#only to be faced with incontrovertable proof of his death. by his own hands no less.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Maybe we’re getting a protagonist switch. Maybe Dazai will be Chuuya’s Oda

Hm well. They don't have that kind of dynamic (and Chuuya doesn't really need that kind of push that Odasaku gave Dazai) and Dazai isn't the protagonist... but it would be kind of interesting if injuring Dazai (if not outright killing him) would be the event that would kickstart more focus in the main manga on Chuuya and the whole "his will not be an easy path". I previously thought something would have to happen with Mori (I still kind of think that) but this might just be enough to get the ball rolling.

I actually theorized months ago that having Dazai "die" temporarily might be interesting from a story standpoint and for what it means for our characters. If Chuuya believed that he killed him? YIKES. I can't see him handling that well, though no doubt, he'll push his feelings down and soldier on. Perhaps this could set up some Atsushi and Chuuya interactions? Pretty please?

[theonyxpath]

Lost Lineage — The Faceless (Tortured Ones)

Pain is one of the great motivators in human history. Make someone uncomfortable and they will constantly strive to improve their position. Light a fire under anything living and it will instantly run, jump, crawl, climb, do whatever it can do to get away. The Faceless may have been among the worst experiments conducted in the name of warfare, but within their statuesque countenance they bear pain with the stoicism of sheer rock.

As much as constant agony is certainly something that can drive a soul deeper and deeper into Torment, it is also eternal and incontrovertible proof you are alive. The singing of nerves gives proof to a Promethean’s place among humanity, a common feeling which is in great supply in the trenches of the Western Front.

The Faceless seem outwardly to be the very model of calm and placid contemplation. Inside, they are eternally burning and experiencing the death throes of thousands of undying nerves. This constant grief drives the Faceless to seek solitude, even from each other. Faceless tend to avoid throngs where they can, preferring to observe humanity’s path in unobstructed contemplation. They are obsessed with understanding the reason for their suffering through understanding the suffering of others. While this can express itself in a Tortured One being moved by those who show selflessness and courage in the face of personal agony, it can also drive them to inflict great pain upon others in search of surcease to their constant suffering.

Their name is well earned as the Faceless’ features are those of stern, mud-golems. Their outward shell is hardened and blackened mud which cakes the internal tangle of limbs constantly burning in a putrid, self-contained vat of deadly chemicals. They are hulking and square in stature. The eyes of a Tortured One are deep set holes that they have personally bored into the cracked lines of their faces during their agonizing creation with their thick fingers, their mouths are thin, fissured slits that are painful to move. They can show no expression as their hardened surface does not lend itself to great movements of the face, they cover this up by donning large gas masks that cover their entire head, giving them their title.

The first Faceless was brought into being by accident. A lightning storm in France struck the ground where a mass of bodies, killed by chlorine gas, lay buried in the mud. The resulting reaction caused vaguely human shapes to rise, roaring in agony, from the ground. Those who witnessed it whispered among their ranks and word soon reached their superiors of the Entente and Central Powers alike. While the officers dismissed these tales as the rantings of fear-addled minds, Mortal alchemists working in the research and development labs of both sides pushed for these techniques to be refined and used, creating an army of new soldiers to take the place of those who lay dismembered on the scarred earth, their bodies killed by the gas, blown apart by shelling and churned among the mud.

By slowing the circulation of gas masks to front line troops, the alchemists ensure an ample supply of sites to create the Faceless and bolster their ranks. The alarming convergence of death and chemicals lead to staggering numbers of these Faceless appearing in even greater numbers than other Lineages. Their numbers trigger Firestorms across the various battlefields, and though some are seen as unnatural instances of devastation, most are assumed to be part and parcel of the Great War’s seemingly endless bombardment of artillery fire and chemical death.

The first of the Faceless are deployed to the trenches in Ypres where they had fallen. As more are created, they appear on various fronts. Sometimes, Faceless are deployed on opposite sides of the same battle line and tales circulate of hulking figures storming across no-man’s-land, able to withstand huge amounts of fire without stopping their maddening charge. Only artillery and highly concentrated fire can stop them in their tracks.

Though they do not often speak, Tortured Ones are often fluent in multiple languages, from English, French, and German to Algerian and Hindi. To the eyes of a shell-shocked soldier, they appear to be immensely large, dirt caked men, but the more inquisitive immediately realise that these Created are not one of them, leading the Faceless to regularly move from trench to trench to avoid difficult questions, often switching sides to try their luck elsewhere. What the Faceless know for sure is that this is the one place where they can roam with any sort of freedom. In a city or small village, they would be instantly recognizable.

