Taylor and other Undersiders were aged up to various ages over Eighteen.

To the people who find these logs,

In no particular order, I have used torture to create servants, lied, cheated, gaslit, and girl bossed. I have made people consume blood, piss, uterine lining, and cum. I have fucked people to death, I have made their family members watch as I finish in the corpse, brought their loved one back from the grave, and then did it again. I have done worse. I am a cannibal, a rapist, and a serial killer.

If you are sensitive to such things, I do not recommend reading these logs. They are the result of advanced Tinkertech and Biokinetics to create a textual record of my exact memories.

On review, however, I have come to one conclusion.

I am a monster.

Still, there are worse things out there than me. There needs to be a record. Other Universes need to know what happened to ours.

These are my memories, my logs as I could collect them from when I woke up to when you found them. I upload them whenever I can.

מכל־משמר נצר לבך כי־ממנו תוצאות חיים

Above any other law, protect your heart, for it is the source of life.

-- Talia LeRoux

Its freezing cold here, a piercing sort of cold. Breath comes out in a misty haze as I start awake and aware. The ground has that sort-of-damp dirt ontop of concrete that only appears in urban environments left to decay. There's a dumpster next to me, its awful to be near and instinct rages to stumble away.

People walk by with nary a glance at me, dressed warmly, coats, scarves and beanies seeming a common trend in this place's fashion. The few conversations I catch, "I can't believe James-" "Ian? Nooooo!-" "Goddamnit! The docks gonna keep goin' to shit!" Are very angry, and with an audible east coast to them that's practically tangible.

The streets crowded, cars pass by reliably, like a shutter-film playing slightly different images to give the illusion of motion, yet, truly providing said motion somehow. There's no real contact from the others, the insular, quiet nature of this city proving itself immediately as no one comes near the strange woman in the alley. Reasonable.

I look around and then reach into my pockets, I don't have my clutch, shit. I don't have my taser, double-shit. And I don't have my phone triple-shit. I have no fucking clue where I am, and I'm pretty sure I'm SoL. The only thing I do have, thank God, is a box of black clove cigarettes, and a lighter. I immediately spark one as I try to gain an awareness of my surroundings. The smooth flavors of vanilla and sweet smoke fills my nostrils and blasts back some of the biting chill.

A girl runs past in a jogger's outfit. The city seems safe enough for that at least as she doesn't look overly worried, this isn't New York or Detroit or anything of its like at least. The cigarette sinks in, and I can feel it travel, the smoke falling into my lungs, slipping past my throat to settle into bronchia (is that the english term?) and suffuse through the blood. I can feel the nicotine wrestle its way around my physiology to land in my brain as the menthol-flavouring rests atop and inside top-level cells in my tongue and mouth and teeth, keratin slightly staining.

I blink at the feeling and get another blast of sensation as the motion of muscles is tightly highlighted in my mind, the push and pull against joints, the complex, oh-so-complex series of bones and flesh that makes me move microcosmically represented in my face.

The cold causes shrinkage, the blood in my body seeks my internals, it withers away from the extremities to retain heat, prioritizing my brain and my torso. I need to get out of the cold, at the current rate of stored ATP burning, I'll be running out of heat-storage capacity in ten hours. Maybe.

I'm going to pretend that's a normal thing to be aware of, I push that thought to the front of my mind, and then gently rub my shoulder, I'm definitely cold. I'm in a crop top I normally wear clubbing, and it barely covers the top half of my abdomen. My slightly baggy jeans are over thick military boots. There's a flowing script on each of my arms, and I recognize it immediately.

It's a slight bastardization of Solomons 6:3 in Hebrew.

On the left it says, "I am my love's."

Then on the right it says, "And my love is mine."

Then across my collar bone right above my chest, is the words in hebrew script "who browses among the lilies." I scratch it as I take another puff of my cigarette, and then gently scratch a cool spot above my ear, feeling the side-shave under my fingertips. I'm intensely aware of the inefficiency of such a hair style, and how I'm losing heat out of that area, and wouldn't it be so great to just fix that up. It's an annoying thought I also put away. The thick gold chain around my neck has no charms, just chains, and I find myself absentmindedly playing with it.

A tiny bit of hope is sparked when I see a sign that says "Ian's Coney Island." A palace of warmth, food and happiness that I shouldn't be kicked out of. Despite everything, I don't yet look homeless, and just look like someone on a very long walk of shame.

Which, to be fair I might be.

I finished my smoke right quick, and then stomped it out and kicked it behind me. I take a step inside and feel the warmth touch my limbs. It must be earlier if people are still out jogging, and it looks like the breakfast rush has quite started. I wait to be seated, and then order a cup of coffee. I don't plan to actually be paying for my meal. Not the first time I've dined and dash, won't be the last either.

