TheTruth_timeline

August 7, 1870

I won’t ever forget her face. I was running—running with more heart than I knew I had. But as I turned the corner in the park, I saw her. Her bright red dress appeared first, but it was her face that bore into my soul. Terror had enveloped it until her face wasn’t a face. It was an emotion.

As she got closer, she continued to shapeshift into something that made me weak in my knees. I had stopped running. Without looking up, I knew what I would see. There they were. The objects that had appeared this morning, far above in the sky. The “lucky meteors” were now very clearly not meteors.

It was over. We were done. I thought the red dress would be the last thing I ever saw.

That was my memory of The Day.

-CV

June 9, 1870

In the hours after The Day, I was alerted to various rumors.

“The Friends were ransacking Westminster Abbey.”

“They had lit fire to Buckingham Palace.”

But it was when I heard that they had assaulted The British Museum that I decided to follow the rumor.

Soon I found myself inside the eye of chaos. Within the museum, Friends were running through the hallways, striking humans who got in their way.

But, they weren’t destroying anything other than our spirits. Instead, they seemed to be running towards the art. They would burst into a hallway and empty the walls—each framed canvas placed under their robes which seemed to have a limitless storage capacity.

It appeared that they either were terrified of the art or in deep reverence of it. It wasn’t clear which.

June 10, 1870

A wondering class of shell-shocked newsboys—meandering through the city, broken in a cheap metaphor. Searching for purpose and finding none.

I’d met him in the Before times. Arthur was one of the many London boys tasked with keeping a populous fed full of cheap headlines, consuming gossip and innuendo. But in the hours after The Day, the printing presses stopped.

The cities were oddly quiet in those days. The loudest sounds were the fires that hadn’t stopped and the occasional passing over The Things overhead, still in the sky—still patrolling.

The smoke and soot had dulled the color of his face. No more rosy cheeks. No more bashful innocence. No more, “Lady murdered by mechanic lover!! Hear all about it!”

-CV

August 28, 1870

What if this was all a dream? A nightmare?

What if I have gone mad?

The woman in the red dress I had seen on The Day—the shapeshifted color of terror—had begun to visit me as I slept. To haunt me.

But when I saw it, it had taken on a new form. A figure—appearing to be one of The Friends—covered, draped in a red cloth. Head to toe.

And then, suddenly: I was awake.

The breeze that punctured my broken windows reminding me of how alive I was. How waking up was no respite.

I would have to find a way to take matters into my own hands.

-CV

01: The Day

04: The Ransacking

05: The Boy

06: The Nightmare

September 10, 1872

It wasn’t long before The Friends’ fascination with humanity led to imitation. Soon, they were wearing human clothing—things you’d see a wealthy person parade in, wanting so desperately to be seen.

Interestingly, some of our oppressors would wear prosthetics to come closer to their fashionable ideal. Well-rounded lips. A well-proportioned nose. All possible courtesy of a blossoming fashion and beauty industry that prayed on their every want and desire.

As they didn’t seem to have the concept of gender in the way we do, they often wore clothing of both the male and female variety—switching back and forth like one might wear a coat one day and a sweater another.

The Friends loved humanity. But they didn't truly want to be human. They wanted to dominate.

-CV

09: The Lady

January 13, 1874

Behind a velvet curtain lay a bewildering sight. One that men, human men, would come from all over to witness.

Past security and a winding hallway, one entered a carnival of debauchery.

It was a burlesque club. But it was not one of the many standard issue hell holes of New York. No, in this club, the dancers were Friends. Adorned in prosthetics to provide a brief echo of humanity to the viewer.

These entrepreneurial Friends imitated the burlesque dancers of old—an imitation that created a magnetic pull to people from throughout the country. Some visitors were simply here for the tale. Others for a certain set of butterfly pangs. But they were here. Worshipping a Friend. Burning their money and making the Friends even richer.

Revolting.

-CV

11: The Dancer

12: The Flowers of Hyde Park

April 14, 1874

These days, I always feel a sense of dread when I see beauty. It always feels fleeting, like something the Friends were holding in reserve to destroy when the time is right.

Hyde Park was a masterful park in the center of London. One that I would often visit in the before times. But it also harbored ghosts of traumas past. It was where I witnessed her. The woman who I could not escape in my dreams. The one I saw on The Day. The day everything changed.

These wounds stayed with me until, upon the advice of a true friend, I decided I must attempt to put them to rest. I would return to Hyde Park. To try and reclaim such a beautiful space as my own.

After a few weeks, this seemed to have its intended effect. I would find myself on these walks and realize I had lost track of time. Gazing, wondering—even smiling.

Today, on one such walk, I saw a Friend wrapped in the most beautiful dress. It appeared that the blooming flowers of the ground merged with the intricate details of their skirt.

13: The Teacher

December 3, 1875

I walked by a school today.

As I looked in, I was immediately overcome with a dark sadness.

Schools had been such a special place, a representation of the future—an investment in potential.

But now, they were haunting. A place where future generations were taught a mediocre imitation of reality. A place where The Friends could teach their version of the truth, but not The Truth.

I worry that it is an effective plan. I fear that the younger generations will believe it—that the lies will become settled into their minds as “history.”

-CV

February 2, 1876

The shrill shrieks punctuated an orchestra of never-ending cries.

In a room full of newborns, tears were to be expected. But these were not the normal sounds of emergent life. No, these were the screams of humanity’s most vulnerable being confronted with the green, crackled skin of The Friends. Before they could be placed back into the arms of their mothers and fathers, every newborn was inspected by one of these hideous tyrants. Poked and prodded by their monstrous tentacles masquerading as hands.

The official government line was that these inspections were for the child’s safety. Tuberculous and such. But this was a lie. The Friends were looking for any slight sign of abnormality—an odd finger or a strange birthmark. The Friends’ fascination with humanity also relied on it being perfect. What purpose would a human have if they didn’t fit the image The Friends sought?

And so, the children cried, for this was a dark entrance to a dark world.

14: The Maternity Ward

15: The Artist

April 3, 1876

It was briefly unclear if they were the art themselves. The paint was smudged across their smock as if trying to represent some deep meaning.

The Artist looked at me looking at them.

Suddenly, without warning, they struck me. I was on the ground, in shock.

The Artist told me to stop staring at them. I was here to observe, not to glare. The difference was lost on me, but I slowly got up.

Soon, I was being shown around the studio again. There were masterful pieces strewn about, many that appeared to be close replicas of the great human works. If it wasn’t for The Artist’s towering height or the fact that they had struck me, I might’ve believed I was in the studio of an old friend. Instead, I was slightly captive, free to move around but not free to be. Free to provide compliments but not to criticize. We called them The Friends, but the label was an artifact of propaganda, not the truth.

17: The Pope

May 1, 1876

The Friends thought religion to be a particularly fascinating part of human existence. I think they chuckled at the idea of immortality through faith. To them, the concept of Heaven and Hell was silly. The Friends—like me—had immortality by design. They didn’t require the intervention of some all-seeing force.

However, the Friends were anything if not practical and soon realized that religion could be a powerful way to calm the populace. Friends soon dominated the hierarchy of all faiths. Humans were still allowed to minister to congregations, but they now served as an apparatus of the new order.

