Veni Vidi Vici

It was birthed onto the bustling production line of a lifeless factory floor. Inauspicious beginnings to say the least. Mothered by cold, mechanical arms and fathered by intense, scorching flame, the locket braved its entrance into the world with steely resolve and was all the prettier for it. Its skin was sterling silver, with ever so delicate machine-engraved swirls marking its lustrous surface. Its skeleton was well-oiled hinges and chain links that moved without friction or discord with its neighbours. Its body was the stylized heart charm that, of course, looked nothing like a true human heart, because who would want that? But while pretty, no one could rightfully say that its make nor its genesis were unique. Far from it. In fact, this particular model had been flagged as highly desirable after its commercial success in the previous season. When you combined that fact with the upcoming money-making bonanza that was Valentine’s Day, it was little wonder that the locket happened to have thousands of siblings, not just alongside it on the factory floor, but also all around the country. Some destined to be loved, some to be worn before being cast away, many to be lost or stolen, even to be destroyed. But for all the divergent paths of its siblings, none had quite the journey ahead of them that our little locket had.

Our locket, alongside dozens of its siblings, was carted away into rumbling darkness for quite some time (of which the exact preciseness is not of any bother to this locket) before arriving to its new home in the window of Marceau et Lune, an overly-priced and admittedly quite pretentious jewellery store in the centre of Paris. Cushioned in amongst lace and satin, the locket sat proudly in the window and basked in the attention befitting a piece of jewellery of its calibre. The window was constantly filled with faces, day and night. Young and bright faces, old and wizened faces, faces that scorned, faces that yearned, faces that looked from afar, faces that pressed against the glass and would draw the ire of Luc, the cleaning guy. But in the end, the face that did it was that of a woman. Hers was plain but possessing of kind eyes, a squashed nose, and perfect teeth that were paired a little inappropriately with her crooked smile. Her name was Penny.

Penny had always liked old war movies. She had grown up watching them with her father, who never said a word during. Often, she would steal glances up at him, his craggy face resolute in the flashing lights, blaring soundscape and general morbidity of such affairs. Although no words were spoken, she treasured those times they spent together dearly and she knew he did too in his way. Long after her father had passed away, her husband Victor was conscripted into the first Hunger Wars and she was reminded of the scenes in those movies of the cold, tired marines staring longingly at photos of their darling beaus back home. Thus, she set out on a mission of her own and stumbled upon- wouldn’t you guess it- the locket. She would never forget the unearthly squeal that had emerged from his mouth when she presented it to him with her best photo inside. As it turns out, Victor had also adored the lockets that the young marines carried in the movies. He loved her and he loved it and thus, he resolved to never take it off.

And so, the locket stayed with Victor for some time. It sat in boredom with him in his cubicle at work. It sweat with him during his workouts. And when he was finally sent out to fight, it travelled with him across the world to fulfil the role that Penny had laid for it- reminding Victor what he was fighting for. The solace it brought was a lonely light in the long shadow that the war cast. Indeed, Victor and the locket endured much hardship towards the end of their time together. Blood, sweat, and tears crusted around the machine-engraved swirls, coating the once-lustrous surface of the heart charm. And finally, when intense light and atomic blasts exploded over the locket, it lay still, cold and buzzing in nuclear winter.

One would no doubt expect that Victor and the locket’s time travelling the war-torn countryside together were days of a bygone era. And yet, in a turn of events of radioactive and biochemically-improbable proportions, the locket was once again able to feel the wind rush through its silvered hinges and feel the sun’s weak rays peeking through the nuclear ash to warm its exterior. Victor was on the move once again. But this time was different. Gone was the warmth of his skin and the ever-present thumping under the chest. In its lieu was rotting, cold, quiet, flesh. An inconsistent, shambling gait replaced Victors usual vigour and energy in movement. And much to the locket’s chagrin, the photo of Penny was left unopened. That was until Victor was shot into large chunks by wasteland bandits.

The new Victor had possessed little regard for the welfare of the locket. Blazing heat and blistering colds had battered the sterling silver, reminiscent of the locket’s birth in the production line of its factory home. Add that to the overwhelming amount of brains that had dribbled down Victors chin and onto the locket- at least, the old Victor had taken time to clean the blood, sweat, and tears from its body. Any locket in their right mind would’ve been over the moon to be under new management. The lockets new owners, a hardened and well-organised group of murderers, thieves, and owners of BDSM gear were fairly pleased with the loot themselves. It wasn’t often that they got to see something so dainty and pretty.

