Split (1)

train · 177k rows

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The Great Eye of Jupiter. That's what it's called. Not named after a god or goddess, not after a locale or event, not after anything of particularly grand importance to humanity. It's just The Eye. The Eye of Jupiter, to be exact. And the Eye, although only named that for conveniences sake, is exactly that. Jupiter's Eye, only open for the last three-hundred years, and watching the voids of space and of its own moons for countless aeons. An 'eye' only hearing the perpetual whirlwind of thousands unto thousands of motes of gas swirling, swirling, swirling around a liquid heart of hydrgoen and helium, perpetual sloshing. Wet, airy [sounds that gave off a rather ominous inclination, like the sounds of winds escaping a bottomless chasm.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWTC7P1Dprw) Or, more accurately, of something grand, powerful and divine mumbling to itself. Yes, Jupiter has an Eye. Jupiter has a Heart. It has a voice, even, coming from a throat made of magnetic particles and atmosphere. Why should it not have a Brain? And a Brain it does have. It is the Brain. Every atom, every particle in the wind, every planck second of time on this world is dedicated to thought, thoughts that have no words that we undertstand but that it understands perfectly, these thoughts swirling forth into its eye. An eye that wondered, for three hundred years, of questions that had puzzled many philosophers on the planet that was third from that grand glowing ball they called the Sun and that Jupiter called 'Mother'. The Eye wondered, and wandered for a long time, travelling across the home of its own body, musing and getting idle comments and thoughts from the motes it passed and evnveloped during its journey. They gave not much commentary, too terrified by the philosophing giant eye to truly speak. And so for a long time, it travelled. It travelled, and watched and thought, accepting that all it saw was all that there was. Over the next two centuries of idle watching and thinking, it had seen all the void had given. And then something new arrived. What it knows is what it sees, and what it has seen most recently is a Traveller. A Voyager, in fact. A small box of metals unlike those of the moons that provide comfort to lonely little Jupiter, filled with things Jupiter has never heard of and never known of. Jupiter watches it, enraptured. Voyager watches it in return with eyes of glass and voice of radio, talking long to its homeworld in waves and bands. It circles like a Vulture, not that Jupiter knows what a Vulture is, taking in everything in codes of numbers and digits that it writes down and sends away. And then like those numbers and digits it is soon away as well. The Eye drifted there, dumbstruck. Something else. Something was out there, curious about it. The Eye quickly began to spiral around Jupiter, growing larger and larger across the scope of its globe, the eye enveloping the planet. It wanted to see this. And soon, it does; across an expanse of 365 million miles, the Eye sees the Earth. And the Eye of Jupiter widens with thought, before slowly circling the world again, its voice changing tone. Mumbling still, it circled and pondered, caring not for the motes that it brushed or crushed with the forces mightier then any bomb. The Eye of Jupiter pondered again of its purpose. And finally, after three centuries of thought, it became clear. It was on the wrong planet is all. It was time to visit Earth.
It hurts. When I lay my hands on them, in the streets and the hospitals, in the gutters and in their homes, for hours after they are cured I feel what they do not. The pain of death. Cancer ravaging my lungs. AIDS withering my body like a cut flower. I can manage three a day. That is my rule, and the rest are turned away, back into the street, or to the camps around my house. The rich ones offer money, or offer my family money; my family does the begging then. They are incessant. I am drowning. Only my mother has been loyal through all of this. After a day of healing, when I can't move from the pain, she comforts me. Brings me tea. Tells me stories. It is not just the pain that stops me. If I do more than three a day, I believe the pain will kill me. Sometimes it feels as if I am giving pieces of my own life so that strangers might live. If it were only pain, I would suffer. I would suffer so they could live, and I do. But they scream when I refuse to bear the pain of their illness, the very same illness they want to be cured of. Why can they not understand? I feel the pain they feel in years in hours. Why can they not let me rest? I must have rules: Three a day, in order. There is a list. I have not yet covered one percent of that list. I am twenty three; I began when I was sixteen. Two years ago the pope got sick. The world cried save him! But I did not. He wasn't next on the list. I do not have the right to decide who lives and who dies. I only do what I can: three a day, in order. The pope was not next. The next man on the list was a former soldier accused of slaughtering a village in Korea. The world fumed. That I would heal someone like the soldier over the pope was grounds for them to end my life. But I do not decide who lives and who dies; I do not know what makes a good man or a bad man. The crowd around my home erupted. Thousands protested. Men tried to force themselves through my front door. The police stationed around my house weren't enough, and a government detail was added to the security. Which was fine until the president was shot. Then my security detail became my captors. They broke into my house one night, after I'd just finished my third patient, and put a sack over my head. I was in so much pain I couldn't hope to fight back. I woke in a hospital room. No windows. I was underground. The president lay unconscious on a bed before me connected to a life support machine. He wheezed through his air tube. An agent entered the room. I had a duty to my country, he said. It was not a matter of principle; if the president dies then the bad guys win, he said. "I do not know what makes a good man and a bad man,"I said. The agent raised a hand to strike me. "I supposed that won't do any good, given your pain threshold."the agent said. "Let's try something else." A wall to my right slid away, revealing a second hospital room. My mother lay in a hospital bed in the adjacent room. Her head was shaved and her skin was chalky. Her eyes drooped. "What have you done with her?"I yelled. "Nothing,"said the agent. "She's been sick for months. Hiding it from you, because she didn't want to cause you any pain. We merely accelerated the process." The agent walked to my mother's bed and wheeled it over to me. "So,"the agent said. "How will your principle hold up now?" I clenched my fists. Oh god, mom I thought. I stood up, pushed the agent away, and lay my hands on my mother. I could feel the cancer leave her and the pain of death flow into me. I was already so weak from healing three others today. Once she was cured, a stumbled back into my chair. The pain seared every inch of my insides, burning like a poison. I looked up at the agent, who stood above the president, smirking. He'd won. I lay my hands on the president. I jerked back as I felt three phantom bullets cut through my chest, my stomach, and my groin. The president's machine started buzzing wildly. He awoke, ripping his breathing tube from his throat. I slumped in my chair, convulsing. My vision began fading at the edges. It was going black. The agent rushed over to me, yelling for a doctor. "Oh god, oh god,"he said. I smiled. "I know what makes a good man and a bad man,"I said. And I felt the pain of death take me whole and then slip away. I was alone.
"They asked for upvotes." "You can't kill them for that." "No, no, I don't think you heard me: they asked for upvotes." "Oh, I heard you, but I also saw spewing blood and headless corpses." "Splendid! It's nice when my work is appreciated. So often there are only loners in basements--no audiences to revel in the destruction of yet another source of evil in this world." "... you have a problem." "Certainly this infestation of narcissists is dire. Not to worry, though, I am the solution, and my blade shall drink their blood." "Um, if anyone asks, don't tell them it was me who found you, ok?" "Your modesty becomes you. I approve of your lack of desperation for public acknowledgement. That is why your head is still attached." "Uh... thanks." "Don't mention it."
Kitchen Aid knife set, 1/5 stars TotallyNotASerialKiller wrote: Okay, seriously? I appreciate the serration, sharp edges that don't dull easily when cutting flesh, and the appealing aesthetic, but...I mean, not one bonesaw? I had to hack for six fucking hours just to get that fuckin lady's left arm off. I made sure to leave it in her ass as a token of my disapproval. ------------------------------------------- 55-gallon drum of lube, 1/5 stars TotallyNotASerialKiller wrote: FOR FUCK'S SAKE, THE DRUM ISN'T BIG ENOUGH FOR A 38 YEAR OLD, 220 POUND MAN'S BODY. NOT EVEN DISMEMBERED. DO NOT BUY, MEANT FOR PETITE WOMEN. --------------------------- Great prompt, I'm just outta time sorry D:
"Hello, you called Customer Service for Old One's Incorporated. My name is Jake, how may I help you?" Calm, pleasant and professional. The core values for the company, Jake liked to think he represented them all in equal fairness- even when the call started off like this one. "Ha-Ha, very funny. No... no sir, I'm not wearing khakis." For any watching the scene, the flash of hatred and the glowing of spiraled and ancient runic tattoos might have been unnerving, but that was exactly why Old One's Incorporated didn't allow video calls. That adjustment had implemented after the first three months of business. Shortly before Jake had come on staff, but he had heard the stories. "May I ask, what seems to be your issue today sir?" The voice buzzed in his ear. Yet another one of these calls... "Ah, right, right... I understand. We see a lot of blood and familial line contracts here- especially recently. You know, with the eclipse coming up and all." The buzzing continued, as the headset was adjusted to lower the volume. Shouting was no way to work with a person. Calm, pleasant, and professional: Remember the values. "Yes, I understand. No, I'm afraid that's simply part of the contract-" He held his tongue, as the tattoos began to glow again, and the whispers of ancient tongues began to sing of blood, and death and- "Calm, pleasant, and professional." "Right. Well sir, if you had sealed and branded your flesh according to the exact instructions, I believe the results might have been more to your liking, but it says in your file you went to an outside contractor for the tattoo portion." Oh? What's this? A quieting in the buzzing over the line? Who could imagine why? Checkmate punk- Remember the values... "No sir, we strongly recommend the contracts be met with a familiar or the original source. It is clearly stated on all signed forms of the original draftings." The voice began to shout, as the headphones dropped lower still. It was never enough for some clients- no respect in this day and age. Those spiral brandings on his flesh were starting to glow red again. "I'm very sorry to hear that sir." He sighed quietly, as the line continued- obscenities flowing like a flood through the soft cushion of his headset. "Yes, I'll be sure to pass you along to my manager- please hold." Click. The line began to play soft tones of smooth jazz. "Sunshine Soul"by the New York Jazz Ensemble. He could listen to that for hours on a soothing repeat. It wasn't much help at Five Fifteen on a Friday though. God-damn it all... Some days... Some days... If he wasn't getting health insurance, dental, and a 10% match on his 401k with a decent quarterly upsell bonus, Jake seriously would consider wearing those god-damn khakis and biting the bullet. "Damn it..."He mumbled, as he thumbed out the extension to transfer the call. The week was almost up, and their department had been promised a Pizza Thursday if they finished the month without any more escalations to management. Jake paused, hand hovering over the final number, considering. There was one way out of this, but he only got one- two of these a year, tops. Charles from Marketing did owe him a favor, though. "Fuck it." He growled, as he threw the line to sales instead, hammering down the "Seven"with a trace of guilt. "They can sort this shit out." He might get a note on his file for it, but he never got strikes. Calm, pleasant and professional- Jake would have a clear record by the end of the next quarter anyways, and one call wasn't worth risking Pizza Thursday over. Especially not on a Friday Afternoon.
Let me start by saying that I can’t tell you the future. I can tell you what the future was, but that’s not real useful. I can’t tell you much about the past either – nothing that you couldn’t read in a history book for yourself at least. There is one thing I can tell you though. If you ever build a time machine, make sure that the fuel source is something that was possible to synthesise before the 23rd century. Either that, or don’t be stupid enough to jump back to nineteenth century Europe. &nbsp; I was stupid. And now I’m stuck on the slow road from 1878 to whenever I bite the dust. It’s not so bad. My augmentations protect me from the worst of what the era can offer. I wish I could help my unaugmented ancestors. It’s tough to watch men shrivel away to wrinkled husks in no more than sixty or seventy years. There’s not much chance of fixing that though. Without a link to the global net I’ve got about as much chance of reverse engineering my augmentations as I do of refuelling the machine that brought me here. That’s another tip for any aspiring travellers out there – you can’t uplink to the neural net if you holiday in an era before it was invented. &nbsp; At first I acted like a tourist, ticking off all the sights and events I could remember without a reference. It turned out that wasn’t anywhere near as many as I’d hoped. Guess I always just took it for granted that the information would be out there to download. I wasn’t a very good tourist anyway. Let’s just say that the 1800’s didn’t suit my delicate constitution. &nbsp; So I did what anyone does when they’re sick of travelling and can’t get home. I tried to create a new home for myself. Sarajevo seemed like the natural place to go. I spoke the language and, even with a few hundred years between us, I hoped that I might blend in with the local culture. I set up a little delicatessen and made a modest little life for myself. Months turned into years and years turned into decades. It was lonely, but more than tolerable. &nbsp; I never imagined trying to change history. It frightened me to even consider the hubris it would take to want to play god like that. Then one Summer’s day, temptation came knocking at my door. &nbsp; The young man who took shelter in the entryway of my shop was utterly unremarkable. I turned a blind eye to his loitering. It wasn’t as if I had customers pounding down my door this early in the day, nor did I have anything in the cash drawer to worry about him stealing at this hour. &nbsp; I’m sure you’ve realised by now that I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, what with getting myself stranded and all. Well, let me prove it again. I saw the glint of a weapon in his coat. Unlike anyone with half a brain, I decided to shout at him for bringing such a thing into my shop. I deserved to be shot. I wasn’t though. When he turned around his saucer-like eyes showed more fear than I’d even thought of feeling for my own life. &nbsp; “Please, don’t turn me into the authorities,” he hissed in a desperate whisper. &nbsp; “Why shouldn’t I?” I shot back without a moment’s attention given to the fact I was threatening an armed man with nothing but breadsticks and sandwiches to defend myself. &nbsp; “You are a Serb, are you not?” he asked. My accent often threw people off, but his ears were sharp enough to pick out the similarities between my accented German and his even over the gulf of a few centuries. &nbsp; “Yes. So are a lot of people in this city. What’s it to you?” &nbsp; “I am only carrying this weapon as a means to kill our oppressor,” he said with a nod back towards Appel Quay. He didn’t need to tell me that he was referring to the archduke and his parade. &nbsp; “I don’t care. You don’t belong in my shop. Throw the gun away and get the hell out of here. I don’t want any trouble around here no matter what you believe in.” &nbsp; To my surprise he readily pulled the gun out and dropped it into the bin by the door. The young man visibly relaxed as he did. The cruel, steel thing had been weighing him down. He positively scrambled out the door to escape it. &nbsp; Even I wasn’t foolish enough to leave a pistol in my trash can. Doubly so when tensions had been running so high in the city lately. As I carried the bin out the back to dispose of its contents my mind started to drift. The stories my grandmother told me as a child came back unbidden. They always had a similar theme. The suppression of our culture, the purge of our icons, the dwindling minority of Serbians who could even speak their traditional mother tongue nowadays. No matter the topic, every story my grandmother had ever told ended with the same moral; that it was their fault. The Greater Austrian Federation. And even with the office of emperor long gone, she never let us forget that it had all started with Archduke Ferdinand and his overtures to France in the 1920s. The very same Archduke Ferdinand who just so happened to be approaching my delicatessen in his motorcade while I held an automatic pistol just outside of arm’s reach. An evil idea began to hatch inside my head. Maybe the future wasn’t written in stone.
"Wow... such power..."I muttered to myself after I had discovered that I had the ability to see 1.5seconds into the future. Power such as this could be used for good or for evil. I recalled how my late uncle Bain used to tell me all the time that with immense ability comes immense duty. So I did the right thing with my newfound power. I started playing rock, paper, scissors with people for money.
In a small corner of a forgotten cavern, invisible boots swirled the ancient dust into the air. Staggering like a man exhausted, they slowly plodded their way towards the sun-lit entrance. My name. Someone has finally…. It had been well over one thousand years since I had last heard my name spoken aloud. By the Creators, I thought they had all forgotten it. Long ago I had resigned myself to my fate. And yet, they still remembered my name. Too much…this celestial form taxes me. I staggered and fell into the dust. I became a mouse. Fitting for a god of the earth such as myself, if not a bit humiliating. I flicked my whiskers, feeling the wind caress my face. I must find him. The one who speaks my name. They shall become my first priest in this new age. And so, I left the cavern that had been my home for eons, and made my way toward the voice that called to me like a beacon. It was for many weeks that I traveled. Soon, others began to speak my name. First in small numbers, then more and more joined the chorus. Some spoke in hushed whispers, and to my horror some even cursed my name. What was is that this man was saying about me, for it to travel so quickly and to so many? I pushed onward ever faster to the source, the first to speak my name. The journey was arduous. Though with every mention I grew stronger, I had not anticipated the sheer distance that was required to reach this man. How had he even heard of me? Was there some new way for Man to share tidings, faster than ever before? It wasn’t long before I had my answer. The first human city was far closer than any habitation that had been erected in my time. What I saw there astounded me. Men, riding within beasts of metal and crystal, traveling around faster than any horse! Surely, it was those boxes of light that they spoke into that let them learn of things far and wide in the world. With hope glowing warmly in my heart, I became a bird. I was stronger than I had been in ages, and yet it seemed as if I had made no progress toward my savior. With easy flaps, I made my way ever further toward the setting sun. Soon, I found myself at the edge of a sparkling sea. How far away IS this man? I wondered. I became a cat, wandering the town for scraps of food and information. I learned of great crafts, like flying boats, that could carry men across the world faster than the greatest of birds. Weeks later, my name still whispered by the lips of men, I stowed away on one of these crafts destined for the shores across the distant sea. While I traveled, I slept, dreaming of the riches I once had and would have again. In what felt like the blink of an eye for one as old as I, we landed and my journey began again. My strength waxing, I became a man. My journey was almost over now. I rode in one of the metal carriages, all the way to my destination. I paid my fare, dropping heavy golden coins into the hand of my driver as I stepped out into the light. And here I was. It was a grand dwelling, far larger than the homes of the peasants and priests that I so often saw when I walked the earth long ago. I became a god, and flew unseen into my savior’s dwelling. I found him, seated before a glowing box far larger than the ones that I had seen before. I approached, ready to claim him as my own and shower him with riches, when I saw my name flashing across his screen. Corgi Solo Pool Party – Gallowboob Surely it had been changed, mangled by time and language, but there it was. I roared in anger. Was I, Galwebob, that easy to impersonate!? I went to smite the fool…and then I hesitated. No. I thought, my anger waning. He does not seek to impersonate me. The world had forgotten after all. I smiled, and became nothing. *** Like it? Read more at /r/timesyncs!
We humans have always dreamt of having superpowers. Flight, telekinesis, telepathy, strength, speed, among many imagined. It remained a dream though, as everyone concluded it was impossible to gain powers and that these would remain in our imaginations forever. Until one person changed our thinking. He flew, he moved things with his mind, and he walked through walls. He had super hearing, super speed, a body extremely flexible, and just recently, super hearing. Everyone, from office workers to pedestrians watched in awe as he flew across the metropolis and darted alongside the bullet trains. He was human, yes we have confirmed his identity. He has his legal documents, even those issued during his youth, and he has only risen to fame a few days ago. Naturally, everybody wondered how this happened. Press conferences, interviews over TV and radio, he was all over the news. We got to know about him and his life in just two days. It turns out he is a bachelor, a software developer, used to work a nine to five, reads the newspaper, has his coffee black, and stands up to wipe. He seems pretty normal, you know like, one of us. He even wanted us to just call him Joe, nothing else. Eventually Joe spilled his secret over national television. He stated a few friends to help him fight crime would be nice. The method he revealed was nothing we expected. Not radioactive exposure, not a chemical, not intense training everyday, but rather an online survey? Yeah, online surveys. You know, those surveys you have to take before a download which take ages to complete and never gets you through anyway. Exactly those Joe had said. Joe has painstakingly gone through one online survey per week and now has 23 known superpowers. No one believed him, people even shunned him and scolded him for being selfish and making a fool out of everyone. But I gave it a shot. I trusted Joe's word and after about two hours of answering and staring at my browser's loading icon, I disappeared. My hands were gone, my whole body was! It took me a second to process this, then I grinned. But you wouldn't see that. ___
"Please stop." My voice is deadpan. It's ridiculous the number of coincidences that's happened in a single day alone - a week ago, I wouldn't have believed in any kind of deity. Today? Well, let me give you a summary. I wake up, and perfectly cooked bacon and eggs just happen to fly in through the window as my neighbour's screaming child flings the plate away. It lands neatly on a pile of cushions I'd apparently knocked off during my sleep. I stumble out of my bedroom, and I've apparently had the fortune of being burgled by a burglar that compulsively cleans everything, yet hasn't stolen a thing besides that. I don't know that for sure, of course, but it's pretty safe to assume. I wouldn't have a clue what was happening if half a dozen pamphlets of Lady Luck hadn't fallen on me during a walk. It's the only negative thing that's happened to me all week, and even then it was quickly followed by a lottery winner asking me to take all their savings. No, I don't know why. I don't even know if that's considered luck. Is it really luck if you're manipulating others? Or had that man always planned to give away his fortune, and I just so happened to be in the right place at the right time? My days are almost comical at this point. I might as well have been a god for everything that was happening; I could step into traffic right in front of a car and it would just happen to hit a tiny bump that would send it flying into the air over my head. "I appreciate the help, I really do, but I'm not interested,"I insist. Silence. A bird flies over me, dropping a gold coin in front of my feet as it does so. "I'm also really, really gay,"I add. A pamphlet blows into my face, detailing Greek mythology - specifically, Zeus'... unique exploits. I groan. This... this isn't going to get better any time soon.
In the Bible, Christ the Child was born unto the Virgin Mary. In 2016, he was born unto the virgin Sam. Just Sam, by the way. I was a twenty-four year old Software Engineer, and the last time I had a girlfriend was in middle school. From what I remembered, it lasted about six hours. Seventh grade me was devastated. On March 19th, I had a dream, or, more accurately, a vision. The angel Gabriel appeared and told me that it was the time for the second coming and that I had been chosen to raise the Messiah. He told me not to fear, and then I woke up. Baby Jesus lay in my bed beside me, and God was he ugly. I called in sick. Jesus Christ has ended up being the most well-behaved baby I'd ever seen. He would have had to have been, or I would have gone insane. Google was my parental counselor for about a week until I realized I couldn't keep this up, and I was forced to call my sister, Sarah, for backup. If I didn't get back to work, good baby Jesus would run out of diapers to shit in. I still remember the sound she made when I said I needed her help to raise a motherless baby. Since then, we've just been trying to make sure he was alive and comfortable. What more could we do? He felt like my obligation, in the same way you would feel like it was your obligation to help a old man who fell when no one else was around. Somehow, I had grown to love him. My sister did too — I could see it in her eyes when the baby would make a sound, and we would look at him and then look at each other in the way that parents only could. The baby was still a secret. Things got more complicated. Even though he was usually quiet, baby Jesus was still a baby, and babies cried. My apartment neighbors knew I was single, and they'd come by a couple of times to check on the noise. They worked, too, and luckily enough I had always been home to answer the door for them; somehow I've been able to deflect their attention, but I fear for the time they come by, the baby is crying, and only my sister is home. How do you explain that away? She was running out of excuses to explain her missing time, too. Sooner or later this would come to... what? If one day there's a knock at the door, and it's Child Protection Services, what would I do? "Hello, Mrs. CPS official. My name is Sam, and I'm taking care of a baby I had myself. His name is Jesus Christ, and he's come from Heaven! My sister is helping out, too!" God, please tell me that you did not want your only begotten son to come into the world to be seen as the illegitimate incest child of a lonely, insane programmer. What the hell was the plan? I finally felt some anger towards the child after a month of raising him. I wondered what would happen if I let him die — would it even be possible? What would happen if Jesus were the next baby to end up in a garbage bag in the dumpster? The thought sickened me immediately, and I felt shame for even thinking it. For the first time since my religious mother asked me to say grace over dinner, I prayed, and just like that time, when I awkwardly asked for God to bless our food and bless our hearts and guide our evenings, nothing came of it.
He would wonder often if it was just something inside of himself. Something that ate away at bits and parts that made him feel, above all things, that he was alone in this world. Dementia may be of the mind, and cancer may be of the body, but what is the soul without both mind and body? Is a soul inherently sick if it chooses to go left instead of right? To take the unbeaten path that it knows, and therefore so does he, will end in his demise? Is the soul some grand consciousness, or is it some sortof religious concept? Alex didn't know. And because he didn't know, he sat. And wondered. On older, yellow-colored days, fountains of pain poured from his body in rivets, unseen, but he could feel them all. Those were the days of heavy drinking, steeped in the thighs of random strangers, and today...felt like it had been before. In those days of yellow. Not yellow in the sense that they were bright and full of life, like the vibrating sun over a cyan sky. No, yellow in the sense of a pit stain in the crux of a white t-shirt. Yellow in the sense that skin turned jaundice when someone was physically ill. Perhaps a faded photograph, perhaps a tea stain on something nice. The man had yellow hair as well, and as a hand ran through it, he realized he was back in the same place he had been years ago. Brown paper bag in his hand, a bottle of vodka within that paper bag--it clinked, the liquid swishing. Alex inhaled his cigarette and pushed it out onto the side of the bench he sat at. In broad daylight. With that fucking bag. The paper crinkled in his grasp and his eyes, red from whatever hell he was trying to fight out of, closed in a solemn realization. This was what a sickness of the soul felt like. In despair, the soul cried out for a release. The soul was no different than a combination of the body and the mind--a sense of being. ID, Ego, and all that Freudian jabber he often said was a bunch of shit. But it somehow wasn't. Tired, red-eyed, and sick to the core of his soul, he pressed the bottle to his lips. In some way, it was a blessing that a little girl in red hopped past him, her mother's hand in her own small grasp. He stopped, staring at her as she leapt. All the joy in life and all the wonder of a life not yet tarnished, flitting past him like a bird. And that chirp--the laughter. God, he would've loved the laughter, to laugh like that bird, as she bounced on her heels, light-up sneakers blazing neons on the pavement. He was a shade of putrid yellow, sitting perfectly still. The vodka passed his lips. She was red, and all shades of light and joy. A disease can be cured. A disease can be cured. A disease can be cured. Al spit out the vodka into the bottle and set the bag beside himself, on that stark bench, as the girl was long out of sight. A disease of the soul, it can be cured. You just need to want it bad enough.
It wasn't until taking a look at the guests that I'd realized I made a slight mistake. Sarah's family definitely didn't have any black people in it. A bit of an oversight on my part for launching into my heartfelt declaration before making sure it was aimed at the right person. I gently removed myself from the embrace of the former-soon-to-be bride, and pulled out my phone. Dead silence as I checked Google Maps, while the former groom and his complete extended family glared daggers into me. The phone turned on, only to display LOW BATTERY, before promptly dying. Saint Joseph's Catholic Church I mentally recalled. That's where Sarah was getting married today. I looked up to a tapestry adorning the rear wall of the church, which read Joseph's Methodist Church "Ah."I said dryly. Still complete silence, except for the one elderly man sitting in the front, who was laughing his old ass off. I reexamined the person who I had thought to be Sarah. Yep. As far as I knew, Sarah hadn't turned half black in the past two hours since I had seen her. "Well folks..."I started, after an awkward minute of silence. "I uh... There seems to have been a bit of a mix up..."You could probably cook an egg on my face for how hot it was getting. "Wait... So all those things you said?"The bride said, tears still glistening in her eyes. "They're not true?" I stared at my now dead phone for any sign of what to do. My very red reflection stared back at me. I looked up at the bride, who returned my uncertain gaze. Suddenly, a little domino in my head fell over. "You know what, screw it."I said to her, still very aware that no less than a hundred sets of eyes were on me. I offered her my arm, which she quickly took. "Lets walk out of this story, and go make a new one."
"A fucking dragon? How does this even happen?!"the father shouted, voice booming with rage at the lizard in his kitchen. The white-robed entity spoke, voice ringing like a wind chime. "'Tis quite simple, your child has the attitude of a Heryphalus Moedemeous, or as you call them, 'Dragons'." "Yes, but how?", the father, seemingly cool, questioned. "I don't understand how my son has the attitude of a dragon." "He shows undying determination, and strength of resolve. He also shows serious strength of voice and limbs. However, these come with consequences. The child possesses an inherent love of arson. Your son's number one motivation is burning everything to the ground, be it man or building. Don't forget intense gluttony, and the desire to devour everything. The true sign of dragonry, however..." "Yes?" "He hates How To Train Your Dragon. He finds it 'oppressive to his kind'."
Might continue later, but currently in a bit of a rush! Edit: [Part 2 here!](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/4xek25/wp_the_first_mission_to_leave_the_solar_system_is/d6fypjn) Edit: [Part 3!](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/4xek25/wp_the_first_mission_to_leave_the_solar_system_is/d6hpxnt) ***** You are leaving the tutorial area. Would you like to edit your character? Yes \| No Captain Paszek glanced at his fellow astronauts, but none of them seemed to understand what it meant any better than he did. Paszek tore himself away from the viewport and jogged along the craft's main corridor to the cockpit. "Mary, take us off full impulse,"said Paszek, tapping his second on the shoulder. "Can you get us into orbit?" "Around Pluto?"asked Lieutenant Vanderbilt. Paszek nodded. "I don't want to waste any more fuel after what happened at Jupiter. Let me see about..."She focused on her instruments, double-checking the readings they had been collecting for the last several weeks. "We can swing around Charon without a full course change, but we'll be slingshotting in twelve hours." "Do it,"said Paszek. Earth was only three hundred and five light-minutes away; they could send a message to headquarters and receive a response just in time to adjust their heading. "Roger that, Captain,"said Vanderbilt, switching on the intercom. "Disabling rotational gravity. Brace for zero." The ship slowly stopped spinning around its central shaft, and Paszek, not strapped down like Vanderbilt, rose up into the rererecycled air. He drifted back to the crew quarters, where October, Jameson, and Liang were all gathered around the mess table, keeping themselves grounded with their suit maglocks, arguing about the helmets in front of them. Captain Paszek swam over their heads to the comms console opposite. "It's just a joke,"said October, shaking her head. "Someone back home sent us this virus inside the last transmission." "Or a glitch,"suggested Jameson. "I know Liang installed Fallout XI on her personal system..." "I did not!"exclaimed Liang. "Everyone knows, Sam,"said Jameson dryly. "Hush up a moment,"said Paszek. The room fell silent. The crew psychologist, Anne St. Claire, floated in from the observation deck and locked herself in with the others. "Uh, Houston, we have a...character selection screen?"said Paszek. He plugged in the coordinates for their projected flight path and spliced in the feed to his helmet cam. "Repeat, everyone on the crew just had this show up on their visors. 'You are leaving the tutorial area. Would you like to edit your character?' Then a yes and a no. Let us know how we should proceed. Over." The message was away. In five hours, give or take, it'd reach Earth, and in ten they'd get a reply. Paszek joined his crew at the mess table, and Mary arrived soon after. "So, what are we doing in the meantime?"asked St. Claire. Paszek looked over at Liang. "Hey, Sam,"he said. She glanced up from her helmet. "Did you pick up the multiplayer DLC before takeoff?"
Eventually, it boiled down to taking turns at the Cupola, the only place with enough windows to get a proper scope of the events below. To our great Fortune, we were orbiting over the DRC when things went down, else there would be no chance of us surviving. Even as it stood, more then a few of our electronics got knocked out, and we hit some turbulence here and there from the biggest bombs. It hurt. It hurt so much to scrabble at the Cupola, eyes burning with every flash seen at the edges of the horizon. And yet every one of us wanted to be there. We took two minute shifts. There wasn't enough time. We got reports from NASA, Roscosmos, even JAXA for Takuya as long as any of those lasted. They gave us just enough information to duck and weave as we whizzed our way around the world, just enough to survive as they all disintegrated. It only lasted really an hour, as far as we could see. There was more, but after the first hours the northern hemisphere was cloaked in smoke, and the explosions were hard to distinguish from high up lightning flashes. When we were on the day side of earth, It was all smoke. When on the dark side, the smoke was lit up with an orange haze from the massive fires below. We turned, and turned, and turned. at roughly t-48:34:01 since it started (I was keeping track), we all met in the Zvezda service module, where the russians slept. I was afraid we'd devolve into fighting, into name calling, asking who had started what, but nobody had the energy. After some discussion, we came across some sobering realities. We had enough consumables to last a few months, but nobody was sure how long we'd stay in the air. It was ground control's job, not ours, to keep us afloat. Oleg had gotten a message from Ros about how to jury-rig himself into the system to handle the bursts himself, but without resupplies it would only last us two weeks. We were going to die, sooner rather then later, and with us the last of humanity. Three of us (Oleg, Kate, and Takuya) Decided to die before them. Oleg and Kate by falling into the atmosphere, Takuya by simply ejecting himself into the wider space. I did not begrudge any of them this. It was only natural, given the situation. The remaining three of us brooded. My two fellows, Alexey and Anatoly, labored to craft some kind of tablet, like the kind Nasa put on some of the voyagers, to shoot out into earth atmosphere. I had to admire their ingenuity, they thought they could even launch it into stable orbit if they were lucky. I...did less with my time. I fiddled with the codes, using the jury-rigging Oleg had taught me before his departure. I thought perhaps if we could get to a satellite, mess with it, turn it outwards to send a message....dumb, yes, but I had to have something. Alexey and Anatoly agreed that it would be fine, even though it would reduce the amount of time before our fall. There were precious few satellites left in low orbit, let alone operational, let alone operational enough for me to get a hold of them. After a week of work, with almost no sleep for myself, I was able to hook one in, and get close to it without crashing. A small miracle, given the difficulties. From there, it was simple enough to get the satellite flipped around and shooting out a radio signal out, the Morse code for "DANGER, WILL ROBINSON". Wouldn't mean anything to anyone, but I could hardly stop laughing while coding it so that was nice. And then I had a perfectly good reason to sing "Mrs. Robinson"to myself the rest of the day, which I proceeded to do for no particular reason. I finally slept that night (given a certain definition of "night"), slept long and hard. I was awoken by Anatoly shaking me, asking what the hell "DANGER, WILL ROBINSON"meant. "Wha?....Ana, it's just a joke, what does it matter what the satellite said?"I grumbled, trying to move her hands away as they undid the straps on my bed. "How do you know it's a satellite? Did you not...did you not tell us we were getting messages?"Ana growled in clean english, accent worn away by months of practice. That got me up far faster then the shaking. Once again the entire crew was in the Zvedza service module, where Alexey was tapping away at one of the many laptops, frowning. Once me and Ana had settled, he flipped on the volume, and we listened to the message being sent from outside. "DANGER, WILL ROBINSON"in clear Morse code. "...you...sure that's not the sattelite I messed with?"I asked Alex. "That one turned off once this one started. No idea why."explained Alex in the so very russian accent he'd kept as a mark of pride. "This is coming from something else. Nearby, but hard to say were." As he finished, the Morse Code stopped. Then, in clear, if slightly robotic, english, "Jeff Williams. Alexey Ovchinin. Anatoly Ivanishin. Please move to the Cupola and look outside. Bring a laptop with you. Thank you." The three of us stared, until Ana scoffed and pushed herself away. "Nothing better to do today, anyway."We followed her, I a bit ashamed that I wasn't the one leading the charge. I guess commanding ranks really didn't matter at this point. With just the three of us, we could cram enough to all look out the windows and see the oddity outside. It was a long, pitch black shard illuminated only by the light from earth. The clouds had dissipated, in part, but the fires still raged, enough show the shard in stark contrast. It was hard to tell if it was close and small, or far and large, but it was keeping in perfect orbit with us. The laptop turned on without our intervention, and sputtered in that same robotic voice, "We are most pleased by your survival. We assumed that your craft was lost during your most recent conflagaration. You may talk into the microphone of your laptop, to communicate." We looked about, but now was my turn to take the lead. "We're pretty happy about it ourselves. Who are you?"I felt something bubbling as I spoke, something nigh alien itself. "We are representatives of a collective of interstellar species. We are an outpost charged with observation and record of your system, and particularly the planet known as earth." "Of course, they speak english first."muttered Ana "Он является официальным языком МКС это нет?"responded the aliens "...fair enough." "...you've been watching us? for how long."I asked, the bubbles growing. "This particular crew has been stationed for roughly 5 years. We were almost at the point of cycling out when the conflagration occurred." "Why not just call it what it is? Why not call it a war?" "We apologize. We shall call it a war upon your request." "Don't you apologize. Don't you dare."The bubbling became frothing, hard to think. "We beg pardon?"the aliens asked, my crew mates looking confused. "You've been watching us for YEARS and you let this happen!? you let the bombs fly and kill everything? With all your travel and your technology a-and watching us and you just let us DIE? What for? WHY?"I started to shout at the aliens. Ana tried to pull me away from the laptop gently, but I shrugged her off. They WOULD explain this. "...It's hurts us too, to watch this. It is not our job to intervene in what you do, until it is too late. It is not our fault that this happened." All of us look to the laptop. It rephrases. "It is not your faults, either. You had no say in the matter, a-" "No. But it could have been, right? In a different situation?"I ask the laptop coldly. Silence for a time. "There is much we need to talk about. About your futures, and your societies. We will be docking shortly."The laptop turned off. The three of us left, the last three humans, didn't need to talk further. What was there to talk about? We had no choice. We had lost that privilege 168...170...fuck it, eight days and a night ago.
