We call them "Madmen" for a reason, don't we? And tell me, what is that reason?
We once welcomed them as guests, for a time. But that was long ago. We have since turned out back on them. Barred them away.
And truly who are the Madmen?
Because the Madmen come from many paths, not unlike the Hand itself. While many of their numbers came from the Jailors, they renounced that path when they took their own name. They call themselves chaotic, an assertion made with more self-awareness that one might expect of such a group. they embody a multitude of voices, a cacophony of conflicting perspectives.
But where opposing voices in the Library might settle for discussion and deliberation, the Madmen engage in a fierce internal discord, akin to a hydra devouring its own heads in pursuit of a dominant voice.
This must be the place. You can't remember when you first heard of it, perhaps it was a friend-of-a-friend situation? It doesn't matter, not like you have many friends anyway.
You're unemployed, broke, and homeless. And you're a broken human being. Broke and broken.
Any sudden movement and you feel like you're going to explode. Sometimes you do.
It's exhausting, having to hold yourself together, every moment, every day.
And it hurts. You have hurt people. You keep hurting people.
Not on purpose, but the regret is the same. Enough that it hurts, not enough that you can learn from it.
You're banned from half the shelters in this goddamn city.
Everything always goes the same way, you go to a new shelter, get into conflict some other person, you fight, you get kicked out, like clockwork.
Easier to live in the back alleys. No… No, it's not, not really. You don't want to be near anyone else.
You approach the back of the warehouse.
This has to be the place. But there's nobody here, is there?
You run a hand across the rough brick wall, half illuminated by a dull orange sun. it's been covered with countless tags, layered on top of one another. And faded posters for bands you have never heard of in your life. And more tags on top of those.
You used to paint graffiti. That was a long time ago though. The sunset air is cold.
Maybe you're late?
Your vision goes black, a rough sack is thrown over your head, you flail at the assailant, throwing punches, you hit someone, they smack you in the torso, knocking the air out of your lungs.
You panic, there's hair in your eyes, you can't see shit, it's hot, itchy, you try to yell, but someone grabs your throat. You feel a sharp jab in your neck.
You can't breathe and… And…
Black.
We call them destructive, akin to the Jailors. I can agree that they are destructive, but it would be a mistake to place them alongside the Jailors.
Their means are frightening to many, but I believe that is what ultimately sets them apart from all other Groups of Intrigue. That they do not place any rule above their goals. That they will do anything to reach their goals in the end. Can a group such as this truly care about anything at all? The mistake herein lies in the assumption that all Madmen think alike.
Black.
Your body feels like crap, bruised and shit. You're tied to a metal chair, no, chained, fuck. You try to get your hands out of the chains, you think it'll be easy, but it's tighter than you thought. Fuck, fuck fuck.
You crane your neck, you can't see a door.
You call out for help, your throat is already hoarse before a single word escapes your lips.
Light shines from a crack in the door, a person steps into the room.
They shut the door behind them.
The room returns to darkness, and now your eyes are less adjusted. God you hate when that happens.
"Tell me," the person says. It's a man, you think? You want to be respectful and shit but you also can't see anything. "why are you here?"
"Y-you are a fucking psycho." you say, your throat burning as you speak.
The man sighs. "Speak for yourself." he says. "You got information on this place from someone. Obviously not much. Why did you come here."
"I don't… I don't fucking know okay man? Look, I'm fucking desperate. I just go places these days. I don't… I'm just trying to survive here. I thought maybe there'd be… Food or water or something?"
"I see."
"And then you fucking kidnap me. I… I… what the fuck is wrong with you people?"
And of their ranks,
The first, the One, left for he saw that the Jailors' differentiation between the magical and mundane only harmed the world, that by creating divisions, the world was on a circular path to strife.
The second, the Four, left citing that the Jailors' treatment of those under their purview had grown unjust over the years, that it was cruel to keep a living thing in such an incomplete state of existence.
The third, the Many, left because they recognized the intrinsic value of the occult, a perspective that their brethren failed to grasp. They saw the Jailors' self-imposed limitations as a hindrance to their true potential.
"Call it a front." the man says.
"Okay, it's a front. Great. Please just let me out of here."
"You'd like a regular source of income, wouldn't you?"
"Let me out."
"We're looking for anyone willing to help our cause."
"I legitimately do not care. Fuck off. You kidnapped me. I'm not working for you. Psycho-asshat."