Besides, who skips out on Breakfast? I'm a growing woman my odd internal meters tell me. They also tell me that I'm precisely thirty-one, five months, six days, four hours, thirty-two minutes, and twelve seconds old. I prayed that it wasn't some form of schizophrenia.

Oh god, or autism? Am I going to start counting toothpicks?

The pan of hashbrowns, green peppers, eggs and chicken sausage is incredibly worth the price, an astonishing five dollars for what's an incredible amount of food. Its easily something I'd pay for, if, I had any, money.

I feel like a dickhead for skipping out, and the trick to skipping out on a meal isn't to run, but to just walk out confidently. No-one calls the police, it's a fucking diner.

Sadly for me, that plan falls short when a gaggle of punks busts through the front door laughing and giggling, sending an immediate spike of fear down my spine. They've got leather jackets, some local fashion trends, but more worryingly than that is their accessories. One tall one near the rear is bald and has lightning bolts on both sides of his head, another has swastikas tattooed on his hands, a third, a woman, has a Totenkopf on a choker. Jump boots white laces, pants shoved into the boots in some faux-military dress. They waltz up to the bar and one, a shorter, weedier one that nevertheless seems confident starts talking.

"So, as protectors of this little here chunk a' purity, mind giving us coffee on the house Charlie?" He asks with a whiny East Coast drawl, tapping his finger on the bar expectantly as the middle aged, or slightly older, fat and out of shape man that evidently owns this place sighs and stares at them helplessly, nodding to the waitress to start brewing.

Not my circus, not my monkeys, not my circus, not my monkeys, I thought hard to myself as I try to slink past. Heroism could wait until I wasn't in the middle of some fasc fucking wasteland. Who the fuck rips off a dollar coffee anyways. Place was probably some charity case anyways. Really, maybe they are quite nice people. Many people join gangs as a consequence of circumstance!

"What do we have here?" The lead man turns his eyes over to me with an annoyingly aggressive look, "Is that a dyke kike my eyes spy?" Making the rest of the group chuckle and start looking at me as well.

Just words, words can't hurt you. I thought to myself as I try to leave, but a fucking hand grabs my arm and my mouth is far faster than my brain as I chirp out, "Hands off peckerwood, I'm not your cousin at the family reunion."

The man who grabbed me glares and growls out, a tall, maybe six foot something and definitely over two hundred pound man, "Fuckin' race traitor." Tightening his grip.

That meant it was time for violence, and before I let them get the jump on me, I snatch the man's fresh coffee and smash the ceramic against his skull. I wasn't really expecting to just embed shards into his face, mostly rattle him enough to run. I take a step back and grab a chair from one of the dining tables and swing it hard clocking that one in the jaw.

The chair shatters in my hand as well, typical cheap made-in-America bullshit, and I chuck the two pieces of wood in my hand hitting one of the fucking giants in the chest with it. The steak knives are the very old-school kind, that are still rather pointy at the tip, and I quickly pick-up the bleeding, burning, screaming nazi and put it to his throat.

"Alright dick-heads, let me leave or his very pure blood is going to get real oxygenated." I pull it across just a tad to let crimson liquid well up around it.

The leader points at me aggressively, "Let him go, else we'll fuckin' kill you dumb bitch!" In a shrill, almost nasally voice.

I take the knife away from the guys throat, stab him in the arm, and then have it back before he can react. "Ah shit, look at that! My hand slipped. Is you're fucking ubermensch knife proof you think?" I'm moving towards the door already.

The woman is glaring at me too as I near the door, and I can see the glint of gunmetal as she slowly moves her coat, a thirty-eight stuffed in a waistband. I'm close to the door, no ones talking, just glaring.

Now, I need you to understand that I'm normally, extremely kind and friendly. I just have an issue with slurs really. I don't think they have a place in polite society, and really I think we can all agree what I did next was self defense. They were going to chase me anyways so I needed them to have something far more important to do. Seriously, there was no other reason, it was merely a way to get to safety.

I doubt you would have done any differently if you were me.

I slit the guy's throat, damn near removing his head as I rush forwards, grab the woman's .38 and unload in her knee-caps. As I burst out the door, I continue firing behind me to angry and terrified screams alike and I break into a run. Once the weapon was emptied, I dropped it. Blood is hot on my hands and legs from the various injuries I inflicted, and I can hear ragged, choked, menacing screams behind me, so I try to make things a little better as I jog backwards and scream.

"Damn, this town is filled with some straight bitches," then I give them the finger before I continue to sprint. "I'm going to go fuck your women now."