Faceless regularly possess ragged scraps of uniforms of both sides that they mend into a hodge-podge covering.  As one of the few beings able to move between the opposing trenches of the war, they can be turned to the purpose of spying or spreading rumor and misinformation among an enemy trench, a feat that either side could benefit from.

Given their multiple perspectives, they often suffer from confused loyalties, it is not uncommon for German and Austrian dead to mingle with British and French in the mud of the Western Front. In the dirt, all are equal. Their differing points of view can give Faceless a bizarre and unique perspective on their plight, though they may not deign to share it with their comrades in the trench.

Faceless have a special disdain towards Frankensteins. Not so strong as a hatred, just a general distaste. Their prattle of suffering and their misfit, outcast state would wrinkle the noses of most Faceless if they bore noses beneath their masks. Not only do most of them have trouble relating to anyone who simply talks so much about themselves, the idea that so many of the Wretched chose to be here of their own volition, seeking some sort of bloody awakening or epiphany is anathema to their pain. What the Frankensteins truly suffer, so far as the Faceless are concerned, is an ugliness in scarring that dominates their life. This is not nobility, but narcissism.

Of all Created, they identify most closely with the Tammuz, particularly as many of their number may have been dug out of their birthing mud by the shovels of Tammuz engineers. The Faceless have a strange respect for people who quietly get on with their job and lack pretention. The Tammuz do not assign station and rank upon themselves, they find their truth in labor and a hard day’s work. They appreciate the simple beauty of a job well done. When a team of Tammuz are lengthening a trench or laying barbed wire, you will often find a Faceless watching over them. It is not clear if they have taken to guard them or if they simply find a strange catharsis in their toil.

Creations

The Mascot

Filthy Hamish is a regimental mascot. He has been adopted by the men of the 1st Lanark Militia due to saving their captain’s life simply by walking in front of him during an attempted advance. The men huddled behind him all the way back to the trench.

“He’s so dirty the bullets can’t pierce him!” they joke. What they don’t know is he’s the one who keeps ripping the legs, wings and heads off of the messenger pigeons sent to their trench. He doesn’t say much, but he watches the other lads very closely.

The Carer

Fraulein Marta is the den mother of her dug-out. She was found by the German Army in the remains of a medical outpost. Some of the men say they didn’t have the heart to shoot her, others say shooting her didn’t work. One oversized uniform and pickelhaube helm custom made by Oberjager Christoph Feldstein was enough to secure her place as an enlisted man. She has been known to treat the wounded though her care can often be a bit rough.

The Refugee

After wandering from the field, Grand Pierre joined a refugee train heading west. His observation of the families dispossessed from lands they cultivated for generations unnerved the others at first, but he was invaluable in warding off the vultures who preyed on the homeless and starving people fleeing the French countryside. After helping a family pull their dead child from the ruin of their farmhouse, he not only carved out a burial site himself but stood vigil during the modest ceremony the poor girl could be afforded. The family noticed him shedding yellow tears, which escaped from his gas mask and sizzled and smoked on the exposed, blackened mud of his chest.

The Homesick

Rajesh is not sure where he’s supposed to be, but it isn’t here. A voice in his head is calling him to head east; east through the German line and off to a home he only understands from flashes in his mind and memory of a language he doesn’t remember learning. He gathers a small team of men and women and listens to their stories of home. The blistering, humid summers of India. He feels he remembers with clarity his muddy flesh baking in the midday sun as he tended to a small herd of animals, one of whom could fit inside his hand. What he remembers most of all is the peace of it all. He promises to return these people home safely and concocts a plan to do it. They can call it desertion all they like. What are they fighting for if not to save home from this horror? And what is home without these people in it?

The Equestrian

Horses seem to have lost their place in war. Now they don’t carry soldiers, they carry crates. Phyllis on the other hand is more than capable of carrying horses. She sees those poor beasts left to die in craters. Discarded by their owners, shot even. She sees herself in the tragicomic reflections cast by their long, humorless faces. She sees a beast of burden staring back at her from every deep puddle. The others of her kind carry supplies now. They dig trenches and soak up fire. How long will it be before their masters ride them into battle? Well, all she can do is try to save something from this mess and it seems to her that the horses are the only innocents in this field.

