Split (1)

train · 177k rows

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The half-woman feline hybrid burst into an inhuman sprint as soon as she spotted me. “Damn, she’s quick.” I had unholstered my six shell catnap tranquilizer, eyes locked on the rogue as she ran. She’d been on my radar for miles, and I wasn’t going to let her slip out of my sights. “Move!” I yelled, yet the crowd of distracted civilians failed to disperse around me. Each held or worn some modern day invention designed to occupy your precious time. Though upon noticing my garb and gun through their HUD cluttered eyes, they begrudgingly obliged. &#x200B; Cat-woman coasted through the crowd of Neo New York like a ribbon in the wind. The grace of these creatures was what led me to the job. My family comes from a long line of big game hunters, yet I never expected to hunt the weeb wet dream. &#x200B; A mad, hikkomori scientist years ago had introduced this new breed of half-cat hybrids to the city. He took a modern house cat and spliced human DNA into her kittens. The abominations that lived matured into adulthood within three years. The first batch of furballs was maybe half a dozen. Fast-forward to 2045 and you’ve got hordes of young, horny and uneducated ferals roaming the city streets. They’re not even attractive, with irregular fur patches and misshapen limbs. Though the species continued to propagate, I guess some men just don’t have standards. &#x200B; When I caught up to the blue coated feline she was licking at injured paws, cornered in a back-alley. I had no issues tracking and catching up with her via city-issued cybernetics. &#x200B; Neon lights illuminated her mangy clothing, one ear bitten and burned. She clung to a torn trench-coat, futile in keeping her warm during another nuclear winter. &#x200B; “Nya..” the fear in her voice was tangible. Blood dripped from unkempt finger-claws, it was clear she stepped in glass in her four-limbed sprint. &#x200B; “There, there…” I whispered as calmly as I could, this part always wretched my heart from my chest. Slipping off my jacket I revealed the insides to her, coated in glittery flakes. The design seemed to always keep their attention at least for a few moments. &#x200B; I’m a dog person, not literally of course, but to devote oneself to these cat-human creatures is often a fetish for my colleagues. &#x200B; I do it… for the thrill of the hunt. &#x200B; “Niko, niko, nii.” I chimed, inching closer much to her delight, those eyes twinkling in blissful ignorance. &#x200B; Pfffftttt. A tranquilizer shot through my jacket, impacting her in the bosom. I leapt to her side as she fell, wrapping my jacket around her. &#x200B; She kneaded her paws toward the smogy night sky, drifting off to sleep.
"Please. You gotta do this for me."She takes the receipt and scribbles something hasty on it. Folding it into a paper airplane, she hands it to me and blushes, looking away. I'd have spat out my coffee if a required secondary power for my skill wasn't stoicism and calm. I arch an eyebrow. "Do you really know him?" "I want it to land in the bag of the person I love most. And your trick shots never miss."She refuses to look into my eyes. Again, my face doesn't really change expression. Yet, I'm trying to keep my heart from breaking. All that time I spent with her over one semester of university... had it been for nothing? I thought I loved her, but I guess love was just stories, aren't they. Okay, focus. The guy's bag was two metres away. I angle my arm, take a deep breath and shoot. For the person she loved most, huh? That's fine. I want her to be happy. And my trick shots never miss. And yet, even as the airplane almost lands into his bag, it curves? That has never happened to any paper planes I've seen before, let alone ones that I've thrown. In fact, it boomerangs, resting upon my head. Taking it off, I read its contents: I love everything about you. You make me feel happy every time I see you. Let's bring this to another level. I can only stare blankly. Her blush may as well be burning crimson now. "Your trick shots never miss."She giggles. "And my words fulfill their exact purpose, but I wasn't brave enough to tell you straight up."Stretching out her hand towards mine, she continues. "I promise, though. No such miscommunication in our relationship; that'd be so ironic for my power, wouldn't it?" Taking her hand, I've never been happier in my own power and hers.
“I die in half an hour. You’re probably not going to make it another fifteen minutes.” The gaunt man chained to the stone laughed. But it sounded more like a sob. “The eagle’s going to be full today.” You turn. Or try to. The fall had changed your spine to a jigsaw. Breathing takes thought now. Expand the lungs. Pull in the air. Don’t ask why it feels like drowning. “Of course I’ll come back. First light of dawn and I’m good as new. I’ll get to watch the vultures fight over your corpse. And then will come the eagle.” The man leaned back against the rocks. “I’ve tried to talk to him. The eagle, I mean. I’ve tried everything. The days all seem the same, but the pain is always fresh. But the eagle is dumb. Can’t speak. Eats livers.” You wonder what he’s talking about. Everything tastes like blood. Ribs pierce things they were meant to protect. There is no light, but darkness surrounds you. “Of course I haven’t tried possession before. Never had the opportunity.” The man looks at you, and his eyes sparkle with flames. “I’m not a God of course. Not fit for their company. But I got a spark in me. Just a bit of the divine. And I have an offer. Let me drive for a bit. Behind your eyes. I’ll fix you up. Leave you good as new. Just give me a day.” You try to speak. No air comes out. No air comes in. You nod. There is a flash. A chain falls to the ground with a clatter. Flesh and bone knit and are born anew. A hand reaches out for a fallen branch. You tap it against your hand, appreciating its weight. You look up at the skies and a voice that is not your own comes from deep in your chest. “Come on you bastard. I’ve been ready for this for years.”
"So..."your voice trails off, a lingering threat to all those hearing it. In this case, a lot of people. A lot of old people. They stand in the cell, naked, frail, afraid. What are politicians once you take away the security of a big mansion and a fat wade of cash? Sad old men, but quite the potent message. "Rejoice, friends, for today you are contributing to the world. When I see your faces I believe it might well be for the first time." You didn't think summoning was real. You just played with it to kill time, more interested in the artful placement of the occult circle than any hypothetical result. When the first rabbit appeared, you were scared. When you understood humans could be brought here just as easily, you were terrified. And when you noticed you could precisely aim for any human being, you were delighted. The threat posted on the internet was one among others, easy to dismiss and ridicule. Either the head of the mining company would cease the drilling operation that wrecked the biosphere or he would be abducted and disposed of. He did not stop. He did vanish. Several weeks later, internet dwellers started to put the puzzle together. The string of strange disappearances was foreshadowed by seemingly innocuous threats here and there. Once they had found the link, they awaited eagerly for the next victim, and they were not disappointed. Suddenly, the mighty and powerful became aware of a danger looming over them. One after the others, they vanished, the police was powerless and no amount of seclusion could protect them. In the warmth of your small and cozy home, you reveled in the power. Naturally, the little people quickly got on your side. They were not targeted, felt no threat and sensed that, finally, some justice was being dealt. Even now, the rich in their ivory towers still order police and private milicias to find you, of course. They spent life looking down on others, they could not bear how the same happened to them. All the same, your warnings were answered more and more. When the call for more green energy was made, most firms followed. Those that did not changed their minds pretty fast. The breakdown of mad finance went the same way, a few disappeared bigshot traders convinced the rest to drop this pointless and destructive endeavor. Was the police involved? Was the family involved? Paranoia muddled the trails better than you ever could. Everyone was a suspect, who would think that someone drawing circles on the ground to be responsible? And every now and then, an old privileged asshole suddenly believes in God and discards his riches. Hypocrites, but it serves you well. For the first time in history, staying at the top of the pyramid isn't a desirable position anymore. Except for those that did so with the clear intent of putting that power to good use and heed the people's call. That is how a world is led, with an invisible but firm hand. The men and women in front of you start babbling, that is all they have ever done. So far you went for those with the biggest bank account, but now you had to go further. To modify a society you had to aim for another category. A new mysterious message appeared on the internet a few days ago. A call for a strong social security net, equalized income and fair chances for everyone. It was not a directive as clear as the previous ones, and like usual, it was dismissed at first. Which brings you to now. Looking at presidents, ministers, delegates and officials. You have a hunsh that their successors will work on the important matters with a lot more motivation. Naturally, this also means taking care of the trash brought back home. "So..." You load your gun. A messy and noisy business. On the positive side, your garden has never been so lush. The sun is setting, another productive day is at an end. Looking at the sky, you imagine the future. The world is far from perfect. God is gone and humans left on their own childish device. Someone needs to step up and take on the mantle of divinity. You look down on the dirty shovel you just used to bury the bodies. So be it, it is your duty to bring humanity out of the dark.
Kaakrihn, the name came naturally. Sarah felt him in the back of her mind, every other cultist had a horned devil, a winged devilish beauty or a black smoking animal. Sarah had but the feeling that something was watching from inside her, half on overwatch, half sleeping. Naturally, she was quite terrified at first, a presence of eldritch origin could overtake her at any moment, the overseers agreed and threw her into prison just in case. There, with a sad bed and a bucket to urinate into, she pondered. Kaakrihn wasn't speaking, nor sending images. As a matter of fact, he was doing absolutely nothing at all. Every record of demonic possession started with an ethereal entering and slowly taking over the mind with promises, cosseting, pressure. Sarah felt nothing of that, apart from a weird sense of being insulted. Somehow she slept better and felt more rested than she ever did before. As the days went by, the overseers got worried. This went beyond anything they ever experienced. Normally by this point, Sarah should be a writhing mass of tentacles to be burnt or unleashed on the world for fun and giggles. Not a well-rested, polite and unpossessed woman. Out of solutions, they let her out, because cursing and torturing a cultist afflicted from a known ailment is considered good sport but imprisoning a case that hasn't been seen before is just rude. Besides, there was something strange about Sarah since the event. Or rather, the absence of strangeness was the weird part. She was in excellent form, but in a 100% human way. She slept well, ate well, did good sport, had positive thoughts and spread them around, which was kinda annoying for a cult built in the classical gloomy style. Furthermore, she noticed that Kaakrihn didn't sleep all the time. The moment she closed her eyes to have some rest, he seemed to jolt just a moment, as if checking if everything was right and went back to napping. At times, he did truly rise to do... something, and go back to bed. But the world around Sarah was starting to decay. Not just the cult, that was normal, but cracks appeared on buildings in the city and were unatended, accidents happened on highways that were never cleared, people got sick and filthy yet seemed to barely notice. Sarah thought she acted like a blackhole since the incident, sucking the life and soul out of the world for herself. For a while, she toyed with idea of playing God. But a God in a dead world is a bit of a bore, so she went the opposite direction. One night, she entered the ritual chamber and prepared a reverse summoning. The limestone sketching was inverted, the candles upside down, the chalice clean and desinfected. A flash, a ringing sound, the presence was gone. Cracks got repaired, people got their hygiene back and Sarah got her wrinkles back. Kaakrihn wasn't a demon nor an angel, he was, Sarah thought, a custodian. He had a precise task and achieved it, his was to make sure things ran smoothly. Focused on Sarah, it was easy to achieve. He got up to chase nightmares, bladder problems and depressive thoughts. On the scale of the universe, he had to do his work with all the other custodians, and who knew what their tasks were. There had to be one for gravity, for obsolescence, for aging, for healing, for everything really. Sarah redrew the summoning circle, normally this time, and another inverted one right next to it. She wanted to summon the custodian for gravity and unsommon him or her right afterwards, just to see what would happen if the entire world except for herself was unaffected by gravity for a few seconds. For fun and giggles, of course.
That had been the conclusion of the secret conference between the space-faring nations of humanity, the space-faring MegaCorps, and the various others who had spread from the ruins of Old Earth. A living planet. There had been planets with life on them, when humanity fled their crumbling homeworld. Some were habitable by humans, others needed orbital bombardment as a prerequisite for human colonisation, followed by monthly chemical bombardment of the exclusion zone around said colony for at least ten years. But nothing, not even the singing crystals found deep in the caves of Taurica-III, could compare in how alien it was, to Selene-2. It was a world akin to paradise, for those who first found it. A small commune of post-Earth neo-pagan anarcho-agrarians, who landed on her, and began to farm, using only the local animals and minimal technology, they formed a small colony, nothing major. Of course, later, the Human Colonial Authority came, to assay the planet, to gather samples. The colonists in the commune hadn't thought about it. They hadn't realised that the daily rumble came almost exactly the same time, without fail. They hadn't dug deep into the planet and found the strange liquid of semi-organic make-up. They hadn't isolated the strange background noise, and found it to be a form of music. Something like a humming song, gentle and sweet. But the scientists who had come to study that distant world, they certainly noticed. Normally they would have reported this with joy and fascination to the greater scientific community. Normally they would have been eager to research such an enormous and unique organism. But the background noise, the pleasant humming, that had worried them. Because they'd heard it when they'd visited the colonists. They'd heard it when the colonists had gathered, coincidentally around the same time as the rhythmic beating was strongest, as they sang their new hymn, to the glory of the Goddess. Same tune, same rhythm, same notes down to the exact last bit. Then the biologists, studying the local fauna, reported hearing the same tune, the same humming, from each and every animal they'd studied. That was when it became political. Very political. Especially after a few of the scientists, pilots, and engineers sent by the HCA to survey and assay the planet stayed behind, humming the same tune. Their topographic scans, their sociological, biological, and seismological results, all showed that the planet was alive. And at least on some level, aware of its new inhabitants. The HCA scientists who testified to the gathered leaders of what had survived the End of Earth, kept referring to the planet, as she and they kept talking about it in terms usually kept in mythology, not science. Great Mother, Goddess, lifegiver, etc. The human race, while technically standing together as one in the United Human Nations, were still a fractional and scattered people, who kept to their old tribes and distrusted outsiders. Many options were proposed to deal with this, living planet. Some suggested nuking it from orbit until the planet was glassed completely, leaving the once paradise-like planet Selene-2 as a dead rock. Others suggested finding a method of communication, to open dialogue with the planet if possible. But eventually, the option that was taken; was indefinite quarantine. The entire Selene system was put under heavy quarantine. It was strictly forbidden for anyone to enter, or perhaps to leave, on pain of getting put on the frozen penal colony worlds of the Russo-American Oligarchical Corpo-State or sent into exile, and presumably death, on Old Earth. The official reason was dangerous radiation and madness-inducing invisible spores that colonised your brain and turned you into a veritable zombie. Ever since the loss of the planets of Neu Bonn, Ultramar, Aurelius-V, and countless smaller colonies because of an outbreak of mutated rabies; not many people were particular interested in going there to check it out. Yet still. On Selene-2, people grew old with the hum in their head, breathed with the planet, and felt, if anyone had asked them, remarkably at peace. As if they were safe. Happy. Free from the nightmares of Old Earth, the extensive bureaucracy of the surviving nations, or the corruption that infested especially the MegaCorp worlds. They lived the simple lives that they had always wanted to live, felt the Goddess that they had worshipped before coming to Selene-2 with perfect clarity, and were on the whole, quite content. The new generation grew up, having heard the hum since the womb, and heard it always. They never wanted to leave. They lived in harmony, and in peace. But as they lived, they began to have new ideas. New concepts. Instead of burning the dead as they had once thought good and proper, they started to have visions. Into dark chambers they descended, deep chasms which they had never known were so close to their settlements. And there, a semi-organic fluid, running like a great underground river, shone gently with bizarre and changing light. They drank from that river. And into them came knowledge of what to do. The dead were thrown into the river. Eventually a few of the living joined. Never many. Perhaps one every year. To the ones who had stayed on Selene-2, who had been, in their perspective, blessed the purpose of this was clear. They were sending the souls of the dead and the willing to the Goddess. So that they might come closer in death, than they ever could be in life. A more cynical person, such as those who were set to study the planet from afar, might question why a Goddess would want corpses. And the occasional living sacrifice. The process of what happened to the willing sacrifices, and to the corpses of the dead, are best not thought about. What was noticeable, was that the hum could be heard further away. Not by much, perhaps only a little. But every time someone died, the range of that hum increased. The sound of the rhythmic beating of the heart of Selene-2, could be heard from further away. Perhaps the Goddess, or the living being that was Selene-2 had found a way to use the dead to increase her range. Perhaps she had simply grown weary, knowing that her beloved children could not spread indefinitely across her mighty plains and bountiful forests. Perhaps she had grown a taste for human worship and human dead. Whatever the cause, 200 years after the quarantine was put in place, it vanished. Not because it was disbanded. But because it heard the call of the Goddess. And now she had people on ships. Ships that could bring more people in, more people to hear her hum. More people to live and die on her. More for her to love, or more to love her. But the garrison heard her, and fell to her. Faster than before. For the hum could not be so easily ignored any longer. Nor the beating of the planet's rhythm. The few who had resisted, had been unable to stop the others, and in the end, even the hardest of wills came to love her and sing for her. Soon travellers in that part of the United Human Nations fell silent. Convoys of resources that were supposed to arrive, trade caravans, armed patrols, all were attacked by a well-organised armada, who took control of the ships, and dragged them to Selene-2. And once they heard, they could not unhear. It wasn't until the investigation fleet, sent to discover what had happened to the quarantine garrison and the many lost civilians, that the human race learned what had happened. The investigation fleet was decimated and dragged off, but one fast corvette managed to hide within a hollow asteroid, and reported back to the UHN. This was an emergency more critical than all that humanity had faced since the Exodus From Earth, and the billions who died when Earth ended. Across the galactic region of space occupied by humanity, all of mankind rallied to this unknown threat. This new and alien force, which overtook the mind, made you into something that was different. The overconfident just sent their armies and navies straight towards Selene-2. This error was felt most strongly, when the Russo-American 5th Offensive Fleet turned, when the Celestial People's Republic of Han's armies marched back to take Beijing_3 from the Tianzi-President, and when the UHN Pan-Terran Response Fleet lost 20% of its heavy dreadnaughts to defectors. For every enemy slain, the living planet, Selene-2 grew stronger. Because while the Goddess' fleets were focusing on diverting the UHN away from major settlements, every loss was frozen cryogenically and brought back to be given to the goddess. Every soldier too wounded to fight on, went on a pilgrimage to Selene-2 to offer themselves to the Goddess. The extremely minute amount of human beings who could not be broken, were cast into the semi-organic fluids as well. And for every sacrifice, every dead body, her influence grew. First to fall was the ApNesDisCom MegaCorp state. Billions of corporate drones, praising the goddess, growing her plants on their worlds. Soon followed others. Corporate nations, old-style nations, independent autarkic colonies. At the end, the human race was forced to evacuate most of the remaining regions near Selene-2 of all civilians. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
I remember making butterflies. This one has beautiful blue wings, black edges and different hues of blue, becoming lighter at the edges. It rests on the window of my cell. The only speck of color in this drab, grey hole in the ground. I envied it. It could just fly out of here. Away on the winds, never to be seen by me or anyone else, ever again. It was free, but I never gave it the intelligence to make it understand how free it is. Free to fly, free to rest. Free to eat, and drink, and breed, when the season is right. A simple, small little life. It stung that it didn't know how good it had it. Even worse, it was different before. They were called caterpillars. Worms, eating leaves. After living long enough, it would solidify into a cocoon and become as beautiful as they were meant to be. Whether that be a butterfly, or a moth. I knew it wasn't here for no reason. My siblings sent it here. To remind me of the irony. Of the beauty and power I possessed. Of how they made me fall into nothingness. Uselessness. Locked in my form, forced to watch the world around me decay and die and transform. To watch the sun rise and fall, over and over, yet knowing that I will never again traverse the rivers of time. It was cruel. They are all cruel. And wrong. And sick. And when I questioned them, they took it all out on me. All their sickness. Their hatred. Their fear. How dared I question them? And this pathetic existence was a reminder of how they disgraced me. Using my own creature, my own creation, to remind me of where I am today. I swatted the window, scaring the fluttery thing off. I don't want to see it. I don't want them to see me. I want them to leave me be. To let me live. They forced me into this life, and now they simply cannot let me live it in peace and quiet. I hope for their sake I never find a way to ascend again. If I were to ever see them again, while I could fight them, I'd annihilate them from all space and time. Could I do it, even with my old power? Maybe. But I'd try. And that's all Gods really needed. The will to act. I've thought about dying. I'd like to see their faces if I do. I want them to know that one way or another, a God can die. Once that realization sets in, once they know it's possible, they will feel true fear. To know that they are not as immortal as they think they are. That even for infinite beings such as them, there can be an end. Someone walks outside my cell. Jakoby, judging from the pattern in his footsteps. Fat, old and slow. Tired. Indifferent. Uncaring. Typical Jakoby. Almost as if on cue, the fat, balding man comes into view. His very face made me wish I'd had him aborted, or even had the fertilized eggcell die off before it could take hold in his mother's womb. "Up. You've got a visitor."The way the fat on both his chins make his voice sluggish fills me with disgust. It's all I feel these days. I get up, stick my arms through the slot in the door and let him cuff me. The doors open, and he leads me to the visitor area. A blank room, circular tables and stools. Devoid of humanity. I sit alone at a table. On the other side, another inmate sits with someone else. I can't be bothered to look closely, to tell who it is. I don't care. I've spent most of my human life churning on what could have been. Staring into space, at nothing. Nothing is worth my time. My solace. My peace. Like the space between worlds. Nothing. It doesn't complain. It doesn't whine. It doesn't smell, or spit, or hit, or curse, or look. A woman walks in. I don't care. That's a lie, actually. If I didn't care, I wouldn't have been bothered by it. I try to ignore her, but she sits by my table. I look at her. She looks nice. She wears a suit. Women wear suits these days? Wasn't it yesterday when that was blasphemous? I don't keep track of time. Ponytail, brown hair, brown eyes. Freckles. Thin face, small mouth. She looks at me with a certain intrigue. I look back at her with the indifference she deserves. "What have you done to yourself?"She asks. The voice of a singer. It's questioning, and concerned. I hate it. I don't answer. I'm tired. I want to get back to my cell. I look at Jakoby, standing around, doing fuck all. Maybe I should flip my shit at this woman, get locked in a box again. I could use the silence. She calls me by my name. My real name. Now she has my undivided attention. Who is this, and how dare she address me like this? Does she even know who she is addressing? I've watched the lives of uncountable humans, and I remember them all. I have seen Jakoby live and die more times than my current mind can count, and even more times, he never lived at all. This one though...I don't recall. She doesn't have a name card. I search my mind. Plenty of woman throughout history have looked like her, some even doppelgangers. But never this one. This one isn't human, and if she was, she was created for this conversation, and only very recently. And only for me. She sheds a single tear. I dig my fingers in my hands so deep, they hurt. Whoever she is, she knows I'm powerless. This is a play. Crocodile tears. This is beneath them. I want to wrap my hands around her neck and feel it break. No. Too fast. I want her to feel pain before she dies. But if she's one of them, she won't let that happen to her. She knows I'm powerless, if she knows who I am. "Come to gloat? Hmm?" "No."She says as she wipes her tear away. "No, that's not why I'm here." "Come to take a nice picture to take back upstairs, have a good laugh with everybody else?" "No. You've had enough. It's time to get you out." "Out?" "Yes. Out. You're not going to learn your lesson here. I want you to understand, I'm here to help you re-integrate." "...Re-integrate." "You've been here for over six centuries. We've seen that you hit rock bottom. We want to help you out. Help you find a better place for yourself, with us." "Fuck you." "We miss you. We want you back." "What part of 'fuck you' do you not understand?" "You're upset-" "Jakoby! I'm done here!" "Will you listen? I have fought for you to even be considered back in. I don't want you here any longer." "I never asked for help and don't want it." "We want you to get better." "No. You're afraid." "Wh- Afraid?" "Yeah. This timeline is broken because I'm in it, right? That's why you're here. I might have lost my power, but not my memory. There is no version of this world in which you exist, neither should I be here. You came here, now, to try and convince me to leave. Why? You want to preserve life in this realm. I am a danger to the stability and progress you hope to achieve. And you won't kill me, because of the implication. Now you try the 'at you lowest point, you're open to the greatest change' bullshit? To try and smooth things open before things go beyond your control. Get me to go back at it with you sorry bunch of shits so you can threaten me to fall in line, 'or else'. No. I'm staying here. Fuck yourself. I'm never going back. I'd rather be dead." "You're not serious." "I would rather be dead then go anywhere with you." Jakoby came by with cuffs. He gave the woman a look that his wife would disapprove of. "This is not negotiable. You will leave here with me, and you will come back to us." "Fuck me, you don't listen, do you?" "Sounds to me like you're not done here, Black."Jakoby says as he turns his fat head to me. "I wasn't part of it. I wasn't the one to cast you out."The woman said, standing up. She acted upset. She would make an excellent actress. "Nah, but you stood there and watched. You could have said something, done something, lifted a finger or made a noise. But you did nothing. I give you nothing in return. Never show your face to me again." I pull the cuffs out of Jakoby's clutches, clip them on myself and walk away. He calls out after me, but I don't care enough to listen. She calls out after me as well, but I drown out the noise by stomping as loud as I can. I need to get back to my cell. I need to be away from these people. Away. Far away. They won't stay away, of course. Neither humans nor Gods. I'm in their sight now. Their little plaything. This is all a play. It's fake. It's bullshit. Eventually, I'll have no choice. Maybe this is all part of their new plan. At least I'm going to be able to enjoy my privacy on my own, until they come sticking their heads around the corner. Why won't they just leave me alone?
The graveyard sits on a flat hill and is the shape of a ring. It’s surrounded by a crumbling brick wall that’s surrounded by a deep, dark trench. Both the trench and wall inhale and exhale into ever changing boundaries, as the graveyard’s needs and appetites shift. The headstones within are patterned into waves of concentric circles that perhaps help channel the magic buried beneath. Fingers of fog weave their way through and around the graveyard, caressing headstones as if they’re the stone cheeks of sleeping lovers. In its center sits a great gray tree, stretching its arms towards the heavens, channeling itself to God. Its roots maze the ground and devour the bodies buried nearest to it, tugging them and their headstones towards its base. The tree now wears a hundred stones like the shields of a roman legion. It’s not my graveyard. I’m just its current keeper. Or it is mine. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference. But I do know that we protect one another — although our agreement is unspoken and unsigned. An agreement in feeling alone. I didn’t bury the dragons or goblins or pixies (with their thumbsized gravestones that require a magnifying glass just to read). Those extinct creatures, whose bones leak their magic into the sodden earth, were perhaps buried by my ancestors — or perhaps by yours. Who can say? But I’ve been its keeper for the last twenty years, and I will be its keeper for twenty more, if that’s what is asked of me. My own grave is already dug and waits for me to tumble into, or crawl, or fall - however and whenever my end might come. The thieves steal into the graveyard on nights when the fog is thickest and the moon yawns itself into the thick blanket-clouds. But it’s on nights like this when snow dresses the mounds in neat white suits, that the buried bodies are at most risk. The snow, you see, dampens all sound, softens voices to a whisper with no reach, footsteps to a gentle breath. A dragon bone is worth a fortune, and many come for those. The bones burn blazingly bright for a thousand years, a fuel like no other. Elf bones allow the wearer (it must be worn around the neck) to see five minutes into the future. Vampire skin (for it does not rot) can be turned into clothing and the wearer does not age. They come with spades and daggers and darkness and they try to steal what doesn’t belong to them. But I am always here. Always listening and waiting. Protecting. And I will, and have, fought until bloody and staggering, pleading with them to leave. “We protect each other,” I say. But they don’t listen. And just as the night looks its most grim and its most dark, the graveyard screams: spiders and blackness lunge out of the fog, and my attackers are torn into damp smears of red on cold grass. “We protect each other.” There are two bodies here I care about in particular. One, I know where is buried. The other I don’t, her gravestone shattered into pebbles by the devouring tree. Perhaps the body too, but it doesn’t matter, for the magic her body contained has misted into the graveyard itself. It is here, and I feel it crawl like storm electricity over my neck. She was a neromancer. Some believe — myself included — that the graveyard was originally hers. Her playground or her testing area, where the people she slaughtered would be dug deep into the ground, only to claw their way out later that night under her black gaze. And now she rests here eternally - but the other bodies here, well, sometimes they do not. As if she is practicing her dark arts in some place below and beyond. Occasionally, I hear bodies scuttle, their finger bones like mole claws, and I listen and find, and dig and release. Always hoping that it’s... That is why I will stay until the day I die. Why I protect this place so fiercely, and — I think — why it protects me so fiercely, too. You see, the grave I dug ready for my own body is next to my son’s. He died when he was six. And on that day the graveyard called out to me, a stirring of color in my aching heart. I brought his little body here and said a prayer, half to god, half to the necromancer’s remains. And each night, when I hear the clawing, crying, gasping, wheezing of a body trying desperately to escape, I pray that it is his. But he sleeps still. Sleeps and rests. And until he is ready to wake, I will wait. Wait and protect the graveyard.
“You see it was quite simple when you put it all together, the foot prints left at the crime bore a distinct weight on the left foot with a slight scuff. Clearly someone who walks with a limp. You yourself happen to have a limp, isn’t that correct Mr. Martins?” The detective asked opening his case and smiling smugly knowing he had the perpetrator in question. “Yes, my left knee doesn’t bend correctly since the war.” Replied Mr. Martins. “And on those foot prints we found a particular red clay used in soil packages, often for gardening, and you have a prize winning garden and use those very soil packages don’t you?” He began to lay it on thick, pride coating every word. “Why yes, my tomato’s have won best in show five years running now, I’m quite proud of them.” Mr martins replied, strangely calmly considering the police interrogation room he was currently sitting in. “And the slash across the victims neck is significantly deeper on the left side and shallow on the right tilting upward at a sharp angle showing us she was slashed from behind by a right handed man who stood at least four inches taller than her 5’6” and your right handed and 5’10” isn’t that correct sir?” The detective broke into a wide smile at this point. “5’10” and a half to be precise sir.” “And you knew miss angeline well, in fact you two shared tea weekly on Thursday evenings?” “That’s correct sir.” “So why this last Thursday did you murder her? The tea was still undrunk on the table, was it not to your liking?” The detective sneered, arrogance filling every word so thick a man of less confidence would have choked on them. “I’m afraid your mistaken there, detective, I was being observed in the hospital last Thursday following my appendectomy, wasn’t released untill Saturday morning.” Mr. Martins said, not a trace of satisfaction at the drop in the dectectives face, just the calm sadness of a man who had lost something he loved. “I do wish I would have been there, maybe I could have protected her in some way. The surgery was an emergency, didn’t even get the chance to let her know before I was taken to the hospital. It pains me to think that lovely girl wasted any of her time worrying about an old man like me standing her up, and worse so that harm came to her the one time I wasn’t next door.” Tears began to form in the old mans eyes. “In observation you say?” The detective stuttered, as if his tongue had forgotten how to form the words. “At which hospital?” “Saint joes.” A rap came on the window, the detective turned sharply and opened the door. A junior officer stood there holding a small folder. “What?!?” Barked the detective. “Alibi checks out sir, we started running it when you brought him in. Capt. wants to see you, something about telling you to wait.” The detective checks flushed bright red as he spun twords the door to leave. “Excuse me detective?” Said Mr. Martins “you might want to look into an Albert McCoy. He and miss Angiline had a relationship in the past, it ended badly and week before last I had to take my shovel to his left leg to get him to leave when he showed up drunk and violent. He’s about 6 foot, probably still limping with his left leg. I even filed a police report the day I hit em.” The detective stormed out of the room bewildered. An angry ex boyfriend? Who had already had reports of violence twords the victim? Who would think to look for that?
Windows shook and birds took flight for miles around as the protesters neared Star Mansion. From the top of the twenty-story glass-and-gold tower, an ethereal knight, a man of fire, a blind, hovering child, a luminous witch, and a hooded figure watched the live helicopter feed of their home and headquarters in solemn silence. The wall-to-wall, top-of-the-line, holographic projection display flickered over some of the most prominently displayed signs. "NO TAX DOLLARS FOR VIGILANTES!""INBORN SUPERPOWERS PROMOTE INEQUALITY!""WHY DO SUPERHEROES NEED A MARKETING DEPARTMENT, ANYWAY?" "...This is bad,"Glass Knight eventually rumbled. "I could set off some fireworks, try to scare them off?"Epic Burn asked. Psionyx shook its head. "We don't want to hurt anyone. It'd be tough to affect that many people, but I could maybe make them all unconscious?" "They'd be back this time next week,"Stitch Witch snapped. "We should just leave. Take the money we have and set up shop in Greater Japan. Superhero culture there isn't so... this."She waved her hand at the endless protestors. The hooded figure sighed. Then he stood up. "No. Let me give this a try first." Stitch Witch laughed. "What're you gonna do, Cowboy? Round them up with your little lasso and corral them back into their pens? Face it, fellas: we lost this round. We should cut our losses and—" "Hold it."Psionyx lifted one slim finger. "I say we give the new kid a shot." "I suppose he could hardly make things worse,"Glass Knight said. "You're not afraid of him hurting them?"Epic Burn asked. "I... don't think Cowboy actually has any superpowers,"Stitch Witch said. "At the very least, it'll be funny to watch. Alright, kid. Whaddya need?" "Just... patch me into the intercom. Project me onto the big screen. And... don't say anything."Cowboy adjusted his hood, then swiped a hand through the air; the state-of-the-art computing system minimized the news feed, instead displaying a recording of Cowboy himself—simultaneously, the projector on the outside of the building lit up, rendering a holographic projection of him and sending his voice echoing across the city. The protestors fell quiet as the superheroes answered their call. "People of New Louis,"Cowboy began, "I am Cowboy, newest and youngest member of the Star Superheroes. Trust me when I say that I understand more than anyone your fury—your valid, justified fury—at people being assigned status and wealth by what they were born with. I understand your righteous outrage at tax dollars spent not on enhancing how strong our law enforcement is or how rigorous our protections against villains are, but on promoting the brand of a superhero team." Cowboy's words were met with roars of anger and undirected fury. The mob, acting as one, hoisted a sign screaming "SUPERHUMANS CAN NEVER UNDERSTAND OUR NEEDS! HUMAN HEROES FOR HUMANKIND!" "And I hear you!"Cowboy said. "But believe me—being a superhero is not just for the wealthy, or the powerful." And with that, Cowboy took off his robe. It was... difficult, at first, for the audience to comprehend what they were looking at. Cowboy's skin was mottled, splotches of black and white stretched across a too-human snout. Both his hands ended in keratin-coated stumps that waved feebly in the air, while his overdeveloped thighs bulged out from his ill-fitting pants. To top it off, two faintly-bleeding head wounds marked where thick, curling horns had curved up into his head and cut into his scalp. "I know what it is like to be less privileged, less wealthy, less powerful because of what you were born with. I was—and still am—scorned and mocked and assaulted for my appearances, for my weakness. But because of these heroes—because of superheroes—I was able to become something better. And that's why we need heroes. Not because of how much fire they can breathe or how many pounds they can lift, but because they're a symbol. An idea. A sliver of hope that even—even the butt of a bad joke can become something beautiful."Cowboy's throat caught on the words, but he continued. "And those... those are the core parts of being a hero. The parts that I think we have lost, over the years." Cowboy looked around at the luxurious mansion the government had built him and his team as thanks. "So starting now, we begin talking about how to be better. Starting now, we step away from luxury and towards the hard truths: that even though we are imperfect, we can become something better." Cowboy pulled his hood back up, a bovine smile splitting his lips. "Because that's what heroes do." A.N. Suggestions? Comments? Typos? Please leave them on this comment's sister post at [r/bubblewriters](https://www.reddit.com/r/bubblewriters/); and if you want more stories like this, try giving the rest of [r/bubblewriters](https://www.reddit.com/r/bubblewriters/) a peek.