YY0099 was chosen to replace Pope Pius IX, who people hadn’t heard from since his sudden abdication in 1870. YY0099 was said to be a true believer in Catholicism, an odd fact and one I question. I was never able to meet YY, but I would see his sketches in the Friends’ newspapers, and I decided one day to paint them properly. Deep down, I think I hoped (prayed, ironically) that one day this painting could be used to help tell the sordid history of the whole affair. Perhaps it could be in the Vatican Archives, a dark reminder of these times.

June 2, 1876

The room stunk of moldy canvas. YY2789 was known as “The Collector” and became known for going to Museum Sales and buying dozens of the great masters (though we were not allowed to call them that anymore). Their apartment was full of da Vincis and Michelangelos piled up in the hallways. Of course, they only showed work by Friendly artists in the living room.

I never understand the fascination of our new Friends with the great masters. They collected them frivolously and thought they were wonderful, but they would only hang paintings by fellow Friends who imitated the great masters. It was as if the original material was a novelty and the reinterpretations were the true art. The Friends were all fascinated by humans but seemingly had to pretend they weren’t.

I had met YY2789 at a cafe when they saw me painting. They had been staring over my shoulder for five minutes when I looked up and said hello. It was a breach of decorum to speak first, but it was also a breach for YY2789 to be fascinated with me. Soon we were talking about the many great artists from “before,” and they offered to show me their collection. We couldn’t be called friends, but we weren’t enemies, and I enjoyed my afternoons in their apartment.

19: The Art Collector

20: The Friendly Feline

November 12, 1876

Domestication—what an odd term. The Friends, in many ways, had domesticated us. Tamed us.

But yet, The Friends had a soft spot for an additional domesticated animal: the house cat.

Why these tyrants loved cats so much, I do not know, as they did not share the same affection for the feline’s canine counterpart. Was it their graceful elegance that masked their razor-sharp claws? Their ability to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time? Or perhaps their nine lives? The Friends did appreciate things that survived chaos.

Perhaps that was why they both loved and hated humans. Humans had that ability to adapt, but they were fragile. Put them through psychological torture, and they would endure. Hit them with a carriage, and they would break.

But The Friends don't appreciate how far that ability to endure can go. Humans don't need nine lives. They would survive.

May 12, 1877

I hadn’t been back out into the country since The Day. As I walked by the flowers, seemingly unbothered by what had happened, I briefly pondered if perhaps this new world was better. Fewer decisions to make. Less things that need to be done.

XY2903 had come to Earth with the hopes of adventure. They had grown up obsessed with humanity, consuming all the stories they could about the bizarre adventures of our now oppressed species. XY2903 had loved the wonder of the great outdoors. When they arrived on Earth, they signed up immediately to take over a farm and live out their fantasy.

Now the land grows soybeans, and XY2903 spends his days as a theoretical farmer, a team of humans doing the back-breaking work. The original farmer is long gone, relocated to the city, and probably put into some horrible menial job. But the rolling fields and meadows remain, a quaint reminder of our world’s beauty.

-CV

May 13, 1877

The Friends often lived in pairs, but it wasn’t clear why.

It didn’t seem romantic. They didn’t seem to express affection as I knew it. But I never dared ask.

XX8573 lived out on the farm with XY2903.

8573 spent more time indoors, reading books and meandering around the farmhouse. The Friends were too tall for most buildings, and this country farmhouse was no exception. As 8573 bumped his head for what seemed like the tenth time, I asked them if we could go outside. My desire to prevent anyone from being embarrassed was seemingly incapable of being muted, even when it applied to an oppressive invasive species like the Friends.

The day was crystal clear and gave the fields an almost magical quality. The birds were humming the most beautiful songs. That animal life has continued unbothered makes me question how humans thought of themselves. If they were so replaceable as Kings of Earth, perhaps humanity deserved to be in the position they now find themselves. The animal kingdom has spoken.

21: The Farmer

22: The Farmer's Companion

23: The Countryside

May 14, 1877

As I walked around, I saw a marvelous sight. An air ship had been patrolling the area and had come to a resting hover. Remaining steady, the ship appeared to be showing off its details. Inviting me to look...asking me to investigate the odd material it was made of—what appeared to be a combination of plant matter and metal.

These ships were usually in constant motion, always on a mission—transporting The Friends or creating chaos for everyone else.

But today, for a brief moment, it was possible to absorb the haunting beauty of these machines. Otherworldly, for sure. But over the years, they had begun to feel normal. Begun to be something that, at this moment, I could appreciate.

-CV

24: The Museum

September 15, 1877

One afternoon I joined YY2789 on a trip to The British Museum. We were no longer allowed to visit the museum without the company of a Friend, and I was intrigued to see what had become of the storied institution.

For most Londoners, the museum would no longer be enjoyable. More a site of collective trauma than anything else. All the paintings had been sold off in public auctions, as Friends would purchase great works for fractions of their prior values. In their place were pieces from Friend artists. Most strangely to me, almost all the art was merely recreating the great masters. Rembrandt's self-portrait was a particularly odd one. His face was swapped with that of a Friend, seemingly ignorant of the definition of a self-portrait.

Surreal is an overused word in the hushed conversations we have amongst ourselves, outside the ears of any Friends. But The British Museum was truly surreal... As I entered a room of portraits, I remember the feeling of squinting my eyes. Trying to pretend I was in a dream. What if the walls were all violet? What if I was in some extended delirium?

28: The Little One

February 2, 1878

Today I was let in on a secret.

YY2789 and I spent more long afternoons together, visiting museums and talking about our favorite painters.

One Saturday, at their home, they asked me if I had ever seen a young Friend. I told them I hadn’t. 2789 told me to follow them. We walked down a hallway and got to a door outlined by a green halo.

When we walked in, I fell into awe. There in the middle of what I could only call a nursery, sat a miniature Friend. Seated upon a colorful couch, the young Friend appeared to be cooing like a Human child. Dare I say, I felt instant affection towards it.

It would appear that YY2789 was a parent. While we had spent significant time together, I didn’t feel comfortable inquiring about more details, so I merely stood in awkward reverence.

Around the room appeared these green wisps, like balloons of green tissue. YY2789 explained to me that this was what we might call a birthing room. Each of the orbs was a future young one, ready to be pulled into reality when the time is “right.”

29: The Ghost Painter I

April 23, 1878

It was a random Tuesday when I finally figured out how I’d make a living.

A Friend I had met in passing, XY9288, had beckoned me to their house and explained their situation. They had told their fellow Friends about their prodigious painting skills, but the lie had caught up with them. They confessed that they could barely hold a brunch, let alone use it.

The Friends have a particular fascination with art that is hard to describe fully. They covet the ability to paint in a human-like way, but they pretend that humans are incapable of creating great art. It’s a very odd mix that I still don’t fully understand.

9288 asked me if I would perhaps paint for them and let them sign it. A “self-portrait,” perhaps? They would pay me handsomely.

I readily agreed. Not only would a source of income be helpful, but only art from Friends was allowed to be displayed publicly. I could get paid and have my ego secretly scratched.

30: The Ghost Painter II

June 25, 1878

My career as a ghost painter often brought me in close contact with sinister figures.

XX3788 was the leader of the Friend’s replacement government for the United Kingdom.

Someone who everyone knew. But nobody knew.

I was to do their official portrait. The one that would hang in their office as they summoned Friends and citizens to account. A non-Friend could never be the artist behind such work. Yet here I was. Secretly doing what I knew best.

When making an official portrait, part of the task was to make the Friend as terrifying as possible. To them, that was a sign of status.