Humour: Chlorine. The humour of the Faceless guarantees them internal torment as much as their exterior ensures they can never fully express that suffering. It imbues them with inner fury and almost insane, thoughtless bravery but can make them prone to acts of self-sacrifice. The fastest way to cease their torture is to end their existence after all. While this is one of the traits that ensures their Lineage’s temporary nature, it is not the only one. Their pain drives them to seek out the focus of their Pilgrimage with incredible, single minded dedication.

As much as their lack of physical expression makes them seem almost emotionless as statues, the internal burning of their humour also gives them a brooding, gruff aspect. Most Tortured Ones speak only when spoken to or, even then, at the uttermost end of need. They use words sparingly but observe and contemplate.

Their large size and formidable strength and toughness makes them physically intimidating and their rivals often shrink from them when confronted. Even the hardiest of Uratha would think twice before rushing headlong at a Tortured One without knowing what he was or what he might do. Most of the time, their quiet, brooding nature sees them easily confused for large, dirty soldiers. It is when they are found among the civilian population they truly stand out.

Bestowments: Living Wall, Chem-Shell

Faceless Bestowments

Living Wall: Your outer layer is hardened like stone and both bullets and blades alike ricochet off of your hide. Any that penetrate often simply become lodged within as part of your monstrous structure. If rolling dice to defend or evade attacks from simple melee weapons or firearms, the Faceless may reroll any failed dice, but must accept the result of the second roll.

Chem Shell: Channeling their inner rage, the Faceless can sacrifice part of themselves to create a hardened, explosive shell, fused with Pyros and deadly chemicals. The Faceless spends 1 Pyros and loses 1 Health level as it uses part of its own body to create this shell. It can then project the shell to a point it can see up to 100 feet away and detonate it. Alternatively, it can be placed somewhere like a conventional explosive. The blast destroys objects and structures caught within it and inflicts 10 aggravated damage on anyone within a 20ft radius. Anyone who survives the blast suffers from the Poisoned Tilt (see Chronicles of Darkness p. 286).

Stereotypes

Frankensteins         They do not understand suffering. Galateids     At least they know themselves. Osirans        All knowledge, no drive. Tammuz      Kindred spirits, tools of another kind. Ulgans Proof there is more than flesh and pain. Unfleshed    If only these had been more numerous we may have been left in peace. Extempore A place to hide the shame of your life.

[askvicothefallenbloodangel]

Writober Day 2: The Tribe’s Dog

Halloween Art Gauntlet

“He’s in there?” Thevan asked.

“Oh, he most certainly is, my lord!” Sunan replied cheerfully.  “My contact back in Felheart is a being of most reliable character, I’ll have you know.  I saw to that.”

Thevan continued to study the distant temple through the scope of his rifle.  Even in its dilapidated state, it was clear that it was not of any architectural style common to the Imperium.  He thought he could see some elements of Eldar influence, but time and neglect had made it difficult to be certain.

But even if he was looking upon evidence of xenos worship by the moon’s original inhabitants - original human inhabitants, you mean - that was not what Thevan found the most unsettling.  The environs surrounding the building were quiet, far too quiet for even the most desolate regions of this cursed world.  Even at this distance, he could feel a sense of emptiness enveloping the place.

The fact that he was looking for an Ork just made the whole situation all the more bizarre.

“Just find him and tell him to give you what he owes me,” Sunan continued.  “Though old Lugnak might require a bit of, ah, encouragement.  But I doubt a tetarto-god such as your lordship will have any trouble.  In the meantime, I’ll be making preparations for the next stage of our journey so that we may travel in the style and comfort that we both deserve!”

Wouldn’t that be a sight to see.

Best not waste any more time then, give our companion more opportunity to conjure his gilded chariot.  Thevan picked his way down the hill towards the ruined temple, his rifle kept at the ready.

The sense of nothingness kept gnawing at him as he drew closer.  Thevan felt a prickling around his hearts along with a heavy pressure from within, like he was trapped underneath a Rhino.  A hollowness encompassed his eyes, his vision becoming unfocused.

Thevan shook his head clear.  This place is cursed.  Let us conclude our business here and be done with it.