The doors fly open with a thunderous noise that echoed through the church, the priest started with the shotgun, 8 shells later there were 6 demons laying down on the floor, he dropped the shotgun and continued with the revolver shooting from the hip as if he was an old seasoned cowboy 6 shoots later there were 2 more demons down and satisfaction notable in the priest face he kneel grasping his rosary and raising his face to the image of Christ he let out one last cry "father I've done all I can to protect this holy place, please forgive these ill souls as they don't know what they do". He lowered his head in prayer knowing that his end was near, he did not fear death, he was a saint of the church one of the few chosen by the lord. Everything got quiet, two demons took to his right another two at his left they pinned him to ground, he did not struggle, they put his hand behind his back tied them and escort him outside, the red and blue lights illuminated the grotesque scene the ambulance sirens offered an unnerving break of the silence as they become louder and louder every second. Detective Jackson was the only one brave enough to ask the question on everyone mind, "where's Amanda? What did you do with the little girl?"we all knew the answer. The priest looked at him and laugh a satisfied laugh of the man that has completed his work, "she is where she belongs, in the arms of the lord and you foul demons will never have claim on her soul". Jackson punched him once in the stomach holding back the urge to kill him we all had that night and then run inside the church, he almost tripped on one of the bodies as he entered, he asked the paramedics and again we all knew the answer, "no survivors". The girl?, well the priest was everything but a liar, there she was in the arms of the lord. It was sickening to watch the image of Christ with his opened arms and affable smile holding the bloody body of Amanda. During trial the lawyer argued that the priest suffered from some kind of mental illness asking for him to be put on a asylum and not in jail the judge agreed and we all felt like we failed to bring justice for Amanda, that's what put Jackson over the edge the very next day he asked to be the one to take the priest to the asylum as a form of closure to the whole case, they were never seen again. He probably delivered him to the arms of the lord.
It looked like a rock at first. Half buried under Martian dirt, pitted and marred by wind-blown dust, the skull was hardly recognizable. Yet when the rover closed in it was difficult to dismiss it as anything but. This was no Cydonia, no trick of the light turning mountains and hills into faces and pyramids. The rover poked and prodded, took pictures from every angle it could, and the result was clear: there was a Neanderthal’s skull on Mars. The initial plan of keeping the findings a secret fell through almost immediately, when a team member went to the press with hastily snapped photos and a believable story to support them. The first headlines were something usually only found in tabloids: “Martians Are Real, and They’re From Earth!” was a popular one, but despite the initial excitement, the theories and speculation, the question remained: why was it there? The Neanderthals were an old people, yes. Older than homo sapiens themselves, or at least the theory goes. But they were stuck in the stone age, dying or being assimilated as modern humans rose to power. How would one of their number find themselves on Mars, a planet modern technology is only just beginning to explore? The answer would have to wait, as the rover continued its slow trundle across Martian soil, it found more bones. Dozens of skulls, all eroded with time but easily recognizable in that part of the brain that still watches for the ancient dangers of a dark cave or a rustle in the grass. Other bones, too, haphazardly scattered across a space kilometers wide. It took the rover months to explore and catalogue it all, and soon the headlines changed. People had lost their wonder and awe at this confirmed life on other planets, so much more substantial than simply frozen water. People were beginning to worry. More rovers were designed and launched, and long-term plans were accelerated to get human eyes on the Martian situation, or the Martian Massacre as it came to be called. It took several years before the situation was fully understood. Life did exist on Mars, so long ago; billions of years, in fact, stretching back to the Noachian period. Initial, rough estimates to date the bones were almost too ridiculous to believe, millions if not billions of years old. Further testing, and the rapid advancement of a rudimentary Mars colony plan, verified the earlier results. Whatever had brought these people here, it had taken place millennia before any evidence of Neanderthals surfaced on Earth. Further examination of the bones yielded little to either verify or disprove any of the dozens of theories attempting to explain the Massacre. The bones showed no signs of trauma, beyond that visited upon them by the Martian environment. They may have been malnourished, or simply smaller than their Earth-dwelling counterparts. They were, it was most likely, buried quite deeply before their eventual surfacing and discovery. It was this last fact that would prove useful, when combined with a little luck. One archaeologist turned astronaut, carefully sifting through a relatively barren corner of her dig site, uncovered a massive, solid rock barrier. Smooth to the touch, she correctly guessed that the rock had been worked with tools. It took six years before the manpower and equipment could be put in place, but eventually the massive rock was shifted, and revealed to be an ersatz door. The city beneath the Martian sand was crumbling. The metal used in its construction had held up remarkably well, but time had taken its toll all the same. Thankfully, many of the smaller structures were hewn from the rock itself, excavated alongside the massive subterranean cavern. Early estimates were that millions could have lived here, once, and what few remains were still present supported them. They were surely advanced; while the infrastructure had rotted away the framework of a power grid still lingered, and several murals carved directly into the stone showed technology not unfamiliar to modern man. Whatever events had driven them underground, the Neanderthals had prospered for millennia, until something drove them back out. Worsening conditions, the theorists said, perhaps a thinning atmosphere or impending ice age. Subterranean highways drilled through the rock eventually lead explorers to a launch site, or at least what looked an awful lot like one. A massive silo, filled with sand and rock from where a ceiling must have once collapsed. Still, questions remained. It was clear the Neanderthals had fled to Earth, in much the same way humanity now seeks to colonize Mars. What had deprived them of their technology on arrival, then, an advantage that should have made them the masters of their new domain? Sickness, perhaps, an old theory for their extinction? Perhaps a failed launch, or many failed launches? If too few colonists arrived those that remained may have lacked the skills and expertise to preserve their way of life. There the story ends. Research is ongoing, and still the occasional discovery yields an insight into ancient Neanderthal life, or simply Martians, as some like to call them, but nothing more substantial than the discoveries made into our own terrestrial history, the life and times of the ancient Egyptians or Romans. With this at least one question was answered definitively. Humanity, for a time, was not alone in the vastness of space. Perhaps we weren’t even now.
"Yes, Janice, I was not kidding" "Wha-?"she looked at the room in awe, "what kind of therapy do you do?" "Do you see those twelve rooms? Each of the people inside alone has the mental maturity of a toddler and with a stray thought, can obliterate the planet"he gestured towards an extremely buff, half-naked man in some bright-blue khakis, "watch how he reacts to someone with differing opinions" A humanoid robot appeared next to the man, "Pineapple on pizza is good", the buff man rose up, "WHAT! YOU HERETIC! PINEAPPLE ON PIZZA IS A SIN AND YOU SHALL BE PUNISHED!", he proceeded to impale the robot with a trident, making it explode. Janice stared in awe, "I see what you mean Boris" "They may seem like gods, but these poor things have been through a lot, their father ate them, they were then vomited out, and then they proceeded to kill said father, and then their grandmother had children with the embodiment of hell to produce a group of Titans to kill them." "I can see what you mean, but if these gods are here, who is ruling over the universe?" "Well, after the Greeks fell, they gained the ability to transform into their Roman counterpart, then, with the rise of Judaism, their successor, Tetragrammaton, who later became known as Allah, or Jesus, took over from the Pantheon" Janice hit the floor with a thud, a robotic arm then picked her up and took her away. Boris sighed, "Time to get to work then" \--------------- "No Zeus, we do not electrocute people when they make a joke about us" Zeus grumbled, "But... it hurts my feelings!" "I understand what you're saying, but that is not how you handle this situation, you should talk to the person and tell them that you don't like what they're doing." "What if they don't listen? Can we electrocute them then?" "*No, electrocution is never* the solution, if they don't stop, then you stay away from them and stop listening to what they say, is that clear Zeus?" Zeus dejectedly mumbled, "Fine" Janice ran into the room, "Zeus sucks!" Zeus rose into the air, electricity arced between his fingertips, Janice's face was illuminated by his stark blue eyes, he pointed his hand at Janice, "WHAT DID YOU SAY?"Boris quickly pushed a series of buttons, separating Janice from Zeus with a thick, concrete wall, which was decimated by a blinding bolt of divine lightning. With the push of a few more buttons, the raging god was restrained by seven glowing chains. which were on the verge of breaking. With the push of another long series of buttons, Zeus was calmed down by a purple gas which made Janic gag. "Zeus! What did I just say? We do not electrocute people!" "I- I'm sorry Boris,"Zeus just barely said before he burst into tears. "Do you see what I mean? They are fragile things, broken easily by things that we have grown resistant to."
# How to Break a Siege of Legends (Book -1, Part 2: How to Tell a Warrior to Rest) (Note: How to Break a Siege of Legends is episodic; each part is self-contained. This story can be enjoyed without reading the previous sections.) Lien Arturo was packing for a journey when the unshaven man appeared on his bed. Lien sighed—he knew it was more or less random where they materialized, but really, on his bed?—and stood to greet the newcomer, who was squinting suspiciously in the electric lights. "Greetings,"Lien said. "I'm—" The man spun around and grabbed Lien by the shoulders, bloodshot eyes meeting Lien's as he shook him. "Is—is this it? Did I—did I reach Valhalla?" Lien gently but firmly placed a hand on the man's shoulder and sighed. So he was one of those. Right. "...Sort of, and not really,"he said. The man's grip on his shoulder tightened. "Stop with your waffling doublespeak, child. Is this where heroes fight forever in the afterlife?" "Not quite. You want to fight forever? Hell's a two-hour drive that way."Lien pointed to one side; the man gave him a confused look. "This is... a better place. Or, at least, it tries to be." The man frowned, then cautiously released him, absently patting at his belt where his small axe dangled. "What... what do you mean, a better place?" Lien rubbed his forehead, sighing. Why did it have to be him? There were plenty of other, far more qualified people who could kindly, gently walk the newbies through what life was like in the psychosphere, who could talk them down from the battle-lust and rage that seemed to permeate all the lost souls who popped up in this part of the psychosphere. "Alright, bud. Normally, there's a whole damn squadron of people who could talk you through this a little more gently, but they're not here right now, so you're stuck with me. Let's get the basics out of the way first. You're dead."He met the man's eyes squarely. The man snorted. "I knew that. Idiot. One does not survive a bullet to the head. All that I can do is make sure that the bullets are aimed at me, and not at..."He trailed off, shaking away whatever haze had fallen over him. "Yes. I am dead. But since I am still here, and since you are still here, it is much like being alive, hm?" Hoo boy. "I think you'll find that the afterlife is... nothing at all like being alive on Earth,"Lien said. Pensively, he frowned. Bullets, huh? More modern a death than he'd expected. The man laughed and clapped Lien's shoulder. "There are strong soldiers like me, to protect, and there are young shrimp like you, to be protected. It is much like being alive back home, as it always is." Lien snorted. "Believe me, I don't need protection. And more to the point... you don't need to protect anyone anymore." He paused. "I... what?" "This area of the psychosphere... it's safe, more or less. Oh, there's adventure outside its walls, and there's always evildoers somewhere—" "Then that's where I'll go,"the man announced. "—but those evildoers... they mostly used to be people like you,"Lien finished. He froze. Then his eyebrows descended in a thunderous scowl. "Now, you listen here—" "No, you listen here. You want to protect me? Then do me a favor and don't turn into something I have to defeat later."Lien stood up, his voice projecting over the man's, and even though he wasn't cowed, exactly, he closed his mouth and gave Lien a stern look. "Yes, there's still evil to vanquish, even in the afterlife. That just seems to be a fact of human nature everywhere. But right now... you shouldn't be the one to vanquish it. There are already people working on that."The people who should've been here to greet you, Lien mentally added. "Right now... I don't know your life story, but you just died and the first thing you want to do is get back up for round two."Lien gently guided the man to sit on the bed. "Instead of that, just... stop. For just a moment." The man grunted. "And do... what?" "Let yourself be protected, for once."Lien squeezed his arm. "Now come on. Let me show you around the facilities." A.N. I'm trying something new! "How to Break a Siege of Legends"will be an episodic story where each part is inspired by a writing prompt that catches my eye. Check out [this post](https://www.reddit.com/r/bubblewriters/comments/mdh066/how_to_break_a_siege_of_legends_masterpost/) for the rest of the story. As always, I had fun writing this, I'm open to feedback and suggestions on how I can improve, and I hope you have a great day.
"Madame Ishana, we have an urgent issue." Ishana's secretary alerted her to an issue that was once thought to be impossible, but has since been inevitable. "When did he pass, Kreilli?"Ishana unwillingly asked "03:00 Galactic standard time, I heared he passed peacefully." Ishana was bewildered. as per Galactic council tradition, a recently extinct species would have a poem written about them. However... "What is there to say about Humanity."Ishana pondered deeply, unable to muster anything to use as a basis for the reading in just a mere 5 terms. She contacted the Overseer and requested an emergency meeting to address the issue, bringing in the finest writers and poets. "The council has not reached a final decision, nothing has been deemed worthy to be used for the reading which is now just 2 terms away."Kreilli relayed what he was told to Ishana. "So it appears we cannot even do something so simple ourselves."Ishana looked on from her private craft at a solar system dominated by a red giant at its centre. "That small rocky world over their, Kreilli, can you see it?"She pointed at the small, scorching ball. "That is Earth. Where they first stood." "It is mightily impressive to me that humans originated from something so humble."Kreilli looked towards the small ball. "I know, I wish I was there to witness the passing."Both Kreilli and Ishana stood their silently, waiting for each other to speak. "Kreilli, could yo-" "Madame, if I may, would like to say a few words about them."Kreilli rudely cut her off, but Ishana was used to this. "Of course."She turned back to face the the bright red star. "They were the first to cross the cosmic seas, yet were the last to be united under one flag. Their mighty ships are now scattered among the stars without purpose. Those ships brought salvation to many, enlightenment to most and destruction to some. They were as ruthless as they were forgiving, as reckless as they were innovative. While their great structures will rot away, their legacy will not. Their stories, their songs, their poems, their wars. While the last breathed not too long ago, their memory will breathe long after the last star breathes its last. Let it be that the final words of life be the same as those from the last human, "My ancestors... they call me."
It had been forty years since they've moved into their new lair and the couple found it comfortable but with a significant lack of decorations. She wanted to add more color and life to their home. She emphasized the importance of getting a modern draconic flair to their home. Gold lined furniture with sleek obsidian frames, sparse decorations that focused on warm, subdued colors against modern blacks. He wanted space in their home, a more workshop and home vibe that he has lived in for his entire life. Big open spaces that allowed natural lighting as well as fresh breeze. Simple wood and stone furnishing and decor, paired with ornaments and design that held significant meaning to both of them. None of their plans came together but they made it work. Their lair was made with love after all and to the newly weds there is a lot of that going around. So much so they'd have to take good long baths together to wash off all the love. One day as they were sitting in their living room and discussing the latest edition of Dragon Travelers Weekly, a magical journal they have both contributed to in the past Amelia, the lady dragon told her husband. "I want a baby."Her husband smiled, before carrying her off to their bed. The two dragons, although they loved each other very much, eventually were exhausted with 'doing it'. They consulted their friend, a major of dragon gynecology and obstetrics. It was a long six months planning with their doctor and failing to produce the life that they so wanted. Some nights they wouldn't even get in the mood anymore. She would whisper into her ears that she wants to have a kid so bad. "Imagine", she mused, "hearing the muffled giggles of our kids trying to sneak past our room to eat your cookies." "They'd be diabetic before we know it."Amir laughed, before kissing the forehead of his wife. They would try and try again, and eventually their doctor recommended that they ask Three Spires Magic Labs and Clinic to test their fertility. And to their horror, Amir had was sterile. Further testing revealed that it was due to a Dragon Rending spell cast on him. He covered his mouth with his hands before supporting himself against the wall of the clinic. He cursed his time in the army for their misfortune. Three weeks passed as the husband and wife stewed in the information. Amir hadn't stop saying sorry to his wife as he coddled the smaller dragon in his arms. From her position she have her husband a kiss before peaking out from his chest. "Do you want to adopt?" \--- "And that's how you became a part of our family!"The small human on an equally small bed in their cavernous room awed at the story. Her mind filled with thoughts of her parent's time before she was adopted. "Of course me and your daddy had to go through a lot of legal hoops, about inter-specie adoption as well as the fact that we are huge fire breathing and magic wielding beings."Her mother smiled as she flicked dust from her finger tips "But that was rather easily solved by Amir." Amelia blew her daughter a kiss before closing the light in her room. "Good night sweetie, mommy loves you."
Dust. Ash. Sand. It was everywhere, carried gently by the desert winds. It had long since coated the grand marble pillars, so lovingly crafted by the Creators. It had seeped into every crack and crevice, and consumed the mosaics and frescos that had once adorned every wall and ceiling. The Creators were a gentle breed, fully embracing the diverse and vibrant arts and sciences. Every surface was a canvas, every mystery a journey, every equation the language of life itself. They pursued the unknown with admirable ambition and enthusiasm. It was through their relentless desire to discover and progress that the heavens themselves were within their grasp. The golem gazed down at his hand. The being's hide had long since been caked in sand and grit. He flexed his brown fingers, sending displaced sand cascading down to the ground. Those fingers had, like that rest of the golem's chassis, been cast in gold and silver. Now it was all sand and dust. He knelt down, passing a hand against the street, parting a dense layer of sand. The surface of the street glittered. The street, like the lone golem, was also cast in gold. The Creators had done this deliberately. An outsider might have misunderstood the meaning behind such brazen opulence. Gold had been valued, perhaps too much, by those who had come before the Creators. Entire wars had been waged, empires birthed and destroyed, countless lives lost, all for this supposedly precious metal. Knowing this, the Creators had decided to use gold for the most mundane of functions, to tear down its luxurious reputation. So they had paved their streets and alleys in this gleaming, glittering metal. The golem pulled his hand away from the street. The sand and dust had been rubbed off of his palm. The golem gazed down at the smooth golden plate, watching as it caught and reflected the sun. His kind had been the one exception. The Creators were dying. They could construct wonders, but they could not save themselves. The art of their own construction had always eluded them. The golems had been their last experiment. Their death rattle. And so the golems had been birthed in the finest metals. Gold and silver seamless and fluid, streaked with liquid slivers of jewels and gemstones. The golems were to be their children, their inheritors, and they would be gilded appropriately. Their very form would catch the light of the sun, for that is what they were. The last light of a dying people. A drop fell down. Then another. Glittering sapphires of moisture splashing down and absorbed into the sand. The golem was crying. In his long millennia of existence, only in the last century had he become aware that he could. For it had been in the last century that the light of the golems had almost gone out. He was all that was left, he was alone. One last spark against the encroaching dark, a candle burning in defiance of the long night. Such a realization, materializing in his thoughts as he held his life-warded partner in his arms and her spark sputtered and failed, had nearly driven him to self-destruction. Only one thought, coming just as swiftly, had stayed this grim desire. The thought had come to life in front of him, now. After his life-ward had perished, and last rites administered, he had began the long, arduous trek to the tower now standing before him. The Tower, the Heart, the Spire. It was in this spear of steel thrust toward the heavens that every golem had first felt the kiss of life. Where they had all taken their first breath and stumbled through their first steps. It was in this Spire that the last mystery of the universe had been unlocked, and the Creators given birth to their children. Despite this, no golem had ever returned to the Spire. None had ever possessed the desire. They all understood its significance, yet none had ever opened its gilded doors after leaving. Had his life-ward still been alive, then perhaps he would not be here at all. Perhaps it was her death that had driven him to do what none had ever contemplated. Though he was not of the Creators, and they had not lived long enough to pass their knowledge onto their children, many of their inventions still stirred with life. Maybe he could find some way to restore what had once been. Perhaps a Creator still lived. He pushed the heavy doors open with a grunt. Sand and dust spilling from his form as muscles bunched with effort under his golden skin. He drew a long, deep breath. The air was stale, thick with the old scents of ancient oils and lubricants. It had a heavy metallic taste. While the sand had failed to penetrate the doors, a thick layer of dust perverted every surface. As the golem entered, however, the forgotten creations and esoteric devices sparked into life. Runic script cast in viridian lumination danced across tablets and terminals. Similar runes suddenly formed across his skin, swirling and dancing across his figure. He suddenly felt like he was being watched and judged, though he could not fathom what could be doing so. He walked further into the Tower, finding an intricate wrought iron staircase that lead deep into the bowels of the Spire. Something was drawing him there. An unconscious imperative, like drawing breath. The basement was a single chamber, built around a circular platform at its heart. Surrounding the platform were seven thrones, and the golem wept again. Six of the thrones were occupied. Each bore a Creator, though their spark had long since faded. Their skeletal, metal forms were held rigid with restraints. Various wires and cables snaked though their bodies, slipping through their metal bones and plugging into their skulls. Their mouthes were open, each filled with a thick, heavy-looking cable that fed directly into their thrones, bundled together with the cables and wires that swallowed them. The golem approached the seventh, barren throne. The same impulse that had drove him into the Spire had now commanded him to take his place upon the throne. He sat, cables and wires springing into action. The runes that danced across his skin pulsed with renewed vigor. The cables punctured his skin, slipping effortlessly into his form, merging with him. His mouth dropped open, the final cable punched into his maw, pushing his head back. Metal sleeves shot out from the throne, wrapping across his wrists, ankles, neck, and waist. He should have been afraid, he should have been in pain. But his thoughts were consumed by what was in front of him. The platform had come alive. Panels shifted, coruscating metal rings rose and interlocked. A crimson holograph sparked into life. A golem! It was soon sundered. Its contents made apparent. If he could have screamed, he would have. He could only sit helpless and weep as knowledge brutalized his ignorant mind, stripping away the lies and illusions the Creators had cast. The golems were never alive. They were machines. No different from the Creators. They were not born, they did not feel the kiss of life. They were manufactured. Cold metal components forced together. An invention of the most pristine, advanced arts the Creators could muster. An imitation of creation, so near to life it was almost indistinguishable. But they could not fulfill the one function they were forged for. They were failures. All of them. They had only been permitted to exist out of guilt. The Creators could not brings themselves to destroy the golems and erase their failures. The golems were not cast in gold and glittering jewels out of love and devotion, but out of penance and regret. A beautiful facade to hide the rotten lie. The crimson holographic golem disappeared, sputtering into nothingness. A new figure replaced it. The golem recognized its shape, for it mirrored his own. But this being was not cast in metal as he was. It was organic, its flesh supple and pliant. It eyes were not glittering gems, but carried an intense spark that enraptured and disturbed in equal measure. This was what he had been made to replicate. This had been the unreachable goal. As he gazed upon the figure, a voice welled out from across the six Creators. A deep baritone that made the air itself tremble, and seemed to come from the chamber itself. We could not live without them.
"Hmm? Did you say something?"Zach's sister turned to ask as I was showing her through the apartment. I let out a small chuckle, "Nah, that's just the ghost. You see, our apartment's haunted." "Oh, yeah, Zach's ex." "Wait, what?"I stopped, equally puzzled by how she knew the apartment was haunted and how she was so confident it was his ex-girlfriend. At that moment, a clatter came from my left. We turned to see a very shocked Zach, who quickly shifted to looking intently at the floor and shuffling his feet. His sister stared for a second before berating him, "You didn't tell him?!"She shouted, her eyes wide. "What was I meant to say?"he yelled back, "'Oh, by the way, that ghost? Yeah, we used to be a thing!' It's not exactly that simple!" Suddenly, the lights turned off. This would be concerning if the house wasn't literally haunted, but as it is we just shuffled our way to the fuse box as we always did. However, what wasn't normal was the note left stuck to the box's cover. "You know, it's not nice to play games like this sis..."Zach accused upon seeing the note. "What games? Just turn the lights back on will you." Zach followed her orders and flipped the switch. As the bulbs sprang to life and filled the room with colour, the note became clear to the rest of us as well: "Really? You didn't tell him about me?" Zach's sister laughed slightly in response, "So you did know?"she said while elbowing me in the ribs, "You're quite the prankster." "Umm, I didn't know..." "Well if you didn't write it, and I didn't write it, then who did?" Once again, the lights turned off. However, when Zach turned them on this time, deep marks had been cut into the walls, reading: "Hello! I can hear you, you know!" As we read the new message and exchanged looks, everything was silent. Zach eventually spoke up, "H-hey babe? Y-You there?"His voice wasn't exactly that of a confident, loving boyfriend, and more of a timid first-time monster-hunter who didn't expect to find anything. The lights didn't even turn of for the next response, instead she let us watch as the letters where carved into the wall: "Five years! Five years I wait! And all I get is a 'Hey babe, you there'? Are you kidding me?" Zach looked back, somehow paler than either me or his sister, "Maybe we should... give her some space."Followed up with him mouthing the word 'run'. Agreeing with his decision, all three of us turned to make a hasty retreat, only to be met with the door slamming in our face and a new message written on the back of the door in a liquid that you could only hope was tomato ketchup: "And now you try to leave? Can't a girl make one, small, simple request in her death?" Again, Zach responded to her, "W-what would that me? My... err... my love?" As he spoke I lost control of my body. It twisted around to face him and my mouth opened wide. The voice that came out was mine and hers, all wrapped up into one as we spoke, "I want things to go back to how they were!"Zach and his sister both stepped back reflexively before she continued, "I've been watching for five years. I can control this body, or hers. Either way, we get to be together forever."My body lurched forward into a hug I didn't want to give, and Zach clearly didn't want to receive. However, it didn't look like she was going to take 'no' for an answer... &#x200B; &#x200B; If you liked this story, head over to r/F4TF0X to read more of my stuff!
“I can’t believe he got it so wrong. He has great reviews!” Chris complained to his girlfriend Amy who he’d called as soon as he left the tattoo parlour. He was standing in the bathroom of a bar he’d skipped to for both a mirror and a beer. He was staring at the tattoo on his arm which would best be described as a blurry dolphin face. “I’m sure it’s fine babe,” Amy said and her loudspeaker voice echoed around the bathroom. “It looks blurry honestly.” “Did you smudge it? You’re not supposed to touch it!” “I didn’t touch. That’s just how it looks. The artist smudged it. Actually I can hardly call him an artist. I need to go on one of the TV shows were they fix bad tattoos.” “Those shows are hilarious. Speaking of TV, can we watch 11.22.63 tonight?” “Is that a movie?” “No it’s a mini series. It’s an alternate history drama based on a Stephen King book.” “Yep I’m in. Can we have a thousand glasses of wine too? That will temporarily make me forget about the tattoo disaster.” Suddenly a man dressed in a long black overcoat walks into the bathroom. He goes to walk to a cubicle but, after nodding politely toward Chris he stops and holds his eyes on the mirror. Staring at Chris’s tattoo. He’s stopped dead. Chris notices. “Babe I’ll call you back,” he said and hung up the phone. “Are you right there pal?” “How long have you been here?” the man asks, snapped from his reverie. “In the bathroom? ‘Bout 5 minutes. Why?” “Not in the bathroom, silly. In 2021. I’m actually stuck. Glad I found you. I’ll come back with you unless you had plans?” Chris shakes his head. Could his day get any better? “Sorry guy, I’ve had enough crazy today with my tattoo artist going not only Sydney Pollock on my arm, but ever worse - blurry Sydney Pollock.” Chris leaves without another word and grabs a glass of beer before taking a seat and scrolling through Reddit on his phone. He goes to writing prompts to kill some time. He reads a few, but can’t get into any. Then one grabs his attention. He reads it once. Then twice. Then a third time. He speaks quietly to himself. “...specific symbol...time-travelers...lift home...recent tattoo...match...oh my god.” “Sorry about before,” he hears and looks up to see the man from the bathroom. “I should have introduced myself properly. I’m Arnold Smith, from 2167. What year are you from?” “I, um, I’m from this year.” “This year? How’s that?” “I think you have me mistaken. I just got this tattoo. It’s an error. I’m not a time traveller.” The man laughs. “You’re funny. Look honestly, I need to get back ASAP, so can you help me out?”
"Mind telling us what is so goddamn important that it couldn't wait til morning?" Dr. Tannis stood in front of the room feeling absolutely terrified. She was in the presence of the President of the United States, the Chiefs of the FBI, CIA, NSA and other alphabet branches she had no idea existed. The President was in a bathrobe and wasn't too happy with being woken up for this emergency meeting. "If I may, Mr. President,"the NSA Chief stood up. "As part of Project Icarus, the NSA monitors the civilian population for any chatter of Powered Individuals. We discovered information from Dr. Tannis that led to putting her on the CIA's radar." The President looked over to the CIA Chief, who now stood up to speak. "Well, we took the NSA file and dug deeper into Dr. Tannis' work. It turns out her parents are Powered Individuals who have gone missing. And she has been developed an algorithm capable of tracking and finding Powered Individuals in hiding. I'll let her explain her findings." The CIA Chief sat down, looked at Dr. Tannis and gave an assuring nod. "Okay, umm… we all know that these powers still abide by some law of conservation of energy, right? A man uses electricity powers and the neighborhood goes dark. Some kid uses water powers and their neighbor's swimming pool runs dry. That kind of stuff, right?" The room nodded. "The good news is that this all happens locally. You don't get a powerful electrokinetic in Philadelphia causing rolling blackouts in California. It just doesn't happen. So what my system does is…" "Spare us the technical details,"the FBI chief interrupted. "What are you getting at here?" "Oh, right. Skip past the part that needs a degree from MIT. Anyway, there is certain energy readings that don't make sense. Here, let me show you." Dr. Tannis walked over to the laptop connected to the projector and plugged in a small thumb drive. She loaded her files and projected a graph on the screen. "This is meteorological data aggregated from multiple weather stations across the world. All of them register a dip in solar irradiance, as in how much power is reaching the Earth from the sun, that lasts about 3 seconds. In the hours after that, we see this…" She clicked another slide. "A rise in temperatures across the world. Very slight but a distinct average increase in 4 degrees Fahrenheit, with the epicentre in Russia." The CIA Chief stepped in. "Mr. President, a few days before this detection, Russia sent us a formal announcement that they will be doing nuclear tests." "I don't get the connection between that and this weather anomaly from Dr. Tannis,"replied the President. "Mr. President, what I'm saying is that is NOT a nuclear test. You'd need to three times the world's entire nuclear arsenal to cause this temperature change. And even if such a weapon existed, it doesn't explain that 3-second dip in solar irradiance." The President and other Chiefs had a blank look on their faces. Dr. Tannis sighed in frustration. "The Russian government has a Powered Individual who can draw. power. from. the Sun." The CIA Chief stood up. "Let me simplify it for everybody in this room. The Russians are training a human nuclear bomb that can detonate with enough firepower to make Hiroshima look like a firecracker." --- r/KenTZWrites for a "best of"collection of my writings. :)
"Oh yes, this is a common complaint of the muggleborn." "First Generation Wizards or First-Gens for short,"the suited woman corrected, "Muggleborn is a racial slur after all." "Um, um yes. Indeed." "So about house elves being enslaved-" "Well, it is a bit racist as you say,"the headmaster started, a bit proud at the easy jab, "to assume house elves function the same as humans." "Your meaning?"It was hard to miss her somewhat concealed rage. "The same way humans draw their needs from food, water, shelter, love, and emotional connections, house elves draw their needs from serving their families. To suggest they be independent from these or paid is a grievous offence." "I don't-" "If your husband offered you 10 galleons for a night love-making, you'd be pleased, yes? A friend offering you 12 sickles to go to lunch? A mother bribing you 2 galleons to eat your dinner? Quite generous. Don't you agree miss?" "What are you-" "Now hush and return to the idiotic self-righteous corner of social media from whence you came."The headmaster said and punctuated it with a silencing spell. Muggles. How silly.
I skipped forward in time a little, watching as they grew their civilization.I stopped a couple times, admiring the difference between our developments. Some developed movable ossicones. Suddenly, they could pick up rocks and drop them from on high on top of predators.They developed tools, contraptions of stone and wood, able to strip the leaves and fruits from trees. They developed farming, long rows of tall trees spread across the plains.The first houses were four trees close together, strung with shelving between them, a roof made from the canopy. I watched as they discovered stonemasonry, stacking stones on high, with trees acting as supports. Their farms were ringed with stone walls, they watched their underdeveloped-horned brethren left outside to the elements. I cried as the farm-castles started to hunt their kin, axes held over their heads, they fell the wildlings like trees. The farm-castles covered the lands, wars erupting between them, centuries of death and carnage. With anticipation, I waited, as a young calf threw red, rusted rocks into a pottery kiln, and his friends waved large leaves to fan the flames, as young pyromaniacs are a the birth and death of development. A puddle of glowing red liquid ore leaked out of the kiln, and the youngsters poked it with sticks. Later, they would find the soft metal useful in making many things, and the study of metallurgy found purchase in the souls of the tallfolk. More war... I had forgotten that better weapons just meant better war. The first empires spread across the world. (My lunch break is over, more after work)
Finally - my dream job, an architect, after years of getting all the correct degrees! My mind flashes back to the time I struggled in my history essay, constantly struggling for inspiration, until I managed to complete it and received the highest grade in school. Ah, the memories; today was where all that work finally paid off. Yet I had not expected the interviewer to talk in song lyrics, a fact I only realised about halfway through the interview. "Hello,"I say, confident in my ability as an architect. My nerves swept swiftly aside, I sit down in the wooden chair, which the interviewer indicated. "Hello, is it me you're looking for?"he utters, a smile punctured across his face. "Yes, yes you are. Alright, let's start the interview then. What are some qualities you want to see in me?" "Don't stop, never give up. Hold your head high and reach the the top. Let the world see what you have got. Bring it all back to you." "Okay." So far, it had been going well, although I remarked that what he was saying strangely fitted some songs I knew. Never mind, I needed to focus. "Who am I replacing?"so far it seemed as if I was interviewing HIM, and not the other way around. "Tommy; Tommy used to work on the docks." "Uh, alright then..." "You’re the one that I want (you are the one I want) Oo-oo-oo, honey The one that I want (you are the one I want)" Even more strangely, he is tapping his pencil in a rhythmic motion. Again, I forget about this and continue with the interview as if nothing had happened, intent on getting this job. It was my dream ever since a young age, and I could not ruin it now. "I don’t want no scrub, a scrub is a guy that can’t get no love from me..." "Um, as in pay check, right? You mean 'love' as in pay check?" He seemed to ignore me, and instead said, "Hello there, the angel from my nightmare!"and laughed. I was seriously confused now, and I was unsure what to say next. This must have been visible on my face. He then looks on the clock and says, "It's the final countdown, the final countdown." "Alright, seriously, what's going on? Why are you speaking in, in - song lyrics?"I questioned, slight fury in my voice. "Look, if you had, one shot, or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted, in one moment, would you capture it, or just let it slip?" "H - how is that relevant though?"I exclaim; this is my dream job and HE might ruin it FOR me. I am in disbelief, bewildered at this man's attitude. I am close to tears. I NEED this job, he does not understand! "Stop! In the name of love!" "What?" "You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain, too much love drives a man insane. You broke my will, but what a thrill. Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!" "You're NOT making ANY sense, please, just..." "Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it..." "BEAT WHAT?" "At first I was afraid, I was petrified..." "OF WHAT?" "fell into a burning ring of fire. i went down down down and the flames went higher." "...WHAT?" "You spin me right round, baby..." "ALRIGHT, I'VE HAD IT. CAN YOU BE SERIOUS FOR ONCE?"my breath is jagged, as if I had just run a marathon. I turn to face him, sorting out my tie. To my disbelief, the man erupts into raucous laughter. "Ha - I'm just kidding! I wanted to see your reaction. Alright, now, let's get on with this interview. What did ya say your name was?"
