Downtown, in a beat-up loft above an all-night porn shop with an obscene neon sign, Cassady is working dilligently on his latest creation: An organic lightbulb. Surrounded in his bedroom/workshop by piles of unfinished projects and a jungle of frayed copper wiring covered in shredded plastic, Cassady thought traditional technology could take a break for now. Leaning back against his swivel chair, he places his tape recorder close to his paper-thin lips.
"Project Bio-Bulb progress report 254a: "I think I just might get this working. True, it might also sprout
legs and nibble on someone's unsuspecting toes, but that's a risk I must take for the sake of progress. In any case, if this doesn't work in the next few days I'll move on to something else and come back to the bulb later. I will. Mustn't work myself into a rut, that leads to stagnation. No room for creativity and progress when I'm stuck working on a bloody bulb. For the future..."
In the next room, Lisa is practicing her Viva techniques. Quietly, she sits cross-legged staring at a penny on her bare wooden floor. Lisa slows her thoughts and focuses on the energies holding her mind, body and soul together. She expands her awareness into the cosmic transcendence of universal oneness. Her mind disperses freely across the stars, the harmony of reality teasing the edges of her consciousness.
But the damned penny still won't move.
"Ugh! So much for psychokinesis." She groans.
"How the hell did those Carnes do it anyway? It had to have been a trick." She stands up, paces around the room a bit. She eventually comes to her Einstein poster bearing one of his famous quotes: If we knew what we were doing, it wouldn't be called research.
Re-invigorated with the fires of inspiration, Lisa sits back down and stares at the penny. "Gotta keep trying... for the future."
Meanwhile, in the living room, Jim and Nikki are listening to a Hendrix vinyl wondering just what it would take to get a Zombie high. For the future...
really.
The Pulse Wave has its roots in a movement popular during the turn of the century. Just as brilliant Living minds were making waves across the world with their discoveries and inventions, copies of a short story called "A Child of Whispers" were being distributed in the Zombie community. The writer, the near-mythical Jasper Galus, was reputedly a Yuya who had written the story after seeing an exhibition of the age's greatest technological marvels.
In the story, a disenchanted and very old Zombie, also named Jasper Galus, rediscovers happiness when he finally begins listening to his Whispers. The Whispers teach the old Zombie about his past as a stuffy banker. Having seen how he wasted one life with bitterness and ennui, the protagonist devotes his life to the study of scientific principles as they apply to Zombies and their supernatural abilities. The plot of the story was hackneyed, the dialogue was predictable,
[email protected] and the characters were painfully one-dimensional.
Nevertheless, the manuscript developed a cult following of experimentalists of every stripe.
Over time, advancements in science, medicine, and technology were pursued all over the world. The Children of Whispers, as the Galus followers liked to call themselves, developed innovative uses for the new technology to be of use to Zombies. They also developed new Vivas and new uses for old Vivas to finally bring the Living Dead into the modern age.
By the mid-eighties, the cult had run out of steam. The Knochen old guard from the turn of the century was beginning to work the group in the same rut they had tried to escape so many years ago.
Annoyed with the lack of risk in the practices of her elders, a rebellious Carne named Darla Blitz published the Pulse Wave Manifesto. This document detailed her postmodernist belief that Whispers and genius do not come out of a vacuum but from outside
intellectual stimuli. What Zombies call Whispers are actually the Living Dead superconscious acting through the Pulse to reinterpret pre-existing knowledge into new Vivas.
The manifesto was so arrogant, so audacious, so…
new, that it immediately created a following of Pelé and Carne free-thinkers. Together, they are the Pulse
Wave and they will drag the world kicking and screaming into the future whether we like it or not.
Common Compulsions:
Common Compulsions: Individualism, Rebellion, Experimentation, Study, Anarchism
S t e r e o t y p e s S t e r e o t y p e s C e l l o f E y e s :
C e l l o f E y e s : Our studies may differ, but they share our passion.
C r a t s
C r a t s: Oh yes, our research is going very well. A grant could certainly help out though.
C r y i n g S k u l l P o s s e
C r y i n g S k u l l P o s s e: I sure am glad I'm smart enough not to end up in that slum.
D a l i n a r i :
D a l i n a r i : Whoa... don't get on their bad side.