I knew what to do. There was one color that best represented terror to me. It was the color from The Day. The color of her dress. The color that lived in my mind.

35: The Station

January 14, 1879

For the first time, I am inside The Station. I have seen air ships coming in and out of the fantastical building for years. Technically, only the friends are allowed to journey on the ships, but occasional special dispensations are given.

Today, I am riding along with a Friend to paint their adventure. To allow them to live out their fantasy of an artist-explorer.

The station is unlike anything I have ever seen. For the most part, The Friends merely moved into buildings that humans had built and designed. They had taken over apartments, houses, and shops. However, the station was built from scratch using technology we had never seen—construction machines that appeared to be self-propelled, creating structures that didn’t follow the laws of physics as we knew them.

The station was full of Friends on their way to far-off lands inside and outside the boundaries of Earth. Dotting the crowd was the occasional human, serving a purpose for a Friend and going somewhere new.

36: The Island

January 15, 1879

It was an unseasonably warm day as I found myself near Trinity Church. A Friend dressed in an elegant gown grazed past me.

The sky was full of ships, causing the moon's reflection to dot the sky.

New York was alight. London would always have my heart, but perhaps New York could mean something more profound to me.

I was told that artists here had started to assemble in dark basements and quiet living rooms. That art has become something more than it was in London. Apparently, in New York, there was a certain spirit in the paint—one of rebellion.

Tomorrow, I have been invited to a gathering of these brave souls.

I plan to attend.

-CV

January 16, 1879

Behind an innocuous door on Tenth Street, past a labyrinth of stairs, lay something I hadn’t seen in years: a proper artist’s studio. Art on the walls! Paint ready to be laid. Canvas waiting for dreams to be applied.

But today’s agenda was not art. It was revolution.

I had been put in touch with a group of painters, sculptors, and artists of all stripes, known only as The Movement. They assemble weekly in the studio of a man named William Merritt Chase, a bespectacled gentleman who paints in a rigorous way I appreciate.

He stood in the middle of the room. A well-positioned candle turned him into a dark silhouette. He was both clearly a natural leader and the leader. As he talked, we all listened.

Today he preached The Plan. The way that we would move forward.

Violence. Sabotage. Disruption. Those were all table stakes. Where we would really strike is the heart of our oppressors. The one soft spot they’ve shown us. The place they appear most irrational. We will take their love of art and use it to annihilate them.

37: The Resistance

39: The Ides of March

March 15, 1880

Today, we struck.

Today, the resistance began.

New York’s Air Ship Station was set ablaze with the finest cocktail of alcohol and fire we could muster.

Air ships burning, shattering into a million pieces. A beautiful sight to see.

Friends stood startled, in what must have been shock, trying to process what had happened.

Of course, they knew. They were too smart not to. But for a moment, they hoped it was some accident. Some lazy technician having errored.

But no, today was the start—the start of a new chapter.

From today on, we will no longer be a conspiracy. We will be revolutionaries.

42: The Troubled Times

June 20, 1880

Some days we’d take a more colorful approach.

We would climb up flights of stairs—the tenth floor worked remarkably well—and hurl paint down onto unsuspecting Friends below.

Shocked. They would all of the sudden be dripping with red oil paint as it flowed through their crackled skin and onto their precious clothing.

The idea came to me when thinking about The Day, thinking about that red dress and the power its memory continues to have on me.

I decided that it was time for someone else to wear red. For a Friend to be painted the color of terror.

Thus, we began our effort to paint The Friends from the sky. No sidewalk would be safe. We were artists, after all.

-CV

45: The President

November 20, 1880

After the start of the troubled times, The Friends began to clamp down.

But their methods were not purely ones of force. They announced the resumption of the Office of the President—with a Friend installed, of course. American flags, taken out of dusty closets, began to fly everywhere. Children could be heard, singing:

“And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O’er the land of the plenty and the home of the brave!”

The Friends learned the power of nationalism—of pride.

Surprisingly, although perhaps I am not cynical enough, many humans were convinced by this charade. What was a small cohort of collaborators grew into a true force that had been co-opted. The Friends were no longer seen as pure evil by many. People would point out the many technical innovations we gained during their rule and how there were no longer wars between countries. In fact, they would point out how The Resistance would stir up trouble and chaos.

46: The Collaborator

December 15, 1880

Benjamin Tillman was the official Representative of Native Species to The Friends' Grand Council. Put in less ornamental language: he was meant to be the ambassador of human concerns—a façade of representation, given as a scrap after the destruction of democracy.

Tillman was of a breed who'd self-describe as gentlemen but who assessed their self-worth purely based on their proximity to power. That power was now in the hands of a murderous foreign species had no bearing on this "gentlemanly" ambition.

This striving manifested in him taking the most dastardly of roles within The Friends' regime: Running the United States Marshals Services. These tyrants were humans who acted as enforcers for the oppressive parasites. Worse than The Friends. They were traitors who blurred themselves to fit within this new power structure.

Benjamin Tillman was their leader.

And, we were going to murder him.

49: The Ending of YY2789

April 15, 1881

YY2789 is dead.

What have I done? Who have I become?

Their crumpled body lay there. Staring at me. Reminding me. The days we enjoyed together. The late-night conversations we shared.

I can’t stop thinking about the sight. But why do I feel such strong feelings? Why am I so pathetic to care about this oppressive tyrant just because I was given some morsels of kindness. Some pathetic scraps of compassion.

I must shed these feelings. YY2789 was part of the problem. A fan of art or not. They deserved it.

I think…

I hope.

-CV

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43: The General

July 4, 1880

Our tactics have become an inescapable reality for The Friends.

Destruction, assassination, sabotage. Put simply: we are effective.

General XX5398 has been elevated to lead the Western Command. This monstrous creature is now in charge of finding every last member of The Movement and squashing us. Bugs are to be treated better.

The General is a particularly menacing but colorful figure. They would wear military regalia from the 18th century—violence with a taste of pomp and circumstance.

The General’s first act? Propaganda. Posters started to cover the street corners. Upon closer inspection, their target was clear. In stoic letters—I would not call them aesthetic in any way—they proclaimed:

“DON’T GET PAINTED A TRAITOR...Report anyone carrying brushes, paint, or canvasses.”

44: The Wail

August 17, 1880

Our antics were not ignored.

All energy has an equal and opposite reaction. But the Friends took the word equal and set it ablaze. Our efforts were met with an overwhelming show of force. Cities became infernos as air ships overhead pulsed rays of light that could somehow annihilate cities.

The morning after, images of death and stress were everywhere as I walked through the streets.

I came upon two women crying, wailing. In their arms was the body of a man, about thirty years old. A husband. A son.

Were we doing the right thing? Was all this destruction worth it?

I think…I pray…that the answer is yes.

-CV

February 14, 1883

He has the most specific way of fluttering his eyes.

With that one swift movement, I could forget all the horrors of the world.

I met Jonathan one day on a ghost painting assignment. I continued to do this frustrating work, not only for the ample money but for the ability to be closer to the exact figures we needed to destroy.

It was one of those dastardly days, in a grand house, that I saw him. He was perched in a corner reading a book—I’d later learn a favorite past-time of his—when our eyes caught. That knowing glance. That curled smile.

Could he be?

Perhaps?

Over many long walks and longer nights, I learned the answer. As my affection grew, I knew I was playing a dangerous game. But with Jonathan, it felt worth it.

