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in death. Perhaps Janus would have conceded at least that
much, if not the larger analogy concerning killers and
wolves. Although, if I’m being honest, I’m none too fond
of the analogy myself, as no wolf was ever possessed of the
powers of an artist, let alone the vision of a dreamer.
I nearly collapsed into a seat on the now tenantless,
broken train, injuries pushing my mind further and further
into blackness. I imagined my blood as the sole, dwindling
weight anchoring me to the earth. As it leaked away, I feared
drifting into the sun, where yellow gods peer from an infinite
boredom, laying a sick-warm sight upon dead worlds long
rusted into their orbits. I grasped the armrests to form an
additional hold upon the world. Slowly, my mind started
to inch back into focus. My eyes slowly moved across the
combat theater turned art gallery that had formed almost
organically from the day’s events. Poor Janus, I thought,
looking at his three faces, each spilling its collection of
chaos across the floor. What has the world lost with your
passing?
I hoped whatever was lost from Janus had been conserved
within Jack. Of course, my hopes were the same regarding
the Mad Merc and myself, but I felt only shame—nothing
of the unique forces or insights that had made a monster
out of a common killer-for-hire. I had hoped to learn at
least something of the means by which one might enter the
delightful place he mentioned, but I was no wiser for having
held his head in my hands.
I wasn’t sure if the blood loss had affected my vision,
or if the previous dream had continued to swell like some
contusion upon the skin of reality itself, but the passenger
car in front of me seemed to house some remaining particles
of life. As far as I knew, all the previous occupants were now
the wet ornaments of Jack’s grinning holiday. I could see
dark shapes drifting through the aisles, moving away from
me, apparently engaging some greater and more distant

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