"You'll be lucky if they just kill you."

Aaron put the cigarette out.

"Who?"

"Them."

"Them who?"

"Just Them."

"You're not making this easy to understand, Zen."

"It's not supposed to be easy to understand, it just is, OK? THEY don't like you. THEY don't like what you did last night. THEY are the ones that pulled a few strings and turned that bitchin' gig into a rioting freakshow. Now, THEY want to make sure you never do it again."

"Why?"

"That's a tough one. Exactly why, I don't know. You just stand for everything They're against, and to let you go on being YOU would mean compromising everything that THEY've built."

"So we're talking about some secret government agency that has the power to manipulate the police, the news and god-knows-what-else? What can I do to them? What do I do now?"

"I didn't say they were government, but you're right about what they can do. As far as what you ARE going to do, well that's really up to you. As far as what you CAN do, I might be able to suggest a few options."

"Option one."

"Run, hide and pray they take a lifetime to find you."

"Nice," Aaron said dryly, "Option two."

Zen reached in behind its waitress frock and pulled out a small poster for "The MTV GalaEvent" - it was a live broadcast being sent all over the world, with over twenty big name performers, and it was being shot tomorrow night, right there in L.A. Aaron read the playbill again: "Live Broadcast . . . Worldwide . . ."

"But how do I . . ."

"THAT is up to you," zen relpied, shugging his massive shoulders, "but right now I recommend trying the lemon pie. It's trez magnifique."

Aaron looked over to the pie rack that Zen's green finger was pointing at, then curiously turned back to his strange visitor.

"SO YOU 'WAN SOME PIE OR WHAT?" screeched the grizzled waitress standing where Zen had just been.

Aaron only shook his head, wide-eyed and stunned, and threw some coins on the counter for the coffee.

Chapter Three

The Seven Knights

Charles Violus was anything but your typical night club owner. The Seven Knights was his pride and passion, and he'd let nothing, not a riot, not even the police, harm a square inch of it's brick, glass and plaster. Case in point of Charles' atypical nature: even though the Seven Knights was at the heart of the riots and then the police retaliation, he'd succeeded in accomplishing the impossible. All of the other buildings on Main Street showed the scars of the previous day's riot, but there in the middle of it all stood the Seven Knights, untouched, unscarred, and judging from its bright neon signs, open for business.

Aaron felt a little like a criminal coming back to the scene of the crime - he enjoyed the sensation. Taking a final, long drag on his cigarette, he crossed the mostly empty street toward the Knight's main entrance. Already he could hear the low rumble of music playing inside.

Entering the small club, he nodded to the large, well-muscled Jamaican bouncer. The inside of the Seven Knights seemed as untouched as the outside, yet the few patrons inside told Aaron that it was not completely unaffected by the riots. It was so empty, so open. The soft blues of the walls and false marble floor no longer held the life it did and the large fishtank behind the bar seemed tiny.

Aaron became immediately uneasy; one by one, each pair of eyes in the club turned to stare at him. No doubt they were members of his audience, although Aaron was unsure of their feeling towards him now.

'Well, at least they're not wearing sunglasses . . .' thought Aaron to himself.

Trying to ignore the stares, Aaron scanned for the owner, Charles Violus. If Aaron was going to have a chance at making a surprise appearance at the Gala, maybe someone as connected to L.A.'s music scene as Charles could offer some help, or in the very least, advice.

Not finding him, Aaron turned to the Jamaican bouncer, Saj, and asked where he could find him. Saj was undoubtedly part of how Charles was able to keep the 'Knights so safe. An absolute monster of a man, the bouncer stood close to seven feet tall (if not over), all of it iron muscle, topped with a cold, discerning stare. That stare alone could make a mob think twice about crossing this massive man.

"Dunno, 'ees round 'eer sum'air'." Saj's voice seemed to rumble from his cavernous chest.

Nodding his thanks, Aaron walked over and took a seat at the bar. Many eyes still followed him, but a few had returned to their earlier conversations. Aaron allowed himself to relax a bit, even ordering a beer, but still keeping alert for Charles to make an appearance.

"'Got a lot of nerve showing up here after what happened," snapped a cold voice. Aaron jumped at his visitor's sudden appearance. There behind the bar, where not even a moment ago had been nothing, stood the mysterious and stern looking, Charles Violus.

Damnit, Aaron thought to himself, first Zen, and now Charles is spooking me. How DOES everybody do that?

"I need your help." Aaron was in no mood to play childish games.

.

"And here I thought you'd come back to collect more money for your gig the other night," Charles said with a grin, dropping the act of hostility toward Aaron.

"Well . . . we can talk about that later," Aaron tried not to grin back. "Right now I need to know if you've got any contacts or connections with that MTV thing happening in a couple of days?"

"The GalaEvent tomorrow night? Why? It's a bit late to get on the appearance list. Not that I don't think that you don't have what it takes, mind you. I've been in this business a long time, and you've got talent like I've never even heard of before. And that's saying a lot."

"I'm not too worried about being on the official playbill," Aaron said, taking another sip on his beer, "in fact I'd prefer not to be. But I need a BIG audience, and I need it tomorrow night."

"Why tomorrow? Look, take your time, kid. You are GOING to be BIG, no doubt about that. Why force it to happen so soon?" Charles slipped a coaster under Aaron's bottle.

"Because if I don't, I may end up dead, if I'm lucky."

Both men studied each other's expression, searching for some hidden meaning or sign. The two were quite different on the surface: Aaron being of medium build, with longer-than-short brown hair. He had a fashion about him that was dangerous and unique, accentuated with red leather, blue denim and a pair of biker's boots.

Charles, on the other hand, was tall, slight of build and with short, neatly-groomed blond hair. He wore a comfortable, beige cotton shirt and pants.

Inwardly both men sensed a kin-like fire with other; a wildness. Not the rebelliousness of a teenager, but rather something else: something that spoke of a passion for life, a different outlook than the average man, and of a freedom of thought thinly (and sometimes not at all) concealed from a jealous society.

"All right, music-man," Charles finally said. "I may be able to help you. But I need to know more before I can."

He stopped Aaron before he could say more, and pointed up at the second floor office that looked down on the club floor below.

"We'll talk when we've more privacy," Charles said.

With Charles leading the way, the two men headed to the corner of the bar, where the office's metal staircase inconspicuously waited. Once inside, Aaron studied the room. At first, it reminded him of a Lawyer's office: one wall filled, ceiling to floor, with shelved books. In the center of the room, facing the door, was a large oak desk covered with various papers (no doubt detailing the financial aspects of the club, from the lines of numbers and dollar signs Aaron saw, though only briefly - did a small bar like this really make that much?). In the corner, Aaron noticed a small, green leather couch.

The orderly and mundane flow of the office was disrupted by the strange sight Aaron noticed at the center of the room. A small pedestal sat, about half Aaron's height, and held an ornate skull within a square glass case. Aaron could see yellowed bone amidst the swirls of gold inlay and flecks of ruby and emerald (perhaps, Aaron was no jewelist) around the eyes, temples and teeth.

"An old heirloom," Charles called out, noticing Aaron's interest in the ghastly object. "Actually, a replica of an old heirloom. The real one's in a vault."