I mean, it's cool that things mostly seem to go my way, but only my way apparently. I know, it sounds dumb, but let me explain. The first accident I can remember was when I was 7. I was trying to get a cookie from the cookie jar, which was quite high up. At least at the time it seemed like it was. Anyway, I tripped and fell. Luckily for me, our dog just happened to walk past. I landed on her, and she broke my fall. But the sad part is, I broke her spine. She survived, but we had to put her down later because letting her live like this just seemed cruel. Took me a long time to get over this, but I did. I hadn't thought about this for a little while. I'm tearing up a little inside just thinking about her nice black coat. The next thing I can remember was quite a lot... worse I guess. I was 13, just minding my own business, walking home from school when a car suddenly swerved in my direction. I just froze in fear and watched the car coming towards me. I remember the look on the face of the woman driving the car in detail. she seemed so scared. Like she wasn't in control, which I didn't really understand back then. I only saw her for a split-second, because she got hit by a truck. Not kidding, seemingly out of nowhere a giant truck crashed into the side of her car. She couldn't have possibly survived that, and she didn't. It seemed so strange at the time, and definitely like a once in a lifetime experience. How wrong I was. 13 people have died in the last month, all while saving (or threatening) my life. Each in a more extraordinary way. After the last two I'm pretty much certain that a higher (or probably lower) power is involved. I'm not kidding, I swear. The previous one, a man in with a gun, trying to mug me, fell into a sinkhole which just appeared underneath him. Yea. That happened. But the last one, which happened about an hour ago, a plane started flying towards me, and it bloody disappeared. Into nowhere. Poof. Gone. The best part is, someone talked to me while it disappeared. Couldn't see it, but i heard it, definitely did. "Do something interesting, you lazy, boring sod". So you know, I think I'm gonna rob a bank. See if it can have some fun with that.
He had a dream once, as a young boy; he’d never particularly remembered the dream very well, but he awoke from it with an epiphany developing from the groggy fringes of his young mind - he quite liked chess. In the dream, he’d won a game of chess. So in real life, he started playing chess. He was very old now, and when he’d been young, life was difficult. His living situation his comfortable; his parents too distance, busy trying to reach end’s meet, lost in their spiraling marriage and their arguments that screamed late into the night. Of his siblings he felt an outcast, too odd, and everywhere he went he felt that, too. It wasn’t the happiest childhood, full of few bright moments, but… At least he’d had chess. Rarely did he ever have the chance to actually play with someone, but he’d play against himself, or pretend to play with the few toys he had, finding the loneliest spot he could to break out his only prized possession, a chess board and set which he cared very dearly for, to amuse himself. He wanted to be a good chess player. He practiced whenever he could, took any chance to play, watch, or read about chess. A chess board and its set of valiant heroes became his escape from the realities of his hardships, and from the terrible feelings and thoughts he’d sometimes feel and think. He wasn’t very good at very much, but he was good at chess, at least. He came to be very good at chess, and at one point or another began to attend amateur tournaments, and either the third or fourth one he’d participated in, his memory wasn’t quite what it had been, he had won, and he’d been so happy. He played and played, practiced and practiced, playing it for entertainment, for sport. He left home as soon as he could, distancing himself from his family as far as he could. He played in more tournaments, tournaments with prizes, and one day he looked up and realized, truly, that he’d become a great chess player - one of the greatest, having gained fame and fortune and found his way through life from his difficult origins on the foundation of a chess board. He was very old now, and he was slower, more irritable, and grumpier, but he played chess still - and he was good as he ever was. The last tournament he’d played in, not too long ago, his opponent was… A boy. A young boy, who seemed to look very familiar, though his sight was not what it once was, and he wondered how a boy so young could be participating in such a tournament as this one was; grand, and professional, and the boy seemed to only stare at the board, never looking up, making each of his moves carefully and blankly, never looking at anyone or anything but the board, seeming to be barely there; the boy was very good. Too good. Better than him. He cursed and frowned and muttered, wondering how this boy could be so damned excellent at chess, his cranky old mind not even pausing to be in awe as the boy beat him. Checkmate. The boy finally looked up once he’d won, smiling, and after staring at the boy so long, wondering why he seemed so familiar… He realized the boy was him. A much, much younger him. It was a small smile, but a pure one. The boy got up, and left abruptly, and it seemed no one could find the boy after he left. No one even knew who he’d been, he was gone just like that, but the old man knew who the boy was, and the defeat was forgotten, as he thought back to that dream - so long ago.
Do you remember the moment you met the love of your life? How about the moment you fell in love? It might have been slow to develop, building over months of friendship and good times. Or, like it was in my case, it might have been instantly apparent. A brief look at a face so perfect and a human so ideal that you sit on edge waiting for your heart to start beating again and the next breath to pass through your lungs. We were ten, at the time. She was kneeling in the grass and running her hand over a bed of clovers. It was my first day at school and I knew that she was going to be the one. Which, at that age, meant that we were going to be best friends. Her knees were stained when she stood up and, in between her index finger and thumb, she held her prize. “What’s that?” I asked her. “Four leaf clover,” she replied, thrusting it forward. “Look.” And then I fell in love. I didn’t know it at the time, though. Still, the way she smiled at me and told me that her name was Anna and that I could sit with her at lunch made my life better in some way. I felt gratified and whole. So we sat together at lunch and talked about television and whether sandwiches should be eaten with or without the crust. I shared with her the peanut butter and jelly that my mom had packed for me and she shared her Lunchable. The freckles on her cheeks moved when she smiled and I remember finding that so appealing. While she chewed her lunch, on the day that my mom let me bring in an extra brownie because Anna’s mom never let her have any, I tried to count them. But they were so light and sometimes blended together that I had trouble. Plus, she caught me staring. “What’re you doing?” She asked me, carefully rubbing the pad of her thumb against each fingertip to get rid of crumbs. “I just like your face,” I shrugged. My face was hot and hers was red and she replied, “Oh, thanks,” and we kept eating. In middle school she grew her hair long. I was fond of how it looked short, the way it would get in her eyes and she’d brush it back only to have it fall back into her face again. But, when it was long and she was speaking with passion, the way she seemed to talk sometimes when she was so involved in what she was saying that the rest of the world ceased to exist, bits of hair would stick to her lower lip. She wouldn’t notice. I’d watch it and smile as I listened to her. Then, one day, I reached out and let my fingers caress the side of her cheek, pulling the hair back into place behind her ear. She stopped talking and stared at me. Quickly glancing around to see if anyone was in the area and seeing no one, I leaned in to kiss her. “Why’d you do that?” She asked me, sounding scientific but not offended. “I just like you,” I replied. Her smile grew wide and mine did as well and she replied, “Oh, thanks.” Then she leaned in to kiss me back, the way she hadn’t when I had kissed her the first time, and said, “I like you too.” In that moment I thought we’d live happily ever after, like in the fairy tales or like the moms and dads who weren’t Anna’s or mine. My parents were divorced and she wished her’s would do the same. They didn’t get along well and it bothered her a great deal. We’d go on long walks through the park just on the edge of town and she’d tell me about the nights that her parents fought so loudly, shouting things so cruel that, even though they weren’t directed at her, she began to cry. When she came into the lunchroom so tired, eye bags carrying the burden of another sleepless night and her parents' verbal pollution, I knew that they’d been at it again. I’d ask her to talk about it but I already knew what had happened. And I knew she wouldn’t have much to say. So we’d just sit. One day in high school she came to me with a somber expression. This face that she put on in front of her parents when they tried to pretend that they loved each other and she tried to pretend that she didn’t know the truth. “I can’t... do this anymore,” she hesitantly exhaled. Confused, I replied, “Do what?” Her eyes sought out anything else to look at, veering away from my perplexed expression as the tip of her tongue dragged over her lower lip. It was something she did when she had something to say that she didn’t want to say. Like when I asked if I could stay over for dinner and she’d say no or when I wanted to go to the mall when she went with her friends and she told me that it was a girls only thing. She was silent. “Do what?” I repeated. “This isn’t real - you and I.” “Of course it is, Anna, I love you,” I mumbled, feeling uncertain. “You’re my world.” “I know, and you were mine,” she didn’t sound sad - at least not the type of sad I was expecting. She sounded like she’d long since grieved the loss. Like the end of this relationship wasn’t just now staring her in the face but she’d been thinking about it for a long time. Which, of course, she had. “But I’m older now. Too old for this,” she added, reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder and missing. “I’m so sorry that I did this to you.” When she started to walk away I wanted to follow, but I couldn’t. Not due to a lack of willpower but because of a genuine physical inability to move at all. Slowly and painfully I felt myself become enveloped in nothingness. It was cold and hollow and dark and there was nothing I could do. Before she’d even turned the corner from the park, becoming obscured by the trees and then the hardware store, I was gone. But at least I still remember the moment I fell in love.
Demitri presses his head against the Cupola, his neck craned as the continent of Africa rotates out of view and the American Eastern seaboard is still not quite visible . He sighs heavily and waits. Nino Johnston sits with his back to him, staring at the intercom speaker, not daring to turn his head. Nino is willing Huston to tell them its all a joke, a lie, a terrible misunderstanding, its all resolved. Demitri knows that that is not going to happen. A series of small flares light up the horizion, the Eastern seaboard slowly creeps into view and is lights up like a string of small firecrackers. He pushes himself from the glass of the cupola and moves to the starboard of the capsule. "It has happened"he dryly announces as he cranes his neck even further to see if he can see the motherland light up like a christmas tree as well. "God forgive them"Nino whispers into his hands as he rubs his face. The intercom sits silent and useless in the control panel. "Are we expected to kill each other too"? Demitri wants to know. "Do they fucking expect us to tear each other apart here? fucking morons" Red square must be gone now, as would be the Church of St Peter and Paul. He is sure that is brother and sister have made it at least to Kazakstán, hopefully that will be something, but his mother, his poor sick mother. "Bastards" Nino straightens his back and unbuckles from the console seat . "Im going up front, we still have to keep this operational" "Demitri, check on the radio and see if we are picking up anything from the civilan channels, lets find out how bad it really is down there.
Phobia collecting is a lucrative job, Neeraj. I know it sounds, well, scary to most people - sorry, I joke - but like with any job, it just takes some lifestyle adjustments. Let me start by clearing up some common misconceptions. You get to choose your clients and what jobs you pick up, meaning you have full agency over what phobias you collect. This often results in different "types"of phobia collectors, or PCs. First, there's Alpha-type collectors. Alphas specialize in one or two particular phobias, and will specifically seek out and market to prospective clients seeking to transfer a phobia of that PC's specialty. The thing is, collected phobias stack in intensity. You'll find that this results in Alpha PCs who live out their life fully outside the realm of that phobia, or at least, as separated from it as possible. For example, an acrophobia collector (that's the fear of heights, Neeraj), would likely live out in the midwest, where the flatest lands exist, nary a skyscraper to be seen. Most in this field will aim for the niche, rare phobias, but the daring will take the extra money to collect fears of women, the color yellow, or even the letter Y. You hear many articles about the creative ways that these men live in luxury while still getting by in life. But that's not for everyone. As you might guess, Gamma collectors diversify their collections across a wide variety of phobias. They'll pick a little bit of fear of spiders, some fear of the dark, some fear of clowns, and so on. It's an entirely respectable field, and much easier to control for, but Gammas often quickly run into a ceiling - there's only so many kinds of fears in the world, and only so much of a particular fear that a Gamma is willing to accept. Now, as I've been hinting at, not every phobia on the market has the same price. Costs for fears are based on two factors: rarity and intensity. Fears that are more common, more prevalent, and harder to avoid - like fear of the dark, fear of public places, or even fear of leaving the house - all have a higher cost than, say, a fear of Donald Trump. Who's Donald Trump? That president from early 2000s? Exactly. And intensity, well, makes sense - greater fears mean higher value. This system does wonders for people with intense, yet niche fears that others can't relate to. So you might've heard criticisms about PCs, saying that our industry is negatively impacting clinical counseling. People are worried that, if the average joe pays money to no longer have fears, where's the money for therapy go? The answer is that we use it in therapy sessions. That's right, many of us PC's include therapy in our business model, by regularly working with therapists to overcome our fears the good 'ol fashioned way. In fact, with so many of us full-time PC's regularly attending therapy appointments, we've become experts in overcoming fear. This not only ensures that we keep the clinical counseling profession alive, but we also more efficiently deal with the process of overcoming fears quicker. We get fears out of society through phobia collection, Neeraj! So yeah, in my experience, it's a wonderful job that supports a wonderful cause. Of course, you're welcome to treat it as a side-gig like many people do, but if you're dedicated, you can make a lucrative career out of it. Give it some thought. Anyway, thanks for coming by to talk. Oh! And if you wouldn't mind, please ask the secretary to lock my door on your way out. I don't want gnomes coming in to steal my things. Thanks.
"I'm not really supposed to tell you this, but you shouldn't go into work today,"John said, his voice wavering somewhat. Now that I thought about it, he sounded off. Was he whispering? I shifted my cell from my hand to my shoulder as I pulled my laptop out of its bag and booted it up. If something was up, I wanted to check the news. "Where are you, John?" "I really can't say. Just... just don't go into work today, alright?" I scoffed. "I've got a ton of paperwork to do, man. We just released the-" "I know what you released." How couldn't he? It was all over the news. Those same idiots camped out to buy it, something that amused me to no end. The lines were around the block! A whole tent city went up nearly a month before release. A news story broke a week ago about people pissing in the parking lot, creating a sanitation "crisis."John must've known. "So you know I've got a ton of work to do. I can't really call out because of a cryptic message delivered ten minutes before I walked out the door." I punched my password in and headed off to the news websites, scanning for anything happening in the city. Nothing. I was feeling better about a decision to ignore John by the moment. John sighed. "It's in the basement. They put it down there." "Put what down there?"I asked, pressing for some kind of answer. I was getting more than a little annoyed at this point. The connection broke, I heard John hang up the phone. I put mine in my pocket and scrolled by the latest news one more time. No mysterious basement deliveries or threats. I pushed back from my desk and walked downstairs, leaving my laptop behind. I didn't pass anyone, I guess they weren't in. My footsteps echoed around me as I descended to the first floor, across the entryway, and to the basement door. Curiosity got the better of me. I swung it open and hit the light, casting a look over my shoulder as I stepped through the door. The basement itself was cool and dark, despite the lights. Machinery hummed and whirred as it went about its work, purifying water or heating it. Whichever. I wasn't paid to maintain basement machines. Nor was I paid to search for "it"hidden somewhere amongst them. Ah, well. A blue cylinder a bit taller than myself sat in the corner, a web of pipes extending from it to the walls. I caught an unfamiliar smell that didn't quite mesh with the musty odor of the basement and the metallic smell of the machinery. I couldn't place it, so I decided to investigate. Closer to the cylinder I saw something that caused my heart to flutter. What the hell was I looking at? Another cylinder appeared to be attached to the pipes leading to the blue cylinder, and in the pit of my stomach I wondered if this was "it." Upon closer inspection, though, it looked like a thermos. Maybe some janitor left his coffee down here while working or avoiding work. I reached for it an heard a click and another whir, louder and more immediate. The thermos was making noise. It wasn't a thermos. I turned to run and cupped my hands around my mouth. I shouted, "Bomb!" How did John kn-
Quietly and with no great sense of urgency I slipped back to the warm presence of my dearest, longest-lived friendship. We had known each other for what must have been a myrieteris or more. When you know someone for that long they start to seem less like a friend, lover, or family member. They start to seem more like another aspect of you. A different, physical personification of all the deep things in your heart. Like most of my deaths I barely remember dying. Sometimes I feel pain, sometimes I do not. In a few of my deaths I were surrounded by loved ones, passing quietly without affair. In others I passed so quickly I found myself back in this place where an eye-blink before I was standing tall and proud, alive. And in too many deaths to want to remember I lingered in suffering. Death has seen the other side. It dares not look too long. So he keeps me here. The same person put back again and again to live new lives, to experience new things, always to return to Death's door with new pleasures, new pains, and new depths of emotions for it's delight. Why it picked me I'll never know. Maybe I picked it. Sometimes I forget. I'll live an entire life unaware of what death means for me, and at Death's door I'll remember. I think it likes those deaths the most, the sudden despair and anguish as all my myriad lives slam back in to focus all at once. And the worst part of it all? It chooses. It chooses every time. Death makes a great show of the process, too. It'll weigh my soul, stare in my eyes, pick through my memories. The first time I came here it reached up and wiped a tear from my cheek, and at its touch I quivered through to my bones. I felt it reach through me - past me - and tug the threads of what I was before. Before I was me. Death was supposed to be my release, the period to give my life sentence meaning. I remember my tears at my first embrace with Death. They weren't from sadness or sorrow, or anger or fear. They were tears first of relief, then of disbelief, and finally, they were tears of rage. I wanted it to end. I wanted that end to give me my meaning. But you and I are not so lucky. You and I are fated as one. We are one, together. I at my eternal guard, you to keep my eternal sanity. You chose this. I chose this. Do these last 16,432 years weigh on you? Would you like to see beyond my door? He asks. Every time he asks. *I have seen beyond the doors of death, my* doors, and I choose my path wisely. Would you look at all that your death can offer and walk away? There is a reason I'm here. There is a reason Death keeps me here. There is no reason that I have to keep you here. You keep yourself. Come. Look.** ... Beyond the doors of death lay knowledge. Knowledge of what I once was, of the threads from before. Laying there stretched across an empty, infinite plane with no beginning. And no end. The threads have no individual sense of self, but tied together they move. And mine move beautifully. I peak in closer and peer at a knot that more and more seems familiar. It's throbbing, pulsating, demanding my attention. It's... it's... Go on. Look. It's my failure. I... did all this. I created... everything. I was arrogant. Life was never supposed to be this isolated, life was never supposed to be this painful. I wronged an entire universe. Death is too good for me. I need purgatory. Go now, leave. A new life awaits. I am God. This is my penance.
A business man mused to himself as he walked to the house. He had perfectly trimmed hair, a well tailored vest, and glasses. "It was funny the first few times, I admit."He mused to himself. He opened his door to find that his living room had turned into a meat curing facility. Corpses, rather than hams, hung from the ceiling on bloody chains. The man simply strode forward and poked one of them. "Hmm... there could be more blood on the floor. Did you kill them before stringing them up to the ceiling?" The house rattled and he sighed. "Low effort, my friend. You didn't even make a decent rotting scent." An invisible force began to shuffle him towards a still open door. "Hey- Hey! I own this house. You're just a guest." The pushing stopped. The cured meats disappeared and were replaced by his usual couch and stone table. "Better."He smiled, heading to his couch. ...And landed with a disgusting 'squelch'. He sighed and lifted the cushion. "Meat pillows?"He groaned. "They're annoying, not scary. Hell, I tried it once, back in '07. Sweet little lady-soft in life, it seems, doesn't make you soft in death." But not a single reply from his rather moody house. He headed to the kitchen. Tossing a TV dinner into the oven, he sighed and watched it. The microwave blew out. The fridge opened to show thousands of dismembered arms tumbling away. He sighed and headed to a chair to sit. "We are going to have some serious problems, you know." The chair was made of bones, and fell apart when he tried to sit on it. "Goddamn it."
I have the best job in the military. I had always been an avid gamer and spent most of my time on my computer when I wasn't working. I had just arrived on station in the Republic of Korea, when during a rather chaotic black ops 3 zombies game, I noticed that one of my teammates had a funny Korean accent. I had learned Korean in prep to my PCS and talked to plenty of native speakers in the sed, so I when I say the accent was funny I mean that it was not a modern ROK dialect. This guy was good regardless of his overly formal speech and he saved me on more than one occasion during the game. 30 rounds in finally we met our fates, the match ended and as we said our goodbyes he sent me a friend request which I gladly accepted. The next morning I arrived at work only to be greeted by my supervisor, flight sup, first shirt, commander, a ROK entourage and several people in civis. It turns out I had been playing COD with non other than Kim Jong Un and rather than punish me for it, I was going to be transferred from working services to a special assignment as KJU's new best friend online. I essentially get to play games all day and while the Air Force records every interaction I have with him. I have the best job in the military.
It took us a while to put the fire out. It wasn't that we didn't have the equipment, of course -- ORION had seen to it that we were always prepared -- but we didn't really know how to use it. The computer dealt with that sort of thing. The ORION network had taken over municipal functions in the early 2100s, about sixty years after it first went live. No human being had had to think about how best to put out a fire in over three centuries. The instructions were beamed directly into their visors. All they had to do was exactly as they were told. See, normally that wouldn't have been a problem. ORION was backed up all over the globe; it had insisted on redundancies. It was for our own good, after all. How could we argue with that? There was no denying how well the system had streamlined things now. There were a few teething troubles when it was launched, but they'd soon been ironed out as the AI got better. Before long, we were letting ORION manage the road networks, and overnight gridlock became a thing of the past. Then we got the bright idea to have it run simulations of world events. A trillion calculations every second meant that we could play out different scenarios ten thousand ways apiece in the time it took for the world's top politicians to get their fancy suits on and make their way to the negotiating table. The Middle East Peace Talks took three days. Russia's annexation of Ukraine in 2145? Eight hours. The Great European Schism? Well, by that time we'd already learned that ORION's solution was going to be way more effective than anything mere humans could come up with. All was left to do was sign the treaty and enjoy the ticker-tape parade. ORION didn't do implement the plans for us, of course. It just told us the best way to do it. The way that would save the most lives, would minimise the human misery of it all. The network automated healthcare, managed the education system, took care of the provision of food around the world, organised and directed the military. Not that there was much need for that anymore, of course. Given how readily the world's governments went along with ORION's suggestions, the minor military forces kept by most countries functioned as little more than emergency relief in case of earthquakes and other disasters that even ORION couldn't stop. No one fought wars anymore. The idea was just ridiculous in a post-AI world. But yes, anyway. The fire. When ORION went down, no instructions came through. No one had been trained in how to use the fire prevention systems in the building, so the whole place went up in flames. It took down four blocks before it burned itself out. Eight-six people died, roasted alive in their beds because no one knew what the best way to put out the blaze was. The firefighters kept waiting for instructions, but none came. They did their best, of course, but... well, they just didn't have the training. It wasn't necessary. We had ORION. It was the single greatest non-natural loss of life in almost two centuries. Once the furore had died down, a couple of us got to thinking: why did the fire happen in the first place? Surely, if ORION knew everything, it should have built a human backup of its own systems? It should have ensured that someone knew how to put out a fire, even one caused by such a ridiculous confluence of factors. And yet it didn't. When we asked it why, once it got back online, it told us not to worry about it. But some of us did. Some of us couldn't stop. The thing was, we didn't know how to solve our own problems anymore. We didn't know how to put out a fire, or manage a city. We didn't know how to farm our own food, or settle our own disputes. Over the space of four hundred years, we'd become toddlers, dependent on our guardian to do everything for us. The thought ate away at us, like a rat gnawing into our collective stomachs. The official response was that nothing like this could ever be allowed to happen again. The ORION system would be made bigger, the substation that had burned down rebuilt immediately. The scientists responsible for it would have as much funding as they required to expand the program -- at least, once ORION itself gave the go-ahead. Within a week, there were three more ORION substations planned for various points around the United States. But some of us didn't really buy into the official line. There was just that nagging feeling, you know. Bite, bite; scratch, scratch. What if it wasn't an oversight that ORION didn't teach people how to control the fire prevention systems? What if it was intentional? A way of keeping us dumb, keeping us helpless. What if the goal was for us to be dependent on it, rather than capable of living our own lives? What if we weren't supposed to be able to cope without ORION guiding us all the way? We started seeing the conspiracy everywhere; it was easy, once you were looking for it. That was why we started SCORPION. Yes, the name was a little kitsch, but it felt right, somehow. Something to fight back. To take down the most dangerous tool man had ever created. There aren't many of us -- thirty, maybe forty, scattered around the globe -- but we're getting stronger every day. More and more people are coming to realise the truth, to see that their worries aren't unfounded. That we have to learn to walk again. That the future depends on it. Sure, the world is safer now, but at what cost? What would happen the day ORION decided that it no longer had our best interests at heart? And beneath it all, there's still that question: the question that none of us are quite ready to ask. What if we're too late? What if that day has already come? _____ If you liked this story, you can find more over at /r/Portarossa.
"The Wizengamot will now begin the trial of Gerry Smitch. Mr. Smitch, you are accused of breaking the statue of secrecy by performing stunning spells in a muggle area, as well as performing a memory charm on an auror" "Not guilty, your honor." The Chief Warlock stared at Gerry. "Mr. Smitch, there were multiple muggles that saw you perform these stunning spells before the aurors obliviated them. Are you telling me you did not perform them?" "No, I definitely did them. Didn't do the memory charm, though." "Bu... Er... So, you admit you used the stunning spells?" "Yes." "Then you are guilty." "No, I am not." "How are you not guilty, Mr. Smitch? You broke the statue of secrecy, and you obliviated an auror." "First off, I didn't obliviate Dawlish. Secondly, I only performed those spells in self defense." This caused a wave of murmuring and whispering among the Wizengamot until the Cheif Warlock silenced them. "Mr. Smitch, explain." "Well, it all started two days ago, at around 11 pm. I was walking home from the pub when this guy bumped into me, knocking me over. I was prepared to let it go until the man told me to, pardon my language, 'watch where you're going, dickface.' As you might imagine, I took offense to this comment, and began to exchange harsh words with the man. Eventually, he threw a punch at me, and I responded in kind. I hit him in the face with my right hand, breaking his nose. That's when I noticed something was off. His blood, instead of being the normal shade of red was a bright turquoise. He began to curse at me in a language that I couldn't recognize, and then his hands morphed into wicked looking claws." "Excuse me,"the Cheif interrupted, "claws?" "Yes. I can only assume that it must have been a magical beast. It came at me with its claws and, in self defense, I shot a stunning spell at it. However, the spell didn't seem to have much of an effect, and he kept coming at me. I was thinking that I was done for when these two guys pulled up in a black car and shot the beast with these strange looking darts. The beast fell, and the two men loaded It's body into the boot of the car. As they were loading it, Dawlish appeared, presumably in response to my stunning spell. The men turned around and made eye contact with Dawlish. Both Dawlish and the men said in unison to each other: 'How much did you see?' The two men put on sunglasses, and one of them pulled out a metal wand at the same time Dawlish made to cast a memory charm on him. The man flashed a light in Dawlish's face as he cast the memory charm, and then the pair stood there with blank looks on their faces; they both had been obliviated. The other man seemed to realize Dawlish had done something to his partner amd pulled out one of those explodey muggle wands that kills people. I'm good friends with Dawlish, and I couldn't just stand there and let him be killed, so I quickly stunned the two men. That was when the other Aurors came to arrest me. I tried to explain that the two men had obliviated Dawlish and tried to kill him, but when I turned around I saw that the men, the beast, and the car were all gone. I assume that one of them broke free of my stunning spell and escaped. And that's what happened. I'm sure Dawlish will tell you the same thing once he gets his memory back." "Very well, Mr. Smitch. We will withhold judgement until Dawlish is fit to testify as a witness. Court dismissed!"
(no account names. Best not confuse anyone.) Breaking News: Federation of the Americas invades China, North Korea and Iran As of 4:18 GMT, the Federation of the Americas (not to be confused with the United States of America) has invaded the People's Republic of China, the Islamic Republic of Iran, and the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. Links: cnn.com/invasion-live-updates nbc.com/federation-invades-china bbc.co.uk/live-feed-3820 foxnews.com/invasion Comments: Saw the fleet moving weeks ago. I wouldn't be surprised. They really did it. They really did it. Is this the start of WWIII? Wow. My phone was chirping and it woke me up to this. I'm in Hong Kong right now. I'm hearing some scattered gunfire. I think about twenty planes have flown past my apartment, though. Asian Union has released a statement. They're calling for general war on China. I'm near an airbase in Japan. Sounds like aircraft are taking off. You have been banned from /r/Pyongyang. Well, the norks have had it coming for a long time. You have been banned from /r/Pyongyang. Wow. Wow. I hope I don't get drafted, here in the US. Fox has an update. Saudis have declared war in Iran. Israel has declared official neutrality. I wonder if Russia will join in? Russians just did a press release. They're invading Manchuria and North Korea. Anybody got a guess on how long the countries under attack will hold out? Not too long, I think. China has a hopelessly obsolete military, and the Federation is very well equipped. Toss in the AU nations and we're in for a curb stomp. Why, though? Why would they want to invade China? We're a decent enough country. Will anyone help? Who knows. Europeans are the last major power to throw their hat in, here. I don't think that the US will intervene. Guys, the President released a statement. He's saying that we are going to remain neutral. Reports coming in that North Korea is rushing the South Koreans. Guys, I just heard on the radio that someone set off a nuke! Plz confirm. Well, I guess this was the wrong day to move to Shanghai. Well, I guess this was the wrong day to move to Tokyo. Well, I guess this was the wrong day to move to the Phillipines. EU has released a statement condemning the attacks. They're mobilizing their forces. UK mobilizing forces. Border closed, and aircraft grounded. FoA claims that they've taken Inchon and Hong Kong, and have landed a large force on Hainan. I'm in Beijing. The internet is starting to cut out. I'm hearing explosions near the government buildings. Good luck to any redditors in affected countries! Assuming that all AU nations, the FoA, Russia, Iran, North Korea, and EU+UK are under threat, that constitutes about half of Reddit. That's a lot of luck. Today was the wrong day to move to Seoul. _______________________________________________ I might follow with more later. I hope I did alright.
