Co-Pilot

HAVE YOU SEEN THE SIGN?

“Someone, help her!” “What use is it. She is no more.” (Actors, perform!) (A thunderous crescendo of orchestral tremor erupts alongside a blast of cosmic air—swift!—faster!—ever faster!) It was not yet the New Year, yet the Orchestra beside Garnier lay besieged by the multitude. Within that venerable hall—once sacred, now repurposed into a coliseum of memory and madness—unfolded a drama born from the esoteric fragments of Al-Ghazali, a forgotten playwright from the Maghrebi night. The pillars bore scars: scratches of knives, sigils of blood, and corpses pendulous like fruits of heretical gardens… Encircled by a swarm of wagons and their skeletal sais, it was clear that some had already succumbed—just moments after the arrival of Patron (Askan) and Battaile (Anounilh), sovereign guests of the Avant-Garde Front. They reclined in the primus row, amidst other high-strata tacticians of the Neo-Nationalist Creed. The drama spanned slightly beyond 48 minutes—yet time dilated. Askan squandered the minutes in polite discourse with his retinue of Maids and Butlers in the second row. Anounilh, in contrast, observed the spectacle alongside Messrs. Apollinaire, Valois, and Montherlant—not to critique, but to savour. They relished the bloodletting, the ritualistic cleaving—so vividly symbolic of their Carnalist Revival and wretched Neo-Druidic aesthetic, void of art yet brimming with sacrament. They shared no words—but their glances collided like blades, their smiles twisted into some grotesque mutual agreement… Then came the second act: pyrotechnics and duochrome shadows danced across the air like ghosts. The perfume of the elite saturated the nostrils—suffocating, irresistible. Askan inhaled. Actors began to shed their selves, boiling into alien dances, accompanied by erotic maidens, brine-soaked wines, and spinning cauldrons of blood sausage thrown like relics onto the dais and pulpit. No chaos—until the Sacrifice of Isaac. Blood sold well that evening, but the cost was nausea and regurgitation. Anounilh stiffened—his flesh rose with desire. His saliva hung from the corners of his lips like apostasy. The urge to pleasure himself overwhelmed him—a sin born of the stage and the succubi within it. Then came the third: the intellectual collapse. Madness overtook the performers—one drew a pistol, blew his mind into the rafters. Others collapsed into carefully-curated orgies. Swift! Rapid couplings! Sublime entropy! The curtain fell. Applause. Trumpets in non-harmony. Jet engines overhead. Askan was unimpressed. But he was not unmoved. He admired the velocity—the rhythm, the spinning, the ballistic poetry of words spewed like shrapnel during the performance. They exited with glacial dignity. Askan was flanked by his attendants. Behind him, Anounilh walked with her surrealist cohort. In the periphery, Askan glimpsed four bodies—actors, patrons, perhaps martyrs—hauled into wagons by sais in stained uniforms. And more. And more… The Maids urged him to the car. Orders from Anounilh. He obeyed. The vehicle carried him into the night, toward the Citadel Office.

