MORGANFOKKER SAYS THAT YOU ARE NOT BEING HONEST

A Book By Any Other Name...

"What's this?" Max asked, staring at the book. It was sitting on the coffee table; he reached over and picked it up. The cover declared the book to be Tempest Of Times by Shakespear.

"Something I picked up at a yard sale," Frank replied. "I saw it there and it intrigued me. You know how most of the time what-if's and what-not's seem to be the norm, seeing this book by Shakespear was a kick. So I picked it up."

The book enraptured Max; it looked ancient and out of place. And the feel of the cover didn't feel normal at all.

"I know things change all the time," Frank continued. "That material things in our possessions change and the like, but that book has been through several changes with me now..."

"And you don't find that odd?" Max inquired.
 

"Well no," Frank said. "We stay together, and you usually have Joy and Pain, there's Maggie's katana, Suki's godhammer... If some of our weapons survive the changes why not a book?"

"This is significant," Max answered.

Max dialed the Professor's number.

Another Version

Max awoke to the sensation of his oxygen being cut off. His eyes flickered opened to see someone's knee across his windpipe and he felt a gun barrel pressed against his temple. He knew that this day was bound to happen, since his senses kept on getting whacked after each shift. 

"Hi Max," the chirpy fellow said. "Remember me?" The one with the advantage was dressed in an orange shirt that declared him to be property of a jail somewhere. 

Images flashed through his mind like a slideshow downloaded by Microware. Still no recognition came to him. 

"C'mon Max," the fellow said, sounding dejected now. "After all we've been through, I'm hurt!" 

As the knee let up from Max's windpipe he garbled, "I'm not the version of Max that you know."

* where is max cube?

version x.2

Where Dreams Do Not Go

Mags walked out of the bedroom. Lately, she had trouble sleeping at night and she couldn't fathom why.

She made a cup of coffee, using the one-cupper on the counter. She needed to taste the oils once again; it was a soothing comfort.

The cupper signalled that it was finished with a huge gurgle. She took the cup and put in two sugars and a dash of cream for colour. With cup in hand she stood out into the balcony.

The cool breeze was a comforting blanket around her; she saw the steam from the coffee rise and dissipate like sailors on shore leave. It was a cloudless evening and she could see the stars shining ever so brightly in the velvet sky.

"It is a beautiful evening, isn't it?" Trump asked. He was sitting on the railing staring over the vast city.

"That it is, my good friend," she replied after she took a sip from her coffee.

"Having those nightmares again are we?" he asked.

"I rightly don't know," Mags replied honestly.

Before the Shifts

Berlin 1994

Her eyes opened, against the light of the lamp. It had been such a deep sleep, she couldn't remember the last time she slept liked that. Her arm reached over to drape across the body that was next to her, but it wasn't there at all.

"Max?" 

Peering around the room, she saw him. He was standing in front of the open window looking out at the city below. His hands clasped behind his back like a sentry on duty, the military training still hadn't waned from his personal life. Not yet, and she doubted that it ever would.

"Yes?"

"You are going to have to leave soon," she told him.

"I know," he replied. Still staring out the window.

"You know you have the power to stop this," she said.

"I know," Max stated. He turned to look at her. "But it's a decision that I had made."

"We can fight it you know," she said.

"I don't want you to," he told her. "This is something that I have to do."