The Chronicles of Virgil
 

The courts of the Magog Cartel (With the notable exception of the Grand High Magog Courts) are amongst the most inefficient, dishonorable, and tasteless in all the history of Oddworld, if not then THE most. Over the decades, countless verdicts have been changed, altered, swapped, lost, found, redirected, burned, incinerated, handed out as flyers, and used for compost, based solely on whether the defendant or the accuser had the larger, more generous pocketbook. This twisted system would have been cast aside years ago, if not for the undeniable entertainment value. The masses of the Magog craved spectacle, and the courts delivered it in such ways that had not been seen since the infamous, now illegal, meat circuses of the ancient days. Drama, lies, confrontation, and violence; the grim crowds feasted upon such, and formed quite the fan base for late night viewing of publicly sponsored hangings and grindings.

All in all, the whole lot was quite nicely summarized by the motto of the courts of the odious Magog Cartel, which was visible from the outside and upon the stationary of every courthouse in the land:

In fraud we trust.

Virgil glanced at these immortal words on the courthouse structure. They appeared below three giant Glukkon head statues, the eyes glowing yellow, the mouths contributing filth to the air. Of course, he had little time to ponder this, as his cage shook and began to move. The BigBro carrying his birdcage-ish transportation devise shook it madly as he lumbered over to the door of the courthouse, electro-rod in his beefy, manicured hand, just in case. He swaggered into the defiled temple of law, and made his way down the hallway. Mudokon attendants had to be rushed out to smooth out the carpets afterwards (BigBros were not designed with stepping lively in mind). All this time, Virgil simply hummed an operatic tune to himself. When in prison and faced with almost certain death, the condemned often resort to many differing activities. Some try to reconcile with some previously unknown god they had managed to completely ignore throughout their life until now. Some write out a last message. Some think calmly to themselves. Some contemplate escape. Or suicide.

Virgil…he composed operatic ballads in his head. Epic ones, of at least 3 acts each, complete with prefered casting lists (Were he ever able to produce any of his shows).

Finally, they entered a vast chamber. At the far corners, the Mudokon janitorial staff could be seen removing a recent execution, whilst the Sligs responsible for the mess cleaned their rifles and laughed. The Chroniclers were shuffling their papers, making paper airplanes and the like, usually setting fire to them first with their cigarettes. And at the end of the hall, there stood the Glukkon justices, each one more hideous than the last, and all leering. Virgil fought off the inclination to sneeze. The BigBro stood before the council and held for the cage.

“Virgil the Slig,” said the central judge, who seemed to suffer from both a thick (What we would refer to as) Russian accent and a head cold, “The Grand, Holier-Than-Thou Justices of this most grand court…find you guilty of high treason.”

A Slig standing in front of a group of cameras held up translation cards for the legal-lingo inept of the populous watching from the discomfort of their own homes. It read simply: “He’s screwed.” Virgil cast a wary eye towards his (court-appointed) defense attorney. “Oh well, that’s life isn’t it?” shrugged the Chronicler, who then hastily finished his notes and hopped out the door. The condemned attention was drawn back to the central pulpits, however. “And as such, you’re sentence must fall as thus.” The Glukkon took a deep breath for emphasis. Too deep, perhaps, for he passed out, and a suitable substitute was arranged for instantly. This new judge straitened himself up, and continued off the key cards. “We have discussed your situation amongst ourselves, and believe we have a rather…unique solution to the problem.” The executioners groaned. Unique meant it would most likely be some tastefully job, probably preformed by those butchers the Vykkers, or perhaps someone else. The main problem was, it wasn’t them. Really ruined the day for them, and they thought it quite inconsiderate that they not be given the chance to further improve their marksmanship. Virgil highly doubted that they would loose sleep over it, though.

The Glukkons on the council simply leered. They leered at Virgil, the cameras, the firing squad, the Chroniclers, and (No doubt for a change of pace) at each other. The tension was thicken enough to be cut, quite literally, with a knife, although a chainsaw would have faired better and been more efficient to boot.

Virgil waited for his sentence to fall.

To Be Continued…

WOW.

That's all I can say. You are about as good as they come. This is better-written than mine. You now suceed me in the rank of Best Fanfic Writer.

I want more.