55: The Forbidden Love

33: The Ship

September 17, 1878

Insects have a certain beauty to them. A certain form so neat and aesthetic that one can squint and—for a moment—not be disgusted.

The Friends remind me of this. Their bodies shaped in a grotesque but ordered way. Their eyes haunting but beckoning us to look.

Their technology, the same. Intricate shapes that bend metal with what can only be described as plant material. Everything had a certain organic nature, the otherworldly material looking as if it was made of branches weaved together.

Their air ships were the prime example. The ability to fly, no longer relegated to falcons and nightingales. The ability to kill, no longer relegated to rifles and canons. I would often find myself painting them. Sometimes the ones in front of me. Sometimes the ones imagined.

Briefly, they are beautiful.

-CV

47: The White House

December 20, 1880,

XX9591 led the Friends’ American government from The White House. Retrofitted with foreign technology and taller doorframes, it acted as the central hub for their plans.

Bureaucrats minded the hallways. Mostly Friends, but some of the revolting human collaborators too (who now appeared oddly short compared to the oddly tall doors).

The mechanisms of government were, in many ways, exactly the same. Basic functions would be slow and meandering. Waiting for the right approval. The right signature. The Friends knew how to travel between planets, but an efficient government agency appeared out of reach.

Oddly, it was lightly guarded. Perhaps they didn’t think anyone would have the suicidal courage to attack. Maybe they thought we were feeble.

They thought wrong.

-CV

41: The Conspiracy

April 7, 1880

And so began a plan.

A plan so subtle that it will take years, decades perhaps, to fulfill.

William Merritt Chase, our endearing leader, sketched out the method. We would start with the ghost painters. The wandering class of those, like myself, who secretly fueled our oppressors’ art addiction. Those of us who painted under false names and with false pretenses.

We would begin a gradual shift. A move. A changing of style.

We would take our impressionist ways, and we would learn new techniques. Why? Well, we would drive them mad. We would make them fancy the fantastical. Make them not know what is real. Make them question everything, just like they did to us.

The mischief of the brush.

-CV

48: The Reintroduction

May 28, 1881

She’d beckon someone over.

In hushed tones, she’d whisper into their ear. They’d usually smile. Sometimes followed by a wince—like a ghost had fallen over them.

Mary Cassatt. The leader of the European resistance was in New York. Conspiracies abounded as to her presence. She brought with her stories, news, and a dark sparkle in her eye.

But the real reason she was here was simple: me. For I was to be assigned a mission. My ability to sneak into The Friends’ world, to slip beyond their paranoia with my brushes, was valuable...essential for the plan. I was to be sent back to Europe. Not forever. But, for a time.

Vengeance was in order.

-CV

September 30, 1877

A hummingbird was a magnificent creature, for if you looked at it, you would see but a blur—a beautiful, colorful blur. But if you could stop it, mid-moment, you would see a striking winged creature.

Their ships often reminded me of hummingbirds, perhaps of the demonic variety. Flittering through the air, a blur puncturing the sky. But unlike a hummingbird, they occasionally would stop. Briefly pausing, levitating over an area. Sometimes in preparation to cause destruction. Sometimes to land. And sometimes, just for no apparent reason whatsoever.

In their own way, they were beautiful.

-CV

25: The Countryside II

50: The Assassination

August 20, 1881

My mission was to assassinate three senior Friends. To send a message that The Movement was not to be trifled with. That their actions would be met with reactions.

I started with the one I knew closest. But having completed that, I found myself in the most curious apartment. I had reached out, offering to paint a grand feline portrait for this cat-obsessed senior officer.

It would not be the first, for in their home were countless paintings of their feline companions.

I had a momentary flash of worry. Would these creatures attack me when I did the deed? Would they protect their provider of food? Their source of all things.

Probably not. They were cats, after all.

-CV

60: The Sunset

June 4, 1884

For as soon as our feelings grew, so did our troubles. Jonathan was a Tillman. Expected to serve. Expected to act at the behest of The Friends. But he was a gentle soul. A doctor. A man dedicated to helping people.

But his dreams of being a small-town man, of spending the mornings seeing patients and the afternoons by the lake, were destroyed by his father. By dictate, he was to join the US Marshals’ medical unit.

Over the years, the US Marshals Service had become a military-like organization that combined policing with spies and heavy artillery.

He was to be set off to Fort Leavenworth.

Long days and longer nights would be a thing of the past. Jonathan promised he would write. But how? What could he say that wouldn’t foster suspicion? The Marshalls had eyes everywhere.

I held him, his blond hair always radiant, like sunshine. Light that perhaps I would be seeing for the last time.

clownvamp SELF-PORTRAIT OF XY9288,

(b. unknown)

1878

Oil on canvas

CLOWNVAMP THE RED PORTRAIT, (OR "THE OFFICIAL PORTRAIT OF DISTRICT COMMANDER XX3788")

(b. unknown)

1878

Oil on canvas

CLOWNVAMP GENERAL XX5398,

(b. unknown)

1880

Oil on canvas

Oil on canvas

(b. unknown)

1880

clownvamp official presidential portrait of xx9591,

clownvamp pope yy0099 (urban II),

(b. unknown)

1876

Oil on canvas

clownvamp portrait of jonathan tillman,

(b. unknoown)

Oil on canvas

1883

CLOWNVAMP PORTRAIT OF CLOWNVAMP AND JONATHAN TILLMAN,

(b. unknown)

1884

Oil on canvas

clownvamp unknown friend wearing prosthetics,

(b. unknown)

1872

Oil on canvas

clownvamp portrait of xy2903 farming,

clownvamp portrait of xx8573 (companion of xy2903),

1877

1877

(b. unknown)

(b. unknown)

Oil on canvas

Oil on canvas

clownvamp a terrifying memory,

(b. unknown)

1870

Oil on canvas

clownvamp a friend teaching,

(b. unknown)

1875

Oil on canvas

Oil on canvas

1876

(b. unknown)

clownvamp the artist,

clownvamp a friend in an elegant gown,

clownvamp mary cassatt visits ny,

(b. unknown)

(b. unknown)

1881

1879

Oil on canvas

Oil on canvas

clownvamp things investigate a cottage,

(b. unknown)

 1877

Oil on canvas

August 20, 1884

I threw myself into work. Getting commissions as a ghost painter continued to be fruitful. Ah, fruit! That reminds me of a recent endeavor. I painted YY4801, a citrus baron. They were referred to me through a placement agent (a whole network of brokers had developed to help feed our occupiers’ art addiction).

I was sent to an estate in Florida where orange groves dotted the land. YY4801 lived in a grand house where he regaled me with stories of plentiful harvests. He claimed never to have had a dry year since he came into the estate’s possession. As I wandered the halls, I noticed that the remnants of the original owners still adorned the house, a portrait here or there, a child’s toy in a corner—all an echo of a great crime.

At first, The Friends had let the humans keep their industry. But soon, our excessively tall parasitic rulers realized how much power was accumulating to these capitalists. Without controlling the means of production, there would be no control.

Pronouncements came via the newspaper. Companies were “acquired,” “merged,” or “seized.” There were many public reasons, but they all had one result: A Friend at the helm.

62: The Citrus Baron

(b. unknown)

1884

Oil on canvas

CLOWNVAMP PORTRAIT OF YY4801,
A "CITRUS BARON",

34: The Christmas Spirit

December 25, 1878

A few years after they seized control of Earth, the Friends discovered Christmas.