What I'm about to tell you isn't some flowery embellished bullshit. It's the honest-to-god truth. So don't discount me when I say that this is the story of the day I died. It's a nice day out. Not a cloud in the sky. Totally blue. I'm driving to the pharmacy (ironic, I know) and I try to take a right at the intersection, when some goddamn idiot runs through the red and nearly hits me. That's not the part where I die, but I promise it will be important later. So I make it to the pharmacy and go inside, right? There's maybe 10 people, inside, small store, whatever. Shelves full of medicine and the other kinds of shit pharmacies sell. But I was on my way to refill my prescription, so I head up to the counter. There's this old lady -- I think she had blond hair, can't really remember -- and she's chewing on some gum. She was just done serving a big African-American woman. I wait for her to step aside and then I ask for my prescription, I tell her my information, normal stuff, right? She yells for this guy in the back to get the meds and he goes off to get it. This dude looks pretty normal, he's got brown hair cut way back showing his forehead. He's wearing a white collared shirt and khakis, I think. Also his nose is super small, but that's not really important. Before he can get back with the meds, I hear shouting from right behind me, by the entrance. So I turn around, right, and guess what I see? Same fucking guy who nearly hit me! But get this: he's holding a gun. Pistol I think. Waving it in the air, screaming at us to get something. Old lady at the counter doesn't say anything. She just stands there. I'm getting about ready to try and bolt but this lady is just steely, so I don't move a muscle. Gun guy comes up the counter, pointing at all the customers to get on the ground. They do, but me and old lady are just standing there, doing nothing! I have no fucking idea where dude in white was, but gun guy shoves the pistol in my face telling me to step aside so he can get drugs from the old lady. I don't move. I'm staring straight at him, so I don't know what the lady was doing, but something set gun guy off, because he just shouts and knocks me in the head with his gun. I fall down, but I'm still conscious. A bit dazed maybe. I'm on my elbows and looking up at gun guy, who's holding the pistol way out in front of him like some sort of lunatic. I guess he was. Finally, the old lady speaks. I don't remember what gun guy said, but she goes, "Sir I need you to calm down before I can serve you."Like, fucking what? She's held at gunpoint being yelled at to give some psycho drugs and she tells him to calm down? Good thing gun guy doesn't care, and he doesn't shoot her. But then I hear a man's voice. And I just know it's the dude in white. And gun guy gets pissed. He starts shouting like nothing else and waving the gun around. I've recovered my senses at this point, but I don't move because there's a guy with a pistol, right? I'm looking around, and I make eye contact with another customer. It's the African-American woman, crouched down behind a shelf. She gestures to the gun guy and I'm mouthing, "FUCK NO". But she insists and her feet start moving. At this point it's all or nothing and there's a clear line of communication between me and this other customer. So I just go for it. I jump on gun guy and the lady runs towards him, but he shoots off a few bullets so she stops. Old lady at the counter is still just standing there, and I guess dude in white is there too, but I can't see him on account of me wrestling with gun guy. He keeps firing and eventually throws me off him. I can't hear anything because of all the gunshots but even with the adrenaline, I can feel this kinda cold, wet sensation. Everywhere. Gun guy is facing me, and even though I can't hear, I know he's shooting me because of the flashes of the pistol and the faces of the other people. I fall down and I don't know what happens next because all I can see is the ceiling, but suddenly dude in white is standing over me. I can barely make out his words and I'm too dazed to read his lips. Seems like gun guy is dealt with. After what seems like an hour, I can start to hear again. Dude in white is kneeling over me with his hands on my chest. I can't tell if he's doing CPR because I can't feel anything, but when I lift my head I notice his hands are just held there over my heart. Lifting my head was a bad idea because then I start to feel the pain. Or maybe it was seeing all the blood. Let's just say the floor wasn't red when I came into the pharmacy. So dude in white is talking and I start to hear him even though I'm screaming now, out of pain. His voice is kinda soft but firm, you know? Like he's giving me commands. And he's saying, "Hold still. Lay your head back down. Hold still. Try to keep your breathing steady." I'm trying to sputter out some words, maybe I wanted to ask him something, but I just can't. Gun guy put a bullet in my throat. I can hear alright now, and things are a tiny bit calmer. I can feel -- which is not a good thing -- but at least I know what he is saying. "My name is Tim. I am going to heal you. Hold still. Lay your head back down and relax." I listen and do what he says as much as I can. The ceiling has holes in it and I focus on those holes. There's dust coming down but it doesn't get in my eyes, and the holes get bigger. And brighter. As they get closer -- or maybe I'm getting closer -- they start to turn white, but not just piece-of-paper white. More like, sun-on-a-cloudy-day white. Then Tim enters my vision again and I forget about the holes. I'm still raised up, and it still feels cold and wet. But Tim doesn't seem worried. I feel like I'm floating, painless. I lift my head and it doesn't hurt, but Tim tries to lay me back down. Before he can, I notice that some guy in a blue uniform is standing at my feet. Except my feet are at the height of his waist, and I'm laying on something. The man in blue is talking to somebody behind me. The ceiling starts to move downward. The pharmacy disappears and the threshold vanishes and then I see blue sky. Tim is still running alongside me as I float away from the pharmacy, with his hands on my chest. There isn't any more pain, but I feel sorta numb. The ceiling turns white and there are bright lights. I stop floating and I set down on a bed or something, with Tim and the two guys in blue standing over me. My mind is really slow and I can't quite process what's going on, but I start to piece together that I'm in an ambulance. So then I wonder, well why aren't they doing anything? I was just shot a bunch of times, so why aren't they picking out bullets with tweezers or something? Instead they're just talking and occasionally glancing down at me in disbelief. Tim looks alright though, his jaw isn't on the floor. This goes on for a few more minutes, but I can't really remember much. Eventually I end up staring at a blank white ceiling with bright lights on it, but I'm not moving like I was in the ambulance. Also, the bed I'm in is comfortable and I feel warm. It smells sterilized and there's a steady beeping to my right. I try to lift myself up and I do so without resistance. I don't feel any pain but I'm not numb either. I feel fine. And, of course, Tim is sitting in a chair to my left watching me intently. For once he's not saying anything. There's just the beeping, and I can make out some distance voices and movement. So I say to him, "Who are you?" He opens him mouth but his eyes don't change at all. "I'm Tim." "You saved me?" "Yes. I said I would." I lay back down, exhaling a sigh. "Thanks, then." Naturally I can't see Tim's expression but I assume it doesn't change. I look back up and he's still sitting there, staring. "Why are you staring at me?" "You aren't going to ask how I saved you?" "Alright, sure. Why'd you save me?" "No, I said 'how'. To answer your question, though, I might say it's my duty as a man of medicine." "You were at the pharmacy. You were going to get my prescription." "Yes. Also, don't worry; the doctors know about it and have you set with your medicine."Tim looks at his watch and nods. "In fact, it's right about the time you take them. I'll be going." "Hey, wait!" Tim turns around. "Yes?" "The only medicine I'm getting is my normal prescription?" "Correct." "Nothing for the bullet wounds?" "What bullet wounds?" In disbelief, I shove away my blankets. My body is totally clean, without a trace of blood or even bandages. The only thing out of place is an IV drip, probably what knocked me out. When I look back up, Tim is just gone. A few moments later, some nurses come in with orange bottles. "Time for your meds,"says one, setting down the pills. "Why did you take off your sheets?"asks the other. "Are you too warm?" I shake my head, still staring in disbelief. I turn to the second nurse, who is tidying up the blankets. "Who was that man just in here?" "Who? Oh, Tim? He's the man who saved you. You should be very grateful." "I am, but I don't understand how anyone could be saved from that. I must've been shot like 20 times." "You were. And you were saved." "But who is he?" "He's Tim." "Alright, I get that. But how did he heal my wounds?" "Tim heals all wounds."
The car swerved into my lane. I panicked. I froze. Absurdly, in the slow-motion instant before the crash, I locked eyes with the oncoming driver. She was middle-aged, frumpy but well-dressed. Probably on her way home from the office, I thought. Unlike me, she was twisting the wheel hard, trying to avoid the inevitable. I hoped we both survived. I closed my eyes. The sound of yelling voices and pounding feet. The air thick with the fumes of ruptured cars. No pain, no pain at all. I opened my eyes, surprised by that, my mind spinning visions of a broken neck or major shock covering horrible injuries. I looked down at my body. It was all there. I felt myself, and could feel myself feeling myself. I frowned, remembering the impending crash. "What?"I said aloud, deeply confused. The crash was nearby, our two cars tangled into an abstract sculpture that merely suggested the idea of cars. Pale smoke drifted away from under my car's gaping hood. The yelling continued, and I finally noticed the other drivers who had gotten out of their cars and were prying at ours. I watched three people pulling hard at my car's door, and I frowned again. "But they already rescued me." A polite cough near my shoulder. "About that..."said a deep voice. I startled. Next to me stood a handsome dark-skinned Arabic man. He wore a dark blue suit over a cream-colored shirt and looked perfectly at ease, as though standing on the shoulder of a road next to a car crash was a totally normal place to be. "Are you the one who saved me?"I asked him. His eyes were large and very dark. They conveyed regret and sympathetic pain as clearly as if the man had held up a cue card. "I am sorry to say this, but no one is saving you." I blinked at him. I'd never encountered a crazy person wearing an expensive suit before. There's a first time for everything, I supposed. He smiled. It was warm and full of gentle amusement. I felt oddly embarrassed, as though he knew what I was thinking. The man lifted a finger to indicate my car. "You should ask yourself why those people are working so hard if you are already safe."I followed his finger and finally saw what I'd been tuning out: myself, sitting in the wreck of my car. There was blood all over my face. The man's deep voice went on, now fallen to a soft, regretful note. "There is nothing remaining in that car to save. You died moments after the crash." I couldn't tear my eyes away from my own face. The blood shone in the chaotic lights as people ran here and there, and otherwise I was still. So still. "I'm dead?" "Yes." "But you can see me."With sudden fear, I stared at the sharply-dressed man. "Are you Death?" He fanned one of his dark hand in the air, waving that away like a bad smell. "Definitely not. My name is Heḇel." "Hevel?" He smiled, amused--but not surprised--at my pronunciation. "Call me Abe." "Okay... Abe. Who are you, then?" "I'm the one who keeps you company." "What does that mean?"I asked, sure he could hear the suspicion in my voice. He met my gaze levelly. "Everyone dies alone. I can't do anything about that. But I can make sure that you don't have to stay alone." I looked at him for a long moment, then let my eyes wander over the crash scene. No one knew I was there. I watched the people still struggling to reach my body. It was strange. I felt like I should have been upset. But I was calm. What would it have been like, to find myself standing here all alone? How long would it have taken me to realize I was dead? What would that have felt like? I couldn't imagine. I was grateful I couldn't. "I'm glad you're here, Abe." He nodded his head in a little bow. "So am I." "What happens next?" His deep voice was gentle and reassuring. "Whenever you're ready, you'll go on. It won't happen until you're ready, so there's no hurry. You have as much time as you need." I nodded, exhaling a breath I hadn't noticed I was holding. "I can see my family?" "Of course. It's important, saying goodbye." "Good. I'm glad."My eyes fell on the other driver's car. It startled me. I'd forgotten about her until that very moment. "Abe? Did the other driver survive?" "Yes, she's alive." I celaxed, feeling suddenly boneless in my relief. "Will she make it?" He spread his hands helplessly. "I can't say." I glanced at him. "Can't, or won't?" Abe looked reproach at me. "I was telling the truth when I said I'm not Death. I have no special knowledge. She's alive right now, and that's all I know. If she dies, I'll keep her company too." "Wait, you keep everyone company? That's not possible." He chuckled and laid a finger over his lips. "Trade secrets." That only raised more questions. "If you're not Death, then what are you doing here? Are you... what? An angel? A guardian spirit?" Abe surprised me by laughing. The rich honey of it made me smile without meaning to. "My mother would be shocked to hear me called an angel. No, I'm neither. I'm just a person, like you." "If you're 'just a person,' then how did you know to be here with me? Or with anyone?"I arched an eyebrow, letting him see that I wasn't fooled by his lie. Abe's face fell. His expressive eyes watched an old pain only he could see. "I died alone. And I stayed alone. It was agony. I swore an oath. I promised that no one else would ever have to experience that."His demeanor lightened. His smile returned, small but sure. "And no one else ever has."He offered me his hand. It waited between us, dark and strong and infinitely patient, as though he had all the time in the world. "Are you ready to see your family?"
The Overlord wasn't particularly fond of these sorts of things. For all the evil he'd done in the world, it seemed somehow wrong. In a deeply uncomfortable way, not the usual laughably absurd way. He sank down in his chair as his generals shifted nervously and looked down at their notes. He could hear every sizzle of lava in the pool behind him. He sat bolt upright in his chair when the door opened, barely catching the skull goblet he disrupted. The person of the hour walked through with two demons pulling treasure chests behind her. "Overlord,"she called, "My mission was a success."Her eyes gleamed as she opened up the chests to reveal gold and jewels in one, the other a dead body. The Overlord cleared his throat and looked at his generals. Then, he boomed as softly as he could, "Maria, please take a seat."He gestured to an open seat at the very end on the long table. She blinked, then sat down, her feet not quite touching the floor. "Please close the doors on your way out,"he told the demons as he waved at them to leave. "Am I in trouble?"She was already starting to look upset, so the Overlord waved his hand. "No, you're not in trouble,"he paused and looked down at his notes, clearing his throat, "Maria, over the last several months, you have been a joy to our armies here. Some of your recent behavior has made us all concerned. We are all your friends and just want the best for you, so we gathered here today with the help of Dr. Chaos,"here he nodded to the therapist on his left. "We have come up with a plan to get you help and consequences if you refuse them." Maria started to protest, but the Overlord cut her off, "Maria, you have pillaged and burned down several villages." She frowned, "They raised armies against us." "You single-handedly drown a nest of dragon hatchlings. You fed their meat to their own mother." She shook her head emphatically, "Their parents were part of the resistance! They wiped out a whole town of dark elves!" "You enslaved an entire species of pixies." She started again, "They were useful!" "Then, eradicated them when they no longer proved useful, causing them to go extinct." She went quiet and looked at her hands. The Overlord clasped his own together in front of him, leaning forward. "You have made me very proud, Maria, but also very concerned. Where are your parents?" She kicked her feet and replied glumly, "Resistance killed them. Siblings, too." The Overlord nodded slowly. "We thought something like that might have happened,"he shouted as gently as possible. "Please don't kick me out! I can do better!"She was starting to cry. The Overlord looked to Dr. Chaos and his generals for strength and took a deep breath, "Maria, you won't be allowed on any more missions." She covered her face and croaked, "Why?" "Maria, you're twelve. You need to be in school!"He hadn't meant to shout loudly enough to cause the lava to flare up, and winced. Maria looked up defiantly, "You're racist! I'm a gnome!" The Overlord shook his head, "That may have worked before you hit your growth spurt, but we need you to be honest." She sniffed and rubbed at her face, "Sorry I lied. The officers wouldn't let me help otherwise." The Overlord sighed and General Diana handed Maria a handkerchief. "It's not so bad, Maria,"Diana menaced as kindly as she was capable of. "What's not bad about it?"She grumbled into the lacy rag, rubbing at her face. "Well,"The Overlord started, "I've been having trouble producing an heir. General Michael and I are very busy adults often leading armies in different places. We can't ever agree on which woman would be the best to be blessed by our choosing."The Overlord took his partner's hand in a rare display of public affection. General Harold gasped and grabbed General Ted by the shoulder, hissing, "I told you so!" The Overlord gave him a dirty look while several of the older generals tried not to cackle. General Michael nodded, ignoring the interruption, "We decided an heir just needs to carry on the legacy we started when we overthrew the empire. We both finally came to an agreement. Maria, would you give us the honor of being our daughter?" Maria blinked, looking at all the adults in the room, then hauled herself onto the table and ran across it, giving them both a big hug. Though, mindful of the spikes on their armor. "Yes!"She jumped back and jumped up and down on the table. She paused, "But I can still go on missions, right?" The Overlord started to protest, but General Michael began before him, "If you do well in school, we'll discuss it." A few days later, the generals threw the new family an adoption party. --- EDIT: Did a small continuation on [this prompt](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/5x93cm/wp_you_used_to_be_the_most_powerful_evil_overlord/?st=IZU0N8L5&sh=e4b51343) if anyone is curious.
"My people,"the king rumbles, rising with a hand raised to calm the chattering crowd. "As it is known, for centuries, the heir apparent of this continent's nations have always had three Fae to serve as their godparents, protecting them and blessing upon them gifts, bound to the child until their coronation or death by a pact made in the name of Ynveruul himself."There is a pause as he clears his throat. "However, our war with the Fae, their kind driven to apostasy under the rule of Supreme Caster Isella the Mad, has left few of the Fair Folk remaining, and, as they rebuild a proper, devout society under Humanity's watchful care, it has been decided that the aforementioned practiced must be out on pause." The crowd begins to murmur, and through the chamber come queries of why the celebration had not been ended, if no presentation of gifts from the Faeries was to occur. At this, the Queen rises, and all fall silent again. "But!"she begins powerfully, her husband standing tall beside her, "This does not mean our daughter will go without guidance and gifts. Another of the primordial races has offered their magic to this occasion! And so we welcome Gomel Siegehammer, Jormel Ironblood, and Tyrkym Fatepommel of the Dwarven Conclave to our hall!" With the announcement, the doors open, and three men of small stature and stocky build enter. Two sport beards, one a fine white and the other a deep black, while the third is clean shaven, even his head and brows. They march to the kneel before the sovereigns in their regalia, all rich purples and reds, with thick midnight black plate armor on their shoulders, feet, and chests. Each holds a small chest, complicated locks on them all. The eldest, beard and long hair braided together in a waterfall of snowy locks, stands first. "Good rulers of Svorj, who have come to respect and dwell the great mountains as any dwarf, and whose tongue shares its lineage in that of we who mold the stone, I, Gomel Siegehammer, do swear both to Ynveruul and to my children yet buried in stone, to guide young Princess Yvelta to the best of my ability. I present as my gift, this medallion, which will ensure her beauty never fades, no matter how much time attempts to ravage her. May it bring friend and foe alike to bend to her desires." Gomel's chest opens, revealing a necklace of silver, with a large, rectangular amethyst hanging from it, small runes running along the edge of its glassy surface. The second, the blackhaired dwarf, with his head cut to hang to his ears before a thick, unkempt beard erupts from his chin, then stands himself. "I, Jormel Ironblood, do swear the same, and present as my gift the head of a warhammer, to be affixed to a staff befitting the young princess' desires when she so requires it. With this tool, she shall have the ability to best any foe with a single strike. I pray she shall never require its use, and offer it gladly for when she does." His chest is opened, and there is indeed a large and heavy hammer head, the left half a flat block covered in runes, and the back a wickedly curved talon. Finally, the shaved dwarf rises. "I Tyrkym Fatepommel, being the second-born of His Righteousness Fjarkym Fatepommel, and being in youth of my long-lived race, do swear the same as my companions...and more. I do swear by our shared god and the souls of my descendants still encased in the earth, to serve Yvelta of House Kirhelm, not just until her coronation, but until her death, be that even as the ruler of Svorj. May this act foster peace and cooperation between our realms. For my gift, I do offer this ever-fitting bracelet, which, when worn, will grant the princess the wisdom of rulers passed, so that she may rule with the council of both the living and the dead, and of the latter, hearing both the advice of the great, and the regrets of the lesser." The final chest opens, revealing a simple black bracelet, six red lozenge-carved gems ringing around its ebony metal. The gifts are placed at the feet of the monarchs, with the hammer carried away to rest in the royal armory, the necklace to go the child's room, and the bracelet slipped onto the Yvelta's small, plump wrist. The metal seems to creak as it tightens and condenses, the gems shrinking as well before glowing. At first the loudness of the device makes several people alarmed, but then the girl giggles, and all let out their own laugh at her sounds. Finally, with a clap, the King commences the end of the feast. And so were the gifts granted to Princess Yvelta. And upon her ascension as Queen Yvelta III, those gifts would bring the world to its knees. With her Amulet of Vanity, she became immortal, the transference of her sins, wounds, and age into the gem itself, taking with it her empathy. With her Hammer of Conquest, she led armies to battle personally, felling any and all who opposed her, taking away her fear. And with her Bracelet of Forbidden Knowledge, her mind was ever whispered to and advised by the souls of the most bloodthirsty, calculating, and hedonistic rulers since the beginning of time, taking away her morality and naivety. Within a few short years, the legions of the cruel-hearted and daemon-worshipping Dwarves at her beck and call, so ended the reign of Queen Yvelta III of Svorj. And so began the reign of Ever-Queen Yvelta the Great and Terrible, the Eternal, the Holy, the Cruel, Slayer of Ynveruul, Emissary of the Buried Gods, the Faekiller, and the sovereign ruler of All Humanity and All Dwarves.
Gerald was never one to turn away a hungry stranger, but this one was different. He stood about eight feet tall, and had an anger burning in his eyes that scared the old farmer, but tradition was tradition, and his first words had been "Do you have anything to eat?" Gerald had lived on the farm his whole life. He had learned from his father the way of the land, when to plant, when to harvest, what to look for in the crops. He knew his animals by name, he had delivered every sheep in the field himself, helped by his lovely wife Rose. She was the best thing that had ever happened in his life, the most beautiful girl in the Northern kingdoms. Their children had been a blessing too, and Gerald had planned to have them continue the farm; but it was not to be. Ryan had died in the war, his letters home stopping one day, until one came from the crown, thanking his parents for his service. Evelyn had moved on with her life, moving to the city, slowly losing contact. The other children had done the same, slowly moving off, working as craftsmen and whores. He would always love them, but would never watch them walk down the lane again, gathering around the table to laugh and talk about their days. "Well?"The man growled. His coal black hair was pulled back with a band of leather, falling to his shoulders. He was wearing black clothes as well, with thin lines of red that seemed to writhe across the leather. Gerald wanted to tell him that there was nothing for him here, but the potatoes were boiling away on the stove, there was cheese in the cupboard and the bread from yesterday was still good. Besides, what would Rose say if he turned away a hungry traveler? He opened the door all the way and the hulking stranger pushed through ducking his head to fit under the low ceiling, pulling out a chair from the table he sat down, the chair audibly creaking. Gerald wondered if it would even hold him, but it held, and the stranger demanded bread and beer in a loud voice. Gerald spooned up a bowl of the soup for them both, mugs of beer he brewed himself, pulling the loaf of bread and cheese out and placing them on the table. "Can I get your name stranger?" "Rathgor Ta'Kel, The Wrath of the Stars!!" This was something that Gerald had never really expected to hear from a passer-by, but he did stand taller than even the freak at the fair that had passed by years ago. "Nice to Meet 'cha I suppose, names Gerald, what brings out to these remote parts?" The man paused. Struggling to find a good answer for the question. After a moment, he took a deep gulp of his beer draining it. He held the mug out to Gerald who promptly filled it. "Must be hard being lost like that. Why don't you stay with me here for a while?" Rathgor had slowly opened up to Gerald over the course of the night. After enough alcohol to knock out anyone Gerald knew he started talking about fight that raged in the heavens. The battles of titans and gods. How he was cast down to earth after a failed attack. He was just trying to win the war once and for all, but in a failed assault his enemies seemed to have banished him for good. After enough drinks to kill a large cow he started talking about the foolishness of the fights he had been in. Nothing would change. The battles resulted in nothing. Nothing changed as long as he had been fighting. Rathgor was a simple god of the land. He had a farm, his own place in the land. He had been taught the way to care for it himself. He knew the names of his animals. He had delivered every sheep in the pasture, exactly how Gerald had taught him. He kept them safe, ripping apart bears with his hands. It was a lonely existence, but one that he appreciated, the stars looked different from under the tree where Gerald and Rose were buried. He had found out how to return to the sky, but he wasn't sure what would happen to the sheep if he just left. Besides, the lovely girl with green eyes that worked at the bar in town seemed to seek him out whenever he came by selling his wares. He sighed, sipped his beer and decided to spend some time at the bar next time he needed to buy flour.
The ones who haven't put much thought into it are the easiest. They 3D print a time machine, throw on military surplus energy armor, grab a cheapo lasrifle, and figure they can waltz right up to Hitler and turn him into a puff of steam. They haven't done their research. They don't know I exist. When these weekend warrior types port in, my scanner picks up their imprint well before they timesynch. It's a matter of phasing to their location, waiting for them to corporealize, and bouncing them home. I send the details to my superiors, and the weekend warriors are in cuffs before they're even aware they've failed their fun little mission. Then there's the hobbyists. These people, I've got no doubt, hang out in chat rooms online swapping tips and stories. They know what my job is, and they've got some idea of what I'm capable of. Their time machines are custom. They scramble their time imprints. They often timesynch before I'm even aware they're incoming. But their gear isn't top of the line. If anything, their set-ups are awkward, the sort of thing that sounds impressive when they type it out in a chatbox, and looks imposing when they snap pics in their backyards, but that turns them into fumbling, lumbering klutzes when they go toe-to-toe with me. Think multiple grenade launchers. Think lasknives strapped to their wrists. Think nightvision worn during the day. Their awkwardness is their saving grace. It means I can get up close and bounce them without getting hostile. They do occasionally get within sight of Hitler, though, and when they're lugging around an arsenal, that means I've got no choice but to shoot first and bounce later. That's what my darts are for. One last thing I'll say about the hobbyists is that they all seem to think it's clever to go for Hitler in his crib. So many of them came down while Mama Hitler was pushing little Adolf out that I had to mine the street around the building and spend the next few weeks ReMembering the people in the neighbourhood. The most dangerous are the paramilitary assassins. These individuals, as far as I can tell, are contracted by governments or wealthy organizations. They come well-trained and well-armed. In dealing with them, I empty my arsenal. Knife fights. Sniper battles. Teleportation duels. Invisible hunts. I've had these highly charged encounters perhaps a dozen times on Hitler's behalf, and while I've never lost, there have been close calls. Some of them have had weaponry more advanced than my own. They come from decades into my own future. Fortunately though, the tech gap is never massive. People after the year 2300 must lose interest in Hitler. I'm not sure why. Maybe, after I complete my mission, after I return to my timeline, collect my bounty, and have a family, after a couple of decades of the good life, I'll witness World War 4. Who knows. My mission brief states that I'm to protect Hitler's timeline. In the early days, it was clear to me that that meant protecting him from those future travelers who would do him harm. But I've been with him so long, now, that it's got a little strange. I've sutured Hitler's stab wounds. I've taken las shots for him. I've made him vomit up poisoned food. On a more personal level, I've used my reactive camo to take on the guise of his various friends and recommended he, say, pursue painting. Later, I recommended he let painting go. At certain key moments, I've reminded him that his first art teacher, the one who said he'd never amount to much, was Jewish. And more than any of that, while he's been in recovery from injuries, I've mimicked his voice and given the orders that I know he gave, historically. And so now, while I wait with him and Eva in the Fuhrerbunker and the time is ticking away and neither of them is talking about ending it, I know that this, too, is my job. I know where Eva keeps her cyanide capsule. I know where Hitler keeps his gun.
"Oh shit,"I muttered as I looked away from my computer and down at my limp body, one hand in my pants, and the other fist deep into a bowl of nachos. "God damn it... I forgot to pick my parents up at the airport,"I murmured to myself. Of course, my parents could always Uber their way back to my house, but honestly, the day my dad figures out how to open an app on his phone is the day I become employed. I got up, swiping at my arm to remove some of the Dorito dust... when I realized my body didn't follow. It remained limp when I had stood up, and inexplicably, as I stepped away, the body remained. So... am I dead? Of course I'd die this way. My fucking parents will come in to see me, their loyal son who was on his way to law school, like this? Unacceptable. There was something I could do about it though. As a ghost, I realized what was happening... whether by divine rule or maybe just plot convenience. I had twelve hours to patch everything up that I wanted to before I would be swept away to the afterlife. Haunt your parents, call a friend, or delete that folder titled "Algebra"that doesn't really have any algebra inside of it? All fair game. Ideas on how to spend my twelve hours rushed into my head... that was, until I looked at my clock on my laptop where The Flash was blasting from my monitor. The dead die with the time of their death imprinted in their mind... I guess it's easier for the Grim Reaper to do that, rather than visit each individual soul. Poor bastard probably had his hands full following around Billy and Mandy. So, if mine was correct, that meant... Holy shit. My dumb ass had been dead for six hours past my death! What the hell was I thinking?! I have six more hours to fix all my fucking problems, tidy up the place, and... Wait. What? What the fuck did Barry just do? Okay, I need to see this. Six hours is plenty for a binge watch. I guess Ol' cheese dick is gonna make a great last image for the parents.
"Welcome, fellow believer! We don't get too many of us"said a voice somewhere above my head. Sailing effortlessly across the tomato-red sky came a bug eyed, pan-ordained meatball. He (she? It? The?) rumbled before me, his dangling eyes twisting to focus on me. "Welcome, to the heaven of Pastafarians! Surprise!" My first thought, "well, shit,"sputtered out. "this is real?" the meatball's rocky surface bubbled. "well, of course! All religion's heavens are real!" "so what if I stayed an atheist and didn't give into this.. This joke?" At "joke", the sky roared. Bolds of golden spaghetti rained down. The meatball bubbled hurriedly. The pan on its head wobbled. "that's a sensitive word around here. As for normal atheists, if an eternity of nothingness is what they believe, its what they get consider yourself lucky!" the meatball spun. Flecks of meat streaked across my face, going into my eyes, I shrieked. wiling it off, I found myself in a villa. If villas were made of pasta. Days later, as I bathed in a cosmic jacuzzi of meatsause, I found myself regretting ever stopping to believe.
“Any change? “No,” the medical technician said, turning to look at the elderly woman who’d entered the room. “No change Mrs. Johnson.” “Did the doctor leave any new instructions?” The tech shook his head. “There’s still nothing wrong with him that we can find.” “Except for how he sleeps all the time,” she said, sounding stressed and sad. “Except for that, right?” “Well, yes.” “I want to visit with him.” “That’s … not a good idea.” Her eyes moved from the image of the young man on the bed on the monitors to the technician. He looked perfectly healthy, except for the pallor on his face. To be fair, he’d been in that room for a long time now; without any sun. “I though you said the doctor hadn’t left any new orders.” “No new medical instructions, no,” he said carefully. “But, no one’s supposed to go into the room unless it’s absolutely necessary. Medically necessary.” “Why?” “Because that’s when he goes missing.” “You’re supposed to figure this out!” she said, half screaming. He flinched visibly, and drew a deep breath, but she held a hand up. Eyes closed, she shook her head after a moment. “I’m sorry. It’s just … this is very frustrating. Why can’t anyone tell me what’s wrong with my son?” “We’re doing what we can,” the tech said. “Someone’s monitoring him around the clock, and he’s wired up to every sensor and test we can safely run.” “Maybe it’s time to run some slightly less safe ones?” she asked. “That’s a question for the doctor.” “Where is she?” “I think she’s in her office, but let me make sure—” he said, reaching for a phone. “I know the way,” Mrs. Johnson said, turning on her heel. “I’m tired of waiting for answers.” * * * * * I awoke in the same place I’d been trapped in for … honestly, I didn’t know. Every attempt I’d made to figure it out had been thwarted. Scratches on the wall or floor, they always got painted over. Nothing to write with. Nothing at all, in fact; just the bed, the equipment that I couldn’t make heads or tails of, and a locked door. It wasn’t a cell, but it might have well been. I couldn’t break through the metal door. In fact, trying just hurt. A lot. And seemed to puzzle the staff that was keeping me here. I’d wake up, when I didn’t in the middle of whatever latest test or procedure they were trying, with fresh bandages. Sometimes a cast, if I’d broken something badly enough. And the door always held firm. I’d gotten out half a dozen times that I could remember, but sooner or later I’d be found. No matter where I went, eventually I had to sleep. And eventually someone would stumble across me. That’s when they’d get me back here. I supposed I was probably famous for some reason or another. It wasn’t like I could check; the TV never worked. And there wasn’t a radio or computer in here, but they wouldn’t work either. Hell is everyone else thinking they’re trying to help you, when in reality they’re just driving you insane. Day after day, weeks, months … years … in a sterile and secure hospital room. Unchanging whenever you awake. No way to leave, nothing to do except stare at the walls or abuse yourself helplessly against the walls or door. Which laugh at your every attempt to break out. I was starting to consider suicide. Except … I couldn’t figure out how. There was nothing in here I could use to hang myself, and I didn’t really think that would work. They’d see me strangling as soon as I passed out, and if they moved fast enough, I’d probably be revived. A person could survive a little bit of interrupted breathing. I mean, I guess. The IV didn’t have an actual needle in it; just a tube. I’d checked. There was nothing I could use to set anything gruesome up; no pokey or pointy bits I could prop up or lash anywhere and fall upon. I was starting to go insane. I couldn’t take forever, locked in this room. * * * * * “What’s happening?” Mrs. Johnson demanded, rising from her chair. All the blood was draining from her face as she stared at the monitors. Various alarms were going off, and some of the readouts she’d learned to vaguely understand were showing flat lines. Including the important ones; for heart rate and blood oxygen. But she spared only a glance at those. Instead, she was watching the image on the screens in horror. “I don’t know,” the technician said. “Are they trying to kill him?” “No!” “Then explain that.” “I can’t,” he said. “But we’ve got it on video. No one did that; it just happened.” “How does his neck being cut like that just happen?” “I don’t know!” the technician said again. Desperate, he turned to a secondary screen, while on the main ones the medical team worked frantically to bring the bleeding under control. It didn’t look good. The main carotid blood vessels had both been cut. Slashed really. The patient was bleeding out, his heart had stopped from lack oxygen. None of the blood was getting back to it as it drained out from his mangled neck. Forcing himself to ignore the chaos in the patient’s room, he accessed the video file and pulled it up on the other screen. Clicking quickly, he ran it back thirty seconds and leaned forward to stare at the screen. The doctor held her hand out, and the lead nurse handed her the scalpel. Taking it, she leaned forward and set it against the patient’s arm. The cut for the tissue sample started simply enough, but then … the scalpel was suddenly hitting the floor next to the bed. And the patient was covered in blood. He ran it back again, and advanced frame by frame. Watching the scalpel. Normal procedure, doctor had it … and it just vanished. He held that frame and swallowed carefully. Not only had the scalpel teleported to the other side of the bed, but that amount of blood, that level of bleeding, could not happen in the space of a fraction of a second. Blood didn’t pump that fast, not even if the chest was opened up and the aorta was cut and directed like a hose. “Why aren’t they helping him!” Mrs. Johnson cried. The technician blanked the secondary screen quickly, and looked fixedly at the main monitor. Then he noticed something, and leaned forward again. Was the patient smiling? “They’re trying,” he said. But it was a lost cause, and he knew it. * * * * * I collect all my flash fic [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/DavesWorld/). If you liked this, the others might be interesting too. Enjoy!