As he entered the shadowed streets surrounding the temple he discovered that the area was indeed inhabited, though “occupied” was likely a more appropriate term.  Several humans sat at tables by the remains of old cafes, still and motionless.  Others lay in barely dignified reposes atop piles of rubble, and more than a few simply laid on the ground, forcing Thevan to walk around them.  A couple slowly turned to glance at him as he passed by, but they made no sound or any gesture of greeting, returning to stare at nothing the moment he was more than a few meters away.  There was nothing but the barest flicker of curiosity in their eyes, no hint of warmth or hostility.  Just a soulless gaze.

No, not soulless.  Precisely the opposite.  The Outcast could sense something beneath the emptiness, signs of life amid the corpse-like stares.  But gentle psychic prodding at it only revealed a hot welling of pain and profound despair threatening to burst like an angry boil.  But it was the familiar, silent cry within that pain that shook her to the core.

Thevan continued to walk past them.  Leave well enough alone.

My kin are trapped here…

As are you.

But not like this.

What else can you do for them that we are not already doing?

…

Then let us move on.

Asking the denizens, Thevan felt, would’ve been pointless.  Thankfully, there were only so many places an Ork could hide, though he was still surprised when he finally found him just inside the temple.  Thevan estimated that Lugnak was slightly taller than the average Ork Boy, but somehow he managed to make himself look slight and fragile as he lay on his side on the temple floor, curled halfway into a fetal position.  The moment the Ork saw Thevan approach he actually flinched, slowly curling up as though he expected to be beaten.

Thevan shoved aside his astonishment and gazed down at the Ork.  “Lugnak,” he said in a whisper just loud enough for him to hear.  It seemed inappropriate to disturb the silence anymore than necessary.  “I am here to collect what you owe Sunan.”

Lugnak only responded by covering his face with his hands and giving a long, shuddering sigh.  He seemed to double over, as though there was a great pain in his stomach.

“Lugnak,” Thevan repeated, “your payment.”

The Ork’s hands balled into tight fists over his face, his entire body tensing.  Thevan stepped back into a ready stance, his hand on his chainsword, but when the Ork lashed out, it was not at the Lamenter, but at his own face.  Lugnak’s rage and frenzy only seemed to grow more intense with each strike, his green face becoming streaked with blood.  There was a sickening crack of bone as one of his tusks clattered away from him, yet he still continued to viciously bash away at his head.

Thevan stepped back, glancing around at the other people milling around them.  A few took note of the Ork’s self-violence, but no one moved to intervene or walk away.  After a moment’s hesitation, Thevan rushed forward, grabbed a handful the broken, bloody teeth on the floor, and ran further into the temple, not caring where he went so long as he couldn’t hear the Ork’s choking sobs.

Somewhere deep within the ruins, Thevan slowed to a stop.  He glanced at the teeth in his hand, still warm and slick with blood.  He drew in a ragged breath, trying to steady himself.  He had killed many Orks up to now, so why was this so disturbing?

Death is one thing.  Despair is another.

The Outcast shuddered.  And when death is denied, despair is all we have.

Thevan shook his head and took a step forward.  Not that I can do much except bring both to others.

I do not even have the excuse of being forged solely for that purpose.  Wherever I go, devastation follows.  They never should have let me come here.

But I only wield death for the sake of preserving life!  I fight so others may live!  So why do I keep failing to protect them?!

I couldn’t leave well enough alone.  At least out in the Void She would’ve only found me, not thousands of my kin!

There is nothing left here but damnation.  Even now I carry incontrovertible proof of my sins.  Why do I persist?

Now we are all trapped in an endless hell of death and corruption.  Nothing I do will change it.

I will only make things worse.

I might as well have never been here…

Thevan blinked his vision clear.  He stared his rifle lying on the ground at his knees.  The wet, chipped aquila on the receiver immediately drew his eye, practically out of reflex.  He reached a shaking hand towards it, desperately wanting to feel its familiar contours beneath his fingers, but he stopped.

My Emperor, Your gifts were wasted.

The Outcast let her hand drop to the ground, her fingers curling around a cobblestone.  Images of Lugnak flashed through her mind.  She couldn’t do what he did - you fled from the Path, and yet you entertain thoughts of being as brave as that Ork? - but maybe…it would be easy after the first blow…

This is stupid!

He roared in frustration, his fingers so tight around the stone that it might break from his rage alone.  He lifted it up, and…

He didn’t know.  He just flung it half-heartedly against the floor, a bestial, wolf-like growl emanating from his throat.