Now once December rolled in, the Friends spent lavishly adorning the streets with garlands and ribbon.

It was unclear if their love of St. Nicholas and all the corresponding cultural motifs was true love or something more sinister. Perhaps a way to control us? To try and demonstrate our common interests? Or maybe to show their stewardship of the things we hold dear? Understanding the Friends was beyond the scope of most, myself included. However, my assumption was always the same: If the Friends are doing something, it’s for the most dastardly reasons.

So here we were, on a day that should be one of joy, where men dress in their best and children’s cheeks hurt from grinning. But instead, we are greeted by tormented, bizarrely shaped Christmas trees (the Friends had reinterpreted that tradition) and our hideous overlords donning terrifying St. Nicholas costumes. Ghastly.

52: The Reaction

October 10, 1881

As the Friends realized a plot was afoot, a reaction was put in motion. Soon agents of the regime were sent to the more “rebellious” neighborhoods of London.

The Friends stalked down the main thoroughfares, striking every human they encountered. Be it a man, woman, or child—they were to be beaten with their faces thrown into the ground. These agents proclaimed that it would not stop until the perpetrators were all dead or in jail.

Posters were placed throughout the city.

"Collaborate and be rewarded."

“Traitors must die.”

Bleak.

But I did not demur. I had clear instructions. Make them anxious. And it was working.

-CV

40: The Gathering

March 20, 1880

After the troubled times began, a closing of ranks occurred. The humans who believed that an alliance with the Friends was the way forward began to gather in the shadows.

In hushed rooms, they decided that collaboration was their position. How they imagined they were acting with any semblance of honor was beyond me. But then again, understanding humanity was often beyond my vampiric comprehension. Ally yourselves with seven-foot tentacled creatures who sought to kill you…of course!

If I was more literary, I would wax prosaic about the bizarreness of the situation. Instead, I’m relegated to say this: Humanity appeared to be dedicated to internal and external strife. Missing the obvious signs (that The Friends wanted to totally control and destroy) and acting as if this was some basic foreign relations exercise—one that history could reflect upon and give guidance.

Alas, mankind was as frustrating as they were fascinating. Perhaps that’s why the Friends came in the first place.

CLOWNVAMP AN ALIEN REACTION,

(b. unknoown)

Oil on canvas

1881

1878

(b. unknown)

Oil on canvas

CLOWNVAMP THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT,

CLOWNVAMP THE ENDING OF YY2789,

Oil on canvas

1881

(b. unknown)

CLOWNVAMP A FRIEND BURLESQUE DANCER,

(b. unknown)

1874

Oil on canvas

Oil on canvas

1877

(b. unknown)

CLOWNVAMP A FRIEND's SHIP,

CLOWNVAMP THE NIGHTMARE,

(b. unknown)

1870

Oil on canvas

Oil on canvas

1880

(b. unknown)

CLOWNVAMP THE TRAITOR BENJAMIN TILLMAN,

57: The Vault

December 9, 1883

For many years, how we paid for our antics was a mystery to me. Sure, many of the resistance worked jobs and contributed, but that didn’t pay for things like canons.

Eventually, I was sworn into a closer circle, of the ones who knew the further details.

And that’s when I learned of our vault. Perched well below the Earth, The Movement had stored away literal piles of gold bullion. Descending to its level required following a labyrinth of staircases and crawlspaces, but the result was a glittering wonder to the eyes.

While the Friends had taken control of paper money, they suffered from an Achilles’ heel: They were mesmerized by gold. For its luster and mythology sent their nostalgic hearts aflutter.

So, while many wealthy humans slowly saw their wealth evaporate by seizure or money printing, those with gold thrived in this new world order.

61: The Defector

July 12, 1884

Of the many mysteries of The Movement, one that always beckoned whispers was our deep understanding of The Friends. We seemed to have a sort of special sense of their ways. We could often predict how they would react.

As you might expect, this sense would frequently come in handy. But...where did it come from?

As I climbed the resistance ranks, I eventually came face to face with the answer: The Defector.

YY3020 was our most closely guarded secret. Not only did we risk a massive response from The Friends, but we also risked members of The Movement protesting. How could we trust this monstrous creature?

The truth is stranger than fiction, as they say. YY3020 had befriended Mary Cassatt many years ago, bonding over a love of Romanticism-era art.

Then, the story goes, the creature had begun to feel something resembling a human emotion: guilt. Pustules on their body started to seep saline liquid in what appeared to be a grotesque form of weeping.

Eventually, YY3020 told Mary they couldn’t live with themselves any longer. That they were at the end. That’s when an idea was hatched.

They would move into one of our safe houses. Become one of us. Commit treason and be grateful for it.

From this, we learned many things about our oppressors’ ways. Not least of which was that the Friends were not the slightly humanoid form we had imagined. No, for when their guard was down...when they were settled in, they grew into these wondrous beings that would take up massive rooms and halls. They’d become what I could only describe as a forest in miniature.

-CV

CLOWNVAMP YY3020: "THE DEFECTOR",

(b. unknown)

1884

Oil on canvas

1870

1872

1874

1875

1876

1877

1878

1879

1880

1881

1883

1884

38: The Simple Ways

June 25, 1879

For months my mind had been thinking. Thinking about The Movement, about The Plan. Thinking about what life could be like.

But I also worried. What would be left if we took down The Friends? Would we be a species divided? Between those who welcomed our annihilation and the rest of us who held onto a thin flicker of hope?

There was a not-so-small part of me that thought the solution might be to just acquiesce. To allow that perhaps we had lost. That humanity was over.

As I rummaged through the thoughts in my head, I walked by a busy promenade. Coffee-seekers and revelers graced the chairs of the outdoor cafes. A luscious Summer had welcomed New York, and they were here to welcome it back.

But then I saw it. A Friend. So hideous and ugly and revolting. So frustratingly comfortable in its own crackled skin, a cheap imitation of an even cheaper lizard.

CLOWNVAMP

A GATHERING OF CONSPIRATORS,

(b. unknown)

1879

Oil on canvas

02: The Night

June 8, 1870

Fire.

The other red.

The air ships that dotted the sky rained hell upon us. Our cobblestone streets turned to ashen playgrounds for our new oppressors. It was too early to know their intention, but it was clear it would not be good.

Men stumbled through the streets. Drunk on terror. The religious among us tried to draw conclusions as they are wont to do. The end times represented a convenient explanation—a level of definitiveness that we all could appreciate.

But here we were. Alive. Avoiding kinetic destruction, succumbing to existential dread.

If these weren’t to be the end times, they would surely be hellish ones.

-CV

CLOWNVAMP

A TERRIFYING REALITY,

(b. unknown)

Oil on canvas

1870

31: The Prince

August 8, 1878

Queen Victoria was promptly assassinated upon the original invasion. But District Commander XX3788 was no fool. The Friends understood the power of symbols.

Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, was thrust into a fanciful form of house arrest.

He was taken to a barren castle, a remnant of the British Monarchy. With limited furniture and limited staff, he was allowed to live a pauper’s form of royalty. Too removed from society to cause an issue, but at the beck and call of The Friends if needed.

Perhaps one day a symbol would be helpful. The Friends did not care much about peace or calm, but they understood power.

But for now, this 37-year-old loose end was allowed to play king, far from where anyone could see him.

A crown without a kingdom.

June 8, 1870

The streets were ablaze. Kinetic energy in the form of fire, sure. But also something darker.

