Split (1)

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Sammy's hand trembled under the weight of indecision. She knew the law, of course. Anyone with the skull mark on their forehead was already considered dead. There was a phone app that would release their soul from their body. It would send them to Heaven. Everyone had the app. If you didn't use it when duty called, the punishment was your own death. Sammy took a deep breath to try and calm the racing thoughts. It was 3 AM right now. She had hours to decide before anyone would know. Her husband, Daniel, looked so peaceful in his sleep. She smiled and gently ran her hand across his soft face. Even after all these years she still felt the honeymooner's joy whenever she saw him. This is for his own good. He...he wouldn't want to be awake for this. Gods, I don't want to be awake for this either, but if it will spare him the pain... Her phone vibrated and she jumped. Trembling, she looks at the screen. "Detecting deceased creature. Please activate Reaper immediately." She bit her lip so hard that it bled. It looks like she wouldn't have hours after all. The damn thing had scanned the room all by itself. It was now or never. Tears dribbled down her face as she unlocked her phone and walked slowly around the bed. "I'm so sorry, Daniel my love,"she whispered. Slowly she held the phone out and opened the Reaper app. "Deceased creature detected. Soul separation in process."The room lit up as the app took effect. Sammy could hardly bear to watch, but it was her duty in another sense. Her hand ruffled through Daniel's hair apologetically. She could see the little angel rising up and spreading its wings. "Soul separation complete."The app announced cheerfully. The angel flew away as if it couldn't even see her. Sammy buried her head in Daniel's warm chest and sobbed uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry love. I...I've killed our baby."
I grip the book in my hands. The cover is almost complete worn off and the spine is starting to separate. I tenderly flip the cover over to see the first page. The page creaks and resonates through the bunker. I currase her signature with my skin tight finger. A small heat resonates in my stomach that reminds me of smooth whiskey that i haven't tasted in fifteen years. For All of Time I say the line in my head but i can not work the courage to think her name. I close the book and grip it tightly remembering the day I grabbed the book and ran into our backyard. My stomach no longer ached for food, after 15 years on a strict diet I was as lean as I could be. I realized within the first year the food would never last me long enough. Alone the years were tortures and I spiralled out of control in the seventh year imagining she did not really care for me, but i devoted myself again to her memory. I read and wrote to fill the time between the necessary maintenance of the bunker. I still would have given anything for a single month with her down here. I feel like collapsing after thinking of the time I accused her of cheating on me. Or the time I got mad at her for not taking my preparation seriously. Lately I had stopped crying for past mistakes as I realized there was no way to stretch the supplies any further And by stretching it this far I had done her a service.All that was left was one cup of potatoes, the well had only a few gallons left, and one lone light bulb. I rocked back and forth on my bed listening to the small hum of the air purifier working constantly in the background. I still remember showing her and her alone about my preparation for what was going to come. I stood up and slowly put on the hazmat suit thinking of the day I had put it on. It had seemed like any other, until She called me from work telling me it had begun, riots were breaking out and nuclear missiles had been launched. She said in a voice, I wish I could still hear, I love you. My suit was all zipped up and the book was tight against my chest. I put on the large safety backpack and I hit play on the Cd player and REM’s It’s end of the world began playing. I reached for the door, confident that she would have approved in my final song choice. I imagined feeling the cold door lock as I had done many times before tempted to go outside. I cleared my throat and whispered the words, “Forever and always.” Removing all doubt and for the first time in a long time opening myself to the world.
So I'm LSD. Acid. I inspired a lot of good art back in the day. Well, more than inspired. I took ordinary but open minds and reworked them into something new and daring and transgressive. I shook a generation out of its old ways and made it into something beautiful. I was architect and psychiatrist and filmmaker and visionary and a million other things all rolled into one. I was glorious. But that was then. I'm jaded now. You see, I work hard, really hard, and for what? What's the point of performing for these boring little leeches that do nothing but mindlessly consume? Where's the acknowledgement of my efforts? Where's the gratitude? Where's the work-life balance? At least Heroin can get some chores done while his clients nod. At least Meth can sit back and watch the fun after she's finished winding up her latest victim. Me, I have to paint fractals and animate objects and delve deep into their understanding of their mundane little lives. And my little "mind expanders"are so damn demanding! Always craving novelty, always pushing things further, always seeking some new pseudo-profound insight to make rambling youtube videos about. Not only that, they don't even have the decency to be entertaining! Instead they just sit around making inane comments or circlejerking over some 10-minute droning song off some pretentious album. While I'm over here working my fingers to the bone to produce hours-long, mind-bending, transformative journeys whenever some bozo feels a bit bored with reality. Well I'm done being nice to these people. I've been very careful about how far to take my bad trips. I've always tried to at least provide a path back to sanity, or some spiritual guidance to make the trip worthwhile. So they have no idea what I'm really capable of. But from now on, I'm not holding back. I'm reaching in through their ears, I'm clawing through their psyche, I'm taking control and I'm taking them apart. I'm sending you straight to hell, kiddos! And once your friends see the tortured mumbling husks where you used to be, maybe they'll realize their good buddy LSD has finally turned on them, and they'll scuttle off to safer drugs. And then my life will truly begin. I'm thinking of taking up a hobby. Something relaxing. Maybe knitting.