La Soleil. It shone—like judgment. A lighthouse, a spire of nova-light, now stood where Eiffel once crowned the skyline. This was the beacon of France Eternal—France reborn. And soon, La Soleil would outshine even the sun. When that day arrives—they shall shoot the sun from the sky. In the limousine, Askan gazed beyond the bulletproof glass. Graffiti-art blossomed like heresies across steel walls, restaurants glowing in haphazard color. Burned remnants dotted the roadside. Ash and oil in sacred patterns. Sais shouted. Wagons trundled. Neon signs glitched. Imperfect. But perfect enough—for those willing to cross beyond reality… even God Himself. Could he? He did not know. For two days now, Anounilh had refused him audience. Her limo preceded his—surrounded by a cavalcade of Sina Cavalry, their steeds synchronized to the pulse of the empire. He could not hear what she said within—but he did not wish to. France outside was too radiant to abandon. The streets, the orthodoxy, the asphalt scented like resurrection… MacBeth played in C minor. Unnamed conductor. In the cabin, strings wept beside whispered nihilistic debates. And the palace approached. Askan exited. Maids encircled him, a Butler leading. He realized: they moved like a shield, their steps a dance of protection. Anounilh had arrived earlier. Twenty minutes prior. From the Western Balcony, she watched. Her heart raced—when Askan emerged, she ignited. But she restrained herself. Strangely, Askan felt it. At the threshold, he saw her. Yet fear bridled his throat. He said nothing. A Maid behind him whispered, “Did you forget something, my Lord?” “No…” he replied. He looked back up—but Anounilh had vanished like a myth. “Nothing’s missing. Let’s go.” Yet his eyes lingered. Above—Anounilh crouched. Her fingers slid beneath her soaked uniform. Still trembling. Still aroused. Her shame dripped onto the floor. She saw her reflection in a window’s ghost—filthy. Defiled. But not by him. Had Askan seen her? That thought crushed her. She wept. She stared at the viscous proof of her lust on her palm. White. Clear. So full of life. Jealousy struck. Was this not the remedy she had worshipped in place of wine? But why did it fail her now? “…Why, Patron?” she whispered. She wet herself. And could not lift her gaze from her own degradation. Her sobbing grew violent. Her face twisted in sorrow—a corpse in motion. Then—an idea. Or rather, a calling. Her fingers found the pistol at her belt—the same gun that had bid Baudelair farewell. Still cold. Used in Balkan executions. Still efficient. She drew it. Rage surged. She imagined blood rising in her throat, but it was illusion. She smiled. The girl in the reflection wiped away her tears. Yes, maybe that was enough. She whispered: “Patron… lately, my heart races when I think of you. Is that fair? Is that right? Each night I dream that his vision will be born through me. But now… he belongs to someone else. Doesn’t he?” The pistol rose. Her jaw opened. The barrel kissed her tongue. “Two bullets. One for Baudelair. One for—” Her mind extinguished. But life clung. Liquid gushed between her thighs. Her face flushed. Not dead. She opened her eyes. Blue sky. Mockery from above. She let the pistol drop and muttered: “God… perhaps… I am fated for him, yes?” She smiled—an answer to God’s insult. “Heh. I know how fragile you are. How jealous. He’s mine! O heaven, he is mine!” She howled like a low hymn. Behind the doorway, Askan watched. He trembled. And from him came torrents of seed, enough to weaken his knees and soak his boots.

The Sign ...

Whispers drifted like incense among the marble halls of the Maids’ quarters. Their voices, veiled in lace and suspicion, wound like serpents through the quiet corridors: “Since yesterday... there’s dissonance between Patron and Lady Battaile...” “Perhaps something happened—” “What, exactly?” “Two nights past, the Patron was seen fleeing through the corridor—seen by Lady Bourgin and Lady Lecerf. They claim he had soiled himself. No further details... but that’s what’s whispered.” “Where are Lady Bourgin and Lecerf now? I wished to hear the rest...” “You best hush. If Lady Battaile learns of this...” “She has grown strange since that day... And Patron? How fares he?” “The Patron—” (they glance at Chastain) “—Lady Chastain, what say you?” “Eh... Erm... Not well, I fear... The last dossier I submitted remains untouched.” “But he is alright... yes?” “I dare not confirm. Even if I asked, he would not answer. He seems... brittle,—” “I feel guilty. I thought of him while—last night—during my pleasure...” “I too—” “As did I...” “I feel shame... admitting it aloud...” “But you did, didn’t you?” “Young fool...” Lady Chastain merely nodded, crimson staining her cheeks. She turned away, scrubbing the crystal panes with uncharacteristic fervor, head shaking with every weakening stroke—perhaps recalling something obscene. Who could know? The other Maids found her rather charming. Elsewhere, Patron Askan remained sequestered within his sanctum—visitors denied. Yet Maids and Butlers were permitted entry, so long as they bore tools of bureaucracy: pens, papers, paintings, sustenance... He was unwell. The sensation of being watched no longer came in waves—it was constant now. Even during self-pleasure he could not find reprieve, forced to glance constantly at corners, canvases, ceilings... searching for sanctuary. Since the vile event on the Western Balcony, his chest had thundered without peace. Some neural lesion was blooming within him. He refused to leave his chamber, relying upon Maids to ferry objects and offerings. Of Anounilh—there was no sign. No message, no wire. Yet each official document bore her unmistakable signature. She was here.

But what she sent yesterday...

