Registry of the Non-Evolved Database
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The Mundane Days: 1918 - 1925
The armistice treaty between the Allies and Germany was signed in a railway carriage in Compiègne Forest on 11 November 1918, and several months before that, Francois Allègre was born. The man who should have been his father had already been killed during the war, participating in the Second Battle of the Marne, in which the Germans failed their last offensive attack before peace was brought through Europe. So it was this dawning of this era that Francois was raised by his mother and, when she died of pneumonia, his grandfather.
Living on the outskirts of a rural town, it was in 1925, something Francois does not distinctly remember, when a man who his grandfather simply called a "relative" without specification came to stay and board in the room above. A former soldier, he would talk to Francois' grandfather about the things he saw, such conversations Francois only got to listen to through the walls. He heard stories of Belgium, of a massacre the likes of which the world couldn't understand. The tale of a cursed beast he identified as Moroi. Francois barely ever spoke to this man and to this day, he wishes he had.
It was on the day the enigmatic stranger was set to depart that he parked his car where he saw Francois was returning home, having gone to town on an errand. He knelt before the boy and took his hand, and told him that in the rise of war, there would always be monsters. Francois then felt something he would come to know dearly; the inner warmth of healing power, transferred from the soldier, to him.
The soldier asked for Francois' mercy, and departed.
Rites of Passage: 1925 - 1944
Francois grew up learning the former trade of his grandfather, becoming a doctor trained in simple medical practices appropriate for the small town. He had employment in the clinic and made house calls with the older doctor who worked there, witnessing death with compassion in his heart. He discovered his ability to heal during this time, needing only to place his hands on the injured and the sick, depending on their sickness, and let his life bleed into the patient. It was incredibly exhausting, but nothing short of a miracle, though he kept it as private as he could.
It was on his grandfather's deathbed when he instructed Francois not to help him, an agonising feat for him to hold back on his power for the man he came to know as his only true family. But he did, a humbling experience, inheriting what land was still under his grandfather's name and working full time as a doctor. Eventually, he would sell his property, and move for the larger cities.
By the time World War II was occurring and the Germans had occupied France, Francois made the choice of joining the French Resistance, following a message he didn't quite understand but knowing he had the power to help the fight against what he believed to be evil: the Nazi regime. After demonstrating his abilities to key players of the French Resistance, he was utilised in treating wounded guerrilla soldiers as well as, eventually, Allied soldiers.
He was arrested in 1944, and deported to Dachau concentration camp. Though he was never told, it became increasingly clear that it was due to Francois' talent he was targeted specifically, thanks to whomever acted the role of Judas for whatever amount of silver coin. It was there that Francois both witnessed and was subjected to the infamous human experimentation implemented during the Nazi regime. It was also there that he met Kazimir Volken for the first time, under a different identity and rubbing shoulders with Nazi scientists and physicians, with a keen interest in what Francois could do.
The Darker Days: 1944 - 1956
He had never hated a man before until the nine months he endured Volken's experimentation and research. Francois had also never known that his ability could be used to drive off this particular monster, either, and the first time he showed Volken that there was a force in the world that could drive him away could have easily meant his execution. But Francois' ability was an invaluable asset and so he evaded execution, and was made to regenerate patients as well as undergo study. It seemed like it could go on forever, until the Americans finally liberated Dachau in April, 1945.
In the years that followed, Francois Allègre simply existed. His ability ensured he bore no marks of his ordeal, but there were plenty other less literal scars to bear. He traveled Europe as a wandering figure not so unlike the enigmatic soldier who had given him this ability, visiting hospitals, clinics, and deathbeds to spread his ability as far as one man could. He tried to learn about what he could do, but the Belgium soldier's identity was a mystery, gone with his dead grandfather, and so he tried to remember what he had been told, what he had overheard. Research led him to read about an event that occurred in what we know today to be the Rape of Belgium, and the massacre that occurred in the city of Leuven's university, and made a connection between the stories about what had happened there, and what he knew of Volken's ability. Francois came to believe that his power and Volken's power were irrevocably tied.
Volken was always a distant nightmare, and one Francois tried to banish when he researched as to whether the man had died, where he had come from, where he was now, how far back did this trail of ash go, and more horrifying, how far forward. Questions and random thoughts turned fanatical and feverish in his search, determined to heal the world of the greatest sickness he knew, this moroi, the soldiers' monster.