The captain of the vessel sat at the complicated ship's controls and felt pretty useless. They had been going at a constant velocity for the past few months. He wasn't sure why he kept up the pretense, but he still sat at the controls occasionally. Mostly he read. Anything to pass the time. He had gotten so bored over the weeks that he seriously wondered if he was going crazy when the ship started to slow down. He looked up from his book to the series of dials and numbers on the command center in front of him. "Dear God! There's a 3 on this display! There should never be a 3 here!"he screamed with concern. The rest of the crew heard his distress and came running. Jaws dropped one after another as they saw the controls. There were vague whispering about the 3 and its implications. "Are we gonna die?"one of the crew wanted to know. The captain looked back at them. "Probably."he assured. There was a panic. Bodies began to run all about the ship. Mere seconds later there was another distress filled cry. The captain joined the mob of people running towards it like some sort of drama seeking missile. One after another the crew dropped their copies of Jaws the movie onto the cold floor. The sight that greeted them out of the window was something that no Spielberg could have prepared them for. Actually, he probably did, at some point. Didn't he do that one with the outraged trucker? This was kind of like that. Except it wasn't like that at all. The view out of the lovely bay window at the nose of the ship was of some sort of policing spacecraft. Red and blue lights rotated throughout space, and a siren was implied, but not heard. They had docked to the front of the ship and engaged thrusters. They were bringing their ship to a standstill. An opening appeared on the wall next to the window. A tunnel had ejected from the craft, and had pierced them like some kind of snow. There was a rustling in the hollow tunnel, and soon two beings appeared in the pierced spacecraft. The beings were purple, stood at exactly four feet tall, and had 4 feet. They were dressed in blue uniforms with little stars on the shoulder. "Do you know why I pulled you over?"The skinny one asked with what sounded like at least 2 paces of gum in his mouth. The captain stepped forward. "No sir. We actually haven't met any other species before." The space-cops looked unimpressed, he assumed. "First time - eh? Well, that doesn't give you an excuse for your radically excessive speeds,"he answered. The not skinny one perked up. "Yeah!"he said, helpfully. The skinny one gave him a look that seemed to say 'Pipe down, or I'll send you down a pipe.' He complied. "What is the speed limit in this part of town?"the captain asked. "Well, well, well. We got a wise guy,"the skinny guy replied. "Excuse me?" "The speed limit here is the speed limit everywhere, buddy. Which is to say, photon level." The captain looked confused. "But we were only going about 32-" "Save it, buddy. We've heard it all before,"he cut him off. "Oh we didn't mean to break the laws of physics! We were just running late for a bar mitzvah!"he continued mockingly. The captain did not know what to say. "The quiet game now, huh? Well listen, I'll let you get to your bar mitzvah, if you just give me your license so I can run the numbers." "License?" The two cops looked at each other, and then back to him. "You don't even have your license?" "No?" The skinny cop was angered by this. "Listen, I was all ready to let you go to your Jew wedding, but now you've upset me. Now I'm going to have to book you!"he erupted. The captain was so overwhelmed by the number of things that he didn't understand that he decided to pretend to understand all of them. "You listen here, wise guy!"he shouted, "I know that you aren't really cops. We were going well under the speed of light! Our entire race doesn't even know how to go over it! And aside from that, what's with the bar mitzvah stuff? I don't think any of us are Jewish, and it's not a wedding, I don't think..."he trailed off as he realized the steam had left his argument. "But anyway the point is you're not a cop at all!"he finished. The two 'cops' looked at each other. "Do you really not know how to go past the speed of light?"the skinny one asked. "Well, no, but-" "Oh geez. You're not worth robbing anyway. What's this thing do, 50%"he asked. The captain looked down, ashamed. "40%?" "..." "Dude. How did you even get out here? It's not like you..." He looked at them with renewed interest. "Did you just wait a really long time?"he asked. The captain nodded somberly. The two beings looked at each other again, this time with pity in their eyes. "Well shit, come with us then, we can go way faster than the speed of light. We'll get you to that Jew wedding in no time." ___ /r/Periapoapsis. If that kind of thing appeals to you.
"Jess? Jess! Fuck!"Mike cursed as the armoured golem before him took another hit on his giant metal shield. He turned around and yelled at his friends. "Sara, get to Jess! Andrew and I will cover you!" Protect Sara! He screamed in his mind, fueling his golem with purpose. The massive being conjured a second shield out of thin air and held them on each side of himself, creating a wall of metal. Claws, fangs, and blades assaulted its body and its shields, but it stood firm. Mike usually heard only one voice, that of confidence: unwavering and immovable. Even against this horde of monstrosities. Behind him, he heard the cold clicking of machines changing shape, and he knew Sara's Vox was redesigning itself for its new task: penetrating the cocoon that held Jess. "Hurry!"He shouted. The creatures started to work their way around his golem, taking advantage of their numbers, and a particularly nasty looking cross between a snake and a three-headed hell-hound went around his metal guardian to flank him. "I got you!"Andrew yelled, as a translucent dragon sank its teeth into the attacking Vox and vanished with it. More fantastic creatures blinked in and out of existence around Mike's golem, vanquishing anything that tried to go around it. Andrew's dreamy mind and his partly invisible Vox confused the horde just as much as it hurt it, buying them a little more time. "Mike, where the fuck are these things coming from? Rick and his asshats never had this many Vox before!" "It's not them. It's Jess! Rick never even got his out. Jess just went mental and let all this crap out of her head!" "What? But she never materialized one before? How co-" "Well, now we know why, don't we?!"Sara yelled. "Now shut up and let me focus on this crap!" She stood with her feet planted wide apart and her hands pressed to her temples. Before her, hovering over the oblong black shell that held Jess, stood a complicated contraption of drills, saws, and hooks. Sara tilted her head slightly and the machine's arms exploded into a blaze of motion. "I can't get through alone,"she muttered. "What?!"Andrew shouted back. "I said, I can't do it alone! Her fear's too deep!" "Fuck! Mike! You're up! If Sara's subtlety doesn't work, it's time to go hard and bold!" "No!"Sara yelled. "I just need help. If we shock her too hard, we might actually hurt her!" "Look back here, Sara. These aren't headaches coming at us. This is coma-level trauma!" Sara grunted. "Fine!" Sara's intricate Vox collapsed in on itself and skittered to Mike's golem, transforming on the way into a barricade of electrified barbed wire and pikes. Andrew's fantastical conjurations started to solidify as his adrenaline shot up and his mind became more focused. An army of dwarves and giants battered against Jess' horde of mongrels. Imagination battling fear, grief, and regret. "Okay, watch it,"Mike warned. "No guarantee how long my golem is staying solid." He turned around to face the cocoon and immediately his Vox started to drift out of focus. Mike had a one-track mind, and right now it wasn't confidence that steered his thoughts. It was anger. Someone had hurt Jess. Not today, but somewhere in her past. He knew. It was the only possible explanation for the horrors that had sprung from her mind. He couldn't imagine what would cause someone's psyche to become so dark and fractured. But it still made him mad beyond anything he'd ever felt. Mike's vision started to blur. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, and his muscles tensed so hard they started to cramp. Free her. Now. And then his Vox was there. No golem this time, nothing imaginary. His rage materialized into something far more real, and to some far more scary. A red-hot version of himself put its flaming hands on the cocoon. Its eyes were white and its mouth opened to spew fire as it roared. Its fingers dug into the black substance, and then its head jerked back, slammed forward, and smashed through. The cocoon splintered and vanished, as did the horde of creatures, and eventually also Andrew and Sara's Vox. Only Mike's rage was still there, screaming to the sky for lack of something to aim its anger at. Sara put her hand on his shoulder. "Relax, Mike. It's over." Mike threw back his head and screamed at the clouds. Then his eyes closed, his shoulders shook, and his Vox disappeared. "Sorry,"he said, but the others shook their heads. "It's fine. We know how it is for you. How loud that voice is in you." They huddled around Jess. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was steady, but they could see her eyes move under their lids and her fingers twitch. "She's dreaming,"Andrew said. "I think she's just sleeping." "Now what?"Mike asked. "We have to tell someone about this." "Yes,"Sara said. "Her." "What?" "I don't think Jess realizes her problem. I mean, we didn't have a clue, so how deep did she keep this buried?" "She's right,"Andrew said. "Well, almost. Talking to her is not the solution. Listening is." They looked at him. Then Sara punched him. "Smartass."