…wolf…?

Thevan whirled around, his rifle in his hands and braced against his shoulder.

With a start he found himself staring into the eyes of a monstrous daemon.

A Flesh Hound, he realized.  But this one was different.  Not only did it loom well over a meter over him, its scales were pitch black, giving it the appearance of a living, ethereal shadow.  Hollow, featureless white eyes stared down at him, betraying no hint of hunger or hostility, just a stark, predatory gaze.

Thevan felt…nothing…as he stared back at the monstrous creature.  The torn, ragged edges of his psyche fluttered slightly, but in his exhaustion he felt oddly serene.

Then a slight trickle of emotion dripped from the tatters.  Anger, sadness, mirth, rage.  He let them flow through and past him, but one in particular pooled within him.

Spite.

The Outcast stood up, the crude weapon in her grip never leaving its target.  Crude, but nevertheless suitable for her purpose.

To the Abyss with the Bearer of Lies.

The weapon roared and spat a single bolt of fire, the light and fury casting away the grey silence.  The explosion when it met its target was even more brilliant, washing out all sight and sound.

Thevan’s sight cleared in an instant, but there was nothing in front of him save for some tumbling dust.

I doubt the abomination is banished for good.

He nodded.  It was not nearly satisfying enough, anyway.

The Outcast’s grip on her weapon tightened.  At least I can still accomplish one thing, even if it’s only for myself.

The corner of Thevan’s mouth curled up slightly.  And there are plenty more less worthy foes to keep us occupied in the meantime.

[vicemirrored-a]

Dr. Jekyll was mad, they say.

That was the rumour that still clung to the halls of Edinburgh’s anatomy school, even long after the professors and students of the so-called mad doctor’s era had drifted out of the university. There was some debate as to whether Dr. Jekyll had ever really existed, in the first place; some students insisted quite vehemently that there were some public records regarding the man’s life, but others, if only for argument’s sake, scoffed in reply, holding fast to their conviction that the man was nothing more than a city legend.

Whatever the opinion regarding Dr. Jekyll, however, the existence of a Mr. Hyde was indisputable. Since 1886, certain organs of his — to be precise, the stomach, brain, and portions of the intestines — had floated ghoulishly in formaldehyde, preserved for posterity on one of the university’s shelves for each generation of students to ogle at in fascinated disgust. For the most part, few took special note of them amidst the rest of the specimens; but every so often, some curious young lad might point up and inquire, “What happened to that man?” And always, some one or other of the older students would take it upon themselves to answer, generally with a bit of smug delight, “Oh, that was old Mr. Hyde.” Such a reply never failed to rouse up the interest of the younger students, of course, and once more, for what was likely the hundredth time, the specimen room would play host to the full story.

How much of this story was true, no one could ever say with certainty. Doubtless, details had, along the way, been embellished, changed, or omitted entirely, and what now passed for the story of Mr. Hyde’s dissection was very likely more fiction than fact. The topic, however, had never lost its appeal; and so, whether it could rightly be called accurate or not, on the tale went throughout the years, and after two decades, this was how it ran.

The matter of Mr. Hyde’s death was, according to most, simple enough, and, for the most part, that bit of the story was not widely disputed. All agreed that the man had taken his own life by way of cyanide to avoid the gallows, as it was well-known that he was, at that time, hunted for the rather brutal murder of some rich fellow or another. Few remembered the victim’s name and fewer still cared to know it — in the grand scheme of the tale, he was looked upon as inconsequential. It was enough to know that Mr. Hyde was a murderer, and a known one at that.

It was also undisputed that Mr. Hyde’s body had been found in the home of Dr. Jekyll, though there remained some argument as to which room he had been found in and as to who had made the discovery. The details changed with each telling: in some versions, the corpse had been found in the bedroom by a maid; in others, it had been found in the study by a friend of the doctor’s; in still others, it had been found in the laboratory by the police themselves. Which version was correct, however, if any version, was of little importance, in any case. It in no way affected the story of the dissection itself, which was what principally interested both the tellers and the listeners — for wherever Mr. Hyde had been found, and by whom, it was at the centre anatomical theatre, like so many corpses before him, that he landed. He had, after all, no family or friends to claim the body, and so it was that he was given to the university for study, as was the usual way with unwanted corpses at that period in time.