H o l y O r d e r :
H o l y O r d e r : Feh. Who needs some dogma? I've got my own power.
L a n m o r a :
L a n m o r a : Damn, if we weren't part of the Circle, we could be experimenting with augury too.
M e r c i e s :
M e r c i e s : Euthanasia's fine for the ones who are ready for it, but I'm not done yet.
M o r l o c k s :
M o r l o c k s : Sewers are not the place to be for the next new thing.
M o r t u u m T e m p l u m :
M o r t u u m T e m p l u m : Knights are cool. But so were bell bottoms, get with the future.
P e n i t e n t :
P e n i t e n t : Who's got time to be depressed when there are new things to discover?
P r i m a
P r i m a: They can say what they want, we know the truth. We're discovering new truths every day.
S e r a p h i m
S e r a p h i m: Three eyes and six wings are nice for a little while, but they draw a wee bit too much attention.
S i s t e r h o o d o f S h a r q a t a :
S i s t e r h o o d o f S h a r q a t a : Sexy chicks but they're not really into the geek chic thing.
Y u y a s
Y u y a s: The line between genius and insanity is pretty thin.
Z a h n :
Z a h n : Those kooks are always hanging around trying to find out what we'll think of next.
Seraphim
The group is gathering on the roof of the long-ignored chapel.
Overgrown with weeds of the surrounding forest for the past fifty years, few of the Living even remembered it existed. Those who do remember speak in hushed whispers about the guardian monster-angels who gobble up bad little children who stray too close.
Alpha swooped down from the clouds on tattered grotesque excuses for wings.
[email protected] Still carrying a half-eaten corpse, he finished his meal
and dropped it onto the dark, soft loam at the foot of the church. Alpha sat down on the sloping roof, waiting impatiently for the rest to arrive. The body twitched weakly, trying in vain to hold onto its vacating soul.
"Isn't this a bit dramatic for an initiation, Nigel?"
Alpha spoke into the shadowy darkness.
"Oh I don't think so." Climbing up to the roof on long, spindly legs attached to his shoulders, Nigel took a seat on the opposite side of the chapel roof. "I rather like the view myself."
"I guess there is that." Quietly, Alpha peered through the trees. The glowing dome of the neon signs and street lamps illuminated the midnight-purple sky. Even the light wanted to get the hell out of that damned town. "Still, Nigel. There are certainly safer places for the ceremony. You know how I feel about these wooded areas. The Eyes speak of howling wildmen."
"What do the Eyes know about anything, really?"
Nigel's chitin legs folded and retracted into his back as he laid his belly against the warped shingles. "It was just short of forty years ago since we initiated you, wasn't it? The best day of your life when we gave you those godawful things." Nigel gestured towards the restless wings clumsily shuffling on Alpha's back.
"Life, Nigel?"
"Well, you know what I mean."
"When are they bringing the little one?"
"They should be here any moment."
"Anyway, I like my wings, thank you very much."
Alpha glances over his shoulder, taking a peak at the appendages twitching beneath Nigel's back-skin.
They're certainly better than those horrific spider things of yours. I still can't figure out where you got legs that size. There isn't a spider that size in the entire world and the things certainly don't look assembled from smaller parts like my wings."
"My little secret, young one. Pray you never meet the thing from which I took them."
The Seraphim may not have the written
historical documents to back up their claim, but few doubt that the Seraphim are the oldest cell currently in existence. In one form or another, the Seraphim have always lived, or so they say. Taking their name from the one of the legendary choirs of angels, Seraphim are Zombies who find their physical
condition to be a sign of true divinity. The Seraphim
feel that being a Zombie is the highest order of existence there is… but that doesn't mean that they couldn't be better. Ambitious and aloof to a religious degree, the cell seeks to convert as many of the Living Dead to their cause as possible. All must be exposed to the truth of their state. The Living Dead are gods amongst mortals.
A Seraph's arrogance can be seen in the modern Seraphim mantra: "We are of life. We are of death.
We are of both. We are of none. We are at the top of the spiritual, biological, and evolutionary ladder. We look down upon the rest of the world from our high perch and pity it. We have to leave that ladder and ascend even further on the wings of our perfection."