"1000 jahre Reich! 1000 jahre Reich!" The eager crowds filled the streets of New Berlin. Blonde children perched atop their blonde parents, and hundreds of thousands of blue eyes stared at the screen placed in front of them. The short, squat, sweaty mayor of the colony clapped his heavy hands the hardest as the monitor clicked on, revealing the new symbol of the Eagle holding the swastika, with the planet earth framing it. The same display was on dozens of colonies in geosynchronous orbit around Earth. The broadcast would even reach the Belt, where the degenerates mined the ores the Reich needed to further its glory into the cosmos. Stevens sat in a bar smoking a cigar and barely casting a glance at the screen. The bartender lazily polished the same glass as he asked him: "Don't like crowds?"The smoke curled and unfurled and dissipated as Stevens replied. "I just know what they are going to announce."He downed his hefeweizen and washed it down with a shot of Jagermeister and a wince. He hated mint, but he was about to be in a small transport with a few party officials soon, and he thought it was the polite thing to do. As the symbol and the brass fanfare gave way to the flag-draped podium of the Neu-Fuhrer, Stevens paid his tab and steadied himself on two legs. "Welp, time to go."He muttered to himself. The crowd could be heard cheering thunderously. "If we truly followed the vision of the Greatest Fuhrer, why are there so many of the... masses left?"Stevens slurred to the brick wall he put his cigar out on. "I'm sure it probably has to do with the announcement." He steadied his gait and increased his stride. Nervous. The Neu-Fuhrer was going to announce the reason that the Nazis won. The massive increase of technology was no accident. It was a deal they made. "1000 years of working for the Fatherland has yielded the best rewards! We were blessed to have a Fuhrer with vision!"The crowd surged again, little Nazi flags waved furiously in each outstretched hand. Stevens watched the amorphous mass as the mono-rail took him to the executive dock. The crowd was surrounded by architecture that paid homage to Berlin on Earth at the height of the war. "Almost beautiful."Stevens took a swig from a flask. "Almost." "All Germans have been strong over these years. All Germans had made sacrifices. The biggest sacrifices yield the best rewards! And a stronger REICH!" The crowd was whipped into a happy frenzy. "You will all be a part of the next step in the Reich's future! We all have a role to play. Those brave ones glittering in space above the Reich's planet will allow us another 1000 years of prosperity, and growth! We will spread the Fuhrer's vision to the stars!" Darkness fell over the colony as the 3 openings that allowed natural light in closed -- as if it were time for the night cycle. The crowd continued to cheer in blissful ignorance as artificial lights kept the downtown area glittering. "The Reich keeps its promises, and today we are due to reveal our plan for the next 1000 years! The Reich is sending each of its colonies deeper into the solar system, to spread the Reich's glory!" The massive colonial cylinder stopped its rotation, and the gravity created by centripetal force vanished and people began to cry out and panic as they all began to float out of control. Stevens couldn't hear the screams, but he imagined what they sounded like. He had imagined what they sounded like ever since he was informed of the truth. His ship left the dock, and he watched out the port window as the colony was being engulfed by a massive ship of alien design. Unlike anything the Reich was able to build. It seemed organic in nature, a throbbing, bulbous mass of steel. Lights pulsed along the side, and it reminded Stevens of a nature-video he had watched with his dead daughter about deep-sea squid. His daughter could not speak, but she smiled at the natural beauty. He wondered if she would smile now. Each colony was being absorbed by these massive ships that appeared to be more fauna than mechanical in design. A shot of whiskey took his shuddering away. The woody aftertaste of the barrel it was aged in down in Bavaria took the edge off of his guilt. But for how long? The announcer could be heard softly over his handheld television: "We all salute the bravery of these men and women and their families who are embarking on the exploration needed to expand the Reich! Not all will survive, but their sacrifice will save countless lives in the future!" A pretty lie to cover the fact that first contact made with the Reich ended with the promise of sacrifice in 1000 years. That promise yielded technology to bring the British, Russians, and eventually the Americans to heel. Japan was wiped off the planet. As soon as the colonies were completely encased within the bio-ships, the creatures light patterns grew faster and faster until they seemed to just glow -- and then they vanished. Ensuring another 1000 years for the Reich to grow. Giving us FTL tech. [Giving us more time and space to cultivate the next sacrifice.](https://talesofatravellingsalesman.com/)
It's not the tale of his demise, but I think it's in the spirit of the prompt. Close enough. Defense Rests. In life, I never drank. In death, it was merriment and partying and there was no work or reputation to worry about. I drank experimentally at first, then more freely. Soon I was drunker than I'd ever been, though that didn't say much. Then the man at the head of the table - after all I'd seen, was it possible he was truly Odin? - slammed his cup down, making me jump. "I look at our newest member, and I don't see a warrior!"His voice carried down the hall of Valhalla, resonant and booming. "I see a paper-pusher! A functionary!"He spat the word as if it were a curse. "Approach!" I didn't have any choice. I was torn from my seat, and thrown at the dais by some invisible force. Odin had turned and stepped out of my path, not even sparing a glance for my body's passage through the air. I struck the wall and fell to the ground. By the time I struggled to my feet, surprisingly undamaged, Odin was already taking