The Death of Nathaniel Faust – Pt. 1

7th September, 20XX

What follows is the first Testament pertaining to the final events in the life of Nathaniel Faust, as reported to the New York Police Department on 2nd September, 20XX.

Detective Williams: Today is September second, 20XX. Detective Paul Williams conducting the interview for report number 20XX-3477431. Please state your name for the tape.

Amanda Collins: Amanda Regina Collins.

DW: Thank you, Ms. Collins—it is “Ms,” isn’t it? Let the record reflect that the complainant nodded.

AC: Oh, right, sorry. I’m just so used to being interviewed on tv nowadays—kinda can’t believe how old school you guys are here. No offense.

DW: Not a problem, Ms. Collins, it happens all the time. Now, could you walk me through the details of what exactly you came here to report that was so urgent you insisted on doing it by speaking with the Chief himself? I hope you realize that, even people of your… station, still generally follow the same process as most civilians.

AC: Rude! I’m here, scared as f*** about an f***ing killer supervillain motherf***er, who threatened my life, and you just want me to wait around and “follow the same” motherf***ing process as “most civilians?” The Chief can kiss my f***ing a** if he thinks he’s getting another concert ticket ever again!

DW: Ms. Collins, if you’re going to be so difficult, we don’t have to finish this interview.

AC: Me! Difficult!? Oh, let me tell you how many people would kill just to be in the same f***ing room as me. I bet you’ve never even met a celebrity before.

DW: End of intervie—

AC: All right, all right, fine. I’ll f***ing be good.

DW: Great. And, for the record, Ms. Collins, I’ve met several celebrities with more followers or whatever than you at every single charity event that the force has to babysit—

Voice over Comm: Williams, step outside for a moment please.

[4:53 minutes of relative quiet punctuated occasionally by minor scuffling and humming sounds]

DW: Alright, Ms. Collins, let’s get back to the conversation here, so we can all get back to our regularly scheduled lives. What is so “scary” for you to come by yourself down to the central precinct and decline a paper report?

[32 seconds of silence]

DW: Would you be more comfortable discussing it with a female detective? Or to have your lawyer present? Let it reflect that Ms. Collins is shaking her head.

AC: (Quietly) Sorry….. This… this was maybe probably a f***ing mistake. I should just— [begins crying]

DW: I’ll go find a—

AC: Wait! Please don’t leave me alone. I-I can talk. (Sniffs) Just promise you won’t leave.

DW: I won’t leave until this interview is over.

AC: Do you think you or someone could stay with me after that? (Sniffs) For protection from that thing?

DW: That depends on what you have to say here. How credible the threat is—though I would think you could also afford private security.

AC: No. No I can’t, because they couldn’t f***ing even slow it down, and it f***ing came right in like always.

DW: What? What came into where? The details are important if we’re going to get anywhere.

AC: The man without a face! He-he comes into my house every night and—(sobs)

DW: And what?

AC: (between sobs) And starts digging in the walls.

DW: So, this stalker manages to break in and… starts to tear apart your house? Trying to get to you, or collect memorabilia of you?

AC: N-no! He’s not a f***ing stalker! That’s what mom and dad said, and-and now they can’t talk anymore! No no no!

DW: Did this man hurt anyone when he entered your home? You can just nod if that’s easier. Is-is that a “yes” or a “no?” Are you not sure?

AC: He-he didn’t… umm…. They’re just… different? Like robots or something?

DW: So, this man might have done something to make your parents… act strangely? Ms. Collins nodded “yes.” Can you describe how they’re different? No. Ok. Can you remember how many times this man has come to your house?

AC: S-seven.

DW: And you didn’t file a report before this?

AC: (Quietly) I thought I was imagining it until we found Scruffles.

DW: “Scruffles?”

AC: My dog? He went everywhere with me, even onstage, but… when we found…

[Sounds of heaving and retching]

DW: Don’t worry about that, that’s fine. It’s what the trash can is there for. I… are you sure you’re up to continue this interview?