Holy Geezuz on a goat! Welcome, to the society of coherent Fan Fics or 2005! Along with, well, Dipstikkio. :p

That has to be one of the best lines ever. Sweet going. We shall wait for more... :)

We aim to please. :)

Expect the next chapter soon. Tomorrow at the soonest, Friday at the latest. I'm glad you all like it...or that you at least are polite enough to fain appreciation. :p

Sweet. We'll be looking foward to the new chapter.

Will we ever know Virgils crime?

That's for me to know, and you to find out...maybe. :p

Woah....this story is excellent, Nepharski-I love it!! It's very suspenseful and well-written. I can't wait to find out what his sentence is! ;)

It began to rain outside, not that anyone would have noticed. Still, the vibrations of the pitter pats on the ground added to the discomfort of the situation. Virgil began tapping his mechanical foot impatiently, and tried to recall where he had left off on his sonnet. His musings, however, we interrupted yet again by his leering audience.

Virgil had always been, well, different from most other Sligs. In a populous with a surplus of deadbeat losers, Virgil was, at the very least, an intelligent loser. He named himself Virgil. He thought it fit quite nicely (Better than the, “names,” offered up by his peers, anyway). Moving right along, Virgil had always felt less than stellar in his environs of iron and corruption. It wasn’t that he minded these things. On the contrary, he was aptly fit and suited to play at Magog politics, and play well. He was bored. Uninterested. Depressed. Cynical. He was suffering from a prolonged mid-life crisis, shall we say? Some who suffer buy sports cars. Others loose their minds.

Virgil plotted the downfall of the Magog itself.

It had started as a pet project, really. A little chaos here, monetary depression over here, screw with the bank in the middle, etc. But it soon grew to a time consuming task. There were corporations to ruin and politicians to blackmail, and the day wasn’t getting any longer. It wasn’t that Virgil cared, but rather that he didn’t. He was so fed up with the insideous, monotonous world around him, the he decided to destroy it all just for a change of pace. Make things interesting again.

Virgil had no idea just how interesting things would become.

“Virgil the Slig,” rumbled a deep throated Glukkon, “You have been found most disgustingly guilty of treason against the crown, the corporations, and the almighty dollar!” A group of robbed Glukkon priests (Read: Zealous bankers) in the back nodded their heads and murmured strange things at this. “However, despite the instantaneous gratification and high rating potential, we have elected not to have you shot. In fact, we have decided not to have you directly killed at all.” At this, one of the executioners ran from the hall in tears, and across the city many a television was switched off in disgust (“No violence? Then what good is it!?”). Still, the Glukkon continued in his impressively deep voice. “Instead…you are to be banished.”

“Banished?” Virgil raised a makeshift eyebrow at the judges. “That’s it? No torture? No water in the face? No 50 lashes with a whip? Good Odd, and you call yourselves masters of justice? Whatever is the world coming to?”

“SILENCE!” Cried an older Glukkon on the side. Virgil stopped. “Jackass,” muttered the old judge, and he nodded for the deep throated Glukkon to continue. He turned and looked Virgil straight in the eyes. “You have been banished to the outer Jungles of Morica in the desert to the south, where you are to spend the rest of your pathetic, worthless days. Remove his pants.” The BigBro stepped forwards and ruthlessly yanked off Virgil’s mechanical feet, and crushed them between his fingers, into a tin can. Virgil flopped uncomfortably onto the ground. “Now foul shmuck…begone!”
A trapdoor opened up under Virgil, and he was sucked down an iron well. The courtroom soon pasted from all vision and thought. Virgil was mildly annoyed by the whole situation, which I think is only fair. He could see nothing as he zoomed at top speed down some forgotten pipe to some Oddawful wasteland someplace. He shuddered and tried to remember, again, where he had left off on his ballad. Unfortunately, when whizzing through an underground hole faster than could possibly be measured to God only knows what destination, remembering the melody you were previously working on is often tragically missing from the list of things one is able to do to pass the time.

Eventually, the tube leveled out, and Virgil was shot out and into a shallow pool. He sluggishly tried to right himself, but turned only in time to see the portal cap close. Written on in, in graffiti as it would seem, we’re the words, “Screw you slacker!” He sighed, and turned to face his new home…the jungle.

To Be Continued…

Very good I really like this story, it has so much description that it lets you imagine it much better. Here were my favourite bits:

That made me chuckle it did. And:
That was another funny bit. But there is one thing I need to point out:
Oddworld doesn't use dollars, it uses moolah. So surely it would be the almighty moolah? But still a very good chapter. I look forward to the next!

I know. I debated over it for a few minutes, then wrote down dollar because I felt it flowed better.