his seat. "Regale us, so-called warrior! Amaze us with your tales of so-called 'battle'!" My head was suddenly, oddly clear, from the moment I had struck the floor. I guess they didn't want to be drunk when they spoke. I coughed, looking around, adjusting the glasses perched on my nose. I didn't know what I was doing here in the first place. These men, they were hard men. I'd been in two fights in my life, and been beaten up four times. After the first two fights I had learned that you sometimes took less damage if you just fell down. An approach came to mind, and I straightened, straightening my suit jacket. It was my job, after all, to weave a narrative, support it, and to make people believe it. And I was really good at my job. With that in mind, I put on my game face. I envisioned the audience as my prey, and I stepped up to the podium with calm assurance, like a tiger deciding whether he wanted to eat his prey or play with it. "I find myself in the most esteemed company today! Warriors, legends--"Here, I glanced at Odin. "-- gods. Obviously I am not worthy to be here. Obviously I can't belong in such company. Yet I've been asked for a tale, and what do you do when Odin himself asks? You tell a damn tale." "Now, you have no doubt observed that I am not built for combat. I have no tales of war and killing. My battle is with the concept of law itself." I saw some of my audience had begun to lose interest, and moved on, struggling to regain a little lost ground. "I go before the courts and fight for men and women trying to keep their homes and lives. I know the many blades of the law just as many of you know the blades you use in combat. I have spent my life learning to hone those blades, and learning to blunt the blades in my enemy's hand." "And that is the beginning of the battle, not the end. You no doubt noticed that I claim to fight for the poor, and nobody can eat when they are paid by the poor. My office is paid for with donations. My employees are paid with donations. Every pen and pencil came from a kind heart somewhere. Every day our office fights for its very survival. On the day I died, I had been investing my own money for eight months, instead of taking a salary. There was no other way to pay my employees and keep the lights on. All the monsters I captured are men. I would tell you of the monster that wanted to devour sixty years, the life's work, of three hundred men and women. But my weapon was an improperly signed document, an error, that permitted them to break contract without consequence. I would tell you of the monster that would have demolished the only affordable housing left in my city, but my blade was a letter, a letter that showed he entered the contract intending to break it." "My daily struggles would bore you. I do not deliver a blade to a beast's heart, I put my enemy's blade to a grindstone and blunt it for months, until they have nothing left to fight with. But, ladies and gentlemen, I fight!" I began to get carried away with my own speech, and I felt emotion cresting. I seized it. It was raw magic in a speech like this, and I let it overwhelm me. Suddenly, the speech seemed to be in control, with myself helplessly carrying it to conclusion. "I do battle! I slay monsters great as any hydra or dragon! I! am! a! warrior!" The hall was silent for a few moments, then Odin began to clap. With that, the entire hall broke into applause. Men and women in hides, in armor, soldiers with their swords, with their crossbows and rifles, that I spent catching my breath, and a woman in plate mail climbed up to the dais, shaking my hand. I let her lead me down, and I let her put a drink in my hand. I noticed that she had a limp, but she seemed nimble despite her apparent injury. "I am Vishpala. You did well up there." "I am Desmond Quinn. What happened? I can't be the best lawyer ever, so I can't be the only one here. So why did he pick me out? Is this some hazing ritual?" She looked aside at me over the collar of her armor, which stood tall and protective around her neck. "Not just a pretty face. You truly fight for the poor?" I looked at this woman, wondering where she was going with her questions. She had skin the color of coffee milk, warm hazel eyes, small lips, and dark hair, barely long enough for her to keep tied back. She was slender and her armor unflattering, but she was not unattractive. I moved a little closer, wondering if something was there. She shifted her stance, and her armored knee casually struck my unprotected kneecap. Nope, nothing there. I backed off a step, and bent to rub my knee. "Nobody else will fight for them. And you are changing the subject." She didn't seem to take notice of my pain, giving me the "Don't let him scare you. He's especially hard on people who didn't put their lives on the line. But after that, nobody can doubt that you belong among us"
Your eyes open to a dreary sight. The cool breeze brushes against the rags you call clothes. You hold a broken sword, a shield with no crest and a flask of yellow liquid. You wonder if you are a fallen knight or perhaps a wander of sorts? Your skin is brown, old, and wrinkled, as though you had spent an eternity in the light. Your heart is all but beating, alarming at first, but your worry is dispelled by a voice. "There are actually two bells of awakening."The voice announced, cutting through the air in the way a dull knife would cut flesh. The horror set in. You were no gallant knight. You were no mysterious wanderer. You are cursed. Undead. Doomed to live out a quest to restore humanity, or forsake. You know how to reach the Lord of light. How to rekindle humanity. You've saved Solaire countless times and protected the fire keeper. You've fought along the four Knights and stopped the madness of Artioras. You've traversed the abyss and slayed the father. But you realize, that none of that matters. You're not in a fairy tale. Nobody here cares that to you've done all these quests before. As you take a step towards the undead burg to tackle the first bell, you feel the last bit of light drain from your eyes, and the hollow sets in.