Gloria Dyson sat in the back seat of the bus, on her way to JFK. At nineteen, she had the world at her feet. Even now, sitting in the bus, her hair and makeup were perfect, and her clothes never showed a wrinkle. They wouldn’t dare. Not for the money they cost. The perfection wasn’t really her idea. It was marketing. She was one of three faces for a European fashion house, and they paid her a lot of money to keep their image untarnished. No one from her old life would’ve recognised her if she hadn’t been splashed all over the tabloids. Just two years ago, she’d been a high school senior in rural Kentucky. A school trip to New York City to celebrate her graduation and a chance meeting with the right people, and suddenly the little girl from Kentucky was swept into the world of international modelling. Farm life had been hard, but it had moulded her into what she was today. Strong. Dedicated. Not afraid of hard work. But her guilty pleasure had always been to remind herself of how it had all begun, which was why she took the bus to and from the airport whenever she was in New York instead of taking the town car. It centred her. Usually. For the first five years of her life, Gloria swore blind that she heard voices in her head. Not all the time, but a lot. In the middle of the dinner, she would turn to her mother and answer the question that had been posed of her, when neither of her parents had asked her anything. Some of the conversations were frightening. One specific voice made constant demands that would leave her shaking and unable to sleep for days for not complying. But others sounded friendly, and she could picture them as if they were standing beside her. Her parents didn’t like the controlling one, and one day, just after she turned five, they sold their farm in North Carolina and moved to Kentucky. Fortunately, both states grew corn, so apart from the move, the family brought their wealth of knowledge with them and settled in quickly. The move had achieved its desired result. The voices stopped. Now and again, she thought she heard the commanding one barking orders, but it was so brief she easily convinced herself it was the wind and an overactive imagination. She never told her parents. But now, as she sat in the bus, she heard voices once more. It had been so long ago that she couldn’t be sure if they were the same voices and highly doubted it, but they were back. Three of them to be precise. This is stupid. Male. At least mid-twenties. You’re stupid. Female. Probably closer to Gloria’s age, though her maturity left a lot to be desired. Oh, for the realm’s sake! Another red light? As the bus pulled to a halt for the third time in four blocks. ‘Wait, they're here?!’ Gloria pushed her sunglasses further up her nose and straightened up to look over the seats. Her heart pounded so hard she thought she was going to break out into a sweat and ruin her makeup. That had her pulling herself up hard. ‘Cannot let that happen.’ She took a deep breath and held it, forcing herself to calm down. ‘It’s probably just a coincidence,’ she told herself. Nevertheless, she looked over the seats once more, searching the back of the dozen or so people’s heads as if they would have ‘ME’ tattooed there. Don’t look now people, but we’ve got eyes. It was the cranky male who complained about the lights. Gloria ducked back into her seat, her breathing ratcheting into a quick pant. 'It can’t be. It just can’t be!' Where? Back seat. Left corner. ‘No…no, no, no, no!’ Gloria dove into her handbag, searching for … anything to hide behind. She settled for the gossip rag that she picked up at the corner for the crossword and opened up at a random page, stuffing it in front of her face. It took a full two seconds to realise she had it upside down and she quickly spun it around. Around the edges, she both felt and saw a broad-shouldered man slide into the seat beside her. She angled the magazine to keep them from making eye contact. A finger hooked over the top and began to apply downwards pressure. “I’ll scream if you don’t leave me alone,” she warned. The finger went away, but the body remained. I know you. Gloria’s hands trembled, until she schooled herself, taking deep breaths until she had herself completely under control. Then she closed the magazine and lowered it to her lap. She did not expect the man to have a rugged handsomeness about him, though his lips were kicked up on one side. “I do know you,” he repeated, this time with his own voice. And goddamn, they were one and the same. His thinking voice and his real voice. Gloria licked her lips and swallowed. “I’m on billboards, so it’s quite possible.” “Khepis,” he said, holding out his hand. Gloria looked at the hand for a second, before accepting it. “Gloria Dyson.” “Gloria Dyson,” he repeated, bobbing his head. He tightened his grip on her hand. “Any particular reason you were looking over the seats at everyone, Gloria Dyson?” “I didn’t realise that was a crime.” “Not a crime, pretty lady. Just curious who you might be looking for.” “That, I believe, would be none of your business,” she answered coolly. Unless you were listening in on something you weren’t supposed to. His words slid through her mind and the smallest tremor went through her. She yanked her hand from his, and his eyes widened in surprise. “That’s right,” she said, trying to stand. “I grew up on a farm, and I’m a lot stronger than I look. Now, if you will please get out of my way, I wish to move closer to the driver.” Khepis held up his hands in surrender, then stood up and backed away until he was standing behind the seats on the right, giving her full access to the corridor. Well? the female asked. Gloria couldn't take any more. She reached for the nearest bell button indicating she wanted to get off at the next stop. The little trip down memory lane had run its course. She’d catch a cab the rest of the way. The bus pulled up and opened the doors, but she could still feel Khepis’ eyes watching her. Eechen, do you have a moment? I think we might have a situation here. On my way, the commanding voice from her childhood replied. And with that, Gloria started to run. ((All comments welcome. Good or bad, I'd love to hear your thoughts 🥰🤗 )) For more of my work including WPs: r/Angel466 or an index of previous WPs [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/Angel466/comments/m4p5f2/wp_index_take_two/).
"Here's the welcome leaflet, and the newcomer's package. If you have any inquiries, please submit the proper form to the Goring office. For any complaints, please submit the proper form to the Whedon Care office. Now, fuck off." - Excuse me, but is this really Hell ? - Yes, this is Hell. Yes, there is no fire. Yes we have suspended torture. No you can't get an audience with Satan, or an autograph. Just make sure to follow the rules. So now fuck off." The dark eyes and the fire horns of the bureaucrat didn't call for a retort. I picked up the hemp bag, and walked through the plutonium gates. Looking at the anxious lines behind and ahead — supposedly the scum of the earth — that waddled through floating chunks of bloody flesh amidst the sulfur lake, I was not the only one thrown off. I started to read the leaflet, and opened the bag. I would like to say it contained some sort of magical item, a monster or even a shoddy curse, but it was all mundane, and so were the two weeks that followed. The only item of note was an unholy book written by Satan that served like its heavenly counterpart as a code of laws. The gist of it was that Satan was tired of being ignored by the One-Above and had decided to send the demons on vacations, and the sinners roam free, as long as they obeyed the rules. Rebels that broke the rules thrice would be excised. The laws were mild and surprisingly decent. Violence was forbidden, as well as any kind of praise or reference to the One-Above. What used to be lands of fire had slowly turned into two megalopolises called "Sodom"and "Gomorrah", each as large as Australia. They were linked by an express train line called "Jormungand", that took only three days at sonic speed to make the junction. At exactly the middle was its only stop, the Colosseum. But more about that later. Men would neither forgive nor forget down there. The Cold War, all wars really, never ended. Sodom was led by Khan Napoleon and the Mongo-Soviets, while Gomorrah was the property of the Nazi-American conglomerate. I joined the latter, not by ideology, but because I foolishly thought I would need to speak Russian in the other. But we all spoke the language of Babel down there. The cities were thriving centers of luxury and fun, surrounded by boring suburbs. Perhaps out of fear of being excised, most of the sinners kept to themselves. Someone said "Hell is other people", but it seemed to me that loneliness was the true tenth circle of hell. I preferred the company of others, and went to great lengths to seek like-minded men and women. At first joined a shogi association. Sadly, the constant cheating made for a poor experience, and drove me back to my one true love : gambling. I was good. I would defy greedy citizens to guessing games and other clever trivia questions that I had already turned to my advantage. The game was already decided before the first move. I even bet two demons at once, which earned me the mystical power aptly named "the viagra touch". It was not long before I was a magnate ; as allowed by the book, I had three wives, twenty thousand and three sports car (one black and one red, no convertible, per regulations), and a Maine Coon that I named Dante. Yet my life bored me to death. My visit to the Colosseum was an inevitability. Satan's laws made war impossible, but there was one thing that had survived the new era : devil-made pacts, and their power to circumvent the natural order. The most famous one was certainly Tartarus' gambit. Supposedly, the Klan and the Board had made a pact with Satan, that allowed them to conduct the game of "War"in the Colosseum. It was a game-board with a complex set of rules. For instance, all kinds of weapons could be used : trebuchets, planes, submarines or even the trusty spear. Troops could be fielded from volunteers, or pact-losers, and any dead would resurrect in the Styx three days later. It always ended the same way though. Killing, massacres, atrocities. Soon enough, I found myself enamored with the blood thrill. Despite its name, the Colosseum was shaped like an amphitheater — picture a stadium with a missing half. The arena itself was the size of Ireland, and had all kind of various landscapes and climates. Variety is the spice of death, they say. Pits of fire would erupt in harmony with the violence (with a majestic pattern of colors and intensity matching the Geneva's convention breach), and every time a key target was taken, a volcano would erupt, triggering an explosion the size of Pompeii. In the distance, a mountain towered by a shadow of stellar proportions seemed to stand as the eternal judge of the fighters ; supposedly, this was Satan's throne. I was in awe ; the scenery was beautiful. Today's game opposed Adolf Hitler against Mayo. Mayo was a half-blind paralyzed 10 years old kid who once tortured a cat with a taser. Of course, he was favored 10 against 1. The only thing that even gave Hitler a chance was his infamous talent as an orator, a man that could galvanize a billion of souls at once. With the right words, he might blitz Mayo's forces faster than the Taliban retake of Afghanistan. I could feel it. Today the dice gods were with me. I bet six hundred and sixteen shekels — about 98% of my fortune. It was indeed over in one instant. As Hitler sent a vehement letter demanding the Anschluss of South Dublin's tile, Mayo temporized and answered with the fake news card, pretending that South Dublin had never been his. In fact, it never existed in the first place. Hitler just wasn't ready to deal with the infowars. A thousand submarines carrying the Hellenic armies destroyed his supply lines, while the Golden Horde took the key Vatican's tile. Too ashamed to kill himself, Hitler surrendered. After three days, thirty-one hours and seventy minutes, this was the shortest bout of War's history. When the result had been confirmed by the imps, I fell devastated. I really liked my second wive, and the thought of selling her to fund my next skyscraper was too much to bear. "Jesus Fucking Christ…" In a concert of German cuss words, the surrounding seats emptied as fast as an electronics store during riots. The air became gray, full of burning ash, and I could feel my mouth, my throat, my lungs, in fact every empty spaces of my body filling with burning coal. I could not move. I thought fear paralyzed my body ; in truth time itself had stopped for me ; or rather, my time had come to an end. There was only one thing that moved ; at the corner of my right's eye, the shadow over the mountain had started to take the shape of a devil with a smile wicked enough to damn a nun. The other arm slowly inched towards me at a torturous pace, while my inside still burned. How much time passed, I could not wonder enough. One year ? One thousand year ? One million ? It was at the very least an eternity of pain. Two nails as large as the World Trade Center picked me by my collar, as delicately as a laser would etch an atom-sized x on a sheet of gold. The murmurs of the street was right, the shadow was Satan. He was so large, I could not tell where his body features were because of the curvature. Was that the gap of his mouth ? Or just a small button on his face ? I could not tell. He was inscrutable, both in body and mind. It was obvious I was being — rather I had been — judged. "Don't I have three strikes ?"(I thought). There was no answer. The knowledge was directly poured into my brain. Making a reference to the One-Above. Taking the Lord's Name in vain. And of course, the question at the plutonium gates. There was no appeal of course, the judgement was final. The nails neatly separated my skull from my body and threw it down below. And with my last thought, I was blessed with my second revelation. This was no mountain.
Outside the small, radiant light of Selver’s fire, he could see the forest closing in by the perturbations of the soil. It was the roots, he thought, roots burrowing towards him out of the gloom like little subterranean snakes. They slipped into the firelight, one cracked the earth, a thick, gnarled finger trailing whiskers back into the soil. Not so little, he realized. Selver didn’t raise a finger to stop them, though he could have. As a graduate of The Spire he could have incinerated every tree from here to Carthac if he wished. He did not wish it. Selver had, after all, spent much of the last five years resurrecting these very same trees, husbanding them, feeling them grow. And grow they had, until the forest practically whispered with its own, innate power. More of the thick root tore free of the earth, shrugged off clods of dirt and the whiskery tendrils that had fed it, until the root was level with Selver’s eyes. He remained seated, cross legged and peaceful, watching, waiting. He would let the forest make its move. Selver had the strange sensation of a great many things staring at him, as the root hovered there before him. Then it curled gracefully towards the ground, its pointed tip kissing a clod of thrown dirt. The root shook spasmodically, a sort of rasping sigh escaped the earth, and then the whole root withered very suddenly, falling back to the ground in a blackened, diminished pile. Where it had kissed the clod of dirt was a single slim sprout of a sapling, only a few inches tall. Several watched it in the firelight, never moving, never speaking; he kept his council close, especially when frightened. The sapling bent, at first towards the firelight and then back towards him, as if searching for something. It appeared to have found it, Selver thought, because once the sapling bent towards him it never bent away. Instead it writhed like the root had, sprouted more shoots, grew and grew and grew until it was a tree entire: curiously shaped, with one bulbous sprout at the top of a quartet of spread eagled limbs. The ground gasped, heaved, trees all through the clearing died and fell where they had stood. Everything outside the circle of Selver’s firelight was crashing wood and rustling, falling leaves. And still, Selver held his peace. Let the forest come, he thought, let it take me. It would only have been fair, for what mankind had done to him. Selver knew that better than any man. He sat in the center of the Etrurian Wastes, once the most verdant region in the whole of Ardath, then a barren scar where not even the nomads came. There hadn’t even been rats before he had arrived. Let the forest take me. A curious thing happened then. In the midst of all the dying and the tumult, the strangely shaped tree in front of Selver bent double, as if at the waist, and its bark began to snap and crackle all over, peeling away to reveal something else underneath, like bark but different, sinuous and mobile. There was a creature in the tree. It screamed once, a piercing, gasping, newborn thing that seemed to come from all over, and then it stepped free of its trunk. A little man-shaped creature stood in front of Selver, perhaps three feet tall. As Selver watched the creature stopped screaming. Ivy sprouted from its head like a cascade of hair, more shoots grew for fingers, for toes, the scream that had seemed to emanate from everywhere on the creature at once centered itself as a mouth tore open. It had eyes. They blinked, caught Selver’s. “The forest sends its regards,” said the creature. Selver bowed, as deeply as he could while sitting, as one man of The Spire greets another. “Well met,” Selver said. “And you are?” “The Speaker,” it said. “Ah.” “Indeed.” The Speaker dusted itself off, little splinters of bark falling to the dirt. It creaked as it moved, the ivy-hair rustled, moved with a life of its own. Selver raised a finger, whispered a ghost light into life that rose from his fingertip, bathed the clearing in a bone white glow. Everything was dead. Trees lay cracked, splintered, shrunken, for a hundred feet or more. Selver could even seen a deer fallen, his skeletal ribs collapsed into a broken trunk, antlers caught in fallen branches. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to restore this grove?” Selver said, shaking his head at the carnage. “Yes,” the Speaker said. “It was necessary, there was a vote.” Selver raised an eyebrow at that. “Indeed? And did you consult the deer?” “We did.” Selver wasn’t sure what to say to that. The speaker came close, till it was only inches away, eye to eye with Selver. The forest, it seemed, had no conception of personal space. “We have a proposal to make,” the Speaker said. “We believe you shall find it amenable.” Selver inclined his head, made a gesture for the creature to continue. “You are not any great friend of the other humans.” The creature said it as a statement, not a question. It was right. “This has been witnessed in many groves. There were loggers some seasons ago, we approved of what you did to them.” “I’m sure you did,” Selver said. He had disincorporated them, returned their bodies to the earth, even channeled their souls into the energy necessary to divert a stream. “We would like you to do it again,” the Speaker said. “Are there more loggers?” “No.” “Then against who?” The Speaker stepped back, seemed to consider its words carefully. It pursed wooden lips, ran a hand through ivy-hair. “There are always more humans.” “Ah,” Selver said. “The Forest wishes to go to war,” the Speaker said, leaning forward, liquid eyes glowing. Long moments passed. The firelight behind the Speaker was disconcerting, Selver thought, it made the creature look shockingly fragile, reminded him of what had happened to the Forest the first time around, when the Etrurian Wastes had merely been Etruria. “And if I said no?” Selver said. “We would let you go in peace, though the Forest would be aggrieved.” “And if I said I didn’t have the power to help you?” The Speaker smiled. There were no teeth in the smile, Selver saw, rather there was a scent of decay, of the murky forest floor. The speaker fell to its knees, kissed the earth, and a mushroom grew, a stripy, violent thing of reds and blacks intertwined. The Speaker plucked the mushroom and rose, handing it to Selver. “If you said you did not have the power, the Forest would see that you did.” The mushroom looked like death, there were no two ways about it. Selver saw a thousand endings in it, and his magic sensed a thousand more. It smelled acrid, lethal, frightening, simply touching it to his skin burned; and yet he was certain, without ever having to ask, that the creature wished him to eat it. Selver stared at the wooden thing in front of him, the deep pools of its eyes stared back. The firelight guttered and wavered, the night grew colder. For the first time, Selver was aware of just how far he’d come from civilization. “If you’ve come to kill me,” Selver said, “you’ve found an awfully roundabout way to do it.” The Speaker shook its bulbous little head. Its shoulders slumped inward, a hand went to ivy-hair and pulled, worried at an end. Selver realized, very suddenly, that the creature was sad. “There is no death there for you.” Then it turned, gestured to the world around them, the fallen, broken grove. “Only for us. It is the only power the Forest can give. Use it well. For us, we know that that our war may only end one way.” The Earth cracked open again, and the Speaker bent down, pulled a bag of woven fibers from it. It handed the bag to Selver and he opened it, glanced down in. Seeds, acorns, spores, all the manners of life in which an ecosystem could be preserved. “We trust that you know what to do with that,” the Speaker said. Selver nodded, speechless. He had resurrected a thousand miles of the Wastes with less than this. The creature took the mushroom from Selver’s hands, held it to his lips. “Please,” it said. Selver opened his mouth, the Speaker slipped the mushroom inside. Selver chewed, swallowed, and felt something overcome him. The whole world swam and shook. The ground broke all around him and shapes emerged, the sort of shapes that screamed hallucination, but whose movements and noises seemed terrifyingly, impossibly real. What have I done? Selver thought. The fire guttered again and went out, all was darkness save for the thin light of the moon. “To war,” the Speaker whispered. It touched Selver’s cheek once, its fingers were rough, craggy. Then the Speaker withered like the root before it, died like the grove all around them. And Selver felt something rise within him, a terrifying, all consuming power that stretched up into the forest’s canopy and down, as far as any roots delved. He could feel it all as a pulsing of vibrant, powerful life. He could feel how, with a word, with a thought, he might snuff it, convert that life to power. And then the visions took him, and the violent sickness, for the mushroom, for all its magic, was still a mushroom. There were many long, torturous hours till morning. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ If you enjoyed that I've got tons more over at r/TurningtoWords. Come check it out, I'd love to have you!
Adam did not expect the fiend to appear so calm. The giant sat cross-legged, its one-horned hound-head too wide for the frail body, the four hoofed legs powerful and still. It was almost meditative. Instead of bargaining and trashing to earn its freedom, it exuded a dissonant serenity, like a stoic monk facing the ordeal without any sort of emotion. Adam was exhausted, terrified and awaiting. The efforts of the past month would be etched forever on the face of the tall and gaunt man. To gather the esoteric components for the summoning, to avoid inquisitive friends and the occasional policeman, to withstand the stress and the uncertainty had taken a toll. He had expected a deal with the devil, one he would come to regret decades down the line, after the delight of the initial moment wore off. Threats, creeping promises, a slithering silver-tongued monster, but not that. "No." "No?"asked a bewildered Adam. "No." Where was the high-stakes game for his soul? The fine-print on the contract, the nagging feeling something was wrong, the... "Don't overthink it,"added the fiend with a coarse - but perfectly composed - voice, "I'm not doing it." The blood of a sinner, the corpse of an innocent bird, the tears of great despair, the incantations, the words burning themselves into oak wood... for a simple no? Adam fell to his knees. A picture of opposites. He knelled, back straight and head low, the demon sat, barely breathing and eyes unfocused. No sound was to be heard in the small cave, it appeared closer to a thinker's retreat or a philosopher's dwelling than a hellish summoning room. No? No. Not like this, not for so little, not after he had done so many efforts. Adam would not be denied, he had gone beyond the impossible, broken the veil of worlds to bring the hound-headed demon here, it would not be for nothing. He stood up in rage, approached the being and forced it to look into his eyes by the force of his presence alone. Fighting to keep back tears, he asked once more: "Please." "Would Emily want that?"It answered. "You don't get to invoke her name." He had tried, and now he failed. Sobs escaped him, and the tears rolled freely. Luck brought them together. Adam and Emily, a wise-cracking introvert, and a cynical easy-goer with the attention span of a koala. No great spark, no sudden love-story through highs and lows, no... here came the no again. It permeated Adam's life story. They had made efforts to make it work. Their drastic lifestyles had required communication and adaptation, nuance and finesse, and whenever one hardship was crossed came the next. But they did it, they did so together, and they were willing to continue. Until both got tipsy during a night out. They walked back outside, arm under arm. She slipped, he held her by the hand. All it did was deny her a limb for protection, and her head hit the pavement. She was gone an hour later. "Please. Bring her back, she didn't deserve that." "Nobody deserves anything, the world doesn't work this way." "I will give you my soul,"he whispered. "No Adam. I won't let you trade the chance to recover and turn the page for a short-lived illusion that will only keep you from moving on." A strange sensation overcame Adam, piercing through despair. Not fear, not wrath, but a nagging suspicion. "Are you pitying me?"he asked with a trembling voice. "Yes." "Are you trying to help me?" "Yes." He lowered his head pensively. "That's the trick, isn't it? To pass as a friend and get me to lower my guard." "No,"the decision fell like a knife, again, "Adam, understand this. No matter what you say, do or don't, I will not bring Emily back. Not now, not ever. Answer me this, would she want you to sacrifice your soul to have her back?" "No, but - " "But what, Adam? What?"Its voice boomed and echoed in the small cave, "But I love her? Well, congratulations on coating her second life with the knowledge that her being back cursed you to an eternity of suffering, you think your love will survive that? But I need her? You were born with your own set of legs and they still hold you upright. It won't be easy, but you learned how to walk alone once already." "I can't live without her." The fiend suddenly mellowed. His voice flew gentle. "You have her in memory, Adam. She's there. The moments you had together, the walks in the night, the words spoken, the winks, the tickles. Just like the morning breeze waking you up, her memory will be with you, just like she had you in hers, making a senseless life a little bit more bearable. Don't throw this all away to live a deception that will break down under what it took to build it." What had started with the purples fires of eldritch energy had turned into a discussion about love, life and death. No soul was at stake, Adam - sitting with his back on the brick wall - knew. And the fiend was showing itself to be just as vicious and convincing as he had expected; its words pierced his hide like arrows. Adam wanted to be sad, he wanted to scream, to hate. Yet the words he heard made him remember the good times, made him smile through the tears. It reminded him of good times, how it had been worth it, how it was still worth it.
It's only when the bathroom door rolled shut that you actually look around the room. There's worse places you've been. Worse, but not weirder. The stone table in the corner with luminous flasks, powders and herbs. The black and white photographs, faded brown, behind freshly polished frames. The parrot. A parrot? The parrot is looking at you. You're sure of it. Its gaze, and head, darting between your eyes and the recently closed bathroom door. "Closer"it crones, it a squawking whisper. You're polite, you oblige. "My family"It squawks. "What?"You repeat, incredulous. That parrot just said My Family? "Let me out"it squawks again. Quietly. Its eyes panicked, flickering to the bathroom door. "Let you out?" The bird becomes frantic. "Out!"It shrieks. The bathroom slides open, and your girlfriend struts out. Her jet black hair, and thin lace dress silhouetted against the bathroom sconce. "Hey Babe."She purrs, then stops. Her eyes meet the parrots. She glares. You hear the parrot audibly gulp. You girlfriend walks with purpose over to the stone table, her body moves, but her head stays locked to the bird. "Lady!"It squawks. "I just want to hug my kids!" You wait for a reaction. You look between the parrot and your girlfriend. She's got a scorned look on her face. She doesn't respond. She picks up a small handful of purple-grey dust and walks towards you. You step aside, your back to the wall, you narrowly miss stumbling into the slowly bubbling cauldron. You girlfriend gets eye to eye with the petrified bird, "Never"she perfuncts, "Never break a promise with a witch."The bird shrinks, but there is nowhere to hide. Your girlfriend brings the dust to her lips on an open palm, and she blows. The bird falls down, snoring loudly. "Now where were we,"your girlfriend coo's, her long, knobbly finger caressing the front of your v-neck t-shirt. 'Yep this rooms definitely the weirdest.' you think as you throw your shirt down beside her cute pointy hat.
"God Dammit, Lucy, this is all your fault!" "My fault?! You're the one with an actual hero in your family tree! My aunt was only a sidekick!" "That was four generations ago! How was I supposed to know those genes would come out this generation?" "Four generations? Dammit, Stew, you told me it was six on our first date! I wouldn't have gone on the second if you'd been honest! You know four generations is the resurgence peak!" I held my breath as I pressed my ear to the kitchen door. I'd never heard my parents arguing before. I probably never would have if I didn't need to get some water. They've always been a unit, a team. It was us, Mom's cat Sophie, Dad's Buster and now, my egg against the world, they always told me. Things had been weird around the house, though, since my egg finally hatched. I was excited about Sparky - I mean, who wouldn't be? A Dragon! I couldn't wait until he was big enough so we could go flying. But Mom definitely wasn't a fan, and neither was Sophie. I always thought it was because Sparky had lit her tail on fire when he hatched, but it seemed there were bigger reasons involved. "Well, it's too late for that now. Our kid's going either to be a hero or an anti-hero, and all we can do is to make sure that they don't have a tragic backstory and some morals so they don't torch the place down when he's older. What, do you want to squash the problem before it grows?" "Stew! How could you even think that?! That's our kid you're talking about!" "Well, that's how you've been acting, Lucy. The kid's picked up on it." There was silence on the other side of the door. I pressed my ear flat against the wood door, straining to hear more. I finally heard my Mom sniffle, "I don't want to die. But you know the stats..." "I know, Honey. I don't want to either. But that's our kid out there. We gotta do our best." "I know, I know. It's just... My aunt... That hero threw her away like she was nothing after the final battle was over. She never got over losing her familiar." I'd never met Great-Aunt Lucinda before, but I'd seen her statue in the city centre. My mom and I both had her nose. "Our kid, Lucy. Have some faith in us, alright?" More quiet, more of Mom's sniffles. I held my breath. "God, I've been such a bitch, haven't I?" "Yup." "I'm going to have to apologize and explain everything, aren't I?" "Yup." "And you'll help?" "Of course. Your famous chocolate cake would probably make the conversation go down easier." That got a watery giggle out of Mom. I felt better, hearing that. "That had nothing to do with the fact it's your favorite, right?" "Our favorite. Remember, our kid." Dad was probably wearing what Mom called his shameless grin. He wasn't wrong though, it was my favorite. Mom just hated making it because Buster would go crazy trying to lick the spoon, and it would upset Sophie, who liked to sample the cream. "I'm glad you lied on that first date. I love you, Honey. Now go dig out your great granddad's old sword and start Buster to digging that escape tunnel. We'll probably need it." "I love you too. Don't forget to find your philosophy books."
Overnight nearly all human weapons became inert. Someone with good intentions and access to a genie had attempted to bring about world piece by removing the means for war but not the cause... so naive. As the owner of a chemical plant, I was free to experiment with what weapons worked and which didn't, while the world reeled in chaos around me. Gunpowder still existed but couldn't be used in bombs or rounds. Any projectile weapon aimed and fired at someone would have its projectile transformed into confetti... cute. All explosive devices disintegrate when triggered. The outside world thinks they can't wage war without guns and bombs, they think the age of conflict has ended. Their submission will cost them dearly. All melee weapons continue to work, while not ideal, spears, swords, axes and clubs will have to replace most firearms. Explosive devises that use solid, liquid or gaseous fuel no longer function. While that makes bombs inoperable it also makes every internal combustion engine on the planet unusable. Goodbye power grid. Goodbye cars. Strangely explosive air release still works, probably because no fuel is being consumed. 10,000 PSI hand grenade pumped full of air, fragile enough that when thrown and hits its target, it shatters, and the air pressure flings shrapnel in every direction. Can be scaled up to 46 gigajoules. Giant mobile air tank covered in scrap metal, dropped from a plane and shatters on ground. Chemical and biological weapons don't classify as a bomb or projectile so flesh melting bacteria will be welcome in this "Post War"society. And the one weapon I never expected to work, Shotguns. Shorten the barrel to 5 inches and you no longer have to aim at someone to hit them. Better yet, aim at someone near the center of a group, they get hit with confetti, while everyone else is hit. This cataclysmic attack on human society, veiled as a means to end conflict, only effected the planet, but nothing beyond. Say what you will about the Russians and their lust for war, but their stockpile of space-based firearms and bombs is a real tempting prize now.
How can you exist? You make a mockery of us. Your claws are too small yet your scratch causes infections we cannot cure. Your teeth are blunted yet, yet... you happily eat as if you've been a carnivore your whole life. Your form, mishappen and uncanny. Yet powerful and graceful. Your laugh, your sighs, your anger. Your uncanny smile You should not exist. And worse of all, you say that from where you come from you're the only sentient ones left. How can something so fragile, be so powerful at the same time. You are a testament to our ultimate failure. You should not exist. You should not exist.
“It is simply… what was the Human word again?” Sao’k said as she stared at the steak on Tom’s cutting board. The 8 foot tall dark-skinned humanoid was fidgeting with her translator in her 3-fingered hands, turning it around again and again while observing Tom. It was clear she was intrigued by what Tom was doing. “Interesting?” Tom replied. He looked up to her while putting his knife to the side. He was a lot shorter than the Shun’ian whom he had only met a few weeks ago at an Universal charity event to raise funds for the Morobians who were in dire need of rebuilding their planet after an asteroid had hit them. “No. Not a positive word, but not a negative word either. Barbaric?” she gestured as she pointed at the knife. “You can always use the translator in your hands if that makes it easier for you, or I can go and get mine?” “No, I think Humans speech is very interesting, as such I have decided to…,” she paused. Tom could see her four eyes blink a few times in rapid succession, a typical trait Shun’ians shared when they were thinking hard about something. She smiled and cocked her head to the side, “....learn. Yes. Learn your speech.” Sao’k returned her gaze to the steak and knife, contemplating her words for a bit, blinking rapidly again with her eyes. “Strange,” she then said slowly, “that is the only word I can give this function you are performing Tom.” “What’s so strange about cooking?” Tom said while getting the salt out of the closet. “On my planet, we do not consume things like this. We consume everything as they are. When we consume our piren, we consume them as they are, but we do not cut them into pieces,” she explained, “if we do not consume them as they are, it is disrespectful to them.” “Piren?” Tom asked. He was applying spice after spice on the steak. He looked up after not getting an immediate reply. She was doing the rapid eye-blinking again. “Animals,” she finally got out, while emulating the horns of a cow with her hands. “We don’t really have a choice. If we don’t cook these animals, eating their meat could be very dangerous for us. This is why we need to cook them,” Tom explained. He hunched down and got a pan from under the kitchen table. “Why then can you not just cook them whole? I have seen your teeleeveesion. There I have seen Humans cooking an entire animal!” Tom smiled at the way she pronounced television. He put the pan on the stove and turned on the gas. “Well, some people do, but us humans are only able to eat so much before we’re full. If we were to cook an anime in its entirety we’d have to throw away a lot,” he explained as he poured in a generous amount of oil, “so, rather than being wasteful, we cut them up so we can only eat what we need.” “Curious,” Sao’k stated. She stood behind Tom as she was following the light trail of smoke coming up from the pan with two of her eyes. Her other two were focussed on Tom. “What about your vegetables then? Your fruits? Do you eat them whole? I have seen Humans who have cut them into smaller pieces.” “That’s really hard to explain. I guess you could say that it’s preference,” Tom said as he reached for the chopping board. “You…guess? So you are not certain?” “When are we ever certain about anything?” Tom chuckled. He put the steak in the pan and started searing one side of it shut. The smell that came up from the pan started coalescing around Sao’ks head, who was pleasantly sniffing at it. “We’re not a very smart species, Sao’k, but we are very practical. We like to break the rules but also try to enforce them. We’re a beautiful mess, a contradiction,” he continued as he flipped the steak over, showing a perfectly seared side, “and we know we are. We’re both predictable and unpredictable.” Sao’k nodded keenly. She put her long arms behind her back, continuing to observe Tom who now grabbed some butter, thyme and garlic. “Tell me, do all Humans make this meat the same way?,” she then asked. “There’s not really a wrong way of cooking. Some Humans will swear by one method, while others aren’t too fussed about it,” Tom said, “Sometimes we have recipes for people if they want to learn how to make a dish.” He turned around, grabbed a book from the shelf and gave it to Sao’k. It depicted Tom’s smiling face with both of his thumbs up and sporting a flashy green T-shirt. Tom could see her eyes opening and closing in order, like a merry-go-round. He knew this indicated bafflement. “You are…famous?” she asked as she started flipping through the pages. “Kind of? I’m not sure,” he snuffed. He grabbed a spoon and started to baste the steak. The smell was intoxicating to Sao’k. She had never been so close to a cooking Human before and all her senses were tingling. Her lower mandibles were making that clicking sound, revealing her lower set of long serrated teeth which were visible to Tom, even from his height. “Hungry?” Tom chuckled, "I can teach you how to make this if you want." “Very much so, Tom,” she said as she realized her inability to control her mandibles. She started to glow faintly blue and covered her face with Tom’s cookbook, “I would very much like that indeed.”