Roaming vigilantes tried to take matters into their own hands. Makeshift tribunals were found in the alleys of our city. People accused of collaborating (with what or whom I did not follow) were given a dark end. Some were lucky to be shot, but many found themselves on the receiving end of hell’s fury.

The screams, chilling.

The crowds, roaring.

One last gasp of the population’s resistance. One last semblance of control. Only to be wiped away.

-CV

03: The Stake

10: The Tenth Drink

November 16, 1873

A drink a day to keep the doctor away.

Ten drinks…

YX9981 was a fan of the drink. No teetotaling here. A heavy pour to cast away their problems and then some.

For The Friends were not free of earthly problems. If anything, our world unearthed new ones. Their fascination with the human condition brought out a form of imitation not valuable to their lives.

But, they had chosen to make Earth their new colony, and for that, they would have to reckon.

-CV

1873

CLOWNVAMP UNEARTHING NEW VICES,

(b. unknown)

Oil on canvas

1873

26: The Countryside III

October 1, 1877

As I journeyed, I sought out nature. I had wanted to paint landscapes, not airships. I wanted to remember our planet’s splendor.

However, I was continually brought to a stop by the floating ships and their majestic sight. I had looked up into the sky, hoping to see the stars, trying to look past any signs of The Friends. However, there they were again. The golden hour light bouncing off the shimmering metal. A certain cosmic grace radiating.

My reverence was sickening to myself, but revere I did.

-CV

CLOWNVAMP FRIEND'S SHIPS IN THE EVENING LIGHT,

(b. unknown)

Oil on canvas

1877

32: The Visit

September 2, 1878

YY2789, my “friend,” a Friend.

It was on a random Monday that we had our longest conversation.

As the hours went on, they explained pieces of the mystery.

Why they came.

What they were here for.

The answer was something rudimentary, if not particularly specific.

The Friends were here for a sense of purpose.

Their life had become mundane. On their world, they drowned in technology. Everything industrialized and automated. Early Friend explorers had made their way to Earth and brought back stories of adventure. Stories of the frontier. Of a simpler life. A life without God-like technology.

CLOWNVAMP YY2789 SPILLING THE TEA,

(b. unknown)

1878

Oil on canvas

April 20, 1876

Late on a Monday, I found myself lost and wandering. The rhythmic cadence of my footsteps gave me proof I was still alive.

As I walked through the park, along the riverbed of the Thames, I was drawn to another sound. A strange, melodic hum.

A red moon splashed color throughout the scene. The Friends were gathered. In the water, their tall, slender forms swayed.

I watched, hidden behind an old willow that had seen better days. They appeared to be engaged in some form of worship. They moved with a grace that belied their grotesque forms as they seemed to create some sort of alchemy with the river’s water.

They were entranced by their own actions. What was I viewing? I heard a branch snap and panicked. I began to navigate my way back through the park, careful to avoid any Friends, worried I had seen something I shouldn’t have. Knowing I had.

16: The Revelation

07: The Firestorm

08: The Firestorm II

18: The Underworld

27: The Breathing Apparatus

51: The Plotting

53: The Unexpected Visitor

54: The Chase

56: The Shadow

58: The Golden Opportunity

59: The Act

63: The Fort Aflame

64: The Golden Klimt

65: The Mirage

66: The Dancer from the Dance

67: The Towers

March 3, 1886

Today, the fragile fabric of trust within our ranks was destroyed. A spy, hidden in plain sight among us, was unmasked, and with her revelation, our resistance has been plunged into a crisis.

She was known to us as Eleanor, a steadfast member of our group whose courage in the face of adversity had earned her our respect and admiration. But that was the past. She was a traitor.

It was by mere chance that her duplicity came to light. A series of intercepted messages led us to her. Each message, when deciphered, painted a clear picture: Eleanor had been feeding information to The Friends, information that had led to the catastrophic failures of our recent operations (not an excuse, I promise).

Her confession was devoid of remorse; her eyes glazed. She spoke of survival, of the futility of our cause against the might of The Friends. She believed that collaboration, even at the cost of betrayal, was the only path left for humanity.

68: The Fabric of Trust

1885

October 22, 1881

A knock.

An unannounced guest. It was YY-7319. An enforcer, a member of the regime’s vast, secretive law enforcement apparatus.

After the assassinations began, a reaction was underfoot. I tried not to overthink this encounter. The enforcers were everywhere, trying to squash out dissent and provoke The Movement to surface.

They entered my apartment, its towering figure out of place amongst my paintings and beloved furniture.

A friendly chat, that was all, they claimed. Questions darted through topics until they appeared to veer into something more sinister– an unsettling blend of a casual drop-in and a calculated probe.

The ‘interview,’ if one could call it that, spanned the gamut from art to politics. It was never overly intrusive but always purposeful. As our conversation meandered, I realized that this visit was a dance of sorts, a subtle exploration of my loyalties.

May 12, 1876

Tonight, I discovered an underground black market. A space where survival blurs the line between friend and foe. In the city’s abandoned corners, humans and Friends engaged in forbidden trade, their transactions illuminated by dim lanterns and sinister intentions.

Here, amidst the damp and shadows, a surprising array of goods changed hands: salvaged alien tech, rare art, and sensitive information. Despite the tension, there was an unspoken truce, a recognition of mutual need in this hidden economy.

One exchange caught my eye: a human trader and a Friend silently negotiated over intricate devices and strange minerals.

Emerging from London’s darker corners, I realized that in the destruction of our society, a new order already thrives.

-CV

September 5, 1871

This evening, as I ventured towards the outskirts of the urban mess where the horizon meets despair, I found myself at the edge of a surreal vista. The world before me was a canvas painted with the dreadful beauty of destruction—a firestorm of epic proportions, consuming the very air with its furious dance.

There, amidst the inferno, were a trio of horses, accompanied by a lone rider. The horses, unbridled and seemingly forged from the flames themselves, stood defiant against the blaze. Their manes were as streams of smoke, their eyes glowed like embers, and their bodies shimmered with an otherworldly texture that seemed to absorb the calamity around them.

The rider was a figure destined for nostalgia. His silhouette was a bygone era, a remnant of a world now lost.

A harbinger of hope? A sole survivor bearing witness to the end of days? Or was he Death himself, come to claim the remnants of a shattered world?

-CV

1871

(b. unknown)

Oil on canvas

CLOWNVAMP THE FIRESTORM,

1871

September 15, 1881

In a once beautiful park, I met with Mary Cassatt. Her plan was bold: to infiltrate The Friends’ prized art collections with forgeries, subtly instilling messages of resistance.

Leveraging her art world ties, Mary discovered The Friends’ obsession with specific historical artworks. These pieces, more than mere art, symbolized their power. Dominate our culture and thus dominate us. Our mission was to replace these originals with replicas crafted by us, artists and rebels, each imbued with symbols of defiance.

“A rebellion will erode their power from within,” Mary asserted, her eyes burning with conviction.

I was chosen to orchestrate the swap of the true artworks with our forgeries.

As the meeting ended, the gravity of our plan weighed on me. Mary Cassatt, renowned for her paintings, was now the architect of an artful uprising, a path I was to help pave. Our art was to be transformed from expression to insurrection.

October 20, 1884

I found myself on assignment in Vienna, a city once renowned for its artistic pulse, now subdued under the gaze of The Friends.