Nice chapter, Nepharski. Banishment, huh? This story is getting more and more interesting already and it's only the second chapter! :D I, too, am looking forward to the next part. ;)

:D

Unless I lose myself in The Curse of Monkey Island again, I just might be able to continue tonight!

A special thanks for everyone's support. This is my first fanfiction, so it's nice to get off on a good foot.

Cool, I hope that you do get the update up today, this is a great fic!

Fabulous writing. Really, awesome stuff. Keep it up. :)

You know what it reminds me of? The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Is anyone else getting that vibe?

You're very welcome. :) Whaa???? This is your FIRST fanfic?!! *jaw drops in awe* Wow, this story is REALLY good to be your first one! :D You've really got great writing talent if this is your first one and it's this good already. ;) And as for Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, I haven't seen that movie, so I wouldn't know. But perhaps I'd have the same feeling if I had went to see it. ;)

It doesn't really remind me of Hitchhiker's Guide, but maybe I'm just odd.

:D:D:D

It's hard to explain my situation, but suffice to say this may take a little longer than intended. I'll bring you more as soon as I can, definitely before the end of the week. It's a little thing I refer to as, "Limited screen time," if you know what I mean. It's coming, though. It's coming.

Ah, Monkey Island. You're making the happy thoughts come back. :)

Nice new chapter, by the way.

Good stuff, Nepharski. I'm impressed.
Looking forward to the next installment.

NOTE: I offer my apologies for the most insidious delay, but due to an unforeseen combination of pink eye and season one of Monk on DVD, I was unable to bring you this chapter sooner. I’ll try to bring the next one quickly to make up for lost time. Thank you.

...

The palms swayed in the breeze, as if dancing, and a gentle wind quietly brushed the sandy floor. Dawn had come, and the denizens of the natural garden began to go about their daily routine. Bees hummed melodiously through the air, and birds chirped sonnets to each other.

Needless to say, Virgil hated it; all of it; every last gleam of natural joy.

It had been a few months since his initial exile to the jungle swamp, and he had vaguely managed to settle in, but he still couldn’t get over those infernally beautiful sunrises. Perhaps the walls of steel and advertisements back home and melded his view of the world. It didn’t really matter.

The first order of business had been to secure transportation. His pants robbed from him on the day of judgment, Virgil put his limited motor skills to use and constructed a sort of wheelchair. It was made of wood, bound with twine, and got terrible mileage; but it was still preferable to the disgusting alternative, despite the lack of parking spaces. Wheels in hand, he roamed throughout the wilderness, a bit happier and cleaner, and decided he must keep himself busy for an eventual return to civilization. He set about undertaking seemingly impossible tasks to cure his boredom. At first, he attempted to clean the jungle (He had always been slightly Germaphobic). He fashioned a broom of sorts and did as he had seen the Muds do. He spent a few days in a desperate delirium, which would have explained his lack of acknowledging that he was sweeping dirt off of a dirt ground, but eventually his sense returned to him accompanied by the sniggering of some of his primal neighbors, the fauna of the jungle. Having become himself again, he discovered it to be a far more interesting use of his time to use his broom to beat the snot out of his aforementioned neighbors; and more practical to boot (Not to mention a superb stress reliever).

After a long while, Virgil managed to create basic plans for what would be his temporary home. Drawing in the sand with sticks, he laid a basic design for a house. He would never build it, of course, but it was nice to imagine. In the mean time, he spent his days chasing various creatures off his property with a rather large stick, and cursing at them. Unfortunately for him, they learned to be considerate and left him alone. Every man needs a hobby, and Virgil had just lost his. He tried keeping a journal to compensate, but after the first few pages he grew rather apathetic.