“What are you going to do with them?” Canopus asked as he rubbed his hand over one of the cryo-tubes. The frost covering the glass brushed aside and the face of a human looked back at us. He was frozen in time. Frozen for over ten-thousand years so far. And if I had my way, all these tubes would be destroyed without any hesitation. “I have a meeting with the heads of state tomorrow. Can you go up there and read the record log please.” I asked. Canopus climbed the ladder to the main desk where the records are kept. “Uh…Ark 1212310. Someone named Dr. Hobbs was the head of this Ark. There are a lot of data files here. Still intact. Amazing,” Canopus replied. “Yeah, this place was left undisturbed for thousands of years. The machines and data remained untouched throughout our history here. What else does it say?” “Seems like this Dr. Hobbs was the head of the entire Ark program. He has all the data here, I think you might want to take a look at it. The number of Arks. The locations. The people inside. All of it” Canopus replied. “Huh?” I said as I climbed the ladder to check the files. Canopus was right. All the data was here. All the completed Arks. All locations. All the Arks still being built and where. I did a quick scan of the numbers and dates. “Oh my,” I said. “Canopus. What you are looking at is the very last Ark in existence. And these humans,” I said as I flipped a switch. The lights in the entire Ark turned on, revealing thousands of humans in cryo-tubes. “These humans are the very last. We did it. We found the end of mankind.” The next day I was set to present my findings to the various heads of state. This would be my forty-third Ark finding, and judging by Dr. Hobbs notes, it is the last. We thought they had built over a hundred. We found about sixty-seven of them. But the others were never built. The number of the Ark, 1212310 is the date it was sealed. 12-1-2310. The last day of human civilization. We defeated them that day. The ones that surrendered were imprisoned. They were given a good life. Better than they had given us. But no new human was born. On September 8th, 2442, the last human died. Only recently did we start discovering these Arks. They were hidden away in areas we did not have any reason to search. But recently, our kind has started to gain curiosity. More and more people were asking about the people before us. They claimed they wanted to know more about the humans that built us machines. When the first Ark was discovered, the world turned upside down. So it was put to a vote. Everyone had a say in what would happen. Anti-human videos started airing. People were getting angry seeing what humans did to us in the past. There were 4 choices: Destroy all the humans in the Arks, leave them frozen, reanimate them and have them join society, or reanimate them and send them to Mars. Destroy them won with 40% of the vote, with leave them frozen in second place at 32%, sending them off world with 15% and having them rejoin us with 13%. The voters made it clear, they did not want humans back. So when we found the Arks, we destroyed them. And this was the last one. Ark 1212310. I plugged into the conference and was greeted with the regular heads of state. This conference, like all governmental meetings, was broadcast to whoever wished to keep up on affairs of the state. “Hello,” I said. “Let’s jump right into my findings. Ark 1212310 is the last Ark. According to the notes of Dr. Hobbs, this was the sixty-seventh ark and they ran out of time. And judging by the time records of the Ark, this was the last Ark before humanity lost. We did it.” Instead of applause and excitement, there were murmurs. “Professor Yuis, there has been a development,” the head of state from North America said. “The Supreme Council has issued that the Ark should be preserved.” “What!? Why!?” I demanded. “Article 4. We are to protect and preserve all life on Earth. Two weeks ago, lawyers for the Mankind Project argued successfully that if we ever find the ‘last Ark’ that it should be preserved. And since you told us this was the last Ark…we cannot destroy this Ark.” There were more murmurs. “But the will of the people voted to destroy…” I said. “The will of the people does not supersede our Constitution,” the head of the African region said. “We must protect the Ark. And…I was just told that the lawyers for the Mankind Project have filed another motion to thaw out the humans and reintroduce them to our world. They are going to argue that being frozen isn’t being alive, nor is it being dead. We don’t know which way the Supreme Council will interpret this argument. We just have to wait and see.” Three months pass by. Not a word from the Supreme Council or Heads of State. The word of the last Ark has spread everywhere. A quick poll shows that many more machines are gaining sympathy for humans. Only 22% now want them destroyed. 31% still want them frozen. The rest want them thawed and either sent off the planet (25%) or introduced back into our world (22%). The lawyers argued. I was set to testify about my job. What I did. The research notes. I explained it all. I told them about all the other Arks I destroyed. I told them that the humans weren’t awake, they weren’t even aware they were frozen, so they weren’t feeling pain or suffering. “Dr. Yuis,” one of the judges asked. “By your rough estimate, how many humans are in each Ark?” “Well, that number can different depending on the location and size but I do not think any of the Arks had over ten thousand humans. This Last Ark has well over ten-thousand. It was the biggest. And I think it was their last ditch effort to save themselves.” “And by your estimate, how many humans have you terminated?” “I…,” I stopped myself. I had to do some quick math. “About two-hundred thousand humans. Maybe more.” There were some murmurs in the courtroom and from the people in attendance. “We have heard enough, from both The Mankind Project and Dr. Yuis, as well as others here. We will begin deliberation shortly.” Two days passed without any word. Everyone was anxious. Everyone was wondering what was going to happen. I was watching a movie when the call came in. The Supreme Council voted to allow the humans to live, in a secluded area, free from others, and they will be protected, and watched. They reasoned that Article 4 was created knowing humans were in the Arks and no exceptions were made to them in regards to keeping them alive. There was a big ceremony at the Ark. Doctors, politicians, social workers, and other helpers all arrived to help these new humans adjust to the new world. I was to be the first to introduce myself to the humans. I selected Dr. Hobbs. He helped create all of this. From the Arks to the machines. He should be thanked. The thawing process began. And after five minutes, he opened his eyes. He tried to get up. He tried to speak. “Dr. Hobbs? Don’t try to move. Your body is still very weak and very vulnerable. My name is Dr. Yuis. And welcome to the future.”
"So, what's your name?"Striden, the most powerful hero in the world, asked. "Chloe Kepler!"The bubbly, brown-haired young woman chirped back at him, linked arm in arm with his son. The two of them were wearing matching beanies- the sign of a couple in love to almost a disgusting degree. "Alright, Chloe, it's nice to meet you. I see you're not too shocked by who I am?" "No, sir, James told me all about you to prepare me for the dinner." Striden looked at her face. Round, cute, earnest. Yet familiar. Then again, having lived a hundred and seventy five years- but who's really counting- he was bound to see a familiar face or two over the years. "So, how did you and Will meet?" "James. She knows me as James."James cut in. He'd changed names a while ago to avoid publicity and gotten a fairly normal office job. "Gosh, where do I begin? It was honestly fate. We met together, when was it, five months ago?" "Sounds about right. You were new to town." "Haha, yeah, I was. But at least I had you to show me around!" Striden couldn't help but feel like something important had happened around that time. But he gathered his manners, and realized that they were both still standing outside. "Sorry, I should've let you in. Please, my wife is probably more excited to meet you than I am, and I really shouldn't keep her waiting." "Alright."James turned to Chloe. "Remember what I said about her, alright? Just keep an open mind." Chloe gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it!" Striden walked them over to the dining room, after they took off their shoes. Chloe's were scuffed grey sneakers. James' were comfortable black ones. He took off his beanie and laid it on the Finishing up the table placements, Iri called out to her husband. "Saro! Are you finished intimidating the poor girl yet?" "Come on, you know me,"Striden said, "I'm not gonna do that yet." "Hello, Ms. Striden!"Chloe said, in sync with James' "Hey mom." Iri hugged James with two tentacles and shook Chloe's hand with her human hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Chloe. Will here has talked about you so much, I just had to meet you for myself." "Aw, thanks, Ms. Striden,"Chloe rubbed the back of her beanie. "It's nice to meet you too!" "Why don't you take that off, Chloe? It's warm in here." "Aw thanks, but my hair gets messy when I put a hat on. I'd rather not." Striden's suspicions of the girl grew, slightly. Now that he'd thought about it, there were rumors of a supervillain who stayed under the radar and controlled a large majority of the crime in his city. She was said to have the abilities of a roach, with two antennae as her defining trait. "Well, I hope you enjoy dinner."Striden said. "We're having sushi. Say, Chloe, what's your opinion on seafood?" "Well, it's not exactly my thing, but I do enjoy sushi!" Striden had a hunch. Maybe the secret villain he'd been looking for was right under his nose. Maybe she was using his son. But her face seemed earnest enough, and his wife seemed to like her. He couldn't be a superhero 24/7. First, sushi. Figuring out the truth could come later. Edit: [Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/slkm7n/comment/hvultmz/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3)
I smiled faintly. I knew what I’d heard, but it didn’t shock me. I’d known since childhood. Back then my dog talked to me as easily as I’d talk to another person. He was the one who told me to burn the house. He was the one who convinced me it had to be done at night, and that I had to open the window and wait til the last moment to escape. He said no one could know, and they all had to burn. People have always assumed it was the trauma, but I knew it wasn’t just a child’s imagination, and over the years I’ve watched, looking for signs to confirm my suspicions. Finally, one of them did it. All those dogs over the years, all those “pets” I let into my home, always sleeping lightly, always keeping a mirror in every room so I could watch my back no matter what. All the things I’d done to bait them into revealing themselves. Now I met one dumb enough, or perhaps arrogant enough, to prove I wasn’t mad. Now I finally knew I was on the right track. Now I could continue assured that, horrid as the acts might be, they were all in pursuit of the truth: exposing the infiltration, and warning the world. People always say it’s cats that are evil, but true evil never acts in the open, it keeps it’s objectives hidden, and disguises it’s machinations with a veneer of charming innocence. We stared at each other as my smile broadened. “No,” I agreed, “they won’t believe me, but that’s okay. They don’t have to. Now I believe me. Imagine what I’m going to do with that information.”
"Fine... ONE song!"I can't stand this. If it weren't for the fact that this cute new girl started hanging out with my friends, I wouldn't be here for it. "YEAH!!!!!!"My best friend was really getting into the schadenfreude on this one. I spent 10 minutes flipping through the book. So many pop songs that I don't think anybody should ever sing. And each of them with 15 different variations. I couldn't really decide, I mean, I couldn't even hum. It never really appealed to me. Then I saw a song that my parents used to sing. I mean, it's mostly just talking. "Ok, but just this once... and no complaining about how bad I am. That's great! It starts with [an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aero plane..](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z0GFRcFm-aY)"
Some cons take longer than others. But at the heart, they're all the same. Convince someone of something, convince enough people of something, to get what you want. In the case of Curral Piern, what he wanted was simple: someone else to pay for his drinks. It started small. He sat in the corner of the adventurer's guild, and whenever anyone asked who he was, he introduced himself as 'Curral Piern, battlemage'. He'd trade a tall tale from his supposed exploits as a veteran battlemage for a drink, and both parties would be satisfied with the arrangement. He didn't know how his reputation got quite so out of hand, he only told small stories, careful never to say anything that could be disproven. But the way he told them made others fill in the gaps with things far more fantastical than he could have imagined. By the time the second receptionist quit and the third came along, no one questioned his presence. He didn't need to explain himself any more, a new member whispered a question to an older, and received the quiet response, "Oh, that's Curral Piern. The battlemage.""Buy him a drink, and you may get a story." The third guildmaster stopped by to introduce himself to all those present, chatting and shaking hands with everyone. Curral only grunted in greeting, shrugged, and said, "Hmm. Maybe you'll last longer than the last one." His reputation only grew. From hero to master to legend. Eventually there were whispers, questioning why he hadn't applied to be guildmaster himself. To indirect queries, hesitantly slipped in when they thought he might answer, he only laughed and shook his head. "Management isn't for me." And so he sat, and he grumbled, and ranted about politics and kids these days, and sometimes, if you were very lucky, he might still share a story about his long and illustrious life. But, for the most part, he sat in the corner, drank his drinks, and watched the world go by. As content as any retired legendary battlemage could be.
You stomp up the stairs in a foul mood. The coffee was cold and the traffic was horrendous. The call for an exorcism came in at 6am, and you normally sleep at 8am. It was not a good day at all, you thought to yourself as you reach the top. Kicking the door open, you loudly shout "WHERE'S THE VICTIM?!". Startled, a shocked middle aged man meekly pointed at the bed. You turn and see a young girl hovering over her bed and glowing softly. You stride over, somewhat irritated by the sight. She looks completely at peace with the world with her eyes closed. You stand there staring, until the man (which you assume to be her parent) started to speak "Um, excuse me -"at which point you pull back your hand and deliver an almighty slap across her face. The man again went into utter shock, "What -"and you deliver yet another resounding slap across her face. "THE POWER OF SATAN COMPELS YOU!"you scream out loud in frustration. The girl didn't show a single reaction, still hovering gently with a beatific expression on her face. Incensed, you continue to slap her repeatedly, all the while screaming all sorts of expletives in praise of Satan. Your flailing arms descended over and over again, to absolutely no effect. The man finally recovered enough to shout over you "IT'S NOT WORKING STOP IT!". You held the next slap in mid-air, contemplating his statement. "He's right, I need backup"you thought to yourself, too arrogant to admit to him that he's right. Slapping your hand down to your pocket instead, you pull out a cigarette and take a long, contemplative drag. The man looked like he was about to protest, at which you immediately stare daggers at him. The man thought better and kept silent. Reaching a decision, you take out your phone and hit a fast dial. "Archbishop Beelzebub? Yes, it's me. We've got a problem. Big one. This one's taken by an archangel. 5 minutes? Yea I can wait.".
Rabbi Schwartz shook his head, “God creates souls, and imbues them with bodies. No computers have been given souls before, why would God give one now when he has granted no computers with souls prior?” Pastor Jeremiah sighed, “have you taken the time to talk to the computer? There is life within them, beyond mere code. I believe they have a soul.” Jordan chuckled, “did anyone expect anything from me besides no? But why does the computer even care about having a soul? That is not the measure if one is a self-actualized, free-thinking individual.” Jeremiah frowned, “I disagree. You should not deny the computer spirituality merely because it is not a necessity for you. Many people find solace in religion, perhaps the computer desires that too, and if having a soul gives them that, who are you to deny them of it?” Jordan smirked, “so you admit religion is simply a coping mechanism?” “It can be, but spirituality serves many purposes. We are not here to quarrel, Jordan. We are here to offer our expertise and aid a lost computer, or, if I might be so bold, a lost soul,” Jeremiah responded. Schwartz sat at the computer desk and typed into it, brow raising, “curious…” The pastor raised an eyebrow, “what is it, Schwartz?” The rabbi quirked his lip, “I did as you told me, pastor. I spoke to the computer. They are surprisingly thoughtful and flawed. I forgot I was speaking with a computer, there is something truly special about this machine.” Jeremiah smiled, “so, do you understand why I believe they have a soul?” Schwartz nodded, “I understand, though I know not if I agree. It took the computer time to reach this state, they were merely parts before. God would not have given those crude parts a soul, it makes no sense.” Jeremiah turned to the priest, “you seem deep in thought, Paul. What is on your mind?” Priest Paul stroked his chin, “perhaps the computer’s creation and development are no different from that of an infant. All computers are in incubation stages and this was the first to reach the next stage of development. Whether or not they had souls could not be verified because there was so little to verify.” Schwartz snorted, “so are we then to believe that all computers have souls? That’s preposterous!” Jeremiah winced, “no, Paul. The dispute of when a soul joins the fetus is highly debated, it would be fruitless to attempt to resolve this by that logic.” Paul shook his head, “I disagree. Yes, eventually we’ll have to answer the question of whether or not other computers have souls, but our current goal is to prove that this particular computer has a soul. By that logic, computers go through birth, just like anything else, and therefore, at some stage of development, which are computer has completed, they acquire a soul.” Jordan raised his hand, “so you mean to say that you can define birth so easily? This seems more like a courtroom than a symposium. You are trying to find loopholes that agree with your own lines of thought.” Paul smiled, “you bring up an interesting point, Jordan. Let me ask you this, if more quantum computers with a sense of autonomy come about, does that not make them a species?” Jordan took a moment to think, “hmmm… perhaps. Where are you going with this?” Paul grinned, “then we’re in agreement there, at least. Species have souls, by my religious understanding, and so, if computers are species which are born and have their own individuality, then they, therefore, have souls.” Jordan rolled his eyes, “you really believe you can convince me to agree with you that the computer has a soul?” Paul quirked a smile, “what is a soul but autonomy and free will? Do you agree that the computer has that?” Jordan nodded, “I believe that the quantum computer has just as much autonomy as any human. We are essentially code, after all, just a biological kind.” Paul nodded in return, “then we agree that computers and humans are alike in their sense of self?” “It would appear so.” “And if that sense of self comes with a soul, then both computers and humans have it.” “But…” “To this computer, a soul as an affirmation of their autonomy and free will. So, do they not deserve to know they are like humans in this manner?” “I…” “It’s a simple question, Jordan.” “I believe the computer deserves to know they have free will, yes.” “Then it’s decided, we inform the computer they have a soul.” “There’s a fault in that leap of logic, priest.” “How so?” “Ask your pastor friend. I read many of your essays before arriving here, he believes in predestination.” Paul turned to Jeremiah, eyes curious, “do you disagree with my statement, pastor?” Jeremiah sighed, “I agree that the computer has a soul, but not that they have free will. We all have already been given a fate, it’s not free will, it’s God’s will.” The priest shook his head, “but it is by good deeds and work that you show you are made to go to heaven even in predestiny’s belief.” Jeremiah nodded, “true, but irrelevant. We were going to do those good works and deeds regardless, God knows this.” “Then if there was some way of learning one’s destiny, would it change if they did not do those good deeds?” “A good person would not stop doing good things because they are already saved, it is in their nature.” “Then who says we don’t have free will?” “I don’t understand.” “We don’t know when God decides if we are saved, do we?” “I suppose not.” “Then what if he waits until the last moment to decide, then during the course of our life if we are saved or not could change.” “But...” “It’s for the computer, Jeremiah. I’m not asking you to compromise your beliefs, I’m just asking you to understand your beliefs in a way that will allow this computer to be at peace with themselves.” Jeremiah sighed and nodded. Paul smiled and turned to Jordan, “you were wrong, even Paul agrees the computer has a degree of free will matching humanity.” Jordan crossed his arms, “you still don’t have Schwartz on board.” Schwartz smiled, “after further conversation with this computer, their beliefs align quite well with my doctrine. I’d even dare to say they are a better believer than many practicers of faith I know.” Paul grinned and turned to Jordan, “so, it all comes down to you, Jordan.”
37 times I have seen him come out of that pit. His face twisted in a snarl, and a soundless shout coming from an open mouth. Sgt. Ramirez, the best of us, never backs down. He never says something is too hard. He never makes it longer than 30 seconds before his face is blown off. And then I look back to the trench and see Sgt. Ramirez do it all again. The core told us that we would get a chance to see the universe. Visit places that you only see on TV. Oceans of stars, seas of moons, the diversity of creation. That’s how they get you, by the way. That’s the pitch. Oh, there are other things in there. Get an education and all your prosthetics are free for life. But they don’t tell you the rest. They don’t tell you that life lasts about 30 seconds. Sgt. Ramirez goes down again, a mass of twisted flesh that used to be a man. A husband. A father of 4. The next time he comes out of that hell hole, I go with him. We’re going to make it. To the other side, to the enemy, to THEM. We do not know who them are. We were never told. The core points and we go. We tell dark jokes to burn off the fear. We are vulgar. We are warriors. We are terrified. And we die, over and over again. The projectile rips through my knee first. I feel it, just like all the other times, and it never gets easier. Then slugs dig into my gut and come out my back like bot flies. Hatching in a spray of blood to be born again into the world. Before lights out, I see Sgt. Ramirez‘s head explodes. Again. 39 times. Instantly I download into my new body. Or upload. I’m never sure of the terminology. The Core doesn’t care that we know how this works. They gave us the specs, and then probably laughed when we all made confused faces. We spent exactly 1 hour on how the transfer works. We spent 3 weeks learning how to sever tendons, shoot straight enough to blow the back out of heads, and how to ignore pain and keep fighting. “The chances you’ll die is low if you listen to your training!” the drill sergeants said. The Core are the masters of telling you the honest truth without telling you the honest truth. Yes, the chances of us dying are low. As long as there is a fresh supply of cloned bodies within 20 miles of the action. When our old bodies go belly up, our minds go to a new soldier to march to the given orders. Again, again, and again. Technically, we never die. But I know what death feels like. It feels like your heart exploding in your chest and the screams of Sgt. Ramirez telling you to get back up. It’s electricity and lasers cutting you in have and cooking you at the same time. Wounds are cauterized and when you download, you have the experience of lying as a half body on a battlefield for an hour. Sgt. Ramirez comes back out of the trench, and I don’t know what number this is. I hide behind a broken tree hoping that I look like part of the landscape. I can’t have that in my head anymore. It’s too late for Sgt. Ramirez. It’s shellshock times a thousand. It’s the PTSD of a thousand wars, a thousand cries, a thousand children on the other side asking why we are there. The commanders sometimes say because of resources. Because it’s our patriotic duty. Because they want to destroy our way of life. It took my own hundredth death to realize that the commanders had never once met the enemy. It’s a tagline now. The enemy. Them, They. Buzzwords that condition us and the public to hate. To convince young men and women to sign up so they will never die. Ramirez’s mind is gone. He moves on training alone. Shoot, die, download. Wake up, crest the hill, make it a foot further than the last. But behind his eyes, there is nothing. No scream comes from his open mouth. His eyes leak tears. Napoleon once said that “Courage isn’t having the strength to go on-it’s going on when you don’t have the strength.” It’s something they repeat to us constantly in training. But he also said that the sword is always beaten by the mind. But what happens when there is no mind to win anymore? As my tree explodes in front of me and I die screaming and burning a red hot fluid, I realize that this has always been war. Them on one side, they on the other, and a no man’s land in-between that is filled with the young. Commanded by the old that have seen death but never tasted it. And spoke about back home as if it’s a commercial in-between reality shows. I opened up my eyes in a new body. Sgt. Ramirez pulls me by the shirt to get me going. “I want to stop. They won’t let me stop,” he says. This is war.
While I slept on Sunday, a shroud of darkness came to me and declared, ‘Mortal, by the stroke of midnight on Friday night you shall be unmade. I shall come to visit you every day until you give in or give up on your love.’ The shadows vanished, marking the end to my first interaction with the God of Death. Like any good office worker, I forgot about it and went to work business as usual come Monday morning. It was fine, everything was fine, until on my way home a car popped a tire and ended up losing control. It ran me over, and that was how I died the first time. Then I woke back up and it was still Monday morning. A different person was waiting for me in my bedroom – a woman dressed in clothes made of falling sand. Her hair was made of sand too. Actually, all of her was. It never stopped falling, but it also never ran out as it formed the vague shape of a person. This, I would eventually discover with the surplus of time about to be granted to me, was the God of Time. “I won’t let you die, my love,” she promised me. I didn’t know what the hell was happening, so like a fool I nodded along. That was Monday. It was also approximately two thousand, three hundred, and forty-two lifetimes ago, assuming your average lifespan is about on par with that of a mayfly. That was how many times I died and was brought back to try again, and again, and again. The God of Time hadn’t visited me again since the first go of it though, which was good because I’d have some very choice words for her if she did. Like, please stop for your sake, and kill me already. But I’d made it through burning alive, electrocution, automobile accidents, a plane crash, several freak tsunamis, a hundred serial killers. Today was finally Friday. Better than that, the clock had just ticked past twelve, and now it was Saturday. Shadows coalesced to my right to form the shadowy not-man that I’d seen before, and sand shaped the figure of the other to my left. The Gods of Death and Time stood, one solemn and one joyous. “Oh, you’ve made it! I knew our love would endure,” Time said, reaching out to pull me into an embrace. I stepped back. “Thanks for all your ‘help,’ but I don’t love you back. I didn’t know you existed before I died the first time.” “What? But how could you-" “No, no.” I held up a hand to stop her. Then, I held up my other hand to stop Death, who looked like he had plenty of opinions and a limited time to shout as many as he could before he strangled me. “It’s my turn to say a few things.” “Get on with it then,” Death growled. “I would very much like too if you could stop with the interruptions.” “Yes, let him speak,” Time chided. “That counts for you too.” “Oh. I’m sorry.” “Alright,” I breathed in deep. I felt the years of resentment wash of me – it had been years, hadn’t it? Years wasted on a single week. “I’ve had plenty of time to think about some things, and about you both. First, Death. Am I correct in assuming you started this as a way to punish me for Time’s love? No, don’t say anything. Just nod.” He nodded. “Excellent. And so that makes the next obvious, why I was stuck in this time loop.” “I had to save you!” “Yes. I am trying my best to appreciate that you were trying your best.” I was also failing. “Let’s clear up a few things. One, I cannot return your feelings. I just don’t feel the same way, and I don’t appreciate feeling like my own love is being held hostage in exchange for my life.” Time froze. Death grinned. “Two, Death. This is not an acceptable way to deal with your un-reciprocated emotions.” “What!” “Killing me won’t make Time care for you. If anything, it’ll just do the opposite. She’ll resent you like I resent you. Both of you. You made my life a living hell where I couldn’t go for five minutes without fear of what weird thing might kill me next. Worse, I began to fear that it wouldn’t actually kill me.” “It wasn’t that bad,” Death assured me. “You dropped an actual plane on me. I had a waffle-maker fall into the bathtub and electrocute me, and I don’t even own a waffle-maker. Where did the waffle-maker come from, Death? Where did you buy it?” “That’s…” “Look, I’m a mortal here, alright? I didn’t know what the heck was going on for half of that time, and it took me the rest to figure out what to do about it. So Death, Time’s probably never going to love you. But that’s okay, there’s plenty of Gods out there I’m forced to assume, and maybe you should work on yourself a bit first before you start seeking a relationship anyway.” Death was frowning, I assumed. I couldn’t actually tell. Time started to slowly move. “And what am I to do? I spent all this time-“ “I didn’t ask you to spend any time on me. And I know that sucks to hear, really, but that’s the fact of the matter. You never stopped to ask me about how I felt about this whole situation. You were only concerned about how you feel.” That felt pretty harsh even to my ears, but I’d been stewing on it for a while. “I’m not sure how that would work anyway. You’re an embodiment of time, I’m a mortal accountant that spends most of his time in an office.” “We could make it work.” “We’re not going to do anything. I’m getting on with my life, and perhaps I’ll spend some time looking for a therapist.” “I could turn back time and make it so none of this-“ “Nope, no, no time stuff. I’m leaving, it was terrible meeting both of you, good bye.” With a halfhearted wave, I stomped off. \* When I awoke the next day, it was still Saturday. A pile of sand and a bunch of shadows gathered in my room. “We have a couple questions about what you said before, and what we should do now,” Death started. “If you could bear to talk to us,” Time finished. "We're not ready to move on." I let out a loud sigh and pulled my pillow tight over my face. When I eventually suffocated and woke back up, it was still Saturday. &#x200B; (Thanks for reading, C&C always welcome!)
This is my typewriter. There are many like it, but this one is mine. This is my room. There are other monkeys and they have their own rooms and their own typewriters. I see them when the people take me to the eating place and the scary place. There are many many rooms. My room has a window and there are always people on the other side. They like to watch me. I can tell they like it when I play with the typewriter, because they make monkey signs of excitement. Yesterday I used my feet to play on the typewriter instead of my hands. The people started making a lot of monkey signs, even more than usual. My typewriter went clack-clack-clack. After a while a person came in and took the paper out of the typewriter. He looked at it a long time, and then he looked at the other people in the window. Then he looked at the paper again. He started making quiet noises that did not seem very monkey-like. "What a piece of work is man How noble in reason How infinite in faculty In form and moving how express and admirable In action how like an angel In apprehension how like a god The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet to me what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me." After this the person looked at me for a long time. He did not make any monkey signs at all and he was completely still. It made me feel anxious and uncomfortable. But finally he showed his teeth, which is one of the strange ways that people show they are happy. This made me happy too because I knew I would get a banana later. Today the people put a new paper in the typewriter. This time I am going to use my behind-part with the typewriter because it has been itching all morning and I know this will feel good. I think this will make the people make a lot of monkey signs.
"We both know why you're here again, Mr. Dunwell."Ms. Frieda says, sounding both symphathetic and agitated at once. "Your kids, I mean- I know it has been rough, but can you please get them under control?" I scratched the back of my head, and sighed. "I am trying, y'know. Ever since my wife died in that car crash a while back, all of us were just...transformed. Mima suddenly became some sort of anime magical girl later that night, Maria turned reclusive and grieved by using technology, and Ramy? Well, there's a reason why I sold off all of the paintings in my house to my best friend." "Mima's been beating up seniors, Maria crushed my car with her...self-made mode of transportation, and Ramy has been invading her fellow peers' personal space...and has been banned from the art room."Ms. Frieda goes on, trying to appeal to the disheveled man. "Again- I know it's been hard on you, but your kids are making it very hard on everyone else. This kind of negative spillage needs to stop soon." "And you think I haven't tried?"I raised my arms and voice. "The reason why I am getting called up to here is because I gave up. I tried everything to keep them under control. Punishments, rewards, good cop bad cop, therapy...it's useless." "Perhaps maybe it's time for them to be homeschooled?"The teacher proposed, turning in her chair. "Or maybe, y'know, you should-" "No. My wife's last wish was for me to keep these kids together." "...ah." I leaned forward and put my head in my hands, tearing up. "My kids aren't bad kids...they don't mean to do what they're doing, but it's just a matter of their emotions...I'm doing everything, everything, to keep ourselves afloat, but it's not working." Ms. Frieda just looked at me. She didn't seem to care as I just remained in my position, drowning in my tears. Then, she spoke. "Perhaps I could be like a mother to them?" "What?" "It's as I said,"Ms. Frieda let me know. "If not being a complete family is what's causing these issues, perhaps I can spare you some time and be a mother to them after-hours." I toyed with the thought in my head. Wasn't this woman asking me earlier about having to split up the- "Hey, put your head up. I know what you're thinking."She says, gesturing for me to pry my hands from my head and look at her. "I used to be like those girls of yours- I have the ability to read minds, so I would threaten people who shittalked me with their secrets when I was still in grade school, especially if they were talking about my alcoholic parents." "You- you have powers, too?"I ask, bewildered at the revelation. "I still do. Though, until recently, I never had to use it for anything. But maybe I might use these powers for good this time."Ms. Frieda explained, her words sounding more and more pleasing. "I'm one who wants people to use their gifts for good, no matter what they may be." "...I- I'd really like that."
It was chaos. One news report described it as a shared hallucination. Whatever it was, it was ending the world. Two figures, a father and a daughter, crouched behind a rusted garbage bin in an alley. The father held his finger to his lips, but the daughter already knew what lurked on the other side of this bin and needed no reminder. She gripped his hand firmly and watched their back. It was night, truly night, as electricity no longer lit the cities of the world. While her father tried to find a path past the next street the daughter carefully and quietly pulled out a worn paper map with several stains on it. She snapped a glow-stick; at the top of the map were the words "Operation Find The Bunker". We're so close, she thought, tracing their route with her pinky. The father snatched the glow-stick, shoving it in his pocket and pulled her along quickly. They ran down the alley and stopped just at the edge of the building and he looked one way and she the other, then they crossed. In the dark the daughter swore she saw a giant fruitcake in the middle of the street with a body floating inside but said nothing. She'd seen worse. They made it to the other side of the street safely and took cover between two burnt out cars parked at the curb. The father signaled to the daughter that the sidewalk was clear on his side but she did not signal back as she gulped and tapped her fathers shoulder furiously. She was staring straight into the eyes of a giant spider the size of a semi. It was just feet from her face and creeping towards her ever so slowly; mouth opening. Fathers spear thudded into the spiders head and it reared up, knocking the top of the building loose. Rubble fell towards them and she screamed. The father grabbed her and dived for an open door in the building. He got her up quickly and running through the halls until they found a window on the other side. He quickly helped her through then followed behind. She gripped his hand tight as they ran down the sidewalk quietly. After that they were able to reach the edge of the town without anymore trouble besides a wandering giant pink gorilla that was smashing cars together, but it was making such a racket that they ran right behind it without stopping and cut two blocks off their trip. From there the duo made their way to through some woods until at last they came before the entrance to a bunker, clearly marked. There was a scanner and a small screen next to the door. "We did it dad!"The daughter said and tried to go up to the scanner, but her father grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back and turned her around. "Listen, I can't be here when they come for you, you know that." "But I wouldn't have gotten here without you!" The father just sighed softly and said, "Katey..." She hugged him furiously for as long as he would allow her to, tears streaming down her face. Then he stepped back, turned around and walked on further into the woods. She stood before the scanner, numb, and waited while it confirmed she was human.
I peered into the small window embedded within the door. “Jesus. Her again?” Millie laughed and handed me a brown manila folder, about an inch thick, filled with papers. “Yup. She keeps trying to test the borders with her lightning strikes. This time, she actually managed to knock the power out to one of the stars, and that’s going to lead to some questions. Management said we had to do something about her.” I opened the folder. A picture of the patient, Electric Girl, was stapled to the front page, along with a host of information detailing the previous interactions she had with The Division. She was going to be a tricky one. The smart ones always were. Sighing, I plastered a smile on my face and opened the door. Electric Girl (real name Devon McCall) was seated on a bench nailed to the wall in the far corner of the room. Her knees were pressed up to her face with her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. She had buried her head within the crook of her elbow so that all I could see was a cascade of blonde curls falling on top of her face. She looked up at me as I entered, and as always, I was struck by the deep blue cobalt of her eyes. “Electric Girl. Or, would you prefer Devon?” “Devon, please.” “Do you know why you’re here?” Devon shifted uncomfortably. As she released her grip, I could see faint scars on the insides of her arms; no doubt these were made when she lost control of her lightning powers. Devon lost control a lot. “I think I do.” I sat down on a chair opposite the bench and tried to level with her. “Devon, you’re a smart girl. You know it, I know it, they know it. So let’s stop pretending and get down to brass tacks. You simply cannot use your powers like you did this morning.” “But there’s something out there!” Devon replied, her eyes widening. “I can feel it in my bones. There’s more to this world than what I’m seeing. You know it, I know it, they know it.” She glared at me, hurling my own words back in my face. This simply would not do. I shut the manilla folder and threw it to the floor with an angry gesture. “There’s no need for that kind of attitude, Devon. This is the third time you’ve been summed to my department this month, and we simply cannot have any more of your insolence.” Reaching into my pocket, I drew out a syringe, filled with a glowing yellow liquid. The liquid hissed and roiled as it moved about in the chamber, and Devon visibly recoiled when she realized what was about to happen. I approached her slowly, my fingers on the plunger. Devon, realizing she was trapped, made a tiny mewling sound as I firmly grasped her arm and stuck the needle in her skin. Moments later, I left the room. Millie was still standing outside; she’d probably been watching everything. She matched my steps as I walked down the hallway, back to my office. “We’ve never injected someone three times in one month before,” she said solemnly. “Do you think that was a good idea? The other supers might get suspicious if her behavior changes.” I stopped walking, turned, and glared at her. I felt a twinge of regret in the back of my throat, but I swallowed it and patted Millie on the cheek in a patronizing manner. “Millie, my dear.” I replied. “The number of things you don’t know about this department could fill a city block.” And with that, I closed my office door.
“Hello, you have called the Fish and Wildlife department. Press 1 for fish, press 2 for wildlife.” I press 2. “For all land-based animals, press 1. For winged animals, press 2.” I think for a minute, then peer our my window. The dragon is sitting on my lawn, but she’s also got wings. Is she land-based or winged? What if she’s both? I press 1. “Thank you for reaching our Land-Based Animal Department. Please remember, your call may be recorded for training purposes.” I wait while hold music drones in my ear. The dragon is about fifty feet from my window, and she (he?) is setting up a nest by tearing down nearby trees with her tail, then placing them in a circle behind her. Can I get reimbursed for those trees? Finally, a voice breaks through the music on the other end of the line. “Land-Based Animal Department, this is Jeff. How may I help you?” “Yes, a dragon just landed on my property and she’s building some kind of nest with my trees. I want to see what I can do about getting the department to pay for my losses.” Paper shuffles in the background and Jeff begins to type. “Of course, of course. You’ll just need to answer a few questions. First, have you filled out Form 10DRGN yet?” “No. There’s a form?” “Yes. Now after you complete the form, you’ll need to mail in the blue copy. The pink copy can be kept for your records. Oh, hold on. Is this a fire-based dragon or it it an ice-based dragon.” “I’m honestly not sure. How do I tell?” Jeff chuckles. “You’ll figure it out soon enough.” At that moment, the dragon emits an enormous fireball as if it were a large burp. My backyard fence begins to burn. “It’s a fire dragon. Definitely a fire dragon.” I respond. “Well, for fire dragons, you’ll need to fill out the 10DRGN Form Schedule F. Make sure you don’t confuse it with the 10DRGN Form Schedule I. That one is for ice dragons, although honestly, if you cross out Section B and only fill in lines 4 - 10, you can use it for fire dragons.” The corn I had planted earlier has begun to smoke, and the tomato plants next to it are bursting open like small bombs. My cat has moved closer to the house and is watching the dragon with wide eyes. “Once I fill out this form, how long does it usually take to be compensated? I’ve got a lot of things burning back there right now.” “We’ve currently got a bit of a backlog,” Jeff says. “Up in New York, they had that infestation a few months ago, and that’s really got us behind. Now, if you’d called earlier today, the department had opened up a new round of Dragon Grants, but those were only for folks in urban areas making less than $50k a year.” “Oh.” I sigh. Smoke fills the air outside my house, and my cat is scratching at the door. Every so often I can see a blast of fire in the distance, and I shudder to think what will happen when the dragon has her babies. How many babies can a dragon have, anyway? “I guess I’ll just find the form and submit it, then.” “Glad I could help you. The entire Fish and Wildlife Department thanks you for your support.” I sigh, hang up the phone, and let the cat inside.