This evening, I met Gustav Klimt, a name that whispered through the ranks of The Resistance like a sacred incantation. I had heard of his prowess, not just with the brush but with the art of defiance.

Our greeting was brief, and with a slight nod, he unveiled his latest work—a grand, golden painting that held within its gilded swirls the image of an alien, one of The Friends. The painting was an enigma, a masterpiece that in its heart had a defiance so potent that it could ignite the very air with revolution.

This alien, depicted with an almost divine reverence, was not just a portrait but a symbol. It was Klimt’s way of holding a mirror to The Friends, not to reflect their image, but to challenge it. This creature, set against a backdrop of opulent gold, seemed to question its existence, its place amongst the cosmos, and its role as our oppressor.

GUSTAV KLIMT A GILDED CAGE IS STILL A CAGE,

(b. 1862)

1884

Oil on canvas, with gold leaf

September 5, 1871

The air was thick with smoke and ash. As the horseman had ridden away, the world around me was an inferno, the sky obscured by a blanket of soot. I struggled to breathe, each gasp drawing in more smoke than air. It was in this moment of asphyxiation, amidst the chaos, that my senses began to betray me.

Hallucinations took hold. From the heart of the flames, six ethereal women emerged, their forms barely distinguishable within the fiery maelstrom. Each woman's visage was both terrifying and mesmerizing, their eyes like embers in the night. The heat seemed to intensify as they approached, yet I was frozen in place, struggling for air and captivated by their presence.

They spoke in unison, their voices a haunting melody that rose above the crackle of the flames. They foretold my future, revealing a path fraught with peril and sacrifice. Their words were cryptic, yet each syllable etched itself into my memory, promising a destiny intertwined with the fate of The Resistance and the war against The Friends. They spoke of trials and tribulations, of love lost and battles won, and of a final confrontation that would determine the course of history.

November 2, 1877

In the dim light of my studio, I faced an alien officer from The Friends, their presence unsettling yet vulnerable due to their reliance on a mechanical breathing apparatus—a remnant of an injury once severe. As my brush moved, I couldn't help but notice the officer's eyes. They held a weary resignation, a mirror to my soul's fatigue.

The painting took shape, the apparatus a tangled web of survival, each tube and valve a lifeline in our oxygen-rich world. The Friend's gaze followed me, silent and questioning, as if they, too, wondered about the war's toll on both sides.

When I finished, the canvas held more than a portrait; it was a conversation between two souls caught in a conflict beyond their making. In the strokes and shades, I had unwittingly captured a shared desperation, a reminder of our intertwined fates in this war-torn world.

-CV

CLOWNVAMP A FRIEND WITH A BREATHING APPARATUS,

(b. unknown)

Oil on canvas

1877

September 5, 1884

Last night, the world as I knew it ended.

The Resistance, in a daring and horrific act, set Fort Leavenworth ablaze. The fire was more than a rebellion; it was a funeral pyre for my soul. As the flames engulfed the fort, my heart shattered, realizing Jonathan, my love, my forbidden joy, was within.

Our love, hidden in the shadows, was my only truth in this war-ravaged world. And now, Jonathan, my beacon of hope in these dark times, is gone.

As the night air filled with the stench of burning dreams, I realized the cruel irony. In seeking liberation, we had shackled ourselves to an endless cycle of loss and sorrow. Jonathan, my heart, my secret joy, now just a memory in the ashes.

Amidst the roaring flames, my tears fell like rain. This wasn't a loss in the war against The Friends; it was the death of love, the extinguishing of a light in my life. The world might see this as a strategic victory, but for me, it was anything but.

December 10, 1883

The city's weary heart beats under a cloak of darkness tonight, a perfect stage for my next move. I found him in an alley, Officer John Dawes, the embodiment of a crumbling system, his uniform hanging loosely like the heavy burden of a man defeated by his own city.

As I approached, I felt the weight of the gold bar in my coat. It gleamed in the dim light, a flicker of temptation for all who saw. I watched John's eyes, recognizing a man drowning in a sea of weariness and despair.

"Officer Dawes," I began, my voice a whisper in the still night. I took the bullion out of my coat. His eyes locked onto the gold, a silent battle raging within. I knew his type, a good man worn down by a system that cared little for its human guardians.

"I need you to look away tonight." I saw the moment his resolve entirely crumbled, his hand trembling as it reached for the bar. In that exchange, a deal was struck—not just for gold, but for the soul of a man who once, in another time and place, stood for justice.

November 17, 1883

The sun had long set, yet a different darkness now loomed over me, thicker and more suffocating than the night. Standing in the shadows across my modest apartment, their presence was like a heavy cloak of dread. They were members of The Friends, unlike any other I had encountered – an enforcer, a silent harbinger of doom.

Their name was whispered in hushed tones, a terrifying legend: XX4323. A Friend who worked closely with Benjamin Tillman, embodying both fear and obedience. Their towering figure was draped in a long, dark coat, almost blending with the night, their eyes, two cold embers in the darkness, fixed on me with unsettling intensity as they chain-smoked Virginia's finest tobacco.

The reason for their visit was no mystery. Jonathan, dear Jonathan, the one light in these dark times, was now in peril because of our forbidden love. XX4323 knew. Somehow, this terrifying creature had unearthed our secret.

When they finally spoke, their voice was as cold and unforgiving as the steel of a blade. "Your dalliance with Tillman has not gone unnoticed. Such... attachments are... inconvenient." Each word, meticulously chosen, was a threat wrapped in velvet. Their disdain for human emotions, for our 'lesser' ways, was palpable.

December 13, 1881

Heart pounding, I raced through London's fog-shrouded streets, the clamor of The Friends' enforcers resonating behind me. Darting through cobbled streets and beat-down buildings, each glance over my shoulder was a stark reminder: I was no longer a shadow in this war; I was now a target.

As I wove through the inside and outside of various, memories of my covert actions with the Resistance flashed before me. The enforcers, clad in their stark uniforms, were relentless, their pursuit a testament to my betrayal of The Friends.

Diving into a narrow alley, I felt the rough bricks graze my hands. Once a city of freedom, London is now a labyrinth of survival. The enforcers' steps were drawing closer, their intent clear and lethal.

In that frantic escape, amidst the echoes of history and the specter of impending capture, I realized the gravity of my actions. Each step was not just a bid for survival but a stride towards hope, a fight for a future where we all could breathe free again.

CLOWNVAMP PORTRAIT OF OFFICER JOHN DAWES,

(b. unknown)

1883

Oil on canvas

Oil on canvas

1881

(b. unknown)

clownvamp the memory of a chase,

69: The Madness Unleashed

70: The Truth

December 10, 1883

The evening air was thick with a tension that clung to my skin, a palpable sense of foreboding that whispered of impending doom. My hand trembled as I clutched the dagger, its blade reflecting the dim moonlight that filtered through the dense New York cold.

Tonight, I was to assassinate XX4323, "The Shadow." This monstrous figure who hunted me and my heart.

I had tracked The Shadow to an abandoned warehouse near the docks, a place where true shadows danced in the flickering light of distant lanterns. My heart pounded as I moved through the darkness, each step a silent prayer for strength.

I approached, my breath caught in my throat. They hadn't noticed me. With a swift, decisive movement, I plunged the dagger into The Shadow's heart.

The alien monster let out a guttural cry, a sound that echoed through the vast emptiness of the warehouse.

January 3, 1885

The months following Jonathan's death enveloped me in a haze of grief and despair, driving me to seek refuge in the embrace of shadows and rhythmic bodies.