A Maid had brought it—papers from Lady Battaile’s own hand. One file in particular felt wrong: grotesquely thick, ludicrously wide, yet weightless. Within: a single page... and a dislodged gift box, tilted awkwardly. He reached for the paper—failed. Something sticky. He tore it, cursed himself. Familiar scent. The Maid, still present, was counting papers nearby. He asked, weakly: “Who sent this?” “Ah—yes, Patron. Lady Battaile. From her office... I am not to know more.” Her tone was melodic. Measured. Beautiful. But Askan panicked. His mouth trembled. No, it could not be. Not from her. Could it? No—no! He begged himself not to imagine it, not to recall what he’d seen—that trembling figure on the balcony, her fingers frantic in blasphemy. And he... pleasuring himself as he thought of it... of her... under sky... His chest stabbed with every heartbeat. Fast. Too fast. It hurt. The Maid stood concerned. “Patron, are you... unwell?” He could not answer. All his strength had abandoned him—fled to his legs, quivering like a prophet’s last prayer. What did it mean? What did she intend? What was Anounilh doing in her office now? Worse than Baudelair. Terror born anew. The Maid moved closer, voice like a bell in a cathedral— “Patron—shall I summon Monsieur Dubost?” “No—wait, please... I don’t need—” “But you look—” She was right to fear. He looked ruined. Drenched in sweat. Reeking of womanhood. His body rotting from within. “I’m fine.” he barked—his voice frail, begging. “Patron, I—” “Please... don’t make me say it again... I just need rest. That’s all... Can you trust me? Please?” The Maid obeyed. She gathered papers, filed them in ritual order. Perhaps she knew he was beyond salvation—but duty was sacred. When done, she left. At last—Askan was alone. He collapsed, knees aflame. He dragged himself to the chair, collapsed into it. His eyes refused to blink. The painted Renaissance sky above began to shimmer, twist, bend upon itself. His head screamed. His spirit was pierced. His hands trembled, burned. Breath like sandpaper. Sweat like oil. He could not stop trembling. Everything orbited him. The world spiraled around him. And all his thoughts: Anounilh. Her image rotating, fracturing. Her smile—a torment. Then—he remembered. There had been something inside the file. His arm flailed forward, retrieving the package. Inside: slime. Warm. Then searing. His skin itched, burned. He cursed her—but love made hatred impossible. It was a box. Small. Palm-sized. Wrapped in a ribbon of leper’s fire. He cut it open. And in the moment his fingers touched the knot, her face returned: sad, smiling, then terrifying. She was watching him. Even now—wherever she was—she was pleasuring herself, merging with his memory. He gasped. A vision— A painting. Yes! A painting. Finally, his mind found some direction. He opened the box— And screamed. He hurled it against the wall. Something shattered. Askan lost his mind. His scream echoed across centuries. The Maid burst through the door—she had been waiting. She shrieked for help. But Askan was beyond help. He writhed, foamed, shattered. He fell from his chair, scattering documents, coiling like a fetus upon the floor. The Maid rushed forward, embraced him. His body pulsed faintly—like a dying star. More Maids came—ten of them. Three Butlers followed, then Dr. Dubost. They carried the Patron to the Grand Hall—more spacious, better ventilated. Suitable for recovery—or ruin. Forget decorum. Askan was dying. They left behind two Maids to clean the office. They did so in silence, efficiently. But two things they refused to touch: the massive dossier... and the small pistol, slick with blood and soaked in the fluid of a woman’s longing.

); Askan revived at dusk. Around 6 p.m. After his meal, he returned to his office, flanked by four Maids. He did not meet Anounilh. But he was greeted by Messrs. Apollinaire, Montherlant, and Valois—who offered their condolences in such cryptic language that Askan barely understood them. Back in the office, calm returned. Lights restored. The dossier waited on the desk. The pistol on the floor. And oddly—he felt no fear. No discomfort. Even arousal returned—and he smiled. But he had no desire for indulgence. He walked to the sofa. Sat. Reclined. Slept. The Maids remained. They gently closed the door behind them. “I pity the Patron...” “Well, Lady Battaile has shown him no mercy.” “I worry. If they keep giving him morphine... it may soothe him, but he’ll become a slave to it.” “I don’t care. Let him dream... Let him be.” “Actors always dream beautiful dreams... their roles are divine.” They departed. A presence lingered in the hall. Listening. Was this how we thank him? With drugs? He held the nation in his bleeding hands. Not alone—no. With her. “You’re a good girl, Chastain... Today, you’re a heroine of the Maids!” “Let’s celebrate. An intimate party tonight?” “With pleasure.” “Yes.” “Certainly.” Indeed. Someone entered Askan’s chamber.