His searching led him to Nevada, the United States.
Chasing Destiny: 1956 - 1965
Primarily a healer of the French Resistance, Francois did not have the money and the skills to effectively shut down Kazimir's renewed researched. He stayed on the sidelines for a long time, noting disappearances and deaths around the area of his facility, and attempting to build enough of a case to draw government attention. When this wasn't moving fast enough for Francois' taste, he acted on impulse and attempted to use his ability, once more, against the Moroi.
He was summarily overpowered and taken as a prisoner of experimentation. It was a world apart, however, from the ordeal he endured in Europe, and instead spent much time in isolation and, after a time, conversation with Volken, even if there were inevitable bouts of cruelty. Rendered a helpless test subject, Francois scrounged up what compassion he still had left and tried to understand the man he so deeply hated. During that time, perhaps he did, a little. He also came to recognise the longevity his power was giving him, and at the same time, Kazimir was deteriorating.
During what would perhaps be his final day at Fort Dadelus, one way or another, three time travelers seemed to come for his rescue. As Kazimir was called away from yet another horrific experiment, Hiro Nakamura, Kimiko Nakamura and Xiulan Song, circa 2009, appeared in the operating room, stopping time and giving Francois the opportunity to heal himself. Hiro made the promise that if Francois told him everything he knew about Project Icarus, he would be freed, and so Francois agreed. He told them about Kazimir and his nature, what his research was, and something of himself as well. Hiro came to a grave realisation, and told Francois that it would not be his destiny to destroy or even to save Kazimir Volken - and that he would have to be left behind. Some of what the Japanese man had to say rang familiar, of what the Belgium soldier had done for him, and it was with a heavy heart that Francois accepted this fate, and watched as the three travelers disappeared.
At the same time, the government raided the facility, and on the brink of death, Kazimir Volken took on the identity of Richard Santiago. During the confusion, Francois managed to escape, with the knowledge that he would have to rethink what his purpose was. Old habits die hard. Francois was drawn to follow the trail of death into South America, where Kazimir disappeared with his new face, feeling solely responsible for the other man. As many lives as Volken took, Francois tried to save.
Ironic, that his preternatural ability to help should be the one to murder, and it was down to Francois' own humanity if he ever had a chance at redeeming Kazimir - but Francois kept to the promise he'd made Hiro, and focused only on doing good with his ability while he still had it.
And fate took its course.
The Rest, As They Say…: 1965 - 1994
Kazimir's scope of influence and power through rumour, and his accumulated wealth, meant that he had many more resources than the Frenchman, and Francois was left in the dust. It was the dull realisation that in all his chasing, he had failed to do as Kazimir had done and actually used his own longevity to his benefit. By the time Volken had disappeared into Europe, Francois was left to do as he may in South America. He continued to travel and to heal the sick and dying, moving back across the border into the southern portion of the United States, where he became known as a traveling faith healer, exclusively under his alias of Francis Allen.
Naturally, he could not entirely leave his mission alone. While giving Kazimir a wide berth, both by circumstance and by choice, Francois kept tabs on him and never leaving the shores of the United States too much, save for when it was necessary, determined to keep a handle on Kazimir's journeying. The accumulation of power was something Francois watched from the shores, and tried to set down in writing as much as he could as possible. A lot of his research was destroyed over the years, but the core of it, his keeping of journals, was maintained and kept safe.
Two things happened, in the mid-90s. One, Volken decided it was time to tie up a loose end, and sent an assassin to hunt down the healer before he could take part in the pending conflict that would come to a head in early 2009. Two, Francois was at the end of his rope in finding someone worthy of passing on his gift, someone strong enough to defeat Kazimir, someone who would not fail as he had failed, as the enigmatic soldier had failed.
He never got a chance. Driving along a stretch of road in the deep South, Louisiana, Francois' car was run off, toppling over once, twice downhill, glass cracking and metal twisting. In an attempt to drag himself out, his assassin simply gripped him by the coat, hauled him out the rest of the way, and drove a hunting knife into his torso three times.
The Moroi had sent his regards.