On fine day, he wheeled his way up a rock onto a bizarre rock-hill that jutted above all the surrounding trees. He sat there, viewing the lavender sky. Suddenly, the tedium was too much, and he began to argue with Odd. Virgil had always considered himself to be slightly open-minded in terms of religion, and decided that now might be an excellent time to give a higher being a peace of his mind (That is, if there was one). He had never been positive as to how the universe had come into being, be it accident or divine intervention, but there was one thing he was certain of: Someone, somewhere, had lost a bet. And so he ranted on to the clouds, the stars, the heavens, anything above the trees really, and not about anything in particular; just in general. He complained about the dust, the creatures, the loneliness, lack of proper resting facilities, the economy, his jackass of an older brother, golf, television, the justice system, heavy rains, light rains, morons, fanatics, poison ivy, bloodthirsty Paramites, and why he didn’t have a girlfriend (He was just getting warmed up). He was about to continue, when the clouds turned menacing and a thunder began. Virgil concluded that this was adequate rebuttal, and scurried off just as a lightning bolt shocked past the rock. For the next few days, it rained. It wasn’t, however, a heavy or a light rain of which Virgil had moaned endlessly about; it was a very pleasant, mediocre, mild rain. The best kind of rain, as some would say. From then on, Virgil always took to arguing about the weather, and (Be it a bizarre coincidence or perhaps something more) he was usually greeted with what he wanted in terms of aerial climate control. It was rather nice. Then he grew apathetic again. Another hobby down the drain (And a pity, for he fancied passing himself off as a weather man for his return).

Having no one to talk to, Virgil went about collecting stones of various shapes and sizes, and naming them. Insane? Perhaps, but he desperately needed to address someone. He gave each one a fitting name, based on its color or size or whatnot. So far, he had Gary, Farzad, Leorne, Sherry, Alf, Kristen, Xavier, Will, and Atushi. They had many, “Interesting discussions,” and Virgil enjoyed experiencing his, “Friends,” and their various opinions, such as they were.

Virgil hobbled off to sleep that night, forgoing the urge to chat with the almighty again, and leaned back in his wheelchair and sighed. Tomorrow would be boring again. None of his hobbies lasted. He’d most likely dash the stones and turn to other interests. Yes, tomorrow would be painfully dull. He drifted off to sleep, unaware of how very wrong he was.

To Be Continued…

Great chapter, Nepharski-it was very enjoyable to read. :) It seemed to get inside of Virgil's mind a bit more and that's what was so interesting about it. ;)

Heh, funny chapter! I liked these bits the most:
Heh, funny that was.
A bet creating the universe? Funny stuff. :)
A little reference to the creators of Oddworld and some of our most esteemed members here eh Nepharski? :D

Funny and well written chapter. We demand more!

*applauds*
Well written and interesting to read.
I'm eager to see where this is going.

*Slaps Neph with wet fish*

Do more! It's good!

Okay, I'm bumping this piece of teen English lit. upwards, on account of my return and hopeful completion of the story, which I (In poor taste) discontinued with my absence.

Expect updates soon. Sorry for keeping the masses waiting.

Coolness, this fic will go on!! Can't wait for the update 'Pharsk, you've been gone a while haven't you?

It should be no secret that people's brains tend to me smarter than the actual people to whom the brain's belong. It's people who want to see whether or not it is possible to bite or hurt oneself, but the brain that says, politely, to the teeth, "Damned if you do." It is because of this subtle piloting that no one ever noticed Rumor Kontrol.

Rumor Kontrol was a grand building with exceptional architecture and banners and smoother, calculated design. But, for all the people who took time to admire it, it might as well have been a rusted old warehouse that smelled of onions because, inheriantly, no one ever looked at it. Despite curiousity's best efforts, the brains of all those not-so-innocent bystanders who were unfortunate to drift or dwell within the mere shadow of Rumor Kontrol, were naturally programmed to blur it out. No one saw it. For all official purposes, it didn't exist, and people knew it didn't exist because Rumor Kontrol took special care to come out and directly announce their lack of existance. Daily. The actual purpose of Rumor Kontrol was often wondered of by those whose brains were not on the same page as everyone elses, because everyone else knew better. Sticking one's nose or any other appendage into Rumor Kontrol buisness was a definite non-survival trait, and those who did anyway never did anything else again.

And so, the hours clicked by.

Deep within the bowls of the unofficial building with it's unofficial staff, an unofficial janitor was unoccicially clearing out an unnofficial office that was, at a change of pace, officially shut down. The desk was carried off for the woodchippers and various objects of questionable existance were hauled off for inspection (AKA to be filed someplace and forgotten about). Finally, the janitor turned to the door of the office, and removed the plate on the front, tossing it into a trash can. The letters V, I, R, and half of G were visible from within the waste. Afterwards, anyone who set foot in, or merely touched the doornob of, the room was disinfected and rushed into the inspection champers (AKA put someplace from where escape was improbable and forgotten about). Shortly there after, the word "Virgil" was erased from all records and newsreels and, eventually, was schedualed to be erased from the general populous' minds when brainwashing was legal again (once every Wendsday). Soon, eveyone would forget he had ever existed.