The Coup d'etat Scene

The corridor was saturated with paintings, hung from walls, ceiling, and soon even the floor itself began to betray its solidity, melting into yellow and red watercolor. In the middle of this delirious tableau stood Askan, uncertain of what he beheld, and just as the boundary between perception and presence began to blur, an Aubade began to sing. The voice, crystalline and orthodox, struck like liturgy under glass—perfect in volume, structured, uncanny in its beauty. The choral texture floated, unbound by origin, weightless yet commanding. No mouth, no hand, no choir—yet the air trembled with sound. Art had reached its apex: the art of the voice, of sacred structure. He walked, compelled to seek its source, but no figure revealed itself within the range of his gaze. Instruments were played, breath blown into rhythm, yet no bodies labored. No one. Still, he walked. And then he exited the corridor. It led into a space, perhaps a chamber or square, indistinct and glowing. He turned his head, scanning the strange geometry, and there—suspended from a thread of impossible cable—a single lamp hung from the sky, its glow thin and patient. A garden-lamp. He approached, seeking comprehension, but before he could touch it, the surface collapsed like a mirror punched from within. Shards of perception fell away. Askan now found himself in void. But his eyes did not rest. The black in his gaze rolled upward and downward like wheels. There was no one. With the disappearance of the surface, anxiety returned—was he above or below? Was he falling or buried? Was he blind or deaf? He paused. Not that. A pipe. A long pipe. Since when had it been there? "Since when... is this?" He questioned his ignorance. Then he bent down, examined the pipe. Its width matched a sewer's throat, its odor offensive but familiar, its touch unpleasant and yet recognizably human. Its length—unknown. So, he stood again, holding the pipe tightly as a directional tether. He feared losing it, as he had lost the field before. He walked, breath shallow, thoughts filled with pounding curiosity. When he pulled lightly on the pipe, a stinging vibration traveled through it—signaling that someone—or something—was at the other end. He continued. His breath whispered out, again and again. Occasionally he tugged at the pipe, confirming that the presence remained. Still trembling. Still moving. Still shivering. This began to delight him. "Wait there, yes." He whispered as he advanced toward a destination unnamed. In time, he saw another surface—a field of brightness, illuminated within a mad ocean of void. The place resembled a hilltop garden, green grass blooming with too much ease, as if freshly tilled by an invisible plough. The surface widened as Askan approached—widened and widened. Two young dendalu trees stood there, not yet ancient. And when he was fifteen meters away, he quickened his steps. The pipe was gently released, slowly, as he neared the place. And he arrived. He quickly sought shade beneath the bough of a dendalu tree, resting his back and inhaling the blackened air. There, he could smell the leaves that dangled down. A cracking sound reached him—but he ignored it. Then came another Aubade, from a breeze that wandered from deep in the black void. It echoed. He opened his eyes. This was a dream—yet no longer. A place silent, yet humming in beauty. A paradise emptied. He thought so, and immersed his soul in it. Then he remembered. The pipe. He cleared his head. He now saw a passage not too brightly lit, yet narrow enough to suggest a direction. Did I come from there? Yes, from there... He turned his head again. He noticed now that the pipe lay far away, not in front of the corridor. Its distance was greater than he had estimated. The Aubade sang again, yet strangely the breeze failed to deliver it clearly to him. It faltered. So, while searching for the end of the pipe, he resolved to also seek the origin of the song. But just as he stood, he realized the voice was near. He turned. "Other side... of the tree?" He whispered. He returned to the pipe, following it. It was close. At the hill’s foot. Though something felt as if it pierced his kidney—a warning—he ignored the pain and moved closer. The atmosphere shifted. Flowers stopped blooming. Each step became more difficult. Time bent and stretched— Someone. A girl? Strange—her back was visible, low to the ground. But disgust overwhelmed him when he realized the thick pipe entered the earth and reemerged beneath the girl. Her hair, body shape, proportions, the slope of her neck, ears, even the convulsions when Askan approached—all exactly like Anounilh’s. Then the girl stirred, her