"Kind of different having it here in the office, isn't it?"

"Maybe," Charles said nodding his head, "but I've grown fond of it. My grandfather was something of an archeologist, and this is a piece he found somewhere in South America. It used to give me nightmares as a kid. I don't know, somewhere while growing up, it became sort of . . . a friend."

"Why isn't it in a museum?" Aaron asked, not taking his eyes off the strange object. It was as if the thing were actually staring back at him.

"I don't really know why grandpa kept it, but it was given to me by my father, and I'm not about to just give it away. Its part of the family now. But enough about my decor. You want to tell me what's going on?"

Slowly, Aaron tore his eyes away from the Violus' family heirloom.

"I'm not sure I can explain it," Aaron finaly said with a sigh. "The riots - did you see any of it? I mean after I played? All I saw were hundreds of people having a great time. The next morning I get up, and the news is showing 'Beirute in L.A.'"

"That pretty much sums up my experience as well," Charles agreed. "I'm not even sure who showed up here first: the rioters or the riot police. So what do you think happened?"

"I don't know. I've my suspicions, but they sound crazy even to me."

"Crazy is what's already happened. I doubt your suspicions could sound any crazier."

Aaron paused to carefully consider his words.

"Do you think . . . that someone could have . . . I mean, that someone with enough power could have changed things? Sort of like manipulating the police and media to see a bunch of people who are just having a good time as a violent mass; as a threat? "

"Ooooh," Charles intoned in his best 'spooky'-voice, "we're talking conspiracies now, are we? We'll in light of everything that's happened, I guess it doesn't sound that far fetched - and I'd be lying if I said that the idea didn't occur to me as well. So let's say that there IS a conspiracy, that somewhere out there there's this bunch of anal-retentive party-haters. Why would they change a party into a riot? And why do you think that you'll be dead - if you're lucky - if you don't play at the Gala?"

"Fucked if I know anything for sure," Aaron replied. "But I've an important and reliable source that figures that They are out to make sure I don't start anything like I did the other night, EVER again."

"So. . ."

". . .so I plan on doing just that. And THIS time I'm going to make sure it's SO BIG that they can't keep it quiet."

". . .or at least that their too busy pulling a hush job that they don't have time to worry about you," Charles added."Sounds a bit like 'pissing on a deranged lion so he doesn't eat you' to me."

"Are you saying that you won't help?"

"No, I'm saying that it sounds like a lot of fun; dangerous, granted, possibly incredibly stupid, but a lot of fun." Aaron marvelled at how Charles could make such a statement with a completely straight face. "And I'm not even going to ask who your 'important and reliable source' is."

Charles spent a moment in silent ponder. "Let me make some calls and we'll see what I can do."

* * * * * * * *

Aaron spent the night in the office at the Seven Knights, although sleep came neither easily, nor deeply. His thoughts were preoccupied with whatever attempts on his life that THEY might take, at any moment.

Charles' family skull wasn't helping the matter either. No matter where he looked, he could feel the thing's empty eyes burrowing into him. Eventually he had to lay his red, leather jacket over the case to silence its stare.

Finally, Aaron just let insomnia win - he'd a lot of planning to do anyway. He was sure that he was going to play Quest at the Gala, but how he was going to get to play it was still a problem.

Earlier, Charles had informed him that his contacts could get them into the backstage of the Gala, but getting from there to center stage was another matter. The night seemed booked pretty solid - if he were to play, it would mean that another artist would have to lose stage time, maybe even lose their spot altogether. It wasn't likely that any band would let that happen, especially with a signed contract. Still, Charles seemed confident that Aaron would "think of something."

"Zen?" Aaron called out, hoping for some unearthly advice from the strange being.

"Zen?" he called again, louder.

Nothing. Wherever the cherry-robed figure was, he either couldn't hear Aaron, didn't have anything to say, or just didn't want to help. Well, that was fine. Aaron would either think of something, or he wouldn't. Time, as always, would be the judge.

Restless, Aaron sat down at Charles' large oak desk, and picked up the GalaEvent flyer that rested on it. His eyes scanned through the names of the famous musicians and stars scheduled to appear at the show. One caught his eye, and it brought a smile to his face.

Aaron returned to the green couch and quickly fell asleep, sure that he'd found the key to center stage.

Chapter Four

The Deranged Lion

LA was filled with the glitz and energy of Generation X gone wild. Scores of people lined its streets hoping to get a glance of their favourite singer or star. The commotion centred on one building in the downtown core, who's front had been fitted with an extravagant stage. By day, this area was a busy, four lane intersection. Tonight, barricades held the vehicles out, large, football-style bleachers had been erected, and ticket booths, food and novelty stands, video cameras, and security had been strategically placed. The audience, not including the hundred thousand viewers expected to watch at home, was estimated to come close to twenty thousand.

Just outside this nexus, arrived a long white limousine. At first, the nearby people anticipated some musical legend or movie star to be inside. They were soon disappointed when niether revealed themselves. Instead, two men, average by all appearances, exited the vehicle: one was tall and thin, and dressed in a baige-shell colour that mached the sandy hue of his hair. The other (a little wilder) was shorter, with long brown hair and sported a red leather jacket, blue jeans and an acoustic guitar. Though obviously "nobodies," the sheer stylistic contrast between the two brought several stares. These doubled when the two were joined by their seven foot, well muscled, Jamaican chauffeur.

Aaron was already feeling his blood rise. Even this close to the growing crowd, Aaron could feel its energy. It called to him, it fed him, it gave him a kind of preternatural energy. He couldn't help throwing a devilish grin.

Charles led the way to the gate, flashing three VIP tickets at the guard as he did. Across the crowd-filled street, the three moved, like sharks through a swarm of lesser fish. Aaron's eyes swept everywhere, trying to take in everything, yet always returning to the stage located on the opposite side of the concrete expanse. Charles was not leading them to the stage, however. Instead, they headed toward an area guarded by a fence of muscled security guards (no doubt bouncers or police officers every other night of the year). Each wore a black T-shirt emblazoned with bold, white lettering: "SECURITY."

"That's the performer's entrance," Charles called back.

Aaron just nodded, already having guessed the reason for the added security, and continued to scan his surroundings.

Closing within a few feet of the security line, Charles pulled out three I.D. badges from his inner blazer pocket - "BACKSTAGE." The burly line of guards silently parted to let the three men pass.

"OK," Charles said as they entered the chaotic bussle of preparations for the show. "I got us here, now it's up to you to do the rest."

Aaron grinned. It was time to set his plan in motion.

* * * * * *

There was a knock at the dressing room door.

"Earl, could you get that?" said the blond singer, continuing to apply make-up for the show and rehearsing lyrics in her mind.

"Yes, ma'am," Earl, a burly, bald-headed bodyguard, replied.

Earl walked to the door of the dressing room, opened it a crack, and looked out.

"She's busy getting ready for her performance," Earl said, not rudely, but not kindly either. The other half of the conversation was inaudible to the others in the room.

A large, dark hand reached through the open door and grabbed Earl by the neck.

". . .gkuack!" was all the burly man could muster before being pulled out into the hallway.