Within every mortal is the seed of a power more powerful than any god. The process of death,
reanimation and Birth allows that seed to blossom into a flower within the soul. Mind, Soul and body unify into Living Death. The Seraphim utilize the Vivas granted to them by their special nature to manipulate their bodies to match the divinity hiding
[email protected] inside their bodies. Dembellah is used to attach
animal, human and even supernatural body parts to themselves then use Erzulie to make such alterations nothing less than beautiful and godlike.
Indeed, some older Seraphim barely even maintain a humanoid appearance, finding it distasteful at their level of ascension. At first, an initiate is re-educated to appreciate the gift of Living Death. Once the initiate's education is complete, she will begin training the arts of bodily manipulation, following a "theme" of her choosing. Each Seraph has their own theme of transformation; common ones include but are not limited to animal gods, minimalism, battle and subterfuge.
Of course to be unified with one's own divinity, one must have their followers. The Seraphim, as a group, believe the Circle to be their follower's. Historically, the Seraphim have been instrumental in
choreographing "visions" so that church officials would not investigate Zombie-related attacks. Rumor has it that the Seraphim even saved the Living Dead from feeling the brunt of the Inquisition in the dark ages. The Circle owes the Seraphim big time.
C o m m o n C o m p u l s i o n s : to be a point of study. We tolerate their prying eyes.
C r a t s : others. At least they understand their divinity.
H o l y O r d e r
H o l y O r d e r: Damned servitors of the Coil. No better than Lichs.
L a n m o r a :
L a n m o r a : I understand the appeal of augury, but why build followers who can eventually gain sentience?
M e r c i e s :
M e r c i e s : Apparently, they've chosen to be deities of quiet death. A somewhat skewed perspective.
M o r l o c k s : their toys. The attempt is notable but the effort is for naught.
S i s t e r h o o d o f S h a r q a t a :
S i s t e r h o o d o f S h a r q a t a : Whores.
Y u y a s :
Y u y a s : Mad gods are common in mythology.
However, in the modern age madness is more of a handicap.
Z a h n :
Z a h n : Far too curious for their own good.
Zahn
"And so, with your continued support and with our new plan for the next five years, Eidelon Technologies will be as successful as it has been these past two quarters! Thank you all!"
The gathered convention of shareholders cheers their approval of President Bailey's leadership of their company. Still buzzing from his own success, he decides to let loose some steam the the men's room. He always has to go to the bathroom when he's nervous. Marching proudly through a gauntlet of handshakes and pats on the back, he escapes the crowd in the still solitude of the hotel corridors.
In the bathroom, he quietly approaches the urinal when several men in zombie masks crunch his skull into the cold tile wall and hurl him into a toilet stall. Two of the men peer intimidatingly over the walls of the adjacent stalls. bailey wonders how those cheap-looking masks can so convincingly express ravenous hunger. The leader, a frail-looking woman with a foul stench, wraps her legs around his waist and sits on Bailey's lap.
"So Bailey." She taunts. "How are you doing? You good? How's that E-chip projecting coming along?...
File please." Another man behind her hands her a manilla folder thick with frequently fondled pages marked top secret. Bailey recognizes that file. That E-chip was commisioned by seventeen different corporations for consumer information-gathering purposes.
"Wh-who are you? What do you want?" Bailey shivered in fear.
"Who the fuck said you could talk?" The leader growls, baring her crooked, narrow teeth. "Now, we know your secret. We know all about the project.
You're going to call it off. You're going to publically announce the intent of the E-chip. If you do not do as I say, these boys are going to eat you alive."
[email protected] Bailey squirms and tries to scream when a wad of
wet, feces-soaked toilet paper is sealed in his mouth by a stretch of duct tape.
"So, Bailey. You're going to call off that project, right?"
Bailey's forehead crumples into a fearful expression as he nods frantically.
"Good boy, Bailey. Dante, take off the tape." The tape peels off of Bailey's rough, wiggling face and he spits out the toilet paper weakly. "And, quite frankly, Bailey," The leader continues. "I'm surprised you didn't recognize me... heh... Good night, sugar bear."
"Marcy?" Suddenly alone in the men's room, sitting fully clothed in a men's room stall, the President of Research and Development of Eidelon Technologies, Charles Bailey, peed in his pants.