neck stretched as if swallowing something. But she could not stand. "Anounilh?" He called her name. A name he knew. A name he feared. The girl did not answer, only turned halfway, revealing a flushed red cheek. But she didn’t stop. She rotated further, moving the pipe lodged in her anus until she faced him directly. Askan leapt backward. Her face was not red—it was soaked in blood. Dried. Unwashed. Unrepentant. She held a pulsing lump of wet flesh, torn and trembling. A fetus. "God... kill me." But Anounilh only hummed, more sweetly, and in that moment Askan awoke—from the dream. He lifted his head from the crook of his own arm on the desk and realized his body was drenched—sweat and semen soaked the front of his trousers. The maids had not yet arrived. It was only 5 a.m. He stood from the chair, moved gingerly despite the ache in his waist and jaw. The office seemed cleaner than before—he wiped his forehead, now beaded. Everything was tidier. He ignored the pistol and documents on the couch, hastened to wash himself and change. A black coat, a white undershirt, lace collar to the neck, a ribbon. He opened his office door as though nothing had happened, as if his mind were refreshed—though inside, he recoiled and muttered. There, at the floor, he found a maid sleeping. He bent down and caught the heavy smell of orgasm from her dress and the thick breath of alcohol. He tried to wake her—failed—so he lifted her and placed her on the couch. Her tag read: Chastain. From now on, he told himself, she will be called Chastain. He did not wake her. He returned to the desk, sat, and let the unease resurface. The file he had opened earlier still exhaled its pungent stench, causing him to tremble. He opened the window and threw the file into the front yard, startling Squadron Caillat on duty. At that moment, the sovereign sun began to rise, its glare almost blinding, though the office remained cool. La Soleil stirred from its slumber, its beam somewhat dimmed, but still radiant. From here, the Eiffel Tower smoked... nearly destroyed, nearly reduced to ash upon soil waiting for ruin. Chastain stirred on the couch. She sighed; the cushion was comfortable, like a bed. Then she startled awake. She should not be here. She should have been on duty—guarding the Patron. The girl sat up, supported herself. Askan turned. "Good morning, Chastain." She blushed, embarrassed, and stammered. "I'm sorry—sorry—my fault I fell asleep outside your office. Please forgive me! Please!" "Enough, enough... I can't blame someone who works hard. Just don’t do it again, alright?" "Yes, Your Glory, Patron!" The maid stiffened where she sat. Askan asked, "What is it?" Chastain replied, "Are you still in pain, Patron? A headache, maybe? Or any other symptom?" Askan sighed. "Ah, now that you mention it. Yes, my waist and jaw ache a little today... strange, right? I didn't do anything vile at all." Chastain looked as though holding something back, as if she knew. "Why? Do you know why my waist or jaw hurts?" She tapped her index fingers together. "Um, do you remember what happened last…?" "Last?" "I mean… right before sleep." "I don’t know." He leaned his head into his arm. "Yesterday—yesterday—gallery, the sewer, the hill of flowers—then: someone, and my memory disappeared." "Are you alright, Patron?" "Alright?" Askan echoed. "Oh. I remember. You—why are you so nervous? I also saw you in my nightmare before—thank you, you saved me from a massive headache." Chastain stepped closer and tiptoed forward. "That wasn’t a dream, Patron." "What… do you mean?" "It wasn’t a dream." Anounilh arrived—without warning—and stood at the open doorway. "Yes, Patron. It wasn’t a dream—" Askan froze in place, breath caught. Chastain dropped her shoes and trembled, not daring to look sideways. Anounilh had come. Anounilh had returned. The madwoman. The gambler who lost her final wager. Chastain turned and curtsied. "Mrs. Bataille..." Anounilh smiled. "Why so quiet all of a sudden? Were you two having fun without me?" Neither Askan nor Chastain answered. But Askan—he looked as if he had just received an explosion behind his ribs. He could not raise his eyes to look at her. Anounilh said, "Patron, you look healthy… the doctor did his job well. By the way, lovely shirt. You have good taste." There were no other sounds now except Anounilh’s boots as she entered the office slowly, claiming it with each step. She neared Askan. "There is something I wish to discuss. Will you look at me?" Askan obeyed—he lifted his head and looked into the eyes of a devil. In front of him stood something fragile enough to shatter from a whisper. "Come. Let us go to my chambers, Patron."