The door was suddenly thrust wide open. Aaron Blake walked triumphantly into the room, lead by his growing grin. The others in the room, startled and a little worried at what had happened to their protector, reacted with a fearful anger.

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU! WHAT'DJA DO WITH EARL?" the four band members shouted chaotically. Was this some deranged fan? Or something worse?

"Miss Courtney Love," Aaron said with all his charm, addressing the band's lead singer, "I have a very important business proposition for you."

The performers were too stunned at Aaron's audacity to immediately respond.

"FUCK you, pal," Courtney shouted, remembering her rebel tongue. "When Earl gets back here, he's going to mess you up but good." Not waiting for Earl, she secretly slipped a pointed nail file into her hand behind her back.

"I've come a long way, and I've gone through a lot to get here - all I ask is that you just listen to a song."

Courtney, still speaking for the group amidst glares and taunts from the other band members, did not seem to warm to Aaron's idea.

"Who the fuck do you think you are to fucking come in here and fucking think that I'm going to fucking listen to your FUCKING song?" Courtney blasted, then added, "Where's Earl."

I think she's a little upset, Aaron heard Zen's unearthly voice inside his head.

"Earl, dear lady," came Charles'charming voice from the doorway, "is quietly asleep here beside the door."

"I'm calling security."

"Please," Aaron pleaded, letting his touch mystically extend towards the group. "I just want to sing you a song."

It was the first time Aaron had done anything like this - sure he'd influenced people through his music, but this time the music wasn't heard. At least, not by the people he was influencing. The music remained silent to all but Aaron, playing over and over in his mind. The mental notes expanded and crossed the spacial distance between him and his target, his "key."

"OK," Courtney, eerily feeling her rage dissipate, heard herself say. It was almost like being overtaken by some kind of drug, yet her mind still felt aware and alert. Possibly it was more the curiosity of this sensation that made her pause and listen, but she was still no puppet to be played. "You've got one minute to impress me."

Aaron nodded, sure that a minute was all he would need, and unslung his guitar. Behind him, Charles, choosing to remain outside, closed the door to cut the noise from the hallway.

Aaron let his whole body slip into the pulse of the music. He remembered playing Quest for the first time on stage, and was determined to do even better. His fingers plucked at the strings and tapped at the wood. His voice trembled; his passion, like an aura of power, over took the room.

Outside, Charles and Saj waited, glaring off anyone who would investigate the unconscious bodyguard at their feet. When that wasn't enough, Charles would assure them with: "he'd had a bit too much to drink . . . his first time at a major event and all . . . puked in the dressing room, Miss Love had us drag him out here," or the like.

"Do ya' 'tink 'ees gonna do it, boss?" Saj asked his much smaller employer.

"Sagian, my dear fellow, I've been in this business since 1919 - in all those years I've seen nothing like the talent I've seen in that man in there. He'll 'do it' all right, that and far more I'm sure. That and far, far more. . ."

* * * * * *

Courtney Love had been a lot of things in her life: the widow to a rock legend, a movie star, and a rocker herself. Above all else, however, she was a rebel. More than that however, she was a rebel who knew how to use the system and make it work the way she wanted it to. She would take any risk, and bounce back from any hardship, so long as she figured the trip would be a fun ride. These were the qualities that made Aaron Blake look to her in the first place.

Maybe Aaron could have dazzled anyone of the other performers - or stage managers, or program directors, for that matter. But that lacked a sense of poetry. He knew that once she heard him sing, Miss Courtney Love would help sneak him into the spotlight. It was the kind of "joke" someone with her sense of humour could understand, even if no one else did.

"Hey, everybody!" the grunge Queen called into the microphone at the teeming crowd in front of her. "I've got a little surprise for you!"

Hole had just finished playing its latest hit, and Aaron could not have hoped for a better warm up act than that. The television cameras hovered above the audience by long metal booms that allowed them to get a steady, sweeping picture of everything that happened on the large stage.

Keep rollin' fella's, Aaron thought to himself as we watched from the behind the side curtain, I am about to blow the feeble perceptions of about one billion TV viewers - take THAT to the ratings office.

"Please give a wild and wooley welcome to a new friend of mine: the abso-freakin'-lutly amazin': MR. AARON BLAKE!" Courtney called out, working the crowd into a frenzy.

Aaron stepped out and walked boldly to the centre.

"OK, Tiger," Courtney shouted in his ear over the din of screams and applause, "time to work that magic of yours."

Aaron only smiled and slipped her a kiss, then walked over to the centre microphone and sat down on the black, metal stool that waited there. In the corner of his eye, he could see Charles and Saj fending off the production manager from interfering. Courtney ended the debate quickly though, and with a few choice words to silence any further complaint, Aaron was sure.

The crowd grew quiet, waiting to the newcomer to either impress them, or not; the brave and successful would be met with cheers and adoration, the meek and untalented would feel their wrath and scorn.

"Showbiz-ness can be a dangerous business," Aaron muttered to himself as he began to play.

At first he just let his mundane talent carry him. The acoustic lead in was very different from the rock-a-delic symphony that the crowd had been blasted with up until this point, yet the simple tune had a strange appeal, and it drew the audience in slowly.

Then Aaron added his voice to the simple music that danced from the small wooden guitar, and with it rode the Power. The notes of his voice intermingled with the rest of the music, changing it, subtlety at first. But soon, the sound was like nothing that could have been possible with the tools at hand. It held the bottled force of a grand orchestra, with the heavenly pulse of a choir; it had the sharpness of rock, and the softness of a love song. As impossible the sounds were, no one noticed. They were too caught up in it, too much a part of it, too much taken in by the Rapture.

"Find the fire, the fire in your heart," Aaron sang. "Set ablaze the walls that hold you./ Burn the reason,/ deceive the lie/ Quest: invocation/ Quest: divine salvation."

People everywhere, as if conducted by Aaron, began lending their own voices to the melody; though they didn't even know the words, somehow they all came together in perfect harmony. Musicians from the back and side stage moved out, lending their more refined talents to the tapestry. Bigger and bigger the Rapture grew. Larger and more alive, almost tangible, Quest became.

Joy . . . freedom . . . imagination . . . Eden . . . And the Rapture spread, like an echo reverberating to forever.

All who heard it were deeply effected by it. Some sang, some danced, others kissed and made love. Some just stood or sat and listened, with tears of joy rolling from their eyes. And still the Rapture spread, thanks to the miracle of modern telecommunications broadcast the performance all over the planet.

Only a few, a very few mind you, who were trapped far behind thick, ancient walls and of hate and paranoia, heard the Rapture and reacted very differently: with fear.

Yet now, they were a universe away from Aaron. The song rolled to a close, but the music went on. Aaron quivered as his body fed off the indescribable energy of all Quest had touched.

"Now what?!" shouted Charles in Aaron's ear. It helped to bring Aaron back to a functioning frame of perception.

Aaron shrugged.

"What else is there?" he said matter-of-factly.

Charles laughed"It ain't over by a long shot, kid!".

If Aaron needed proof, it came as he glanced through the dancing crowd surrounding him. He somehow was able to spot a few, less than a handful, who were not part of the Rapture around them. Their expressions were grim and angry, and they hid their eyes behind black sunglasses. If more proof was needed, it soon came as the wind whirled and two police helicopters landed on a nearby building.