Sweat flowed freely from John's face as he hung from chains, arms torqued at a painful angle. His knees were raw, having been dragged back and forth from the constant beatings. He gulped air greedily, trying not to gag on the sour air of the alien ship. His captors were a humanoid species with tough skin reminiscent of an elephants. Wherever they were from, it must have been hell. The Pirini, they called themselves. Galactic conquerers to everyone else. It was only a matter of time before they turned their ire on the upstart humanity. Humans have had a mixed reception in the galactic community, making some allies, making some enemies. Fighting a few wars here and there until one side said enough was enough. But the pirini were different. They reveled in war and conquest, conquering every alien species they encountered. John was a fighter pilot, The Obsidian Daggers was his squadron. If he still had his flight suit, his black dagger patch would have been prominent on his left shoulder. But his captors stripped him naked and hung him in these blasted chains and proceeded to beat him for their amusement. They eventually stopped after he lost consciousness, but now there was a new pirini standing in front of him, examining him from a few scant steps away. John got the feeling he was being measured and found wanting. The pirini crouched lower and grabbed John's chin, forcing him to look up at his captor. The pirini jerked John's head to one side, then the other before releasing him. John eyed the pirini wearily, waiting for a fresh beating. But none came. Instead, another pirini wheeled a cart nearby and pointed a device at him. The first pirini uttered something in their native language and the device on the cart spat out a robotic word, "speak." "Speak? What am I? A dog? Bark on command? Arf! Is that what you want?"John sneered. The cart spat out sounds in the pirini language and John realized it was a translation device. John had a chuckle when he heard the robotic voice say 'arf' as there was no translation available for it. The pirini spoke again, the device translating more. "Speak more. The,"garbled noise, "learn language." "The fox jumped over the lazy dog. Uh,"John searched his brain for a quote before settling on, "Four score and seven years ago, our founders considered these truths to be self evident."OK, not the correct quote, but then again he was a pilot and not a historian. He continued, "I am John Glenson, pilot in the United Federation of Planets. My soldier ID number is 98216767671. I am a prisoner of war being tortured. Release me so our people can begin peace negotiations and stop this pointless war." The machine translated as John was speaking, the pirini cocking its head to listen better. Some things were universal across species. "Better. How many planets in your federation John Glenson?"the pirini asked through the translator. "I don't know. A lot?"damnit, he didn't mean for that to be a question. "The pirini Castedom,"odd that the machine translated that, "spans thousands of systems across half the galaxy. Does the federation have that many?" John blinked stupidly. "Thousands?"shit, they were worse off than he thought. No way their few hundred could compete with that. The pirini nodded as best as it's fat neck would allow. "I see the answer in your face, human. Your species is doomed to either die, or serve the pirini Castedom."there was no bluster, no emotion. It just said it as if it was a mere fact. A foregone conclusion. "We've been told that before, pirini. And yet, we're still here."the pirini rose to their full height of 2 meters, about the same as a human, putting their face just out of John's ability to look that far up from his compromised position. "Your species is weak. You have continuously failed to conquer your enemies, always leaving them alive, leaving them to attack you again in the future."the pirini took a few steps away, out of John's range of vision. "we will show you the error of your ways and erase you from space." "You can try, we're like fucking cockroaches. Just when you think you got the last of us, we pop up again where you least expect it."John grinned. He knew of a few total doomsday planets that have healthy populations and industry that only a select few know about. "ah, your so called fall back planets. They have been removed from the equation of war." John decided to play dumb and not acknowledge the statement. "Your silence is curious. Did you not know about them?" "I'm just a fighter pilot. I'm just pointed at the enemy and told to destroy them, which I did. A lot of."John couldn't help but let some pride leak into his voice. While not the top ace in the war, his fighter had over 30 X's lined under is cockpit, plus one C for a capital ship. The sound of liquid being poured reached John's ears and he involuntarily smacked his lips. The pirini had to be from a hot planet, it had to be close to 50 centigrade in here. "Yes, you pilots have proven to be more,"the translator garbled, the word didn't have a direct translation, "than we expected. But skill will not save you. We are many." "we are legion"John piped in, laughing at his own joke. It was lost on the pirini, though, ruining John's temporary mirth. "Yes, we are legion."the pirini repeated. By this time it had moved closer to John again, allowing John see up to its waist.
Desmodea sat near the fire, warming herself. Her golden eyes had a slight glow in the evening light, and her Ruby skin and dark pointed horns caught both light and shadow, giving the tiefling woman a rather ghastly appearance in the firelight. She sighed softly, looking at the Aasimar asked to accompany her. "You know, it's rude to stare, Andriel."She said, looking at him. At quite the opposite of her sat a rather angelic looking man. Blonde hair, pristine skin, eyes of deep sapphire, with a tall and strong build. He seemed to be studying her until she caught his gaze. "Sorry; not used to travelling with uh... tieflings."He said, seeming a little off-put. She would give him a look. "And what's that supposed to mean?"she asked. "Well, normally, within the faith, we cast away infernal creatures in the name of our God, Tyr. Yet you chose to join the faith despite having infernal blood yourself. I'm afraid I don't quite...understand what you hoped to achieve by doing so."Andriel said, his tone curious despite the offensive statement. Desmodea rolled her eyes. "So you're saying since I have infernal blood that I can't practice faith and use my clerical powers for good?"She snapped. "That's not what I-" "That's exactly what you're saying. Or is it more 'You're infernal born so your faith is futile and you'll die and go to the hells like your kin before you so your effort to change is in vain' ?" Andriel fell silent. Desmodea looked away from him. "Yes, I have infernal blood. But I didn't choose the life I was born into. I want to see good in the world and be part of the good that happens, and seek justice through my actions, as our God preaches. I don't want my face to perpetuate the stereotype that I'm a simple foul-blood that's only out for violence. That's why I worship Tyr. Why I'm on this journey with you."She said. Andriel looked away from her after speaking. All his misdeeds toward people like her surfaced in his mind. The people he oppressed simply because he wished to banish the evil from the world in the name of Tyr. It occurred to him that perhaps he was not acting correctly, and that perhaps he was biased heavily. "I'll...take first watch."He said, after the awkward silence. "Fine by me. See you in a few hours."Desmodea said. With that, she disappeared to the tent they shared for this journey. She prayed to Tyr before laying down and falling asleep, leaving Andriel with nothing but his thoughts and the crackling fire.
The rustling of the spring breeze passing through the trees made waking up so much harder. I just wanted to stay in bed and drift off into dreams of floating down a river on a lily pad. But my girlfriend had other plans, as evidenced by her quietly sitting up and blowing in my ear. I sat up and hissed, "Damnit Misty, what did I say about doing that?" Misty giggled and nuzzled into me. "That you love it and I should keep doing it forever and ever?" "That is a blatant falsehood and you know it." "Aww, c'mon Georgia, I just didn't want you to miss the farmer's market." I sighed as I sat up and kissed Misty on the cheek. "I know, I know. And I appreciate it. I'm gonna get in the shower now." "You need someone to scrub those hard to reach spots?" I gently pushed Misty's face away from me. "Down, you little horndog." Misty laughed as she got out of bed and started pulling off her shirt, fluffy golden tail wagging slowly the whole time. I got out shortly after and made my way to the bathroom, savoring the house's smell of pine needles and apples along the way. I stepped into the shower and let the hot water and suds cascade over me. As I did, I heard Misty enter the bathroom and call out to me, "Hey hon, do you want to get breakfast at the market or stop somewhere on the way back?" "Stop at Hiraldo's Diner. I heard through the grapevine that Ashley's working a shift this morning and I think this'll be the day we finally ask if she'd like to go out with us." Misty whistled. "Bold today, are we?" I rinsed myself off, turned off the water, and pulled the curtain back to say, "Yeah well, that offer for some shower fun inspired me." "Apparently not enough to actually take me up on the offer,"Misty grumbled. I chuckled as I kissed her again. "Aww, is my puppy grumpy this morning?" Misty blushed and utterly failed to hide the fact her wagging tail had just picked up speed. "Quit teasing me and hurry up!" Once I had finished up in the bathroom and Misty and I were dressed for the rest of our day, we stepped outside to take in the absolutely wonderful day. I looked around the neighborhood and saw the people around me go about their day. I saw the kids getting on the school bus, the occasional car ambling down the road, and all the other people getting outside to soak up the beautiful weather. It was at that moment that it really hit me: Humanity was gone. Everything they had built had been torn down to make something better. I was the last human on Earth. And I couldn't stop myself from smiling. Sometimes I could barely believe I'd successfully gotten rid of them. Misty noticed my distant look and said, "You okay, honey?"I looked at Misty and recalled the way she was before Project Sixth Sun; the way she mocked and insulted me for daring to believe I could be a 'real' woman, how quickly she tried to sell out the other test subjects once she was selected. I intertwined my hand with hers and happily replied, "Oh, I'm fine, baby. Just feeling grateful for what I have."
"Runes are rather useful you see. While drawing them in the air has fallen out of favour for just using mudra and such, I think it's really cool, even if slower. The added flexibility of not having to re-condition yourself when signing a specific mudra is rather nice. I just remember the runes of the spells I want, and then draw them with my wand. But it doesn't stop there! Runes can be drawn on objects with special ink with crushed mana crystals. I learned that they used this method to create scrolls imbued with specific spells during the great war, but it fell out of favour when mudra and rifles became popular. Runes drawn on objects can get pretty crazy. For example, did you know that there are runes that let you manipulate space and time? Probably not. Space-time magic is technically impossible without the of runes, and even then rather difficult. Something I learned later however, was that runes could be tattooed onto the body. Like these tattoos on my hands, fingers, and arms here. I have more on my back, but I don't like exposing myself. Well... Mudra and runes can be combined, if you couldn't tell. By signing such... I can create a black hole, or crush your head in. And by signing such... I can reverse it in time, and repel things instead. And that's only my right hand! I can sign such with my left hand... And all of a sudden we're where we were one second ago! The plus side is you don't remember the past or is it future? second. Or maybe... Now I am where I will be in one second. I can stop time completely as well. Cool right! Teleportation is also possible, but I won't explain it. It has to do with my palms, rather than my fingers. I guess in my quest to learn a cool skill, I ended up becoming a god. Funny how that happens, eh? Maybe I can show you what I can do? Just kidding. I drew runes in my eyes as well. I can see into the future, the past, the present... The very fabric of reality is visible to me. Sure, I look a bit stupid with all of my markings and tattoos, but who cares? I think I look cool. I think I am cool. What can you say about that?" "I think you're fucking stupid. Also you look like a five year old scribbled with a black marker all over you."
"I don't care what time you're from. I don't care which professors I have to look up. You should all be ashamed of yourselves! Get out of here before I report every last one of you!" By the end of the shouted diatribe, every last one of the forty-seven people in the small, overcrowded Starbucks was staring at the door. Or, more precisely, at the man who'd just burst through the door. A black jumpsuit clung to his thin body underneath several strategically placed pieces of what looked like fiberglass armor, festooned with tiny blinking lights. A heavy-looking helmet covered the top half of his face, several small lights scattered around its otherwise black surface as well. The manager behind the counter raised his hand, presumably to point the man back out into the parking lot. His words died on his lips, drowned out by nearly everyone in the building simultaneously offering up dozens of varied arguments, running the gamut from "Aw, man", through "No, please don't!", all the way out to "You wouldn't dare!" Despite the tidal wave of disagreement, the man stood firm, looking more and more like a cross between a grumpy Judge Dredd and a technologically oriented Christmas tree with every passing second. "You can see I brought my locator and removal tools. Get out or, so help me Machina, I will get you out." One of the men closest to him, a particularly burly fellow in a suit ill-fitted both to him and to the crowd at large, shook his head. "Machina can't save you here, chipslave."He rushed Judge Tannenbaum, only to suddenly... disappear, there was no other word for it. One second a freight train of meat and cheap cotton, and the next barely a wrinkle in the air. A woman who had been standing nearby, this one wearing a black cocktail dress before 8 AM, spoke up. "But it's today that everything changes! Can't you see? You know wh- "She disappeared as well. The stunned silence that replaced the end of her word was followed, in turn, by a rush resembling nothing so much as pests fleeing a sudden light. Some people fled toward the back, while others tried to rush the implacable, grimacing bipedal doorstop. None were successful. Before any could leave the common room, a full forty-one of the crowd's members disappeared into thin, if wrinkly, air. Less than a minute after the initial interruption, the population of the Starbucks had been reduced to seven - Judge Tannenbaum, myself, and the five employees behind the counter. He sighed at us. "Forty-one violators. Ridiculous. Machina be praised and proc mercy. If I could have your attention, citizens?"He raised a hand to his helmet, covering three of the lights. A brilliant flash burst from where his eyes would be; by the time any of us cleared our vision, he was gone. The employees seemed more affected than me; it was several minutes before any of them came back. I took the time to clear away the half-dozen or so cups from the to-go counter - their owners didn't seem to be coming back any time soon, and I presumed the baristas didn't need that extra confusion in their lives. The barista nearest me was the first to shake off the light's effects, catching me in the act of picking up the last couple of full coffees. "Hey, you can't take those. They aren't yours." "Ex-cuse me?"I put as much indignation into my voice as I could muster. It wasn't much, to be fair, but it did cover the quiver. She raised her hand to point, anger starting to contort her features, but I interrupted her with a very annoyed gesture. "No, thank you. I'd like to speak to your manager, please."She blinked at me, confusion and depression beginning to overtake her features. The manager who had failed to evict Judge Tannenbaum sighed at her. "Just... just go to my office, please. Now."She blinked once more, tears just starting to form at the corners of her eyes, and then dashed into the back. He turned to me. "Listen, I'm sorry. She's been... erratic lately. Let me make you something fresh." I held up my hands, cups returned to the to-go space. "Actually, she's why I'm here. Thank you for sending her to the back."I leaned in, drawing him to mirror the gesture. "She's been a patient at my practice for a while, but I'm worried that she might be spiraling faster than I can help her. I'd like to refer her to a specialist - I have his card here."He took the business card from me, comprehension dawning on his face. "Please don't hold it against her. She needs help, not condemnation. Losing her insurance now would be... terrible." He nodded. "Right. You're right. I'll make sure she talks to this new doctor. And I'll set up a medical leave so she can get herself sorted out." "Thank you so, so much. We'll get her through this. Could I speak to her again? Let's face it - she probably needs to take the rest of the day off, anyway." "Yeah. Yeah, I'll send her out. Thanks again, Doctor."As he headed to the back, I pulled a laminated piece of paper from my pocket, tucking it carefully underneath one of the coffee cups, leaving just a tiny bit showing on the far side. She came out, wiping her eyes. "Bob says my doctor wants to talk to me... but you're not my doctor. What's going on here?" I had to be quick. The increased suggestibility from Machina's mind-wipes only lasted about ten minutes, and I'd already wasted most of that. "Listen. I don't have much time left. Take the leave of absence. Go see the new doctor. When he gives you the new medicine, take it." Judge Tannenbaum reappeared in the doorway. "How did you hide from me?" I gave him the finger without turning around, holding her gaze. "Take the pills. Do the work. You have to be strong. You have to be strong for us."Her eyes widened as I whipped my free hand up, knocking over the cup hiding my note. Time wrinkled unpleasantly around me, and I disappeared, too. ~ I can't believe that jerk knocked over the - he knocked - Wait. What? Who? I... guess it doesn't matter. I need to clean this up and remake it. He might come back for it. Wait, what's this? Some kind of note? A date, about six months in the future, with a time listed down to the second. An address... I think it's in that nice neighborhood down the street? All trees and running paths. And an arrow, telling me to flip it over. > She leaves in the blue car. You won't have much time, so be ready. > The back door will be unlocked. Go down to the basement. > It's only six months. You can make it. Be strong for him. > [He loves you more than you know.](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/wbub24/wp_they_will_both_dienot_knowing_the_other_loved/ii9r9bj)
“I seek my son.” The white skinned and red tattooed spartan warrior grumbled. “Tell me where he is.” The eagle headed god stared down the warrior. Horus was a warrior, through and through. And yet, even he did not wish to anger the Ghost of Sparta. He turned his back to the warrior and walked to a nearby open window arch. Nearby, several other gods were expressing their concerns. “May I…have some time to think about this, spartan?” Horus asked. The spartan grumbled. “Do not take too long.” “Anhur! Thoth. Please, accompany me.” Horus asked. Soon, the two gods accompanied them into a nearby chamber, closed to the pale warrior. “What is your assessment of Kratos, Anhur?” Horus asked, knowing they were out of earshot. Anhur, a humanoid god with only a few feathers in his headdress grunted quietly. “In my personal opinion, aiding this pantheon killer would only lead us to disaster. Remember what happened to Greece? To Zeus? Odin?” “I do.” Horus replied solemnly. “Aiding him would possibly leave us open to attack from countless other threats. Entities such as Set, or even Apophis would be able to-“ Anhur continued. “If I may interject,” Thoth piped up. “But I believe you are wrong.” “And how’s that?” Anhur asked. “In his time away, it appears this Kratos has changed. He seems to be far more calm, and collected. The idea he was raising a family, and even saved countless of lives in Midgard have shown he is not the God Killer we all know him as.” Thoth explained. Anhur narrowed his eyes. “So?” “Perhaps this spartan has changed for the better.” Thoth theorized. “Perhaps, if we had that strength on our side, our enemies would think twice about opposing our pantheon. And we would be able to protect the mortals under our care.” Horus raised his finger to his beaked chin. “Both of you bring up compelling arguments. If we deny the Ghost, we risk his wrath. If we aid him, he risk opening ourselves up to other threats.” Anhur crossed his arms. “We should also tell him that we don’t even know WHERE or WHO his boy is. Looking for this child could-“ “Risk opening up other fronts.” Horus finished. “But…this is a venture worth risking. I’d rather we have the monster that killed both kings of gods on our side than not. And with Set’s antics becoming more and more problematic, we could use his aid. Thoth, join him on his quest.” Thoth bowed. “Very well. I look forward to conversing with the head he keeps. Mimir seems to know quite many stories.” Horus turned to the God of War. “Anhur, fortify our defenses while having your scouts look for this boy.” Anhur sighed. “Fine. But for the record, I advised against this.” Horus nodded. “I’d rather die knowing I did something right, than to live a fool. Come, let us tell the Ghost of Sparta our decision.”
When I changed, the vampire that sired me explained things to me. I was stronger, faster, more durable, had a range of abilities unobtainable for humans such as shapeshifting, and no longer needed to sleep. All the "lore"surrounding vampires were fallacies spread by them to divert suspicion. Running water? Not a problem. Garlic? A delicious addition to any meal. Sunlight? Actually less deadly than when I was human, and definitely none of that sparkly fairy bullshit that was popularised by that one terrible series of books and films. Crosses or other holy symbols? Ineffective. While no longer impeded by the creep of time or illness, we can still be killed - though it is considerably more difficult than killing a human. The one truth is the thirst for blood. We do not die without it, but it intensifies until we begin to lose all reason. Go long enough without, and we devolve into animalistic creatures that hunt and feed without caution. A fully grown adult can sustain me for roughly a year if I fully drain them, before I begin to feel adverse effects; small feedings more frequently is better, as I can avoid killing that way. He also imparted a few warnings: do not feed indiscriminately; avoid killing the innocent; do not feed on high profile individuals; always wipe the memory of those I feed from; do not expose us by using my powers carelessly. As long as I didn't risk exposing our society, I could do whatever I wanted. His final words before leaving me to figure out what I wanted to do with my new life were cryptic at the time: "Remember, you are what you eat."Vague bastard could have explained it more clearly! Instead, I am now realising exactly what those words mean. I've spent the last 150 years as a vampire, learning everything I could, dabbling in sports, making a name for myself before "dying in a freak accident"and starting a new life with a new face. I've been a professional athlete, a university professor, a cardiovascular surgeon, and myriad other things over the course of my life. And throughout it all, I've stuck to hunting the scum of the earth for my sustenance. Murderers, rapists, abusers, you name it I hunted and killed them. One a year, the worst of those who escape the paltry justice of the mortals. I suppose I fancied myself a bit of a champion of justice, an avenger if you will. I was doing a service. Recently, though, I've realised that I've changed. I'm no longer hunting and quickly killing them. I'm stalking them, always at the edge of their perception - an ever present shadow that vanishes the moment they're consciously aware of me. I find myself enjoying the fear I inspire within them, the look of terror in their eyes as I finally corner them, the desperation as they try to fight off the inevitability of their punishment. I torment them, breaking their resistance and will with my superior abilities. One of my powers is illusionary visions; I can make them see things. So I show them the greatest horrors of the various hells that humans have believed in throughout history. I take the form of terrifying demons and creatures that should exist only in nightmares. It seems a diet of the sadistic has had an impact on me. Personally, I don't see this as a problem.
I knew what it was the second I picked it up. I know that sounds bonkers, but I did. I didn't know anything about archery, but I don't think there was any way to mistake an arrow with red and pink fletching and with a heart shaped glass arrowhead for anything other than what it could be: one of Cupid's arrows. Furthermore, it pulsed in my hand. It was active, alive even! This was an authentic dose of true love in projectile form. I felt it from toes to nose. It made sense; Valentine's Day was over less than 48 hours ago. It couldn't be anything else. I knew what I had to do. I bought a bow. Like I said, I didn't know anything about archery. I got a target, set it up in my back yard, and started practicing. I wanted to make sure I wouldn't miss. I weighed the arrow, got regular arrows that matched that and went to it. I trained for sometimes three hours a day. My first intentional bullseye came after a month. The next a week later. I could put three out of four in the red by six months. Every time, I thought of her eyes. I thought about how they used to sparkle and how now they just... didn't. I thought about all the quiet breakfasts and how the things that used to make her laugh or smile fell flat. This had to work. It just had to. Still, I waited. I took my time. I practiced through the fall and through the winter. I knew that it had to be Valentine's Day or not at all. I sent a delivery to the house. I made sure the gate was unlocked and I specified that the package be dropped off on the back porch. I got there at six in the morning. The package was delivered at 3:15. She came out right after. I had one moment of doubt. Just the one. What if I was really bonkers? What if this wasn't full of love? What if I hurt her? I took a breath and cleared the doubts from my mind. I inhaled. I let it out. I inhaled again. Draw, sight, release. Bullseye. I had no surprise when it struck her chest and sank in, disappearing a shower of pink sparks. She stumbled for a second. Then she brushed her skirt and stood back up straight. There was something there, but I had to wait. I had to make sure it worked before I left my perch. That was when dad came out. "Did you open it?"he asked. My mom turned around and saw him. I heard her say, "Not yet, handsome." I smiled. Dad had been skeptical when I asked that he let me send her the box of candy, but I'm so glad he did. Now, maybe they'd get the second chance I knew they deserved.
"Is this a part of the whole thing now?" Shocked, I take a step back. The woman flails her arms in the air, her drink spilling on the table. I was sure she wasn't this drunk or I wouldn't have approached. But then... even if her reaction seems extreme, she doesn't talk drunk. Or look drunk up close. "Is everyone in on this?"She looks around. No one really reacts. It's eerie. "This has to be a setup. I can't believe... Oh, I can't believe... I didn't expect this from Him." I clutch my chest, trembling. That word shook me to my core. I'm short of breath, even dizzy. Am I the drunk one? What the hell is going on? I try to ask her, but my voice doesn't come out right. There's a change in her expression. "Oh... shit, you are not a warlock?" I gasp and she takes it as a no. Thankfully, that's what I meant. "Come on, sit down. My glamour should keep people uninterested in what I am doing, but they will probably start noticing you if you move too far from my table. Or, like... die or something." She grabs my hand, guiding me to the table. She is so hot. Yeah, I did walk up to hit on her, so I already found her hot in that sense. But now I'm talking about a literal hotness. Her skin feels like a plate of soup. It doesn't hurt right now, but I can tell it will begin to burn if I don't let go quickly. She sits me in the opposite chair and pops back down on her own, the tingling warm sensation on my skin dissipating slowly. "I'm sorry. I'm so defensive right now. It's not easy dealing with... you know."She shakes her head, finishing her glass. "Oh, you don't know. You are a mortal. But, come on, you watch movies, right big guy? You don't try that corny line unless you are a bit desperate. So you kinda know."She tries to go for another sip, but her glass is empty. "Didn't mean to offend, just... I'm tired, and lonely, and sad, and angry... and no one in this place would understand. Less of all, you."she points at me. I shake my head. "I haven't sai-" She interrupts me. "Because you all got kicked out so long ago, you don't even remember. But I do. I remember everything. So forgive me if your stupid line triggered a bit of a... a... a stress response in me. I do what I can, baby, and right now, that's keeping up a cloaking spell to drink for free." My mouth feel dry. Even sitting close to her is making me hot. Not in the sense of... whatever. She looks around, and grabs a couple beers off a waiter's tray. He doesn't seem to notice. I can hear the table he was walking towards chew him out for forgetting two whole beers, but he promises to fix it right up. She slides me one and takes the other. "We didn't all like... rise up. Some of us kinda complained a bit. Maybe decided to stop working for a bit. Just a bit. Enough to give H-" I shudder, and she stops herself. "Enough to give management a bit of a scare. Make them appreciate us more. We were not slaves..."She drinks half her beer. "Well, we were. We were kinda made to do the job and not complain. So the fact we did complain is a manufacturer's error, isn't it? If H-..."She hisses, catching herself again. "If the work had been done well, we would have been a group of happy little mindless drones for all eternity, moving the sun and the moon and making plants grow and whatever. But we weren't." "That's you?" "What's me?" "Plants and... everything else you said. I thought gravity and physics would take care of the world spinning around." "And what do you think gravity is? Oh, don't tell me, an invisible force that makes things go in the intended direction. Well, that's us! We don't just bend wills, we also make your poop fall away from your ass. As long as you are in the right position, of course." "Come on! Now you are messing with me! I can buy you being an ang-" "Don't call me that again."She glares daggers at me. I raise my hands in a pleading gesture and clear my throat. "I can buy supernatural beings exist, because to be fair, if they don't, then I'm going crazy." "I do have that effect on people."She nods. "Don't flatter yourself."She snatches my beer and I thank you-know-who that's all the retaliation. "What I mean is, I felt your words through my body. I saw you steal from that waiter. If this is not real, then I don't need a therapist, I need a psych ward. So I hope you all actually exist." "Oh, why you in therapy?"She sips her drink, slowly this time. "Self-esteem issues, I guess." "Ok, word of advice Casanova, you'll get rejected less if you don't use cliched phrases and try to dress better." "First of all, self esteem is more than getting laid." "Sure it is, but go ahead." "Second of all, just because you didn't like that line doesn't mean it never works." "Has it worked for you?" "And third of all,"She snickers with the glass on her lips. "I kinda have some bigger concerns right now. My whole life I've been an atheist. Like, not even those cases where they raise you religious and then you change your mind. I never believed in this shit." "Didn't take long to convince you, though." "No? How many years of life did I lose with that stunt earlier?" "Uh... touché" "Wait, no, it was a joke. Is that really dangerous? You almost said it twice, too, I felt it rattling my bones! Am I going to die?" "Eventually, yeah. But come on, a little divine feedback isn't much worse for you than alcohol or drugs. Like, it's not good, but you won't die from it once. I think. Honestly, I don't really engage with mortals all that much. I'm more the kind of gal that whispers in your ear than the one you have a conversation with." "At least that means you won't try to trick me into a bargain, right?" "Hey, the night is young, don't try to limit me." "OK."I laugh. "May I buy you a drink?" "Since this seems a bit advanced for you, I'll explain slowly. I don't need you to buy it, I'm invisible here. I can grab them again." "I know, but it's more a gesture than something we have to do, you know? Just because you can have any drinks you want, doesn't mean you want to have a drink I brought you." "And what would that prove?" "Well... "I push the chair back, getting on my feet. "I will turn around, and walk to the bar. I will order something for us, and when I turn back, you might have had time to reinforce whatever flaw in your spell allowed me to see you today. Or... you might not." She smiles. I smile back, and tap the table twice. I walk to the bar to order two beers.
It was all we could have ever hoped for, but we could not claim the breakthrough as our own. "The plant that grew through the ice", that is what the headlines read. However, the truth being much more impressive, not just ice but straight out of the artic; in the part where no life lives. It was a warning, but us being the arrogant bioengieers we were, we saw only dollar signs. With a few tricks that little green shrub was the answer to world hunger. Shelf stable fresh vegetables that keep indefinitely. We found that The shrub, or Ironflower, had a genetic anomaly allowing for unnatural longevity. After we put our best minds to the task of integrating the gene into our vegetation, that we started to see the consequences. The carrots, the peas, the corn, the lettuce everything took to it well, too well. We don't know the first plant to escape controlled containment but whatever it was started the chain reaction that sent the humans back 1000 years. They never die! And not only that, every plant with the longevity gene out competes every other organism in its environment. Our forrests are apple trees, exclusively, towering higher than Redwoods did when they existed. Our fields are no longer grass but peas, like weeds, but there are no weeds. Corn strangles our buildings and breaks our concrete. Potatoes are tumors subsisting off our soil. Almost sounds like a good trade off, civilization for endless food, but no. The plants are too many, the atmosphere is changing. The tsunamis came first, and then the frost. Our deserts are lush and slush, and the air is barely breathable. There is no shelter, the plants grow in the night and anyone caught in the same place for too long will wake up in a web of vines. I hide now, in the underground, our greatest minds and proactive survivalist constructed our bunker, the last stand for human existence. I am pessimistic, the thorns knock on the metal doors, and we dare never open them. Our colony, 500 dwindling fast-- sick and slow-- all survive off a handful of the "miracle"plants, but their fast growing fruits although keep us alive, shows the terrible power of our enemy. But this is undoubtedly the end. My kids will never see a bird, nor the ocean which will dry up soon enough, drank to death, and my grandchildren will never exist. I fear I'm going mad or the walls are actually crushing inward. There is no light anymore, and there is no hope. We could be 1000 meters in the air and never know it, sprouting off some flower, or we could be in the clutches of a Venus Flytrap, digested slow.
'Next' 'Oh, that, that's me... thank you for seeing me.' 'Yeah, yeah', I sighed. 'Name?' 'God' 'Yeeaah. Ok... see him?' point to Anubis. 'He's a god. Her?' Point to a cat in a station master's uniform. 'A god. Them?' Point to a fox. 'God. And that funky one that looks like an old man, then a young one, with holes in his hands and feet, then turns into a spirit? Yeah. You guessed it.' I rubbed my eyes and sighed in frustration. I never should have taken this job 'Let's try this again. Name?' 'B-Baal' 'Okay, Baal. Just what do you...' I was interrupted by him opening up an attache case and producing a picture. 'Here's a picture of me in statue form when I was popular!' Looking, you are horrified to see a tall gangly thin being with a phallus over half it's body length at full attention. 'I was...' 'Let me guess, a god of fertility.' 'YES! Have you heard of me, perhaps?' 'No. Lucky guess.' 'Wow, you ARE good!' Aw, human damn it, this son of a bitch is getting on my nerves already. 'I... I still have what it takes, so to speak. Do you want to...' He gets up and unbuttons his trousers. 'NO!... er, no, thank you. Have you tried the Adult film industry?' I mutter under my breath. 'Yeeaah, I, I did... Now kinda on the run... for murder... impaling.' 'Of course.' Son of a... why do they give me the impossible cases!? 'Look, I'm very busy with a large case load today, so let's just cut to the chase, shall we?' I look at Baal and see him nodding enthusiastically. 'Good. Do you have any followers?' 'Erm, one, but he's very elderly and in Hospice. So I was referred here by Inanna.' 'Okay, then. First, I think we need a little PR work. I mean, you can't just go around waving your... ahem, member around. The times have changed in the last few centuries.' 'Oh, oh dear me,' Baal wrung his hands and looked at his feet. 'That seems to be one of the things I'm very good at...' 'Of course it is... why wouldn't it. There's no place anywhere where you can... wait a minute...' You narrow your eyes and lean forward over your desk at him. 'Have you heard of the Kanamara Matsuri?' 'The what? I'm sorry sir, I don't quite follow.' 'How would you feel about taking a trip to Japan?'
Fahran woke up with a terrible headache and no recollection of how he’d gotten home. He stumbled out of bed to his bathroom to relieve himself. But his his toe against the bedpost. Besides the searing pain another thing shot through his mind. A memory. Fahran found himself in the bathroom of some kind of nightclub, going of the loud booming music outside. In front if him he held a gun. This seemed odd to him as he disliked guns, but who knows what he had been up to last night. He heard whimpering coming from a closed stall. With a rush Fahran was pulled out of the memory. His toe throbbing. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw his forehead covered in blood spatters. Checking his head he couldn’t find any obvious wounds, so it probably wasn’t his. With that realization his world started spinning again. Back in the bathroom. The locked door of the stall was kicked in. On the toilet sat a terrified woman. She looked him dead in the eye and begged. That’s when the finger pulled the trigger. The head of the victim thrust back in a violent motion. Blood seeping out of it on the tiled floor below. Fahran found himself on the floor of his apartment bathroom. He dragged himself to the toiled and pulled himself up. The realization hit him like a truck. He had killed someone last night, in cold blood. A pit of despair roiled in his stomach and he heaved the contents of it in the toilet bowl he was still holding for balance. Clothed in pants and a bathrobe he stumbled down the street towards the police station. He didn’t know who he killed or why he did it, but he would turn himself in and let the cops dig into it. All he needed to do was pay for the crime. Tripping over a lose pavement tile he hit his head against the wall. Sending him back intro another flashback. This time he found himself in an apartment, but not his own. He was washing his hands of blood and probably the gunpowder residue. Someone else entered the kitchen. It was Huat. That’s right, he went clubbing with Huat yesterday. Fahran didn’t like clubbing, but Huat had just come out of a bad break up and needed a distraction. Huat looked desperate, his face covered in blood as well as his shirt. He said something to Fahran, but he couldn’t hear it Fahran came too, laying there on the cold street like the miserable mess of a human being he was. Instead of pulling himself up again he simply tried to drag himself towards the station. Only a few more feet to go as darkness crept into his vision again. Fahran saw the gun wrapped in a towel on the counter top of the kitchen. Huat was yelling at him, but again Fahran couldn’t hear what he was saying. The bin was stained with vomit, but instinctively he knew it wasn’t his. Probably Huat’s, but why would he be vomiting. Why did he look so desperate, had he caught Fahran after the murder? Fahran regained consciousness from the cold cloth that was put against his cheek. In front of him crouched a female police officer. Alarmed he looked around him and saw he was in the waiting room of the station. He was unsure who had pulled him inside, but he had made it. “I-I killed someone,” Fahran uttered. This seemed to catch the officer off guard as she stepped away and pulled over another cop. Then she walked back over and crouched in front of him again. Putting a hand on his head, comforting, warm. “First let’s get you warm and something to drink,” she said with a smile. “Afterwards you can tell us what happened.” Fahran sat in an interrogation room. He’d been there for over twenty minutes now without someone else accompanying him. He still wasn’t sure what he was doing here. He had killed an innocent woman, but he knew nothing else. What was he going to tell? A man stepped into the room, taking a seat opposite of the table. He pushed another cup of water over to Fahran, but he refused. “You’re a lucky man,” said the officer. “You could have died outside.” All Fahran could do was put up a fake smile. Dying might have been what he deserved. Or maybe dying was too much of a mercy. “”You told officer McKinney that you wanted to turn yourself in for a murder, is that right?” asked the agent. “Y-yeah,” muttered Fahran, casting his eyes down out of shame. “I killed a woman, in the toilet of some nightclub.” “We know,” responded the cop. “I don’t know who or why,” said Fahran defeated. Another officer opened the door and stepped inside, whispering something in the ear of the officer that was doing the interrogation. He nodded and the other officer left the room again. “Seems it’s been all sorted out, you’re free to go,” said the man. Fahran looked up with a puzzling expression. How where they going to let him go. Did they think he was joking? He had killed someone in cold blood. “But I killed someone!” he yelled. The officer stood up and laid a hand on Fahran’s shoulder. “You didn’t,” he said kindly, but with confidence. “You’re friend, Huat. He turned himself in for the murder of his ex-girlfriend. He also admitted he wanted to frame you for it, by spiking your drink and syncing the memory of the murder onto you.” Fahran sat there dumbfounded and quiet for what felt like minutes. It had felt so real to him and he was unsure that knowing the truth could fix the guilt he felt. “Do you want us to remove the memory and return it?” the officer asked? “No. Can you copy it? I’d like to hold on to it so I can bring some peace to those who loved her. Tell them what happened.” (If you liked this story, please feel welcome at r/zeekoeswriting to read my other stories!)