A surreal world unfolds before me as I step into the dimly lit hall. Men lost in their battles sway and spin in a dance of forgetfulness. The air is thick with the scent of cheap cologne and hushed laughter, starkly contrasting the sorrow that clings to my soul.

The dancers, though, are mere ghosts to me. Specters haunting this place of ill repute, their joy a cruel mockery of the love I have lost. I watch them, envious of their ability to find happiness in such superficiality. At the same time, my heart remains anchored in a sea of despair.

As I join the dance, I allow myself to be swept away by the music and the movements of my body, a desperate attempt to escape the pain that gnaws at my heart. I imagine the hall as something grander, a palace of joy and laughter, where Jonathan and I could dance away our troubles and live in a world untouched by the horrors of The Friends.

1886

February 15, 1886

In the heart of London, an unusual spectacle unfolded. The Friends, our otherworldly oppressors, have commenced a new tactic: embracing human entertainment, perhaps to soothe the restless masses.

In an old, repurposed theater, under the guise of a cultural exchange, they introduced an alien ballet. The dancer moved with a grace that seemed to defy the very laws of physics. Their fluid motions, an eerie imitation of human ballet, held the audience in a trance.

This dancer, adorned in a costume that shimmered like starlight, performed a solo act that was both haunting and mesmerizing. It was as if they were trying to communicate through the art of dance–a narrative of power, dominance, and perhaps an attempt at understanding.

The Friends, it seems, are no longer content with mere subjugation; they seek to intertwine with our culture, to weave their essence into the very fabric of what it means to be human. This ballet was more than a performance; it was a statement of their evolving strategy.

undeniable, yet the underlying intent was clear–a display of control, a demonstration of how they could mimic and possibly surpass our artistic expressions. They were improving.

The ballet concluded with a thunderous applause, a sound that resonated with a mixture of genuine admiration and coerced respect. As the lights dimmed and the crowd began to disperse, a chilling realization settled in my heart.

This was no mere cultural showcase. It was a warning, a subtle yet potent reminder of their omnipresence and ever-growing understanding of the human psyche. In their quest to pacify and dominate, The Friends had added a new weapon to their arsenal–the art of entertainment, which mirrored our humanity yet emanated a cold, alien essence.

-CV

February 28, 1886

Amidst the bleak canvas of our occupied city, a new, bewildering spectacle has emerged. Towers, gargantuan and surreal, have risen throughout London, standing like sentinels of an unknown purpose.

I first beheld these colossal structures on a dreary morning, their presence an abrupt intrusion upon the cityscape. Their construction is an enigma—a fusion of metallic sheen and organic intricacy as if the raw essence of metal had been intertwined with the very sinews of nature itself. The sight is both awe-inspiring and deeply unnerving.

The populace, already burdened with the yoke of our oppressors, now cast wary glances at these towers, their minds teeming with questions and fears. What purpose do these structures serve?

As I wander the shadow of these titans, I overhear hushed conversations - theories abound, ranging from the bizarre to the terrifying. Some speak of them as conduits of alien power, perhaps to strengthen The Friends' grip over our world. Others fear they are harbingers of a more devastating phase of our occupation, a prelude to an event of catastrophic proportions.

The towers stand mute, their secrets locked within their imposing frames. Yet, in their silence, they speak volumes–a testament to the ever-growing mystery and terror that shrouds our existence under The Friends. In their looming presence, one thing becomes clear: our struggle against The Friends is far from over, and these towers may well be the key to understanding the next chapter of this unyielding conflict.

As the sun sets, casting elongated shadows of these monoliths across the city, I cannot help but feel a deepening sense of foreboding. The Towers, in their alien grandeur, have added a new layer to our already complex and perilous existence, a reminder that the future is uncertain and the path to our liberation ever more labyrinthine.

-CV

Her words struck a chord of fear in our hearts, a fear that perhaps others among us shared her sentiments. The trust that had been the cornerstone of our resistance is now riddled with doubt. How many more among us harbor similar thoughts? How many more are waiting silently to make the same choice as Eleanor?

-CV

March 10, 1886

Chaos reigns in the heart of London. The city, once a beacon of human resilience and defiance, now succumbs to an insanity I never thought possible. The Towers, those enigmatic monoliths erected by The Friends, have become the epicenter of a mind-bending catastrophe.

It began subtly. Whispers of odd behavior, tales of neighbors acting strangely, and a creeping sense of unease permeating the streets. But now, it has exploded into a full-scale pandemonium. People, once friends and comrades, wander the streets as if possessed by some otherworldly force. Their eyes glazed over, their actions erratic and destructive. It's as if the Towers have unlocked a primal, chaotic nature within them.

The streets near the Resistance headquarters, where our fight against The Friends had been orchestrated carefully, are now a hellscape of fire and fury. Eleanor, the traitor whose betrayal still stings in our hearts, must have known. The placement of the Towers near our stronghold was no coincidence. It's a strategic move, a psychological weapon of mass disruption.

are set ablaze, their flames reflecting the madness gripping the city.

I can't help but feel a sense of despair. The Resistance, already weakened by Eleanor's treachery, now faces an enemy that attacks not just our bodies but our minds. The Towers, with their insidious influence, have sown discord and chaos, turning our haven into a battleground of insanity.

The night falls, and the last vestiges of hope seem to flicker and fade with it. London, a city of fighters and dreamers, now dances to the tune of madness, its streets echoing with the sound of its own demise. As I retreat into the shadows, somehow spared, a resolve settles in my heart. This is not the end. We must find a way to turn back this tide of insanity, to reclaim our minds and our city from the clutches of The Friends.

-CV

March 12, 1886

In the chaos of the city's madness, a clandestine tip from an alien source led me to the heart of The Friends' stronghold–a revelation that would change everything.

Navigating through the deranged streets, I found myself standing before an unassuming door hidden in plain sight. For some reason, the illness that seemed to affect everyone else didn't affect me. I was spared. With a deep breath, I stepped into the unknown, descending into the bowels of a Friends command center.

The room I entered was unlike anything I had ever seen - an amalgam of alien technology. Machines with blinking lights and humming sounds filled the space. Smooth glass that flickered images. These machines had a purpose and design beyond my understanding.

As I moved through the room, a chilling realization dawned on me. The Friends, beings of advanced technology, had come to Earth seeking a simpler life, away from their own technological saturation. But here, in the secrecy of their lair, they harbored their true intentions.

The machines were not mere artifacts of their past; they were instruments of a sinister future. A plan to control humanity, to manipulate our reality without our knowledge. These devices, capable of influencing thoughts and actions, were the source of the city's madness, the puppeteers of the chaos that engulfed us.

The magnitude of their betrayal was overwhelming. The Friends, who had masqueraded as seekers of simplicity, were orchestrators of our downfall. They sought not just to rule over us but to reshape our perception of reality and ensure that we remained oblivious to their control.

At that moment, amidst the alien technology, I understood the gravity of our situation. We were not just fighting a physical war; we were in a battle for our minds, our free will.

As I snuck out of the room, a newfound determination filled me. This revelation was not just a discovery; it was a call to arms. I had to expose The Friends to reveal their true nature to the world. The fight for our freedom had entered a new phase, where the stakes were higher than ever.

The journey back to the surface was a blur, my mind racing with the implications of what I had seen. The future of humanity hung in the balance, and it was up to me to tip the scales back.

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