…Is History: 1994
Attempting to heal himself and unable to do so quick enough, not without food, not without energy, Francois staggered his way to the nearest town, but never made it as far as the buildings. Bleeding beneath his coat, he came to rest in the rural setting, and was chanced upon by a young girl, her blonde hair drawn into twin pigtails. Abigail Beauchamp, as she had introduced herself when asked, will never recall the dark-haired stranger, with his slightly strange accent and very tired smile, and she won't remember the way she'd felt warm underneath the hazy Louisiana sun at a mere touch to her hand, but it would be Francis Allen's, Francois Allègre's, last memory.
He apologised, and he bid her to run, before he shut his eyes.
Starting out as a compassionate young adult, this aspect of himself seemed to remain a constant in Francois' personality after his ability manifested. His respect for the preservation of human life is something that has and always will define him, in contrast to the utter waste of humanity that was the carnage of World War II and the Nazi's treatment of the Jews and other "undesirables". It is his compassion that he's held onto, that's allowed him to be brave, or humble, or ruthless. He will do what he can to save human life, sometimes to the detriment of himself or even the person he's saving.
He is not, however, generous to a fault. With his love of life comes the love of his own life, s'il vous plait. Francois is not selfish, and often times puts others first before himself, but he is certainly not a doormat and can be mulishly stubborn when it comes to defending himself in fights both verbal and physical. While he also would choose paths of peace when he can, Francois became an adult amongst soldiers and patriots fighting for the freedom of his country, and he has a deep respect for the notion of doing what has to be done for the greater good - but he draws the line at murder.
But personalities can't just be tied to greater concepts of good and evil. In day to day life, thanks to living for three quarters of a century while still retaining a lot of youth, Francois doesn't seem to have a lot of patience for people, though he will try. Some of his charismatic self-righteousness and selflessness has soured into bitter pride and short-sightedness over the years, sometimes not listening to opinions and arguments of others when he should. He can be often arrogant and certainly proud - when you've lived longer than most and remain in your physical prime, a superiority complex tends to come with it. A lot of this disdain is a cover for the knowledge that much of his usefulness is obsolete, which is a hard thing to reckon with and something he tries to ignore. He is an ex-hero, and a little racist.
Most of that is beneath the surface, however. In general, Francois is generally kind-hearted and gives many people the benefit of the doubt. He admires bravery, honesty and kindness, and those that are lacking in those departments will disappoint him, although he believes that everyone has the capacity for goodness. He isn't necessarily going to stick around and try to change the hearts of the wicked, however - just Kazimir's, once upon a time, and that panned out so great - and so he has more time for people whose intentions are purer. He despises fascism, enslavement, and cruelty, and has a little left-over patriotism for America too.
Appendices
| What if it were possible, that what constitutes the value of good and respected things, exists entirely because of the evil they oppose? |
Timeline
| November, 2009 | |||
| When | Where | What | Who |
|---|---|---|---|
| 14th | The Goal Of Living | Francois is snatched from his deathbed by time travelers. | Abby, Eileen, Hiro |
| 14th | One Step Forward | Meeting the newest healer could have gone better than it does, for everyone involved. | Abby, Deckard |
| 15th | Monstrous | Francois talks to one of Kazimir's family. | Eileen |
| 19th | Just Rewards | Teo fools Francois into thinking that he's woken up in utopia, but only for a few more minutes. He does persuade Francois that the world is worth saving, however, even if it means working with what should be rights be the enemy. | Teo |
| 20th | Giving It Up Does Not Mean An End | Before his meeting with the Company, Abby and Francois trade feelings about being ex-healers, and speak of going to Russia. | Abby |
| 20th | United Front | Re: saving the world, Francois almost doesn't go, but then he does. | Teo, Veronica |
| 22nd | Dobro Pozhalovat | Less than an hour into Russia and they almost cause a car crash. | Abby, Cat, Elisabeth, Ethan, Teo |
| 23rd | Inneresting | Holden and Allegre compare backgrounds before going off to explore the town. | Ethan |
| History | |||
| When | Where | What | Who |
|---|---|---|---|
| October, 1957 | Beyond Good and Evil | While in Kazimir Volken's keep, time travelers appear and don't save Francois, after telling him what his destiny is not. | Hiro, Kazimir, Kimiko, Richard Santiago, Xiulan, Zimmerman |
| Summer, 1994 | Human, All Too Human | Francois passes his burden on. | Abby |
Relationships
- To come.
