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its preservation—along with a burgeoning black market for
            Darkness artifacts, known as Obscuruum. A hopeless project
            to be sure, the official preservation effort had been abandoned
            years ago. Yet most of the structures still remained, though
            they were largely shunned by all but the biggest cities and
            universities.
               I  happily  sorted  through  hundreds  of  bizarre  baubles
            before  finding  my  signpost.  In  a  box  marked  monsters,  I
            recovered yellowed newspaper clippings tracking the antics
            of persons referred to by certain medical professionals as
            Noctu-psychotics,  or Noctupaths—individuals  possessed
            of such Post-Darkness insanity that they proved capable of
            inhuman feats. It was speculated that they evolved a mental
            equilibrium with the Darkness, tapping into vast storehouses
            of human potential.  Unfortunately, when the Darkness
            concluded, so too did the functional nature of the strange
            adaptations,  abandoning  affected  persons  to  a  world  no
            longer capable of making sense of them, or to them. Her near-
            impossible feats of murder placed Black Molly on a short
            list of killers suspected of being Noctupaths. The articles
            detailing her exploits were many and varied, not to mention
            enthralling. But one stood out above all others—the tale and
            location of her fist recorded kill. She would have abandoned
            much of herself to such a place, clues she’s since learned not
            to leave behind. And many of her doting well-wishers would
            likely flock to such a place—beginnings often overflowed
            with power, and few were stronger or more compelling than
            that of Black Molly Patience.
               Likely due to its proximity to New Victoria, Coldchester
            housed a train station—though it was so run down I could
            scarcely believe any trains still called upon it at all. And the
            complete  lack  of travelers  did  little  to  bolster  that  belief.
            So  when  a  train  did  indeed  make  its  scheduled  stop,  I
            was happily surprised. The interior seemed oddly lean, as
            if the small number of commuters had caused its belly to
            narrow from malnutrition. I took a seat in a dark corner, the
            84 | Mark Anzalone
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