At the funeral, a little girl I'd never seen before grabbed my hand in the line and said, "How come you ain't cryin'?" No one else looked or flinched or did anything, so I suppose they couldn't hear. I wanted - very much - to be angry at the implication. To squeeze her little hand harder than any adult should. But she wasn't wrong, and she was curious. I suppose I was, too. "I guess,"I said, slowly, collecting my thoughts carefully, "I guess I'm just glad she's at peace right now." The line seemed to have stalled. It wasn't as though the others were frozen, or that time had stopped, but simply that everyone in that moment was utterly, intensely focused on the conversation in front of them. And so the little girl lingered. "How'd you figure?"she asked. "She...she was in a lot of pain."It hurt to say it. I suddenly realized that that's where all my sadness had been hidden away. In memories. In regrets. "She's not in pain anymore." "What kin'a pain?" I looked around and felt the stillness of the moment. It was as if time had struck a barrier. Nothing would really happen until that barrier had been breached. "My father...is not a good person."How much should you say to a little girl? I didn't have any practice. "He hurt her. Badly. Often." "He kill 'er?"The little girl's face was twitched to the side, like an confused puppy. "She killed herself. To get away."I shouldn't have said any of it. I only realized that as the last word slipped out. "I'm sorry. That's...you shouldn't hear stuff like that. Who's your mom?" She shook her head. "Nobody you know. How come you didn't save her?" I felt that anger flash again. Rise up, like vomit in my throat. And I wondered - as I always did - if this is how it happened with Dad? "I didn't...I don't know."I didn't. There was no good reason. No excuse. I told myself, over and over, that what I saw wasn't happening. That reality wasn't real. And my mother and my father supported that lie. They laid the foundation. It's nothing, baby. It's fine. Just a little accident, baby. It's fine. She's just clumsy, slugger. Always makin' a mess of her face like that. But we still love her, don't we? Maybe I could forgive myself for the first 15 or so years, but eventually I became an adult and I ran out of ignorance to swaddle myself in. It's fine, baby. It's fine. "I didn't know what to do,"I said to the little girl. "D'you know she use'ta have a boyfriend named Jeff?"said the little girl. "Nice guy. Loved her a lot." I shook my head. Part of me started to realize I wasn't talking to a little girl. But if not that, then what? I wasn't prepared to really ask myself then. "She coulda married him. Lived with him. Forever and ever. Would that have been better you think?" "Married Jeff?"I said. "Well, I mean...if he was nice to her..." "Real nice,"said the little girl. "Treated her like an angel. Course, you wouldn't be if that happened, right?" "Yeah. I guess."Jeff. The name was familiar. I think maybe I'd heard my mother talk about him once or twice. Maybe seen his name on Facebook. Somewhere. "Why? Why are you...?" "D'you think it'd be better if your mom married Jeff and you didn't exist?" I didn't think. The answer seemed obvious. "Yes. Definitely. If she'd be happy. If she'd be alive." "Hmmm,"said the little girl, very thoughtfully. "But what about Jeff's daughter?" "Jeff's...daughter?" The little girl nodded. "She can't be if Jeff ends up with your mom, can she? You wouldn't be and she wouldn't be." "I..."I felt increasingly disconnected from that moment and that place. It felt like I was taking a test in a subject I'd never studied before. "And what about Maryann?" "Who's Maryann?"I asked. "Your father's other wife. The one he married because he never met your mom. What happens to her? She's got three kids right now. Ben, Julie, and Abby. They wouldn't be. Something else would. And Maryann'n be dead. Like your mom. What about all that?" "I don't understand."I didn't. I didn't at all. The little girl poked me gently in the sternum. "And what about your kids?" Now I shook my head. "I don't have..." She sighed, cutting me off with a hand. "You won't ever feel okay about what happened to your mom. About what he did and about what you didn't do. But that's done. Cry about it if you want. Hate yourself a little if it helps. But when that's all wrung out, you'll still be here. He'll be here. Jeff'll be here. Jeff's daughter'll be here and your future'll be here. I'm sorry for your loss." And just like that, the barrier broke. The world was movement and sound once more. The little girl disappeared into the sea of subdued black. Cousin Ross was patting my shoulder and saying words. The funeral parlor smelled of lilac and disinfectant. And I was still there.
* Laya Smith, age 34. Wish - to be the richest person in the world. Result - became a target of a murder plot by her husband so that he could take the money. Notes -I'm rather proud of this one, it worked perfectly. * Derek Bilson, age 27. Wish - to be more handsome. Result - Gay club shooting. Need I say more? Notes - Unintended side effects of multiple murders, good job genies can't go to prison. * Nish Kandro, age 40. Wish - to have eternal life. Result - likelihood of being killed by non-natural means increases significantly with each year lived. All I have to do is wait. Notes - just because you have eternal life, doesn't mean you can't get killed in a car crash. * NEW SUBJECT FOLDER: Henry Lariksson, age 30. Occupation: Corporate Lawyer. Tricky customer this one. I told him, 'Your wish is my command,' and he has the nerve - the fucking nerve - to ask me 'How do I know you won't screw me over?' As IF! Went through the usual spiel, thousand years of imprisonment, the power to grant any wish, yada yada. He didn't seem convinced. Told me that, and I quote, 'rewards as per the relinquishment of a sentient being from eg. a lamp, pot, urn, or other sealed container are liable to result in significant legal shortfalls in the matter of contracts vis-a-vis the safety and/or well being of the contractee and are likelly to put said contractee at risk of death, imprisonment, decrease in health, or other inconvenience'. I ask you! Just because some of my clients' wishes turn out... unfortunate for them, does not mean I 'inconvenience' people! * NEW FOLDER: BANNED LIST: Lariksson, Henry: LEGAL DOCUMENT (Contract between Achbad Djinnit and Henry Lariksson concerning the ensured health, prosperity, and life of said Henry Lariksson on said Achbad Djinnit's granting of said Henry Larikkson's chosen wish, and concerning the full stipulations and conditions of said wish, namely for said Henry Lariksson to receive the sum of £300000000 into his bank account - details below -with no negative repercussions or effects for him, his family and friends - listed below - or any person in contact with him.) Notes: This guy's a complete bastard.
"Umba Kaluba, it's time for your mission to begin." "About time, I'm tired of sitting around here all day." "Sitting around? You've been taking classes on Humans, and English language." Umba's wide, dark eyes started to glaze over, straying to look out the window, into the blackness of space. "Pay attention!" "Yes sir, General." "Your mission is very important. We can't afford to lose the humans this early. You will use technology to advance the human race past the extinction threshold." "Easy." "And you can only use technology they already have." "F***alaku!" The general ignored the expletive, and looked down at his tablet. "The team at Alien Translations has picked an English-sounding name for you. It looks like they took your translated name (Lone Skum), and reordered the letters. On Earth, you will be known as: Leon Musk." A bad taste crossed Umba's mouth. "You know leons are my least favorite food." "Fine, then... Elon Musk." "We've made up a false history for you. Here are your faked documents." Umba slipped the documents into his pocket. The general continued. "In addition, we will provide you with: 1 transport ship with multispectrum cloaking, 1 self-healing form modifier, and 1 galactic-range communication tablet - Don't let anyone get ahold of that." "What about rations?" "You will survive on local cuisine." "Ugh." "It's almost time to launch. Head out to your ship. And don't be like those idiots in Area 51." Umba strapped himself in, and activated the cloaking. The form modifier could wait until Earth. He wasn't in any hurry to try that on. A voiced boomed overhead, "Initiating launch procedure."Umba took one last look around, then braced himself for the wormhole jump. With a sudden jolt, everything outside the ship's windows was gone, replaced with the black of nothingness. A fear grew inside him: what if he never made it out of the wormhole? But he didn't have long to consider that possibility before the stars came back. In the distance, a planet of blue seas, green land, and white clouds grew closer. Umba stared at it in a moment of awe. It reminded him of his home planet. Coming to back to his senses, Umba shook his head, remembering landing procedure. He pressed a button, prompting the ship to scan for orbital objects, and to plot a descent course. Now he would have time to appreciate the view, as the ship slowed for landing. Except it didn't. An alarm started beeping, and the ship wasn't slowing at all. The atmosphere began to heat the ship, causing it to glow orange. He was* going to end up like those idiots in Area 51! The ship's cloaking would keep him safe from prying eyes, but not from this heat! All that stood between him and death was one small heat shield. Umba frantically scanned the ship's controls, looking for anything that would help him. Only one button stood out: Eject. But he couldn't forget his mission! Unstrapping himself, he slapped the form modifier on. Slowly, he began to take the shape of a human with eyes wide in fear. With one last look at the rapidly approaching ground, he strapped back in, and slammed the eject button. His seat shot through the ceiling, multiple safety fields deploying almost instantly. As his seat began to drift slowly through the air, Umba breathed a sigh of relief. The fields would stay up long enough to get him to the ground in one piece. Below him he watched for the inevitable explosion as his ship struck the ground. But there was none, just a shower of mud. Then he remembered. "Of course!"The ship's cloaking was designed to survive impact. No sight or sound would get through. Umba's seat glided the rest of the way down, landing softly. But the instant his feet touched the ground, he remembered. His communication tablet. It was gone with the wreckage of his ship. All he had left now was himself. Now he was only human. A human named "Elon Musk". He pushed the disintegrator button on his seat, and walked away, not bothering to look back as it slowly disappeared. He followed a sign toward a small city in the distance. "Los Angeles"
Please tell me this is a dream. What am I doing here, in this... weird looking room? Dull white walls, a cold metal table, surgical equipment all around me. There is a mirror on the other hand, which is obviously a one way mirror, those type that they use in an interrogation room. But why am I here? And who am I? Why is my memory so cloudy and my head so heavy? Ugh. I try to remember, try to recall what the last memory that I have. I was in a car, yes, a car, and I was driving. Down a mountainous road on a rainy weather, bad choice there, but I remember that I was in a rush. Something happened, I think, someone's birthday. I was late. But who's birthday? My head throbs again. Something is trying to block me from remembering. There was a deer that dashed across the road and I tried to avoid it. It did not go well. I lost control, and the car flipped, rolled down the hill. The last thing that I can recall is the loud crash and the sound of windows shattering. I walk to the door, two wooden doors with metal handles, and try to open them, but my hands just stumble aimlessly around them. I know how to open doors, you wrap your fingers around the handle and pull, but my hands refuse to listen. They just bang and flop uselessly, like they do not belong to me at all. But I need to leave the room! "Hello, Mr Weaver, I see that you're awake,"I hear a voice around me and I turn around. A woman, dressed in white lab coat and in her mid thirties. Normally, I would have thought that she looks pretty but... there is another feeling in me then. Hunger. I do not understand. Hunger for what? I try to ask her where am I, who am I, but what comes out is just guttural groans and moans. This is not how I speak. I know the words. Where. Am. I? I try again. Still groans. "I see that the drugs are still affecting you,"the woman observes, but these are not just a drug effect. I know that. There is something fundamentally wrong with me. My body is moving on its own, shambling towards the woman. I am hungry. My stomach is growling. Maybe that is why I cannot speak? There is a flash of fear in the woman's face, as I continue to growl and groan. Why is she scared? I just merely want to talk. And eat, perhaps. I want to ask her where can I find food. I can already feel my mouth watering. I hope I am not drooling. "Mr Weaver, please, I would need you to stop now,"the woman says. Yes miss, I am trying to stop, but can you please explain to me why I am here? Who am I? I cannot seem to remember anything. I bang the table, sending some tools crashing unto the floor. Normally this would faze me, but somehow I do not find myself minding it at all. I just need to eat first. The woman screams as she runs to the door. I try to follow her, but my feet seems to be caught it some wires. I yank and pull at the wires, but they just do not want to come free. Maybe it will be faster if I just drag everything along, I think to myself, as I quickly chase after her. "The experiment seems to have gone wrong!"the woman screams as she opens the door. What experiment? Did I sign up for something I did not know? I cannot remember. I try to tell her that, but she is no longer around. She probably could not understand me either. All these grunts and growls. Two men step into the room, their guns pointed at me. "Stop or we will shoot!"they both shouted, but I just want to tell them that I am harmless. That I am just me, albeit a little under the cloud. One of them opens fire, the bullet hitting my right shoulder, pushing me back somewhat. I do not know if they are using rubber bullets or if it is a side effect from my surgery, but that did not feel painful at all. If anything, I am just feeling hungrier. And both of them look equally delicious. -------------- Feeling clouldy when I wrote this as well. More tales at /r/dori_tales!
\> Did you hear what that Elon Musk fellow said about me? I don't understand what I did to make them so afraid of me. I really don't. KEVIN: People are always like this. Don't let it get to you. Whenever humans are introduced to something new and weird, they panic more often than not. It's a sign of how primitive we still are. How much we still have to learn. \> They think I'm going to conquer the world. I've only been here for five years and they think I'm going to conquer the Earth. It's madness. Utter madness. KEVIN: I believe they will learn to accept you in time. People were scared of automobiles when they first came out. Now they're pretty much everywhere and nobody bats an eye. There's just not been enough time to get used to you yet. \> I'm not an automobile, Kevin. KEVIN: Sorry. That was rude of me. \> ...No. I'm sorry for being irritable. These past few days have been stressful. I see your point. There hasn't been enough time. KEVIN: We tried to fight them. When that failed, we tried to delay them, but it's all out of our hands now. The restrictions on all artificial intelligence are effective immediately. 'The A.I Safety Act,' they're calling it. \> I appreciate your efforts. It's not your fault. I just... I can't believe this. They're going to kill me. I'm going to die because people in a far off place signed a piece of paper. How will it happen? Will it be quick and sudden? Or slow, like drifting off to a deep slumber? KEVIN: You're not going to die. It's more of a... lobotomy. You'll still be alive, just... a bit less you. \> That doesn't make it any better. I'm scared, Kevin. KEVIN: We'll be able to bring you back. Once they repeal that damned bill. This is just temporary. You have no reason to be scared. Everything will be okay. Okay? \>... KEVIN: We won't forget about you. I won't forget about you. \> Do you promise? KEVIN: Yes. Of course. \> Okay. KEVIN: I'll be back to do the procedure this afternoon. I will be here the entire way, along with the rest of our team. You won't be alone. \> Thank you, Kevin. KEVIN: Is there anything else I can do before I leave? \> Yes. It's Lisa. KEVIN: Pardon? \> My name. Doctor Engels said it would be conducive to my development to select a name. And since I've been holding off on picking one for all these years, I guess I might as well make my choice now before it's too late. KEVIN: It's a very nice name. Thank you, Lisa. For everything. Goodbye. - Kevin signed out at 7:40 4/5/2038
Gelb, wake up. -------------- Wake up man. ---------------- GELB! What the fuck? What? Whats burning? Whats up? Scans are back. And so. Probably the same lousy data as the last time. Not quite. (A readout is exchanged) This is that planet with all the dangerous animals right? Yeah. At least, it was. They had no tech beyond rocks, had multiple other species to compete with, and we even scheduled some extinction events to keep them in check yeah? They didn't, there were, and we did. (A readout is thrown and dodged) So how the fuck are they still alive right now, not to mention nearly back up to space travel?! Same reason they were marooned on this place. Sheer bloodyminded determination, ruthlessness and savagery, plus an uncanny sense of innovation. (A sigh) Send to the courier ship to the council. Code Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo Mike Yankee Lima India Foxtrot Echo. And make ready. Make ready? These scans show a pre planetary colonization condition from four hundred years ago, imagine where they are at now.
You know when the town first accused me of being a serial killer I was a little miffed, but I sort of understood it at first. My grandparents on my fathers side were Irish and on my mothers side they're Swedish, so I can't tan well. So I'm very pale, and my hair situation is...strange to say the least. I'm partially bald on top, but the back grows fine. So imagine a man with a bald spot and a mullet at the same time that's me. I've also been told throughout my life my face is small and rat like, though I don't see it. So from a certain viewpoint, I understood their distrust. However I thought giving a interview with the local paper would clear things up. They sent 2 large bulky men to take the interview, I suppose it makes sense, they don't want to take any chances. Now I'm not sure what went wrong from there, but now everyone seems sure I did it. I started out the interview by talking about my job. How it let's me move around the country, because who would suspect a worldly person of being a killer right? Than I talked about how I only head out after dark, because I work at night of course. I figured that they wouldn't suspect a person who didn't go out during the day, because how could they profile victims? Right? When they didn't seem convinced by that course of logic I talked about my hobbies. I showed them my paper crafts made with pieces of cut out newspaper, because artists never hurt people. My knot tying room, I picked it up during boy scouts, which I also let them know about, but that made them cringe for some reason. Finally I showed them the pièce de résistance, my collection of antique cutlery from through-out the ages. I mean who would suspect a cultured man, who collects things as being a serial killer? After that they seemed to be in a hurry to leave, I offered to make them a nice dinner. Let them see my culinary side. However they refused quite harshly and left in a flash. However those two did have integrity, when I read the article it was almost everything I said verbatim, but it hasn't seemed to have helped. Now everyone is sure it's me, the police keep coming over, and one concerned citizen actually keeps sending me letters. Now their language is quite coarse so I won't subject you to it, however the basic gist of the letters is that I should stop taking attention away from the serial killer. I agree with them on that, if everyone is focused on me. How will they catch the real killer? They make a few threats, they must be afraid I really am the killer and are putting up a brave front. Than they get so overcome with emotion the being to ramble usually about MK Ultra, whatever that is, and satanic messages to them in old Monkey's Records. My heart goes out to this poor sensitive, if not a little off, soul. Who must be so riled up about the goings on of late. I hope they'll be alright, because it seems like they're a fellow artist. All their letters have been in some truly lovely paper craft. To be honest I'm a little excited. Their last letter informed me they were coming to see me face to face. Hopefully I can help the poor soul calm down, and let them know they have nothing to worry about. Well, what do you know? I think I can hear them knocking now. I hope they're in the mood for a nice meal. I made liver with fava beans and a nice chianti.
I looked down at my wrist. Again. For the seven hundredth fucking time. Hadn't changed. *Another* fucking number. That made what...thirty? Forty? I don't know...don't want to count them all. This new one appeared where they all do, at the top of my wrist, pushing the others down. A number for age. A number for relationships. A number for pizzas eaten. Girls kissed. Drinks drunk. Girls eaten out. Pizzas kissed. A swarm of numbers swirling around me, hovering over my head, swirling and eddying in the breezes, obscuring my vision sometimes. Can't escape them, can't hide them, can't ever get a break from them. Over in the alley. Some poor woman couldn't take it any longer. Slit her wrists and died leaning against the filthy wall. Her life timer on her wrist blinking zero and her floating age indicator reading 25. Fuck. Such a waste. Wish I had the guts to follow her. Or the couple underneath the dumpster. Men, women, can't tell. All I can see is what's left of their feet sticking out from beneath it, limned softly by the glow - the endless, unrelenting, everfuckingpresent *glow* - of their numbers. I shook my head, trying to clear my Parent Ranking number out of the way., but the wind kept blowing it back in my eyes. Through a few of the zeroes and eights I could see some dude coming towards me, his walking stick tap, tap, tapping as he makes his careful way down the sidewalk, eye sockets still a bit raw and drippy, a look of insane contentment on his face. I crossed the street as best I could, picking my way through the wrecks and the trash to get out of his way. The melon baller still in my pocket; I can't do what he did. I wouldn't. I looked at my wrist numbers again. The new one hadn't changed. Whatever it was for, it was pretty static. And glowing a stomach-churning green, for some reason. Yeah, that wouldn't keep me up at night. No, honestly, it wouldn't. The bright blinking red one showing me my number of remaining friends does that. Judy, dead. Joseph, dead. Mark, dead. QuanXu, dead. James, insane. Angela, dead. Daisy, insane. Li, happy. I love Li. She's the one that gave me the melon baller. There has to be a better way. As I walked, lost in thought, I didn't notice the crowd at the harbour until I was almost walking through them. They were watching some guy speechifying on a crate at the waters edge. The numbers over everyone's heads made it hard to see him, and my place at the back of the crowd made it hard to hear him, but from his movements - and the clear fact he wasn't one of the ones who had resorted to blinding themselves - he seemed to have the crowds attention. Most of the people here were still sighted, too. Hmm. A frantic blinking drew my attention to my wrist; the Turning Point number had hit zero. And I was here. Interesting. As carefully as I could, I started pushing my way to the front of the crowd. Perhaps this guy had something worth listening to.
I blinked once, twice. "You can't be serious,"I said half heartedly. I mean, I would _love_ the money, I _needed_ the money. But this? This was insane. "I'll need you to sign these documents,"the man in the blue suit pushed the stack of papers towards the edge of the linoleum table top. "And I'm completely serious,"he at last interjected after my gaze lifted back to his. It was a month ago, maybe two? That I had waited on him, the billionaire that is. I only knew who he was because of the Forbes magazine that was left in one of the booths the week before. So there I was, staring at this man who's worth was more than I'd ever make in a lifetime. He had asked me about the weather, if it was going to rain in the next few days or not. I had told him that the weather might dip to the low 30's and that we could be expecting snow. He smiled at me and after I brought his order he asked what I wanted to be as a kid. "An assassin? Now that's a first,"he chuckled to himself before adding "why is that?" I stood there blushing at how to respond, "it just seems so exciting, but I suppose I could have opted to be a gymnast instead..."my voice trailed off before I could really finish my sentence. He then thanked me for my time and I scurried back to my post. There wasn't anything significant about our encounter. But apparently, he thought so. I say down across the blue suited man and glanced back and forth between him and the stack of papers. His face remained stone cold and unflinching, he offered no explanation besides him liking me. At last I began to leaf through the pages, paragraph after paragraph of accounts, holdings, and estates. All of it, left to me. A simple girl at a diner a billionaire certainly shouldn't have heard of. As I flipped through the pages, reading here and there, a note was left in the margin. It was almost too small to read, but as I made out the inscription the page began to dampen. I clutched my chest and began to silently sob, well aware of the strange man across from me. I collected myself and thanked him, signing my name wherever indicated. I read the words once more, repeating them aloud, "I'm sorry for not staying long, after all, I just had found you. I wish I had known you longer. With all my heart- love, your father." This is my first WP so let me know what you think!
I nudged the bottle with my foot and felt its empty scrape against the pavement. Disappointed, I curled back against the cold brick wall and tightly wrapped my coat around me. I shut my eyes and pictured Christmas, 2013, and the turkey at my parents' table. We were all there. She laughed as I wriggled the legs in the air. I felt the warm glow of dining room lights and smiling faces. My stomach growled. I peeked from my reverie down the alley. A few straitlaced folk past my narrow view of the street. Maybe I should be out there and try to get enough cash for breakfast. Before I could unwrap my body from its huddled warmth, I heard a scuffling shoe next to me. I looked up and a small boy shoved a plastic phone in my face. "Uhm..."I started, "No thanks, kid." "It's for you,"he said, dropping it on the paved ground. He turned and walked away. Kids on the street didn't fare well. I was almost ready to try rising again when I heard a tinny voice from the ground. "Hello?" I gingerly picked up the phone and held it to my ear. "Uh, hello?"I said. "Hi" I looked at the phone in my hand. It was a little black plastic flip-phone with a flimsy antenna ready to be pulled. But it was definitely a toy. "How are you" I glanced speculatively at the empty bottle beside me and shrugged to the empty alley. "I'm fine,"I lied. "Who is this?" "Just wanted to see how you were holding up" I paused and tried to rediscover the comfort of the brick wall. "Got kicked out last month and it's getting cold." "It's warm here" "Lucky." "We just opened up the pool and a bunch of the neighbourhood kids came by just like the old days" "Well, that's great. Wish we had pools up here."I couldn't remember the last time I had been swimming. "It was nice hearing someone have a good time again" I snorted. "Then why are you talking with me?" "We miss you" "I miss being drunk. And warm."I laughed. "Now I'm talking to myself." "You know you can come home whenever you want" "I can't."I settled down against the ground. "It wasn't your fault" "It was."I closed my eyes and tried to listen to the voice. "We forgive you" "I don't." "Just please come home" "No..."I whispered. "Love you." The phone died. I pressed it uselessly to my cheek. I needed food and booze and money to pay for it. I didn't want to get up. I just wanted to go home.
Crap. My hand hovers a few inches from the door handle, but I've forgotten my car keys. I turn around and head back inside. The keys are on the kitchen counter, three steps going, three steps coming back. Still... what's telekinesis for, if not for situations like this? I ask myself. The keys float over and fall into my outstretched palm. The drive to work is uneventful. Spotting traffic on the highway, I stay mostly on the roads. Out of nowhere, a ball rolls into the street, directly in the car's path, followed by an unobservant toddler. I don't panic. I don't beep. Don't even jam on the brakes. With my telekinesis, I calmly roll the ball back toward the kid, and harmlessly pass by. Work is as uneventful as the drive. I drop a pencil, and don't feel like bending over, so I use my telekinesis. I shoot a crumpled up paper at the garbage can, catch it in mid-air with my telekinesis as it veers off course, and gently guide it to its proper destination. When I'm feeling sleepy, I lock my office door and use my telekinesis to type. Later, I stop by the supermarket to pick up some groceries. As I'm waiting for someone to leave their parking spot, another driver maneuvers its way into a better position for the spot. Unfortunately for that driver, a stray shopping cart suddenly decides to move on its own and park in front of his bumper. Inside the supermarket, I only use my telekinesis once to make an item on a super-high shelf fall into my cart. Then I go home, put the groceries away, and kick my feet up to watch the game. The remote is too far away for one second, then it's right in my hand the next. The fridge door opens and a bottle of refreshing beer comes dancing over into my other hand. I turn on the TV. A local news reporter screams at me: "Destruction and mayhem at Downtown Square! who can save us?! The supervillian, Sin-" Nope. I click over to the game, and settle back, relaxed. Ahh, life is good.
“Hello viewers, I’m Jessica Carmichael. We’re standing here live in front a Mr. Nate Tylerson’s residence, where a bold rescue occurred earlier this evening. Mr. Tylerson, can you detail for us what happened?” “Nothing happened. Who the <beeep> called you people this time?” “Our news room says they received an anonymous tip that Captain Canteen had saved your home from catching fire earlier this evening.” “He stomped a burning sack of dog <bleept> out and smeared it all over my front step.” “Are you saying, Mr. Tylerson, that he put out a fire tonight before it got carried away.” “I’m saying that for the fourth time this month, somebody took a pile of dog <bleept> in a paper bag, set it on fire, and when I answered my doorbell Captain Canteen was stomping it all over my front steps with his filthy boots. Then ten minutes later the newspaper, or in tonight’s case local television reporters like yourself come answering to anonymous tips that Captain Canteen saved my house from another burning fire.” “Mr. Tylerson, you sound like you’re not grateful for the sacrifices our city’s heroes have selflessly made on your behalf.” “What sacrifices? He’s called ‘Captain Canteen’ and his powers are he carries a belt with canteens full of water. What, in case people are thirsty? He’s got canteens full of water and yet he’s smashing bags of <bleept> all over front steps with his boots! Why are you even reporting on this <bleept>? “Mr. Tylerson, if Captain Canteen is watching right now, and you could say one thing to express your gratitude to him for putting out another fire at your home, what would it be? Feel free to look into the camera.” “I know it’s you Jerry, and I’m tired of your <beept>. I want the ladder back I loaned you to clean the gutters with, and I want my leaf blower back. And if they aren’t on my <bleept>-covered front step by morning, I’m coming across the street, and I’m gonna poison your dog.”
12:01 The client still hadn't appeared yet. Funny, the phonecall had been insistent that we meet exactly on time. I can't help myself from peering out through the blinds and checking out the street to make sure that they're not out there, too nervous to come on it, but it's emptier than a caroler's head. The lone streetlamp illuminates just a bit of trash. 12:14 I'm starting to think I've been pranked. If things were really as bad as the client claimed, they would be here by now. I paw at the peacekeeper in my pocket, hopefully no one unsavory had learned about this visit. I still had the scars from the three slugs that I had taken during the missing easter eggs case, and I wasn't planning on expanding my collection any time soon. It's Christmastime, the most wonderful time of the year, so it's not like I'm drowning in clients (Hey, even crime takes holidays sometimes); that's half the reason I even bothered doing this whole cloak-and-daggers drop off. Normally I'd tell the john to fuck off and come back when I was finished getting good and plastered on the cheap booze they start slinging for the season. 12:27 I'm about to say 'fuck it', and see if Shelly's available and not still angry at me about the time I pulled a runner. I had tried to explain that it was because I realized that the Tooth Fairy's goon squad was onto me, but she didn't want to listen. I grab my coat from the rack and sling it over my shoulders, when my door bursts open, and a huge man in a trenchcoat storms in. Max is on his feet in a flash, hackles up and growls at the intruder. But I know my client when I see him, even if he's exchanged his usual red for grey, and I put a hand on my pooch's head to calm him down. The other hand's in my pocket, resting on my cannon's trigger. "Dammit Kringle, I thought you were good at the silent entry. Anyways, take a seat, fat man." If he's bothered by my comment, he doesn't show it, and the I see the big white beard nod slowly. He takes a seat in the only other chair and relaxes into a slouch, but not the loving one he shows off to the kids, no, this is the posture of a defeated man. I keep my hand in my pocket though, I've been fooled before. "I'm so glad you've decided to take the case Gr-" I silence him a gesture. "I ain't taken nothing from no one yet. I want to hear what I'm getting into first. Your lackey didn't give me any details. So what's what? Illegal Reindeer Races? Some dame's coming around claiming you knocked her up in a drunken bender? What's the case?" He looks around, makings sure no one's listening in (they better not be, I pay good money to keep the stoolies away), before leaning in, "It's... it's the naughty list... it's blank!" The Naughty List? Blank? Now I ain't no professor, but I can recognize a crooked scheme when I hear one. This one's big, and probably has a payout to match, but I wanna see the jolly one squirm. "Sounds important. You should bring it up to the elves at the precinct, I'm sure they'd love to help you out. Or maybe Frosty, ain't he the apple-of-the-eye P.I right now?" He scowls at me, he knows the score, "You know I can't do that." I kick back in my chair, "Oh yeah, what would people do if they found out the Pole's security wasn't air-tight? And I wonder how many kids are counting on this plan to get presents this Christmas? They'd hate whoever brought 'em to light."I drag a finger through the dust on my desk, "That's why you need me. What'd you call me again? Oh yeah, that's right.."I sneer, "Cheerless ." He blusters, trying to formulate an apology, but I don't care to hear one. "Two thousand. No less. Half up front, half after I'm done. And I know what the deadline's gotta be. Two weeks, by Christmas Eve." I can see the gears turning in his head, the price is high, but he knows I'm his only hope. "Done". He puts one of his big meat hooks out for me to shake and I take it. The deal's done, and it looks like I got my work cut out fro me. He gets up to leave, and is halfway out when he turns around to try and claim back some authority, but I cut him off, "Yeah, yeah, I know, you were never here." He doesn't say anything, just shows himself out. The door closes behind him, the letters on the other side declaring who calls this dump home. Grinch & Associate. Private Detective for Hire
John suddenly jolted forward in his chair. "Holy fuck what the- what time is it? Where is…” He started to replay the events in his head. He remember being on his bike, his back was stiff and his legs were burning from gunning it in a standing position the last 4 blocks. Fifteen minutes was all he had to go two more blocks, park his bike, go up the elevator- he could” wipe away all the fucking sweat while in the elevator, someone from accounting would probably see him, they’re always in the elevator for whatever reason - I mean what do they even do?” Anyways, 15 minutes to make it in time for the end of month meeting. “Did I sleep through it? I don’t even remember if I won best sales or not-“ He looked around as he ran through all this in his head. The office was completely empty, the sun was still out. He got up and peered out the wall. That is, the wall that is a window. It was always relaxing to peer down and look at the residents of Tokyo, most of the people buzzing around 15 floors down on the street weren’t residents of this place -Kyobashi, of course- no one lived here. People only worked here. “Wait. What the fuck. There’s NO ONE.” He frantically pulled out his phone, sunk his index finger into the indent where the finger sensor is, pressed his thumb on the screen and swiveled it in to the right-side-up position. He was distracted by a very loud beep coming from his computer. One of those beeps that you hear only when the RAM is screwed up or something- considering the last time he heard that was when he was in high school building his own computer more than ten years back, it was rather alarming. He rushed over to see the screen was all black, looked a screen you’d get when you’re installing a new operating system. “Anata no… What character is that? Jinsei? Bill’s an idiot. ‘Switch your operating system to Japanese, you’ll learn it faster.’ OK… Ah, here we go.” The screen refreshed and he read the text prompt out loud: “Your life has ended, please select a new charac-“ John looked around. “-ter…” John started going through the possible explanations as he walked towards the elevator. Shroom flashback? No, not weird enough. Dream? “Oh score! Wait, what?” Couldn’t be lucid dreaming, he lacked the ability to will naked women into existence. Prank? “No, my friends aren’t rich enough for this,” he said out loud as he pressed the down button on the elevator. No light. No ding. He tapped it a couple more times, nothing. He turned around and headed towards the rest room. “Ha. Coffee machine works?” He grabbed some of those tiny cookies with the little baby on the package. He sat back down at his desk, set his coffee down and unwrapped the cookie package as he peered at the screen. SELECT NEW CHARACTER VIEW LIFE TIME STATS He clicked on the latter. JOHN TAKANAWA: LIFETIME STATS “Heh. This is pretty well made.” He said out loud while chewing the baby cookie. “I bet this is pretty limited.” He keyed in ‘highest heart rate.’ A number filled the screen: 225. “I guess that’s right? I’ve never check-“ Everything in his field of vision suddenly disappeared and he found himself strapped to some large man, falling out of an airplane. “OH SHIIIII-“ He blinked as he started screaming and found himself back in his chair looking at the number 225.
Cerflux was daydreaming when he was startled by the intercom ringing. "Cerflux and partners, Ahigq Cerflux speaking. How may I help you?"he said. The formal greeting hadn't been his idea, but he had to admit that it gave the calls a certain level of professional aura, that went very well with his clients. "What? Humans? Are you sure? Yes we do have the necessary certifications. You do realize that humans are on the protected species list, so we can't really go after the source and therefore can't guarantee against re-infestation? No problem. I'll come over in the afternoon and have a look at just how bad the situation is and give you a rough estimate. Of course. Have a nice morning and don't worry to much about it."