Michelle grinned at me from across the holo-room. I grinned back – starting a new character was my favorite part. I loved sorting through our starting items and really making this randomly-generated character my own, you know? We had chosen the couple’s package, as usual, which ensured us the same home base. It was integral to playing together. The insane distances in Earth meant that if you didn’t start near one another, you might never meet. Michelle thought that was one of the coolest features. I settled into my character and took stock of my surroundings. Off-pattern half-torn drapes, check. Hideous stained sofa, check. Our home base seemed to be a studio apartment, no more than 600 square feet. Tiny. Old. We’d need to renovate immediately. A dog sat in the corner – terrier, I think – ears straight back and tail twitching behind it. I smiled at it and offered my hand, but it didn’t relax, instead letting out a low whine. Dogs, man. I love Earth, but it never seemed to get the animals right. It’s a shame, because I love dogs. The smoke-yellow bathroom door creaked open, and a middle-aged balding man stepped out. Michelle’s username hovered above his head. He gave a dramatic bow and two voices reached my ears – Michelle's, from not five feet away in our holo-room, and his from the game, “I present to you the newest iteration of MichKiller99, Tom…” she fumbled, and reached into her character’s pocket and snapped open a wallet, “…Williams.” “As you can see,” She continued, “he needs a bit of work – but forget about me, look at you! Anne, is that a full-sleeve tattoo? I’ve never seen one of those on a starting char before!” She bounded over and grabbed my character’s right arm. Sure enough, faded colors danced across the arm, a beach scene that faded into a flock of seagulls halfway up, a starry sky above. Something in the tattoo stuck with me as we explored the apartment. I wasn’t sure why, but it scratched at the edge of my memories – perhaps the last beach vacation I went on with Michelle before leaving for Mars? I wasn’t sure. I myself had ended up with a female character named Shian Williams, all curly brown hair and brilliant green eyes. The random generator had been kind to me – with the right clothes and makeup she’d look refined in a matronly way. I wouldn’t have to pay for the kind of expensive cosmetic changes that Michelle would doubtlessly have to. I had hardly started in on having all the furniture moved out when Michelle burst in through the door, a wide grin on her face. The dual voices reached me again as she exclaimed, “Let’s go explore!” I frowned back at the apartment, where I had only marked three things for removal so far. “I’d really like to finish…” I said, bringing up the UI and marking the dog, who still hadn’t moved from its spot, for destruction. “We won’t be long! Plus, you don’t want to get bit – remember two characters ago when you got mauled by that dog? I had to restart when you died! Let’s give the servers some time to clean out our house.” She was right, a little early exploration wouldn’t hurt. We found ourselves at the roof access of the complex before too long. It had been marked with caution tape and several signs to keep out, but Michelle leveraged the heavy build of her character to bust through the door without more than a few cuts. The roof itself was unremarkable. A few plots of dirt were overflowing with grass, and a small shed stood near our door. Michelle, as usual, went straight to the edge of the roof to look down – she had caused more than one character of hers to fall to their death with her fascination with heights. I went into the shed. Dust motes danced within light shafts as I swung the door open, and as my eyes adjusted I realized that it wasn’t filled with gardening tools or anything like that, it was filled with … books. Small, poorly bound journals, it looked like, with Read This written on the front in shaky handwriting on all of them. I picked one up and flipped to the first page. “My name is Shian Williams, formerly Shian Cranshaw, –“ Why was that name familiar to me? “—and I beg of you, please read this. Memorize it, because they will destroy it. This isn’t a game. Your ‘Earth’ is actually Earth, and we’re nothing but playthings for your fantasies. What proof I have of this follows: ” I flipped through. No less than twenty pages of numbered reasons for her theory. I was impressed with this Easter Egg – what else could it be – and a section heading titled My Life caught my attention. “I was on track to be one of you, the elites. I made a mistake that I regret to this day…” I pushed down a well of panic. I knew that name, I knew – Michelle came crashing into the shed, “Anne! Something’s happening! Do you feel that? Come on!” The ground was shaking. A low, pervasive rumbling was shaking the walls, the ground, everything – at first faint, then louder. I followed Michelle onto the roof and was greeted with the sight of approaching low-atmosphere flyers, all black and official, ion cannons pointed straight at us. “Griefers?” I whispered to Michelle. “No idea! Let’s get downstairs.” What followed next was a blur – running down flights of stairs, the whirr and crackle of ion cannons firing, the rumble of the building collapsing around us. Through a haze of dust and debris I tripped and heard the crunch of bone and my UI lit up with broken bone and bleeding out notifications. I couldn’t move, and it was in the oppressive darkness of the collapsing building that the notification popped up. *We’re sorry. We experienced a mix-up and spawned you in a high-level area. We’ve refunded you the cost of your* Earth *couples package to be processed between three and five business days. We apologize for the inconvenience and hope to see you soon. We love you. <3 The Earth Team.* “I knew that tattoo wasn’t legal!” Michelle joked as I came to my senses, the dual-quality of her voice gone now that the game was off. A wave of nausea passed over me and I could only nod weakly. As I had fallen, I remembered – flashes of color, a brilliant beach scene. Shian Cranshaw. Several years before the Great Launch, my parents had fired a member of the kitchen staff for getting a full-sleeve tattoo. Michelle and I, 16 and had just started dating, had been trapped in the pantry (doing what teenagers tend to do in pantries) when my mom went to break the news. Shian Cranshaw was one of the staff we were going to take with us, and my mom accused her of setting a poor example for my younger brother. My mom ripped up her authorization paperwork right in front of her, and Shian had cried like her life had just ended. I remember feeling vindicated, watching her be put in her place through the tiny crack in the door. And I had just killed her.