Journals
There are quite a few journals all in all, some dating right back into the early '40s, all the through to the early '90s. Sporadic in consistency, in information, and even in language, they could well be scattered or kept, or both. It is likely the older ones are attainable as antiques; the newer ones might be more difficult to find. They range from pure data and information, through to philosophical ponderings and ideas, through to deeply personal thoughts.
The following is written in French, old fashioned in phrasing and word choices but not indecipherable by a long mile, and the handwriting is as clear and precise as the paper is old and faded, but carefully preserved. Pressed in between the front cover and the first page is a frail clipping of newspaper, titled Défense de la France, what appears to be French Resistance related propaganda media. While there are line breaks for reading comprehension purposes, there are none in actuality.
October 7, 1943
My name is Francois Allègre of the French Resistance. I have made my home in Bordeaux, and the Germans have made their home in my country. As of this moment of my writing, I am a criminal in the eyes of the Germans. I heal the Allied, I heal those that resist and have lost their faith in the French State. War has not been kind to my country but I know we shall not surrender to our invaders, and when the war ends France will be herself again.
I write this now to preserve my bravery and my conviction. I see my countrymen disappear around me and I feel I must at least allow some part of me to remain should I be taken too. If you are reading this, then I have been killed or arrested. If you are German or any ally of that kind, know that the people of France will never submit to you! If you are a Frenchman, than our war is won.
I heal the sick and injured. I can bring men back from the brink of death with little cost to my own life. I have a gift of God, passed onto me by a soldier during wartime in his own country, and I know I must carry on his work in this era as well.
Long live France!
What follows are many entries of much the same tone, generally one every week, sometimes with longer spaces of time. They detail names of men who have been arrested or forced to go to Germany to work, moments wherein he's healed the injured and the sick, stories of the wider war and the Nazi regime that he's heard and read about, and occasionally, angrier venting about shortages of food and labour.
It's before August 1944 that the entries stop all together, just before the liberation of Paris, blank pages left alone, save for the very last one, where the following is scrawled:
There is an evil that I have seen under the sun.
It is not dated. So concludes the first book.
There is only one book that devotes itself to the period of time that begins around the late 1946, with the last journal entry reporting itself to be 1956. It is entirely in French, with entries that range from short, half-page snippets, to multiple pages devoted to a single entry, with space in between them that varies between a couple of days through to a few months. They begin as bitter accounts, as meandering and philosophical as the physical journey he took through that time, before becoming more pragmatic towards the end. Here are a few samples.
August, 1946
It took me this long to return home. After surviving almost a year in Dachau, I added an additional one to the count, and was surprised to find my old journal hidden in my home, which is no longer my home but a place I've been permitted to stay for a time. As you can see, whoever You are, I've taken up writing again. I can't say why, only that I feel the need to make up for the rambling of my previous book, or perhaps that the things I wish to express I only feel comfortable putting to paper.
What is there to say of Kazimir Volken? What is there to say of Dachau, and the prisoners, and the officers? Nothing that no one now should have to listen to. The war is finished and I've no scars to show for it.
March, 1951
It has been a few months since I wrote. I spent those months in Krakow. It is always the big cities that make me forget to write, to stop and think. Perhaps that is not such a bad thing. Whenever I stop, I find myself in the same place I always do, and I find it so much harder to start moving once more. It makes me realise I have learned nothing. For all of my traveling, I have gained no insight, no wisdom, no change of heart.
I don't know what I am. If I am godly, then it's a pitiful deity indeed that would put this power in the hands of an aimless wanderer. God's plan cannot be for a single man to stumble from town to city to port, healing whoever crosses his path in favour of money and food and shelter. Of course, the Bible is full of such characters, poor men and thieves and beggars who hold a kind of greatness than proper kings and politicians would never hope for. I don't care.
Perhaps the worst thing is that I can no longer imagine my life without it. Would I have joined the Resistance, if not for my power? Would I have been arrested? Kept alive for nine months? Would I have traveled like I have these past years if not for my gift? No, I don't think so. It has carved into my existence in such a way that Francois Allegre doesn't exist, and whatever it is I am, a set of legs and hands to carry around this burden and distribute amongst the undeserving, does not resemble him any longer.