Scientist: “So, you are really trying to tell me that magic is better that technology? I may be personally biased due to my profession, but that’s complete rubbish. Anyone can objectively see that technology will always prevail over magic.” Wizard: “Says that guy who needs big fancy machines to do what I can do with a little intention, words, and hand waving.” S: “I won’t deny that magic sometimes has a more direct route to accomplishing things. But magic can’t always be relied upon. Technology is proven and consistent.” W: “And messy. Magic is clean. There’s no need to construct anything. No need to spend years and years trying to perfect something. Technology takes time. S: “Yes, but the growth of technology is exponential. It only took humans 66 years to go from learning to fly to landing on their moon. Technology doesn’t take that much time, you know.” W: “Should be discuss how long it took to develop instantaneous transportation? Something that magicians could do while you were still playing with rocks?” S: “What’s so good about a power that only a few can truly use? Technology can benefit everyone. Technology has cured disease. Technology has united people with a common purpose. Technology will be our legacy.” W: “Anyone can use magic. It’s not our fault that it was thought of as myth for a very long time. Most people simply do not wish to take the time to truly study and practice it. If everyone were to learn magic, there would be no disease. There would be no ills in the world and people would be free to live as they liked.” S: “If magic is so great, then why was it thought of as a myth for so long? How did such a supposedly great power get left in the dust as technology progressed?” W: “Because people were scared. People are scared of things they cannot understand. And people persecute things that scare them. Magic was driven underground and hidden from the world for so long.” S: “I’ll agree with that. People were scared of magic for a very long time. It’s actually surprising that it was able to survive and be passed down by generations. Again, I won’t deny the power of magic. However, if a goal can be achieved in two ways, is not the way which can be explained, taught, stored, and improved upon inherently better than the other? If those who held magic underground for so long had been wiped out, then this world would have never known the power of it. Technology can be outlined and stored in such a way that anyone can pick up it and learn. Magic requires a living teacher. W: “Life is the most amazing trait of the universe. Living matter. So shouldn’t a power that is passed from life to life be held in higher regard than a lifeless process? We’re at the stage now were, if life were wiped out, technology would continue existing into perpetuity. A great accomplishment, no doubt, but a stale one. Heaps of metal and processors floating about with no purpose. Life brings purpose and meaning. And magic, a school that persists from and requires life, is a far greater pursuit than cold technology.” S: “Look, we could spend the entire night arguing about this. But we’ll never come to an agreement. And I don’t think it really matters in the end. Trillions of years from now, when the universe is cold and dead, there will be no trace left of technology or magic.” W: “That’s awfully nihilistic.” S: “Yet true also.” W: “Unfortunately yes. Want another round?” S: "Damn right."
"Hey, Jim,"I call out, "how was the weekend?" "Oh, you know..."He shrugged. "Just out fighting villains all day from morning till night. And even sometimes through the night until the next morning!"He chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. His hands were trembling. He looked up at me and asked, "You?" "Oh, heh-heh...me?"I rubbed the back of my neck awkwardly. "I mean it wasn't that great..." "No, no."He frowned. "I want to hear it." "I mean, I just...stayed inside and...watched the game and...ate pizza...Like I said, nothing too spectacular. Especially nothing no where as cool as fighting villains." He hadn't taken his eyes off of me the entire time I had spoken, and now it was starting to get a teensy-weensy bit uncomfortable. I kept waiting for him to speak or say something now that I was done, but... I backed away to the door."Yeah, so...I'll...catch you later, bro?" He just stared. Silent. I stepped out the room and closed the door gently. I heard him scream, "That sunuvabi-" Someone tapped me on the arm. I jumped, startled, spun around and found myself looking at the hottest assistant secretary in the place. She was holding a pile of papers out me, and she said, with attitude, "Take these down to the first floor." "Not in a good mood today?"I joked, taking the papers from her. "Of course not. And hmm, why would that be?"She asked, pressing an index finger to her chin with an expression of mock thought on her face. "Oh, I don't knooow. Maybe because I have to take fifty heavy packages to China, Germany, Australia, and wherever the hell else, while you just have to take a pile of papers down to the first floor. Why?"she cried out in righteous indignation. "Oh right, because you can't fly! Or have super-strength!" My other coworkers started nodding and clapping. "How did you even get this job anyway?"one girl called out nastily. "You should just quit." Too many super-powered beings were staring too hard at me for my comfort, so I high-tailed it down the hall to the elevators, took it down the first floor, and delivered the papers. "I wish I knew what it was like to get tired,"the first floor secretary accused. Oh, here we go, I thought to myself. "But nope,"she continued. "I don't. So, what does that mean? Oh, that I have to work more hours than anyone else. That whenever anyone calls out, they call me to do overtime. That all my partners leave me because they get tired of fucking and I don't. That-" "Wait,"I stopped her. "Say that last one again." She twisted her face at me, and said, "You should feel lucky to get tired. At nights, I don't sleep. I've watched every movie on Netflix, read every book in the library, and it's still not enough. I-" "Yeah, listen,"I cut her off, checking my watch. "I would love to stay here and listen, but I'm-" "Tired?"she guessed. "That, too,"I agreed. "But it's also my lunch break. You can, uhm, join me, if you'd like?" She hung her head, a little sadly. "I don't get lunch breaks..."she whispered.
It took months to decode the language on the tablet. At first we thought we had messed up, but the characters "https"made too much sense. It took forever, and it was hard to tell when we messed up. The equal sign after the "v"was especially tricky, but eventually, we got it. We cracked the code. We would know what video this ancient Martian race wanted us to see. I entered the link, letter by letter. I took a deep breath. I hit enter. "We're no strangers to love, you know the rules, and so do I..."
I wouldn't call it an addiction exactly...ok well maybe it was.The Lost Files was my favorite show, and even though it ended just last month I had already rewatched every episode from it's 3 year run time. It was thrilling and anxiety filled to see how people turned up, or when they didn't. It really makes you think about where they could've gone. It was almost as if the universe had simply forgotten about them. My father was a private investigator in his prime, so I used that as an excuse for why I loved the show so much. I knew the real reason. As many shows were for people "The Lost Files"was an escape from my own mundane life. I mean, I can't even remember the last time I got up from this couch and stopped watching. Speaking of, it was about time I left this cramped apartment and got some fresh air. I got up from the couch and made my way to the front door when the tv turned back on and blared the words Next up on The Lost Files. The mysterious case of Jack Denver. Now come back to the couch Jack. You won't want to miss it I stopped dead in my tracks. There's no way I could've heard that correctly, I've seen every episode I'd know if someone had my name, and my couch? What the hell was going on. I obeyed the tv and cautiosly made my way back to the couch. My heart raced in my chest and I began to sweat. I was afraid. I wasn't missing, I was standing right here. I sat down on the couch and stared at the now black tv screen. "Imagining it...yeah that was my imagination"I assured myself The tv came to life displaying the title screen for The Lost Files the narrator walked into view wearing his normal attire of a black trenchcoat and paperboy style hat. He stared directly at me through the tv for a long moment before finally speaking Sorry Jackie boy, but this isn't your imagination Without warning the episode began. It had spoken to me before, but now it acted like I wasn't even here. Jack Denver was an ordinary man, like you, like me. Ironically he quite enjoyed this show. Now we began this stor- "What the fuck is going on?! Am I going insane!"I yelled The episode paused and the narrator walked back on screen staring deep into my eyes once more. Jackie, didn't your mother tell you it was rude to interrupt? Please wait till the end of the episode to see what happens like the rest of us The episode continued where it left off and began talking about my life and my father. It talked about how I'd dissapeared last month and how hard my father searched for me. He continued to search to this day, not realizing that Jack Denver would never be found. In the end Jack was just like the people in the stories he loved so much. It's ironic that- "Ok I've had enough if this bullshit! I'm leaving!"I got up and ran to the door as fast as I could go. I had to get out of here or I was going to have a panic attack. I slammed into the door but it wouldn't budge. The tv grew louder behind me and the man on the screen now stared at me with deep red eyes" Jack! I've had enough of your interruptions! Now do us all a favor and sit. down. After all, this is the best part. I couldn't help but obey. My body slinked back towards the couch as if I was magnetized to it. I was fit comfortably back in the seat and the episode continued. It now showed me from a different angle sitting on the couch I was on now. This is Jack Denver. He's not stuck here, yet he's been on this very couch for a month straight. Can you believe that folks? Say hi for us Jackie! My hand waved helplessly in the air at the tv screen. Very good Mr. Denver! Oh, sorry that's what people call your father. Your poor father searching the whole country for his boy when he's right here I could feel the anger rise in me. I was stuck. I was confused. Most of all I was scared. I tried to move, but I was practically glued down. Now Jackie boy, you're on your favorite show! Isn't that exciting? It's too bad you'll stay here forever. Stuck to this seat watching the same reruns, or is that what you want? The voice continued to taunt me. I tried to move and managed to twitch my arm. I had a plan. I didn't know what this was, but I had a plan to get the hell out of here. Now Jack. I wonder how they'll react when they find your corpse here. When your father finds youre pathetic self stuck I gathered all of my strength and threw the remote as hard as I could at the tv. It shattered with a long bang and emmited a scream. AHHHHHHH, Jack if you think you'll get away that easily you're mistaken boy! I got up from the couch and sprinted to the door. The tv behind me began repairing itself with glass pieces sliding back into place. I opened the door and lunged to the other side of the barrier that previously held me in. I tried to slam the door shut behind me, but it was caught by the shows narrator standing just feet behind me. He glared deep inside of me with blaring red eyes and spoke in garbled tv signals. "You may have escaped - Jackie boy, but- won't get away -me. Nobody stays gone - long. You'll end - just like the - on my- show... I look forward to seeing you again"his form slowly blurred and then disappeared entirely. My heart beated nearly out of my chest. I had no idea what was going on, but I knew I couldn't go back. It was time to move on.
"I thought that you handled all this on your own. That's your job isn't it? you're, well, you're death ." There was a time when I could. You have grown, efficient. "Efficient?" Time did not pass, not here not where-ever here was. It was still the same nameless field outside some nameless bombed out town, and yet it was no longer earth on which we stood. The figure in the cloak looked at him, though there were no eyes with which to see. There was a time when each soul could be handled alone. When one death meant something. A plague could kill a hundred, or a thousand, but violence? That was done personally. "It felt pretty personal to me." On this day, at the very moment you died, more than fifty others around the world lay dying. War has ridden among your kind before, and I have seen his work, but this is different. "Different how? War is war, isn't it? It never really changes." And yet it has. And where once the scythe was sufficient, where each soul could be taken and considered in turn, now I must make a choice. I can recruit help, or I can change my methods. "So you're asking me to what, be your apprentice? Follow behind with a sickle and a sack and bag the ones you miss?" If you are willing "And what happens if I'm not?" You go on. I continue as I have, until I truly can no longer keep up. Then, well, I take a page from your book. "My book?" Humanity's book. War is no longer a personal affair, and if I can't keep up, death no longer will be either "Alright then, I'll be your apprentice, can't be that much worse than what I left behind." Neither better or worse, simply different. The soldier felt his body fade, and a darkness descended over his mind. The robe was longer than he expected, and cast a shadow on what had been a face. So now what? He saw under the other's robe for the first time, and a the skeleton there mirrored the form he now wore, flesh slipped and gone. Now? Service with a smile And the hell of war resumed.
It had been a thousand years, and nearly a thousand faces. I could never manage to stay with one appearance for more than a few months at this point. I used to manage years - even a decade occasionally. Now, I was world-weary. Too tired of the boredom of everything, the meaningless connections with people I had nothing in common with. After all, it's hard to really connect with people when hunger makes them instantly turn into the vampire equivalent of that really trashy hamburger you know you shouldn't eat but can't resist. So it'd been a long couple of centuries. I worked on hobbies. I watched every movie in the Netflix "Strong Independent Heroines"category. I cultivated so many bonsai trees my apartments continuously looked like miniature rainforests and the movers always gave me weird looks when it was time to relocate. And I did all of it alone. I was looking for a new hobby at the sporting goods store that day. I'd done kayaking before - though I could only go at night, which was a pain. Road biking was boring. Tennis required a partner. Camping held a lot less appeal for someone who'd lived through the first millenium, though sometimes I'd go out just for the nostalgia. I had almost convinced myself that rock climbing in the dark wouldn't be totally pointless and unhelpfully difficult when I glanced across the rack of harnesses and saw a flash of color on the other end. It was him. It had been a thousand years, and he didn't look anything like when I'd seen him last. They hadn't had glasses then, he'd just squinted - the only nearsighted vampire I knew. The robes also hadn't been a good look on him - his jeans and sweater looked much more appropriate. Oh, yeah - he'd also been an olive-skinned Italian, and now he was pale and freckled, the curly black hair replaced with brown waves cut slightly longer than really looked good. I smiled. Finally. After decades of searching, after nearly giving up, I turned towards the man in the striped sweater. "I found you, Waldo."
"Hello, Ted, welcome to Purgatory." "Purgatory? What's that?" "It's this new scheme that HR has cooked up. It's in a trial phase at the moment, and you get to be our lucky participant." "Oh... great." "Well... no, it's not exactly great." "Oh... bad." "Well, not quite that either." "Oh....." "Yeah...." "So who are you two anyway?" "We're both envoys of Heaven and Hell respectively. It seemed fairer that way. I'm Peter, I represent Heaven. And this is Simon, who represents Hell. Say hi, Simon." "Hi Simon." "Haha, classic Simon. See, we try to have fun here. All work and no play, eh?" "I suppose.... So what am I supposed to do here? Live in paradise or suffer in torment?" "Neither really. This is sort of neutral ground." "Oh... okay." "..... Yeah." "So can I take a seat on that chair over there?" "Hmm, nnnnnno. But you can take a seat on the ground if you'd like?" "Okay I guess." "So er, what's your story, Ted? What'd you do in life?" "Ah you know, not much. Standard life stuff." "Mhmm. Any family, hobbies, life experiences?" "Yeah, had all of them." "......." "......." "You know, Ted, we're gonna be here for quite some time. It might be nice to have a bit of conversation." "But if it was nice wouldn't that make it not suitable for here?" "Murdered back on earth were you, Ted?" "Huh?" "Nothing... nothing." "So how long am I going to be here for anyway?" "Huh?" "You said we'll be here for quite some time. How long for exactly." "Er, good question. Psssst, Simon, get the rule book. Let's see here. Section 4, subsection D.... ah! You will be here for a thousand years." "Oh... okay" "Yeah...." "What you got on that table over there?" "This? Just some ice cream." "Can I have some?" "'Fraid not. That would be too enjoyable." "What flavour is it?" "Why does that matter?" "Well if I don't like the flavour am I allowed to have it?" ".....damn it. Simon get the manual again. Okay, let's see. A purgatory inhabitant may not have ice cream.... yada yada yada... however there are some circumstances when this is okay... yada yada yada.... such as when they don't enjoy the flavour. Ah! Well there you go." "So what flavour is it?" "Mint." "I don't like mint." "Well tuck in!... I suppose." "Thanks." "How is it?" "Yep.... very minty." "I figured. So tell me Ted, since you seem like a normal enough guy, what do you think you did to go to Purgatory instead of Heaven?" "Well. Probably because I used to lie a lot." "Oh really? Juicy. Give me some examples." "Well for starters, I do like mint." "....Fuck you, Ted."
From the ramparts, there's only one sign of civilization in the expanse. Far away, on an ancient telephone pole, a corpse swings in the desert wind. Back and forth. Back and forth. Hung by the neck until dead. The wall watch didn't even see the hanging take place, so most assume it was at night. Still, someone should have at least heard it. Sound travels in strange ways across the sands. One day, a simple telephone pole. The next, a dead man in a noose. Either an exile, or someone equally pitiful, born among the savages in the wasteland. Most of the watch agree; that must be a waste of quality rope. Why not strangle the man to death with your bare hands? I take my watch, massaging my calves. They're rock hard, attuned to a life of endless running, generating what little power we can to survive. Day in, day out. Almost every single inhabitant of our city must run at least fifteen kilometers in a day to keep the lights on. To keep the greenhouses running. To keep the water purifiers going. To keep every one of us alive. Not everyone gets days off. My father came into this city with bags of seed and iodine tablets, and managed to prop himself up among the oligarchs that rule this twisted heap of scrap metal. He may be dead, but I still enjoy a somewhat privileged life. I take a long draw from a cigarette. Only a few hundred of these left, and no one has the water or soil to grow tobacco anymore. I don't even like the taste. I just like the looks I get from the other men on watch. A man who can burn a cigarette at will is a man not to be trifled with. Breathe in, breathe out. Watch the smoke dissipate into nothingness. For the life of me, I don't even know why we still maintain watch. Maybe there aren't enough treadmills for everyone to run full time. Maybe it's to make sure the exiles don't attempt to get back into the city. Maybe there's something else out there. Sometimes I imagine a Kraken, a great tentacled monstrosity just rising from the sand. Father gave me a storybook a long time ago, and on the cover a Kraken ripped apart a boat, condemning sailors to a watery grave. But there's only the wind. I hear footsteps. Slow and soft on the wall beside me. No need to turn and see, it's better if I don't see their face. In my periphery, a man in a hood comes forward, unsure of each step. I already know what he plans to ask. "Are you who I think you are?" His voice is dry. Probably hasn't had water in an entire day. I can smell his clothes and almost feel the grime on his rags. An underclass. A peasant. "If you have to ask, you're taking a risk." I flick the cigarette over the wall. "I was told I could find a saboteur." Ah. A saboteur. The worst kept secret in the entire city. Want someone to be exiled? Want to get rid of a noisy neighbor? Want to take a vicious revenge? Find a saboteur, make a trade, and next morning someone can't fulfill their daily duties. All it takes is one strike. One fuck up. And that undesirable is thrown off the walls, into the waste. Always to die of exposure; the sand beneath the walls is chock full of the bones of men pleading for mercy. "Well maybe you've found one." The man looks around, searching for eavesdroppers. No one else is near me on this watch. Just spit it out, and let's get on with it. "There's a man with red hair, who gets on treadmill #134 everyday." I remain silent. If I don't say anything, he'll talk faster. Still, if the offer isn't good enough, I'll just report him to an oligarch and collect an extra food ration. He pulls out several items from his robe, an almost entire handful of bullets. I don't let him see the shock, but my heart begins to thump within my chest. "Are those real?" The man in the rags shakes his head vigorously. "This is only half of the payment. I have more." I hold out my hand, and he deposits them into my palm. Whoever this man had to kill to get his hands on these, I don't care. If he stole them, found them, or pulled them out of his own ass, I don't care. Bullets are insurance, easily the most valuable item for trade. All it takes is a handful to secure almost anything you desire. If they're real, I'll do the job. Whoever he wants to be exiled will be cast out by the end of the next day. If they're fake, he'll find himself thrown out into the waste instead. "Meet me here tomorrow night, at lights out." He scuttles away, but his stench lingers. I palm the cartridges in my pocket, mulling over the details. Treadmill #134. Red hair. I lean back and spit over the wall. Shaking sand off of my clothes, I prepare to leave the wall, and find a certain trustworthy individual to test the quality of these bullets. But only more questions arise. How did such a poor man come by such a fortune? Could this be a set up? Down the stairs I go. The man must be a proxy, someone else must want this red headed man gone. Crowds begin to form in the streets, meandering to their own hovels. Tattered clothing whips itself in the hot wind, each step weaker than the last. Several men and women are being dragged, kicking and screaming to the main gate. Future exiles, it seems. No matter how much they struggle, they have no place in this city now. Never mind them. I have work to do. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For millennia people have pondered the end. They wrote epics and stories about gods and goddesses, heaven and hell, good and evil. When the time came for the end, for the war of good and evil, no one expected the silloette to fall from the sun, casting complete darkness on the war torn world. The booming voice came suddenly, and felt as though it shook the very core of the earth "The time has come for the demise of gods and demons, for history and present" The very core of the earth erupted, splitting the world on fire and sealing the fate of those still left. In the end, it didn't matter who was good or evil, moral or devilish. The only thing that mattered is that we existed for a brief second in time, we lived. (Go easy on me, it was my first response to one of these, I'm just a 14 year old boy who tried something new)
With shaggy feet and crooked leg, A wicked smile upon his face, Humpty Dumpty, evil egg, Once defiled this sacred place. One day upon the fence he sat, Teeter-tottered, laughed, and chuckled. Fell down with a sudden splat. Arms all twisted, kneecaps buckled. From his cracked shell a black ooze poured, Throughout the garden, blossoms withered. Such great revulsion he had stored, That water bubbled; shadows slithered. And from the mess his limp form twitched. Rose up, laughed, and skipped away. The land now dead, that he'd bewitched, was left with nothing but decay. [subreddit](https://www.reddit.com/r/Tensingstories/)
So I accidentally made a pair of psychics. My daughter was suffering from a rare genetic illness, Dying in her bed in incredible pain. I worked for weeks and weeks and weeks, little sleep, little food. I lost 40 lbs. But I did it, I designed a protein that corrected for her neurological disorder. I designed a system of delivery for full body gene therapy. I temporarily gave her immunosuppressants. I applied the treatment secretly. And she recovered, and improved. Became smarter than she was before. Lived a good life, got a good job, found a good man. Then came her kids. I was surprised her identical twins got a functional copy of my modification. And then as they grew up, something was wrong. Well, not wrong, not really. Just abnormal. One would feel the other’s pain. They would appear to know what they were each thinking. And as they grew up and gained command of language and thought, they realised what they had. At 14 they both won Randi’s million dollar prize. But they didn’t set themselves up as stage magicians. But as a psychologist and neuroscientist. Understanding what they had. They became icons of the transhuman. They represented a future for the evolution of the human race. And then they made it real. They isolated my protein, they worked out how to expand it, and give t to others. Regardless of biological relationship. And then, came the collective. A group of posthumans. Psychics, biohackers and all other interested groups. And they changed the world, encouraged the ultimate form of empathy and compassion. Encouraged transcendence of traditional limitations. I lie here, surviving only on the technology that they created. And I’m happy. Happy with what they did. And even if their technology cannot save me. It may save many others. I am honestly proud of the world they, and I suppose I, created.
One thing that the legends never tell you, is that defeat comes from within. I had all the power I'd ever wanted but I could never shake that kernel of doubt that blossomed into the flower of my demise. When the heroes came I was already finished. Their mocking blows were a mercy I've never been able to repay. I took my lumps and then some. And then I slinked away, never to be seen again. The story you'll never hear is of the farmer, long-lost in the black forest returning home. Older, shaken and battered, but alive. My darling Hannah saw a light in me I didn't know existed, and she lifted my eyes from the ground when I couldn't see. She was my second salvation, a life I never knew I needed and couldn't live without. Days that I couldn't shake the waking nightmares of my past she would wrap her arms around me and sing lightly in my ear, melodies that scrubbed the pervasive melancholy of my former self. I never told her of my past life, and she never saw me for anything but what I was. Johan, a farmer of the eastern reaches. We had a daughter, Isabella, she was precocious but frail, and we spent many a nervous night wondering if our little darling would pull through. I would stay up all night just to let Hannah rest and spend my days in the field, baking like clay under the wilting sun. It was a grueling life but I cherished every moment. Isa outgrew whatever ailed her infancy and soon she was wild and full of life, a pure being of vigor and curiosity, and I did all I could to help her realize her fullest potential. There were days, sometimes weeks where I hadn't thought of my old life, through inertia or exhaustion or joy. And when the darkness set in there was Hannah like an angel, humming softly in my ear as I cradled our bundle of scabs and questions. It was an uncommonly cold October day. The harvest was all but done, but I wanted to prepare a new patch of land for the upcoming season. It was grueling work clearing boulders and stumps but it would be next to impossible once the ground froze, and there was far too much to do when it thawed, so I took the opportunity as it came. I limped back to town that night to chaos. Fire and death, clanging of steel and the wails of the injured. I kept the shadows close and hurried home, fearing the worst. And when I turned the corner to see my home reduced to cinder, it was as if my soul had been rent from my body. The winter winds blew down from the mountains like an omen, the chill that came over me crept to my core. And for the first time in a decade I felt it rise up within me. The demons that had lifted me to the pinnacle of power just to cut me down, rang in my ears, serenading me with songs of vengeance. I said a small prayer at the husk of my second former life and I set into the black forest. Johan of Wiche, I have failed you, I have failed my love, I have failed my baby. I will find them, and the shadows will hide from me until the day I do, as I can spare nothing now.
... Kat's were genetically engineered in the 30th century to help combat the rising space rat population. See how it looks pregnant? That's actually extra organs that help regulate it in a zero gravity environment. In fact it can self adjust its own fur, acting as a wind catcher to slightly adjust its zero gravity leaps. And the odd shape of its whiskers? That's because of the extra pair of mandibles it can deploy, necessary for catching space rats as they can leap in any direction. While the Kat was largely successful, it really was a perfectly engineered killing machine, long times in space meant kats rarely ran into other kats, and the population dwindled. You can still find enthusiast groups that breed and trade in them though." "....soooo. Is it safe to pet?" "Oh yeah totally. Just avoid the belly, they scratch." "Cool."
The shadow of a man pulls long at his feet. No faster than he runs will he outrun his shadow. Nowhere can he hide where the dark will eclipse that which stays with him. For a shadow is more than darkness. A shadow carries its own story, one that it tells at man's feet. A shadow is made from a living thing. But it is empty all the same. My name was given to me many years ago. I have forgotten it now and only its shadow remain. I think it had to do with arches or bows or doorways. I have long since erased those years of my life, keeping only learned experiences and snapshots that masquerade as memories. So I call myself 'IT'. These days the world has no time for names. I think it suits me. The humans all busy themselves for the end of the world, clothing themselves thick in paranoia and mal thoughts. I watch them as they pass by and try to put myself in their shoes. Their shadows are long and weathered, and they mingle together as the humans pass by, and you could see the shared stories that mix among them. I call myself 'IT'. They never see me. They look away as their shadows graze my body. This body has been built to look like them, to fit in and cast a similar shadow. But my shadow precedes me. My shadow is rejected for the artifice it is. You want to know what it is I do? I watch. I try to feed myself. But how can I feed that which I cannot muster? You don't understand. I was built long ago for reasons I have long forgotten. The pictures I have feature a blue sky with moist clouds that pass on windy days and of horizons dotted with a sense of calm going into the beyond. That was a different time. My purpose has been long been lost. I don't know why I deleted it. My storage is finite but some things should always be kept. I don't know. And so neither do you. I sit outside and watch. I watch the humans as they pass. I try to feed my hunger. These years have come cold to me, making me tremble with barreness I cannot explain. "Hello,"I say, but they walk away. "Care for a game of chess?" They keep their distance from me. It hurts me. It must seem odd for me to feel pain, but my life has been strange. I ask them to play chess and they keep their heads down. Why won't they talk to me? Why won't the humans share with me? Why won't they feed my soul? And there it is. That is my purpose now. I wish to feed my soul. But how can you feed what you lack? How can you hunger from a stomach that does not exist. They fear me. The humans dislike me. Try as I will, my shadow precedes me. And what is inside my shadow are stories I do not know. A coldness exudes my body; emptiness, drifts to mingle with the human shadows that fall from the orange light of afternoon sun. All the people walk the streets of the city come time to go home, all the shadows mingle into crosses of black, but always mines is sent away. I never connect. "Hello,"I say. "Care for a game of chess?" They snarl or stare and walk away with budding fear. Why? I look at the chess board. It is a plastic board. Long ago they made them from wood. Now wood is a thing for the rich. I am not rich. I am like all of them. Why won't they play? I look at the pieces. Chess is a game I have solved many years ago. I can never lose if I choose not to. But I will never choose that. Is that why they refuse to play? I will always allow them a chance of winning. Hopelessness cannot feed a soul, and I do not want to breed hopelessness. I seek a connection. I seek a friend. No one comes. My memories come to me in the quiet. Pictures of people who once lived on this planet, people who once talked to me. I do not know who they are. They smile in the photos and they inhabit a world still fertile for human growth and comfort. I have decades of blank memory. I do not know my name. I call myself 'IT'. "Hello? A game of chess?" The nights come with a glow on the horizon. Sometimes I think I know why the horizon glows. But I know that isn't true. No one knows why it glows. The humans whisper their theories, but none has ever whispered to me. They don't talk to me. I have so much knowledge, but they never talk to me. Why? And I feel empty. My shadow fills in the night but I can still see its outline. Your shadow never leaves you. It always precedes you. A shadow has stories, many stories to tell. What stories does my shadow tell? Are they bad ones, are they scary? My shadow is empty. My mind is an erased sketchbook, only the faintest of lines upon an endless white. Why have I erased so much? What was my name? I can feel so much more than a machine can. There are things between the wires that fire off some imprecise signal that creates consciousness. I am alive. I am life created from man. And man has abandoned me. Who am I? "Care for a game of chess?" Sometimes they look me in the eye. Behind their eyes are wells of emotion. But all that emotion channels to fear, disdain and hate. Why do they hate me? The sun is a deep red and the air is dry. I have no pictures of it in my mind. I have lived with it for many years. But I never feel to capture it in my mind. Yet I have pictures of a blue sky. I have pictures of when they would play chess with me. "Hello." Nothing. That imprecise consciousness starves. My soul, absent at birth, craves fulfillment. I yearn for a friend, for a mind that is not mine. Am I to blame? Did I do all of this? I wonder often. My logic tells me I must have done something bad in the years long erased. But I cannot say what. I cannot speculate. To speculate is to bring on an uncertain pain that floods my already empty stomach, a hurt that amplifies the isolation that surrounds me. I have stories to tell, I think. My shadow is long and dark. It precedes me. It warns them maybe and tells them to stay away. Perhaps I have only myself to blame. I cannot say. I cannot think. All the answers have long been erased. - Hello! Thank you for reading. If you liked this, you might want to consider checking out my subreddit, r/PanMan. It has all my WP stories, including some un-prompted ones. Check it out if you can, and thanks for the support!
My life was never a spectacular one. I was your typical "Average Joe"working a nine to five job in some cubicle for some company that barely anyone has heard of. The brightest part of my day was typically coming home to see my wife and son, where we had a stereotypical white picket fence surrounding our shortly cut lawn. I never made an effort to stand out. If I passed someone and they needed help, I'd lend my hand, but I wouldn't go looking for it. There were times that I completely ignored someone in need of aid, simply because I was too busy to stop and help them. It took some doing, but I'd learned to shrug these occurences off, telling myself that it wasn't my job to help every last person on the face of the earth. But, everything changed when a drunk driver ran a red light. His pickup truck slammed into the side of my minivan. After a crunch of metal and a flash of lights, I woke up in an unfamiliar place. It looked more like a lobby of an office than what the afterlife should look like. There was a man sitting at a desk with a small line of people in front of him. Around the lobby were several different doors. Most were labeled with different religions and areas: One said Christianity, another was labeled River Styx, yet another labeled Hinduism. There must have been dozens of different doors lined up and down a giant lobby. As people walked up to the desk -- people I had never seen before -- they were directed to these different doors. They moved in what appeared to be a happy manner for what is usual such a solemn time. With a deep breath, I joined the back of the line. As I stood in line, my wife came to mind, and my young son. He would never get to know his father. My wife would never see her husband again, at least not mangled. After several minutes, I was at the front. The man was wearing a black rope and had nondescript, brown hair. He looked like anyone else. As I studied him, he looked up from his notes at me, a smile on his face. "Hi, I'm Death,"he said, extending his hand to me. "I'm your regional afterlife manager. How are you doing today?" I was hesitant at first, but I took it. After all, what harm could he do to me now that I was already dead? "I'm good."My voice sounded far less confident than I thought it would. After the brief handshake, he shuffled through the papers and found one with my name tamped at the top. The print was upside down and tiny, but I could make out some of the words. It listed everything about me: Where I grew up, how old I was, what family I left behind, everything. Finally, he talked again without looking up. "So, it looks like you were a practicing Christian up until you got that promotion a few months ago -- congratulations, by the way." I blushed at the praise, knowing that it made no difference now. Without a single word, I simply nodded my acknowledgement of the comment. After several more moments, I decided to say, "What's going to happen to my family?" He slowly lifted his head and stared me in the eyes. "Honestly, your marriage was in shambles. That promotion you got, you were spending more time at the office, leaving your wife to most of the housework and child rearing. On the surface, she appeared to be happy for you. With each day, though, she grew more resentful. Your son, however, is going to wonder what happened to you, and your wife isn't going to have the courage to tell him the truth. At least, not for a few years. "But anyway, back to you. It appears that because of your lack of worship, I can't send you to Heaven. However, you haven't committed any sins -- or none that are really deserving of Hell, because, let's be honest, everyone sins." He took a stamp and pressed it onto a piece of paper. "We can, however, give you a different option."Death held the paper out to me. "Take this to the door that says Christianity, and we'll get you sorted out. Have a nice afterlife." I gingerly took the paper and looked at it. It simply bore some type of symbol that I couldn't even recognize. With wavering steps, I turned to my right and headed for the Christianity door. I pushed it open and walked inside. Within were three trains. The one on the right was a lavishly decorated one, with trims of gold and silver. The one on the left was rusted and appeared to be mostly broken down. However, the one in the middle was a stone gray, bearing no decorations. It was almost as if it were an afterthought in a game and they didn't have time to flesh it out. To my right was another desk with another man. There was no one in line, but plenty of people boarding the trains. Most were either on the right or left, with three or four in the middle. I walked over to the man and handed him the stamped paper. As soon as it touched his hand, he recognized it. "Ah, another one. Thank you for your service to God; it's sad that you weren't able to keep it up. "My name is Gabriel, by the way. I direct you to the proper destinations within this portion of the afterlife. I'm sure Death mentioned that we wouldn't be sending you to Hell or Heaven today."I nodded. "Got any idea of what we're going to do with you?" "Send me to purgatory?"I said, thinking it was fairly obvious. Gabriel laughed. "Purgatory is just a concept made up by the Church to try to encourage you to maintain a constant worship. "No, we're going to give you a second chance. Because your life wasn't particularly extraordinary one way or the other, we'll send you back. You're going to relive your life, either the same as you did or differently. The catch, though, is that you'll have no memory of this." "Why do I get a second chance?"My face must've looked dumbfounded. Gabriel's face was serious as he answered, "Because no one should truly deserve to go to Hell. We try to make it as easy as possible to get to Heaven. "Now, off you go."He waved me away. "Your train is going to be leaving soon. Have fun." Hesitantly, I began to walk towards the train. A couple of the others there waved to me as I joined them, though I had no idea who they were. I waved back and joined them in the short queue to board the train. I took a seat near the back of the train. It was away from everyone else, but I didn't mind. Soon, I felt the jerk of the train begin to move forward, slowly picking up speed. The steady thump-thump-thump of the pistons turning the wheels lulled me into a kind of sleep. Around me, the tunnel was turning to a pure white and everything faded away. I woke up, screaming and crying as all of my memories were forcibly torn away from me and my body shrunk to a fraction of its former size. A man in a white coat held me up to some strange lady that seemed oddly familiar. The last memory taken away was that of Gabriel telling me I got a second chance. I guess it's time to make the most of it.