"See what I mean?" Charles, called over the din of the still enraptured audience.

How did They get here so fast? This stunt should have sent Them scurrying to patch things up. Who are THEY that they could do this?

The answer became appearant, although only slightly, when Aaron noticed that the sunglass-people and police SWAT teams took no action whatsoever against the crowd.

They couldn't stop this, so they weren't going to even try. It was Aaron they wanted now. It was the spark they wanted to extinguish, not the fire. Aaron had scored a major victory, that was unarguable, but it had cost him. He was now a hunted man. They may have been able to eventually forget the midtown party, but this? They'd stop at nothing now.

Aaron turned to the owner of the Seven Knights, hoping that his friend would have some idea of what to do.

"You have to take off - get out of here and lay low for a while. I've got a lot of connections, more than you can realize, and I'll help you wherever I can."

"Thanks, Charles." He was a club owner - what 'connections?'

"Don't worry - if anybody comes looking for me, Saj'll take care of him." The way he said it implied: 'Saj-and-a-whole-lot-more', but Aaron didn't have time to ask questions right now.

Aaron followed Charles off the stage, of course pausing to bow one last time to the crowd (he threw in a wave to Them, too). Once there, Charles directed him to a nearby alley.

"I've got a motorbike waiting for you there," Charles explained. "You'll be protected as you leave the city - you won't see my boys, but trust me they're there. Good luck, Blake my man. Don't worry, I'll be in touch."

Alright, he didn't have time for the damn questions, but he couldn't just leave with that kind of farewell.

"Charles, just who the hell are you?"

"I'm the owner of the Seven Knights, and the guy that's helping you get your ass out of here. Now get going!"

"You're a lot more than just a nightclub owner."

"All right," Charles sighed, loosing a bit of patience. "Let's just say that you are not the only one that's a little Different. Now MOVE YOUR ASS BEFORE I GET SAJ TO KICK IT FOR YOU!"

It wasn't much of an explanation, but for now, it would have to do. He patted Charles on the shoulder and ran off toward the alley. There, Saj was waiting with what appeared to be a new Harley-Davidson motorcycle. The large Jamaican tossed Aaron the keys, saying only: "Drive 'appy, mon," as he did.

Aaron could only shake his head, smile and mount the bike. Soon, it's chromed engine roared Aaron down through the main strip, and out of LA.

* * * * * * * *

"Aaron Blake has become something of a . . . problem," said a voice more used to keeping silent.

"Agreed," said another. "What protocol do we have for this type of situation?"

"PROTOCOL?!" exclaimed a third, "There IS no goddamn protocol for this! The whole thing has gone to hell . . ."

"Mind yourself," scolded the first voice, "you are still new, young. Your emotional outburst can be forgiven, this time. Best not make it a habit. You do not fully realize the extent of our resources, nor have the experience that teaches you any situation, no matter how problematic, has a solution."

"Forgive me, sir," quickly said the third, wisely deciding to listen more than talk.

"I've dispached H.I.T.s to remove the heart of the problem," stated the second, "but while I agree that youth lacks experience, I cannot fault his perception here. Even after we kill Aaron Blake, it will be quite a difficult task to erase this event."

"You can start be recalling the H.I.T. teams. We are not going to kill Aaron Blake . . ."

"Sir?"

". . . yet. If we kill him know, we only give momentum and strength to the enemy - he would become a martyr; a god. Our goal is to first assassinate his popularity - make him seem pathetic, weak, foolish. Once his foothold with the people is removed, this Event will only be a curiosity in history; THEN we can safely remove him."

"How do we do all that?" asked the third, his curiosity overcoming his self- imposed silence.

"Plans are already being put into motion. Worry only about the tasks that you are assigned."

"Yes, sir," said the third.

"Sir," said the second.

The three voices parted, as silently and secretly as they had arrived.

Chapter Five

Alien Abduction

Adam was about to die. Gritting his teeth and holding the steering wheel of his car in a grip of fear, he helplessly felt the back tires scream and fishtail. The next moment, man and vehicle flew from the road, flipping end for end. Just a moment before, the dark, remote highway was smooth and sure. No indication nor premonition of the incident to come was given.

Where was he going? Adam couldn't quite remember (funny how you think about such things when you're about to die). Where ever it was, it was such a distance that he did remember stopping for at least an entire day's meals. By then it was late, and he kept the radio loud and the window down, so that the noise and cool wind would quicken the blood and keep him alert.

Suddenly, out of the dark curtain beyond the headlights, out of nothing: a woman, with cool blue skin and bright golden hair . . .

Adam swerved, narrowly avoiding the strange being. He barely managed to keep control over the car. His senses jolted hyper - aware by the near accident, he looked to his mirrors for a better look.

She was gone.

Was it a ghost? More likely a hallucination brought on by the lack of sleep and the tunnel vision of driving. Adam considered going back to try and find the woman, but scolded himself for indulging such foolishness.

'She was trying to warn me,' he thought to himself, though where the realization came, he wasn't sure. He replayed the image in his mind - it did seem as though she were warning him away from something.

Then it happened. One moment: dark nothing; the next: an explosion of light so bright it was if a sun had been born right there in front of him.

This time Adam was not so skillfull to hold control over the car. Over the roadside ditch the car flew. Time hung frozen for a few seconds as Adam waited to meet the earth.

Adam heard, more than felt, the cracking of his nose and cheeks as his face smashed forward into the wheel and dashboard. The pain was there, intensely too, but it seemed so distant. He heard the crunch of the car's front bumper as it thudded into the ditch, smashing the windshield into thousands of tiny daggers. Then a creaky whine as the vehicle's weight pressed down on the roof beneath his limp, upside-down body. Oozing blood tickled down his face, neck and arms, and it made everything he touched feel slick and slimy.

Finally, he heard the most astounding sound of them all. He heard his own heart, strong and deep, beating like the thundering of a thousand hooves. Then it slowed, and slowed, slipping his pain away with each lost beat, until only one lonely beat could he hear.

Then that too was gone.

* * * * * *

Adam was as surprised when he found himself waking up. He was lying on his back staring at a sky full of stars. Sitting up, he found himself only a few feet from the wreckage of his car. Shards of glass, plastic and the odd piece of metal littered the scene, but Adam, strangely, felt fine. He checked his hands and touched his face, but no aches or wounds could he find. Using a small shard of mirror, he double checked for injuries where his eyes could not see, still to no avail. His shirt and pants were lightly stained with blood, but he could find no place where the fluid had leaked.

Carefully, Adam stood. Rightly, too, as doing so brought on a wave of dizziness.

A table, dark figures stand over me . . . sharp tools . . .waking surgery . . .

The dizziness lasted but a moment, and Adam found himself able to walk about without disorientation. What ever had just happened had come and gone, and even the memory of it was elusive to Adam's mental grasp. Had someone pulled him from the wreckage? If so, then where were they and why did they just leave him there by the car. He was sure that he was injured, too. But maybe that had just been his imagination. Maybe he had crawled from the wreckage on his own, and just didn't remember it.

One thing was sure, Adam was a long way from anywhere, and had no means of transportation. And he was hungry. Hopefully he could find a roadside restaurant nearby where he could get to both a phone and a meal.

