3313 words (13 minute read)

Chapter Zero: Corpse Party

Maxwell

January 20, 1998

The fumes of the dimmed bar ricocheted and was twisted with a top-notch cigar’s smoke and a murky odor of those who overstayed on a Saturday night in Stacy’s Bench. The owner, Stacy, was an appealing woman with a foul temper, but the locals that knew her could handle her furious nature or outbursts against drunken fools vomiting over her glazed wooden floors. It was a normal occasion, in Stacy’s case; however, tonight was a special. She had an old buddy of hers coming in for a late-night drink, and she had been waiting for his arrival, but his arrival was later than she would have thought. While walking around her establishment in a silky dress of diamond and charcoal mixed with touches of silver that make her sparkle in the night, she surveyed the average-sized crowd tonight and sighed as drunkards made buddies with their stories of vigor, virgin secrecy, and scandalous achievements. Still, her lips marked with red lipstick smiled because she knew all was at peace, but her savored happiness dissipated when someone bumped into her from behind.

She spun around and glared at the individual dressed in a plain white button-down and slacks, “Hey! Watch it!”

The man almost tumbled over from her roaring response to his drunken accident, but managed to catch himself on the nearby table that was unoccupied near the center of the bar. The man was tall, bony, and lacked facial hair, but his radiant golden hair almost waved over his slated eyes that stared Stacy up and down, “O-Oh, apologies…”

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned a little, sizing him up, “I’ve never seen your face around here before. New local? I think you’ve had enough to drink if you’re bumping into people.”

“I can see that I’ve ticked you off, but I’m really fine,” He quickly stated while swirling his half-filled glass of cubes and liquor with his left hand.

“Who are you?” Stacy said bluntly.

The man had a smirk plastered on his face the whole time, and she was getting quite sick of it. He continued to smirk as he answered, “Looks like I’ve stepped on the toes of the head gal. It’s a pleasure, Stacy Monroe. I’m Fidel Brix.”

Before she could say anything, Fidel’s smirk faded and his lips slyly taunted alike his eyes observing her curvy hips and curly jet black hair that fell at her back, “Yes, I would be a lucky man tonight, but someone else needs your exclusive time. Maxwell Marshall ring any bells, Stacy?”

She furrowed her brows, “We’re hardly on first-name terms, buddy, and you will not be the first one to think that way, Mr. Brix. However, what of Maxwell Marshall? Is he here?”

“Yes, yes, and you haven’t been the first woman to brush me off, but they do come running later,” He grinned with a perfect row of white teeth.

She sighed, “Where the hell is Maxwell, you cheesy drunk?”

“O, you wound me, my dear!” He burst into laughter, but settled within a few moments and swayed his hand over to a corner booth with a man staring at his golden pocket watch. “Alas, tonight is not my night. There’s your—”

She strode over to the man with curtly and unruly hair that was slightly jelled back, but took the appearance of rippling ash-colored hair, “Maxwell! The hell took you so long!”

Fidel chuckled to himself as some of the crowd in the bar eyed her outburst, “Man, what a woman! Rowdy, beautiful, and a touch catch.”

Maxwell snapped his head up at Stacy as she slammed her fist down on his booth’s table, and his straight face immediately struggled to make a pleasing smile at the raging woman, “Hello, Stacy. It’s been a while.”

“Don’t give me that crap! Why didn’t you holler at me when you came in? You know I can’t see customers who don’t speak up,” she said with a low growl.

“Indeed. I apologize too, Stacy. I didn’t actually come in normally, you see,” he smiled faintly, almost mysteriously, and gestured to the other side of his booth. “Have a seat, Stacy, if you don’t mind.”

She stared at his burning bronze irises for a while, but sighed in defeat as she smoothly slid on the other side of the booth. She pulled back her hair that covered a little of her sight on her right side, putting it finely behind her pierced ear of multiple silver jeweled earrings, “It’s been a long time, Maxwell.”

“It has been years,” Maxwell nodded. “I came today to speak about the others—”

“Hold your horses! Don’t start the good stuff without little ol’ me,” Fidel popped in. “You have a beautiful friend here, Maxwell. I may have a crush.”

Stacy looked at Fidel in disgust, “Maxwell, just who the hell is this guy? He’s giving me a damn headache.”

Maxwell chuckled, “Fidel means well, I’m sure. He’s very flirty as you can see, but he’s my partner now. You see, I’m working for a certain branch in Rochester.”

“Hold up, back up a second, Maxwell,” Stacy urged. “When did you get back to Rochester?”

“A few weeks ago. Only reason I’m here is because of the Corpse Party case,” Maxwell said solemnly as his eyes dropped to the table, and eventually his golden pocket watch laying in front of him.

Stacy’s face turned pale as her body tightened, “Corpse Party...It was a brutal case to read and what made it worse was how those three people were killed, well, if you can even call that killing someone. You said you came here for that, but how are you involved?”

“I work for the Detective Agency. I wasn’t aware that you ran this place. Thank Tannis for giving me the tip.”