Here in the tale was the point at which the student telling it would drop his or her voice a little lower, for dramatic effect. Everyone in the theatre on that occasion, they said, had a chill in their bones when they looked on that corpse, though none of them could precisely say why. Outwardly, it was certainly no worse than the bodies that had lain on that slab before; and yet, in spite of that, there was something about that corpse in particular that alarmed and sickened even the hardiest among them. Even the doctor who was to perform the dissection, who was not at all known as a squeamish man, seemed oddly affected by the sight of that corpse. What caused this impression, none could pinpoint, but it was certain that all of them felt it nonetheless.

Then came the horrible part of the matter, the teller of the story would then say to the eager listeners. No sooner had the knife sunk into and split the flesh of the abdomen than the innards all but bubbled free, as though the body were far too small to contain them. This nauseating sight, horrible enough on its own, was accompanied by the most rancid stench, so powerful and so abhorrent that even the students in the farthest seats back cringed and covered their faces with their hands. Every organ seemed far too large for the corpse in which they had all been caged; Mr. Hyde had been, by any standards, a very small man, and yet the organs bound up in his body looked as though they ought to belong to a man at least double his size. The doctor himself could not account for it. He cut into several of the organs one by one in an attempt to determine whether the man had been afflicted with some sort of disease, but all he could find was an odd and inexplicable deterioration of the linings of the intestine and stomach, which was more than likely the cause of the rancid stench. It was as though the man had drunk — or been forced to drink — some corrosive and volatile chemical, which had caused him to rot slowly from the inside. But that, he later added in his notes, which were still somewhere preserved at the university, did nothing to explain the odd enlargement of the organs themselves.

Appalling though this was, it was not the full extent of the strangeness of that corpse. Every part of the body, from the muscles to the bones, seemed to bear the signs of some extreme strain. The doctor was said to have remarked that it was not unlike what is seen when muscles and skin are stretched too far, too fast; but while that could be explained in some parts of the body, evidence of it in the entire body was unaccountable. It should not have been possible, he insisted; but there lay the proof of it, wretched and repulsive, flayed on the dissection table in plain view — impossible, and yet incontrovertible.

It was said that at least five students left that lecture and declared themselves done with anatomy and medicine entirely, so shaken were they by what they had seen. Even those students who did not quit the discipline needed quite a bit of time to recover before they were willing to attend the next dissection. Distress of any sort always tends to bear discussion, and this was no exception: all who had seen that gruesome display turned to one another, in the days to come, and spoke of it in hushed whispers, attempting, not entirely with much success, to make sense of what they had all seen.

It was from these discussions, no doubt, that the rumour was born. One of the boys who had attended the dissection brought the news, next day, that the body had been found at the home of a man named Dr. Jekyll, a well-respected physician and a man wealthier than half of Edinburgh put together. Moreover, the boy insisted, Dr. Jekyll had been known to take an interest in chemical research — and lastly, he declared with the air of a showman, this very same doctor had disappeared without a trace on the night of Mr. Hyde’s death. Little was known of the man beyond that, but it was more than enough to start the rumour mill churning. It did not take long at all for a conclusion to be formed and spread around the university: that Dr. Jekyll had been quite mad, and that Mr. Hyde had been the subject, willingly or by force, of a chemical experiment. After all, would that not explain the strangeness of what was found in the corpse? Would that not explain the decay of the innards? Would that not explain why Jekyll, a rich fellow with very good standing, had fled as soon as Hyde’s body was discovered?

“So you see,” the student relating the tale would then conclude, often punctuating the words with a tap against the glass holding what was left of Mr. Hyde, “there is the story, in full. Edward Hyde, whoever the poor devil was, ended up an experiment to this Dr. Jekyll, who must have been entirely insane.” And the listeners would all glance around at one another, nearly shuddering, their brains frothing with the gruesome images of a mad, faceless doctor performing his odious experiments. And there would be an end of it: the students, eager to put the thing from their minds, would file out of the room and into the next. None of them knew — and perhaps, none of them would have liked to know — the degree to which the tale was true. In spite of all the details that had fallen away throughout the years, the core of the story remained far truer than anyone — save, perhaps, a long-dead lawyer who had once been named Mr. Utterson — ever fully knew: if nothing else, Mr. Hyde was, at his essence, just as the students of the university had guessed in horrified whispers, nothing more or less than the result of an experiment performed by a madman.