Still, I travel. Tomorrow, I'm taking a train across Poland to find a new city, and earn food and shelter and clothing for myself by giving this gift some more. There is never going to be a lack of sick and injured people. And I will stop thinking again. But I don't think I'll stop dreaming, no matter how busy I keep myself during waking hours.
November, 1954
Tomorrow, I'm leaving for Belgium. I have told the others that I simply don't wish to be caught in a Russian winter, and that is partway true. When you live off the kindness of strangers - and what a pitiful currency that is! - you learn to resent the snow and other elements that force you inside. I miss my home. But I feel just as much a stranger in France as any other corner of Europe, and at least in other corners, it doesn't hurt so.
I'm rambling again, so a new paragraph is called for. I've decided that to understand what it is I am, then I must seek out the man who made me this way. He is probably long since dead and even if he was not, I would not have the first idea as to where to look, but I don't know where else to go. I vaguely recall the stories he told my grandfather, about what he had seen in Belgium during the war. It pains me, how little I can remember, but at least I have a destination. Such wandering will not be any more useless than my previous journeying and at least this time, perhaps I can put some thoughts to rest.
I've started dreaming again. They come in starts and stops. I dream of Dachau and I dream of Volken, but I dream of things that aren't mind as well, but I recall the cursed black smoke in all of them. I also remember what the Soldier had said to my grandfather, of massacres so fast they turned the men to ash. Perhaps it is a turn of phrase. My heart disagrees. Sometimes I think I am one side of a mirror, and when I look through the dark glass, I will see Volken's eyes staring back at me.
If I am to see him when I look at myself, surely this means that if I am to learn of what I am, I must learn of what he is too?
Tomorrow, I'm leaving for Belgium. I'll only know when I'm there whether it is a fool's errand.
The following entries are details and accounts of stories as to something called the Moroi, and theories connecting it to Volken, recalling what Francois had seen of his ability. He finds himself in Germany once more, pursing leads. His entries become briefer, more succinct, accounts of details and names to remember. There is a gap of a few months between the rest of his journal, and the last entry.
June, 1956
For all I have traveled on trains and spent so much time on motion, I did not anticipate seasickness. And yet it has not vanished in the past three days and doesn't seem to be letting up any time soon. As much as I would like to weary myself in healing this ailment, I have been given reason not to this evening. There was a woman at the bar, Cecilie, when I finally ventured my way out of my cabin to brave conversation and even wine, for I thought that if the sickness did not take me, then confinement would. We spoke as a man and woman should - she is an English woman who speaks a little French, enough French, and her father is one of the crewmembers.
It was then that I quite wisely asked her age, before I could offer to buy her another wine. A little over twenty and she seemed to note my chagrin, and then laughed disbelievingly when I told her I am thirty-eight. I do not think I make an unconvincing man of thirty-eight, but perhaps only if I were pampered, and I am not. Part of me suspects it is my ability, prolonging my age, but despite all I have seen, I am not sure I can trust such a notion. Though I see such importance in human life, in preserving it, I don't know what to think about pushing it past the limits of what should be. But then, what difference does it make? Either way, I have stopped trying to cure myself.
I suppose I should explain why I am on a ship at all. I go back and forth, writing these pages for myself, and writing it for some unknown reader. I forget and then try to amend to make sense, to fill in the gaps, even though I am sure that no matter how long I live, I would be able to remember why I'm headed for America. But perhaps it is important enough to note. Perhaps so much so that I have deliberately avoided doing so, and instead dictate down this nonsensical monologue.
Enough. Kazimir Volken is alive, and resides in America, in Nevada. I am told that quite a few German scientists fled for their shores, offering their research in return for safety and money, and that Volken did so as well. It terrifies me, that even a fraction of his work would continue on, and terrifies me more that he survived after all.
And so I chase him not only across Europe, but across the sea. I don't know if I intend to kill him - stop him, yes, but if I can reason with him and understand him as something more than a monster, then that too is victory. I know now that as much as what I can do is a part of me, entwined so much as to steer the course of my existence, that it does not have to be this way. That it can be a choice as well. That such a transformation does not mean a partial death, only that: transformation.
So many things change us. The death of those close to us. My experiences in Germany. Every body I heal changes me a little, but not only that - every conversation, every divergence. I don't know how to put it into words. But while what I can do has changed me with such powerful certainty that sometimes it scares me enough to think I am losing myself altogether, it is no different than the other events an ordinary man must go through. A decade will change someone. A decade changed me too.