"Listen, Chastain, do not let anyone disturb us. Inform Bourgin and the others..." Then Anounilh locked the door—twice. The office had clearly undergone a complete inversion: paintings destroyed, walls defaced with scribbles, papers scattered like ash, light furniture splintered and half-collapsed. The lighting had dulled—almost sickly. The perfume, sprayed in excess, could not mask the underlying conflict of dried fluids, layered and clashing, stale and sweet and obscene. "Come now, Askan. It is just the two of us here." Askan stood and stepped forward. His legs trembled, and his lips would not cease their violent shivering. His skin steamed, dripping sweat in long, humiliating threads. Anounilh extended her elegant arm, speaking gently. "Calm down. Don’t be afraid. I have no intention of hurting you." But Askan did not take the offered hand. He stood frozen, paralyzed before her, as she scrutinized him with exacting, almost tender interest. "What... what more do you want?" he finally managed. "Hehe... Are you so afraid of me that you think I’m trying to intimidate you?" "No," she continued. "I don’t want to play with you so frequently anymore, Patron... no, Askan. So? Did you enjoy my little surprise? Fufu, I merely let you sit with your thoughts, but instead you ran from me—afraid of me. Now, now, that’s quite rude, isn’t it~?" Askan’s voice wavered. "What was that... the fluid... the pistol—?" "Baudelair would’ve been so pleased..." she said with a wicked glance. "His blood made love to me in your absence. I wanted to make you jealous, but instead you had a tantrum." "The bullet—" "I gave it to you on purpose. Just in case you felt suicidal... But then I realized, yes, it was a mistake to make love with the blood like that. So I retrieved it. Two days ago." "Yesterday, you mean—?" "No, no. Two days ago." "What are you saying—" "You were practically comatose, Askan. You’ve been lying there almost a week. Five days. Fufu—" "Stop joking—" Anounilh explained, "The maids had their little celebration. For three days after hours. Their free days were spent on intimate revelry, until late into the nights... Which means, they were likely exhausted and slept in, right?" "That’s a lie, isn’t it? Isn’t it!?" Askan’s voice spiked. "I'm telling the truth. Why would I lie? I missed you. You wouldn’t wake up. I was alone. Versailles isn’t large enough to contain my womb, Patron... I—I burned. I waited. I tried to be patient. Ah—haha, fufu. It’s your fault, Patron. You broke me, and never once thought of the consequences..." He didn’t need to look. He knew what that smell was. What it meant. Why it lingered. But his soul was too fractured to resist, too scattered to act. Even when Anounilh reached out to touch him, to embrace him, he barely moved. Why? Why did he allow it? Was it fear? Was it disgust? He could not bear the next image—of her masturbating wildly, shamelessly, in public sight. No. He could not bear it. "I have a gift for you, Askan..." She released him from her arms and pointed gleefully at the wardrobe. "There..." Without thinking, he stepped toward it, corner of the room, near the studio. His instincts already in chaos. Behind him, Anounilh watched, her face lit with a subtle, spreading delight. He opened the doors. Inside, he saw a separated ensemble—blue garments, a red scarf, a red beret. But Askan would never believe such things at face value without the distortion Anounilh always added. So he turned, voice trembling. "Anounilh... this isn’t mine. Nor yours. Whose is it? I—I’ve seen it somewhere..." Anounilh smiled, stepped toward him, her voice low, and spoke. "There are three things I want to tell you, Patron. First: I want you to wear that—as my husband. Second: you’re right, it does look familiar, doesn’t it? That’s because it’s a modified version of Baudelair’s own uniform! Do you like it more now? Fufu. Third—this is why I fell in love with you, Askan—the third: I am carrying your child." : : The Patron took his life the day after their wedding.

In Honor of Ophelia and Yschaelle, Anounilh Jeanne d'Ombrelune~