During the 1800's, in the days of Nikola Tesla, the Tunguska explosion, the birth of Egyptology and crackpot stories of Atlantis and Mu, three Carne pupils within the Cell of Eyes began creating theories on the nature of the mysterious and, using the newly coined term, paranormal. At first, the Cell of Eyes kept their patience with the ridiculousness of this group's claims. Usually their outrageous hypotheses were the source of humor among the rest of the Eyes.
Desperately seeking to validate themselves to their peers, the group decided to solve one of the greatest mysteries plaguing Europe at the time. Who was Jack the Ripper? After a few months of light investigative work, commiting several acts of breaking and
entering, illegal surveillance and robbery, the group announced a grand meeting for all the Eyes in Europe to be held in Paris.
At this meeting, the group presented to the rest of the Cell what it believed to have been conclusive evidence linking the chief of Whitechapel police to the Jack the Ripper murders. With much drama and ado, the group displayed a glass jar containing a single human tooth. The group then explained to the grand convention that supposed evidence was a tooth supposedly belonging to one of the murder victims.
This tooth was supposedly obtained from the supposed dresser drawer of the police chief.
Supposedly.
The rest of the Cell was disappointed, to say the least. The Cell usually doesn't involve itself with current events, let alone non-supernatural current events and to hold such a grandiose gathering only to see a human tooth was very anticlimactic. Those Eyes that did not immediately leave in disgust decided to inspect the evidence. A few minutes later, the evidence was debunked as a tooth that fell out of the group leader's mouth while she was rummaging through the chief's personal possessions. The Cell of Eyes viewed this strange interest in non-supernatural dealings to be a waste of resources. Furthermore, the Cell found the irresponsible behavior and conduct of this group of uncontrollable young pupils to be reprehensible. Quickly after the tooth incident, the group had their safehouse and equipment repossessed by the Cell and received an official letter of
excommunication from the Cell of Eyes.
To the very end, the group believed the Police Chief was responsible for the murders. Still, there was no use in explaining this to unreceptive ears. The group decided to form their own Cell in the United States calling themselves the Zahn, the German word for tooth.
Today, the Zahn have become a rather established cell of conspiracy theorists, renegade journalists and anarchist computer hackers. Rather than robotically record and observe events as they happen, the Zahn have decided to take an active roll in their chosen investigation. The Zahn are what every journalist wishes she could be every time she is stopped at a line of police tape or forced to keep things "off the record." In the spirit of Hunter S.
Thompson and Spider Jerusalem, the Zahn aren't afraid to piss in the face of "protocol" or "ethics" if it
[email protected] means blowing the lid off of the tribe of sasquatches
in the forests of northern Canada or the disturbingly frequent exsanguinations in New York City.
Individual Zahn create all sorts of wild speculations to explain the unexplainable, each member choosing a pet scapegoats as the crux of their entire unified theory. Aliens are a long-time favorite but with such limited evidence, most Zahn have chosen more earthbound, but equally ridiculous claims. For example, there is a small faction of Zahn who insist that an international organization of blood-drinking aristocratic families has been manipulating the mundane population for the past several centuries as pawns in their own interpersonal wars and
conflicts. However, even other Zahn laugh at such an assertion. More often, Zahn pick the most obvious target, the Government.
All this effort to discover the truth would be for naught if the Zahn couldn't tell someone out there about the things that go bump in the night.
Unfortunately, the risks of revealing oneself are too great and the Zahn realize this. With the advent of the internet and extraordinarily inexpensive home publishing utilities, several Zahn cadres have gotten into the business of conspiracy newsletters.
The only reason the rest of the Circle puts up with all this nonsense is that, despite the Zahn's questionable motivations and peculiar beliefs, they are masters of intelligence gathering and security systems of any kind. Unlike their parent Cell who have their noses pressed into dusty old notebooks, the Zahn have kept up with the times including modern spy
The only reason the rest of the Circle puts up with all this nonsense is that, despite the Zahn's questionable motivations and peculiar beliefs, they are masters of intelligence gathering and security systems of any kind. Unlike their parent Cell who have their noses pressed into dusty old notebooks, the Zahn have kept up with the times including modern spy