Well, almost everyone...

Virgil had been incarcerated under the charge of disrupting the Magog Cartel. That was what everyone was officially told. The truth was that he was stealing (His defense insisted borrowing, however) company secrets...and when your company is, itself, a secret, that tends to create problems.

Problems like Virgil.

Fortunately, Rumor Kontrol was well equiped to handled problems, namely by making them somebody elses.

But not this time. This time, they needed to don the gloves themselves. Virgil was to valuable to be killed...

...Yet.

To Be Continued...

A triumphant return!
This beats my story to death. Makes me feel inadequate.
You're astounding. Please, please ... no more six month vacations.
Please...

Yay, Nepharski is back and back with a mission! :p Anyway, that chapter was a great one. It's a good way to start up the story again and I enjoyed it basically because of the description used to describe Rumor Kontrol. ;) Nice work.

nice, but yet intresting

Woah, great chapter! Your writing talent is as good as ever, if not even better! Fantastic chapter, please don't make us wait this long again, this is another case of a story too good to be put on hold.

Not to worry. If all works out, I plan on writing and releasing it on a weekly basis, every Friday or so.

Silence. Dead silence. Never is there more activity anywhere, than when it is silent, generally because of the large amount of excess activities persued in order to keep the primary one quiet. Silence is, perhaps, the greatest attention-getting ploy available. Armed with this knowledge, a sudden cacophany of noise was generated from seemingly nowhere at all. No one investigated the noise, of course, because if they (Those involved) weren't going to go to all the trouble of masking it, then they (Those not involved) weren't going to got to all the trouble of un-masking it. It was genius. Pure genius.

Deep below, giant machinations and belows pumped into furnaces and tubes which connected in seemingly intangible ways to yet other feats of industrial imagination. Unidentifiable fluids circulated through machines the sun was never meant to shine on. Finally, all finished in a bizarre, steampunkian contraption, which dripped a reddish liquid. Said liquid was collected in an orblike glass incased in a cage-like holder. Once the flow ended, someone closed the jar.

"Ahh, perfection. No mortal or god has ever seen the likes of this, nor ever will again."

Footsteps faded away. Another voice broke in.

"Now then, all we need to do is refine it. Yes, that will suffice."

There was a crash.

"Err...hmmm. Now where is the janitorial staff?"

There was a moment's pause, interupted by constant hissings and oozings.

"...And where in Odd's name is the floor going?"


It was dawn in the jungle. Time for life to continue moving again. A young paramite step out from it's hive. It had never been alone before. The world was sooo big! It pranced a little along the floor, then began sniffing around. Ah, the adventure. It's primative musings were interupted by a whizzing sound, followed by a thumb in the sand, which captured it's attention. The creature scattled over to this new curiousity, and began to examine it, as only an animal can. What is it? Oh! Cold! Very cold! But smooth. Ah, sooo smooth. Feels nice. A smooth rock! Who would have guessed it? And perfectly round too! This...is the best rock EVER! I should bring it back to my friends! Wait...what's that sound it's making so fast...and faster...and faster...and fas-

The explosion, needless to say, sparked everyone's attention. Particularly those of a nearby Slig, and I am not talking about Virgil. "Bullseye! Bwhaha!" There was a mechanical hum, and a flying Slig swooped into the scene. Who knew a career in freelance scouting could be so self-fufulling? He zipped past the wreckage, loading up another grenade in hopes of more quary.

He found Virgil. Propped up in his make-shift wheel chair, the Slig was fast asleep. It occured to the flying Slig how inexplicably odd it was to see another Slig in the middle of all this, ugh, nature. It then occured to him that he should probably either stop his course or watch where he was going. And then...nothing occured to him ever again. The second explosion, so soon after the first, was seen by the inhabitants of the jungle as nothing more than a lame cash-in on the first, and no where near the fine quality and tragic drama of the original (Besides, it wasn't so much of an explosion as it was a..."Splat"). Virgil, however, thought differently...but then most would, finding a charred wreckage of a flying machine all over their nicely-trimmed lawn.

To Be Continued...

Good chapter, as ever. very mysterious gonigs on with this machinery, it's another oddworld mystery story that I'm dying to know the answer to (The other, by Shrink ,hasn't been updated in ages.) Anyway, good stuff. And nice way to reintroduce Virgil. The bit with the paramite and the grenade somehow reminded me of the whale contemplating life in Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Great chapter, keep it up. :) And Happy new Year!