The start of the locket’s foray with the bandits was tumultuous to say the least. The bandits turned out to be quite the unscrupulous bunch and a slew of backstabbings, frontstabbings, and general stabbings of all bodily vicinities resulted in ownership of the locket changing hands on numerous occasions. As luck would have it, it ended up around one of the necks of God-King Janus, a two-headed monster of a man that had- through unprecedented use of diplomatic reasoning- negotiated for the locket’s ownership from one neck to the other in exchange for exclusive rights to the neck hole of their favourite sweater. This time the locket found itself not alone but in the company of kindred spirits- some dog tags, a piece of barb wire, and some tied string with human toes threaded through that did a surprisingly good job of tying the whole ensemble together. Lonely but not alone…

The locket’s remaining time with Janus was one of relative stability. No wasteland survivors worth their mettle could stand close to defeating Janus and his loveable band of rogues and the loveable band of rogues themselves could not topple the ogrish brute, though not for lack of trying. But one cold night in the dead of nuclear winter, an ambitious young rapscallion called Ichabod got it into his head that one head (his one) was better than two and so put a brilliant plan into motion that involved two pillows and a sleeping, two-headed despot. He had gotten the idea from an old movie he had seen with his father’s murderer when he was younger. He remembered staring up at the man in wild bewilderment, seeing his cold eyes glued to the screen. They didn’t speak much, but he had treasured those moments and was certain that a level of pride would’ve been afforded to this plan had he not been killed by a giant sewer rat shortly after. Although the element of surprise gave Ichabod a slight edge, Ichabod discovered that one of the heads could breathe for a lot longer than the other. Ichabod also discovered that pillows were poor tools of defence once Plan A was out the window. As Janus strangled the life out of dear Ichabod, flailing, desperate hands latched onto the locket, inadvertently undoing the clasp and opening the charm with a little click- something that Janus had never been able to figure out, bless his soul. Tossing Ichabod to the side, one of Janus’ heads investigated this new revelation around his neck. As soon as he locked eyes with Penny, he knew. He didn’t know exactly what was was about her but in that second, he knew beauty, he knew love, and he knew that everything would be alright. He shushed his other head, whose gulps of air were very much ruining the moment.

By this time, Janus’ group had become quite a main player in the wasteland. Their worst competitors had been cut down and by now their ranks were swollen by the obviously attractive lifestyle and an overwhelming lack of contraceptives. As their needs grew and became many, they looked to their leader to take their fair society from this embryonic stage in their lives and bear them into the bright, irradiated future. But the good men, women, and ratfolk of the wasteland were faced a choice. Stand with Janus’ left head for a future committed to ruthless expansion, military innovation, and cannibalism? Or stand with Janus’ right head, for the most beautiful woman in the world, touted as the next Helen of Troy. And also, cannibalism. Needless to say, it was exactly an even split. The Janusian Civil War raged and bucked for years before a victor finally emerged from the smoke and flame- a single headed Janus with a glorious and resolute vision for the future.

The locket’s final resting place was in the Grand Chamber of the White Tower, the seat of power for the Magistrate in the metropolis they rightfully named Maden Ch’na. It would never again be forced to lay over the chest of another human, never have to endure the machinations of a masters as it had for so long. Once beautiful, it was now an ancient relic from a time before time itself. It spun slowly around the room in its stasis case, showing off its battered but haughty and preserved form to all who would behold it. But its physical form was merely that. The lockets true power lay in its legacy. From the ruins of the wasteland, an entire civilisation had been constructed under the silvery patronage of the locket, its now-rusting chains laying the foundations for a society that would last for generations. It had opened its heart to a man and in return, millions knew safety, prosperity, and peace under silver-fisted rule. By now, every citizen that lived under the Magistrate’s rule used Lunes as currency, silver coins embossed with the visage of a woman’s face, plain but possessed with kind eyes, a squashed nose, and perfect teeth that were paired a little inappropriately with her crooked smile. If the locket could smile, it fucking would too.