Adam still couldn't remember where was he going. Obviously, he hadn't escaped the accident completely unscathed. Hitting his head in the crash had no doubt caused some sort of injury, but there was no way to determine the extent of it here. He had to get to a hospital.

Adam started walking down the long, dark highway, hoping to find any sign of civilization soon.

'I should have died,' he thought to himself, as he replayed the faint memory of the crash in his mind. A cool realization set in. 'I was dead, wasn't I?'

[Error. Unit showing signs of independent thought. Attempting to compensate]

Adam screamed and fell to his knees. The pain came from nowhere, like an invisible spike drilling into his mind.

Eventually, the pain lessened itself, enough for Adam to act. He KNEW what he had to do to stop the pain. It was as if the pain itself had told him. Scrambling quickly back to the wrecked car, Adam searched like an addict for his vice. There, in the smashed open glove box, Adam found a pair of black sunglasses. As he slipped them on, he was rewarded with blissful numbness.

'It's turning out to be one hell of a shitty night', Adam sighed inwardly. No further thought did he give the accident. He just walked, hoping that his "bad luck" was over for the night.

Almost two hours later, Adam heard the soft rumble of music. Soon, the glow of lights of roadhouse bar could be seen in the distance.

Maybe they served food. A cool beer didn't sound too bad either.

As he approached the building, he met with stares , both curious and cautious. He could only guess how he appeared to these locals: his clothes were still torn and stained with blood and he was weary from the long walk. Even more odd, dispite the darkness of the late night, he continued to wear the black sunglasses.

"Hey, Mister . . ." called a large, pot bellied man, "yo'all right?"

"Sure," Adam gruffly called back as he got closer, "got into a bit of an accident a ways back. Cut my head."

The portly man only nodded and narrowed his eyes as Adam walked past him, into the bar.

Inside, Adam ordered a steak and a beer, and Adam sat down to collect his thoughts, doing his best to ignore the other bar partons.

More than just his destination was obscure, his life, even his identity, seemed a blank. He focused on remembering anything about his past.

[error. Subject continues to display self-will. Running system diagnostic]

'Susan!' A name, nothing more. No. A phone number too. Who was she? A sister? Wife? Girlfriend? Adam quickly searched for the nearest pay phone, hooking his sunglasses onto his belt as he did.

Finding a pay phone near the back, he dropped in a quarter. Quickly he dialled the numbers that had flashed in his head. Somewhere, on the other end of the line, a phone rang. Twice.

"Hello?" It was a woman's voice.

"Susan?" Adam guessed, not hearing anything familiar.

"Adam? My god, Adam, where are you? I came home and . . . look I'm sorry, I didn't, I didn't want to hurt you. I guess I deserve this . . ."

"Listen, Susan," Adam interrupted. He didn't have time to try and guess what the poor woman was going on about. "I don't know how to say this, or really how to begin but . . . I don't remember you."

There was silence on the other end.

"Hello? Susan?"

" . . . What do you mean, 'you don't remember me.' " There was the definite sound of anguish in her voice. "I was wrong, alright. But you don't have to punish me like this. Who the fuck do you think you are . . ."

Adam's attention was suddenly, forcedly, pulled from the conversation. Another stranger had walked into the bar; someone else that clearly did not belong. He'd long brown hair, blue jeans and a red leather jacket. An acoustic guitar was slung over the new stranger's shoulder. The newcomer usurped Adam's total attention; Susan, the one link he had to a past, suddenly did not matter.

[Hang up the phone.]

Adam blankly dropped the receiver down into place, cutting off Susan's warbled voice. Slipping them from his his belt, he put the sunglasses on. Moving with an intense determination, Adam headed across the bar towards the newcomer; towards Aaron Blake.

[DIRECTIVE: Kill AARON BLAKE. Enabling ATTACK/DEFENCE Protocols]

Chapter Six

A Marked Man

The performance had almost changed the world; almost. True, at least for one evening, and the better part of two days and nights after, the world WAS different. Just that most people just didn't realize it. THEY had done their job quite well, all things considered. Even though they couldn't stop what was happening, they did manage to contain it.

Some of the wide scale partying was attributed to various local and unrelated customs or holidays, most of which were virtually unknown to the rest of the world. In other areas, the joy was overshadowed by some great tragedy- in England a bombing of the IRA killed over two dozen during a post soccer celebration, the mid-east suffered from continued atrocities as continued fighting claimed hundreds of civilian lives, China responded violently to another anti-government march, riots hit Indonesia. To anyone who wasn't there, who wasn't involved, the world was the same place it had always been.

Of course, they couldn't completely silence the ripples that Aaron had caused. Though it would never be reported, anyone who had heard Aaron play, for days or weeks afterward, would be filled with more energy and joy than they could ever remember having. People were talking more, loving more, helping more and even doing more. Nothing to the extent of the obvious, but nevertheless, the change was there.

Aaron was a star. Unprecedentedly, Quest was number one in the charts, and showed no sign of slipping in the near future. Even though it was technically "unrecorded," the video footage of his performance, was played over and over on MTV. Soon, pirate recordings soon found their way onto local radio stations. Blake fever was everywhere, and the mysterious appearance and disappearance of this enigmatic fellow only seemed to urge the public's fascination. Unfortunately, the song just didn't have the remarkable impact it did when sung live.

Oddly though, Aaron's trip had been free of any of the horrors of fame. He'd be watched with "I know that guy" glances as he moved through a town, but not until he was long gone did anyone put the traveller and the star singer together.

"Don't 'cha worry, I'll make sure you're not noticed until you need to be," Zen had whispered in his ear. Aaron had become used to the odd comment, end even looked forward to a brief visit now and then from the strange being.

Ahead in the darkness, Aaron saw the reflective road signs directing him to "Buzz 'n Cuts" Country Bar. While country really wasn't his scene, the taste of a cool beer to wash the road dust from his mouth was quite appealing.

Another ten or fifteen minutes brought the Harley-and-rider roaring into the bar's gravel parking lot.

"Now THAT is one 'fye-ne piece of machinery!" Called one of the outside patrons surrounding a dented, rusty pickup truck.

"Sure is." Aaron called back with a sly smile.

He stopped and talked to the man: a tall, strong working type who proudly introduced himself as BC (as in, Aaron found out, "Billy Chuck"). They shop-talked about the motorcycle for a few minutes before Aaron's thirst drove him to excuse himself and continue inside.

"Buzz 'n Cuts" was just like every other rural bar that Aaron had ever been in: stained wood "cabin" interior, with large oak tables, long bar with an old til, and a stuffed moose head and large birchbark canoe nailed to the walls. As well, the scent of wood shavings, tobacco smoke and beer, permeated everywhere, not unpleasantly either.

With his guitar slung to his back (brought mostly from the aversion of leaving it outside on the bike), Aaron walked to the bar an ordered a draft of honey coloured beer. It's taste, while seeming slightly watered, was still refreshing and work well to wash the road taste out of his mouth.

Moving from across the room, Adam closed in on his prey.

[DIRECTIVE: Kill AARON BLAKE.]

Adam was right behind Aaron; oblivious to the danger . . . almost.

