By now it's routine to glance at the Clock. The Clock, or the Cosmati tiles that make up the gear-works of the gate the has opened twice before. Taking turns, sifting through the resonance-messages that waft out like newly-lit incense.

This time it isn't routine.

Bang. It's that first drag on a cigarette, veins cutting off oxygen to the brain as tar seeps into the body. Bang. It's kissing someone you shouldn't, and wanting more. Bang. It's picking up a dropped wallet and watching the owner walk away without a word.

Every time the gun fires, it's the smile of Andrew Cunanan.

Stolen lives, drown in the sticky-sweet stench that comes with the rush of power from the Abyss. Where Paradox is the gut-wrenching struggle against the darkness, this is a warm, wet line shivering down the spine. It's a promise.

A forgettable man with a chameleon's gift for moving through society hides the exultation within of knowing and becoming something more. Something great, and powerful, and fearsome. It's in his eyes now. On the tip of his tongue.

He's so close.

The memories of these messages cling and stick like and oil spill in seawater.