Don't Trip Down The..

At most, I could be considered a neutral party with good intentions. If you live long enough in the world these days, you learn that all things are not black and white. Everyone lives in shades of gray, they just don't advertise their wrong-doings to the world. I mean, who does? You'd have to be a fool to consider blemishing your reputation out of some misguided attempt at moral honesty.

Well.. I am a fool. I will tell the world in the same breath that I've had to steal food to survive, that I do ithat I gave a homeless man my last $5 last Tuesday so HE could eat. People have to survive, and often times what we have to do to ensure that survival isn't pretty. Life, itself, isn't all love hope and rainbows, though once upon a time I did believe so.

My name, for those of you that haven't met me yet, is Dia. I run a hostel of sorts, for those that have no other safe place to go. At all times, there are at least half a dozen people camping in my home or on my land. The kind of people that are running from their personal demons, their past, or even worse the kind of demons most people can't see. I charge the ones that can afford it, and put the rest to work.

Everyone is capable of labor: be it emotional, helping out their neighbors when they're afraid and feeling alone; be it mental, teaching those around them how to survive out in the cold when every twig breaking sounds like the next attack; or physical, fixing the things that mysteriously break in the middle of the night, cooking what food we can muster up so no one goes to bed hungry, or building new features onto the land so that more may visit without having to camp in a tent to survive.

I don't want to give the wrong impression, none of us are what you'd call rich, not even me. I lose more money helping the survivors than they could possibly be of benefit to me, but I can't bring myself to turn them away. 

The sneakthieves, the swindlers, and the suspiciously well off are just as welcome in my home as the beggars. Their scams and plans keep us afloat in the times no one else can pitch in.

Most don't stay for more than a few days. Some don't even speak beyond a text message alerting me to their arrival and a text message alerting me to their departures. Others come for a few hours, to take stock of their personal inventory and catch a few zzz's in the warmth before they start 'traveling' again.

I don't mind. I've become the equivalent of a very fucked up den mother, and their presence helps keep the nightmares at bay. There are occasions where the supplemental income of my visitors helped keep the roof over all our heads, when my 'side jobs' aren't enough to pay the bills.

Don't get me twisted. I enforce an incredibly strict code of conduct for anyone that steps foot on my land. All previous grudges, battles, beefs, animosities, or claimed 'sides' to the supernatural battle are suspended once they become one of my 'flock.' Petty squabbles are sent over the property lines: I don't frankly care who does what outside of my tiny jurisdiction. 

More serious offenses, however..

Those are met with hostility and violence. I make no secret of who I've been or what I am capable of. Minor offenses are harshly reprimanded and result in steep fines or food procural. 

Heavier offenses, such as theft, dishonesty, or deliberate withholding of information that could save a life, those are met with a crowbar to the knee, a la Joker style. The worst offenses, such as violence towards another visitor or the baiting of traps to lead towards the incarceration or death of my visitors.. 

Well, I'll be honest. There are more than a few unmarked graves on my land, filled with the bodies of those whose heads I've blown off with a 12gauge shotgun. I feel no remorse for their deaths. They knew the price of disobeying the tenets of my home.

Why am I explaining all this to you? Well, dear reader, I was once much more involved in the supernatural community than I am now. I've changed names and property titles more than most have changed jobs. It's necessary to keep ahead of those that have decided they want my head on a pike.

I've successfully been able to stay three steps ahead of the game for approximately five years.. until today. 

Today, I found an object lying on my bedspread after I got home from work that I haven't seen in six years: the Gatherer notebook I kept while I was still employed by the 'darker side.'

Gatherers, for those that don't know, are basically sleeper agents that gather information on the 'light side' by pretending to be survivors, that feed said information to Procurerers or Berserkers. Depending on how valuable or dangerous to their cause you are, this information can lead to your kidnapping or violent death.

Yes, yes, I used to be one of these people. I'm not proud of it, but I don't feel guilty either. The skills I gleaned during my time of employ have saved more lives than I can ever count. My 'kill count' is lower than my 'save count.' Thus, the scales are tilted favorably towards me.

Before I formally 'ran,' I had a meeting with a very cranky individual known as the Messenger (or as I liked to call him to annoy him, Messi). He was a techy Gatherer, with a permanent chip on his shoulder and bags under his eyes. I won't go into what happened to him yet, that's a story for another day, but suffice to say I had my reasons. At the end of my meeting, I bequeathed to him my most prized and dangerous object:

You guessed it. The very same notebook, innocently lying on my bed, as if it never left my hands. Inside this notebook is a copious amount of information, including: my real name, privileged information on both Runners and Proxies (the official names for those on each side of the war), and my true kill count. This notebook was meant to be released to the community at large upon the event of my death, past the time I would care about the consequences of my actions. I wanted to be remembered, selfishly, despite my many crimes.

The notebook was supposed to be kept in monitored storage, locked away from prying eyes for many years to come. I'm not sure how the notebook fell out of Messi's hands, but you can be rest assured heads are going to roll.

Because this time, I'm not running. I'm not a Runner anymore. I'm a Survivor, with a truckload of stories to tell you guys.

But for now? Whoever left this, warning received. It's time to watch my back and start profiling people again. If I had a guess, The Great Game is about to come sprawling onto my doorstep.

I'll be ready this time.