A tingling on the back of his neck forced Aaron to turn. For a brief moment, hunter and prey locked eyes. No words were passed, but a clear aggression was communicated.

"Can I help you?" Aaron asked calmly, but kept a mental readiness for a fistfight.

[Kill AARON BLAKE.]

Adam didn't move. 'Why would I want to kill this man? Who is he?' Every cell in his body screamed for Aaron's blood. But Adam would not strike; he would not kill.

[Error. Subject continues to display self-will at level 7 override. Unable to suppress Psyyy.~ (#$&(#*( *#@( @*#$&( .. .. ..

"Who . . . are you?" Adam stammered, feeling the killing thirst lessen.

'Seems to be the question of the day . . .' Aaron thought to himself. He took a long drag on his cigarette, as if pondering the question.

"I'm not whoever YOU'RE lookin' for," he replied.

" . . . you're name is Aaron Blake, isn't it?"

Aaron couldn't help but show his shock. No one was supposed to be able to recognize him. Zen said that he'd make sure of that. Now what?

"You've got me mixed up with someone else . . ."

"I wanted to kill you." Adam stated, still in shock of the situation.

"Well as much as I'm sure that means we're going to be great friends now, I'm still not whoever you're looking for." Grabbing his beer, Aaron headed back toward the parking lot.

Adam ignored Aaron's departure. What was happening to him? He didn't even know who this "Aaron Blake" was, much less why he would want to kill him. Was he going crazy? The crash: there could have been some neurological damage. Adam slumped into the nearest chair as his world spun wildly into chaos.

Aaron didn't bother to turn back. His thoughts were focused on 'getting the fucking hell out' of there. He'd have to talk to Zen to find out how he'd been recognized by "cujo-fan."

"Pssssst!" Zen loudly hissed at Aaron, his huge cloaked head popping out from around a corner as Aaron passed.

His nerves already peaked, Aaron jumped a foot backward, dropping his beer as he did.

"JESUS-H-FUCKING-CHRIST ZEN! You almost gave me a FRIGGIN' HEART ATTACK!" Aaron barked at the unearthly figure through clenched teeth.

Several bar patrons shot horrified and insulted glances in Aaron's direction. Aaron remembered that he was the only one who could see Zen.

"Sorry," Aaron called to them, a little embarrassed. "Terrets."

"The guy at the bar needs your help," Zen said, as he looked frantically about the room in an almost paranoid fashion.

"What are you doing?"

"What?" Zen froze like a child who was caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Why are you acting all schizo-paranoid?"

"I'm not."

"You were."

"I was?"

"ZEN." Aaron was loosing his patience with the great Reaper. "What-do-you-want?"

"I told you," Zen replied, "the guy at the bar needs your help."

Aaron glanced back at Adam, who still sat confused in his chair.

"Why should I help him? He wanted to kill me two minutes ago."

"HE didn't want to kill you. They did."

"Big difference. I'm still not feeling very driven to help this guy. I've got my own problems, Zen. I'm not playing the guardian angel on a crusade against the dreaded conspiracy. Look where pulling that shit got me so far."

"Burn the reason," Zen shot back, quoting the lyrics from Quest, "deceive the lie. So now you're looking to crawl into some hole somewhere and hide?"

"Fuck you you big red death guy." Aaron did his best to keep his voice below the notice of the other bar patrons. "I played Quest, just like you suggested. I hit them with my best shot - guerilla rock and roll style at it's best - and all I did was piss 'em off. What more do you want from me?"

"Nothing." Zen's voice suddenly became ominous and dark. " But what do YOU want? I didn't make you write Quest. Or play it with the kind of energy you do. You did that all by yourself. You think that one battle is all that's needed to win a war? Wake up and listen to your own fucking music. You can fight, or you can run and hide - that's the only two options anybody EVER has. You were a fighter. If you want to change your mind now, well that's up to you."

Aaron, for the first time since their first meeting, felt a twinge of fear for the great Reaper.

"Alright, supposing that I see your point, why should I help this guy?"

"Because if you do, you'll also be making a very powerful ally - and you NEED allies. And because if you don't, he'll become a very dangerous enemy. You've already got more than enough of those."

"What happened to him?"

"THEY did something to him, I'm not sure what."

"If you don't know what happened, how am I supposed to help him?"

"That's up . . ."

". . . up to me, I know, but do you have any suggestions?"

The Reaper handed Aaron a small business card. In the instant that Aaron glanced at the card's gold embossed lettering and back, the Reaper had vanished.

'Typical' thought Aaron to himself and he examined the details of the card:

CASSANDRA'S MYSTIC EMPORIUM - BOOKS, SPELL COMPONENTS AND MORE! PSYCHIC FUTURE TOLD - TARO & CRYSTAL BALL. 1710 VIRTUA DRIVE. SEATTLE.

"Great," Aaron muttered to himself as he turned back toward the despondent man. "Just great."

************

Hey buddy, are you OK?"

Adam looked up. It was the man - Aaron Blake - the man that he had wanted to kill before. Why did he come back here?

"You want a beer or something?" Aaron asked.

Adam shook his head. He felt totally lost, deserted by his own life; deserted even by his memories.

"What's your name?" Aaron tried again to get Adam talking.

"Adam . . ." he replied without emotion.

"Adam what?"

God, he didn't even know that: his own goddamn last name.

"Well Adam," Aaron continued when no sign of a response was forthcoming, "I'm Aaron Blake. I guess you already knew that, right? Well, I might be able to help you. That is if you've got no objections or anything."

Adam wasn't sure if he should ask why or how, but settled for, "How?"

"I'm not sure," Aaron replied. 'Not sure' seemed a much more diplomatic answer than 'I'm going to bring you to see a psychic that was recommended to me by a big read Grim Reaper that only I can see.'

"Then why do you want to help me?" Adam asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Aaron replied. "Look, I can understand that you're hesitant to trust me, and that the whole world seems pretty fucked up right now. But I swear, I just want to help."

Adam thought for a short while. He'd liked think he was weighing the pros and cons of his decision, but he honestly had no other choice.

"Alright," Adam sighed, though not much hope crept into his voice. "But could we go somewhere I can get some food? I'm really starving."

* * * * * *

Adam swallowed the last morsel from his seventh twenty ounce, T-bone steak.

"I have never - and I mean EVER - seen anybody eat so much at one sitting," Aaron said in awe of Adam's feat.

The two had found a small diner about ten miles from "Buzz n' Cuts." It was, like most highway restaurants, simple. But the food was quite good.

"Would you believe that I'm still kinda hungry?" Adam said, smacking his lips.

Aaron just shook his head. "Is there anywhere you need to go right now?" he asked.

Adam shrugged. "I don't know. Like I told you, I can't really remember anything about who I am, or where I was going."

The car wreck, which the two had stopped at, wasn't much help either. About all they were able to find was a single suitcase in the trunk, filled with clothes. No registration, or any other information, in or around the wreck could be found. Even the license plates had been missing.

"Do you have any ideas?" Adam asked. He still wasn't sure if he could trust Aaron, but for the time being, he would see where things would lead.

"There's somebody we can talk to in Seattle, I think." Aaron replied.

"Who?"