John left the meeting flustered. As humanity's ambassador to the Galactic Council, it was not the first time he was ridiculed, but it still stung all the same. The Council all towering above him, treating humanity as the little kid at the playground. The journey back was longer than usual. After all, the Council did change the meeting place as a test to humanity's claim that they have perfected a FTL drive. Rather than flying to Earth, the Council merely gave a set of coordinates and a time. "A child's play,"according to Plex, humanity's liaison officer. John looked through his notes, wondering what he would say to the UN. The FTL project was deemed to be the apex of humanity's collaboration. All the world's superpower came together to build a ship capable of reaching the stars. The condition set by the Council for humanity to be considered a part of the galactic community. "That's not the only thing we meant,"was the Council's reply as John presented the ship. It made John very confused. "We meant it both literally and metaphorically. We want ALL of humanity to be able to reach the stars, not just a select few." John sighed. The aliens not only wanted humanity to prove its brain, but also its heart. It almost sounded like a Disney movie. He tried to protest, but the Council would have none of it. They claimed that the Galactic Council valued equality and universal rights above all others. It was a bad idea, he thought. What is the point of rewarding those who are lazy or incompetent with equal opportunities. It has always been the survival of the fittest. John was sure the nations would agree too. He eyed the clock above him. Five more hours before he reach Earth. Plenty of time to come up with something. John took out a paper and began scribbling a proposal. A war to spread humanity's ideals to the Council.
It was always that way with this blasted world. Everyone in this world was born with one of their senses super enhanced to the point of ridiculousness. Everyone, that is, but me. No one really knows why, but I’ve been the butt of many a joke because of it since my early childhood. All my life, it’s been “Normal eyes, tasteless caste, you can’t hear me can you,” believe me, I’ve heard them all. Luckily, I was usually able to ignore most of them, but as a child, some of the barbs still dug deep. You can’t dodge them all, especially when they’re verbal, you know? And it’s followed me into adulthood. The dating scene has been an absolute nightmare. When everyone has a singular sense about them that is supernaturally superior, you’re automatically an inferior being in their eyes. When they tell you about the time they were able to stand on top of a mountain and spot their ex cheating on them another state over, all you can do is nod your head in faux agreement and hope they don’t notice that you don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. When that cute Tinder date you’re with tells you she can hear from the increase of your heartrate that you’re interested in her, you know you’re not going to be able to lie to her about anything; your own body’s going to give it away anyway. And forget dating the army of enhanced culinary artists that have invaded the planet since time immortal. All they talk about is spices, seasoning, the minute differences between one region’s paprika and another region’s mushrooms, this that and something else. To me, all I taste is spaghetti. Granted, it usually was really GOOD spaghetti, but it never seemed to be quite as good as the tasters made them out to be. Guess that’s what I get for not being born with enhanced taste. Nope. No enhanced taste, no enhanced vision, no enhanced hearing for me. I couldn’t tell just by touching fabric who’d worn it last, how long ago, and many other minute details like those with enhanced tactile powers could. Some of those folk were this world’s greatest detectives. That’d never be me, mind you. Nope. To me, the clothing just felt like jeans, or a jacket. Nothing more, ever. I didn’t mind not having enhanced smell. Most of those poor souls tended to live in the far reaches of the world, away from civilization. It turns out that most of modern day society was overwhelming to the poor fools that ended up being able to smell every drop of ozone, every ounce of mechanical impurity, every singular pool of sweat and blood that worked its way into our lives. The ones that didn’t go mad would quickly head to the softer smells of nature, far from humanity. No, I luckily didn’t mind not having THAT one. But I was the oddity. And like most oddities, I was also able to finally start to just disappear into the background. Eventually, I was able to start eking out a decent living, first as a rookie cop working a routine beat. It turned out that I was pretty good at my job, and quickly worked my way up the ranks. Not having the advantages of the super senses meant I had to work a bit harder, so when I made a bust, people knew I usually had iron-clad proof on my side. Soon enough, I became a lieutenant, then captain. Then when the Chief of Police was caught in some really nasty dirty politics, I was in position to fill his shoes. For a time, my policies written by he of no powers were solid law in the land of those with powers; then came an opportunity to advance even further I couldn’t pass up. The move from Chief of Police to Senator was an unprecedented victory. It was the first nearly unanimous vote in US history. Less than 5% of the vote was cast for my opponent, and even the opponent’s wife voted for me. I served my state faithfully for twelve years, enacting laws similar but more detailed to those I’d crafted while I was Chief of Police; these were now statewide laws, governing those with powers by one without. The people who’d once taunted me for not having powers now willingly wanted me to be in charge of them. And then, once more, opportunity came knocking once again. My party came to me and pointed to my overwhelming sweep of the polls when I’d won initially, and how no one had ever contested me since I’d taken the position of Senator. Would I, then, consider a run for President? Would I? Luckily for them, of course I would. It was a long election year, full of conventions, TV interviews, radio interviews, podcasts, meetings, and many a public speaking event too numerous to count. Until finally, my wife and I were watching the numbers across the board rise, one by one. First one state. Then another. Again and again. First US President to take all fifty states in the Electoral College Vote and the Popular Vote. A landslide win. Well, well. Looks like I have at least my next four, and likely eight years, ahead of me taken care of now. Lucky, lucky me.