Perhaps, I can make Kazimir see that his gift changed him, and that he has the same choice as I. And if he will not see that as so, then I must do what has to be done, and it will not give me pleasure. But at least I can know that I will put to rest my dreams, one way or another.
Some of the later books, three or four, detail his journeys through South America. The journal entries are dominated by more personal reflection and interspersed with keeping notes on Kazimir's movement. These are written almost exclusively in English. The following entry is one of the few allusions to the people he encountered in Fort Dadelus, and refers to one by name:
March 2, 1978
I attended a funeral today, in the city of Añatuya, Santiago del Estero. My searching of other people like me ends in ash and it would not be the first time. A child, now, with rumours that he could speak the future words of those who haven't heard nor spoken them yet. A small prophet. I broke my journeying to travel, to find him and to tell his family about his nature if the stories turned out to be true, but rumours have a way of reaching all ears.
They reached Volken's. I was told his remains were turned into ash as if he'd been through a terrible fire and then longer years of decay, but they put him in a coffin regardless. He was almost thirteen years old.
This is my destiny, now? To watch from such a distance as Volken feeds the calling of his power, to make amends only in the healing of those he has not yet touched? I wonder sometimes what madness drove me to listen to Hiro and his companions that I should let this demon do as he will in all corners of the world, to save, what? A rhetorical future, a hypothesis. I'm letting people die for a theory.
They should have scattered the boy's ashes, cast it out into the river. It is a waste of a coffin.
The last book, or at least, the last journal to be discovered with the latest of dates, details travels of the early 90s. It includes the discovery of mysterious marks on his neck, his last years as a faith healer, and of course, the last few days before his death.
June 29, 1994
There is a young negro woman in Louisiana who was said to show you the sins you have not yet committed. There are many times in my life that such claims of people are lies, delusions, and yet I find myself chasing them anyway, across the continent, sometimes over seas. Some desire to connect with others who share this burden of mystery, or a shepherd's anxiety to make certain that Volken will not touch them first. He hasn't come to the shores of America in a long time, of that I'm certain, but as they like to say these days, old habits die hard.
I came to her home during a summer's dusk, and there's nothing quite like it. The air is so thick in the South, and the swamps are loud terrains, even under the sound of my car. She had the house to herself - no husband, no family - and invited me in before I could even introduce myself, with my true name or otherwise.
It was the scratches on her neck that would convince me. The black marks that unified some of us, if not all of us, the ones I've carried for only a mere handful of years. Laurel, was the name she gave me, and the second thing she gave me was a cold glass of water. She seemed accepting of the idea that strangers would show up at her door, looking for what she could do, and I wanted to shake her. As she not seen what a danger that could be? Who could have walked through the doors that day? I said as much, and she pointed out, that today, it was me, and what a fortune that was.
I've never been good at sarcasm, but there may have been a trace of it. She asked if I truly wanted to see the bad things I would do, bad things I couldn't escape if I wanted to; I think saying 'no' fairly shocked her. I told her, I only wanted to see her.
Indulgence. That is a sin, of kinds. My notions of fate twist and turn, back and forth, ever since the 50s, but I would argue that had she touched my hand that day and given me a look into the future, and the sinful acts I would have committed, I would have not foreseen the next week I stayed with her. I learned some things of her while I was there.
She, too, could not tell me how the marks on her neck came to be.
Volken's plagues were blessedly a mystery to her.I had no sins left to commit.
Laurel turned me out of her home in no more than a week, and I was glad to go, if afraid. There is no such thing as a life being led without sin, you see. A life without sin isn't a life. The knowledge that you will die, that you will die soon, for someone such as I, is as incomprehensible as what lies beyond the sky. Infinite and ungraspable, but acceptable.
I need to find a new carrier of this burden, and I need to find him soon, before it is too late.
And then merely a page over…
July 2, 1994
I'm afraid my last entry was written off the back of half a bottle of bourbon, so apologies, Reader. Temporary heart break, but as ever, I heal. A summer's dusk indeed. There is only one thing I know of fate - and that is, I will never destroy Kazimir Volken. A time traveler said so.
Otherwise, I have no intention of dying.
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