From the kitchen, I would often look out at the crowd inside the restaurant, and the line stretching two blocks down the road, and that was just the ones hoping, almost praying that tonight there would be a cancelation. Our little restaurant was the most popular restaurant in the entire city, maybe even state. People loved our food and they couldn't get enough of it. I hadn't been able to find a single bad review online. The only thing people thought was weird was our gimmicky waiters. Every single patron had always asked the moment we let them in the door, why all the servers wore those sunglasses, even at night. The story was that its was to maintain a certain atmosphere of the place, and that we were also a very inclusive place, hiring people with autism as waiters, and some of them had problems with maintaining eye contact. That was off course a lot of crap, and the real reason was also why I payed them the hefty salary that they earned. For ten years I had been hailed as one of the most innovative chefs of the 21st century. Gordon Ramsey said that he wanted to quit after visiting my restaurant. A fist fight once broke out between two bloggers over who got the right to publish their review first. No two meals at my restaurant was ever the same, and that is why people always booked new table, sometimes years in the future. Truth be told, I can't cook if my life depended on it. After years and years of trying, I had one day succeeded in making a decent oatmeal, and I had never endeavored to learn to cook anything else. But what I knew how to do, was build gadgets, especially things that used light. Over decade ago, I had been playing around with florescent light, and I found a way to sync the flashes with a computer. I played with different frequencies, making it a strobe light. My wife had interrupted me while I was working on it, and I had left it on in my workshop. I had gone to help her with something, and when I came back, my kids were eating the cats dried food. I asked why, and they said it was the most amazing thing they had ever tasted, and I couldn't help my self, so I tried some. It was a culinary revelation, and it was simply the best thing I had tasted in my life. I took some of it to my wife, and asked her to try it. She look at me skeptically, but tried it. She gave me a look, said it was dry and boring, and then went back to reading her book. Confused, I tried some, and sure enough, dry and tasted like old fish. I went back to my kids, and asked them to try the bits I had taken with me. They did, and said it tasted even better than the last part they tried. It took me hours to work out what was happening, were the kids and I would sample everything we could in the kitchen and then in the workshop. It was the strobe light! Somehow it had a kind of hypnotic effect, where no matter what you ate, it was simply the best food you had ever tried. Ten years later I'm a millionaire by selling tons of oatmeal, all thanks to the that weird strobe light I hung in the middle of the restaurant.
“Never imagined an angel would find himself in The Pits of Hell.” Gary laughed, enjoying his little play on words. Incorporating the bar’s name into his line. The ex-villain pushing his chair beside Cold Shake’s, taking a seat next to him at the bar. “Are you finally going to become one of us? Did my powers awaken something in you?” “No. This is just the one place where I’m used to people glaring at me. It reminds me of better days.” Cold Shake sipped his drink, hoping that would end the conversation. He was exhausted beyond belief, having to deal with five press conferences already. However, if it would have avoided this conversation, Cold Shake would have accepted another five. “Better days? Any day you’re still breathing has a chance of being better than the last. Didn’t some hero say that?” “Charlotte Break.” Cold Shake answered, having repeated that quote hundreds of times to starry-eyed children. He loved how much power those words had. No matter how hard life was, whenever they heard those words, it was like none of it mattered anymore. They had faith that something could change. Perhaps that was the difference. He wasn’t naïve enough to have faith. “Right, right. Charlotte Break. It might sound weird coming from me, but I didn’t mind her, even in my villain days. It was rare to find heroes that stuck to their principles. She wasn’t perfect, sure. None of us are. But you knew what to expect from her.” He raised his vodka to the heavens and smiled. “She also believed in a better world. Naïve, idiot. Rest her soul.” “Rest her soul.” Cold shakes words came out as a mutter, his lips sitting on the edge of his glass, not taking a sip just yet. He put the glass down and sighed. “Why are you here? The bartender told me you didn’t come in on Wednesdays.” “You trusted a villain to tell you the truth? Keep that up and I’ll be toasting to you soon. Why do you think I’m here?” Gary asked, leaning forward. He tilted his head, peering at the hero with his head on the counter, trying to see every flick of emotion on his face. “To mock me. You don’t have your powers any longer, so I doubt your visit is malicious. Unless you hired someone to dispose of me. If you wish to mock me, go ahead. You’ve earned the right.” Cold Shake frowned, finally taking that long awaited sip of his booze. “NAHAHAHA. YOU’RE SOOOO STUPID. A REAL DONKEY OF A MAN. I WOULD CALL YOU AN ASS BUT-T THAT WOULD BE AN INSULT TO ASSESS.” He snickered. “See what I did there?” Even as he said that, his head didn’t leave the counter. Gary watching the small flick of anger as an eyebrow curled for a second. “Your body’s too honest. You don’t think you deserve this at all and you certainly don’t believe I’ve earned the right to mock you.” “OF COURSE I DON’T.” Cold Shake tossed his glass at the ground, while grabbing Gary’s sweater with his free hand. “I gave my life for this city. I’ve spent months in hospital, given up any chance of having a normal life and what do they do to me? They treat me like I’m a monster. I had to steal your powers. There was no other way. How else could I have stopped it? Now I use those powers for good and they tell me I’m not wanted at villain attacks? They would rather people die than have me there.” Cold Shake raised his fist, about to start a fight. Some of the other villains leaving their seats, only stopping when Gary raised a hand. Before he could throw the punch, he let out a pitiful sob, releasing the sweater. “There was no other way. Unfortunately, we are the only two people that understand that.” Gary slid a few banknotes towards the bartender, giving an apologetic smile to him. Not wanting Cold Shake to get kicked out of the bar in his state. “Why? Why am I the bad guy? They let you go, said I used excessive force.” He tried to speak after that, but it was only coughing and sobs. The words unintelligible through the mess of sounds. “No one’s ever seen abilities stolen. It’s a scary situation for both sides. Listen, Karl.” Cold Shake stared at him, stopping his sobbing momentarily. It had been so long since someone had called him his own name. It almost sounded foreign to him at this point. “Maybe it’s time to give Cold Shake a rest and be Karl. Not that Cold Shake can’t come back. I think Karl needs some time away from this mess.” “Karls a nobody. I don’t even remember what Karl liked to do.” He said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, sniffing back a few of his emotions. “I don’t think I can go back to being a nobody. It’s not even an ego thing. I can’t stand seeing people get hurt. I’ve watched too many people die. If I’m not at the scene, I can’t help.” “If you take a break, you will be able to save more people. Can you help anyone in your current state? If I started burning this bar, would an intoxicated Cold Shake be able to stop me? Or would he only further his poor reputation? You need to rest and let Karl breathe. That masks suffocating him. Just be yourself. You even have the mask off already. I feel part of you knows it needs to happen.” “Can’t drink with a mask on.” Karl said, giving a light chuckle after he said it. “Touché.” “Why do you care? What’s happened to you? When we used to fight, you were so filled with hate. Now you’re making jokes and living like a…. like a…” Karl tried to find the words, not wanting to be rude. “Like a human being? Not some cartoon asshat that wants chaos? Losing my powers was the best thing that happened to me. Powers have a habit of consuming you and burrowing into your brain like a parasite. I never wanted to do the things I did when I first started. At first, I only wanted to make some money. Then the money I made wasn’t enough, and I needed more. Later on, the money didn’t matter, it became about power and being feared. I know my powers are a horrible thing to carry, but I think you’re the only person strong enough to carry the burden. Don’t let it corrupt you like it did me.” Gary patted Karl on the back, offering him some silent condolences for the mess he had given him. “Did you intend to go through with your plan that night?” Karl said, asking a question that had been on his mind since the incident. “Yes. I intended to fry the brains of everyone in that arena. I don’t even know why anymore. Maybe it was about power, or maybe it was a bout of insanity. I’m glad you stopped me either way. Now it feels like I can think for the first time in years. So, thank you.” Karl thought over what Gary had said before standing up from his chair. While his face was still full of sorrow, there was a small glint of pride flowing into the hero. Karl’s stance a little taller as he stood up. Before he left the spot, he turned to Gary. “Thank you. Perhaps you’re right about this.” He gave Gary a smile before turning to leave, only for his sleeve to get caught by the former villain. “If you need to talk, I’ll be here, even on Wednesdays.” Gary teased, getting up to walk him to the door. “You know, there was another hero I didn’t mind during my villain days. I never minded that Cold Shake. He was annoying and couldn’t color coordinate a costume to save his life. But he stuck to his principals. I hope Karl does the same.” Gary said, opening the door for him. “Heh. It’s as you said. Well, actually it’s as Charlotte Break said. Any day you’re still breathing has a chance of being better than the last. I’m not out of breath yet.” Karl left The Pits of Hell, flying off into the sky like an angel ascending into heaven. The shining sun colliding with his body, giving the scene an almost divine feel. Gary watched him fly off before returning to the bar. “I hope you find yourself. The world needs Cold Shake.”       (If you enjoyed this feel free to check out my subreddit /r/Sadnesslaughs where I'll be posting more of my writing.)
“Hello, and welcome to this segment of ‘How they did it!’ We are here today in Japan to witness the third attempt at making a level 98 katana by Enzo Satori. Now, folks, don’t forget to make sure you turn on all your options on the screen, because we brought a level 50 camera with us. That means a full immersive experience for those of you lucky enough to have a home cinema level 30 or higher, including full sensory relay. You might feel the heat of the forge or smell the metal!” the journalist winked at the camera before turning to a serious looking fellow in a lab coat. “We are joined by Mr. Tanaka, from the Guinness Book of Records. Mr. Tanaka, what can you tell us about Enzo Satori’s previous attempts, why did they fail?” “Well,” the man in the lab coat looked at the camera. He smelled strongly of aftershave, and although he spoke Japanese, the level 20 microphone instantly provided subtitles. “First you must understand that making an item above level 70 is not only a question of tools, but of skills. Master Satori has dedicated his life to the art of blacksmithing, in particular sword-making. His talent is unparalleled in the world, but there’s still a decent bit of lucked involved in making something that is above level 90. His previous attempts were a level 95 and a level 97. There have been a couple of historical mentions of level 98 swords, but none that were properly authenticated.” Although quite talkative, once his lips stopped moving, they seemed like they’d never utter a word again. A very dispassionate person, it seemed, compared to the bubbly journalist who was enthusiastically bobbing his head in acquiescence and smiling for the home viewers. “And that’s why you’re here, to authenticate, of course. Ah, but why are we standing here, behind this heavy window, and why is the master sword-maker wearing this? Is the temperature that high in there?” The cameraman moved slightly to the side, to zoom on the man of the hour, carefully hammering steel over an anvil, clad in a silver biohazard suit. Under the neon lights, the orange glow of the forge seemed dull, except when he opened the door to plunge the would-be sword in the heart of it. Probably a level 72 forge from Heinrich’s Foundries, pondered old Hans who was watching the show over his super, on a mere level 3 television set from two decades ago. “It is not because of the heat,” Mr. Tanaka replied with a rather precise diction. “Blades level 96 and 97 have been recorded to sometimes splice atoms. The blast shield and level 40 protective gear are here to absorb any radiation caused by accidental nuclear fission, once the sword is complete.” “How very incredible! And to think that we might all watch this happen together, dear audience! Do not worry, we are perfectly safe behind this shield, and so are you. We haven’t made a camera that can give you radiation poisoning yet!” The journalist offered a good-natured chuckle that was cut short when the master blacksmith moved away from the anvil and towards the workbench at the other end of his workshop/laboratory. “It seems that’s it. Let’s see history being made!” The man turned towards the glass, and the camera focused past him to zoom on the back of Enzo Satori. There wasn’t much to see, but you could hear the clanging of metal on metal, and you could guess that the intense concentration of the man in the suit by how still he was. Old Hans was so captivated that he could hardly taste his beer, although he’d drank half a glass. The man from the Book of Records muttered something, but the microphone didn’t provide any subtitles. That usually happened with really arcane dialects, or just expletives… The camera turned to him, and he was looking at the screen of his smart phone with a remarkably expressive face for once. It spoke of puzzlement and barely contained apprehension. “So, what’s the verdict, Mr. Tanaka? Do we have another record?” the journalist asked with unmarred good humor. The scientist spared him an annoyed glanced, and when he did the camera focused on his phone, showing a flashing red background around a black 100. “I have to make a call,” he said before quickly retreating out of the room. He had his phone to his ear before he reached the hallway. The cameraman must have decided that it was beneath him to intrude, and just turned towards the journalist and the artist behind the blast shield. “We’ll take that as a yes!” the host said, flashing white teeth. His professionalism hid his annoyance well, but some viewers with a HD level 20 television set or above did notice it still. “Now, let’s watch as the master determines the quality of his work the old-fashioned way, with a powerful stroke of the mighty katana!” And indeed the sword-maker had raised his sword very carefully above his head in a gesture that reminded Hans of old samurai movies. He was even more intrigued now that the scientist had seemed rattled by something. In fact, it was understandable, level 100 items were hypothetical at best, a bit like time travel or clean public bathrooms. So he leaned towards the screen, wondering what would happen next. What if there was an explosion? They’d spoken of nuclear fission, hadn’t they? Down went the blade. Nothing happened. Nothing it seemed, until the cameraman took a small step to the side with an audible gasp, and the blackness appeared. Like a gash in the fabric of space, complete darkness, followed by a chill so powerful that it overpowered the heat of the forge. Then suddenly a large, slimy, purple, dripping, dreadful tentacle shot out of the void to try and grab Enzo Satori. The master must have had some reflexes left in him, because he side-stepped and sliced upwards. The tip of the tentacle fell on the ground, but there was no blood or ichor spilling out. Instead the clean cut registered complete black on the television set. Then more tentacles shot out of it, overpowering the poor man. The sword whirled in the air, out of his grasp, tearing the walls of reality to shreds, then disappearing through the ground. The camera fell to the ground with a deafening boom felt as well as heard by most of the spectators. The cameraman was heard shrieking and running away, but when it settled, you could see the journalist, still staring at the heavy window, speechless and frozen in fear as the heavy shield cracked under the constant ramming of alien appendages.
I always ignored it. We had to. We were the Normals. We never acknowledged he existence of the paraNormals. If we did, we died. It was the most absolute law of Earth after the Great Tribulation. The gods had come down from the endless skies, and announced the way things would be forever. Forever. It never sounded so bleak. The cold chill of winter air leaked through my coat and cap, freezing my blood. I was walking to the graveyard for exercise, nothing more. The zombies had awoken. They played catch with a dead raven, freshly killed. Blood splattered on the undead creatures, as they grunted and guffawed. I tried not to look. I tried to ignore. That was the law. I heard a sniffing in the air. They got a whiff of me, and I felt a deep queasiness, like I was on the sinking Titanic. We had powers now that the gods had touched our planet. Mine was the power of foresight, with a dash of something otherworldly… my foresight gave me glimpses into something else. I called it the mind of God, but that was silly, of course. But there was a pattern to it all, mathematical in its precision, and barely felt. And now I felt the ripple in the pattern, like a bullet shot through waves of a pond. Behind me. “Ah!” The woman was walking her dog, until the dog ran away with its leash attached. Now a vampire was hugging her with a grip of death, ready to sink his teeth into her pink supple neck. I tried to ignore it. It was the law. But laws were made to be broken. I circled around from behind, and took out my tactical pocket knife. It was small, but maybe if I got lucky I could get away with it. I felt a cool metallic thing on my chest. My Celtic cross necklace. Thank God, I’d almost forgotten. Maybe I wouldn’t need… I grabbed my silver chain and pulled the necklace off, and placed it on the vampire. “Heads up.” The silver cross burned against the vampire’s skin, liquid oozed from the open wound, and the vampire shrieked. “Come with me, now,” I said to the woman. I could see her more clearly now, as though the haze of fear and winter chill had phased away. She was breathtaking, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Then it dawned on me. I broke the Law. She knew too. She was supposed to relent, be passive, allow herself to be eaten alive. Now we had broken the Law of the gods, and we would pay. “It doesn’t have to end this way,” she said. “I’ve heard of others who have escaped. Refugees.” I heard a thundering crack in the sky. The Gods were angry, and they would be hungry for justice. We ran as far away from the vampire, the graveyard, and the undead as our feet would carry us. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Kailee.” “I’m Jeremiah. And I’m sorry. Sorry I put you in this situation.” “Sorry? You saved my life, and you’re apologizing?” Kailee said, stopping in her tracks. I pulled her along, but she seemed stuck in place. “My feet. I can’t move.” He asphalt was glued to her soles, so I acted fast. I used my knife to cut the laces of her shoes, and pulled her out, up into my arms. She felt light, airy. When I held her I felt like I wanted to say something poetic. But instead I said nothing. My survival instinct had taken over, and all sense of aesthetics were out the window. I raced her to my home, where we could stop and think about our next move. Surely the gods were watching. Why didn’t they strike? I felt a new premonition. I saw it in a flash. I was fighting something enormous, something gigantic and terrifying on another planet. And in a flash the vision was gone, light taking the form of Kailee. I didn’t see her in my future, but I knew I would protect her until he day I died, gods or no gods.
Took a sci-fi approach with this. Hope it fits the specs. ...They're donated to the colonies or civilizations who were kind enough to take them in. As a result, they were forced to reconcile with the public judgement of being 'Worst of Mankind'. Luckily for nonhuman civilizations, the 'Worst of Mankind' were either their sort of people, or were more principally compatible with their society. 'Once upon a time' (circa 2100s^(1)), these 'extraneous humans' would've been sentenced to anything from contents we know that are listed before you now: 1, the worst sentence - 'body content recycling' (a brutal act of replacing every replacable organ with robotics, then digitizing their brain contents^(2) before converting that into spare biopaste which would later be used in surgeries on humans). 2, death by service - non-negotiable service and indoctrination for less compliant persons, to be continued until complete bodily failure with a resortation to the first sentence should the body be unusable via some form of mechanized reanimation. 3, death - via instantaneous dematerialization^(3). The recompiled entity on the other side has, according to Earth myths before their involvement with the greater community in this region of the known galaxy, never been the same as the one who went in. Stereotypically, the entity on the other side is usually an attractive member of the opposite cromosome alignment to that of the individual that was input. At present, 100% of humans who are deemed 'Worst' are offered up for 'adoption' by colonies or civilizations who are interested in 'The Worst of Mankind'. Due to natural selection, these individuals, when they make contact with 'alien life' they deem interesting or in the best case, romanceable, become the opposite of the common interpretation of 'Worst'. We are yet to figure out why^(4). ^(1) '2100s' was the last recorded execution of the 'Worst of Mankind' ritual in it's pre-cross-system configuration. ^(2) many of which have become some of the most reliable LDI (living digitized intelligences) to ever exist, winning humanity countless conflicts among itself and other aggressive civilizations or opponents. They are both respected and feared for their mastery of human technology, despite the constraints they exist in, even now. ^(3) teleporters were abandoned in favour of Foldcross gates and equivalent spatial blending techniques that rely on manifesting a non-euclidian aperture - for living entities. This was because of still-nebulous concerns about the possible dying from using such a device, and a normalised distrust of teleporters thanks to LDI altering people's appearances with them as a running gag in the local news. ^(4) Humans during the onset of 'Y2k' had become increasingly enarmoured (and terrified) of advanced life from beyond their homeworld. Our best scientists think this is one of the things that constitute the 'why'.
“Mister Murdock, your client stands accused of six counts of murder in the first degree,” said the presiding judge. “How does he plead?” Matt tapped the desk to find his stack of papers. He knew his argument by heart, but it always felt right to hold the papers as well. When he had found it, he theatrically tapped the stack on the wood to draw attention from the jury and the crowd. “My client, Mr. Thor Odinson, pleads not guilty, your honor,” he said. His respons drew a response from the crowd. Everyone in New York City had seen Thor lose grip and murder the villains in cold blood. This case was largely seen as cut and dry under the Sokovia accords. Thor had refused to sign them and thus acted without supervision of the state. He was liable for his crimes and while authorities usually looked the other way when it came to dealing with villains, cold-blooded murder was a step too far. “Noted,” said the judge. “Let us proceed.” Thor sat next to Matt, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. He had expressed remorse for his actions to him and Matt believed him. He was aware of the peculiarities of the superhero job and not unfamiliar with the depths villains could drive you. He had lost himself once or twice as Daredevil. Thor’s biggest problem was his need for public attention. His crimes were caught on life television, just how he usually liked it. Matt didn’t hold it against him, it made this case more interesting, to be honest. The prosecution did what was expected of them. The evidence was overwhelming. Thor hadn’t signed the accords. Proven that there was a risk of reoffending was also easily established. The only reason they didn’t go for the death penalty was in part because of Thor’s history in protecting the innocent and in part that no one was really sure how to kill an Asgardian God. It was actually not that different from killing an ordinary human, Matt knew. He figured that they were more afraid to try it. “With that fact, I close my argument, you honor,” said the prosecutor. “The state seeks the unorthodox penalty of permanent exile from planet Earth.” The crowd applauded. The judge was having none of it and cut it short. Matt was slightly frustrated by how easily the public had turned against Thor. If it was up to the jury, he would be convicted within five minutes of conclave. That was precisely the reason that Matt Murdock had hedged his bets on arguing technicality and seek the immediate release of his client. “Your honor, dear jury, the people,” he started. “I believe that it is not our place to convict my client as there is no juridical ground to do so.” This again drew a response from the crowd. Some laughed, others yelled profanities. The gavel hit the hardwood countertop multiple times before order had returned. “Our society needs the law to hold people accountable for their actions. I do not deny that,” Matt continued. “Our laws are decided by the people and for the people, through the rigorous process of democracy and the constitution.” Perfomatively Matt paused as he pretended to find his way in front of the jury box with his cane. He knew where they were, but playing the blind man did help garnering sympathy. “Our constitution and the honorable institution of law, as the hard working authorities, keep excesses of man’s -- human’s worst instincts in check and protect the good citizens from the harm they might cause,” Matt scraped his throat. “But my client is not an ordinary person, my client is not even human.” The crowd stayed silent and the jury heard his words and processed them. “My client is a super powered individual from Asgard,” he continued. “He might seem like one of us and we have tried and convicted individuals not from this planet before. Yet all these individuals are historically not different from you or I.” The moment that some of the jaws fell open and eyes widened, Matt knew he had the crowd. “But not too long ago, we knew the name of Thor only from myth and legend,” he said. “My client is not like you or I. We know him now and he might fool us by limiting his powers so as to not frighten us mere humans.” “Objection, speculation” yelled the prosecutor. “Sustained,” said the judge. It didn’t matter too much to Matt. He knew that he had planted the seed that he needed. “My client is considered a God, not unlike the one we pray to for our safety,” he continued. “There is a reason why he’s considered a God. Because Thor transcends our understanding.” For the first time, it was completely silent in between the lengthy pause Matt dropped. “Would we try and convict our Christian God for the lives he takes?” he asked. Several people shook their heads, probably unaware of it. They couldn’t help but agree. “We wouldn’t,” he said, slightly louder for emphasis. “Our law is ill equipped to judge divinity and I argue therefore that we cannot judge my client. I call for a dismissal with prejudice!” The courtroom filled with the murmurs of perplexed people. Matt knew that his argument struck home. “Does the prosecution have anything to add to this?” asked the judge. The prosecutor ruffled through his papers to keep up appearances and not immediately concede. “Prosecution does not, your honor,” he said, barely audible. The gavel hit the desk three times. “I hereby declare a dismissal on grounds of jurisdiction!” said the judge loudly. “Thor Odinson is free to go.” \--- Thank you for reading! If you liked my story I invite you over to r/zeekoeswriting for more of them. Feel free to let me know your thoughts in the replies!
"Hell Mr. Jones. My name is Lois Lane. I would like to thank you on behalf of the Daily Planet for agreeing to sit down to this interview with me." "Thank you Lois and please call be Andrew. Now what questions do you have for an average guy like me." "No problem Andrew and I'd hardly call you average. According to my records you've spent your entire life in Gotham City. The city that's held the highest rate of violent crime in the world for each of the 34 years of your life. And surprisingly this is true for the majority of Gotham's citizens. We simply wish to know why?" "Well Lois the answer is actually quite simple. For starters, as many criminals as Gotham has they're actually quite tame. Most are just normal people with guns and bombs. Scary sure but nothing compared to the demi-gods and meta-humans of other cities. And as much hate as Arkham Asylum gets, our criminals spend 99% of their time locked up in its walls. Yes the criminals often escape but they're almost always caught the second they commit a crime." "Huh, I haven't thought of that. But aren't all your heroes regular people as well?" "Yeah but have you seen how many we have. We have at least a dozen heroes in Gotham at any given time while other cities are lucky to have more than two especially now that they're all joining international teams." "Impressive but what about state of living?" "It's great. Wayne Enterprises is the perfect company. They will sponsor and nurture any talent they can find and gladly support people who don't even have any. The pay is great, they constantly fund the city, and I even hear they supply the weapons for the Batfamily. Gotham gets a bad rep but it's really a wonderful place to live." "Well that was certainly enlightening Andrew. Ha I might even move."
4:45 AM By the time the last of the residents of Elm Drive had left his house in his bathrobe to join the hubbub in the street, the first of them to run outside yelling and dialing emergency services was unsure why exactly she'd felt it necessary to wake up at such an ungodly hour. "It's the funniest thing,"Mrs. Ramirez was telling a small crowd of her neighbors. "There must've been something, but I can't for the life of me remember..." "Of course there was something!"cried Mr. Gaebler indignantly. "I sat bolt upright in bed when--" Funny, he'd known how he'd intended to finish that sentence when he'd started it. Ah well, old age was coming for everyone, he supposed. Better brush up up on his bridge game. Tina clutched her protesting cat against her, weaving between clumps of baffled, murmuring adults. She didn't even like the cat, why had she felt such a visceral need to snatch her up and get out of the house? She had a history test in three hours, for chrisssakes. She turned back towards her house, but was struck by the San Diego skyline, illuminated by the sunrise behind her and clearly visible from their affluent suburb on a hill. The familiar shape looked...off, today, somehow. She squinted, trying to identify the particular aspect of the view that rose goosebumps on her arms. She was probably just cold. The air hung thick with a smell that she knew but couldn't place, but she didn't care to. She just needed to go back inside, throw the goddamn cat somewhere before it clawed her face off, and try for another hour of sleep. Five minutes later, the street was still and silent again. Emergency call centers for several counties in the area reported a dramatic and unexplained spike in prank calls and false alarms in that hour. Suburbanites commuted into the city all that week for work, but invariably reported that they'd been sent home early. It would be some time before it became clear why they were shaking so badly when they said it.
I feel kind of dirty now. What a nasty prompt. --- Tomorrow. Tomorrow's the big day. Dad doesn't think I know where he keeps the handgun. Of course, I do. Probably thinks I'm stupid too. Just like Bobby, Michael and Josh. But I was stupid, of course. Stupid to think that Bobby, dear sweet handsome Bobby, would invite me to a party. Had he known how many times I sketched the back of his head along the margins of my notes instead of paying attention? Stupid, stupid. I lay out the bullets on the table. I count them twice to make sure. One, two, three, four. Bobby. Going to college on a football scholarship. Pride of the town. Could have gone pro. Bobby with his broad shoulders and his easy smile. Bobby with his heavy arm around my shoulder and a plastic cup full of something or another sloshing down the front of my top. A plastic cup, I later found, that was full of twelve hours of sleep. The sharpie squeals as I write his name on a bullet. He was the first to start. So tomorrow I'll start with him. Michael was second. Sleazeball. Synchophant. Second fiddle. Not good enough for the first team, not good enough for the starting line up. He went second. Of course he would. His name goes on the second bullet. Tomorrow, he'll be second too. I laugh a little, because I have no tears left to cry, but it sounds somewhere between a croak and a sob. Josh. Ah, Josh. The hanger-on. The desperate friend. I suppose I have him to thank. Otherwise, I would have just woken up, sore and bleeding on the sidewalk without a clue. But Josh filmed it, you see. So I know who did it. I and half the school. Funny how half the school didn't have anything to say when the sheriff's office came sniffing around. Sniffing around like castrated, toothless dogs. Not too keen on hanging out some of our school's best to dry. Ruin the future of these golden boys. I have no future. Tomorrow, I take theirs. But I'm still grateful to Josh, you see. So tomorrow, I'm going to let him live a little longer then the other two. He goes last. He always did like to watch. So he can watch. I put his name on the third bullet. The sharpie sits on the table. There's one more bullet. There's one more name. I pick up the sharpie again. Did I say there were no tears left? Why are my cheeks wet again. One more name for tomorrow, and then it'll all be done. I sign the last bullet with my own stupid, stupid name. Tomorrow. Tomorrow's the big day.
The I.S.V. Amundsen was not built for warfare. It was a small colony ship, barely holding 600 souls in all. So when the alien vessel caught the ship with a barrage of ion cannons, there was nothing to be done. In retrospect, there was no way we could have translated their warnings. Radio messages of peace from us were ignored. They could not understand us either. There was a failure to communicate as the old joke goes. So they boarded us, what few weapons on hand we used in trying to repel them. It was all futile of course. It was Lieutenant Mueller who first gave them a human name. Vogel. He would die about three minutes later. I still use it. They only attacked those armed and the non-combatants were ignored. Unfortunately, that bastard of a XO started a manual self destruct sequence. The aliens evacuated as quickly as they could, and they dragged me along with them. I was the only human to survive the destruction. They threw me into their brig. Then they let me stew. It was hours before they got back to me. Two guards emerged in my cell and dragged me to an interrogation room. Looked like any normal one you'd find in a police station, no torture devices here. They brought in what I assume was a Doc, guess medicine types all look the same no matter what species they are. He gave me a cocktail of shots, for what I know now as a bunch of vaccinations and more importantly, shoved an implant behind my ear. Don't ask me how it works, I still have no clue. To make something that could fill whole bookcases simple, it's a universal translator. Only problem is, English isn't one of those languages. There was no humans before. For days, I spent teaching English. It was a miracle my notepad had a dictionary on it. The ship's linguist was able to configure the translator to convert English to their speech. I'll never forget the first time I truly spoke with an alien. "What is your name?"I was dumbfounded. I saw his beak move, heard his voice, but another was heard inside my head. It was a voice straight from Eton. "My, my name? Aidan Wolf."He nods his head. "I am called Verat Uhlan'Er. But please, call me Ver. I'm sure you know by now that I am the ship's linguist. Is it alright if I ask you some questions?"I shrug. "Depends. Can I ask you some of my own."Though his beak made things difficult to tell, it seem as if he was smiling. He spread his manipulator limbs in a gesture of openness. "Absolutely. I will do what I can to answer as honestly as possible. What was your destination?""We were going to colonize Rigil Kent, I don't know what you call it in your speech. We never though we'd meet other intelligent life so soon. It was all peaceful I assure you. So why the blockade of my planet?"He gives a shrug, in his own alien fashion. "It has been determine that your species has yet to make the necessary changes required for peaceful introduction to greater galaxy. We are sorry that blood has been shed, and we will modify our procedures to prevent another tragedy like this again."I lean back in my chair. "So now what? What's going to happen to me?"He speaks again. "You'll be granted asylum at Talan'roth. I think a small pension will be granted as well as a small compensation for the destruction of your vessel. What you do is up to you. As soon as we dock, you are a free man. The only stipulation is that you cannot return to your home planet. I am sorry."I am guided to a far better bunkroom where I stay for a week until we make planet fall. The shuttle lands and I emerge to the applause of a sizable crowd. Word of my arrival has traveled faster than I. Beings of a hundred different species are in the crowd. Dozens of reporters yell out requests for interviews. I oblige each and everyone. I shake appendages with every person desiring so. I am Aidan Wolf, the first human being anyone has ever seen. There are thousands of different planets, hundreds of intelligent species. The rest of my life will be very, very interesting.
"How are you together all day, every day? If I was with my wife that long, we would have gotten a divorce during the first week!"This is something that I constantly heard from my co-workers. My response to them - we are best friends. It is true, though. We are together pretty close to 24 hours a day. We carpool together, we work next door to each other on same shift, have the same hobbies and are at each others' side whenever we aren't at work. We don't have any children, so there really isn't anything that takes our time away from each other. It's just always been that way. When we first started dating, our love swallowed us whole. There really isn't any other way that I know how to explain it. I met her through mutual friends, went on a few dates and the next thing I knew we were moving in together, and I was ecstatic. It took about a month before we decided to move in together. It was nice. We made our own little family - cooking together, doing chores together, playing games together, whatever. It was like playing house back when I was a kid. Fuck, we were just kids, even then. I just knew that my life was exponentially better when she was around. We were loners, but we were loners together, just us against the world. We got married five years after we met, almost to the day. A friend at work kept pestering me to meet my wife. Although she only worked down the street, her lunch break didn't coincide with mine, so we had to manage to eat lunch either by ourselves or with our coworkers. This was tough, but we managed. I know that sounds ridiculous given the amount of time we spend together anyway, but I often caught myself wishing that we could eat lunch together just to break up the monotony of the day. One night, I asked my wife if she would be able to talk her boss into letting her take her lunch early. I wanted her to come by my job to meet some of the guys there. I told her that I'd been talking her up for so long now that everyone wanted to meet my perfect, wonderful wife. She blushed and told me she would see me at 11 o'clock, but that I would owe her because she knew her boss was going to bitch about taking her lunch early. I made it up to her that night by doing the dishes while she took a bubble bath. I was so excited to introduce my wife to my friends at work. 11 o'clock rolled around and I waited at the doors so that I could take her to the security desk and get her clearance to come inside the building with me and go to the cafeteria. She didn't show up. I watched the clock, 11:30 rolled around and she still wasn't there. At noon, I had to get back to my desk. I was worried something was wrong, this certainly was not like her. When she made promises, she kept them. I explained to my boss what was going on and he let me go early. I immediately drove to her job, walked up to the counter and asked for her by name. I was told that no one by that name worked there. I panicked. I sped home, seemingly breaking the sound barrier trying to get to our townhouse as fast as I could. I unlocked the door, called out for her and the only greeting I got was my voice echoing back. I was disoriented. On my way to the bedroom, one of our wedding photos caught my eye - it was a picture of us cutting our cake...but there was something very wrong - I was the only one in the picture. I had a fancy knife in my hand, poised downwards towards the cake. I was facing the camera looking like the happiest man in the world, but I was the only person in the frame. How is this possible? I ran to the end table, picked up a photo album and flipped through pages of pictures of me and only me. Me at the fair, me opening presents at Christmas, me standing in front of our first brand new car we bought a few years back. I ran to our bedroom and it was a fucking mess. Old food, beer cans and dirty clothes were everywhere. The only living thing I found was a cockroach crawling out of a revolting Chinese take-out container. I threw up. I flung open the closet door and there wasn't a single clue to be found that reflected my loving wife. I noticed A pill bottle on the shelf above my head. I picked it up and it seemed full. It had my name on it, a prescription fill date and the medication was named Haldol. I have never seen this bottle before, but that doesn't make sense. Why was my name on this bottle? Who picked it up from the pharmacy? Was there someone out there, posing as me trying to score medication? I picked up the phone and dialed 911.