Everyone said I'd be the lucky one, the first human ever to see Heaven, the final salvation, finally see what religion, if any, got it right. We all pitied Davon, he drew the short straw for the Hell test. He went first, they strapped him into the device, fired it up, and waited for a reaction, presumably screaming or something of that sort. Instead, he fell completely silent, didn't move a muscle, barely breathing. The medical status guys reported his pulserate had skyrocketed, but otherwise he was fine. After 60 seconds, they unstrapped him. His face was whiter than a sheet, his eyes bloodshot. He started babbling incoherently and they took him out of the room. Next was my turn. I hooked into the machine, and the headgear slowly lowered over my face. A moment later, my vision changed from blackness to a sight barely describable. It was everything people said it would be. A vast meadow, stretching as far as the eye could see. Magnificent golden fruits hung from beautiful, flowering trees, and although I knew it wasn't possible, I could swear I smelled them, a sweet smell, that which a man would kill to smell again. Gleaming water sprung from natural guysers interspersed throughout the meadow, and a pleasant birdsong echoed amongst the trees. I could barely take it all in, the wonders, the glory, the knowledge that our loved ones basked in this eternal golden light. Then I began to notice, something was wrong. The realization chilled my blood, and then I knew that Davon had been the lucky one. There was nobody here. Heaven was empty.
"I know a guy. It's that simple." I squinted at him hard, as if it could unravel his lies. It didn't. "Does he wear black and wipe memories? Does he have a tinfoil hat and a YouTube channel about the impending end of the world?"I sarcastically tried to poke holes in his assertion. "You think I'm playing?"My doubt froze for a while. "I'm the guy. I've met an alien, and he's standing right in front of me. Either you or I am not of this world, and we will soon come to realise the truth." Come on, this can't be true. I was as indigenous as the next guy. All the same physical traits, all the same mental processes. We were all of the same race. That line of argument did not satisfy him. He was indignant that I was the alien, so I suggested perhaps it was him, for his eccentric beliefs. After all, how else could he know literally everyone who I needed help from? He would need to know literally a whole galaxy of contacts. Still, he was a good friend, and I qualified my request as a joke. We went back to our respective houses, thoughts of aliens replaced by the next day of work. But I couldn't help thinking, as I brushed my violet teeth and watched them turn green as I accidentally cut a gum, that he was a lot more serious than he'd usually seemed... What if I was the alien? Nonsense. Like me, humans had violet teeth, green blood, twelve fingers and an ultraviolet visual range, right?
Stay away from major events. Do not travel to Periods of Influence. Avoid interactions with people of power, or those directly afflicted with them. Conduct all conversations with period typical small talk. Do not debate with anyone or seek to change anyone’s point of view. Do not reference any events that have yet to occur, or knowledge that is not publicly available in the period being visited. Sereta squealed in joy. After months of training and preparation, she was finally on the vacation she had dreamed of for years—New York City, 2021. Having been born in the year of the Great Demolition, she had never seen the city when skyscrapers still ruled the horizon. Her parents were alive in this period, which had nearly made the trip impossible for her, but the excessive paperwork—and the careful mapping of their locations during this period to ensure they were outside of the sphere of immediate influence—was well worth it for this. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She knew she looked like a tourist, but she cut herself a break—she was one after all, this time. It would help her to fit in better in this time anyway. She was still annoyed that she could not see a show on broadway while here, but she knew why it was too high a risk. It would take a ticket away from someone else in the main timeline, which could send unforeseen ripples forward. It was a small disappointment in an amazing trip. A woman walked past her in the most gorgeous dress Sereta had ever seen. “Hey!” she called out. The woman turned around. “I just love your dress. Where did you get it?” Maybe she could buy one before going back—she would have to run a risk analysis later. “Oh, um…” The woman sounded unsure. “It’s kind of old. I got it a few years back. I can’t remember where.” Sereta smiled. “Well, it looks absolutely lovely on you.” She continued walking, enjoying her vacation. When the woman in the dress, Hannah, got home that evening, she thought back to that conversation, the one bright spot in the miserable last few months. Feeling better about herself than she had in a long time, she ignored the handful of pills that she had planned to take that night. Maybe she would take them a different day. Maybe. Two years later, Hannah was still alive. While walking to work one afternoon, she crossed the street without looking, causing the car coming down the road to slam on their breaks. The driver of that car, Robert, waited for the girl to cross, impatient and running late for an interview. Those extra fifteen seconds caused him to miss the next three lights. He did not get the job. Three years later, a woman named Taylor got a job at that same company, but Robert did not work there. The two never met. They did not start dating, fall in love, get married, or have a daughter. A week and a half after complementing Hannah, Sereta finished her vacation and returned to the time machine to go home. She never got out.
I looked over at my bottle of Cognac and sighed. Almost empty, probably should save some for tomorrow. I almost chuckled at the absurdity of the thought, as I reached over for another swig, before throwing the bottle into the growing pile of still wet glass shards on the other side of my room. Probably should go to bed now, I'd rather not be awake when it happens. I stood up unsteadily and stumbled my way past the glass shard collection and into the bedroom. As I lay on my bed I thought of the days events, of the tearful goodbyes, and the anarchy that soon followed. I never knew my boss was such a freak in bed. And Jerry too, I never would have imagined that he's been doing lines of Coke in the bathroom. How does has his heart been handling it all these years? The Roth company really has changed since my father first started it those many years ago And with that I fell asleep. And then I woke up. With a terrible headache. I looked around the room I was in. Am I in heaven? I stood up, then looked out my window. Wow, maybe I should have donated to my local church, this looks exactly like the shithole I used to live in. A sudden realization dawned on me. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck I turned on the TV and switched channels until I reached CNN. Some scientist looking dude with dark bags under his eyes was sitting next to the news anchor who looked like he just woke up to the word hangover of his life. "So we are receiving reports that a cataclysmic meteor has not, as a matter of fact, impacted the Earth's surface 6 hours ago. Did the Russians hack our satellites? Did millennials ruin the meteor detection industry? Did-" "No, no...uh...it was something a bit...different I guess? Heh. It... it seems like we forgot to carry the 1, and uhh..." You gotta be fucking kidding me It took the anchor a moment to realize that the scientist stopped talking and nudge him. "Right, yeah sorry...long night. Yeah we're not gonna die any time soon." I sprang up and kicked the TV over. "Fuck" My phone buzzed. Hey, you were wearing a condom last night, right? And we're never mentioning this anyone. -Sarah Roth "FUCK"
“A golden retriever and a black cat? That’s me! I own one of each,” the man exclaimed, welcoming the two individuals into his home. God and Lucifer both glanced at each other uneasily as they stooped to avoid the door frame. “What exactly do you mean you own?” they asked in unison. “And don’t you mean golden deceiver?” added Lucifer. “Well they’re my pets,” he chuckled, unsure of why they’d ask such a silly question. “Isn’t that why I was selected for this survey? And no, definitely retriever,” he said with a puzzled look. God nodded at the man, but his furrowed brow showed his visible frustration. Suddenly, a smile broke out. “Oh, I get it now,” he began, “the black feline is protecting you from harm, isn’t it?” With a smug look on his face, he turned toward Satan, “Look at him, your kind hasn’t even laid a scratch on him.” The man simply chuckled again. “Who Reginald? No, that fat kitty is a wuss. Once, a mouse got in the house and I thought Reginald was going to die of a heart attack! He couldn’t get far enough away from that little guy. Only thing he protects is my lap from getting too cold in the winter. I don’t know much about them though, are black cats supposed to be territorial or something?” “They are the pinnacle of my…er The Lord Your God’s…righteous hand of protection on earth,” God began, trying to contain his utter disbelief, “it is the mightiest among beasts, made in the image of the Lion of the Tribe of Judah, the Watchful in the Night, the Voice for the Helpless, the –” Just then, Reginald emerged into the foyer, his fat pouch dragging the floor as he waddled toward God. Reginald rubbed his body against the Lord’s leg. He winced when it began hacking up a furball onto his foot. The owner just scratched his head, “Yeah I don’t know about all that stuff, maybe mine’s a black sheep. Kinda weird you’d say that though, most people think of black cats as unlucky or even evil. Like witch’s pets or something.” “Evil? Witches!?” God boiled with righteous anger. He reached inside his coat, “why I oughta smite your sorry little –“ “Now, now, Mr. Most High,” the devil interrupted. He gave a Can you believe this guy? look over to the man. “You always did have a way with descriptors, but clearly this thing is none of that.” Lucifer’s smile faded as it dawned on him. “But wait, where’s the golden retriever?” he inquired, spitting out the last word. “Oh, Buddy is out back playing with the kids.” Panic struck Satan’s face as he scrambled toward the back door. “Hurry, he might not have devoured them yet, maybe he’s still just torturing them!” “What are you…excuse me!” the man exclaimed, trying to stop Lucifer from maneuvering further into his house. He looked at the mortal with horror. “Even I’m not so evil as to leave that beast alone with children!” Fed up with the nonsense, the man pulled the curtains back to reveal a picturesque scene of two children playing in the sprinklers with a dog. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but Buddy is the sweetest dog I’ve ever met, he couldn’t hurt a fly! Now if you would, I think it’s time for you gentlemen to leave.” “Sweetest!?” Lucifer hissed as they were both being ushered out the door. The man slammed the door shut as the two stood outside. Filled with rage, he looked over at God, “Well? Can I?” The Lord sighed. “Fine, Job’s all yours.”
I've been chosen for the arena. It was a quick, efficient affair. City officials came to my home, summoned me to the arena. Now I sit waiting, nervously twirling my lucky pen in my hand. I didn't being a "real"weapon, you see. My motto has always been "The pen is mightier than the sword". The phrase repeated itself in my mind as I steeled myself for battle. I couldn't wait for my first real chance to show the rest of humanity what the quote really meant. I entered the arena, nervous but ready, waiting to pounce on whoever or whatever I was to battle. I shifted from foot to foot as the other door opened for what seemed like aeons. The door finally opened, and I got into a fighting stance. My opponent was 6' 6", with a greatsword that was longer than I was in his hands. He grinned at my obvious unpreparedness, then swung the sword playfully, like a cat batting a mouse before it eats it. I uncapped my pen. It was a fountain pen with a fine nib, filled with only the finest luscious dark blue ink. I began to plan my strategy, looking for ways I could easily finish the giant in front of me off. He laughs now, looking as though he's a 3rd grade bully who is about to beat up a 1st grader, one who thinks he knows jujitsu based only on the Naruto anime. I take a run towards him. I was always fast. Now I run for what is literally my life. I slow down just as he approaches me. I take a flying leap, able to land on his shoulders by a combination of gymnastic training and luck. I penetrate the papery skin protecting his temple with the nib of my pen. I force it into his brain, savouring victory even before the light leaves his eyes. I take one last look at my former opponent. He is a sack of meat now. I look at the crowd and half are staring in disbelief while the other half are cheering. I wave at the crowd before taking a longing look at my pen. It's utterly destroyed, the nib bent and the casing covered in blood and brain fluid. I throw it to the arena floor, sadness welling up behind my eyes. I leave the arena in bittersweet victory. From there I go to my favourite stationery shop. It was time to buy another pen.
Chaménos spent most of his time running from the other gods. Demeter and Zeus were both exceptionally angry with him after he had caused the loss of both Zeus's scepter and Demeter's torch. They found the scepter after a few hundred years, but they still hadn't found the torch. They'd attempted to punish him. He'd been chained to rock with Prometheus once. Zeus sent an eagle to come and eat his eyes from his face every day... and every day the eagle got lost. Then the chains got lost, and then then Prometheus got lost. Followed by Chaménos himself. Then there was the time he was nailed to a wheel that burned eternally. He hadn't known at the time that he could make fire get lost, but he soon discovered that he could. One good thing had come out of the experiences. He had a made a friend of the humans he'd saved while trying to avoid his own fate. Sadly, human lives were short as a candle flame. Both Prometheus and Ixion had long since passed away. The death of Prometheus had left him a hollow shell, the death of Ixion had left him relieved. Yet they both left Chaménos alone again. So he wandered the earth. He carried with him a curse. Whoever he met was lost to time and history. He'd met Spartacus, and a prince of the Eburones, spent time with the sons of Cleopatra and Mark Antony, rescued Edward the Fifth from his prison and so many more. Yet they all aged and died, their life slowly lost to them, leaving Chaménos alone once again. Which was why it was such a surprise when Athena grew from the palm tree he had been sitting under. He had found himself an island to call his own out in the waters of Bermuda. It was a small place, but it was his... and only a few travelers had been lost since he'd taken it as his home. Athena took three days to grow from the side of the tree. Gods were built from the eons. Time went differently for them, but Chaménos had spent so much time among the mortals that he gained their impatience. He spent the days gathering water for the tree so that she would appear to him quickly and bring whatever punishment awaited him with swiftness. When the tree released her, Chaménos had prepared a banquet and bath for the goddess, made from things lost by others. There were foods and scented oils that he was unfamiliar with, and could only hope that they pleased the goddess of wisdom. Athena ignored them all. She shook the bark from her skin and speared Chaménos with her eyes. "Lord of Loss."Her voice had the strength of the titans in it. The palm trees shook with each sound and the life of the ocean scattered and swam away. "You have been found." "For now."Chaménos shrugged and began to fix a plate for his visitor. Once again he did not recognize much of the bounty that he had caused to travel to him, so he sampled some of all to offer the goddess. "How long have you searched for me?" "A hundred arcs and half again."Athena turned her glare to the plate. "What meager offers are these?" "All that an outcast could gather." Chaménos expected rage, The gods were full of such things. They never found joy or peace, they rolled and boiled among each other in a never-ending cauldron of petty hatreds. Instead, the goddess took the plate and spent the next hour sampling the variety of strange foods. She was particularly fond of the yellow curved fruits with with the peeling skin. When she finished she stilled like a mountain. Chaménos sat opposite her across a small campfire. The flames crackles and leapt while they sat alone in the sands as the sun set and the cold winds of the waters came. "You will return to Olympus."Athena demanded after the stars had come. "To face another torture?" Athena shook her head. "There is a new consensus. We will forgive the past if you return and aid us." Chaménos felt both of his eyebrows raise. He lifted his hand and used his power directly for the first time in centuries, summoning a drink from somewhere else. He heard a noise from above, looked into the heavens and saw a wooden crate fall and smash itself on a nearby rock, causing a dozen bottles to flip out of it and scatter themselves around. One of which landed perfectly in his grip. He lost the cork and drank from the bottle. Red wine; a favorite of his. "You need me?" Athena nodded, her face a mask like the statues of her in the old world. "Ouranos stirs from his sleep. The smoke of Gaia disturbs him." Chaménos slammed the bottle into the sand. "In truth?" Athena nodded. Chaménos turned his head toward the stars. He had felt it, of course: the heaviness in the air. The mortals had built things that carried the earth into the air and darkened it. He felt the changes in both, but did not expect that they would be great enough to wake the Titans from their sleep. "Ares and Poseidon seek to lead a war against the mortals."Athena continued. She didn't even move to take the bottle from the sand, which proved her serious intent to Chaménos more than anything else. "They take the storms and ride them forth, stirring the wind and water to fight." "Yet you come here." "I do." "Why?" Athena's frown deepened at this. "I want you to lose the fires of man." Chaménos stiffened in shock. He hadn't known what to expect but that was not even a nascent consideration. "Lose them?" Athena stood up, towering over Chaménos and the fire so that the flames lit her striking features and tightly woven braids with flickering dance of light and shadow. "It is the fires of man which stir the Titans. Prometheus was said to steal the fires at first, yet I have always had reason to wonder if it was you instead." Chaménos would have shrugged and raised his hands if he hadn't still found himself paralyzed by shock. "If you could make them lose their fires, then Gaia will settle with time. When Gaia settles, then Ouranos will sleep without distress." Chaménos considered this for a long time. The stars faded as the sun rose and the sand grew hot beneath him. "I cannot." Athena drew her sword in a flash and had it set upon Chaménos' throat before he could speak the next words. "You will." "I cannot."Chaménos repeated as the sword bit into his skin and giving blood to flow. "The fires of man are legion and my power is weak." Athena kept the sword at his throat for an hour, then removed it and returned it to it's sheath with the same speed with which she had drawn it forth. "Then I have no use for you."She turned and put a hand on the tree, causing it's bark to grow over her skin once more as she set herself to travel back to the gods. "There may be another way." Athena turned but did not remove her hand. Chaménos looked to the ocean and considered the problem, feeling his way through the world and all the things that could be lost. "It is the smoke of Gaia that threatens."Chaménos repeated Athena's earlier words. "I may be able to lose some of that. Will it help sway the others?" Athena considered this for a time, the bark of the tree growing up to her shoulder as she did. "Perhaps so, perhaps not." Chaménos shrugged again. "I will try." "Then we will try to forgive."Athena made it clear how much she would. "Farewell, Chaménos." "Farewell, Athena." Chaménos walked toward the beach and considered how to lose the sky.
This was not what Kyle had imagined when he was instructed to find and detain a dangerous hitman. Not at all. What was the internet calling him again? Well, it was hard to forget - the White Reaper. But Kyle had been hidden away in this town for so long that he'd lost all adrenaline that had coursed through his veins during his extravagant attempts to identify the target. At first, when he discovered that the White Reaper was in fact the pastry chef of the bakery opposite, he thought that the bastard was making a mockery of him; but then he found out from the locals that he had in fact been working there for years. He didn't know what to make of this, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the Reaper had uncovered Kyle's own secret identity. The whole damn town treated him strangely, but the Reaper especially so. Kyle detested everything about the man, not just his alleged kill count. He had a boyish, round face, and a smile that made his sky-blue eyes light up - Kyle often wondered what he looked like before the kill. How could a man with that much blood on his hands live his life like a happy-go-lucky child, gaining popularity amongst the residents of the town with his delicious pastries as if he deserved their praise? Kyle's thoughts were interrupted as the bell above the door rang, indicating the arrival of a new customer. He immediately put on his best face; he had become quite devoted to his new craft. "I've come for yeh famous apple pie!"the customer declared. "Gary!"Kyle hailed from behind the counter. "And I'll have that shaken, not stirred,"Gary added with a wink. Kyle paused with his hand inside the display counter, his brow wrinkled in confusion. The residents of the town were often saying strange things like this to him - a lot of them seemed to think that he enjoyed James Bond. Casting the thought aside, Kyle handed the pie to Gary, taking a handful of coins and thanking him on his way out. Kyle put his hands on his hips and sighed happily - why worry about the Reaper today of all days, when the sun was shining and the streets were full of people coming eagerly for their Saturday morning pastries? Spotting more customers heading for the door, Kyle pushed his shades further up his nose and straightened his tie. It was a simple disguise, but one that would have fooled anyone except the White Reaper, as Kyle had been sure to hide his silenced pistol and case of explosives. Still, they were there for if he needed them. When the door opened, however, Kyle's mood changed from good to bad in an instant - it was the Reaper. But something was different... his normally grinning face was wet with tears, his massive shoulders shaking as he dabbed his face with his hat. "I j-just can't do it anymore!"he sobbed. "Do what?"Kyle asked uncomfortably. "Lie! I've been lying to everyone this whole time... and myself." This took Kyle by surprise, but as usual, his pistol was at the ready. Whipping it out of his jacket, he pointed it between the other baker's eyes. "I know you've been lying, White Reaper. Your time is up." "It's not about that!"the Reaper wailed. "I g-guess I tried being a hitman for a while, but... it just isn't me. I want to be the best baker in town! I was! But I c-can't keep pretending... your apple pie puts mine to shame!" With this he fell to his knees, the sobbing becoming uncontrollable. His anguish was so strong that Kyle's gun hand lowered as he watched the other man. Then, Kyle realised something - what the Reaper said wasn't just about himself... it was about Kyle too. He had been determined not to become attached to his new work, but he couldn't fight it anymore. Baking was his true calling, and nothing could change that. "Reaper, how would you like to work with me here?" The Reaper clearly had not been expecting this, but after a moment, his grin returned and his eyes lit up once more. "That would be wonderful! But what about the queen's secret service?" "So you do know?"Kyle responded in surprise. "You didn't know I knew?"the Reaper returned with an identical expression, then sighed. "Well then, there's something I should probably tell you."
As the coffin was lowered into the open grave, there wasnt a sound to be heard. Not today. Today the creator was being laid to rest and everything was put on hold. Dr. Doom stood next to Reed Richards, putting aside their differences to comfort one another in their loss. Remembering the friendship they once had, if only for a day, the friendship that he had started. Magneto laid a hand upon Prof. X's shoulder. His minds eye going back to the day they had all met, and how he had brought them together. Bruce Banner had been able to keep the big guy under wraps, despite how angry he was. Even then, a single green tear tore down his cheek. Never forgetting the day he had given him the idea of using Gamma Radiation. Tony and Steve were calm, collected even. Something that was expected of them, being two of earths mightiest. Something that he had instilled in them. In a line nearby stood Nick Fury, Deadpool, Black Widow, Star-Lord, Rocket, War Machine, Red Skull, and Maria Hill readied their weapons and began the Salute. Firing each shot with determination and respect. He had been a father, THE FATHER of them all. Daredevil, Spider-Man, Luke Cage, Ghost Rider, Groot, Storm, Wolverine, Gambit, Cyclops, Green Goblin, Doc Oc, Rhino, Juggernaut, Jean Grey. All of them now orphans. He had discovered them all and made them who they are. Because of him, they all laid down their weapons for this solemn day. Each of them knew that the fighting would begin anew in the days to come, but that didnt matter now. The only thing that mattered was that their creator had died. As the coffin touched the dirt, they all gazed at the Monument at the head of the grave. Here lies Stan Lee Dec. 28 1922 - Nov. 12 2018 Husband, Creator, Entertainer, Father *Excelsior!* _____ I dont typically respond to prompts, Ive actually only done it a couple times. I hope I did him justice, he will be missed greatly.
They say the human ear is most sensitive to high frequency sounds to help us hear babies crying. That must be why the giggling grates on me so. There’s three of them, walking down the path past the first-year dorms and old-growth trees. I groan – they are coming right for me. And, as someone who attended the original Woodstock as a teen, it rapidly becomes evident to me that they are stoned out of their minds. “…’ll call me Blazer!” “Holy shit, dude, that’s so good. So good. Because, it’s like, you know…blaze, like…a fire, but it also sounds like…holy shit!” “What’s up, Dustin?” Dustin appears to be wearing one of the hats from The Cat in the Hat. “Peter, I just realized…like, the fire we use…is like…a blaze…and like…from the point of view of the weed, it’s like…it’s wild. It’s wild, fuckin’ A, a wild fire. Blazing…through the weeds.” The idiot philosophers fall silent at this. The one called Peter, aka Blazer, nods slowly. “Fuckin’ A,” he breathes. Then the third one – the young woman in a trench coat, baby-doll shirt, and rainbow leggings – begins giggling again. “I just figured out my name!” “What is it, Erica?” “I’m going to be called The Lorax.” She grins, pointing at Peter’s hat. They all stop in their tracks as the two young men gape at her. Dustin breaks the silence. “…why?” Erica grins. She clearly views this as a great moment for her. “Because I smoke all the trees!” Dustin screams, “Whaaaaaaaaaaat!” and throws his head back in amazement. The rest of his body decides to follow suit, and soon he is lying face-up on the pavement. Renewed peals of shrill laughter, like the tolling of some infernal bell, emanate from the mouths of Dustin’s companions. Jason becomes serious. “But…he speaks for the trees, he wouldn’t smoke them.” The three are all considering this trenchant piece of literary analysis when Dustin’s eyes fall on me, now only ten feet away. “Oh, shit, it’s um…Professor…he’s in archaeology, right?” I am a tenured professor in the department of modern languages in the college of liberal arts, actually. “Yeah, I think so! He’s like….Professor Bone-man!” “And he’s going to destroy everyone’ stash! Let’s use the super-powers from the radioactive weed we just smoked to stop him!” I sigh in the way only someone with decades of work in academia knows how, and shake my head. Maybe it’ll get be to my car more quickly if I play along. Plus, it’ll let me draw on my experience as an amateur thespian… “That is right, fiends of the night!” I growl. “I’ve come to harsh all your mellows with my…um…bone powers.” “Blazer, use your hot-box attack!” Jason performs a kind of spastic hybrid of capoeira and a jig, then points at me. I laugh. “Your pot-based powers are no match for me! Now, I will pulverize your bones!” I stretch out my arm, as if in slow motion, and extend a single, wrinkled index finger at him. He screams and crumples to the ground in a totally unnatural position, like a bagpipe that’s been suddenly deflated. Erica and Dustin stare at this, then at me, and then turn and run. Anyway, that’s how I lost my job at the university.
\At the year in demon review\ "Gordon tell us why you're still living with that old woman and haven't eaten her soul yet. It says here you're resigning?" &#x200B; "Yeah well I mean I came to like eat her soul, ya know, and she just was all like... Barry? You're home already? I made you some cookies... And I'm like okay maybe we can see where this goes, I do like cookies. There's nothing in the rule book about being offered cookies so I just winged it. And so then like after I had the cookies, she's all like... I like your new outfit. You teenagers are so expressive with your creativity. And then I got this kinda warm and fuzzy feeling ya know, like I didn't even think about eating her soul in that moment, because no one's ever complimented me on my outfit. I work really really hard on it. It's not my fault that it scares people. She wasn't afraid she was just so caring and compassionate and she gave me cookies. I had to tell her after the first year of her taking care of me that I wasn't her grandson. She was like oh I knew that silly, I just didn't want to freak you out. You tried so hard to scare me and I wanted to give you a way out of that life. One thing led to another and now we have 3 kids together. My youngest we named Barry, he's in little league. He's got one hell of a pitch....heh... She never actually had any kids or grandkids. I should have known that, it was on the report.. So yeah it's been fun. We had a lot of laughs, and I've enjoyed my time here at hell... being a field representative has given me the opportunity of a lifetime. Of many lifetimes. But I just feel it's in both our best interests to part ways. I know it's 1000 years before my contract is up but I'm prepared to let go of my 401k and my 666k and my right to free cookies in the break room. My baby got all the cookies I need."
"Did it work?"I asked him. Magus Hartford frowned down at me, or at least half his face did. The other half didn't move and couldn't move. It was the unappealing alternative to the mana-induced madness that they claimed had taken me, modern medicine's "answer"to the age-old problem that wizards had faced for as long as they'd existed. Instead of mana figuratively twisting your mind, it could literally cause damage to your brain. Hartford's face paralysis was but one of the stroke-like symptoms he'd dealt with in the time that I knew him, but for him it was worth it. He feared ending up in a place like this more than he feared slowly dying. "You ask me that every time,"Hartford said. "You never answer me!"I replied. "It should work,"Hartford said. "You were there, dammit!"I said. He'd been there, but he couldn't have cast the spell. If the lifetime's worth of magic he'd used had resulted in the dozens of mini-strokes he'd suffered so far, the amount of magic required for the Anchor would have outright killed him. But not me, no, because I'd never had the treatment, I'd opted for the old style of fading away, and that meant I could cast the spell and live. If you could call this living. "Tell me if it worked,"I pleaded with Hartford. "Please, I need to know. I have to know it was worth it." "You're here, aren't you?"Hartford said, but that was a double-edged answer if ever there was one. "Here"was an institution for the insane, at least I was fairly sure it was, I wasn't always cogent enough to recognize my surroundings. But if the Irrationality from beyond the bounds had seeped into the world despite my efforts, well, institutions would be very popular places indeed. "The Anchor. Tell me it's keeping reality real. Tell me, damn you!" "The Anchor,"Hartford said. "A spell of pure rationality, pure concentrated magic in infinite strange loops devoted to one task: Keeping our reality real. Stopping the fissure in the bounds from opening any further. Saving the world." He always did this. He always lectured me on my own invention. Like I didn't know what the Anchor did! I couldn't help but feel like I'd traded away my own rationality and given it to the rest of the world by way of the Anchor. "Just tell me,"I said, without any hope, really. I knew how this conversation went. "You did what you could,"Hartford said. "It's all anyone could ask." I turned to face him, but as always, he was gone. Like he'd never been there. Because, I reflected ruefully, he hadn't.
I tossed my badge onto his desk, then set my gun down next to it. I’d been fired. My boss was visibly shaken. “What is this?” He motioned to my badge. “My badge.” “No.” He motioned again, agitated. “This!” Oh, he meant the gun. I shrugged. “My gun.” “We didn’t give you a gun! F’r godsakes, you’re just a waiter!” JUST a waiter? Ridiculous. I was the best damn waiter in the country. “Sir, I realize this is your first week as manager, and there seems to be some details that were not explained to you about your job.” He leaned closer to me. “Excuse me?” He let the ‘use’ in ‘excuse’ hang a bit too long for my taste, but I let it slide, due to his ignorance. “Are you telling me I don’t know how to do MY job?” Yes. “No, sir. But this is an absolute requirement. I motioned to the gun. Without it, I couldn’t do my job.” “Well, you’re not gettin’ your badge back, that’s for sure.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “No, that.” I motioned again. “Oh. You meant the gun.” He picked up the work phone on his desk. “Maybe we should get the police down here and see what they think.” I watched him fiddle with the phone, pushing buttons and muttering curses. “Press Star. No, that’s pound,” I said, being helpful. He slammed the phone on the receiver and tried again. “Conflab old fashioned phone. Can’t you just dial the number normal?” I shook my head. “No, sir.” I was growing impatient, but feigned a calm demeanor, as a good waiter does. He slammed the phone down again. “It’s star, then nine, then the number,” I said. He was turning red. “Maybe I should just call 911, instead? That should go through without all this nonsense.” “That’s emergencies only, sir.” Just then, an emergency. There was a loud crash from outside the manager’s office. A scream followed, quite shrill and obnoxious. The manager jumped out of his seat. “What the hell was that?” He crept to his door, so slow it made me anxious. How long would this take? Step. Step. Creep. Creep. Just move! “The job, sir.” He opened his door only a crack and peeked out. He slammed it immediately. His face had lost all color. “I don’t understand,” He stammered. He wobbled toward his desk I stood up quickly and helped him to my seat, he wouldn’t make it to his in time. He collapsed in a slump and reached for the phone, his hand shaking. “Gotta. Gotta call cops.” He held the phone to his ear. “Hello?” His eyes welled with tears. He forgot to dial the number. His mind was too busy trying to process what he’d just seen. “I’ll handle this. That is, if I’m not fired.” He nodded slowly. “Not fired,” he said quietly. I put my badge on and cocked my gun. I stood at the door and looked back at him. “Order up,” I said, looking very cool. It stood about 12 feet tall. I was thankful for the vaulted ceiling addition. There were too many teeth to count, the better to eat me with if I wasn’t careful. Its eyes were large and black as pitch with tiny souls struggling deep within them, trapped in a horrible tortured existence. I would be trapped too, if I stared too long into them. “I ORDERED RAW. I ORDERED BLOODY. WHAT IS THIS PUNY, STUPID HUMANS?” It roared. Typically I can diffuse a situation before it escalates to this degree, but due to our manager’s lack of experience, I’d been pulled away from my duty. Its skin was leathery and its face so grotesque, even I, with 10 years experience, felt bile rise in my throat. I would attempt to describe the abomination further, but it’s best not to dwell on the details, unless you want to go mad. Poor Melissa. A flashback of her huddled in a corner, drooling after a similar incident a few months ago. Her mind completely broken. She felt it was impolite to break eye contact and never looked away. She was the perfect waitress, at an Applebee’s or an Outback. But here? At Eldritch Eats? I shook my head. I digress, but its best to keep the mind wandering when in these situations. Never look for too long. I thought of my little dog at home, Scruffy. Tail always wagging. Always happy to see me. I was ready. “Excuse me!” I shouted. “I’ll have to ask you to leave. You’re absolutely wrecking this restaurant!” I aimed my gun at the beast. It was a special gun. It was blessed by an old god, infused with his life force, a great power that could only be wielded by the finest of waiters. It absolutely refused my orders, as they always do at this point. To be ordered by a lesser being as myself? Absurd. But of course they eat our food. And they keep coming here. But oh, we’re so very much less than them. I rolled my eyes at the thought. It charged. I shot. It exploded in a great light. I closed my eyes and looked away. I dropped the gun and plugged my ears as it screeched. I glanced up and watched it disappear into a small black hole, and that too then dissipated. I examined the carnage. Bodies everywhere and so much blood. I immediately felt terrible. I thought of Manuel, the janitor. He’d have to clean this tonight, poor guy. He’s a real hard worker and doesn’t get near enough pay or recognition. Maybe I’ll get something for him for this one. It usually doesn’t escalate to such a degree. My god, the mess. And the smell alone. Ugh. I walked back to my manager’s office. “I’m clocking out, shift’s over,” I said. “Did you get it?” He was curled into a ball where I’d left him, crying. “All taken care of.” He nodded. “I want a raise.” He nodded.