AC: Mhmm.

DW: Does this man threaten you?

AC: No… I don’t think he’s noticed me—I usually see him through one of my periscopes or from down the hall.

DW: Periscopes?

AC: I use them to see between different floors, usually from my room to the kitchen or entryway.

DW: Right. And you can use these… periscopes to see him without him seeing you?

AC: Yes.

DW: And you say he… “digs in the walls” what does that mean?

AC: He reaches into them—it’s like he can rip right through? He goes into a few different rooms every night and—oh! It does leave weird spots on the wall, though. Like burn marks? I’m not sure, but there’s only five rooms left besides mine for him to go through. I’m so— (sniffs)

DW: Ok, so… do you want an officer to keep him out tonight? No?

AC: Would, maybe (mumbling)?

DW: Was that— you want… more than one? Yes? I can barely understand you, and the tape definitely won’t pick up that mumbling. If it’s too hard we can take a brea—

AC: -LOT of cops, like outside a show!!

DW: I see. Well, I mean… a big show is different from a celebrity stalk— er, a single breaking and entering case. I suppose we could look at sending a small squad, if there are enough volunteers willing to work OT. Is that ok?

AC: Do you think there could be at least seve—

DW: I think I can more or less guarantee a minimum of a full squad, if the last office party was any indication.

AC: Ok (sniff) good.

DW: Good. Thank you very much, we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.

[End of tape]

---

The New York Global

5th September, 20XX

Morning Edition

Pg. 6 Citywide news

Mass Police Attacks Leave City in Chaos!

Courtney Gibb, Senior Reporter

Peaceful, law-abiding New Yorkers woke up Tuesday morning to find their beloved city suddenly overrun with dangerous emergency vehicles. No fewer than nine police cars and two armored vans have been confirmed to have been at the center of high speed collisions in Manhattan, the Bronx and Queens.

The offending officers have not yet been identified, despite multiple eyewitness accounts that it was the officers themselves who instigated the altercations. As a result, several influential concerned citizens and civic groups demand that the police be held accountable, putting the leadership of our city’s good boys and girls in blue in quite the squeeze. “It’s absolutely unacceptable,” says state congresswoman Ivy Sherman (Dem, district 73), “police are supposed to help the community, not hurt it.”

Yesterday evening, the mayor assured reporters at a press event for the city’s upcoming First World War Peace centennial celebration that these incidents are “completely unrelated” from each other, as “none of the officers involved have any known connections.” When asked to speculate on whether these could be the first shots in a police-led terror campaign, Mayor —— only replied “hogwash!”

So far, 13 people have been killed during these incidents, including four schoolchildren whose bus was sent careening from a direct crash with an armored SWAT van. “T— used to look up to the police,” the grieving mother of one of the children managed to say in between bouts of tears, “he wore his police Halloween costume every day until he grew out of it,” she showed me a picture of a smiling little boy in a SWAT vest. He died in excruciating agony before EMTs from —— hospital could safely move him into the ambulance. Although the chaos of these horrible events leaves us with hardly any hope of answers, one thing is certain: if these incidents don’t end soon, many, many more tearful parents will be left behind in the five boroughs.

---

The Daily Talker

5th September, 20XX

Celebrity News

Pop-Star Police PJ Party?

Mandy Chase

OMG!! Our Talker Team has the latest goss on certified bad bitch superstar Amanda Regina “Gina” Collins. The nineteen-year-old model and recording artist was recently seen partying with the popo in her upper-east side mansion on Monday night. Shortly before the “pig” fest, the celeb was seen by #Ginamours going in and out of the —— street police station, and here’s the juicy bit: our own source in the SWAT says the Sellout Sorceress was so stoked to set the civil service stage that she even called ahead—to the Chief himself!!! Sadly, despite our best efforts, all we could get for our greedy little readers is the photo (taken by yours truly) of the pop princess getting her good-night kiss from her very own police Prince Charming!