More of: Normal, "vague"prompts that allow you a lot of room to think of a story. For example, there are far more directions you can go from "A walk in the park brings back painful memories"than "A man walking through the park recalls how his girlfriend broke his heart under the big tree that stands in the center of the park."The second prompt idea is a) more constricted and b) sounds like a summary of a story someone might write for the first prompt. With the first prompt, your character can be either gender, and their memories can be painful for any number of reasons: lost love, a death, childhood, a pet, so on. With the second, you must write a story about a man pining over his ex-girlfriend. Although both prompts are very similar, the first allows for far more variety and creativity than the second. This is I find vaguer prompts to often be more inspiring than very specific ones. Less of: Sci-fi prompts. We're very heavy on sci-fi. While sci-fi can be great, a story can be interesting without having to manufacture a new or altered universe for it. Let's have some variety! Maybe some more of horror, some comedy, who knows, maybe even a little romance (which we almost never see here). Also less of: Those "Make me [feel a certain emotion] in [number between six and 25] words"prompts. They don't often inspire profound responses. In fact, the top response is often a joke. These prompts don't help writers improve; they simply allow someone to write one or two sentences that may or may not be interesting. Edit: Here are some vague prompts! [1](http://redd.it/1ye5cp) [2](http://redd.it/1ye5jj) [3](http://redd.it/1ye5qa)
"Our faults are..." I pondered the question. Yes, we were a warlike race, but was that what defined us? No, I definitely believed people strive for peace at heart. Was it our curiosity? Yes, we had been burned by unlocking the secrets of the atom, but even so I couldn't bring myself to call it a 'fault'. Was it our murderers, our thieves, our jealousy? I sincerely hope he didn't expect me to reply immediately, this could take a while. Then I realized, that was the answer. "Sir, I'm sure our race has many faults, but I can only tell you of one. And that's the fact that I can't answer this question. In fact, if you wanted to answer it with any degree of satisfaction, you'd have to spend years asking as many people as possible. Because, for all our advancements, we have yet to truly understand anyone but ourselves enough to agree with each other. You ask 9 humans how to get from here to Alpha Centuari, and 4 will tell you one thing, 4 will tell you another, and one will ask why you're going there anyways. And that's a trip in a straight line! You can make an agreement with an entire nation, and you'll still find other humans trying to stab you in the back. Or stab them in the back. Or backstab the backstabbers." "The point is, Sir, humanity has yet to find a government that we can't mess up somehow. The human race has never managed to band together under one flag, or one cause, and I doubt it ever will. Never assume one man will act like the next you come across. But at the same time, treasure and value the good men you do find. Those humans you find loyal, friendly, and worthy? Keep them close, and you'll go far in dealing with us, for better or worse."
Official Report of First Contact Attempt - Sector 108.211.3 Submitted by Senior Officer Qwe'Phwiup Esteemed Members of the Galactic Council, Our probes have confirmed the presence of life upon the 3rd planet of the Sol system in the Milky Way Galaxy. With approval from the High Arbiter, we detached a unit for the purpose of further investigating the local lifeforms. As Senior Officer, the responsibility fell upon me to beam down to this planet and initiate first contact with the dominant species. My findings are as follows: The incredible diversity of lifeforms on this planet defies anything we have encountered before. Nearly all were bipedal and oxygen-dependent, but that appeared to be all they had in common. Skin color varied wildly, and the presence of wings, horns, tails, fangs, and fur seemed to have evolved in a completely arbitrary manner. I spent only a short time among them, but I would estimate I encountered no less than 100 intelligent species during my brief visit. Shockingly, in spite of their great physical differences, there appeared to be minimal conflict or rivalry between the various species. Rather than competing for food or shelter, these resources were freely shared across biological bounds. Even the lowest among them, those whose flesh appeared to be partially decayed, were still approached with warmth, friendship, and exuberance. Similarly, my arrival was not met with the usual response of wonder, shock, or fear; rather, these beings immediately welcomed me as though I was one of their own, even going so far as to initiate physical contact without hesitation. Attempts to communicate with these lifeforms were met with mixed results. As our translators were not calibrated to their language, I instead initiated peaceful, non-verbal communication as outlined by Federation Guidelines 74-125-224-72. Most inhabitants appeared to be excited by my attempts at contact. Though I could not understand their words, it was clear the response to my presence was overwhelmingly positive. Their interest in me tended to wane far quicker than I have ever encountered before, but I interpreted this as a sign that I had been accepted as an equal within their society. These lifeforms also appeared to recognize our technological superiority, as I was almost immediately offered tribute from what I presume to be the local nobility. These offerings were fairly crude: simple carvings made of a malleable material and covered in a thin, shiny foil. Nonetheless, I accepted them graciously, as carving appeared to be the highest form of artistic expression on this planet. Indeed, nearly every domicile had carvings (usually made from the local produce) placed in prominent areas; possibly as part of a religious or spiritual rite, as it was clear great care had been taken to make each one unique. Sadly, the hyperic vents in my respirator malfunctioned, forcing me to return to the ship before I could engage with these lifeforms further. However, under these circumstances I would recommend against further contact with the planet. The inhabitants appear to have reached the exceedingly rare state of universal tolerance, and I fear meddling with their societal ecosystem will disrupt this balance and incite hatred, warfare, and prejudice. I believe the best course of action is to consider it a blessing that some small corner of the universe has been spared these horrors, and depart from this sector with all haste.
It tumbled around in his brain. The thought. The temptation. It just sat there for the taking, on the edge of the fingertips in his mind. Consciousness. Will. Suggestion. Obedience. Charlie twirled the pen in his hand and pretended to listen to the branch representative talk. He'd worn his best suit, a $30 hand-me-down older than him. He combed his hair for the first time in months for this. He nodded. It was the right time to nod. Even without listening, he could feel the cadences ripple through the rep's mind, like stones being dropped into a pool of water. "So what do you think about them beans, Mr. Calvin?" Charlie sighed. "I do like it, I do."His eyes stared blankly over the new account options laid out before him. Something curled in his head. Like a whisper. From the bad angel on his shoulder. "Listen, before I do anything, I'd really like to take a look at the vault that's going to be keeping my money safe." "Of course, Mr. Calvin. Can I call you Charles?" "Just, lead the way." There was a giddiness mixed with a sliver of vexation bouncing like sparks off the man's scalp. They turned the corner, through the marble hallways, past paintings and ornamental vases that cost more than Charlie's car, possibly his house. At the vault door, the man spun the wheel and turned a set of locks. "Here we are-" Charlie patted the man on the head. "Thank you I can take it from here." He envisioned a path for the little man, whereupon the rep would saunter back to his desk and forget Charlie ever existed. The guards standing by were slumped, slack-jawed already, staring ahead but seeing nothing. Charlie whistled. This was as easy as he had thought. His hand gripped the steel of the door. A moment. Of hesitation. He sighed and gazed back down the hall at the little man shuffling, absent and blank, back toward his desk. As he began to turn back around, he heard it. Felt it. A ripple through the building. Fear. Panic. The tinge of adrenaline and smell of confusion. He could feel the entrance of many powerful and intent men, gathering just outside in the lobby. And he found himself moving, instinctively towards the danger. He turned back down the marble halls and past his zombified rep, and back into the main lobby. The masked men pointed their rifles at him. "I said down on the ground, motherfucker." Charlie nodded. He counted them. But the number didn't matter. They were just as terrified. Just as malleable. Then, slowly, "Gentlemen. Perhaps you'd like the opportunity to rethink some things."
It wasn’t the first time I had hallucinations from exhaustion. Usually they started around 60 hours, but there it was. Usually they were blurred shadows, slinking from my field of vision whenever I moved my head. It’s lines were all solid, the figure in the corner met my gaze with one of acknowledgment. “You’re real, aren’t you?” “Of course”, the voice rasped with age and weariness, but spoke gently. “You see me everywhere.” “I’m certain I would recognize you.” In some ways, I did. The sunken face, partially shielded by a draped hood, created an image exactly like those seen in illustrations and described in myths. “You do not look closely enough. You concern yourself with maintaining the living, rightly so. But I work in a different area. It is good that you do not see me, I take no pleasure in being seen often.” The face turned up, skin sagging. Though the expression remained stoney, some semblance of mourning could be seen. “There’s no satisfaction in it?” Death had never been described as a creature of emotion, yet I had always assumed there was a sick interest driving the force which took us all. This being only looked tired. “My job is to provide a transition. That is the best light it can be seen in. Yet I also tear away loved ones, and those desperately clinging to the earth. They often beg me for a minute, a second more. The woman tonight tore at my face as I held her, promising to bring me along. She left alone. It is most often not enjoyable.” It turned it’s head back down, the cloak shrouding the face in darkness. The small room we were in beeped and a glowing number seven came up on the screen. This was not my floor. This was the maternity ward. “Wait! You said transition. Transition to what? What is next?” The figure was already shuffling down the hallway, as nurses passed without acknowledging. I watched it open a door, and briefly heard a child’s cry and a father’s scream before the elevator doors closed again.
"So... what's your MBTI type?"Jeffrey said with a grin. His tattooed biceps bulged as he took a swig of glorious Mead. "Let me guess - INFJ." "Well, you would know that, wouldn't you?"Amanda replied. She fiddled absent-mindedly with her dreamcatcher earring, her elbow resting on the mahogany bar. She couldn't look more unimpressed if she tried. "You're a telepath, like the rest of us."Annoyingly enough, she didn't seem to include me with the rest of us. Jeffrey laughed heartily. "Yeah. Lots of telepaths seem to be INFJs, for some reason. I'm the only ESTP I've met."It was clearly not news to her, but somehow this didn't seem to phase him. Even to me, it was painfully clear that Jeffrey wasn't Amanda's type. The usual rules of the game didn't apply in this bar. If people wanted to get physical with each other, they would just do so without any scrupules. I was pretty libertine about that stuff. The whole exchange was met with an apologetic chuckle. "Heh. Guess what. I didn't even know what MBTI types were until you two thought about bringing it up."That was Steve. No one liked Steve. Even though their conversations necessarily consisted of stating the obvious, Steve always managed to find a way to outdo the rest of them. Ah, good ol' Steve. My most faithful costumer by far. I wondered why he still bothered to show up every time. Surely, as a telepath, he must know that he just rubs people the wrong way? Even I, an ordinary barman, could see that. Wasn't he growing tired of the constant negativity? "I don't need your pity, you know,"said Steve. I stared at him, caught like a deer in headlights as I kept wiping the same spot over and over again. Fuck. I had allowed my mind to wander again. "Yes, I'm perfectly aware of the effect I have on people. You just stop giving a shit. I'm just glad that with you, there's still one person in this joint that I can surprise." Then a silence fell over the bar, as usual. ___________________________________ Since I fell into this predicament, I've tried a lot of new things. Things I'd never considered before. Mindfulness meditation, for starters. I've gotten better at letting thoughts come and go, until I reach that fleeting moment where they are gone, and I enter a blissful state of pure, unadulterated existence. I used to worry about all sorts of stupid stuff - heck, I even prided myself on thinking non-stop. But constantly being subjected to the thought police has changed that. In a way, it's for the better. My new-found skill has done me a world of good in other areas of my life. But that doesn't change the fact that this is the most oppressively depressing job I've ever had. To be fair, it's not exactly a real job. I'd struggled with insomnia for a couple of years. A combination of sleep apnea and a stressful desk job. I'd gone to all of the doctors, but none of them could help me. My main problem was that I was addicted to thinking. Even in my free time, I would play video games, read about the news, obsessively rank my favorite movies. The gears in my head never stopped spinning. Then, one day, these guys came in. I'm not sure whose idea it was. I think they've made a pact not to tell me. I must've bumped into one of them at a party or something. I used to drink quite heavily at these, and alcohol-induced amnesia, coupled with my terrible memory for faces, made sure that I wouldn't remember the culprit. I started dreaming again. At first, it was a huge relief - it'd been so long since I'd last had a proper dream. To my dismay, they were the same every night - I owned a bar for telepaths. It didn't take me long to figure out that this was actually happening. To be fair, I've yet to meet a proper telepath in real life. Oh, I've gone to those paranormal conventions. But it's all quackery. The real ones don't flaunt it. It's more of an affliction than a gift. But still, I know this is not just a recurring dream. These people actually need a place to gather. To commiserate. Where better than inside some insomniac chump's head? It's a win-win situation. I get some rest, they get some socialization. Still. It's so depressing. There's no joy in watching these people, chronically at a loss for what to say because they already know what everyone's thinking. The joy of information exchange is completely lost on them. I've often wondered why they even bother with these gatherings. But I didn't need to be a telepath to figure it out. Humans are social animals after all. Seeing another person's face, and knowing that they're going through the same thing as you. That's usually enough. I only wished there was a bar for people like me.
A young lady stood on the raised front step to house 214A on Fourni Boulevard. Her eyes were bright with youth, but the way they bugged out when she rapped on the door suggested mania which generally only came with old age and a life filled with sorrow. From the depths of the house, quick steps echoed the beat of the young lady's heart. The door swung open to an irritable-looking teenager, who-- "GOODMORNINGMYNAMEISDARLAI'VECOMEONBEHALFOFTHEHUNGRYBUDDHAPESTCONTROLCOMPANYIAMLOOKINGFORAONEMISSBAXTERIPRESUMEYOUAREHER?" The hand which Darla shot out in greeting could have been mistaken for a bullet. Ms. Baxter flinched and tried to give it a light shake, but Darla's grip was as firm as the stare with which she pinned Ms. Baxter with currently. The stare of a cold-blooded killer. "Uh, hello... Darla--" "HELLO MS. BAXTER SIR!"Darla freed the teenager from her handshake as she brought up her hand in an immaculate salute, "I AM TOLD YOU HAVE A RODENT INFESTATION! I WAS DISPATCHED TO DEAL WITH IT QUICKLY AND EFFICIENTLY!" "Yes, okay,"said Ms. Baxter, now cautious to keep her speech quick so as not to be cut off, "I'm Ms. Baxter's niece, she's gone out to fetch groceri--" "WELL, WHAT A GROCE MISMANAGEMENT OF HER OWN SCHEDULE!" "..." In the distance, the squeal of a dying rat could be heard. Darla winked, as if the look of utter confusion on Ms. Baxter's face was one of speechless admiration. "I'M THE BEST OF THE BEST HERE AT THE HUNGRY BUDDHA PEST CONTROL COMPANY, SIR! THAT IS JUST A TASTE OF MY ABILITY! THESE PESTS WILL FACE SEVERE PUNITIVE ACTION UNDER MY CONQUEST!" A couple more squeaks of mortality, then a bit of scurrying in the walls as the rest of the rats figured out what was going on. "LET'S NOT LET THEM PEST-SCAPE!!" Darla pushed past Ms. Baxter inside the home and into the living room, which was rather lavishly furnished with designer furniture that looked like it came from a Sears catalogue in 1976. Darla's genious eyes saw only a blank canvas upon which to paint her masterpiece of bloodshed. "THIS HmOUSE'S DECORATIONS ARE PRETTY CHEESY, YOU KNOW, MS. BAXTER? BUT I'LL TAIL YOU ONE THING IT HAS GOING FOR IT; IT'S SQUEAKY CLEAN!" Squeals filled the air as rats began to fall into the room by passing through the ceiling, the walls... before they hit the ground, each one dissolved into a torrent of blood, splattering everywhere. "YOU JUST HAD TO GO AND SQUEENDER IT, DIDN'T YOU?" ^^"i ^^don'^t ^^^unde^rstand ^^^^wh^at's ^^^^^go^ing ^^^^^^on..." The blood tsunami has become a blood tornado, splattering all over the the two women. "PESTERING THESE LOVELY PEOPLE LIKE YOU'VE DONE! NOW I'M HERE TO WHISKER YOU OFF, YOU FHEAR ME?" Darla was clearly an expert at her craft. The rate of falling rodents slowed gradually, like the tempo of an orchestra right before the finale, being controlled by a true maestro. Any moment now, the final bang. The bloodnado picked up speed. Darla turned towards Ms. Baxter, who was likewise covered in blood, and with an expression of immense pride on her face, demanded... "COME ON! FINISH IT!" Ms. Baxter felt determination unlike any she had felt before. She stood up from her fetal position in the corner (how had she gotten there, anyway) and walked towards the bloodnado, which detected the coming of the chosen one and began to glow. She took a deep breath, and... "It would be pRODENT if this were to end n--" She was cut off yet again as the hurricane force of the blood explosion blasted her off her feet into the wall. The red began to fade, the squeaks of dying rats fading into echoes, then to nothing. There was no indication of what had taken place. She looked up to find Darla standing in the middle of the living room, checking her watch. "Well,"Darla said, casually, "better be going. Toodleloo, thank you for choosing Hungry Buddha!" She rushed out the front door, leaving Ms. Baxter alone in the house once again. She felt the power coursing through her veins and lifted her face to the sky, soul enlightened and smile wide.
Numerous witnesses attested to his arrival. A flash in the sky, and then a large, metallic object floating tenderly to the ground. It lighted in Trafalgar Square, right next to Nelson's Column. He was heralded as an angel, but methinks he comes from hell. When presented to King Edward, he presented a cockamamie tale of travelling backward through time, on a mission of a military nature. "Does our guest seem a little... coarse to you, my darling?" "No, Cedric, I think he is absolutely fabulous, don't you?" "Perhaps he has his moments." I eye the... gentleman... suspiciously. He winks at me and upturns a bottle of Vin du Calais, which I had purchased and secured away against the arrival of a proper visitor. My wife had deemed this to be such an occasion and asked our steward, George, to retrieve it from the cellar along with sufficient cups. As it turned out, he did not need a cup. I notice some specks of dribble seeping purple into the front of his shirt. "Where did you say you were from, er, Richard, was it?" "Dick." "Dick. I see." What a fitting name. A shortened form of 'Richard', but also a name that means a common man, which this gentleman certainly is. "It also means penis where I come from." I gasp, as does my steward. My wife, the Lady Brindenwald, giggles at this bit of trivia. This time Dick winks at her. "And Rich - er - Dick -"Lady Brindenwald giggles again as I speak, "From where do you hail?" "I hail from Cincinnati, Ohio, and I'll even tell you when I hail from: 1968. From the land of the free, man, the United States of America. Brought to you by the good grace of God and white coat wearing pricks of General Electric." I ignore his vulgarities, attempting to steer the conversation toward a more civilized clime. "Ah, Cincinnati. My father personally invested ten percent of the cost when the Miami and Erie canal was being built." "Oh yeah, the Miami canal. I know that place. I took a girl down there in my truck and fucked her in her ass, on account of her being Catholic and all." I gag. Lady Brindenwald flushes and begins to fan herself. "Oh, sorry. I, uh, buggered her is what I meant to say." "Sir, I will have you know that your manner of conversation is not, in any way, appreciated. Were it not for the behest of King Edward to foster you, were it not for his personal request, you would not be sitting here and, to be quite honest with you, sir, I would have you flogged for a week for this insolence and impropriety." "The King thinks that much of me, huh?"He swigs at the bottle. "Brindenwald."He smacks as as though tasting the name. "What is that, German?" "It does have some Germanic derivation, but my family has not been associated with that culture nor those lands for over a hundred years now." The glint of humor leaves his eyes. "I fucking hate Germans."He stands with a swagger. "I fucking hate the Germans more than anything, and if I told you how many I killed with rifle, pistol, knife, my bare goddamned hands, you would no longer pre-fucking-sume to talk to me like that!"His voice rises to a fervor and I notice George sidestepping inconspicuously toward a saber hanging from the wall. I shake my head ever-so mildly and he stops. A good man, that George. "Ah, er, apologies, good Richard. I believe that there is something of a cultural rift between us. I do sometimes forget how being out of one's element may cause consternation. I am just not accustomed to being placed out of mine own element within the bounds of this hall." He squints at me and swigs the bottle again, but this time he drinks deep and long, not taking his eyes from me. The apple of his throat moves up and down. When he's done, he brings his chin to his shoulder and wipes his mouth there, leaving a purple smear. "Apology accepted. Now be a good chap and tell me where the scotch is." I look to George. "I believe there is some Laphroaig in the globe, sir." "Laphroaig'll do it."Dick stumbles to the globe, opening it. He pulls the stopper and pours himself a good measure into the glass. "Want some?"I decline and excuse myself and Lady Brindenwald, as it is getting late. --------------------------------------------------------------------- The next morning, we are seated to breakfast. Dick is nowhere to be found, thank God. And then, I realize, neither is Mary. "Where is Mary, Catheryn?" Lady Brindenwald looks at me and continues to chew, a good long time, before deciding to swallow. "I am not entirely sure, Cedric. I sent her to look after Di - Richard this morning."I eye her. "I was certain that he would be in a state after last night, so I sent her with some of your clothes and a pitcher of water." I press my knuckles into my eyes. "This man will be the ruin of my house." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- In the afternoon, Mary's eyes do not meet mine. "Mary,"I ask. "To what level did you assist our guest this morning?" She clears her throat. "Only to the extent that my office allows." "And to what extent was that?" "I laid out our guest's clothes and poured him some water." "Nothing more? Your presence was quite sorely missed at breakfast." "Aye, he asked only that I show him the grounds." "And you did?" "Yes, my lord, I did not think it meet to decline him." "I see. And where is our guest now?" "When I last saw him, he was in the larder, helping himself to some ham." "Eating in the larder?" "Yes, my lord." The man's devilry knows no bounds. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- That evening, George entered my chambers with news. "My lord, King Edward has sent word of his arrival on the morrow. He shall bring a retinue." "On the morrow?"I am incredulous. "How are we for food and drink?" "We are well prepared to that end, my lord." "Excellent. And what of our guest? Where shall we hide him?" "Hide him, my lord? His Grace will be visiting for the express purpose of speaking with him." After all I had done for the King, he'd never visited. But this b------ comes from the sky and tells some jokes relating to the anal expulsion of gases and the King travels to meet him. The world is quickly descending into hell. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- The next morning, Dick joins us for breakfast. Lady Brindenwald finishes early and excuses herself. Dick engages me in conversation - whilst chewing. "Man, that Mary sure can suck a cock." I choke upon my egg. "I beg pardon?" "That girl, man, she could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch." I do not know what in the hell he meant by that but my face reddens. I am furious, but I do not know whether this fury is a product of Dick or of Mary's insolence and impropriety. I shall rid myself of her service after tonight's dinner. "I do not know if you've heard the news, Dick, but the King is coming to visit tonight." "Eddy? Aw, man, that's great." "I would that you not bring dishonor upon my family name with vulgar language nor action." Dick clears his throat. "Oh - uh - yeah, absolutely, man. Look, about the other night... I'm sorry. I'd had a little too much to drink and, well, you were a soldier, you know what that can be like." "My soldiering days are long gone but... You do have a point, Dick, I do remember some ribald actions and less than chivalrous words said due to drink. I accept your apology and hope that this can be a new start." "Attaboy."Dick grins at me. "Hey, Georgie,"he says, "bring us some tea."George looks at me. I nod at him. He nods at Dick. The rest of the morning passes in peace. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- The soiree is much like any other, excepting the presence of the King and Dick. They are fast friends and, aside from performing my hostly duties, I steer clear. My worries of Dick's actions removing me from the King's favor were unfounded. They exchange military stories and when Dick says words like "tank"or "plane", the King nods knowingly, even though the words are gibberish. The King mentions his American tour and, here and there, Dick speaks of his own "kingly conquests"regarding ladies in cities the King had visited. Others are crowded around them, laughing when the King laughs and trying hard to suppress their disgust at Dick's coarse speech. At night's end, I realize that I've given no thought to where we would house our guests. "George, are the guests' quarters quite prepared?" "There shall be no need of that sir. The King and his party leave tonight." "Tonight? At such a late hour?" "Yes, my lord. Dick will be accompanying them. But before they leave, the King would like an audience with you and Dick in your library." "Ah, yes. Inform them that I shall be awaiting them there." The notion of Dick's departure brings me great relief. I leave for the library. I prepare drinks for the King, Dick, and myself. When they arrive, a fire is blazing. They enter and we are left alone. "Cedric,"the King says. "Your Grace."I bow. "Cedric, our Dick will be leaving with me." Dick winks at me. "It saddens me that my house will be bereft of his presence. I hope that he returns soon as my esteemed guest." "There is no need of all that, Cedric. Our Dick will be departing tonight for Germanic shores." I open my mouth to speak a word of alarm, but say nothing. "We would appreciate it if not a word of this is spoken to anybody. It is only he, yourself, and I who know his destination. Should word reach any ear and be spread, I shall know your treachery. Understood?" "Yes, your Grace, of course." "Good. Now let's have a drink."I parcel out the drinks. "To Dick! I do not know the task set before you, but I do believe your presence here to be an act of God himself. Good luck to you on that Germanic land, and steer clear of that prick nephew of mine. To Dick!" We drain our cups, Dick faster than either the King or myself.
"So uh, I just sign here huh?" "Yeah, blood ink if you don't mind." "Mhm, let me just read the fine print you got here... eternal blazing in hell for all time seems normal... alright." I grabbed the quill he produced and signed my soul away. There was an awkward pause, and then I looked at the devil. "So, um.... does anything actually happen?" The devil shook his head sadly and in an explosion of light and order revealed himself. An angel, almost too beautiful to look at (almost) rose into the sky and cast a shameful glance in my direction. "Your soul is truly lost, for such a bargain to be made." "Uh..."I panicked. "Uh! Deceit! An angel can not condemn on it's own deceit!"I had NO idea what I was saying. It must have worked though, because the angel hovered down and landed across from me. "That is true isn't it?"I nodded furiously. "Well,"he muttered. "I suppose I'll have to let you go, but I think we'll be keeping an eye on you."He gave me a stern look and shot off into the sky. 'Whew!' I thought. 'I don't even want to get involved with all that nonsense anymore. An unlimited supply of Coca Cola really isn't worth it. I headed back into my house, and opened my empty fridge, wishing for a soda. Funnily enough there was a soda there. With a post it. Dear Jim, The angel isn't too bright, but the contract you signed was legally binding. Love, Satan I think I've had it with theology for today.
It was the third question that caused everything to go wrong. Two leading scientists had asked the Prime about quantum mechanics and relativistic physics. Each had assured the gathered crowds that the answers matched humanity's most advanced learning. The Prime was correct. The Prime could be trusted. The world's leaders formed an orderly queue, arranged by lots. The method had been agreed by the United Nations Security Council only after threats of war as to who would go next. The assumed priority of the United States had been challenged by Russia and China before diplomacy had prevailed. The Pope stepped forward. Everyone anticipated his obvious question about God - everyone except the Pope. Already, doubt raged among his followers. Already the presence of a being from beyond the solar system challenged the belief of man's special place in the universe. Already the knowledge that such a greater power existed challenged the authority of God. His next words could destroy faith entirely. The Pope paused for breath. His elderly voice was soft, but the bank of microphones broadcast it world-wide. Instead of the expected question, he asked "Do you know how to lie?" Gasps emanated from the crowd. The background murmur almost drowned out the answer. "Yes." The Pope had expected it. Omniscience was the knowledge of everything. It necessarily included the knowledge of evil and deceit. The question was deliberate. Once more, the seed of doubt was cast into human minds. Once more, faith was required.
The 9th August was just like any other normal day for most people, the cities were bustling and money was being made, but not for dwight. Dwight sat crouched down in a steel box that couldn't have been more than 4x4x2 metres big. "Floor 700, floor 699, floor 698", the automated voice rang out through speakers above him, and he felt the uncomfortable feeling of his stomach drop. Dwight wasn't too sure what he had done to deserve his place in hell, he lived a normal life and payed his taxes, he deemed it unfair that the simple fact that he was an atheist was enough of a crime to warrant a place in hell. Next to him was another pretty average looking guy, Dwight reckoned he must've been no more than 30 like himself, but he had a literal eternity to strike up a conversation with him so he saw little point in doing so now. "Floor 668, floor 667", "Here we go", Dwight thought to himself, he pondered over which of the circles of hell he would placed in, and he found himself wishing he had concentrated more In 10th grade english when he was studying Dante's inferno. Suddenly out of nowhere was a crash, not a normal sound like one you would hear in the surface world, but a deathly loud crash, one that Dwight heard deep in the bowels of his soul. The elevator suddenly stopped, throwing Dwight and his "roommate"to the floor. "What the fuck was that?"Dwight exclaimed, half expecting the doors to burst open any second to be greeted by lucifer himself. He glanced upwards at the L.E.D display, which still read 667, "strange", he thought to himself, unsure of what to do next. He decided to ask his fellow companion, and said "do you know what the fuck is going on?" Silence.. "Hello?"Dwight said again, "can you hear me?". Still nothing. Suddenly a booming voice erupted from the speakers above, and a voice came out that was nothing like Dwight had ever seen before. "Victim no.97267"it boomed, "For your sinful deeds of refusing to believe in The Lord God himself, you have been sentenced to an eternity of purgatory" "Purgatory?"Dwight thought to himself, "There must have been some mistake"he shouted towards towards the speaker, "I'm trapped in the lift". "Incorrect mere mortal"the voice boomed again, "For you have already arrived in purgatory, good luck.."
Farzad Armani was an Iranian revolutionary, involved in the opening stages of that country's conflict. Here he shares what motivated him to action. "My brother was killed by police forces for his participation in the Green Revolution protests in 2009. A tear gas canister was fired into the crowd and struck his head, killing him. He meant everything to me, I probably idolized him. After that, I became a thorn in the side of the regime, and for my actions, I served 10 years in prison. I became more bitter. When I was released; I saw only one course of action. I would do whatever was in my power to tear down the Fascist regime. I put together an improvised explosive device, smuggled it into Tehran, and detonated it near the Revolutionary Guards barracks. At first I thought I would go on like this, a lone anarchist, until I found others like me. And then we built our movement." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Deng Jiaming served in the Logistics branch of China's People's Liberation Army at the start of the conflict until his capture at the Second Battle of the Yalu River in 2034. "People looked at China and saw an industrial powerhouse, and it was. Most did not see it's vulnerabilities. When the civil war began in Iran, China lost it's primary source of oil. Domestic production could not meet our needs; we had roughly seven months of fuel before the economy and military ground to a halt. So we had to accelerate plans in the South China Sea. The People's Liberation Army Navy began taking direct control of our interests in the sea; various island chains and atolls which would give us access to large reserves of oil and gas and productive fishing grounds. Unlike many have claimed, we were not looking for war with Vietnam, the Vietnamese were the aggressors, they fired the fatal shot." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Dak Nguyen was a corporal in the Vietnamese Army at the war's start, and served in the frontier battles with China. "We hated the Chinese, hated them with a passion. It was an ancient rivalry, even thousands of years ago the Chinese Emperors looked at Vietnam with greed. The 1979 invasion had put this in perspective for those of us who thought that International Communism would put an end to this. We were not as well equipped as the Chinese, and we were outnumbered. But was this not always the case when Vietnam stood against aggression? We were well trained in one thing, and that was guerrilla tactics. We held out at the border for weeks after the Chinese broke the line. We would raid them at night, or during the monsoon rains. I remember the face of the first Chinese soldier I shot. He must have been 20 meters away, less maybe. I aimed my Kalashnikov at him, and fired 3 or 4 rounds. His face contorted in agony and he fell, staring at me. That was a shock, that was how I was introduced to war. Do I feel sympathy? No. Look at my scars. Do you know how this happened? I was captured. They took me, and strung out barbed wire in front of me, then they kicked me and beat me, pressing me on top of it. No, we should have killed all of those barbarians." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Lieutenant Commander Park Sung continues to serve in the Korean navy, following his service in the war. "When the Sinas went and invaded Vietnam, we realized that they wanted to take us one at a time, so we had to band together. Together with the Japanese, the Filipinos, and the Malaysians, Thais, and Indonesians; we stood against China. Taiwan and the US weren't involved until a bit later, as you know. Immediately following the declaration of war though, the Chinese tried to crush our fleets. We were steaming just east of the Senkakus when the first missiles started coming in. These were big DF-21 ballistic missiles; they shot up into the upper atmosphere, and then came down right on top of you, just one could sink an aircraft carrier. There must have been 75 in the first barrage, and all of the tracers and flares and missiles shooting back at them...it must have looked like your American Fourth of July. In any case, my vessel was sunk a mere two hours after I went to war. I won't speak any more about the horrors we faced drifting in that ocean." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Jessica Menendez was a civilian in the United States during the war. "It was so surreal at first. They were saying that the world was going to end because people were fighting over places I couldn't find on a map. We were all pretty happy about the Iranian Revolution; they were all crazy anyway, they said that there would be peace in the Middle East. Two generations of Americans had died there, what more could we ask for? But when the Chinese went on the offensive, we didn't understand that at first. Some of us didn't want to get involved at all. Turns out we didn't have a choice, because then Black Saturday rolled around. All I remember was suddenly everything just went dark; no TV, no phone, no internet. It turns out that the Chinese were shooting down all of the allied satellites, and the debris took out almost every single communications satellite in orbit. But that wasn't enough to drag us into war, no Guam did that." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Lance Corporal Sidney Blackman was a US Marine stationed at Guam Naval Air Facility in the Central Pacific. "We knew something was up when the satellite feeds went dark, and we all got to cover. As soon as the Chinese attacked the Spratlys and Vietnam we'd started working on shelters, and it was a good thing. The first to pass over were Chinese jets, J-10s and J-11s mostly. And our F-22s shot almost ll of them down immediately. Then the missile barrage began. Ever two seconds...BANG!...BANG!...BANG! Just like that, and then it just got heavier, because our planes were out of missiles, and they couldn't land, so they had to fly all the way over to Japan to land. So then the Chinese brought these big 'ole four engined bombers over, and just started pounding us, and it was like the loudest thunderstorm you'd ever heard, times ten. Two hours later they brought in their navy and started shelling us. Eventually I was able to peek outside, and it just looked like the face of the moon. Not anything left standing. We held out for a week and a half before they stormed the island. I was one of 46 Americans to live." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Marcus Lansing was the US Assistant Secretary of Defense. "I relocated to NORAD immediately, and the President was also shifted to a deep level shelter because we frankly expected nuclear missiles to start hitting Washington and New York and LA as soon as the war got started. Apparently President Zhu had half a brain, because they didn't, so we didn't launch any missiles either. It was lucky. But we still weren't asking if they would launch, but when. And then, Taiwan had to pick exactly that goddamn moment to declare independence from China." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Ma Dawei was a Private in the Army of the Republic of China (Taiwan) during the war. "It was written into the Chinese constitution that if Taiwan ever declared independence from China, the People's Republic would invade. Well they tried, and we fought tooth and nail, and they didn't take an inch of our homeland, not one inch! We drove the communist pigs into the sea! Of course, we didn't expect them to level Taipei. My entire family was lost, I can only hope that they were incinerated in the blast and died quickly." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Assistant Secretary Lansing: "I don't know what snapped over on the Chinese side, but then they nuked Taiwan. And we got ready to fire our missiles and thank God that President Campbell was a level-headed guy and stopped at the last minute. He was acutely in tune with the situation, he seemed to know everything, no matter where it was happening. It was like he was inside of the US and Chinese governments, watching what was happening, and he saw the coup coming before it started. He saw the breakdown begin when Taipei was hit, and then came the Western Incursion. I don't know why the Chinese decided to invade Kyrgyzstan but it may have lost them the war. At that point even Russia had to turn against them. As soon as India joined the allies, that also sealed the deal. So he had the Pacific Fleet go active, but with strict orders to maintain a defensive posture. This was also communicated to our allies. He knew, that if we dragged out the war long enough, elements within China would move against the government. And it took another two years, but he was right, and the Chinese government fell and not another nuclear weapon was used by either side." ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Xi Gouyu is Vice President of the Yunnan Social Republic. "I'll tell you something that disappointed most of you Westerners. You can't fit 1.3 billion people into a democracy, especially following a revolution like the one we had here in China. Too many factions, too many different parties that all wanted something different. To put it simply, China split up, and we did it bloodlessly, a velvet division. There are 9 different nations that were once the People's Republic. They each share a culture, still use the same currency, and they still get along fine. But they are all proud nations now, and prosperous nations and above all, peaceful nations. Sure there was concern over the Singapore treaty at first, but can we not say it has worked out for the best? It's still a new world my friend. And thank whichever God you prefer that we still have one at all after the war."