"A friend of a friend. We need to get a new vehicle - that Harley won't be a real comfy ride for the two of us." Plus, Aaron was probably seen leaving LA on that Harley; no point in making things easy for Them. Best to ditch the bike and find something else.

Aaron checked the cash he had on him: enough to live on for a while (so long as Adam didn't keep eating like this that is, that is), but he couldn't exactly afford a new vehicle. He needed to find something cheap and with no paper work. Unfortunately, he didn't think that he was going to find anything like that, but it didn't hurt to keep on the look out.

"Seattle's about five days from here," Aaron figured out loud, "but we could be in San Francisco in less than a day. We can find a new vehicle there, then head to Seattle."

"San Fran' it is."

Chapter Seven

Quest's Loss

San Fracisco was a lot like L.A., just with more history packed into it. The weaving streets were filled with tiny niches of yesterday: from the old style iron benches in the parks, to the world famous trolleys. At night, however, the neon glow seemed to hide antiquity in shadow, and illuminate the modern age.

Adam stood like a cold sentinel by the bike, warning off passers by with his emotionless stare. A few feet away, Aaron used a pay phone to help locate a vehicle that would be difficult for Them trace.

"Who was that?" Adam asked when Aaron returned.

"A friend back in L.A. with . . . a lot of 'connections,'" Aaron calmly replied. "He's going to set up a deal with some guys. He'll contact us here in an hour. You tired?"

Adam shook his head.

"Well I am. When we finish this bit of business we're going to have to find someplace to crash for a while."

Adam nodded as Aaron fished through the pockets of his jacket for a cigarette. He watched Aaron's slow, practised movements as he lifted the small, white stick to his lips, stuck a match, and ignited the tip. Then came the savoury first breath of smoke.

"What exactly are YOU running from?" Adam asked at long last.

Aaron slowly removed himself from the reverie of smoke and looked at his travelling companion. He was unsure of just how to answer that question. The truth was, he didn't really know. Or maybe he did know, just not in a way he could hope to put into words, or any kind of intelligent explanation.

"Did you ever hear me play?" Aaron replied, figuring it was a good a place as any to begin.

Adam half shrugged, half shook his head in response.

"Whoever is hunting me," Aaron continued, "is against everything that I sing about. So against it, that they're willing to kill to keep me quiet."

"But who are they?"

"They? I've asked that question a lot myself. I haven't gotten an answer back on that one. I don't know that there IS a name we can give them. But I think that "They" are the same people who messed with your head."

Adam's expression turned cold. "What did They do to me?"

It was Aaron's turn now to half shrug, half shake his head, adding a half-laugh to extenuate his own frustration.

"I haven't a fucking clue, my friend. I haven't a fucking clue."

The two men waited near the city phone for close to an hour, until finally a phone call from Charles Violus came through, telling Aaron who with and where the deal would take place.

"One more thing," Charles said, "I'll bet you're starting to run a little low on cash right about now, hmm?"

"I've enough for the deal. Enough for a little while after that. Why?"

"I may be able to help you out a bit there . . ."

". . . look," interrupted Aaron, "I really appreciate all the help you've given me Charles, but I'm not going to just keep taking your money. I can earn my way just fine."

"That's what I'm talking about," Charles replied. "You have a number one hit on your hands, and you haven't even cut a record! What if I can set a few things up and start getting you a few royalties for this masterpiece of yours. And hell, Quest is just one track, imagine if we put out a full album!"

The offer was tempting, but it felt "off." Aaron didn't write Quest to get rich; the prospect of selling his creation seemed a sell out of principles.

Charles sensed the reason for Aaron's hesitation.

"Aaron, your music has changed the world, and I'm not about to bring you somewhere where that feat will be cheapened - I promise you that. But you've got to eat my friend, and money is one worry you don't need right now. I can change that - all I need is your permission."

Aaron still wasn't sure, but Charles was making a lot of sense. "Alright, Charles. Set it up."

"I'll contact you in a few days. Now get going - Benny is not the type of guy that's been known to sit around waiting."

* * * * *

Benny wasn't what you'd expect from a black market car dealer. His grey hair and navy blue suit made him look more like a banker. And the slight weathered look of his white skin made him look like someone's father. Even the friendly way he carried himself seemed out of place in a man who worked outside "the system".

Benny had sold Aaron and Adam an unmarked, untraceable white van for $800.00 - about a fraction of what Aaron had expected to pay. As to why he was feeling so generous, Benny just explained that Charles and he "go WAY back."

The van was in good condition, with only a few dents and dings, and boasted false plates, insurance and ownership papers. It was exactly what Aaron was looking for.

The business out of the way, Adam began to unload what few of his and Aaron's personal belongings that they had packed on to the bike, and transfer them to the van.

"Have you seen the papers lately?" Benny asked Aaron, a quietly serious tone entered his otherwise vibrant voice.

Aaron shook his head. The old black market dealer walked to the back of the garage and retrieved a newspaper from the cluttered office there.

"I think this is talking about you," Benny intoned as he passed it to Aaron.

'TEEN TRAGEDY BLAMED ON QUEST'

Aaron's heart sank in his chest. He frantically read the article accompanying the headline - seven teenage kids had broken into a school and spray painted his lyrics all through the hallways. They then stopped at the library and set fire to it; when the fire went out of control, six of them became trapped inside and were burned to death. The seventh escaped the fire, and explained to the reporters that he and his friends had gone there to "burn the reason," as was told to him in Aaron Blake's song.

The article went on, having exerts from the interviews with other students, parents and teachers at the school. The kids seemed to think that their friends had just taken a lot of things out of context, but the teachers and parents where certain that Aaron's music was responsible for some sort of corruption. The reporter who wrote the article even made a point to reference the LA riots a while back, also linking Aaron to that.

Aaron felt nauseous and lost. He knew that it wasn't his music that had done this - at least not directly. It was more of Their manipulations. His music was a celebration of life, of living, of freedom of thought and action. Never about death. Yet there were still six dead children, and Aaron couldn't help but feel at least in some way responsible.

"What is it?" asked Adam, having finished loading the van.

Aaron showed him the newspaper. No expression escaped the would-be assassin as he quickly read the article. Only a glimmer of sympathy lingered in his eyes when he had finished, but no comment did he make.

"Hey . . ." Benny searched for words to console the lost musician, but cut short the attempt when none were forthcoming.

'Damn Them.' Aaron thoughts were full of rage, but he did his best to hide it.

"Well," Aaron finally said, "there's nothing that can be done for those kids now. And standing around here worrying about it isn't going to bring them back or console their loved ones either."

'Damn Them.' Aaron even managed a small smile to set his friends at ease.

Adam slid into the driver's seat of the van and started the engine. Aaron thanked Benny again for his generosity, then joined him.

"Where to now?" Adam asked, aware that Aaron's focus wasn't entirely there.

"I don't know..." It was a local paper. Did They know he was going to be here? Zen had said that he could conceal him, but who knows the extent of Their resources. 'Damn Them.'

"I want to see the school." Aaron finally said with a coldness in his voice.

The sky seemed to echo his sentiment as a rumble of thunder crossed the sky and rain began to sleet from the black clouds overhead.