---

Miss Collins,

We need to talk. I may be able to help. Come to my residence at XXXX B— street. Don’t bother with a cab or an uber, as they will be unable to find the address. It’s across the street from XXYX B— street. Come alone as soon as convenient.

I will be waiting,

Nathaniel Faust

P. S. Do not worry, it’s not your fault.

---

That was one of the craziest things ever!

Before I got that really weird note, which somehow made it through the fan letter vetting, I had no idea what else to do about that crazy guy. Not even the police could get past whatever weird-psychotic… thingie he does to people. Babs threatened to call the national guard if I didn’t get back to work soon.

She was f***ing serious, too. Just like that time with Kanya McCain!! (Such a b***h anyways)

And then I got that letter from Mr. Nate, and it was like fate. (Should I do another album like that one?) It was just like one of those voodoo tv shows that mom loooves!! (Totally need to tell her about it when she wakes up!!!)

So I was just lying in bed, pretty much crying my eyes out, when the daily fan mail came in with that one on top, and I was like Ohmygosh! I must have a fan who’s a psychic!!! So I got up and went out wearing a FAB white sweater+black jeans combo.

The directions on the letter were a little confusing, but I had the company driver drop me off at the hotel on B— street. I told him I was getting one of their INSANE jubilee crepes, so he wouldn’t worry about me for at least two hours;) I then walked on the odd numbered side of the street until I came to the brownstone he said was across the street from his “residence.” When I looked across the street, I hoped for something that looked like the building behind me: probably three floors, old, rich-looking (like that SoB ex#7’s place). The open field was a complete surprise.

It was almost like this guy didn’t exist. I crossed cautiously to get a better look, starting to get a little worried that this was just another stalker case. At the gate, it looked like there was some sort of mirage or something, because the overgrown lot seemed to be shimmering weirdly. I prayed under my breath to whatever god there is that I wasn’t getting migraines again, and slowly made my way into the lot.

Then, I walked back out and sat on the curb for 12 minutes having a mini panic attack. Then I went and got a boosted icy chai from the Cozmodoe’s around the corner. With a bit of that good ol’ caffeine high, I managed to walk past the rusty gate, with its weird scary pig faces, and down the sorta-falling-apart brick walkway. I almost tripped over a sleeping man in a way-out-of-season trench-coat.

He groggily swiped out at me, mumbling something that could’ve been “come back in an hour.”

I jumped back, apologizing immediately, asking what I could do for him, if he wanted an autograph, a crepe, a selfie? but he just got madder with every word until my “I’m sorries” died in my throat. Once I stopped, the stillness of the lot set in. Even compared to the rest of B— street, it was DEAD here. The only sound was the soft whistling of the man’s breath as he snoozed.

It was so calm, I almost wanted to lie down on the overgrown lawn and take a little nap (no crazy guys here—unless Whistle Snorer woke up on the wrong side of the, uh, walkway?). But I was there to see the psychic, or whatever he was, and that grass would’ve definitely stained my sweater, so I gently walked around Mr Snooze to walk up to the building at the end of the walkway.

Except there wasn’t one. The bricks ended about five feet past Sleepy Guy, and they led to a MASSIVE dirt patch. I almost cried at the waste of a trip. Even the chai wasn’t worth wasting such a fab look. I kicked the edge of the walk out of frustration and my boot thunked against something. I was bending over to make sure it hadn’t scuffed the suede, when I heard a big yawn from the man. I turned on reflex to look at him, when he yelled at me to stop.

“You don’t want to spill that chai on those boots,” he warned, “trust me.” He was right. I’d been about to knock over the creamy, half melted iced drink all over the bricks, where it probably would’ve ruined the Genuine G— faux suede from the new season!!

He stood up and dusted himself off, “why are you crouched over like that, anyway?” he asked.

I pulled myself up like the “lightning” choreo for Last Us. I’m pretty sure he noticed my blushing, but I pretended I was just picking something up. He at least pretended to be focused on the chai, though. The caffeine craving was basically visible around him.

“So,” he looked back up at me, “what brings you to my house today?”