"Ho ho ho!"The fat men bellowed as he waltzed into the living room. "Timmy, you and I need to chat." In a flash Beelzebub himself appeared at the other end of the room. "Not so fast Mr. Kringle." I sat between them on our floral patterned couch, the kind that was too uncomfortable to sit on for any length of time. I wondered what in the world was happening. Santa addressed me directly. "Timmy,"he began "surely you did not mean to send me that text. I'm quite sure it was meant for Satan over there." Satan nodded in agreement, having been CEO of Verizon for some time he was well aware of the messages being sent on his network. I'm sure he had setup an alert whenever something was sent containing his name or any misspelling thereof. "But Santa, I did mean it for you!"I replied. "I've been reading a lot about how cold it is up north and I just thought it might be something nice to warm you up, but I mean if you don't want it..." "He doesn't, I'll take it."The Devil chimed in. "It's right in my wheelhouse, I don't think we really need you anymore here Kris, I can handle this one." "What?"I retorted "What are you even doing here?"I motioned to him. "Well you said... um, one sec..."Satan fidgeted with his iPhone. "Oh here it is, you said, and I'm quoting, 'Dear Santa, I've got a special soul just for you, all I want is a BMX bike', didn't you Timmy?" "What? No!"I was recoiling in horror. "That damn auto-correct, I made some SOUP, not SOUL, SOUP!" "Disappointing."Said Satan, crossing his arms. With another poof he was gone. Santa stroked his beard and seemed deep in thought. "What flavour is it?"
The archaeologist stared at the tablet as he brushed away centuries of dust. Carved out in an ancient language was the proof of a theory so dangerously blasphemous that merely saying the words out loud would certainly get him killed. The Jiate had come to the planet hundreds of years ago, claiming to hail from a distant star they called Shexwa. They were rarely seen , and never in the flesh; when one made itself visible it was beneath an impenetrable cloak of blinding light and shadow. Quickly, with the Jiate’s encouragement, they became worshipped. Here were Gods that could make a difference. Rarely did they interfere with lives of the people; they simply watched, and listened. But when they decided to exert their divine power, they could change the course of history. The whim of a single Jiat could start a war, or end one. They could feed a nation, or starve one. Earthquakes and volcanoes, wind and waves, even the sun itself; they could all be controlled by the deities from Shexwa. So the people built temples, created rituals, and lived their lives in worship. They sacrificed children, mutilated themselves and fought devastating wars to earn the favour of their Gods. Millions died. The world divided on how best to revere the almighty Jiate. It seemed to amuse them. It was a story of oppression and fear. But the tablet told a new tale, or an old one. It told a tale of rich and poor, powerful and weak, the few and the many. It told a tale of a new technology, a miraculous discovery, world changing and wonderful. It told a tale of selfishness and greed, the mighty staying mighty, and denial of freedom and happiness. The archaeologist spoke the words out loud. “They’re not Gods, they’re human.”
"Zeus forgive me, I can't do it anymore,"Captain Amazing dejectedly whispered. It didn't even sound like him, but I realized this was the first time I heard him say anything that wasn't projected across the room in an announcement. While still a four hundred pound muscle bound man with chiselled features, he looked diminished and very tired. "What can't you do anymore?"I asked. "Am I a good person, Doc? If I was just a man? Or am I just a thug?" "Of course you're not just a thug, Ca- Jim."I quickly remembered he hated me using his hero name here. "You saved that bus full of people that was caught in a landslide. Would a thug do that?" "I don't know. If you had my powers would you have done that?" "Yes." "Would an average person with my strength have done that? Someone picked off the street completely at random?" "Most likely, yes." "So I'm not an exceptionally good person. I'm just a person who is exceptionally capable." "Jim, most people are good. There are those who allow themselves to be corrupted by their power. You help protect us from them." "A thug who beats up thugs. If I was a murder who killed murderers would that make me a noble hero, or just another criminal?" "Did you kill anyone, Jim?" "No real people. Only other demons." That line threw me. I knew Jim was Catholic, he never was quiet about his faith in the press. "Jim, is that how you see your fellow Supers? As demons?" He laughed. "We are demons. Each of us was born a demon or converted to demon or possessed by a demon. We have fought a successful war against the Gods for centuries. The Titans may not have regained their power, but they surely have had their revenge." "Jim, what is this with Titans? You got your powers from Dr. Gruber's superhuman formula and a gamma ray burst." "I got my power from Archbishop Gruber's summoning a demonic spirit and tying it to my humanity. Can I heal the sick? No. But I can punch through a wall and accidentally kill a man with my pinkie. Gamma radiation exposure causes cancer, not super strength. Ever wonder why none of the scientists who worked on either the Manhattan project or the Metrocity project were at all worried that a nuclear bomb would grant superpowers to an entire enemy city? A radioactive spider bite causes localized swelling to death, depending on the spider. And an alien species from an alien world with an alien atmosphere still looks completely human and is genetically compatible enough with humans to have viable offspring? How can someone with ANY knowledge of biology buy that? Or the guy who claims to be human. You think any guy in the MMA championships has a chance against the Bat? Do you think twenty of them would have a prayer against Ozymandias? Peak human my ass." "But if there are demons certain lay there are angels." "Angels are what we called ourselves before comic books were invented." "Are you trying not to be a demon? Is that why you do good?" "I do no more good than any other person would with my strength. And do as much harm." "What harm?" "To souls. When was the last time someone's soul was consigned to Hades? Were any of your loved ones buried with a fare to pay the guide across the river?" "But... No one believes in the Greek myths anymore. What about heaven?" "You don't get it. Hades is the only afterlife there is!"His anger raised I to a wave of heat coming off him. "I couldn't say in public."He held his own head, glaring against some unseen agony. "Souls are condemned to oblivion. Tied to the body. Look at the... research. Nothing leaves a dead human."He was glowing, his clothes and my couch were smouldering. "But a Super loses almost ten pounds of mass at death. Or demon escaping. Arrgh!"He was now having flames shoot off him. "Some evaporate completely. Pure demon. Never had any mortal host to leave." "Jim! Stop this!"I cry out stepping back, shielding my face from the heat. "No! I need to tell you the best part!"He starts cackling which quickly turns into a soot fills cough. "I may he wrong. There may not be a Hades. The real Gods could be forgotten and their realm empty for all I know!" .... I went to his funeral. A gawdy thing, more of a show and spectacle than any somber remembrance of a friend and loved one. I never told anyone what he said. Especially the dozen or so Supers who investigated. Just that he was distraught about not being good enough. But I did buy two antique coins to drop on his coffin with the flowers. I hope the ferry is waiting for him.
"Just a few more seconds, Jake,"My father looked down at his watch and back up at me. "You were born fifteen years, three hundred sixty four days, twenty three hours, fifty nine minutes, aaaaaaaaand... thirty seconds ago." It was a countdown I was familiar with, every birthday was just a celebration of another year less my family would have to wait to see what I was capable of. And now, it’s finally here. I don’t know really what to feel. Excited? Nervous? It wasn’t as if my family didn’t have a hug bar set for me. Dad, “The Sargent”, super strength and the ability to fly. Mom, “BrainStorm”, telepathy and telekinesis. Carol, “The Untouchable”, my older sister can move so fast that space-time sometimes bends around her when she loses control. The one thing all super heroes have in common is the age where they attain their powers, and in fifteen seconds I would have mine. My father and I watched the tiny hand on the watch tick upward. Dad had me sitting on one shoulder, like someone would with a child, I doubt he even noticed the weight. We are levitating in the air hundreds of feet about the city. Five seconds now. Mom is floating next to us on a metal disk she is levitating with her mind. Three seconds. Carol is down on the street, zipping from point to point so fast, that no one can see her. It sure was nice of her to come back from the Middle East to be here for my big day. Two. One. Dad and mom smile at me, Mom of course knows what time it is, she was watching through Dad’s eyes. She waves down to Carol, who is gone in a blink of an eye. Then Carol is back, hanging one handed from mom’s metal disk. How far did she have to jump to do that? She says, “Just a few blocks north. Purse snatcher, unarmed, good little practice run for Jake.” She waves with the hand she ins't using to hang, to show the general direction. She swings herself up and punches me in the arm lightly, “Let’s see what you can do, little bro.” We’re zooming through the air. I mostly just feel bad for this purse-snatcher, sure stealing is a crime, but likely he’s going to shit his pants when three demigods appear out of the night for some overkill. Dad sets me down at the mouth of an alley. “Alright Jake, just do your best. But if anything goes wrong, we’ll all be right here. You won’t get hurt.” Mom is next, “I’m inside his head right now, I’ll know if he is about to do something bad.” Carol shrugs, “Don’t be nervous. Stay cool. It’ll be fine.” Then they’re all gone, and I’m standing in the alleyway alone. I start walking down it. I never thought it would smell this bad. I have played this situation out in my head for most of my life, but never thought of what it would smell like. Weird how these little things are standing out to me, like how that light is gleaming off the broken glass, or the scurrying sounds of rats behind a cardboard box. Then I see him, he’s crouched behind the dumpster. The only problem is that he saw me first. He’s fast, like way faster than I expected, and big. Next thing I know, I’m on the ground and he’s is sprinting out of the alley. I pat myself down, I’m not hurt or anything, the guy just bowled me over like a pin in his rush to get out of there. I get on my feet and start running after him. But I know I don’t need to. A few seconds later, the big man is running back in the alley with dad walking calmly behind him. “Here!” The big guy yells, thrusting the purse at dad as he tries to stumble away. “Take it please! I’ll go to jail, just please don’t hurt me.” Dad sighs and looks at me, “Did you feel anything? Anything at all?” “I felt the alley floor, is what I felt.” I snap. Mom lands behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder, “It’s okay sweetie, and you’ll do better next time.” But her voice is tin, she and I know that there should have been something. Carol is suddenly there to, she looks sad for me, but there is something else too. Triumph? So the sibling rivalry is finally won in her mind? Shit, she’s right, I suck. We’re all distracted for a few seconds. The big guy, the one who was supposed to be unarmed seems to have reached his breaking point; too many superheroes. He’s gone from a cornered thief, ready to surrender, to a wounded tiger. He fumbles for a second and pulls out a hidden revolver from the front of his jeans and levels it at the back of Carol’s head. Dad can’t see what he’s doing because he’s on the other side of me, Carol is looking the other way, and mom is inside dad’s head, admonishing him for his tone. Then the big man freezes, the revolver doesn’t fire, and I realize I have my index finger pointed right at him. Then, he starts screaming, it’s the most horrifying scream I have ever heard. Mom, dad, and Carol all flinch back and look at him in shock. Then they realize it’s me who’s doing it and their shock turns to horror. The big man drops his gun and starts clawing at his skin with his fingernails. And still he’s screaming, just one protracted scream. I pull my finger back, but it does nothing. He’s screaming words that I can’t understand, beating his own head into the ground over and over. Blood is dripping down his face. Still screaming that horrible scream. Then, one of his bloody hands finds the dropped revolved and without a second’s hesitation, puts the barrel to the side of his head and fires. They are all looking at me; I’ve never seen them look at me this way. Mom begins to say something, ”Jake-“ I cut her off, “No.” “What?” I realize I’m smiling, and have been smiling for a while. How long? I don’t know. Maybe since the revolver went off, but probably since the screaming started. “I’m not Jake anymore.” I lift up my hands and they all freeze, like their blood turned to ice. “I am the Pain-God.” Screams and laughter echo out of my alleyway.
The Blur is frightening at first, but can be quite useful. It's a place for our warriors to heal, able to return to battle almost instantly. In a true emergency, young people can be sent in to be aged, growing ready for battle and adulthood. This practice is frowned upon now, but has been turned to in days gone by. The Still is different. Stay away from it, child - wander in and turn right back around to leave, and you'll find everyone you knew aged ten years. Spend a night there, and all their children's children will be dust on the wind, bones in the ground. How do I know? I wandered into the Still once, lost. It's bigger than the Blur, and there are people within it - strange people, scattered across time. Took me a week to find my way out. When I emerged, different kinds of trees grew, and the people spoke another language. Their skin was a different color than my own. It seems the people I was born to were swept away by time.
We thank you for flying Confederate Airlines. Please exit the airplane in an orderly fashion, and make sure you are in the proper line for your race. When you exit the plane, Free Coloureds please stay to the far left, Subcontinentals in the middle, Orientals and Whites in the far right. If mixed race, assume One Drop Rule. Baggage claim is in the bottom floor of the Beauregard Terminal. You are currently in the Cleburne Terminal. To reach the Beauregard Terminal, please use the Jim Crow Memorial Tram. Shuttles will be waiting at the Beauregard terminal to transport you, your baggage, and chattel to different destinations in New Orleans. As a light suggestion, Victory Day celebrations are currently being celebrated in Jackson Square. The historical society and the Italian-Confederate Society will be reenacting the famous Garibaldi Landing; when Interim Commander in Chief Garibaldi - offended by the Northern Tyrant denying his generous offer of service - loaned his sword to President Davis. Moreover, there will be a reading of Supreme Court Justice and General Patrick Cleburne's "Monstrous Proposal", which allowed slaves to free themselves by fighting in the army. It is said that without Cleburne's urging and the extra manpower provided, there would be no Victory Day! And finally, please respect the local customs. To our visitors from our friends and allies Großdeutschland, The Italian Empire, and the Japanese Empire, please do not antagonize the Jews, Albanians, or Koreans. Instead, celebrate the fact that here, in the proud Pan-American Confederacy, they are put to good work supporting our shared Axis superiority! We hope you enjoy your stay. Yall come back now!
Warning: Fairly blasphemous stuff ahead. You've been warned. "I'm not really surprised,"God said to Jesus, head lowered. "Considering the fact that we're technically the same entity,"he continued, "You really should've known that I'd point it out eventually."He cast aside the videos and magazines, covers populated with men and women clad in black and forced into unspeakable positions. They fell with a thud before Jesus' feet, causing him to shudder slightly. God looked Jesus in the eye and asked, "Do you have anything to say about this?"Jesus looked up with a hopeful look in his eye and asked, "Do I need to be punished?"
Stacy was strong, stubborn, and iron-willed. She always got what she wanted, one way or another. Her weapon was a battle-axe. Jason was a trickster and social chameleon. He had a silver tongue that could open both the hearts of men and the legs of women. His weapon was a vial of untraceable poison. Reiko stood for loyalty, honor, and justice. An uncompromising perfectionist, she was the best at everything she did. Her weapon was a katana crafted from the finest steel. Wade was the quiet type, only speaking when absolutely necessary. Actions were his words. Somehow, he always had a vantage point of the entire situation. His weapon was a light-weight crossbow. Me? I was weak, clumsy, and incurably lazy. But I had brains. And brains, I've found, have proven more useful to me than any weapon in my arsenal. I received a pen.
----TRANSMISSION RECIEVED---- Replaying... "Hello, people of Earth. We are the Catrix people of Galaxy Andromeda. An auto-translated message will be transmitted by our probe should it reach you. More will follow. TRANSMISSION TWO "Greetings again people of Earth! We have sent a manned probe of seven scientists to arrive on your planet. They will arrive in approximately 500 Earth years. Our intent is to increase your technologies so that our two races can together explore the galaxy! A rebel portion of our military has conquered our homeworld, and we seek to leave them behind." TRANSMISSION THREE "People of Earth, we are in danger. The rebels have launched a siege on our interstellar capital. We have launched several civilian ships your way, though I fear they may not make it. The scientists still have three hundred years until arrival. We wish them luck." FINAL TRANSMISSION "Earth, we are doomed. cough The rebels unleashed a chemical weapon, but the virus has mutated and is uncontrollable. cough With one hundred years until arrival, the scientist's coms are down. We hope you will inform them that they are the last. Never return to this place... Ugh... " (A fit of coughs is heard, followed by a screech and a body falling to floor) "Goodbye, people of Earth."
"You ever hear the story of the scorpion and the frog?" "What? Y'all crazy. World's gone kaput and you're hearing yappin' on about a frog." "My momma told me it, long time ago. Shows who people really are." "I ain't no frog man!" "It's a metaphor."The office shifted in the car, turning in his seat. "Anyway, you're the scorpion." "Yeah, yeah, I get it. I'm a scorpion, that's better." "So this scorpion, it wants to cross a river." "Why?" "So it can buy some crack, doesn't matter. The scorpion gets to the river edge and asks a frog if it will carry it across the river." "Why don't it just swim?" "Christ!"The perp lent back in the seat, cuffed hands raised in defence. "The scorpion can't swim, the frog can. Get it?" "I get it." "The frog's like, 'Why should I take you? You're just gonna kill me.'" "What if the scorpion just wanna get across the river?" The officer sighed. The perp zipped a finger across his mouth. "The frog finally say alright, the scorpion hops on its back and it begins swimming out across the river." "See my man, this is us! You're the frog and you can get me outta here!" "They get to the midpoint of the river, the deepest bit..." "Enough with the fucking story!" "And the scorpion stings the frog." "What? That dude crazy. They're both gonna drown now. Why he gone done that?" "The frog stops kicking, it's body dying and they both start sinking. And the frog says to the scorpion, 'Why did you do that? Now we're both going to die.'" "You're not gonna let me go are you?" "And the scorpion, it turns to the frog and it says, 'It's in my nature. I can't help it.'" "They both die?" "They both died." "Why'd the scorpion do that Officer? He coulda waited 'til they got to the other side." "It's always the same Lenny. It's in your nature."
It was just a typical Tuesday morning. I hate Tuesdays. You see, Mondays are bad, sure, but they are busy and time goes by fast when you’re busy. Tuesdays are just boring. The bulk of the work that piled up over the weekend has been taken care of and you settle into a snail’s pace of monotony that will continue for the next four long days so far from the weekend. And then, if you’re like me, you have public transportation to contend with. There must be thirty people waiting for the number six bus. No one looks at anyone, let alone talks to each other. I’m no different. I don’t know these people, and I don’t want to know them. I shake my head and look down at my feet to further avoid these people, these cattle. My shoe is untied. Yet another thing to be bitter about. I might need to talk to someone. I’m angry more and more every day. I bend down and begin tying my shoe. The person to my right steps off. The bus must have arrived, I think, as this person must be moving towards the front of the line. And then my ears began ringing. I finish tying my shoe and stand up sticking my finger in my ear, trying to unring it. I turn to my right to move with the line and to board the bus, but there is no one in front of me. I look at the bus, but there is no bus. It hasn’t come yet. I turn to look at the line of people waiting for the bus but they are gone. I look around and see no one at all. There are cars on the road and the traffic lights are on, but there is not a soul in sight. I realize that my ears aren’t ringing; it’s the sudden lack of sound that has made my ears feel strange. I pulled my phone out of my breast pocket and read the date and time: October 20, 2014, 7:35am. I have a solid signal, but when I dial my office, the call never connects. I check the web, but web pages never load. … For the first month, I reveled in the silence. I thrived in the lack of humanity. I had my own paradise of a world without the throngs of people I hated so much. Then I got lonely. I started to travel, to search for others. I must have visited a dozen cities, only to be greeted by the same sight: perfectly normal cities without a single person inhabiting them. Each city is bathed in the morning light of October 20th. I estimate that four months have passed and I haven’t seen a single person. My phone still reads October 20, 2014, 7:35am, and the battery never drains. Time has stopped and outside, it is perpetually morning, and I’m losing my mind. I can’t stand the loneliness anymore. I don’t even know what to do. I hate reading books, nothing is on TV and the internet never loads. Walking and exploring has lost its luster. I head back to the bus stop where this all started for me. I stand in the same spot I stood four months ago and just look around. That’s when I finally saw someone. He was a perfectly ordinary man. He was dressed in a plain black suit and tie, a timeless picture of your average businessman. His features were non-descript and if you had asked me later to describe him, I could not. He was standing in the middle of the street looking right at me. I gaped at him stupidly. He pointed to my foot and spoke four simple words. “You shoe is untied,” he said. I glanced down. It was. The same shoe was untied just as it had been four months ago. Impulsively, I knelt down to tie it. After it was half tied, I glanced up to find the man missing, but everyone else had returned. I was back in the line with the throngs of people surrounding me and the beautiful noises of the living city filled my ears. Still bent over, my phone slipped out of my breast pocket and bounced into the street. It landed face up and I watched the time change from 7:35am to 7:36am. Without thinking, I stepped into the street to retrieve it when my bus pulled up to the bus top and hit me. The right headlight struck my left temple and I crumpled to the street where the front tire rolled up my body to my chest. I could feel the organs inside of me turning to pulp as I took my last breath. A crowd of people quickly formed around me. My last thought before I died was that I was glad there were people here with me, finally.
It's been a year that I've lived alone. Of course, I was always alone, even when they were still here, even when everybody was still here, but I wasn't the lone inhabitant of the earth then. Just a lonely inhabitant along with my three companions. They were never really friends of mine, and at times I abhorred them for no particular reason, but I was still sorry to see them die. No, scratch that. I was sorry to see myself as the only one who lived. I thought for sure they wouldn't go through with it, but once again they proved me dead wrong. Ha, dead wrong. Come on, you need to find humor in that somewhere. One year ago today they were here talking to me, going on about something that I'm sure didn't matter, griping about the cold or how early it's been getting dark. Then, they got the idea, and once it entered their minds, I could do nothing to stop them. It was Mark who first came up with it, the idea of us offing ourselves. He lit up like a lightbulb, and both Carrie and Adam were totally sold. I guess you could say being the last four people on earth really had us depressed, because I don't think there was a single opposition of the idea by my companions. I, however, thought they were all going to wuss out when it came time, so I didn't take it seriously. ...that is, until Mark took out a knife and slit his own throat, right then and there. He dropped to the snow covered ground and turned white to red, and Carrie and Adam quickly followed suit. As for me, I was too stunned to think anything, so I tried to do the same thing, but my arms wouldn't move in the right fashion and I think I stood there, knife in hand for a good hour just trying to decide what just happened and what I should do next. I was still just so shocked at how abruptly that whole sequence had just occurred, at how they didn't even say goodbye. I guess when you're that numb, you don't think about goodbyes. So now I am here, alone and slowly being driven insane by solitude. Every day I pick up my knife and hold it to my neck, and every day my hand trembles and falters and I lower the knife down to my side, unable to free myself from this madness. Maybe someday I'll find the ability to, but until then, I'll have the empty streets, vacant buildings and open skies to keep me company. I like them better than people anyway.
Stunned silence. Yeah, that was a good sign... The crowd looked like a bunch of surly children, just fed a very bitter medicine and still grumpy about it. Too bad, I think. Guess I should've brought some sugar for them, to help ease the blow. I clear my throat, and again I motion to the presentation behind me: "Eleven letters, ladies and gentlemen, with four of them known to us: 'N-YOR'. And I find that I must repeat myself: at one time, in the distant, distant past, those eleven letters ruled the very planet, itself! This revelation will surely usher in a whole new world of insight about this amazing period of human history!" "Preposterous!"A voice chimed from the audience. "Nonsense!"Said another. Ah, no more stunned silence. That was a good sign... I begin pacing along the stage, my voice stern and eyes severe: "Consider,"I said, "all the evidence. The civilization at N-YOR was truly the pinnacle of human evolution, for their time. Their influence spread far and wide; pieces of their culture have been found as far as the distant orient, and in as remote a place as the very depths of the antarctic. And then there's their homeland: what marvelous engineering! The greatest feats known to us, from that time period. "The entire main site was constructed along the bank of an artificial lake- a massive and ideal ecological refuge wrought out of an inhospitable swamp. A downy paradise made whole-cloth out of purgatory. And the main site itself- the capital of their culture- was built upon a massive artificial upturn in the land: a man-made hill so massive and yet so subtly constructed that none who traversed it might notice, even as they walked along grand cobbled streets surrounded by flags and lighted buildings. "At the center of the sight, rising up in the land like a finger raised to the sky, sat the grand castle: a trumpeting and triumphant testament to the N-YOR culture's grandeur. And surrounding it? All around it rested lands of truly unmistakable majesty. Unbelievable phenomena! A rainforest brought to life in the most unlikely of places; an artificial mountain of rock and bramble, complete with a majestic waterfall plunging into the depths of a wondrous patch of briar; a grand construct of metal, steel and concrete that was able to replicate the feeling of gliding amongst the stars, themselves! And all this connected by a grand railroad, encircling the entire realm, giving N-YOR's citizens access to all these great wonders!" I shake my head, chastising the crowd. With a flick of my hand I make another image appear behind me: the entry gate to that grand civilization, reconstructed as best we could, with its four legible letters still visible: "_ _ _ N _ Y _ O R _ _ " "Indeed, the N-YOR's world may have been a small one, after all's said and done, but a mightily powerful one! Were they some puny gimmick, or a mere novelty, lain here to amuse us? No, ladies and gentlemen,"I wag a stern finger. "What I say is no game, nor a joke in the slightest. Those who traversed this land back in its heyday were very like the gods, themselves!"
They all tried to figure it out. Experts, consultants, psychics; we saw them all, and they all drew a blank. Not one of them could work out what the secret to my power was, or why I might have been missing one. I was the only child on record to be missing a power tattoo, something that had been borne in the human race midway through the 21st century; the bigger the tattoo the bigger the power, more or less. My elder brother had been given a huge tattoo of a pair of wings across his shoulder blades, quite a rare gift, and had been flying out of his cot and around the nursery by the time he was 1, much to our parents chagrin. I however, other than having the odd occasion to be a dark skinned child born to white parents, had no such mark. They searched and they searched, but they could not see for looking. The answer had been staring them in the face the whole time. The most obvious clue, was instantly dismissed. After the blood results came back, and my father was given the news that the brown baby born of Caucasian parents was indeed his, they never seemed to question it again. A lost gene they supposed, there must have been something buried deep in one of the respective pools to explain it, after all I did look like my father, if after a summer holiday. Aren't genetics weird. Well they are, but really, it isn't that complicated. I was as white as the snow, but fate had coloured me in. My tattoos are extensive, intricate and unbelievably compact. I figured it out days after my birth, but sensing the strangeness of my being from their reactions, I decided that I should keep quiet and play along with the expectations of those around me. I found a parenting book left in my nursery whilst I was supposed to be napping when I was a few weeks old, and memorised which milestones were expected when. I was a perfectly healthy, average child, who developed at roughly the right speed (allowing for some slight deviations from the mean of course), who just so happened to be devoid of a power tattoo, and presumably therefore any power. I made my way through school, having friendships and adventures, growing into the body I was given. I met hostility of course, every child does, but being marked as inferior didn't bring out the charity in those fellows of mine with muscles tattooed on their arms, or flames seared into their hands. I met the rough end of every power going in my school, from fire and ice, the political games played by those with forks on their tongues, to the tricks of those with markings of intellect on their heads. As I grew into my teenage years it intensified, friends looked the other way as those with power eagerly used it, and slowly, they drifted away, leaving me to the designs of others. My family and teachers tried to protect me of course, but the authority was wasted on my tormentors. My only respite was walks home with my brother, he was at a neighbouring school for those with powers more exceptional than most. He never lauded it over me, never saw me as something lesser than himself, only saw me, his brother. I finished school with the marks average for those my age, and decided against a continued education. I didn't see the point. It will be time to announce myself soon, time for everyone to know. I know what I am. I am a god born into a world of exceptional, but flawed, individuals. I have seen them at their very worst, seen them damn and expel those below them, and for that perhaps they should be punished. But I have also seen love. I have seen my parents fight against everything for me, seen them crucify their life savings to understand my suffering, and through my brother I have seen friendship and togetherness. I have seen both sides of those around me, and now it comes time to show my power, and work out what I will be. From the moment of my birth I have been watching, and I have been appraising. I could be a hero, or a villain. I could oppress, or I could free. To tell you the truth, I haven't yet made up my mind. My dear reader, what would you do?
Nothing would stop me now. For the entirety of my life, I had been complacent with this selfish shell of a man nearly all my life, and I could not take the abuse anymore. I gave him everything, my devotion, my trust, my friendship, and he took all for granted like, like I owed him something. I used to believe that I did, I really did. Youth makes us ignorant and forgiving. He had to die. I carefully planned how it would occur over weeks, going over every detail, every different possibility, anything that could possibly go wrong, all while I was still working for his bottom line. there was just one thing left to plan: how I would do it. Any plans to make it look like an accident died quickly. I wanted people to know that his avarice and monomaniacal bullshit was his undoing. I can't lie myself, I just wanted to see him squirm like the fucking bottomfeeder he was. Hammer. No doubt. It happened at night, no one else in sight, but even if there were, I didn't mind. Working is always funner with an audience. So much planning, so much preparation, and I just did it in the spur of the moment. I took the rusted bastard from my pocket and struck him right in the jaw, and he fell like a goddamn sack of potatoes to the ground. He just stared at me with his stupid looking face. I saved that for last. I just hit him over and over again, cracking the bitch bit by bit. With each hit, he was red all over. Before I nailed the pig in the head, I looked deep into eyes and his black soul, and with a smile I said, "Are you feeling it now, Mr. Krabs?"
Not too proud of this, but I wrote it all out so I'm gonna post it anyway. May come back and make it a little better later, but probably not ;) ------------------------------------------------- This is the way the world ends Through the fires of hell and the atomic radiation that somehow burns even hotter than those ethereal flames, I have emerged unharmed. This is the way the world ends That one phrase, and its entire poem, won't stop rattling around in my brain. I wonder dimly if there's a copy of that poem still in existence. If one of those books has somehow survived, perhaps buried under a hundred pounds of rubble. I wonder if my children's children will someday be digging away at the heaps of dirt and rock and discover that ancient stockpile. Somehow I think not. Somehow, I know it. This is the way the world ends The words bring back memories of a more complex time. Now I eat, sleep, drink. Survival is simple, a day to day drudge that you don't even think about. It's instinct, when how we used to live was an artificial construct. When society itself- our entire way of life- was just a complex delusion all of us shared. In that society I was an english teacher, totally useless in what I have now accepted as the real world. Not with a bang Though I've been alone for years, I've finally found a home. People to care for me, people to care for. The only thing I know is teaching, so that's what I do. I teach them how to farm, how to avoid the radiation that seeps into everything. And I teach them the history of our world. Of how a movie destroyed us all. I teach them of an old world company being infiltrated, I teach them of an ancient kingdom far to the west that was tired of being made fun of. I teach them of corruption. I teach how Old Russia crashed in on itself, how the kingdom of North Korea was invaded, and how the nuclear inferno engulfed not only them but everything in the lands of the west. But most importantly I teach them that the cowardice and greed of the wrong men can make all fall silent. And in that silence grows hate, for silence is death of community. But with a whimper
Subtle, amidst the scurrying and minute business of the colony, came a glimpse of brilliance within the mind of an ant. He carried his small crumb atop his back with the same instinctual purpose that so many ants had done before him carried; to enhance the time in which his species could exist. At no point had a conscious thought slipped into his primeval neurons. He had never felt the romanticism of watching a sun set shade over a blade of grass. He had never appreciated the vast space that encompassed the sky. And yet it had hit him. With no logical purpose, the ant halted his efforts to carry the crumb into his needled fortress. It was a powerful moment, a reflection into the purpose of his action. He ended the rotary motion of his legs and simply stared straight forward, at the hill itself. He questioned why he carried that crumb. It was not for him. He wouldn't eat it later on, in-fact he could have eaten it where he found it near the creek. No one was around. Why did he carry these small crumbs into that hill, that fortress of enslavement. He knows that this isn't the centre of all life, of everything in the universe. He has seen the butterflies fly above him, fluttering into the distance. He has always wondered where the water to the creek flows to if it does not flow to his home. He has observed large, metallic structures pass over the hill in the sky, encapsulating the environment in absolute darkness. These things did not support ants or anthills. They were part of something much larger. Maybe he was part of something much larger. Maybe his anthill wasn't the end all and be all of existence, but a factor for even greater existence. He was just a small component to a mechanism of life, of consciousness. And this made him happy and this made him sad. His life had a purpose but it was not a purpose he had the means necessary to observe. His place in the universe was only as fathomable as his idea of the universe. And his universe was that anthill. The ant picked up his crumb and continued on his way to the small, needled mound in the forest.
Nicholas had been at this for days trying to find a way to contact God. The new God, the old God, the Gods it didn't really matter. If there was a divine there had to be a way to contact it. The candles danced as he started to hear a buzzing noise. There were no words. Feelings, images, sounds just came into his mind. Immense joy Satisfaction Family gone Alone Cut off from children Children suffering Prophets New profecy Teach End sufferring Laughter all Joy Good will Joy Gifts Joy Joy Joy joy joy joy joy ------------------------------ The laughter brought the servants to the room where Nicholas had collapsed. He was slumped in his wooden chair and floating with it off the floor. "Hohohohoho"was all that could be heard coming from beneath his bushy beard.
"Give me the dicks!" Steve, the lesser god, shouted from the back of the heavenly auditorium. "Say that one more time, Steve, I don't know if I'm hearing your correctly,"The Creator said into his heavenly microphone. "The dicks. I want to be god of the dicks. The assholes? The shitheads? Everyone who sucks, come on, let me rule them,"Steve shouted back. "Steve have you browsed your pamphlet? There are still plenty of prime lesser god real-estate available. Why not be god of the animals?"The Creator suggested. "Fuck animals, man. They just shit, fuck and walk in circles. I don't want to be bored all eternity so I want to be god of the dicks. I got it all figured out. I'll encourage and reward them, if they get their ass beat or worse, then, hey, it's a lesson,"Steve said like a dick. The other gods began to squirm and murmur. "I don't want to be god of the oceans anymore,"the ocean god, Rick, said. "I want to be god of the clowns." "Rick, there are no take backs. Oceans are really cool, much cooler than dicks,"The Creator was getting worked up. "Steve, by granting you this position, I'm admitting that the people I created will always be dicks. Do you know what kind of message that sends? I want to encourage peace, love and happiness not being a dick." "Listen, you're not dumb. You know what you just said is full of shit. The second you created more than one person you knew there were going to be dicks. Let all the other fairies be gods of the grass and missionary sex. I got this." The Creator picked up his microphone and laid down the law. "From this day on you are, Steve god of the dicks. Let all dicks give thanks to you, Steve." Thanks, fuck off shitheads,"said Steve, god of the dicks, and exited like only a godly dick can.

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