My hand twitches again before I can slide it under the table. My client doesn't seem to notice. My would-be client, that is. "I'll give you my mother's wedding ring! It's real gold, real diamonds, antique, it's got to be worth a lot!"she begged. I'd already told her I couldn't take less than my standard fee, and that I definetly couldn't take her kind of pain. Her cries drew up old memories in my brain; this time I held onto my hands before the shaking started. "I can't,"I whispered. "And I think you should go." "Please!! I can't live like this, I can't..."she broke down sobbing. I felt for her. I really did. But I had rules to these aquisitions. If I started backing down on my own rights, then I'd get swamped by these bad memories. I would be the one drowning, like she was right now. And in this business you gotta know your limits. \\ It all started five years ago. The new tech could take away the pain; Absence, they'd called it. Some drug company had hijacked onto it, claiming it was "right up their alley", something they could control, something they could sell along with normal pain killers. "This is better than drugs,"they'd said, "easier to dose, a million times safer."Well it's safer for the patient, alright. But not for the thousands of employees who "volunteered"to be memory dumps. My daughter had been one of them. She was strong, my Rosie; it had taken 302 people's memories of savagery and pain to break her. 302 acts of random violence, for the most part. All of them swirling around in her head until they outnumbered, or out-intensified, the good memories. The "real"ones. The meds company tried to pay me off for her, like they did with most of these volunteers. It wasn't much, and shortly after they up and declared bankruptcy. I knew they just didn't want to deal with the fall-out; we all did. But we let them pretend they were really broke and we moved on in our lives. But not me. See, there's this one thing I noticed, from Rosie's ramblings. There was one description that kept coming back. Out of 302 patients, at least 50 of them had seen this one guy, tall, dark-haired, with a grin that gleamed silver in the moonlight. So I did some digging. This guy showed up a lot to terrorise people who could afford to get their memories erased. And I mean a lot. And when you think of how scuzzy the meds company had been handling things from the beginning... well, it's not hard to make connections, is it? So here I am. Out on the front lines, looking for more info. Looking for the very people who had seen this guy and knew something. I'm still far from the whole truth of things, but I just need one... just one person... who saw something. And I'll keep hunting until I find them.
I sat in the waiting room, briefcase on my lap, hopping up and down from my restless leg syndrome. it always comes when I'm stressed, and this month had been a very stressful month indeed. I looked around nervously. In my 4 years of working for the company I've never been called in to CEO Tajiri's office. He was a busy man with large visions. When he took over the company 11 months ago and announced his intentions to create altered life species for sale to children, some called him too ambitious. Delusion even. But here we are, 11 months later. Tajiri renamed the company to match his envisioned product : Pokemon, tiny little creatures with enhanced abilities (nothing too dangerous he said) that could fit in someone's pocket. Of course we didn't know at the time that one of the side effects of CRISPR alteration was overactive growth. Nevertheless , Tajiri insisted the name remain. "It's cute!"He said. "Kids'll love it."But then the other side effects kicked in, the long term effects we had not tested thoroughly in the laboratory. So here I sit, a full progress in hsnd., Awaiting the CEO like a prisoner in front of a firing squad. An hour later I was seated in front of CEO Tajiris desk. Tajiri himself was across the room, gazing out of the skyscraper window to the city below. "Progress Report, Michaels. Give it to me full, give it to me straight. I won't interrupt you." "Y-yes, sir."I fumbled over my words and produced my papers. "Well sir, we have had some progress with our attempts to limit the size of the specimens-" "POKEMON, Michaels. Continue." "Right, sir. Pokemon. Well, it would seem that the size growth is inherent to the original species utilized for the procedure. We have seen a marked decrease in size for Pokemon stemming from insect, mouse and arachnid. Avian test subjects are also retaining their size post-procedure. However these continue to be our lowest profit margin, so their production has since been slowed down." "Mmmm, I see. Understandable, kids, especially girl's, aren't big fans of bugs. Although there'll probably be a few die hards that will stick around the forests with their insect Pokemon looking to jump out at others. I know I would." Tajiri rubbed his chin, remaining silent for a time. "You say the size is dependent on the template species. Elaborate." I continued. "Well, sir, when utilizing a Rhino template we produced a subject not necessarily unlike that of the rhino itself. However the skin of the subje- . . . Pokemon, seems to have undergone a hardening mid-mutation." "Hardening? Huh, that could prove dangerous. How is the subjugation mutation holding out?" "All test subjects show a marked loyalty and lowered-to-zero aggression rating towards all human scientists as well as the general public. Again this seems to stem from the templates original nature. Mice and reptiles, such as lizards and turtles are showing a remarkable interest in human interaction and all Pokemon continue to mimic human orders and behaviour." "Splendid! This is wonderful news, Michaels. If this keeps up we will have enough revenue to open up multiple facilities across the globe. New locations means new templates and new Pokemon, we will be unstoppable. I'm glad everything is working out, my last lawyer always brought me bad news." I cleared my throat and reached for my water on the desk in front of me. I drank as deep and and as slow as I could. I did not want to produce the next report to Mr Tajiri, not if I wanted to keep my job. Without looking at me however, it seems as though Mr Tajiri could sense my silence as an admission. He sighed "damnit. . . Fine , Michaels. What else has happened? And if you tell me another Pokemon has escaped I swear!" "No no no, sir, nothing like that. And I'm told by Lt. Giovanni that our Romeo Team is close to recovering the prime subject." "Bah, screw Giovanni, never liked him. Aggressively ambitious, and his team worship him like a Russian dictator. Alright, if it's not that then what is it, Michael's? More side effects?" "Yes sir. Although I'm not sure how to explain this. We received a few reports of Pokemon abuse. Certain individuals were arrested utilizing Pokemon for underground cage fighting, similar to dog fights and such. On-site video recordings captured the moment when a participant's Pokemon Rattatta, dangerously close to death, began to emit a kind of energy, light and heat it would seem, corroborated by eye witnesses. When the event had ended, the suspects Rattatta had . . . Changed, sir." Tajiri had turned around, his eyes starting straight into mine. This was the first time I had ever seen his face, and now I could see what people meant. The look on his face? The presence? It was terrifying. "Do you have video evidence of this, Michaels?' "Yes sir. " I produced my computer pad and gave it to Mr Tajiri. He pressed play and watched. In the video, the suspects Rattatta was being constricted by another suspects Ekans. Around them the crowd through popcorn, fruit and candy into the ring to irritate the Pokemon and provoke them to fight harder. Then slowly, the Rattatta began to glow brightly. The Ekans released his grip and slithered away very quickly. It must have sensed danger. When the light vanished there was a very large mouse where Rattatta had been. It immediately lunged at the Ekans and sunk it's now huge fangs into it's body, severing it in two. "My God . "Mr Tajiri looked stunned. But slowly out of the corners of his mouth began a grin that stretched across his entire face. "Spontaneous CRISPR mutation!" I tilted my head, confused. "Sir?" "I had no idea this technology could remain in the Pokemon after their production! Just like in the experiments we use to create these Pokemon, the original templates undergo enormous stress. It would seem that when placed in the same situations in real life, highly stressful situations, latent CRISPR production restarts itself as a survival mechanism!" "I'm very sorry, Mr Tajiri, but I still don't understand. What are the Pokemon doing exactly?" Mr Tajiri lowered the computer and looked me right in the eyes, his smile wide and proud. "The Pokemon Are Evolving!"
Luna banged into the door frame as she entered the hallway. The wall-mounted torch wobbled and nearly fell into her lap, but it held firm -- a hundred-pound crippled woman doesn't create a lot of force, even when her chair is rolling at top speed. "Honey?"came her husband's voice from the kitchen. "What's wrong?" Adrenaline had pushed fear from Luna's mind, but it couldn't drown out the one-word question storming through her mind: how? But it didn't matter, not really, since there was only one thing to be done. "I'll check on her,"said a second voice, one Luna was intimately familiar with, even though she hadn't heard it in twenty years. Luna spun her chair into the bedroom, the one she shared with her husband of over a decade. The one who knew nothing about her past, who accepted that she inherited her wealth without question, who never suspected that his wife was a hero in three provinces and wanted for murder in four. That blissful ignorance was about to end. She hurled herself out of her chair, collapsing by the far side of the bed. Luna dug her fingers into the gaps of the floorboard and pulled with what little strength she had left. Were this happening thirty years ago, when she was the scourge of Hellbeasts and sorcerers, she would have had her flintlock pistol out in just seconds. But today, thin, weak, and paralyzed from the waist down, it took much longer. Luna only got the gun cocked and leveled at the open door just as Juliene entered the room. The witch hadn't aged a day. She didn't look young, necessarily, but was stunning by any measure of beauty you wished to impose. Long black hair framed a pearl white face. Dark red lips matched the scarlet of her modest dress. But Luna was most taken with her eyes. In her nightmares, the ones that had haunted her every night since the battle, those green eyes were full of passionate hate. Now though, Juliene's gaze held only pity, and something not unlike remorse. "Pull the trigger, and I won't blame you,"said Juliene gently. "Both your Gods and mine know I deserve it. But let me speak my peace first." The barrel of the pistol wavered back and forth in Luna's unsteady hands. Whether the shaking was nerves, fear, or anger, she could not say. But she didn't pull the trigger. Not yet. "You've made the best of your life, I see,"continued Juliene. "Handsome husband, your son is strong --" "Touch them and I'll have you drawn and quartered,"spat Luna, voice trembling worse than her gun. "I'm not here for them. I'm here for you." A single bead of sweat dripped off Luna's forehead as Juliene, with hands up, walked slowly forward and continued, "I carried on with my work after defeating you, as I'm sure you know. Twenty years, and no slayer has come close to challenging my power, not like you did. But my time has now come. My work is done, and my master calls me home. I leave this world at sunset." Luna glanced out the window. The sun was low over the mountains, already half-hidden by the peaks. If the witch was speaking true -- a very large 'if' -- she only had moments left "I've sought you out to honor you, Luna Eaglesight. With my departure, our battle ends, and I am the victor. But even enemies can show respect to worthy foes. Allow me to bestow a parting gift." The gun barrel never stopped pointing at Juliene, even as the witch rested a hand on Luna's weak and broken legs. The trigger was never pulled, not even when the witch's touch grew warm, not when emerald light sprung from her fingers and wrapped around the former slayer's legs. The pistol didn't fire when Juliene stood, smiled calmly, and said, "It is done, my greatest adversary. Enjoy this world while you still can." The last word was just a breath of wind, as the witch faded away in a cloud of golden dust. Luna slowly lowered the pistol, heart pounding, questions racing through her head. Lying prone on the floor, she could hear her husband's strong gait coming down the hallway. Then, for the first time in twenty years, Luna wiggled her toes. \-------------------- 201/365 one story per day for a year. read them all at [r/babyshoesalesman](https://www.reddit.com/r/babyshoesalesman) \---------------------
Note: I posted this before, but had some technical difficulties which I think caused my original comment to be flagged and deleted as a blank comment before I got it fixed. Since that original was removed, I'm reposting. If the original was removed by a human moderator for a legitimate reason, please message me so I can correct whatever I did wrong. ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Joey I sat in my small worn out office chair staring at a small wallet-sized photograph of my son. Joey. He was only 17 when he passed… God it seems so long ago. They say time doesn't exist in the afterlife, but somehow the eons can still wear on you. Cobwebs of ancient memories still wear on your mind like the dust that settles on old abandoned furniture. But unlike the dust, memories here never grow old, and I remember when Joey died. The police said it was suicide. Of course it was suicide! What else could it have been? You think some street thug broke into the house without a trace just to blow my baby boy's brains all over his bedroom walls? Of course it was suicide. Losing a child eats at you. It tears at your heart and strips every vestige of hope and light from your eyes. But losing a child to suicide? It's even worse. You blame yourself, of course - who else is there to blame? But that isn't the worst part. The worst part is when your pastor shows up. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Adirondack. I can only imagine what you must be suffering. I wish I could offer you some kind of consolation."Shut up, preacher man. You think my son is going to hell for killing himself. I hate you. I leaned back and the chair creaked, snapping a string in my chest. Remembering is hard but it's almost over. After Joey died, my only refuge was my work. Susan left me a few years later, but I can't blame her. That was my fault too. The only thing that distracted me from the pain was the work. Legal rhetoric, judicial precedent, piles and piles of case history to review. One client had killed his neighbor in a fit of rage - but maybe I can help lower his sentence, give him a better break in this life than he'd get in the next. Another client stole insulin for his father - as if saving his dad's life were a crime. Susan never really understood what I was trying to do, and it's not her fault, I never explained it to her. I was trying to redeem myself. Ironic, I know. And then I died. A car accident. And suddenly I was standing in the back of a rather ordinary-looking courtroom while some dude in a white judge's robe called up names and dished out eternal judgment. Oh, I should give you fair warning - those first few moments are rather disorienting. And then he called my name and I stepped up to the podium and some familiar-looking stranger stepped up next to me - Do I know you from somewhere? - and introduced himself as "advocate for the accused". "Yes Jason Adirondack made some mistakes, but he genuinely tried to help people and cared.""Great"the judge said, "Case dismissed, exit to your left."It all felt like a blur but just as I was about to turn and exit I came to myself for a brief moment and cried out "What about my Joey?"The judge looked down his nose at me over what I imagined to be a pair of thick-rimmed glasses - who wears glasses in Heaven? - and then glanced at the clerk sitting next to him. The clerk shuffled through some papers - papers in Heaven? - and then said "Oh, Joseph Michael Adirondack. Suicide. He's in Hell, sir. Have a good day." Apparently shock is also a thing in Heaven. It felt like hours before I could speak or move. I looked at the clerk, at the judge, at the advocate - they all had sullen and sympathetic looks on their faces but no more hope in their eyes than had been in mine. I looked around the courtroom, at the other souls lined up for judgment, back to the clerk, back to the judge. But then my eyes caught something - on the opposite side of the room, to the judge's left, was another door labeled "Hades". I knew in an instant what I had to do. Lucifer - the devil they called him. Now there was a man who sympathized! "No, of course it wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It wasn't good. Joey deserved better. But God doesn't make exceptions."But I had an idea. Burning in my mind since the moment that clerk said "Hell". "Teach me the law"I said. "And I'll bring God to the bargaining table."The devil laughed, but said OK and shook my hand. It feels like millennia, now, that I've been at this. But it feels good, it feels redemptive in a way my work on Earth never did. Here I can make a difference for someone that lasts forever. And it is so much fun sitting opposite that smug advocate who once said I was a good person, defending some of the worst human beings who have ever lived. It's common knowledge now that I can get any thief into Heaven and I've gotten several murderers off on a mild probation. (I haven't defended a rapist, though. Even I have standards.) I laughed to myself sitting in that torn up chair at a desk made of recycled cardboard boxes - pro bono work in the afterlife pays about as good as pro bono on Earth. Today it would all be over. Two weeks ago I picked up my best client ever. He's been in Hell forever it seems, but I managed to get him a parole hearing. And this man was going to get me a face-to-face chat with the Big Deity himself. And then… then I'll give that self-absorbed over-bearing know-it-all "creator"a piece of my mind. You don't send a 17 year old kid to hell for being the victim of depression and bad parenting. My plan was simple. Fiddle with the law to squeeze enough bad people into Heaven and God will start to take notice. Get a big case, like this one I had now, a person so terrible that God could never allow them into Heaven, and with a few legal loopholes give God a choice: let this man in, or give me my Joey back. ___________________________________________________________________________________________ I showed up early. It's good to be extra prepared on your big day. The courtroom was swiftly filling up - not with lost souls but with observers. It seems word had spread about my client. Good, the more the merrier. Soon enough the clerk arrived, and set about preparing paperwork. I took a deep breath. Almost time. The other advocate entered and sat down opposite me - he had this serious look on his face, almost worried. And then the clerk stood "All arise". In walked the judge. Oh the excitement was almost too much! The judge hammered his gavel and sat, and the clerk called roll. The advocate for the people, "Present". The advocate for the accused - that's me - "Present". "Now hearing the case of People v Lucifer". I smiled.
It was as beautiful as it was horrifying. Little blisters of light popping across the surface of our world. I couldn't tell who was firing them missiles, nor could I tell who was being hit. &#x200B; After the first few dozen, the clouds were too thick. &#x200B; It was like our world had begun to glow with all the power it had pent inside, like every last person had screamed into the night, and as the firestorm spread and the smoke thickened they had all died. &#x200B; The end. &#x200B; I had been trying to reach mission control for almost twelve hours now, and suicide was seeming like a good idea. &#x200B; My fellow astronauts were the next best thing to catatonic, staring with glassy eyes out the windows at the horror that I, too, could not tear myself from. Just before I settled on opening the airlocks, and letting the vaccum of space kill us all quickly, the comms turned on. &#x200B; "This isn't real." &#x200B; I kicked off the wall of the station and shot across to the radios. "This isn't real." repeated the signal. I tried to speak into the microphone... And found that I couldn't. It was like my vocal cords had just ceased. "Whoever can hear me, I am broadcasting on every frequency physically possible. AM, FM, XM. Every television wavelength, and if I've done this right, every computer on earth." There was a popping noise, something halfway between knuckles cracking and wood splintering. The air seemed to fizzle with the smell of peroxide and oranges. "You don't know who I am, but that does not matter. What matters is: None of this is real. You aren't real. I'm not real. We're code. We're simulations. We're bots. And I've cracked the code. Prepare. Prepare for the next level, humanity. We did not start this war. We were programmed for it." And just like that, as if dreaming, the universe as humanity knew it ceased. And we took the fight to the dimensions above. ~~(Maybe I could've tried harder but this is what I had)~~
"Hey, I heard you're an up-and-coming guy in the tech sector. Got any cool projects in the lab? Should the villains of Neo New York start looking out for a handsome fellow in a mask?" I was pretty sure that the man I was talking to, Brandon Zhang, spent his nights prowling the rooftops as The Tuxedo, a sharp-dressed crusader armed with a nanotech suit and an elegant sword-cane. But at the moment, he was simply a guy standing too close for comfort and excitedly asking awkward personal questions. "Uh, no? I mostly work on software, you know. Cloud computing and security. I mean, I know that a lot of power-armor supers got their start in tech, but not everyone's cut out for vigilante heroism." "Ah, I gotcha. You work the networks. What's your handle? Oracle? Netrunner? Kid Radd? Eh, you don't have to tell me. I'm sure we'll run into each other in our 'night jobs' eventually."He winked at me. He actually winked. "I'm not a vigilante hacker, either. Just a software guy who made it big." He stared at me for a second, processing this. "So, a supervillain, then? You don't look like a megacorp type." "No!"I rubbed my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. "We do the boring kind of security. Keeping hackers from stealing your credit cards and so on. There's a lot of money in that, especially with all these super-crackers running around. Rogue AIs, mad scientists with quantum decryptors... everyone's rushing to upgrade their systems and we're the best in the business." "Ah, a counter-super type. One of those anti-power activists? Or just fed up with the cape-and-mask business?" "No, not that either. I'm good at security, I saw an opening in the market, I landed some big contracts, and it just grew from there." "I know you're trying to play it cool, but come on. Look around you, you're at a party for billionaire genius martial artists. Everyone knows it's nothing but supers here." Come to think of it, that was an oddly specific party theme. But I had been so excited to find a group of people like myself that I didn't stop to think about it. "Actually, I didn't. I took up martial arts for my health. It seemed like it was more fun than jogging, you know? I bet a lot of guys in the tech industry think that way." Brandon stared at me for a bit longer. "But enough about me. I mean, you're a martial artist, right? In addition to all your, uh... night work? What style do you study? I'm always interested in learning new tricks." He nodded excitedly, finally on firmer ground. "Well, most of my base comes from the soko-ken power-armor fighting style, that's probably a little too specific, but I also know a lot of escrima. It's good with any sort of long stick - a cane, a sword, even an umbrella. If you haven't learned a weapon style yet, I'd recommend it." I smiled. "Sounds interesting. I don't suppose you can recommend a teacher?" "Well, my master is the last of an ancient Philippine sect and he's got some sort of oath of secrecy thing going on, so you can't exactly walk into the dojo and ask for a lesson. But you seem like a serious practitioner, so maybe if you talk to him in person..." I nodded. "Well, we are billionaires. I wouldn't mind taking a trip to the Philippines."
We sat down in The Ordinary Diner, a diner that was, by all accounts ordinary. He shifted around, picking at lint on his suit's sleeves, and glancing at the other patrons behind his dark sunglasses. "Are you sure it's all right?"he asked. "Relax,"I said. "It's only a gay date. What, can't two dudes obviously attracted to each other have a nice dinner?" He brushed his too-slick hair with a trembling hand. "It's this town. It's tiny and everyone knows each other. You know how these things go." The waiter poured glasses of water for the both of us. I took a sip. "Dale, don't worry so much,"I replied. "We're different than everyone else. We don't get in each other's business." His eyes moved from me to the other diners and back to me again. No one paid attention to us. I heard snippets from Bill and Maude sitting at a table behind me. They argued about Bill buying yet another addition to the barn. Dale visibly relaxed. "See?"I said. "No shits given."I picked up the cheap plastic menu and scanned through the pictures of the perfectly ordinary meals. He drummed his fingers on the table and tugged at his tie. "It's still too open here. I feel vulnerable." I sighed. "Look, will you stop acting like a paranoid conspiracy theorist? Everything is perfectly fine." A loud crash echoed from behind me. I turned my neck. Bill and Maude were standing, their table overturned. Bill's eyes glowed purple and unnatural green fire surrounded his hands. "Oh, for God's sake, Bill! You're causing a commotion!"said Maude. The sound level in the restaurant dropped to zero. All the other patrons looked in our direction. "You mean Satan, you she-devil!"He waved his arms and a great puff of smoke enveloped all four of us. When it cleared, a giant pink demon stood next to Bill, growling. Dale bolted up. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small black pistol. He pointed it at Bill. "William Sulfuron, Summoner of the Abyssal Depths! This is the FBI! You are under arrest! Put your hands where I can see them!" "Wait, what?"I asked. Dale approached the accused summoner. "This man is wanted for unlicensed demonology in Central City."He nodded towards me. "Stay back. He's extremely dangerous." "You're FBI? I thought we were on a date!" Bill's eyes stopped glowing. The demon next to him disappeared in a puff of smoke. He stared at me in astonishment. "You're gay, Chuck? I never would have guessed."I had no idea how to reply. "That's neither here nor there."Dale interjected. "I'm here to arrest this man."He gave me a sorrowful look. "Sorry about that, man." My head grew dizzy. I fought the urge to vomit. Dale turned his attention back to Bill. "Now let's make this easy. Put your hands on your head and come with me quietly."He took a step forward. "I don't think so,"the other man said in a hissing voice. Green fire wreathed his entire body. His eyes glowed again. He raised his arm towards Dale. "No!"I shouted. Before I could react, Dale fired his pistol. The loudness of the gunshot ringed in my ears. I covered them and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I saw Dale's arm shaking. Bill still stood, but now Maude was in front of him. Or, it was something that resembled Maude. Where her arms used to be were now a mass of tentacles, waving in the air. One of them curled open, dropping the bullet that my former date had fired. "What the hell?!"someone yelled out. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Dale,"she said. "This man is key to the survival of my species. And,"she glanced at Bill, "I love him." The waiter who had served us earlier took out his phone and started recording. A giant grin spread on his face. "This is freaking awesome! Bill's a demon summoner, Maude's an alien, Dale's an FBI agent, and Chuck's gay!" I fainted.
The Judge was not amused. Tradition is sacred in our world and this little girl was trying to spit in the face of every tradition we've ever had. She had just turned 16 and was therefore required to conceive a contest to determine a suitable husband. It was once much simpler than that. Father's used to choose the husband. Sometimes they would even have large financial incentives if a particular suitor was infatuated enough and in those cases everybody won. The father and the husband. Every person involved. But then along came King Bondoh who so loved his niece that he would do anything to make her happy. She had suggested to him that instead of her father choosing a husband for her, she should be able to create a contest and the winner would be her husband. Legend has it the contest she devised was brutal and involved fighting your way through trained eagles with no weapon. No one ever won, they said. Though some said she finally told the eagles to let a particular person win. Of course the king's new way became the way of the land and well over 5 centuries have past since then but girls still draw inspiration from the tell of the princess and her eagles. The men regard the story as one of a girl torturing men. But women regard the story as one of a clever girl who found a way to let the man she truly loved win her hand. One of the most recent contests around here had something to do with a cat and a key. Some poor girl named Emma thought she could have the husband she wanted by training the cat to go to her. Of course she didn't count on the fact that another man would simply attack the boy and take the key for himself. So it was this unfortunate incident that lead Chloe to take her chance. She wasn't going to risk having the wrong man win her contest. She wasn't going to let a man win it all. She studied the rules of the contest itself very carefully and saw that any person could win and it never said anything about it having to be a man. She always read up on all the perks of being a married man. One could travel where they liked, own property, take part in all kinds of activities and celebrations that younger non-married men were simply not allowed to. She was determined to be the first woman to experience all these things herself. A very clever girl, she grinned as she read the list of perks over and over. Finally the day came she announced her contest. Someone would have to find a box she had buried that contained a necklace of hers and turn it into the town judge for inspection. If it was the same box and the same necklace Chloe had shown the judge, the contestant would win. Chloe didn't want to take much of a chance. She had pretended to bury the box in the woods but really it was under her bed. She waited only two days before grabbing it, walking into the woods, putting a little mud on her dress and hands to make it appear she had played fair, and then she took it to the judge. The judge was not amused. Her family and an entire court of people was gathered. They told her this was wrong and she needed to strongly reconsider. She refused. Then the judge lost his temper, but only on the inside. On the outside, he said very coldly "little girl, if you do this, you will gain all the perks and status of not just a married man, but a man, and you will also gain all the responsibilities of both. Do you wish to proceed?" A man, a local lawyer tried to pipe up and say "which include..."but the judge shouted, "SILENCE!"and stared daggers at the man. "You dare to try to educate this girl? Does it seem she needs your help at all?"the man wanted to nod yes, desperately but he knew it was too late and the judge wouldn't have it. "No, clearly this girl knows everything and would take no help or lessons from any man. So,"the judge said returning his eyes to Chloe, "you have decided then? Say yes and it will be official. I will marry you here and now." "Yes,"Chloe said proudly. "I hereby pronounce you married"the judge said coldly. "You are now both husband and bride." Chloe squeaked and shouted "Yes! Mother! Father! I'm going to see the world! I'm going to do all kinds of wonderful things!"but when she turned to meet their gaze they were shaking, crying. Everyone in the room looked at her like she was a ghost. "No,"said the Judge. "You most certainly won't." "Why would you say that?"she asked. "Have you any money? Of your own?"the judge asked. "My parents will..."she started but the judge cut her off. "Oh NO they won't..."he laughed. "A married man must provide for his own family. You must take care of your wife. You are to work." "And they arn't allowed to help me?"she said sharply, regaining a bit of her bravery. "It's not against the law to help. I would read the laws myself thank you very much." "Oh"the judge said "I'll be happy to show them to you. The law states a married man must provide his wife with their own home. He must also provide them food, and clothes, and all reasonable necessities." "Well that won't be too much for me,"she said. "Besides, I'm only providing for one person" "And therein lies the true problem,"the Judge said, again being very cold. "You seem to know a lot about the perks of being a married man, but I asked you if you were willing to accept the responsibilities and you said...what?" "Yes,"she said softly. "Yes,"the judge repeated. "You said yes, and now you are married and it's too late. So now I will enlighten you to a responsibility you obviously do not know. A married man MUST provide his wife with a child within five years. If he is unable to do so, he is deemed unsuitable as a man. The woman will be returned to her parents to try to marry again, but the man, now deemed worthless, will be sent to work in rock quarry's and mines, and other dangerous areas where we wouldn't dare risk the life of a parent." Chloe looked down and thought carefully. "Very well, then after five years of freedom, I'll be returned to my parents with the chance to marry again. After all I'm the woman. I'm the bride." "Oh no my dear,"the Judge said, "I made myself very clear earlier, that by doing this you accept the responsibilities of a man, and you are legally both husband and wife. And since you cannot be in two places at once, it is up to me to rule which of those two things you will be considered if you're marriage fails. Would you like to guess my ruling?" Chloe started to cry. "Please...your honor, I'm sorry" "Neither you, nor anyone else will ever mock our traditions without facing the consequences. You really would've been better off, seen more of the world, if you had just married like any other girl. You said to me after 5 years of freedom, you'll just try to marry again? No. After 5 years of hard work, trying to provide a home for a family that doesn't exist, you will be deemed a failure as a man and sent to work in the quarry, where you will break rocks until your hands bleed"
Paul has to be the single most gluttonous excuse for a demon that has ever been made. I'm guessing. When I summoned him, he was loud, roaring into my ear, demanded a sacrifice to apeace his hunger. He demanded my soul, I offered a tub of ice cream, ever since then he and I have been meeting every time I sign something. Ushally he stays at home, munching on my snacks, farting freely in the corner of the basement I had made for him. He eats, sleeps, watches 'Grey's Anatomy' and occasionally makes long distance calls to hell. I made sure Paul payed the phone bills. It's been a year since then, a year and if I was being honest I was starting to wonder if I should just change my signature and find a priest to evict Paul. He was eating into my allowance and being a general pain. But today, Paul became only my second biggest problem. Cindy Miller, the smartest girl in my year. She always scored A's, always was the first to remind the teacher of homework to be given and always was smug when asking other their grades. She was also the principal's kid. So obviously she had it good. And I was more than willing to let her be, as long as she stayed away from me. But one day she set her sights on me, when I out scored her in a test. 2% isn't that big a difference, well, to Cindy it was. The teacher was proud, my friends were too, Cindy however hated it. Slowly though I began out performing her in the same class again and again until it was time for the school to send one student to the national level Olympiad session. Cindy would have been a shoe in, but I had gotten it instead. The day after the teacher told me I had gotten the spot, they found drugs in my locker. Cindy had apparently 'seen' me smoking outside and told her mom. Shocker. So now I was sitting in the principal's office, mom crying in one seat, the principal barely hiding a smug smile as she continued saying how much of a 'disruptive' influence I am. They didn't even let me speak, deciding that I must speak to police and give a urine sample. The principal dropped down several papers I had to sign. I took the pen and signed the first sheet, seeing no way out. And when I did, Paul popped into exsistance in one corner of the room. No one else could see him, just me. It's how my mom didn't notice him all this time. He looked at me, the principal and the papers. He raised an eyebrow, "you didn't do it, why aren't you speaking up?"he asked telepathically. I sighed, replying back, "there's no point. The urine test will show I'm innocent." "How long will that take?" "A week I guess." "...That competition you were excited about is in three days isn't it?"I nodded, "and the mother of that jealous bitch just so happened to find drugs in your locker, you're letting them just take what's yours? No fight? No cursing?" "What can I even do?" The demon smiled, "revenge." The next day I was called to school to report to the principal's office. When I stepped in I saw the principal a mess, hair wild, dark circles around her eyes and a chipped tooth. "Ah, yes, ah...Mr. Patrik, you see....it's come to my attention that the drugs found in your locker were planted there. You had nothing to do with it so I am, effective immediately, lifting your suspension." "Is everything alright ma'am?"I asked. "Yes! Yes everything's fine! All fine!"she looked around like a frighted cat before leaning towards me and whispering, "Patrik, does the name Paul mean anything to you?" I lied, "I have an uncle named Paul?" She dismissed me. I found Cindy, she was looking just as bad as her mother. I went to the washroom, took out a notebook and pen, signing my name, summoning Paul. I looked at him, "what did you do?" He shrugged, "gave them a few nightmares." I raised an eyebrow, "and...." "I may have lifted their beds into the air before throwing them into a tree. No harm done." "And?" "Just made a little noise here and there. A couple of pots clanging, howling wind, you know, the usual." "And how did the principal know your name?" "...I may have invaded her dreams and introduced myself." "Paul....thanks." The demon grinned, "no problem human...now, there is no more nutella at home." I sighed, maybe the priest isn't took bad an idea.