“Well, that’s some surprising news,” Stacy said shocked. “The last time I saw her…she was out for my blood. Why would she call for your help with something like this? No offense, but you’re hardly cut out for this type of work, Maxwell. You’re more of a philosopher than anything.”

“I agree on everything; however, she can’t handle this on her own. This case is not normal. There’s dark arts involved, and powers identical to our—”

“An outsider is listening,” Stacy interrupted, looking up at Fidel who was surprisingly quiet.

Fidel was no longer smirking, but wore a slight smile with coolly eyes, “I’m fully aware of what you are, Stacy. Crazy thing is I’m about the same. I’m just not…original or I should say…I’m not immortal like you.”

“What’s going on here?” Stacy looked back at her old friend. “I thought there were only twelve plagued with that curse—”

“You are right. There was twelve that include us. Twelve immortals roamed the lands from near the beginning this world with a plague placed upon them from the Devil himself, but three of the twelve have died.”

“What?” Her eyes widened. “That’s impossible.”

“It was, but it seems the other six have found a way or some unknown person has, and so the game finally begins like that demon said it would. As you know, we immortals hold dairies for different identities and must attend to the dairies daily or we lose our immortality and our life. It is our power source for our unique abilities, but also our curse. The three who died were Marcus Webb, Jill Herb, and Lucas North—”

“Wait, those names are…” Stacy stared as she shook her head.

Fidel finished for her, “The same names of the individuals who were murdered in the Corpse Party case.”

Maxwell nodded while scratching his stubbed beard, “I know we’re hitting you hard with all of this, but I need to know about the others. If you’ve seen them, heard from them, or have a hint of where they are. I need to know so I can question them as well.”

She was silent for a while, but eventually she spoke, and Maxwell was blown away by the sincere and shaky voice that came out of her mouth: “They…contacted me a while ago—1950 specifically. They wanted me to join them with their research into a specimen they had found. As you know, some of us broke off from the group, but the majority stayed together and searched for a way to break the curse. However, in the back of my mind I knew that demon was toying with us. This game he wants us to play is a life and death gamble. He wanted to put us against each other in all-out war, and the first sparks have been lit, Maxwell. You can’t trust no one, not even myself, but you can trust this word—Ouroboros. That word is the key to everything.”

Suddenly, she got up and slightly bowed to Maxwell and Fidel, “I should get back to the bar, gentlemen.”

Maxwell frowned, “What will you do?”

“Do what I’ve always done,” she gave half-smile. “Take care of yourself, Maxwell. I’m glad…you came to me.”

“Stacy, you—”

“Don’t say anything else,” she snapped. “You have your job to do, right? It’s more important.”

With those words, she left the men. Fidel drank the last of his liquor and fixed his loosened tie, “Let’s move, Max. We got a clue. We’ll need to pay a visit to Tanner.”

Maxwell opened his golden pocket watch and stared at the shattered glass over the frozen hands and twisted numbers. From the very first day he got the curse, time has stopped for him, even if everything around him is moving forward. He belonged to the past, and the watch was a reminder of that fear of never being able to fit with the future. He sighed to himself raggedly and snapped the opener shut, assembling the courage to go against his past.

“Ouroboros is the key, huh?”



Amani

January 15, 2025

“Passport, ma’am.”

“Oh, yes!" I rumbled through my leather satchel bag that hung from my shoulder, and like always with important objects, I couldn’t find my passport. "I apologize, but I’m having trouble finding it.”

The old gentleman standing behind the registration booth frowned unpleasantly at me, but soon gazed down the long line of people waiting to enter the warmth of the train station. I stifled a broken chuckle and scratched my head as I looked at his pale wrinkled face, “I-It has to be on me somewhere...”

He crossed his arms over his navy blue uniformed chest and his identical colored brixton hat tipped as he sighed with his head hung, which allowed a puffy fog to slip out of his mouth to amplify the sheer presence of winter. I stabbed my cold hands into my camel double-breasted trench coat’s pockets and found nothing, well, aside from the formal letter I got from the Detective Agency.

“I’m gonna have to ask you to step aside. We have other people that needs to get in, ma’am,” the man’s emerald eyes peered at me. "If you can’t find your passport, I’ll ask one of the conductors to help ya’ look for it while the train is still ’ere."

I was about to protest, but suddenly I remembered the spot I had hidden my passport. It rested lightly on my chest; snuggled finely on the side of my bosom. I unfastened a few of the buttons on the upper portion of my coat and retrieved the passport from my inside pocket. He was hardly surprised; more so irritated, but I offered it to him with a polite smile and he took it without further disruptions.

He announced, “Amani Marshall, yeah?”

“The one and only, sir,” I nodded with a faint smile. “I’m here on business. I’ll be staying here for quite a while.”

“Is that right…?” he scanned over my passport, almost speculating. “You’re a Wallenstein girl, huh? Why’d you come to Rochester? Business is booming last I checked, and the money talks pretty well.”

“Well, money isn’t my biggest concern now, sir. I’m searching for someone, and my current job tends to put me in the right position to find this person here. It’s a complicated situation.”

He closed the book while in the clutches of his white gloved fingers and handed it back to me, “Well, I hope that job of yours doesn’t put ya’ in the wrong spot, lady. It ain’t safe out ’ere, and it damn well isn’t the best to go huntin’ for people.”

“I’ll be just fine, sir. Thank you for your concern--” I squinted to read the nametag hanging nearby his left shoulder. "--Roger. I appreciate it."

He swept his arm across the outside booth’s counter and ushered me towards the glass double doors leading into the train station. I politely bowed and picked up my vintage traveling suitcase with one hand and holding the strap of my satchel with my other. I left the company of the old man and the long line of citizens, for I was soon embraced by winter’s divine presence that consisted of white petals and silent air. I could feel the soles of my booted feet crunch against the earth, but oddly enough, it plagued me with uncontrollable shivers. It wasn’t fierce, or pleasant; more so in between and like human beings and their nature. There was a balance of character that winter had brought that ranged from happiness to bitter visions of the past.

It was a snowy night when my father was shot in the back by one of my subordinates and thrown into the Balk Sea. He died protecting me as the Assistant Director of Wallenstein’s Police Department. However, the nightmare didn’t just end with his death. The rogue subordinate framed me, for I was the only person to witness the death and evidence was pushed against me because I bore the insignia of the criminal.

I stared down at my hand that clutched the puller on my vintage suitcase and noted that the devilish, circling serpent on the top of my hand was still present, but it was slightly faint. I grimaced, "Ouroboros..."

That was the last word the rogue subordinate said to me, and that term had been fresh in my memory for three months. With that term, and the evidence I have, I will track him down and bring him to justice. It is the only commitment I have left in this world as a runaway. I have no family, and I cannot burden my friends with my selfish ambition. This is my last chance.

I trudged through the small snowy mountains and stared up at the somber sky as it ominously lingered above my head. There was not a whisper to be heard; however, only the muffled crunching of the snow under my foot rose. I buttoned up my coat and settled half of my face beneath my coat’s collar, “I’ll have to get used to this weather.”

Suddenly, a quaking horn jumped across the sky and shook the surface, which also made me turn around to witness the steam train preparing to start up to leave the station. A magnanimous cloud of smoke seeped out the nose of the front, slid down the sides, and crowded the safety walkway on the side for travelers. A train conductor stuck his head out of one of the windows and another held onto the silver railing beside the steps leading up to the doors entering the train cars. The one holding onto the silver railing called out, “All aboard!”

It was odd that I chose to speculate their preparations, but it simply reminded me of how my best friend, Olivia, felt when I escaped Wallenstein. She merely watched as the passenger cars set off with me aboard. She didn’t wave or even shout my name as I departed. She only cried while holding me at gunpoint between the glass. Our relationship could never be the same.

I sighed to alleviate my heavy heart from the tension that suddenly clenched it and pulled out the letter I had received from the Detective Agency. As a crowd of former passengers passed by me to enter the train station, I read the letter as the light snow enveloped me.


Dear Ms. Amani Marshall,

The Detective Agency is well-aware of your situation and we would like to uncover the truth of the matter concerning your father’s death and your protection. Maxwell Marshall was a key ally and dear friend to us when he lived here, and we would like to repay his family for his service with us. Now, we are considering the information you have given us to accommodate your discoveries. For now, you will live at our headquarters in the Twilight District to cover your escape from the authorities. Trust in us, for you will be safe. Attached to this letter will be your ticket to Rochester and a full-scale map of the city. We shall be expecting you, and please, do take care on your way here, Ms. Marshall.

Sincerely, R.


I folded the letter back up and placed it into my coat’s pocket, but I pondered about this “R” individual. The Detective Agency is known across the continent by its many successes in solving mysteries that surrounded serial killers, kidnappings, and undercover organizations spreading drugs that shook the foundation of our country in the last decade or so. Rochester is ideally known as an astronomical-sized city that is covered in a hazy cloud of smoke and loud police sirens at night. There was always bolstering activity on every corner, but silent admonition in the depths of its’ darkness. The city’s roots were as ancient as the buildings residing on the edges of the cobblestone streets, and it’s genuinely famous for its’ landmark that has traveled through time to the present and resided at the heart of the city. The famous clock tower, Dawn of Time, was spoken of in my father’s dairy. It meant something to him, but I didn’t know what, for there were plenty of things he kept from his only daughter. I managed to find his dairy as it drifted on one of the shores of the Balk Sea, and thanks to it, I could learn information I never knew before. Surprisingly, everything was intact despite it drifting along the surface of the ocean. Still, it felt like my father wanted me to find it. I was beginning to walk forward and begin my journey of uncovering my father’s death, but my thoughts went back to the ending of the excerpt that I read. It troubled me.


February 20, 1998 (Continued...)

...My partner, Fidel Brix, and I were thinking about Stacy’s last words for a long time, but couldn’t come up with a clear conclusion of Ouroboros. We didn’t know if it was an alias of a person, a movement, or an organization. Still, we had to find the true meaning behind it. We believed Tanner would know something, and so we left Stacy’s Bench, but unfortunately, we never went there again and I never saw Stacy again. She simply…disappeared.