“Oh!” I blushed harder, “sorry! I didn’t realize this was— or, I mean, that you lived— do you… need anythi—” my voice died again, unsure how to apologize for bothering a homeless man.

“Are you here to get some help?” he casually started patting down his coat and pants pockets, “just so you know, I’m waiting for someone, so if she shows up I may have to drop you for a bit. That ok?” I just stood there, speechless, at this scruffy guy, who just woke up looking like he needed a full sweep at GiGi’s Spalon asking if I needed help.

“You’re not a ghost, are you?” he laughed, finally pulling a key ring out of an interior pocket of the coat. The joke got me mad enough to finally get my voice back as he walked past me towards the dirt patch.

“Actually, I’m here to meet Nathaniel Faust, but I must have the wrong address. He sent me a—”

“Oh! You’re Amanda Collins!” he said, like I was some NOBODY. And, ignoring my snarl that I preferred to be called Gina, he bowed, inserting one of the keys into empty air at around eye level.

A BIG mansion (even for B— street) appeared out of NOWHERE, covering the dirt patch and curling around a bit on the sides.

“I’m afraid I mistakenly took you for a regular client, you really should’ve answered me earlier,” now he was talking like one of the predatory agents or talent scouts that just want you for your looks, “I am Nathaniel Faust,” he bowed again, “Master of Arcane Science, Head of the Ingenuity Sect, and former Master Supreme over All Sects. And I am at your service.”

Everything in me was screaming to throw my chai in his face run away from this weirdo as fast as possible… but I was desperate (and he had made a mansion appear out of nowhere). So I decided to at least give it a try.

“Can you help me?”

“Like no one else can,” he BEAMED while answering that question. The inside of the house was just as big and fancy as the outside (not like I’d been expecting something… bigger) though it smelled more home-y. Like Mom’s tomato garden crossed with toast and lavender. For some reason, Mr. Nate basically led me by the hand across the foyer, up two sets of stairs, and down a hall to a sort of lounge, almost like I’d get lost. A red-headed girl in a VERY pretty tan house dress got up from one of the velvet loveseats as soon as we walked in. Even in that casual fit, something about her gave the impression that she would’ve fit in at ANY runway, stage, or party I’ve ever been to.

“She finally showed up,” the girl spoke to Mr. Nate like I wasn’t there.

“Yup,” Mr. Nate turned the biggest, comfiest chair so that it faced us instead of the fireplace, “in retrospect, I may have been a bit overeager in expecting her before morning. Sorry, Rel.”

“Was my eejit of a husband sleeping outside again?” she turned to me, some kind of British accent coming through with more words.

“Uh, you mean Nathaniel? Yes?” I stammered, surprised by this sudden shift in attention. The girl gave him one of the best “this f***ing guy” stares I’ve ever seen and turned to leave.

“If ya won’t sleep in bed, ya can forget about having breakfast!” she muttered as she gracefully swept out the door.

“Does she do all your cooking?”

“Nah, she fuses the kitchen doors closed when I don’t take care of myself.”

“She what?”

“Not important,” he pulled a pad of paper and a small pen-box out of his coat, “you don’t mind if I keep a record of your issue, do you?”

“Wait, is this a interview? ‘Cuz I’m not going to talk without my representative,” I walked toward the door.

“Nah, I stay as far away from any news as possible. It’s mostly just for my archives,” he set the notepad and a funny looking pen on the coffee table. The pen was standing straight up, like that lame magic trick Artie likes to do.

Mr. Nate got all serious all of a sudden, and told me to tell him exactly what my problem was. He didn’t look surprised AT ALL.

“So, you went to the police four days ago,” he quickly glanced over the notes that that weird pen scribbled on its own.

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t a question,” he plopped a stack of newspaper and tabloid clippings and printouts on the coffee table, “do you follow the news? Some other celebrities I know don’t really check it themselves.”

“Uh, yeah. I follow some on Momentime,” I blushed, since Babs was ALWAYS telling me I shouldn’t follow anything she didn’t send me directly.