You see, although it is a common conception, it would be erroneous to assume that all Madmen were once Jailors. The path of Madness beckons to a surprisingly diverse array of voices:
The Shaper of Men, the Reliquary, the Nautilus, the Blackcloaks, they are all in number among the Madmen;
Even among the Bookburners of all factions, there are dissident voices. Those who feel that in order to keep their world safe, they must devote themselves to fighting fire with fire. They reject the notion that a line exists between the mundane and the mystic: to them, a corrupt dictator is just as much of a threat to the world as a man-eating beast.
Even within our own ranks, calls for action resonate. Some among us would argue that the Hand fails to ensure the safety of the mystical outside of the Library. That the real world exists outside its walls. They see a path to the future as one forged in fire and blood. That 'implacable isolation' will not bring forth a new reality.
People are drawn to the path of madness. And why? Is it alluring? Or is it that madness is a path that rejects so few who might join it?
You don't know how many days it's been.
It feels like forever.
You wish knew you had something to live for. But you don't.
You know what the sad part is? This is the least worried you've felt in a long time.
How fucked is that? You're in some sort of literal fucking ransom dungeon or whatever.
And you're happy because you're alone?
Well, you're not too happy. You haven't eaten or drunk anything in a while.
The door creaks open again.
"Fuck you." you say, instinctively.
"Are you ready to begin you training."
"Jesus Christ… No…"
You're lifted out of the chair by your arms.
"Let go of me, you freak."
You're dragged into a dimly lit concrete hallway.
It smells like sewage and mold.
You squirm, but it doesn't do anything because that's just life I guess. You don't even know.
You see the psycho-kidnapper guy. He's wearing a gas mask.
"You look…"
He punches you in the jaw before you can finish your sentence.
Fuck you're bleeding. Your mouth is bleeding.
Before you consider me a sympathizer to their cause, know that the Madmen are not unworthy of criticism. They see the world through a lens of what they can weaponize, what they can use to benefit themselves.
They do many things that the vast majority of us here would agree are disagreeable if not reprehensible. And this is not for a guaranteed success, merely a calculated chance at success. The chance to place a single stone in their causeway. Should they fail, they will just try again. They don't care if they die, as it furthers their goals.
Their nature is as much coexistence as it is employing, or, better put, exploiting the abilities of the magical to ensure not just their own survival, but to wage war against those they deem to be a threat to their goals?
And what of those goals? As stated before, there is no one goal in mind for the Madmen. They know they will never all agree on the future of the world. Their only justification for unity is that they share a common enemy: despite their many faults, the Madmen will unite against the Jailors at any given opportunity.
Can you say the same of the Hand?
"This is the enemy." the man says, showing a photograph of a man in a white riot suit with some weird gun and a weird helmet.
"Pretty sure you're the enemy, you fucking kidnapped me like three days ago."
He continues, unperturbed. "They work for an organization called 'The Foundation' which seeks to contain the supernatural for research purposes."
"I legitimately do not care. Let me get out of this place. Please I beg of you."
"You will begin combat training starting tomorrow."
"If you hand me a gun, I'm shooting you and then myself."
And so I ask you again, are we really better than them? Why is it that we demonize those who leave us for this path? Is it for lack of understanding; a fear that they might devolve into senseless cruelty? That they might rise up and consume us?
The Madmen are a constantly churning body that cannot sit still long enough to become stagnant and ineffectual.
And what of the Hand?
It's been months, maybe a year? How… You don't know.
You are a soldier. For the Chaos Insurgency, you are a soldier.
Recruited at gunpoint but hey, who here wasn't, amiright?
You're one of the lucky ones. Most conscripts die on their first mission. The next half die on their second. Only the lucky ones live to see their third.
You've killed what, ten, twenty Foundies in the last two missions you'd say? Most were scientists, but you did kill a guard or two. They're not very good guards.
Your next goal is to bag of those 'MTF' operatives that you've heard of from the vets.
You flex your muscles, and kick the door, ripping it's hinges off of the wall.
You spray your rifle in a wide arc inside of the room.
You hear screams but they're cut short quickly.
"Good work." says some teammate of yours. You don't know their name. You've never met them at all before.
Even so, you must agree, that was good work. This site didn't put up much resistance, but it's a success nonetheless.
"Should intermittent vengeance arm again his red right hand to plague us?" he says.
"Fuck no." you say.
"Amen."
Your squad continues sweeping through the facility for survivors.
…Good work…
Nobody ever said that madness would be easy to comprehend.
But you don't need to comprehend it for it to control you, and every aspect of you, do you?