A unique look at all forms of expression. Unencumbered by logic, credentials or ego, this is ImageChaos. Just like the Twilight Zone… but smarter.

“Demon.” The statement was as much a question as it was a reiteration of fact. The Writer looked up from his document where he’d been taking notes. The interactive nano-ink stopped displaying audio-wave form and the text beneath halted its transcription. Warm brown eyes met the Writer’s and Valentine smiled.

“Not demon in the biblical sense. Or any other religious sense. I imagine that their appearances have started such mythologies, but yes, demon.” Valentine folded his hands as he regarded the Writer across the table. “I understand that much of what I will be explaining to you will be difficult for you to understand – as difficult as it was for the world to accept the Event as it occured. Though, I ask your patience as we proceed.”

“Alright,” the Writer said slowly. He reached out and took up the glass to take a sip. It gave him an opportunity to consider his thoughts before asking his question. “So, this demon. If not, you know, fire and brimstone, what exactly is it?”

Valentine frowned slightly as if in thought. He glanced at the ceiling. “Let’s see… Well, in layman’s terms, they are extra-dimensional beings. Sentient creatures from an alternate reality than the one we currently inhabit. They possess qualities and abilities that we do not and, I suppose understandably, they do not possess the same moral senses that we do as humans.”

The audio wave-form began again and the nano-ink on the Writer’s slate began transcribing once again. The Writer produced a stylus and began jotting notes next to the transcription. He felt the beginnings of disbelief well within his mind, a sort of cold tension in the pit of his stomach. Denial. But this was what he did. He sought these truths and recorded for them for the world to see and to, ultimately, understand.

Even now, fourteen years later, news programs regularly speculated on The Event. They brought in experts of science and technology, philosophers, religious theologians and government officials all in an attempt to understand what exactly occurred that day when the stars winked out and the sun turned blue. When the ground opened up beneath the capital city of the United States and swallowed half the buildings and structures there. When Valentine rose from that fissure and set things as they were before.

The image graced the cover of all newspapers and magazines for the next twenty-four months. Floating, arms outstretched to either side. Dark, sinuous symbols crawling along his skin. Eyes and mouth opened impossibly wide in a silent scream.

“Abilities? What do you mean by that?” The Writer asked.

“It is widely believed that the average human only uses ten percent of his brain. Which, as you should know, is complete rubbish. The human mind is a immaculately designed machine capable of sorting through terrabytes of data each moment to focus on what we deem important. This is because of the nature of our universe and of our evolution. Demons, similarly, are capable of many astounding things. For example, there is one sort of demon that can withstand direct impact from our Navy’s experimental railgun projects.” Valentine shrugged lightly. “There are some whose concept of time is so skewed that they can only communicate in the past tense but they are incredibly fast. Those sorts of things.”

“And the demons think that the human ability to sort through information is remarkable?”

“In some respects, yes. Mind you, while there are demons that we consider as gifted with celerity, there are others who think the same of us. There are some realities that are very near parallel to our own in which the only difference is an overall global temperature of fifteen degrees warmer. They have gills.” Valentine explained. The Writer must have shown perplexity in his expression because Valentine continued. “This is all beside the point. There are very, very few realities that actively interact with our own. Many aren’t aware of the others or simply don’t care.”

“Why did the demon appear in your office that day? What does that have to do with The Event?”

Valentine tapped his lips thoughtfully, then nodded. “The demons were part of the Event. Also, this will begin to explain the world that I live in. The world that I try to protect the general public from.”

The Writer paused in his note-taking. “Why do you do that?”

“Because, Hageson, I am this reality’s last Mage.”

This gritty, well-paced action-mystery does the titular character justice.

It wasn’t the first time someone spat on me but it was the first time blood accompanied it. I reached into a drawer of my desk, retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the spittle that had punctuated Jenna Hawthorne’s statement from my cheek. Across from me Hawthorne glared, as if to bore a hole through my skull with her hatred. That, too, was not a new sentiment. I tossed the tissue into the trash then leaned back in my chair to regard her.

“I don’t consider myself a villain, an evil person or an asshole,” I replied, keeping my voice soft, slowing the pace of my words. She was angry and I found at times like these a slow, even tone was required. “I am a businessman, Miss Hawthorne. I deal with industrial technologies, not human lives. Certain news media outlets would suggest otherwise, but…” I trailed off and and watched as her cheeks flushed with fury. In a way, it was somewhat amusing – for me at least. “Now, what would lead you to believe that I am, in any way, evil?”

“You sold your soul to the devil for power and wealth,” she hissed. There was such fury behind the statement that she trembled. I tell my employees that stress kills and I bring in expensive speakers and motivators to make sure that they have the tools available to them to keep the stress in their lives low. I worried about the young woman’s heart.