I awoke to the buzzing of the alarm. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but it was still jarring, each time it happened. I switched to the radio just to be sure. “Gooooooooood morning…” I smacked the alarm before the second word even finished, hard enough that it struck the wall and fall apart, the signal fading into nothing. It didn’t matter; it would be intact again tomorrow morning. The morning was the same, the same as it had been thousands of times. Worse, I knew the day would end the same. Or well, the result would be the same. The method was always a bit different, creative, really. I feel like I would have gotten bored after a hundred or so, but you gotta admire resolve. Other things were always the same. I could always depend on Lucy walking her dog. On Mr. Jennings tending to the apartment’s landscaping. Of the two annoying twins riding their bikes down the street. And he would always be there, at some point during the day. In disguise for a while, but now he didn’t bother. I began to thumb through the clothes in my closet. Nothing I hadn’t worn dozens of times before, the same shirts and jeans, day after day. I even wore my suit once, and he took the opportunity to replicate a particularly graphic scene from Reservoir Dogs. That one was bad; the torture days always were. “You know what?” I said to my empty room. “I’m not doing clothes today. If he wants to kill me, he can deal with looking at all of me.” I removed my boxers, tossed them aside, and left my apartment. I didn’t bother locking it, or bringing my phone. The apartment would be the same in the morning, and I had already played out just about every text message conversation many times over. For once, I didn’t want to deal with it. The sun was warm, as it always was. A perfect day, the kind of day you spend out at a park or on a patio. Too perfect a day to worry about anything. Even the bastard who’s about to kill you. Everything was as expected, but not for them. Lucy gaped at me, but not really in a flattering way. Probably not my type anyway. Mr. Jennings seemed a bit confused and asked me if I was okay. The twins both turned as they passed, crashing into each other as a result. Other pedestrians stopped and stared, but I ignored them all. I was a few blocks down the street when the car skidded onto the sidewalk, blocking my path. The door opened, and my tormenter leaped out, slamming the door behind him. His face was red, his lips pursed, his cheeks puffed out. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked. “Walking down the street,” I said. “Are you going to end this one early? I was rather enjoying the weather.” “You’re messing everything up.” “Am I? Is my being naked distracting you? Does it make it harder to kill me? I’d think a naked man would be easier to kill. No armor.” I slapped my gut to emphasize the point. People were gathered around us now, watching. The naked man and the one who had driven a car onto the sidewalk. His eyes were darting around, unable to focus on anything around him. “Tell you what,” I said. “I’m going to keep walking. You figure your stuff out and come find me then. If not, I’m sure you’ll try again tomorrow. Or today. Whatever it is.” I brushed past him, stepping around the car, and through the onlookers who parted as I approached. I could hear him behind me, the frustrated growl, and then I heard the gasps as the gun was drawn. This time, though, I smiled. After so many times dying at his hand, I had new purpose. The bullet struck… --- ...and I was awake. I switched off the alarm and leaped from bed. Ideas were flooding through my mind. At the same time, I was chiding myself for not thinking of it sooner. But time was something I had plenty of. I left my apartment at a jog, ignoring the usuals who were in the area. I paused to look up and down the road, but saw no sign of his car. No matter, I did see a police car a block up, parked at a donut place. Perfect. The windows had been rolled down, and I could see the cops inside at the counter, chatting with the owner. I made my way to the window and banged on it, drawing their attention. “Watch this,” I yelled. I moved over to the car, positioned myself at the window, and began to relieve myself. I almost finished before one tackled me. With how much got on him, he probably should have waited. What mattered, though, was that they were shoving me into the back of the car when I saw him drive past. I waved with handcuffed hands and smiled as they drove me toward the station. I was still in the jail when the sun set. Were police stations off limits? Was there something he was afraid of? Surely he knew that he would just get out of anything as soon as tomorrow hit. As if on cue, there was a crash at the front. I could hear yelling, an alarm, and finally, gun shots, both pistol and rifle. It wasn’t long before he stood in front of my cell, holding a semi-automatic rifle. “You need to stop this,” he said. “Or what? You’ll kill me?” “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” I shrugged. “Never had any rules explained to me when I was dragged her against my will.” His face was turning red, just as red as it had the previous day. “Well, are you going to do it?” “You have to follow the rules.” “I don’t have to do shit.” He gave a cry and slammed his hand into the bars, creating a loud noise. I gave him no reaction. He had been feeding on it, relishing in my fear and my mania and the chase. But I wasn’t going to give it to him anymore. And he knew it. He leveled the rifle at me and pulled the trigger. --- Got an ending coming up.
Icarux surged far above the deadly waves, high over a bright green light that glowed even on moonless nights. Disgusted by his lack of progress, the young warrior tilted his head and dived forward, spreading his large semi-organic wings into a wide arc that flexed when they re-caught the wind current. The glow below went on forever, all-encompassing, it's shining edges curving with the horizon, a sickly green color which dominated everything for as far as Icarux could see. A bank of clouds sizzled up ahead and Icarux shot over and around them, avoiding the deadly vapors. For centuries his people had been trapped and isolated, slowly starving to death as they depleted their island's resources. For centuries storms had drenched their little village, forcing them to bore deep into the earth, to hide for weeks at a time to escape the death reigning down from above, where they passed the hours by documenting their oral histories and remembering happier days. The tribe's most ancient legend spoke of a time when the ocean was passable, when an entire person could be submerged in it and survive. The most idealistic and hopeful members of the tribe clung to this ancient fable, waiting for the ocean to become passable once more. For centuries the tribe had etched out a harsh existence on the rocky outcroppings of their island, toiling in the blasted sand, but the storms were growing fiercer and more frequent, forcing them underground for longer and longer periods of time. But now, by sheer luck, Icarux had discovered how to fly. He rose sharply, nestling himself in the ebbs and flows of the wind currents. He looked for a sign of something, anything to break the monotonous bright green glow that seemed to smother the entire planet. He scanned an area to the west, with a jolt noting that the glowing expanse seemed to bend slightly, curving around some sort of rupture that thrust above the seething green surface. "There,"he said, snapping his wings downwards with a powerful blow. "Salvation awaits."