'Damn Them to hell...'

* * * * * *

Saint Vincent of the Holy Choir' read the bronze placard above the school's main door. Aaron was beginning to think that it was part of the message They were sending him. Barring entry across the doorway were two strips of yellow "POLICE" tape. A lone policeman also sat in a cruiser outside as a sentry.

"I'll handle the bacon." called Aaron as he stepped out of the van into the rainy night. Adam just followed.

Aaron made no attempt to conceal himself to the officer, and just walked straight toward the cruiser. As he did, the Cop stepped out to meet him with one hand on his pistol.

"Can I help you, sir?" called the officer over the din of the splashing rain.

Aaron only smiled and called up the music inside him. It echoed in his mind, sending tingles of energy to every nerve in his body with each beat, each chord. Even the rain seemed to slow itself in anticipation of Aaron's power.

"No officer," Aaron replied sending his Music along to empower his words, "you can go back to your cruiser and forget you ever saw me or my friend here."

The policeman stiffened for a moment and his eyes glazed over as Aaron wrapped his mind with the music. He then stumbled back to the warm, dry cruiser, entirely confused as to what could have brought him out on a night like this.

"Let's go," called Aaron back to Adam.

"What did you say to him?" asked Adam, who was too far away with the storm to overhear the brief comments. His question was lost to the rain.

The two men quickened their pace the rest of the way to the shelter of the school. Slipping past the tape police barrier, Aaron tried the front doors: locked. Adam watched as Aaron slammed his shoulder into the heavy wooden doors three times without success.

[~@*/ enabling physical enhancing protocols^*&]

Adam sharply slapped his palm onto the door, sending fragments of lock skittering down the hallway beyond. Aaron, stunned, marvelled at his friend's feat. Even Adam himself seemed a bit surprised at his own strength.

"Let me guess," said Aaron once they were inside and brushing the rain from their clothes, "you work out."

Adam could only shrug and follow the musician down the hall.

The school was a haunted place. The walls were adorned with the ghosts of past classes, past students, and past events. The dark hallways seemed asleep and etherial, like a dream. The two men roamed the halls, seemingly lead by some unseen force to their destination. Before the destruction came to view, the burnt ash scent let them know that they were about to arrive. Here and there, spray sploched of painted lyrics adorned the hall's lockers - BURN THE REASON, DECEIVE THE LIE . . . QUEST.

Even more nightmarish was the areas hit hard by the fire damage, lit only by the damaged, flickering flourescent tubes above; paint was blistered, metal warped, wood and tile burned black.

Finally came the splintered doorway, marked with more police tape, to what must have been one of the school's science labs. Adam quickly judged that the door had been shattered inward from the hallway, most likely by the firemen working frantically to save the trapped boys inside. He kept his observations to himself, however.

Inside, more than half of the room was covered in pitch black burns. Many things had been moved after the fire was spent: a box of unbruned tile on the floor marked the place where a heavy oak desk once stood, and most of the smaller wreckage had been pushed and swept to one side of the room. Aaron stood silently trying to imagine the last moments of the six boys in that room. How they must have suffered.

'...suffered because of me...' Aaron mentally shot at himself.

Adam seemed to sense Aaron's pain. He did little to show any signs of empathy, however, standing coldly and motionless by the doorway.

Aaron's heart pounded as a flood of remorse and self loathing flooded his soul. His hands were gripped tightly at his sides, and his body shuddered with rage.

"Zen?" Aaron called out, unable keep the emotion from his voice any longer. "Here's the fucking house that Quest built! That I built!" His words echoed down the empty hallways.

"Fucking bastard," Aaron shot out at the emptiness. He didn't know why he came here. Maybe it was to maybe convince himself that it didn't really happen. Maybe to discover some great clue that would at least give him something to identify Them so that he could at least have some object to focus his hate upon. Something other than himself.

"Let's go," Adam said to Adam as he turned back toward the door.

Adam was gone. Aaron hadn't heard him leave, though that wasn't surprising considering his mental state. What was surprising was that the hallway beyond was gone too.

In it's place was a bright, pure light; bright as the sun, bright as a soul. The alien nature of the sight shocked Aaron out of his self loathing long enough to feel both fear and excitement. The light was cool, calm and soothing, yet at the same time bright enough to pierce through the darkest hole.

Aaron stepped toward the light, drawn by an almost child like curiosity. He needed to see what lay beyond, within that light. Were he thinking rationally, he may have hesitated, he may have stopped and thought about . . . well, just thought. But he wasn't, and allowed himself to be drawn into that bright embrace.

Silence . . .

. . . hardly, there was music everywhere . . .

Aaron lost himself. For how long, he couldn't tell. It was just he and the light. Then there was just the light; and the music. Always the music, just that he couldn't hear it sometimes. But it never went away; it was always there. Aaron never wanted to leave this perfect place of music and light.

"But you have to go back," boomed a familiar voice.

Aaron opened his eyes. It was as simple as that. It was like one minute he was having a beautiful day dream that was so intense that you forgot that it was only a day dream, then he opens his eyes and its gone. Just like that. Aaron stood in back in the basketball court he awakened in. Just like then, the city beyond was lost to shadow.

"You know you can't stay here. Well, at least not yet." The giant, red robed figure stood in the center of the court.

"Zen?" Aaron quickly adjusted to the change in scenery. "Zen. Just what the fuck am I supposed to do now? And don't try that 'that's up to me' shit. Six kids are fucking dead."

"That's not your fault."

"Not my . . . FUCK YOU." Aaron didn't have Them to turn his wrath toward, Zen seemed the next best thing. "I suppose you see those six kids as just casualties of your secret little fucking war."

The reaper leaned almost menacingly toward Aaron, a full three feet taller than the angry musician, glaring from behind the shadows of its large hood. Aaron wasn't about to be culled, however.

"What game are you playing at here, Zen? Is it worth those kid's lives? Is it worth their suffering? And how may more are going to die, or suffer, or be beaten to death for all of this? It's just a FUCKING song, for chrisake!"

"IT IS NOT JUST A FUCKING SONG!" Zen's voice boomed like a crack of thunder, and seemed to even frighten some of the air away from him. The sheer force of the response would have sent an army of gods scurrying in fear.

Aaron wasn't a god. He was just a man. As such, he should have been paralysed by it, killed even. But he wasn't. Rage flowed through his veins, giving him the courage to stand impossibly before the reaper without fear. More than that - it demanded retribution. Retribution for the children and the people that had died just because they heard Quest. Retribution for the suffering that had been inflicted as They tried to get at him.

Aaron roared with frustration and anger, and dove toward Zen, intent on hurting, even killing him. The next instant brought Aaron into that great red cloak. An instant after that, Aaron sharply hit the ground.

Aaron quickly picked himself up, ready for another attack from the red reaper. The time that he took to do so, however, brought him a startling revelation. He hadn't been hit or thrown by Zen, who even now stood calmly (though his sheer size and alien form made even that intimidating) before him. He had passed through him. Zen was nothing more than a ghost, or apparition of Aaron's mind.

"I am not a ghost." Zen said, far calmer now, reading Aaron's thoughts.

"Then I really am crazy." Aaron was numb almost to his core.

"No. You're something else."