Mere Puppets

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low
 And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
I'd been looking for shelter all day, but the only thing I found was a bench with a statue sitting on it (thanks). I was busy putting up a Runner sign for "no shelter" when I heard footsteps. I drew my knife, quietly as I could, and turned around.

I didn't want to hurt anyone, but I didn't want to get hurt either.

I was expecting it to be some kind of common mugger. Wasn't, of course. I can never get the regular dangerous criminals. But I'll get to that.

The newcomer went for me right away, no hesitation. I shoved him away and brandished my knife. No reaction at all. He just lunged at me again. I briefly set aside my personal distaste for violence, but he still didn't react in the slightest, other than being pushed back and having his would-be attack more or less nullified.

Then I noticed the strings.

They were very thin, almost invisible, but they were there. He was a Puppet, a servant of the Wooden Girl. The fear of control.

I should've known.

I took that as my cue. I aimed above the Puppet's head, hoping to cut the strings on him. He just grabbed at my arm. I grimaced. His grip was tight as a vice. Then he knocked my knife away. I was fully prepared to die, at that point.

In an interesting twist of events, I heard a voice behind me say, "Hands off, jerk." The Puppet turned around, possibly a fortunate remnant of his former humanity.

The next few moments passed even more quickly than the ones preceding them. I saw hands tear away the Puppet's, and then I saw the newcomer push the Puppet away before shooting him several times. I dove for my knife.

"Wait a sec," said my rescuer, who was still eyeing the Puppet. I stood up and dusted myself off.

"Who are you, then?" I asked.
"Eric. Eric Zane."
"Eric Zane."
"Yes."
"Like the Lovecraft story?"
"Like the—? Runners. Nerds, all of you," Eric muttered, running his hand through his hair in irritation. "Anyways, I'd come with me if I were you. And quick," he said, nodding at the Puppet, who was still lying on the ground.
"And you want me to trust you because...?"
"I'm with ARC."
I groaned. "Why?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" He sighed. "Whatever. Point is, I work for Anomaly Research and Combat—"
"I know what ARC stands for—"
"And we need your help."
"What?" I asked, utterly dumbfounded.
"You heard me. You've got a certain... moral core, H—," Eric said, using my real first name. "And you've got firsthand knowledge of Runner culture. The signs, the mythology, all that."
"You know my name?"
"Who doesn't?" Eric replied. "Everyone's heard of you."
"Flattery doesn't work on me, but I appreciate the effort."
"You'd assume someone with your... condition would take whatever he can get."
"It's called anxiety."
"Yeah, yeah," Eric said. "Speaking of which, we can help you."
"What, like therapy?"
"Like food and shelter. You've already seen how tough it is to survive without those things, haven't you?"
"...Yeah."
"Alright. Then come with me. And quick." He shot at the Puppet. "That thing has been trying to stand up again for the past... half a minute?... and you didn't even notice. You're welcome." He then walked over to the Puppet and cut his strings. Now he was just an ordinary corpse.

I guess that proved his point quickly enough.

I'm working with ARC now. Not as a member, as an ally. Not because I want to, because I have to.

If I'm being honest, I feel like I've betrayed my fellow Runners. I mean, ARC is willing to let us die if they think it'll send a message, if the other day was any indication.

At least this particular bad mood is a change of pace.

- Poe