“Then you haven’t seen many of these? Even yesterday’s headline?” Mr. Nate was like one of the Howards, impossible to tell if he was about to flip the table, flip me off, or give me a gentle “that’s ok, dear.” I quickly lost any confidence I’d gotten during the interview. Even the POLICE were less stressful to deal with.

“I’m… sorry.”

He sighed slightly, then motioned for me to check the articles. Between sips of mint tea that his wife brought me (giving her husband another death stare as she set it down), I read about what happened to Detective Williams, Officer Casey, and the rest of those cops who came over.

“They… can’t ALL be…” I almost threw up at the picture on one of the pages.”

“Deep breath,” Mr Nate calmly said, taking the stack away and throwing it in a side drawer, “the tea should help, if you just hold it on the tongue a bit.” His voice suddenly rivaled one of the head gurus at SpaSpace. Was probably just the shock of the news.

“It’s not your fault,” he soothed while I took tiny sips, which DID honestly help, “I did mean that when I wrote that note.”

I sat there for a while, waiting quietly for the shaking to stop. At one point, a clock chimed somewhere in the house. Mr Nate stayed sitting in his chair, but he started tapping his fingers on the armrest, like Georgie used to in math class.

Mrs. Faust came in and broke the silence, telling her husband to go eat if he was planning on working my case today. He left us for a while, leaving his wife to take over watching me. She knelt in front of the fireplace and hummed a soft melody, one that felt both familiar and unique. Even though she wasn’t even looking at me, her presence was even more comforting than mom’s (before the…).

“Tears are normal for the song of memory,” the young woman said, breaking off the tune, “but it’s one of the best ways to heal the mind. Would you like a tissue? More tea?” As she asked, both things appeared on the table in front of me.

“I’m ok, thanks.” I sniffed. When did I start crying? “F***, sorry. I must look like a mess now, sorry,” I instinctively checked my makeup. It was somehow unstreaked.

“Don’t worry about tha’, the last person to sit there had their head turned into a pumpkin,” she paused long enough for me to wonder if she was just saying things to make me feel better, until she said, “not even a jack-o-lantern. Just a solid pumpkin. Their voice just sort of rumbled out from the middle.”

“He also had a tuxedo fused to his skin, don’t forget that,” Mr Nate came back in, holding a HUGE old book. Like the kind a wizard has on a stand in their library in a fantasy movie. He dropped the book on the table where it made a THUD! that was way too loud, even with how f***ing huge the thing was.

“Now,” he plopped back down in his chair, “Rel’s helped you calm down, I’ve had some cold scrambled eggs, and we have a profile of the case.” He opened the book to an offensively pink page that seemed to only have the letter “t” on it. About a thousand times. Mr Nate pointed at a section about halfway down the right page.

“From what I can tell, this should be relatively simple. Do you want to know, or would you prefer ignorance?”

“Does that book actually say anything?”

“Of course it does. You just have to learn how to read it.”

“What does it say here?” I pointed at a random spot.

“Under your finger? ‘Fish-like gonads,’” his voice didn’t shift at all.

“What the f*** is this about?” He flinched, clenching his right hand for some reason.

“Well, the entire line says, roughly, ‘ritualistic annihilation may come about should anyone die during the course of thy ritual.’”

“Where the f*** do the fish balls come into place?”

“It splits into other words when read as a whole. This text was written by ichthyonomads, if that helps.” I decided to just stop questioning the book before it got any weirder.

“I guess I’ll choose ignorance, if your solution involves that book.”

“Popular choice,” he closed the book and stood up, “you’re welcome to stay for as long as you wish, I swear not to make too much of a mess of your house. Rel can take you to a bedroom if you need sleep, and there’s a wonderful Hungarian restaurant just around the corner,” he paused before leaving, “if you want, I can teach you how to read that book later.” The door closed behind him without making a sound.

---

Translated from Archaic Crusseine

Gäds o’ Anchynt Tymss: Wawr Umung Märtlls

or else they may eat thy sponge.

Harbinger Collectors: Mortals Under Thrall

Mortals may also devote themselves to the eternal battles of their respective Deities. Usually coming under their power as a result of a personal sacrifice made before engaging in warfare, these beings lose their anima (soul) by being felled in the conflict. As a result, they tend to lose whatever individual character they may have priorly held, and become mere vessels for their deity’s use. They are granted what boon (or boons) their master chooses, most commonly whatever powers would aid in the resurrection of their master. These powers generally include vast strength and immortality, along with (often) the powers of one of the god’s favored progeny (or comrades), though obviously to a lesser extent than befitting a true deity. Tis unclear whether said deity’s progeny is a true god in their own right, or if they’re instead merely the primary harbinger for their master. The most notable example of a famous Harbinger in recent memory is that of the mortal known as t TTttt Tttttt T (possibly Achilles?) whose actions single-handedly reduced the armies of the city of tttt Ttt T (Troy?) far beyond any other mortal present. His actions may have been driven in order to bring about the resurrection of his master t Ttt TTTtt (possibly Thetis, if one follows the earlier conclusion that “Olympus” was actually a death-realm for gods). Mortals are advised to avoid any contact whatsoever with Harbingers, lest they suffer immense suffering (as well as death). Harbingers are not capable of rational, complex thought, and are single-mindedly devoted to serving or resurrecting their masters. Tis possible they may be fully possessed of the anima (spirit) of their master, who wields their body as a puppet until they might resurrect themselves. The method of resurrection is shrouded in mystery. Perhaps they each and every one have distinct requirements for resurrection. Irregardless, they often behave erratically, and will not hesitate to cull any being, vegetable, or edifice that may suffer the misfortune of standing in their paths. Should it be absolutely necessary to resist or detain any Harbinger, otoño must first perform three (3) actions: Firstly must thou observe and ascertain the breadth of the Harbinger’s power, preferably from as great a distance as possible. Should this be impossible, abandon thy quest. Secondly must thou determine whether thy tt Tt TTt (hole in page) Tttt monkey leather ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY. Abandon thy quest if so. Thirdly must thou amass whatever magics, weapons, and fortifications required to restrain thy foe. If these prove impossible to amass, abandon thy quest. Once all three conditions are met, thou must prepare one of two methods to claim certain victory: by the sword, or by the book. Should the sword by thy method, may thee have the greatest fortune be thine. Should the book be thy method, prepare a circle of heather and bone with burned salt set at all cardinal points of the first, second, and third degrees. Carve or draw whichever glyphs of binding and repelling with which thou feels most proficient, making sure to keep repel the furthest inside the circle. Sing the song of banishment at the point of the circle where thy enemy first entered into its power over a boiling pot of thy blood mixed with thy enemy’s essence. Make sure to have inflicted a wound over thy enemy’s heart before starting the incantation, that the deity’s anima may be expunged more easily. This spell may be enhanced by working in tandem with allies in the chanting. Keep caution while doing this spell, as anyone in a fifty tt Tt TTt (unit of measurement about equal to a quarter league) diameter will be at high risk of suffering (or death). Such caution is paramount especially because ritualistic annihilation may come about should anyone 17 die during the course of thy ritual. Should this endeavor succeed, thy foe shall suffer immediate death. Should it fail, thou must take up the sword or fly fast enough to evade thy enemy’s ire. Only a mortal of exceptional power and knowledge could hope to defeat a Harbinger, much less the newly resurrected god.

Final enemy— Ares. Stored inside a pithos that was used as decoration in Gina’s house by its original builder from turn of century. Uses Harbinger “Phobos” to get it. Was trapped there by ancient ritual from Roman, Greek, and Persian mystics, who could unfortunately not foresee Harbinger, as humans didn’t learn Crusseine until the mid 1690s, as a result of a sentient chestnut and a man with a remarkably oversized left arm.

---

---

Read more on the Honors Blog.