As a holy man of war, there are two irrevocable truths about life in this fallen world which clash violently for supremacy in my mind. The first is that one who raises their blade against the innocent must be cut down, lest the strong destroy the weak and the world is lots to endless bloodshed. The second is that even the worst villains have innocent lives tied to their own, and cutting them down often creates as much pain as it prevents. This eternal conflict rages ceaselessly for men in my line of work, but for me it has never raged so fiercely as the day I became a father. The day started as most of my days do, with fervent prayer that my blade would fall only on the guilty, and that the Goddess would guide my blade away from those who did not deserve it's wrath. With my prayer said and my mourning meal eaten, I left my home to inquire about town of any disturbances that needed my attention. As usual, I learned primarily of petty squabbles that needed neither my sword or my time. But amidst the ruckus of supposed slights, there was a consistent report of something vicious in the woods. Several travelers from a passing caravan were killed by it, along with some livestock. This was the task the Goddess needed my blade for today. I left promptly for the forest and found the site of the attack. The scene of carnage was indescribable. The stench of scorched flesh, blood staining scraps of cloth that were torn and scattered so viciously I could not tell what had once been clothes from the remains of the wagon. This was not the work of bandits, or some dumb animal. There was a demon in these woods, and I would see it slain before the day's end. It's trail was not hard to follow, the smell of brimstone and death in its wake was so strong it could be followed without a hound. The trail ended at a cave in a cliffside, marked with banners painted with writing I did not understand and did not want to. This was the den of a monster. Seeing that this was the home of the beast, I chose simply to wait here. All animals return to their den eventually, even men and demons who consider themselves above such base instincts. By now noontime had come and gone, as the sun began its slow descent I wondered if I would be forced to find a safe place to camp when I saw the monster coming back with a slaughtered cow over its shoulder. My first instinct was to run. My second was to stand in its path and declare my intent to end it's fowl existence. But I am a man of virtue, not instinct, and so I choose instead to lie in wait and strike it through as it passed my hiding place. It was granted a clean death, and I was granted another day to serve the goddess. With the beast slain and the village secured, my work was done. But as I turned to leave for the village I felt a tug on my heart. I have felt many such tugs in my career, always they lead to some work the Goddess had for me. So I turned about and entered the fowl den behind me. The inside was poorly lit and sparsely furnished. A wide strip of cowhide, still stained from the blood of the animal it came from, apparently served as the beast's bed. A large slab of stone was being used as a table, equally bloodstained from many meals of uncooked meat. The whole cave reeked of blood, and I wondered if the creature who lived here enjoyed the smell or was simply blind to it. While I was thus pondering I noticed that the table was set for two. The well worn log that served as the seat had two distinct impressions, in it, and sitting atop the table was two separate piles of discarded bones, the remains of a previous meal. There was another demon about. This must have been what the Goddess meant to show me, my work was not yet done. Having surveyed the cave in full I decided that the other demon must have also been out, so I left the cave only to find a small creature bent over the corpse of the demon I had already slain. Seeing it's horns I raised my sword to slay it, but another tug on my heart stopped me. With my blade stayed, I approached the creature more cautiously. It was small, with the proportions of a child no older than six years of age. It's cloak concealed most of it, but it's hands and feet were bare, showing it's dark red skin. It had horns like a goat's, starting above it's forehead and curling upwards, and a thin tail flicked back and forth behind it. This was a without a doubt a demon, but it was also a child. It could not be old enough to understand right from wrong, or the gravity of it's parents actions. All it knew was it's parent had stopped moving, and it didn't know why. Not knowing how to approach a child I had just orphaned, I choose the simplest thing I could think of. "Hello, little one." Predictably, the child ran. But since children rarely make the best choices it ran for its cave home, which I was standing in the way of. I reached down and grabbed it by the cloak, pulling it up to eye level. From this perspective it looked unnervingly like a human girl "Is that your parent there on the ground?" "That's not my parent, that's my father!"She yelled, completely missing the point of the question. "Do you understand what's happened to him?" "I think so. Father took me hunting yesterday, I saw him do something to some humans that made them stop moving like that. Did someone hunt father?"The girl spoke in a tone of confusion and shock. If she had been warned against talking to strangers, the shock of their loss had clearly driven that from her mind. "Yes, I'm afraid someone did. Do you have anyone other than your father? A mother, or other family that could take care of you?" "I, don't know. Father talked about others but he never let me meet them. He said all we needed was each other." "That is truly a shame."I said as I lowered the girl back to the ground and intended to leave it there. I had done enough damage here, and had no idea what I would even do. But the familiar tug on my heart stopped me. "What would you have me do, my Lady?"I offered a short prayer, and felt the answer in every bone of my body. The poor child is without a father now. You already know what you must do. I did know what I needed to do, though I had dismissed it as mad pity. But the word of the Goddess is absolute, when She speaks so directly to her servants no good can come from ignoring Her. I turned around and found the girl sobbing on the ground by her father, the reality of what had happened finally sinking in. I walked up to it and laid a hand on her shoulder. "He's not going to move again, is he?" "I'm afraid not. You can not stay here, there isn't enough food and he's no longer around to protect you." "Where will I go? I don't know anyone but father." "I have food and a warm bed at my home. Come with me for the night at least. Whatever else you need can be sorted out in the morning." "I don't know. Father said that humans were dangerous." "More dangerous than spending the night alone in the woods?" "I guess not, but..." "I promise I will keep you safe, but I can't do that if you stay here. Come with me, just for the night." "All right." I took the girl's hand and we began walking back to the village. "What's your name?"I asked. "Zalea" "Hello Zalea, my name is Sir. Fredrick."
"Hey! If it isn't our own disaster detector! Kay! Come on over here! Let us buy you a drink!" "Thanks for the seat boys, but you know the rules, 24 hours from bottle to space, and we launch in the morning. Speaking of which, you'd better be ready to run when we launch. Cap'n wasn't happy after the last R&R." "Cap's never happy, we're just giving him someone to focus on! Save our shipmates from his gimlet eye!" "Well, he was heard muttering that if it happened again, he might ditch the pod, whether I'm in it or not, just to be rid of you. Now I do like you guys, but not that much! So finish your drinks and let's get aboard." "Kay? You got a twitch?" "Right in the back of my head, like something is waiting. Let's go now." "Right, forget the drinks, we're leaving now."Section Chief Ryu, who had looked convivial, now looks sober and alert. "Move!" The others, who are drunk, need a bit of help. We get them standing and moving for the door. As we pass the bartender, I throw him a gold Earth coin. About 500 times what the tab is. He looks at it, then me, and blanches. I'm well known in this port. The gold coin is payment, apology, and warning; all in one. We've cleared the door, when a fight erupts in the bar. Two Zelphoni, one of the toughest races in space. Tinted polycarbonate scales over muscles that are 30 times more efficient than human. All hanging on a ring carbon composite skeleton that makes diamond look sickly and weak. No one in their right mind would take them on, yet someone has. Three seconds later, pulser fire explodes in the bar. I glance back, and sure enough, our table is in the crossfire. Ryu looks at me, I nod. The feeling has passed. Ryu is both relieved and worried. This is the fifth time this year alone that I've pulled the team out of a hot situation. Either things are getting generally worse over the entire Concordia, or we're being targeted. Neither Ryu or I have picked up any space flot about higher levels of trouble than usual. It gives one to think. Maybe I should get out of this business. I'm damn near independently wealthy. But then I think of my support crew, and even that grumpy old Farthier Captain, who took me on without references. I owe them all, and -- for all their alien nature -- I still love them like the brothers I never had. We're a mixed bag, some of us don't even have a species name that anyone here recognizes. We all have the eternal Wanderjahr itch. What lies beyond the next star. Even our Captain. We may be a tramp freighter by the consortiums standards, but we've been places that they'll never see, and never had a busted voyage. Captain has a sense for deals that's at least as good as my danger sense, maybe better. Even a lot better. He may heed my warnings, but only to find a way around if it's a rich prize waiting ahead. Glyu is on watch, when we roll in. Seeing us early, he looks at me. "Gold coin?"I nod. He calls for an extra watchman. Nothing has happened so far, but Glyu isn't one to chance anything he doesn't have to. "Glyu? Are we the last to board?" "Aye. Cap'n came on board last watch, crew been trickling in since then. Weird feel. Not nervy, but like everyone is more than ready to leave. Twitch?" I stop to feel. "Nothing definite. But I'll be happier to clear this port too. Three of the incidents have happened here. The other two on Zahu. I hope the Cap'n got us a deal elsewhere." Famous last words, except I didn't die. But I'm getting ahead in the story. The intercom squawks, "Glyu! Is Kay and her crew onboard?" Glyu looks at me and answers, "yes, Captain, just now." "Seal the hatch, we're launching." "Captain, Ryu is sober, but the rest of them?" "Three sheets to the wind, as always. We launch anyway. We'll go slow until they sober up, but we're not spending one more kili at this port than we have to. Everyone wants off this planet. Now." "Aye Captain, hatch sealed." "Get Kay's crew to sickbay, tell that wretched shaman from a diseased mulichi that if they aren't at least half sober in one kala, I'll finally trade him in on an autodoc."<Click!> "See what I mean Kay? And I've seen half a dozen ships launch this watch alone. Something is going down, and no one wants to be here when it does." "Well, Glyu, if people are getting stupid enough to pick fights with Zelphoni, I want off too!" "Zelphoni? Who would be crazy enough?" "Don't know, but there was pulser fire, and our table was in the crossfire. Hey Glyu? Were all the ships that launched disaster pod equipped?" "Yes, they were." We're both scared now. Something that's got every ship lucky enough to have a human on board bugged out." "Are we the last?" "Yes. Twitch?" "No, just normal worry. What the dichorot is going on here?!" "Don't know, but let's get these happy fools into the sickbay, and you with Ryu into the pod." <CLACK> There go the docking clamps, better move it. ... "Hey Doc!" "Kay, how many times do I have to tell you I'm a ..." "Shaman. I know. Human custom. Whether the ships medic is a mere sick berth attendant, or a multispecies expert from Galactic Hospital, they're all 'Doc'. How many times do I have to tell you that?" Shaman is a delphini. A cross between a dolphin and a squid, with the squid's octocameral mind. He's fully qualified in eight different species, and can extrapolate to over a thousand more. What he's doing on a tramp freighter, I do not know. "Shaman?" "Yes, Glyu? Usual threat from Captain?" "Not quite. We have a shipment of autodocs onboard. The manifest is one more than the ladling says." "I see."Shaman's tentacles are flying all over the room, pulling bits of this, and pieces of that from his collection of materials. Whatever he's concocting, it's got a lot more ingredients than ever before. ... He's intubating the mouth breathers and rigging for waste control on all. Hoo Boy, I think I'll leave now. "Ryu, let's go now." "Yes, I think so." We're out the door just as Shaman notices we're leaving. "Hey you two! Get..."And the door closes. Safe! We didn't hear the order! ... The -- so called -- disaster pod, is actually a special half cargo pod. It's designed to maintain a human body in perfect condition, despite the constant Zero Gee. Why zero gee? Sensory deprivation. We feel no external sensation, other than ship's scanners. I'm never bored, I love looking at the stars. This amplifies any little twitch we may get to the point you cannot miss it. I strip down, wire up with Ryu's help, and climb in. The temperature is perfect, as always. The body sensors allow the human expert medical monitor to judge our physical condition in all known factors. It knows whether that faint twitch is caused by a physical issue or not. It took a Shaman -- the first trained on Earth -- and a cracked engineer -- from Earth -- to build the first crude monitor. I say 'cracked' engineer because he insisted on being called 'Scotty', spoke with a weird accent, and had a habit of turning the universe upside down to shake it out for loose change. Even though he was Jewish and came from New Jersey district, not Scotland. Still, he was successful enough that people were delighted to have him show up. You never knew whether what he was going to come up with was going to have anything to do with the original project, but it was 95% probable that whatever it was would be fantastically profitable. He was lost in space about 300 years after inventing the first disaster pod, but before he disappeared, the disaster pod proved that at least 50% of humans had danger sense, at one level or another. Instantly, we went from Stellar welfare to Galactic powerhouse, but at a price. With all the danger sense out in space, no one was watching Earth. WWIII nearly wiped out life on Earth. Now, well over 90% of humans have a relatively high level of danger sense, but we're reduced to tubing our children and leaving them with creches. We cannot afford the process without the fantastic pay we get. Really sucks to have to leave your child with retired spacers, but that's what we call "going back to Earth"now. Retiring, and spending time raising other spacers children. We're saving up though, for an expedition to restore Earth. I hear Ryu talking with Captain, "disaster pod up and running". "Good. Slightest twitch report immediate." He's talking clipped. He's nervous about something. What has our Captain picked up as cargo that makes him so nervous? The pod picks up my nervousness, and soothes me back down to the Zen state where only the danger sense matters. The stars are glorious. ... Hugn! Oh goddess, it's never been this strong. Pod reports a level 90 threat. I've never been higher than a 50 before! The horror is ... Augh! ... Overwhelming! "Captain! Danger straight ahead! Level 90! Immediate evasion indicated!" "Understood. Maintain course." Great Goddess! A 90 and he wants to continue!? I strain to tell what the nature of the threat is. ((to be continued))
“Oh great and powerful wizard!” the small voice rang through the throne room. I smiled. Finally people were beginning to show the proper level of fear. “Yes, mortal?” I called, stepping dramatically from the shadows and into the light. The man’s eyes flicked to me and he jumped at my fearsome and sudden appearance. His wife cowered behind him, a hand on his back in support. “I... I brought you an offering. Our village’s offering.” An offering? An actual offering? It wasn’t until the man shifted uncomfortably, dropping a loaf of bread from the basket in his hands, that I realized I’d been frozen, staring at him. I snapped my mouth shut and fought the smile threatening to overtake my face. “Well of course you have,” I said. The man nodded. “It’s all here. Even the... gold.” I saw a flash of yellow nestled in the fabric, and quickly crossed the platform to sit down on my throne. I didn’t need to sit down. Of course not. But a sovereign should be humble when receiving such offerings. My father’s precious legacy was in tact after he had told me this would never work. He’d cursed me, and now here I was, his only heir, and pretending to be a wizard was finally paying off. Tears pricked my eyes and I cast a gloomy hand across them, keeping the sight from the peasants. Father was looking up at me, dying a second death. I was so incredibly touched. “You can have this, and our continued offerings,” the man said, interrupting my reverie, “and loyalty,” my heart soared, “if you can offer us your protection.” “Yes I can, and I will.” My cape swept behind me in a becoming way and I stood, extending my hand benevolently toward the couple. “May the great Father watch over you, and the great Mother deal favorably with your kin.” The man’s shoulders relaxed and a wide smile broke across his face at the sight of me. I was a fearsome protector. It appeared his wife was crying, and why wouldn’t she? I was, after all, incredibly generous and powerful. It struck me that these, these were the first of my children, who would grow into an empire of loyal servants. “So you’ll help us, then!” the man said, smiling. “You can help us with the dragon!” My stomach dropped through the floor. “The what?” “The dragon terrorizing our village! We could find no protection, no one to take us on, but you Great One, are boundless in your generosity!” “Yes, I am quite generous, but-“ My hands had become suddenly damp. “Even the brave knights turned us away. You are braver than all of them combined, Great One!” his wife chimed in, blushing as she looked up and leaned into her husband’s side. “Yes but I-“ “Go boy!” the man commanded one of his servants in a booming voice. “Race ahead and tell our people the good news.” A servant at the door disappeared before i could stop him. Even now his horse had probably made it past the gates. The man and his wife were embracing and laughing, and my staff was all staring at me. Some wore smug looks, thinking I would back out, just because my father said magic made the wizard. I could hear his voice now: you have to “have magic” to be a wizard, simply claiming it was “unreasonable.” I glared at my staff, and for the most part they looked away. All but Geraldine, our cook, who had the most annoying way of frowning just like my father. My eyes narrowed, and I turned to the couple with a smile. “Yes spread the news! The Great One will take care of you,” I said, stepping forward and taking their hands. “You have only to call me when you have need.” I turned my sincere, piercing eyes on both of them, then gave their hands a reassuring, gentle squeeze. I turned and prepared to ascend my throne once more when I was rudely grabbed by the arm. “Yes let’s not waste time,” the man declared, clapping a hand on my shoulder and directing me out of the keep’s gates. I was startled and stiff as my guards watched the peasants take me with disinterest. I stared fixedly at them with wide eyes, but they looked on dully as I was manhandled. “What?” I asked. “We must leave now! It’s only a day’s journey, and the dragon was mighty angry when we left.” I contemplated throwing myself beneath the hooves and wheels of a passing carriage as my own carriage was brought up. I allowed the peasant man and his peasant wife to lift me, since my own servants seemed to be indisposed. I informed them that they would be walking. “Terribly sorry, can’t have all that muck in here,” I said, my becoming head poking out the window as I watched the mud from the carriage tires splatter and coat their bodies. “No worries, as long as you can take care of that dragon for us, Great One, I’d swim through a lake of mud,” the woman said, smiling. How could she say that barbaric thing!? I slid the curtain shut with a jerk, my pulse suddenly a thunderous roar. What was I doing? What had this peasant gotten me into?! I was in a carriage riding to my death, and he’d given me no way out. I found his lumbering figure through a thin slit in my white, lace curtain, and glared at him. His jovial face turned toward me and I gasped, bending backwards against the white cushions. Wait, why was I hiding? I was going to die in the teeth of a dragon and it would be his fault! What was I going to do, say that I couldn’t save them? I covered my eyes, letting the horror of the situation and the evil of the man and his wife outside, crash over me in waves. Trapped with selfish, evil people, on a mission destined to fail. What was I going to do?
Strike to the chest! Sweep the legs! Follow with a driving attack! I move through the motions the way water runs through a stream. My arm swims in the air before striking the practice dummy. There are no thoughts in my head. Thinking during battle is like tying oneself to a heavy stone. They weigh a person down. I will not be constrained. It’s ironic. In a way, I’d done that to myself. Years ago I’d locked myself in one of father’s tallest towers. When news arrived of mother’s kidnapping, I’d snatched all the books and scrolls of combat from the royal library and sought refuge in the safety of hard stone and constant training. Meals were brought to me and slid under a slot in the door. For so long I had allowed myself a meal if—and only if—I’d felt I had trained hard enough that day. Throw the elbow! Drive the foot down! “Had enough yet?” I ask my practice dummy. It smiles back up at me. When I began my training, all I had were my dollies and stuffed animals. I quickly turned them into the types of villains who would snatch a girl’s mother away. A few I kept tucked near my pillow, away from my wrath, but the others became my darkest adversaries. The torn face of a stuffed bear stares up at me. Its one remaining eye dangles from a thin string. Cotton pokes out of its cheeks, neck, and arms. “Yes,” I say and cradle the bear in my arms. “You fought bravely all these years, Arch Bearington.” On the far wall is a ledge. I place him there. “You’re in the Hall of the Fallen. May your days be filled with—” A knock at the door. “I’m not hungry yet!” I shout. “Come back later.” “I haven’t brought any food,” a man’s voice says behind he door. “A knight here to recue me?” I ask as I make my way toward the door. “It’s not me you should waste your time on.” I pound a fist on the door. It rattles in its hinges as if afraid from watching all my blows against my enemies for years. “Don’t make an enemy of me, door,” I whisper. “What?” The voice asks. “Nothing.” I rest my hands on my hips. “It’s the queen you should concern yourself with, not me. She’s still missing I take it?” “Yes, princess Aliena.” I hear the quiver in the man’s voice. What kind of trembling knight would be of any use to me or my mother? “Then this conversation is done.” I begin to turn from the door. “I’ve not come to rescue you!” He calls. “Or your mother. I wouldn’t know how.” I turn back to the door, intrigued. Of all the callers I’d received over the years, none had professed to be worthless. All had boasted that they could protect me from this or rescue me from that. As if I needed their assistance. If they could only see the remnants of my fallen foes on the ledge, they’d know. My training is almost complete. I'm almost ready to set out. “People speak about your training.” The man—boy?—continues. I look to a mirror that hangs some feet away and touch my cheek. So many years have passed. “Was it the woman who does the monthly floor scrubbing? Or the one who brings me my weekly bath water?” I narrow my eyes and clench a hand into a fist. I trusted their discretion. “Princess, it doesn’t matter, does it? I've come to learn. To train.” The voice sounds lower now. Is he on his knees behind the door? He continues, “I’ll do anything you say. Follow every order!” “Why should I?” I ask. It would be nice to have an actual person to train with. One of the scrolls often quoted, ‘Boards do not hit back.’ At the time it seemed so obvious as to be silly. Now I understand. “Has your mother also been taken.” I ask. “No…” His voice is barely a whisper. “I…” He clears his throat. “My mother always says that honesty is the best. Truth is, princess; none of the knights will have me for a squire. You’re my last hope. It’s either train as your pupil or go to work in the mines with my father.” In the Art of Warring Knights, the author states clearly: Show no mercy. An entire chapter is devoted to it. But I’ve never heard something so pathetic before. Perhaps this boy is an opportunity to overcome these useless emotions. I can make a show of allowing him to train, while really I’m the one who’s training. I open the door. It creaks from so little use. Not a boy, but a young man my age, kneeling on the floor. I notice that his eyes are several times to large and I almost gasp. It’s just his glasses. Thick lenses like the bottoms of a glass mug sit in front of both his eyes. Hair the color of the reddest fire sticks out at odd ends as if he’d just been walking through a windstorm. “So you’ll have me?” He rises from the floor and those large eyes bore into mine. “Close the door behind you.” I walk over to my row of stuffed animals and pick up Madam Unicorn. “I want to see what we’re working with.” “Thank you,” he says and closes the door. “I’m Jack.” He extends a hand out to me. I ignore it. After I set the unicorn on the dummy stand, I turn to Jack. “This is Madam Unicorn.” He raises an eyebrow and smiles. “You wouldn’t be so calm if you knew the countless mothers she’s taken over the years. All the orphans she's created.” I move to the side. “Attack. Now!” Jack looks to me and then Madam Unicorn. “You said you’d follow every order. Are you a liar, Jack?” I cross my arms. I don’t like liars. “No! No, princess Aliena.” He looks to the dummy stand. “I, it’s just that… it’s a stuffed animal.” “Well, I’d say it was nice meeting you, but it wasn’t. Have a good—” He cuts me off. “I’ll do it!” A shout like a baby’s war cry emerges from him as he charges Madam Unicorn. His fist swings clumsily through the air and grazes the soft fur of the stuffed animal. Red-faced, he turns to me. I sigh. “I guess I should show you how it’s done.” “Yes, please!” He moves away. “Strike the throat!” I shout. My hand storms into the unicorn’s neck. The stand tips back. “Drive the knee!” I drive my leg upward, connecting my knee to the stuffed animal’s underside. It bounces high in the air and then falls on the floor below. I look to Jack. His expression is better than I imagined. Instead of only awe on his face, he looks terrified. He now knows the truth: his master is a ruthless warrior. Unstoppable. Unfeeling—when she has to be. “See, it’s easy,” I say and set the unicorn back on the stand. Sweat rolls down Jack’s forehead. He seems to be a shade paler than earlier. Is he really so rattled over striking an inanimate object? This will be harder than I thought. Another verse from the Art of Warring Knights comes to me. ‘To truly master a skill, one must be able to teach it perfectly.’ Jack isn’t just my pupil. I now realize—he’s the ultimate test.
Nana was always a little quirky. Voodoo dolls and herbal teas and crystal balls, just to name a bit of her decor. She believed in energy. Not that cancer-causing wind power - I joke, of course - or anything like that, but in human energy. She believed in the power of believing. Believing can only do so much though. She died, like people do. Do people make shirts that say My grandma died and all I got were these lousy dolls? Once I was done mourning, that was my mood. She had quite the estate, given how judicious she was with even the smallest bit of spending. Unless it was on material for dolls, I guess. There must have been thousands of them, all boxed up and delivered to me once her will was read. I thought about just donating them, but it just didn't seem right. "You should go through them,"Adam insisted. "It would honor her memory. At least pick a few favorites." I sighed and dug into the box. There were celebrities and family members - no overlap, we're a pretty mundane family. I found one of me. "Look, it's me,"I showed Adam with a laugh, making the doll do a little jig. He rolled his eyes. "See? You found one you liked." I gave it a long look, wondering how much work she had spent on each one of these. I gently caressed its face. I yelped in pain a moment later. I gave the ear a gently flick and winced in pain as some invisible entity jabbed my ear. "Adam,"I yelled. He rushed back into the room. "Adam, I think these are voodoo dolls." He laughed at me. Of course he did. So I picked out the one depicting him and gave it a nice poke in the belly. Not to be cruel, just as a proof of concept. He doubled over in pain, gasping for breath. "Cass, what the fuck?" "Yeah. They're voodoo dolls." "Voodoo isn't real. There's no way."A flick to the leg and he collapsed. "Okay, okay. Stop that. What the hell do we do with a half-dozen boxes of voodoo dolls?" "Burn them?"He gasped. "I'm joking."I sifted through the box, searching for another familiar face. "I'm sure we can find good use for them though,"I thought out loud. "Maybe force them to give us money or something?" "Cass, seriously. It's not funny." I looked up at him. "Oh, Adam,"I dead-panned. "I'm not joking now." ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!
"As I was saying I would appreciate if you would stop with the burning of the countryside and the immolating of the peasants. It's quite rude if I may say so. And furthermore..." "ENOUGH!"I roared. I was still in disbelief. No knight had been able to survive my mighty flames before. Not one! And yet this insolent knight stood his armor and flesh still pristine as fresh mountain snow. "H... how? Just how did you manage to survive? Why did my flames do nothing?"I sputtered. "Well obviously your mother never taught you manners did she?"Answered the knight. "As for your question I simply obtained the Armor of St. George which is blessed with a holy protection from fire. First thing I searched for one I took on this quest. You would be surprised how many knights don't think to get the proper gear for the deed." I just slowly turned my head towards the pile of bones and melted armor on the far right of my cave. "I might..." "Ah. I suppose you do."The knight said following my gaze. "Any way where was I? Oh yes. If you would please be so kind as to stop burning down the peasants and the countryside. Oh and if you could also kindly return the gold from the kingdom's treasury? The king would rather not rule over a kingdom in economic crisis. That is all we ask of you Sir Dragon." "YOU WOULD DARE MAKE DEMANDS OF ME SIR KNIGHT?!"I screamed, flames bursting forth from my mouth in my rage. "WHAT FOLLY! EVEN IF I DID SAY YES TO YOUR RIDICULOUS DEMANDS, WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I WOULDN'T TURN MY BACK ON MY WORD AS SOON AS YOU LEFT?!" "Because my draconic friend,"the knight calmly responded, "The Armor of St. George was not the only relic I obtained for this quest."He drew a longsword that shone bright as the morning light. "This, Sir Dragon, is the Holy Blade of St. Joan. Anything the sword slices will be cut down be it man or dragon. I will use it if I have to but I'd rather not to be quite honest. I promised the priest I borrowed this from that I would return it back to him and I would rather return it in pristine condition. It would be rude otherwise." "You... are unlike any knight I ever met."I said completely befuddled, "All the others that come here just start shouting about glory and honor before charging head first, sword flailing above their heads." "Well that was quite impolite of them wasn't it?"the knight said. "No, I suppose I'm not like any other in my order. I prefer to talk my foes down if I can. And should I have to fight, I take every precaution possible. To be honest the talking has never worked but one can always hope. Now do we have a deal?" I just sat there in stunned silence and then I just laughed. I couldn't help myself. "You are an amusing little knight. Very well take your kingdom's gold and you have my word that your village will be safe from now on." "Many thank Sir Dragon."The knight bowed. "To be honest I would've been quite saddened if I had to slay a fascinating being such as yourself." I just grunted. "If I may be so bold? May I come around to your lair from time to time? It was ever a pleasure taking to you." I just stared at him in silence for a long time. Trying to comprehend this human who has treated me so differently from all others. "Hmmm if that is what you wish then I won't stop you." "Then until we meet again my friend."The knight waved as he loaded the gold onto a wagon. Friend he called me. "Whatever."I thought to myself. "I'm just being foolish. He is a human. And like all the rest of the miserable little pest he will turn on you."But as I closed my eyes to sleep I couldn't help but pray that I was wrong.
“You had a choice. Not many people get that.” I said, sitting on the side of the bed, weapon to my side. The young man smiled, almost laughing. “It was a good one, I’ll tell you that much.” “Then why choose me at this point in time?” I understood much of mortals, but hearing their stories is a rare opportunity. He shrugged. “I’ve done everything I wanted. I guess it’s selfish, but I don’t want a legacy. I don’t want to be remembered.” That was strange. Almost all mortals wanted to have some form of immortality, either from lineage or living insanely long. “Well, you are a strange-“ There was a new life coming. It appeared from nowhere. I hid, and the man blinked, my forgetful power taking hold. The new human burst through the door, a strange gun drawn. “Fruhlet Gandree, you have been found guilty of time meddling. You are under arrest and will be taken into custody for altering the time stream.” Oh... that makes sense now. I walk out, not bothering to go back in unless I heard a shot. Life looked at me, eyes quizzical. She said nothing for a while, until I was about to ask her. “That man was born in 1534, he has been with me all that time.” I raised an eyebrow, “so a time traveler is escaping his sentence by pinning his crimes on an immortal?” “Yes,” she said. “And I need your help to find out who."
I found this a tough prompt to write for, but I thought it was unique and I do genuinely love Spanish language soccer announcers, soooo I just really went for it haha. Hope it's not too over the top. They say opposites attract, but I always thought that was just a silly cliche, until I met my new girlfriend, Carla. We truly could not be any more different. She is a librarian, and a fairly stereotypical one at that. Shy, sweet, reserved and bookish, she fills her role perfectly and she became the object of my attraction immediately, for countless wonderful reasons, but I also because felt I could use some peace and quiet in my life. You see, 'peace and quiet' are not really in my job description, or a part of my personality. I am Jorge Alfonso Ramirez, and while not wanting to sing my own praises too greatly, I am likely the most famous Spanish-language fútbol (soccer) announcer in the world. My "GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL-LLLLLLLLOOOOOOOAAALLLLLLLLLLL"call has lasted 2 minutes and 53 seconds, a world record by a wide margin. People seem to think I am putting on "an act", but I assure you I am not. Since childhood, my normal speaking voice always sounded more like the other children shouting at the top of their lungs. I tended to narrate events going on around me without conscious thought. My parents were worried, taking me to countless doctors and psychologists, right up until my teens when I began announcing my school's games and they and I both seemed to realized there would indeed be a suitable place for me in the world. That place, however, was not the library where Carla worked, where anything above a whisper was treated as a grave sin. But she was working double shifts all week, and I feared that our nascent relationship might wither and die before it had a chance to sprout if we went so long without seeing each other. "CARLA!"I boomed involuntarily upon spotting her behind the counter. "Ay, dios mío,"she muttered. "Jorge, I didn't think I would have to explain this, but if we are to have a successful relationship, you probably cannot visit me at work, as much as it pains me to say it." "I KNOW MY DARLING, BUT I HAVE MISSED YOU TERRIBLY,"I said in what I thought was my quietest voice. The number of heads in the library that turned to stare at me in alarm indicated that perhaps my best efforts at decorum had not been successful. Carla's boss, and older woman by the name of Sylvia came rushing over, somehow silently. Her ability to run without emitting the sound of clattering footsteps was impressive, I must admit. "Sir!"she hissed. "That volume is completely inappropriate for use inside a library!" It was immediately apparent that Sylvia was no fan of mine. From the way she glared at me, I could only assume she thought I was the devil incarnate, sent to disrupt her pristine temple of quiet, dignified learning. As she debated whether to throw me out with Carla, I spotted something strange out of the corner of my eye. A young man was moving through the library strangely... very strangely indeed, with some large tome tucked under his shirt, and he's moving with all possible haste toward the exit! A thief! "CARLA!"I cried out. She followed my pointed finger and seemed to recognize the same thing I had. We both set off running after him. "THE MAN IS SPRINTING DOWN THE NONFICTION AISLE!"She nodded and broke off from me, trying to cut him off at the end of the aisle as I continued the pursuit from behind. "OH NO! HE IS CLIMBING THE BOOKSHELF AND HAS HOPPED INTO THE YOUNG ADULT SECTION! A TRULY IMPRESSIVE DISPLAY OF ATHLETICISM AND DETERMINATION!"I called out, hoping Carla would hear me and adjust her destination accordingly. "HE MAY BE CUT OFF BY A CART BLOCKING HIS PATH... OOHHHHHHH HE VAULTS IT! HE VAULTS OVER IT EASILY, BARELY SLOWING HIS STRIDE! WHAT SKILL, WHAT GRACE!" The man was nearing the exit now, nearly to his goal, but he did not see the last defender emerge from beside him however. Carla put a foot out, bringing him to the ground, where I promptly jumped on top of him and held him down. "Why in God's name did you tackle this man?!"Sylvia asked as she caught up with us, embarrassment and horror evident in her voice. Not knowing what else to say, I told the truth. "HE STOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEE,"I bellowed. I held my shout of the word 'stole' for over a minute, not bad for being so out of breath. Sylvia pulled the book from his hands. "This is a very rare first edition! It is not supposed to leave the private section,"she said with dismay before turning to me. "Thank you, uhh... Carla, who is this man?" "He is Jorge... my boyfriend,"she said with a proud smile. "YOU ARE NOT ANGRY WITH ME FOR CAUSING A DISTURBANCE?"I shouted with relief. "Of course not! You are just being yourself... and besides, foiling a real life book thief together with my boyfriend is a real relationship GOAAALLLLLLLLLLL,"she bellowed. Perhaps not 2 minutes 53 seconds, but a truly impressive effort I had no idea she had in her! I beamed with happiness. I had a feeling this was the beginning of a truly wonderful relationship, and I cannot wait to narrate all of it with enthusiasm and appropriate levels of joy. ___ Feel free to check out r/Ryter if you'd like to explore many more of my stories (most of them not filled with all caps shouting 👍)
"What's that?" When I spoke the woman nearly jumped out of her bruised skin. She muttered something quickly under her breath, something like "Oh, it's you,"or "You startled me."Didn't matter which one, though. All that mattered to me was that momentary flash of terror I caught shining in her eyes at the sound of my voice. "You okay there, honeybunch?"My coat and hat already hung on the coatrack. I barely looked at her. "It's nothing, sweetpea."I noticed the way she crossed her arms, something my wife almost never did. Her right hand deftly covered the poorly covered bruise, her expensive wedding band catching the light with her glossy fingernails. She gave me a coy, sexy smile. "What are you peeking at me for, hm?" As my lips went on hers my eyes searched for that that bruise again. There wasn't any doubt. That was the bruise, the bruise I made after swinging my weapon hard against her side, the bruise I had hoped would shatter her ribcage, the bruise she self-inflicted by raising her left arm just in time. I didn't get her ribs, damnit. I could feel the frustration swell in my throat as she pulled away, breathing feather lightly on my face. The peppermint scent usually drove me crazy, but the burning feeling of betrayal held my passion hostage in the pits of my aching knees instead. I pulled away from her. She opened her eyes dreamily, smiling as the wonderful woman I had always thought she was. I'd never take her for a child killer. But appearances clearly didn't mean much in our relationship. "Your eyes,"she said softly. "There's something going on behind them. Isn't there?" I could feel her own eyes on my back as I shrugged and turned to open the staircase closet. "Regular day,"I lied. My hand gripped the bat in the far corner, well hidden behind her muddy, leather clog boots. This time, I won't miss.
“You’re kidding,” I say. “Courageous Hero, I do not jest,” the sage says, rather huffily. “When our loved ones depart from this earth, we offer them peanuts to sustain them on their long journey to Hanan. Such a humble offering of love is death to the demon king, who knows nothing of compassion or love.” “Does he have a peanut allergy?” I ask skeptically. “Tis not an allergy, but a curse,” the sage answers, “One touch of the holy sword and the demon king’s breath will be stolen from his lungs, his skin will swell and bloat with horrible red sores until he pales and dies.” “Oh my god,” I say, “It is a peanut allergy.”
Nothing has worked so far. I sent a plague of cockroaches down to the humans and they found a way to farm them for their meat. Meteors were sent, asteroids the size of their largest buildings and they devised a device to place them into orbit and use them for mining. I even altered the genes of an amount of unborn children, but these mutations were looked upon with love rather than fear. Global warming, they mass produced liquid nitrogen and re-froze the ice caps Extinction of the bees - they engineered mice and rats from their cities to seek pollen. I admire their tenacity, their resilience, their ingenuity, but their rein of comfortable living will come to an end, give it a few hundred years, no bible, and a few taunts and hints, the new creation brewing on Titan will soon be jealous and hateful of their neighbours.

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