I would like to state that I hated this office. The desk was some sort of mahogany monstrosity and the walls covered with a rather useless bit of art. There were pieces of non-functional things everywhere. Behind me, a wide expanse of rolling green which gave way to the Chesapeake in the distance. There were no other buildings between my view and the water and the roads that cut through the forest was only noticeable by the subtle gaps in forest foliage. I had to turn around to view it, of course and I found this particularly irksome. What is the use of a beautiful view that cannot be seen while working? Aside from that, the office was far too large. The interior designer I’d hired said that it conveyed power and intimidation.

I’d just wanted someplace to do my work.

This devil accusation was such a part of my life – every interview, every conversation – that to bring it up to me, even now, causes my mind to wander. Better that, I suppose, than cutting back with an inappropriate response. “Contrary to popular belief perpetuated by the media: as far as I know, I still have my soul. With that aside, I think it’s important that we focus on the issue at hand. Why did you try to kill me?”

Her plan, I gathered later from videotape and records, had been to infiltrate the administration and get close enough to shoot or stab me. She’d been working in the company to that end for three years. She’d been at the company picnic that past summer. She sat before me wearing a dark power suit – the type that women wear that simply results in them looking overstuffed and awkward. Her hair, which had come loose in struggle with security, hung around her face in pale strands.

“Central Africa,” she said.

And of course I knew where the conversation was headed, and retrieved a disk from another drawer. “There’s drought in Africa, hundreds of thousands are dying and you’re doing nothing.” She tensed and I could see the conviction in her eyes. If she hadn’t been restrained, I would not have been over surprised if she tried to attack me. Again.

I twirled the crystal flattened sphere of the computer disk and set it on the desk. It spun slowly, casting prysmatic shards of light about the office. A particularly bright shaft of light hit me in the eye. I didn’t appreciate that. “I donate millions to the affected areas of the world, Miss Hawthorne.”

“But you can do more,” she shot back. “Damn you, Valentine, you’re a fucking mage!”

I raised a hand as the disk’s spin increased. It threw light upwards into the air above the desk and displayed a shimmering sphere, Earth. “These are the affected areas, yes?” I pointed out, then steepled my fingers. “This is a basic weather simulator. Change the weather in any part of the planet and move forward. Say 50 years. Oh, yes, sorry.” I released her from her invisible bonds.

Hawthorne glared at me for several long seconds and, again I thought she might leap the two meter wide desk to tackle me. She worked her arms tentatively. Finally, her eyes swept up to the globe and she reached out a hand. I watched as she manipulated data and rainfall, watching the consequences with a quiet, seething rage. She grew more frustrated with each passing moment as the world would not relent to her will.

I raised a hand and took the controls from her, manipulating data. “If I were to divert and direct reasonable weather to Central Africa.” The area of the world pulsed a bright blue. “As time wore on,” I set the timeline in motion, I’d done this before. “Monsoon season in Asia is brutal. Hurricane season everywhere else is stronger. Trillions of dollars in damages, hundreds of thousands dead, drowned.” The areas indicated darkened.

“You can’t put a price on human lives,” she began hotly. I could see that she didn’t want to believe me or the computer. Doubtless she thought this a trick or ruse.

“With water diverted, other parts of the world face drought. More dead. The Atlantic and Pacific oceanic current engines will be disrupted. Jet streams realigned. The world’s weather in chaos,” great swaths of the globe dimmed until only the narrow band of Central Africa remained alight. “Ten billion men and women over fifty years. The end of human civilization. Given the choice, Miss Hawthorne, would you make that decision?”

I watched her eyes, they still resisted, did not believe. I offered her a smile when we were interrupted by a gentle tone from my desk’s telephone. “Excuse me.” I pressed the intercom button and the chipper, over excited voice of my intern-assistant piped through the speakers, “Mr. Valentine, the police are here for Miss Hawthorne.”

“Thank you, Charlene. Send them in.”

As they bore her away, she stared at the globe. The narrow strip of light slowly dimmed as they timeline below the holographic globe progressed. It was a scenario I had been through on my own countless times. There was little I could do that the people could not do themselves. Hence the reason for my yearly eight figure donations. I couldn’t put a price on human life, misery or death, but hopefully some of my money could help.

There were far more dangerous issues that I had to handle.

As the door shut behind the police and Hawthorne, a demon sat in the chair that Hawthorne had just vacated, staring at the globe.

Every year I tell my self that things will be different. That projects fallen by the wayside will be taken up once again and that those plans for my future will be firmed and acted upon. Every year. And every year I say that that year will be different from the previous. And every year it is the same.

Every year it is the same monotony, the same failed hopes and broken dreams. The same plans forgotten. The same day in and day out of wishing and hoping for a change that I know will never come.

This year… This coming year I hope will be different, but rather than hope for an entire year of change. I will take it at ten days at a time. Ten days. Ten days is easy.

So, ten days it is.