My inspiration hath been revealed.

I really hate to do this, but I'm in the middle of another, Oddworld-related, project right now, so the story is on Hiatus for about a week. Just an update for all my Dog Food Ganstas.

Virgil never got around to clearing up the scarred wreckage on his front yard. He felt it was sufficient deteraint against trespassers of all shapes, what with the calamity of it all. Besides, it reminded him of home, and happier times...or at least, less angst-ridden times. He would have invited people in to show it off, but there were no people for many miles, so he mostly showed it off to himself. Course, the crash was not without consequence. The smell arising from it was..."unique" to say the lest, and what's more, the craft had crushed poor Kristen, one of his favorite rocks. Still, live was somewhat improved over how it had previously been. Virgil took one last look at the carcass of the machine, then fell asleep, reclined in his wheelchair.

Night fell. Everyone was asleep on the jungle floor, and in the trees. Above the trees, however...

Slowly, it loomed, like a pregnant beast on a steep incline of stairs. Despite the ackwardness of it's movement, however, it remained relatively silent. Well, accept for the forebodding music that played during it's traveles.

"Must you play that?"
"What!? We're effing looming here, in case you didn't notice! You can't loom without the proper theme music."
"But, the element of surpris-"
"Element of surprise!? Don't see that one on the periodic table."
"But-"
"LOOK! If we're going to loom, then by Odd we're going to loom professionally!"

The craft stoped over a conspicuous clearing. The music cut ("Oh, thank Odd!"). In the light of the ship, two forms could be seen; one was green and thin and lying on a rock, and the other was mechanical and marring an otherwise flawlessly cut yard. Without a word, the ship sent down setinals to retrieve the wreckage and the slig. After all, it was natural to assume a pilot of theirs, despite a tendacy to go off Jungle storming without notice, would wisely stay next to his Flying harness for them to pick him up. Soon after collecting the cargo, the vessel began to move again, although this time it was moving much faster, and not looming whatsoever.

"See!? We're not looming any more. Turn it off!"
"How do ya figure?"
"How do I figure? They just said so!"
"Oh! Time to get the standard travel music then, eh?"

There was a gunshot, and then there was silence. The craft shuffled on.

To Be Continued...

"LOOK! If we're going to loom, then by Odd we're going to loom professionally!"

Bravo.
This gets curiouser and curiouser.
Hooray for you!
I'm too jealous of this for words.
Virgil > my story

Virgil blinked.

It was raining outside. He knew this, because he could hear it, but otherwise he had no idea whether or not it was a lie. The world was fuzzy, and not in the way people usually prefer. Like a bad home-movie. He heard muffled voices surrounding him. If they said anything worth hearing, he missed that. The rain was the predominant sound.

Virgil blinked.

He was fully aware of his situation. They thought he was someone else, no doubt that Slig he'd seen crash in the jungle. Of course, their mistake was going to have horrible repercusions on him when the figured out it was not their long lost comrade, who's body was busy fertilizing Virgil's lawn. He sighed. They wasn't much he could do at this point, nor wanted to do. What he did want to do, however, was blame someone. Anyone. Anyone else.

"Winters," he muttered, and then he passed out again.


Winters. Now there was a chap the likes of which you wouldn't meet in a dark or even well-lit ally, nor want to. He was exactly the kind of person you would usually predetermine someone named Winters in Winters' possition to be. He pushed buttons, and people were miserable. He snapped his figures, and chaos spread. He wrote a note on the back of a napkin and handed it discreetly to someone from under the table, and profound confusion was instigated.

But, nobody every actually died, that is to say not directly anyway. That's what all the rumors stressed. That's all any of it was. Rumor, and Rumor Kontrol.

There are some people who were born, specifically, mandated by higher powers to serve specific purposes. Winters had full knowedge of his purpose, and he carried it out to the letter; the initiating and preserving of confusion in mass numbers. The Magog Cartel never wanted anyone to trace any kind of line to anything, especially not a straight one. Someone need to deliberately mess up the system. That someone was, supposedly, Winters. Numerous black lists had his name engraved upon them, and more than one secret society was formed bent soley on his destruction. Pipe dreams, unfortunately. No one was in any possition to do anything, benefitial or otherwise, to Winters. He was untouchable, untraceable, and thusly invincible.

Virgil knew why. That was the start of his troubles to begin with.

To Be Continued...

The tiny slurg in the back loves this. Odd!!! how's my fan fic going to compare????:eek: