It was small and handy. Covered in black leather, lying in his hand smoothly and smelling like only leather could. Darker spots on the surface indicated the heavy contact it had with his fingers. The sweat and mechanical stresses were slowly eating away at it. Soon he would have to replace it as it was.
It was his Notebook, the record of a life in small letters on yellowing pages. It was all that kept his memories in order, the times and places from falling apart completely. Even though looking now at some of his writing he was reminded of things buried so deeply that it was almost watching himself doing them, another one holding his body in a grip so firm that he could not escape it.

[Date a few weeks after the intro]I still wonder what happened that day, but seeing that I keep loosing track of things I will write things down from now on. Today they died. Bitter and the others did not survive the wounds the bomb inflicted on them. Inflicted sounds nice, right? They tell me that it helps. Its one of their strategies for coping with losses. Get distant, get another perspective. KIA they are called. they were torn to little shreds, their skin burnt off. If I close my eyes I still see that ball of fire, I can still feel the heat on my skin. The Doctors keep telling me, that it is normal, too. I apparently need time to process things.

I dont think they really understand. They say I have been here for weeks. And I cannot seem to get hold on the time. Its running through my fingers as I write these lines.

I know that waiting will do no good. Something has changed that day. They told me I have a special gene a few days ago. I had to ask a nurse as to when they got the results before I wrote this. It was all so song ago. And somehow it is still happening in my head. A mutation they call it. Another one of their pretty words. And when they do they look scared for some reason.
Its not them that has it though. How am I supposed to keep going like this?
Ever since that day they they step around me like I would tear them to shreds anytime. They even considered me a candidate for the bomber they havent found.

What is happening here?

Turning the pages slowly he found a newspaper article of the German Die Zeit cut out roughly. The edges were supporting their fair share of stains in brown. Small rings of liquid had soaked the paper as a cup was placed on it, while reading it seemed. And the reader was either addicted or quite insatiable if going by the number of stains. Nowhere on the article was the familiar heading with date and number of Paper. It had been removed with the rest of the pages top, which ended not in a cut, but in a torn edge.

Smoothing it out with an almost gentle touch
-The paper made sounds that faintly sounded like those of falls leaves under feet and had the same feeling to it; was it going to break from those few contacts with his gloves even? He would have to find another one, but that would be a challenge for another day -
on an old wooden table he began reading, the familiar design and style, the language. His lips moved slowly as if he was reciting a prayer.

Ist es wirklich ein Bund?

Nachdem gestern …...

Is there really unity in our force?

After the horrifying attack on five recruits in southern Bavaria earlier this week, four succumbed to their wounds a few days ago. Still the reason for the bombing is a mystery, but well informed sources from the Federal Ministry of Defense have now confirmed mutant involvement in the deaths of not only these soldiers, but also in several other unexplained killings over the last few years.
Official statements still deny any mutant activity, especially ruling out mutant soldiers as possible threats. The Colonel of the training facility went even so far as to tell reporters:

“My boys, be they mutant or not, have nothing to do with the incident during training of the [date]”

He was shortly after transferred to what we can now exclusively report to be the MAD. Both MAD and Ministry of Defense refuse to comment any further then saying that the running investigation in all directions will not be commented on.

A federal funeral has been organized for the killed trainees, to which both the Bundespräsident and Chancellor have already announced their presence.

See also: Commentary page 3,4 History of mutant violence page 5

A sudden wind blew over the pages, turned them in a flutter. Grabbing hands were unable to stop the turning of the pages, before the winds quieted on their own. The page that was opened had s small brown stain on its bottom.

Today I went looking in the alleys for people like me, since I had overheard some of the -Ill just write less respectable people here- talk about it. The voices spoke to me of war. Bloodshed between mutants in some of the remoter parts of the city. At first I thought it to be only another rumor, but I went to check it out. If it was right, there might be something needed to be done. I took great care, not to be seen, since I had some off feeling in my gut, and it turns out it was right. No one was there, as expected, or rather: Not expected. It all was off just a little, but finally I noticed. The garbage cans were not empty, but not overflowing either, yet the ground too clean. Not even rests of cigarettes or much other litter lay around. Some was still there, yes, but much too few for this type of place. The faint smell of blood hung in the air and though they had been cleaned the bricks of the wall still held traces of blood in some remote places. I put some of it on the end of this page. For some reason I felt I owed it to its owner. Maybe I can find out, who that it is and save them yet.

Just outside the view of every major force this had happened. Police did not come here and it will take some pushing to even get them to look at this place. How convenient for those who did this. And its far to far off any of the major roads to be of interest to any of the other powers I see as well. I just do not think that this was a mutant fight. Its well to clean. To well hidden for most of them. I fear my gut may be right yet another time.

What if.... This really needed to stop!

The page ends with more stains of blood. Each one drawn out like a line. ||||

The normal feeling, the feeling of peace, that usually comes with being at home. It is gone.
It has been quiet lately. The places where people like me tended to go are empty, not even the occasional human coming there any more as they appear to be in lock down all together. So empty are the back alleys, where those move, that unlike me cannot hide their difference, shying away from watchful eyes. From the hatred and the disgusted looks. Vanishing from the contempt. It seems we were mistaken in assuming that nobody watched us. Now the ways are empty, because one after another we realized that the peace is over, that a war has started. I just hope that at least some warned others. That the mechanisms of modern communication continued to spread the word. Why does it make me tremble? Why do these feelings in my gut don't stop?

I am afraid.

And the streets are full of people. But there are no more or less then before - maybe a little less, but that is nearly impossible to tell even from my point of view. They are going on with their lives as always, ignorant of what is happening. Everyone just seems to be ignorant. The news are not reporting anything. The papers might just be empty for all that is written in them. I notice now though. I am beginning to notice the slight changes. Climates of the crowd that have nothing to do with the weather. The careful movements and scared looks of those that know and cannot hide it. It is so strange to see them. It is even more strange to stop seeing them.

I have given up searching the scenes. The leftovers that are given to me mockingly, to any mutant who wants to see them. Someone wants us to know. Someone wants fear to spread. And it works. I am out of tears already for those who died. And every move I discover says just one thing. It is just beginning.

Some of my friends, normal people I knew from before, they have last been seen at a club, whose owner has gone missing. It was not a mutant club though. The message is clear to me, as are the intentions behind it. Or so I keep thinking. The police tells me I am overly suspicious. That I may be ill. I am not ill. I am not seeing things. They just don't look well enough. Clear enough. Its as if someone there did not want to find things. Always smiling politely, they now sent me away for the last time. It is a warning I clearly understand. Come back and you die. Die like the others.

I am afraid, that there is no time to be afraid.

The Doctors efforts at patching me up have been completed. I was moved to rehab. And the nurses are gone, in their stead I got a drill instructor for a Rehab doc. He keeps shouting at me like I did something wrong. I can still feel the ringing in my ears and it keeps me going from day to day. Its my very own jingle. Vicious would be a good word for him. If there were just any emotions in his voice, but quite on the contrary he is just cold. Shouting at me, yet his eyes remain so calm that I question his motivation. Is he yelling, because he has to? Because someone made him? But then, today if I am not wrong again, he simply stopped in mid-sentence. So did everything else. So did I. We were just standing there in the room looking at each other while I failed again at push ups. He had just screamed at me again, Told me what a miserable excuse for a soldier I was. He wanted to grab my neck. He did grab it I think. And then we stopped. Nobody stirred yet his hand was glued at my neck. I did not even so much as breathe. It was one of the first times. I was so scared that I started crying.
It was the same as back then. The fireball. The shovel. Bombing. Shrapnel. It felt so different and was so much the same.

The next thing I know is that I'm lying on the ground, breathing heavily. It is so hard to forget. I wanted to forget that day. I wanted to forget every day. Why me? Somehow I cracked the icy shell around my torturer. He was staring at me that day. And it was his turn to look very scared.

He had been reading for some time now. The pages were slowly turning themselves, went on and on without end. The ideas of today, experiences of yesterday, they were one. Then his probing hands were met with resistance. Two pages had turned at once, leaving the stories of a single day unfinished before him. When he tried to separate them, he found that there was a force holding them together that was strong. Maybe even so strong as to be glue. He needed to read them, experience them. He dug into the paper, daring it to reveal its secrets, first trying with a gentle tickle, then with a forceful push.

He was left with two single pages. Each had left parts of itself on the other, obscuring the view on the letters that were written there in his own hand. Shock. Disbelief. Nothing. The book was clenched tightly it responded by gently exposing its back to him, that glue, that held all of them together. White. Blank.

The words that were not obscured led him to a distant place. Memories so close.

I told you that it is no good. You're wrong. You saw what he can do. Let Margret tell you if you don't believe me. Fear. Why were they so full of fear? Why were the voices so loud? Why were they angry? And why were they afraid? It was all so blurry. Brightly colored shadows blooming, glooming over his view. And even if you wont listen its the only thing shes babbling about anyways. If he could have done something then he would have. Are you sure? Are you really sure? I thought so. Greasy hands put a blackened part of metal on the dark floor. There were specks of rust between the black strewn in like pockmarks. The coating did not hold back all water properly. Little cracks widened slowly, while the disease had already spread farther. They would have to redo it soon. I'm really not sure how it broke this time, but I can tell you our good ol' lady is going to be in perfect health. No? But the load? Doesn't matter. But they disappeared. Right in front of your doorstep. And you did not see a single thing? You did not hear a single thing? They were murdered right in that alley behind your shop! Can you see their blood? Smell it? Screaming in your nose back there. Its peoples blood for heavens sake. Another much too clean environment for that kind of flophouse. He had dreaded finding one. It had found him. Another few lines that stained a white paper. It was thrown at the man. He did not look. No. Do you really think this is nothing? Hes just different. Oh yes he is. He really is. Dancing leaves of colors, voices. Think we are nothing? Think at all? Shovelhead. The walk home was rainy. He liked the water. It left a clean smell everywhere, even washed away some things he did not want to see any more. Why? And if I have to rip that IV out of him by myself Ill do it. Don t count on me to rescue you. Grasping. Brown eyes so unlike his own looked at him from the shadows. You'll get to know her little quirks soon enough. Shes really a good girl. Why? He was scared. The red liquid was slowly oozing towards him, to him, wanted to get to him. He felt like running away. Why? Oh my you dropped something again. The voice was not really angered. It was a concerned look on a womans face. She bent down to gather him up. They were....

Just little parts of his own memories.

Research has its benefits