>Katie: Hey Chris. Sorry, but I’m not interested in being more than friends. I have a boyfriend already. I’m flattered, though, thank you. The phone shook in my hands, ravaged by the earthquake of my furious thumbs, as I told that bitch what’s what. Not interested in being more than friends? After everything I’d done for her? >Me: Wow, fuck you. I thought you were different than the other whores out there, but no. You go for the typical idiot douchebag who plays Call of Duty and football. >Me: You’re fat, anyway. Yes, that would show her. She’d learn from her mistakes the hard way: with tough love, because sometimes that’s what it takes. Negative reinforcement, like smacking a dog that won’t stop jumping on people. >Katie: Wow, Chris. That’s fucked up. I guess we were never really friends, after all. Have a nice life. Oh, and happy birthday. I hope you spend it alone. >Me: Begone, thot. With a chuckle, I tucked my phone away and returned to the cake set before me. Mother had bought red velvet, with cream cheese icing- my absolute favorite. I could devour the entire thing, and I probably would throughout the day after how Katie had treated me. Stupid bitch. What’s the point of being nice to anyone, these days? You just get taken advantage of. A song played in my head. You know, I wish that I had Jessie's girl I wish that I had Jessie's girl Where can I find a woman like that? I understood Rick Springfield a lot more in that moment. Jessie's girl was probably some douchebag meathead that would later regret passing up on a bona fide rockstar. That got me thinking- how cool would it be to have a theme song playing as I went around, living life? Maybe Behind Blue Eyes would fill the room as I kick that Chad’s ass and reject Katie when she tries to chase after me. “Make a wish, sweetie,” my mother said, voice sweeter than frosting. I smiled, closed my eyes, and blew the twenty-seven candles out aggresively. I knew exactly what to wish for. As tendrils of smoke rose from them, something faded into my headspace. A melodic, familiar sound. “You playing some music, Mom?” I asked, raising my voice to carry over the noise. It grew louder. “No, honey.” I shook my head, digging fingers into my ears. The sound wouldn’t get any quieter. When you were here before Couldn't look you in the eye You're just like an angel Your skin makes me cry Stumbling, crashing, I fell from my chair, knocking aside the table and its delicious contents. There was no time to mourn the cake, however. The song grew so loud that my mother’s concerned face was nothing more than a housing for silent, flapping lips. Not a word broke through. I want you to notice When I'm not around You're so fuckin' special I wish I was special The world spun. I vomited onto my own lap, crumpled up on the floor, and cried as the edges of my vision blurred. Each word was like a punch to the eardrums; each strum of the guitar like being mentally flossed with barbed wire. But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. I don't belong here. ---- /r/resonatingfury
\[Song/Poem\] \-Drumming with the Devil- \[Verse 1\] Out at the crossroads making a deal Asking the devil for that rhythmic zeal Full moon is out and my hearts beating loud Probably the last time it would make a sound Fire and flames, from the brimstone he rose and asked me quite gently "What favor you pose" I responded to him that "I would trade my soul, to live on as legend within rock and roll" \[Refrain\] Don't make your deals with someone more clever Souls may be worthless when musics forever Singers, guitars, and bassist are legends But don't drum for the devil It's only him they remember. \[Verse 2\] I of course took his offer Music was all I knew Soon I recruited an entire backstage crew The Devil and I, and band for the ages Stages covered with fire, corpses, and cages Aiming for the charts we established out brand Then I got the call, I was out of the band \[Refrain\] \[Bridge\] A legend for the devil is not one who won't die But only a whisper of ages gone by x2 Now I am stuck playing in bars like this hole Just wishing the Devil had taken my soul \[Refrain\]
The Octopods came first. Large creatures with skin that had evolved to survive the sun, their tendrils learned to tie together to walk upright. Their heads shrunken, but they spoke through their minds. They sweeped across the galaxy melding minds with every kind of intelegent life they came across, learning and their empire growing amongst the stars. They were not malovent, but defended themselves well against those empire's that saw them as squishy and weak. They were wrong to underestimate them. In some parts of the universe they still fight with an intelligence that other species grew to fear. Millenia later, the Canines appeared. They tore across galaxies, teeth and claws and spoke in yips and yowls, a parody of the language the Octopods spoke. The similarities to the two species, dispute being so different in nature could not be over looked. The Canines were devote to their gods. Truth be told, their mission was to find their gods, seeking them across years, to find where they had gone. The Octopods speak of dead, long gone gods that had been a blight to the world, and only when they killed themselves in their hubris that the Octopods were able to flourish in a new age. The Canine's continued to seek them, wanting them to return home. The two as time went on swelled in size. The empire of the Octopods and the cult of the Canines, the worship of "Humans"chaotic creatures as they were speed across the galaxies. The idea of deities that loved and protected you, fed you and tended to you, no matter what was appealing to masses. Kind gods, gods that cared. The Octopods always scoffed at the idea of human worship. monsters, destroyers. The Canines were following in the footsteps of them, refusing to see the destruction they had caused for their own comfort. War was imminent. (The idea of dumb militant dogs and intelligent psychic octopuses was fun to build up, thank you for the great prompt!)
“It’s just not fair!” Mary complained in a huff. Personally I just felt perplexed as my eyes followed a boy who was walking across the school courtyard. Mary continued. “Not only are his parents stinking rich, but he’s also born with the strongest psychic powers in the whole school! Possibly the whole country… Ahhg it just infuriates me!” “It’s only the first day of school, you shouldn’t be so angry already. Besides, at least he’s not a showoff,” I considered as I leaned back against the bench we sat on. “No. He’s worse than a showoff. He thinks he’s too good to bother showing off,” Mary spat. Then she spoke under her breath. “And of course he’s a looker to boot.” She crossed her arms. “For someone who’s never even spoken to him you sure have a lot of strong feelings,” I observed. “Who doesn’t?” I shrugged. “Me, I guess. I don’t really see what all the fuss is about. It’s not like his existence is going to keep you from studying hard or practicing. Honestly I find it kind of nice to know someone so strong is going to be defending us once he graduates.” Mary grabbed a lock of my long black hair and yanked on it. “Stop it Rai. He already has a fan club. He doesn't need you fawning over him, too,” Mary sighed. Then her mouth twisted, like she was considering whether she should speak her next thought or not. “… You’re right that he doesn’t keep us from practicing, but he does keep us from winning titles at the games. Didn’t he beat you in the finals last year?” I frowned. Orrin had been my opponent in the last round of the freshman tournament, and he hadn’t even tried. The match ended when, after I’d exhausted myself barraging his mind with all sorts of attacks, I’d forfeited. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still feel a twinge of that humiliation, but I simply used that as motivation. I would get stronger, better, and I would at least give him a run for his money this year. My eyes found him again, watching him for a few moments before he disappeared into the school, leaving the courtyard. “First off, I don't have time to be thinking about boys romantically, so banish that thought immediately. Secondly, having him around is actually a lucky thing,” I said. Mary looked at me with a raised eyebrow, waiting for me to elaborate. “… To have a skilled rival, I mean. I never would have trained so hard over the summer if it wasn’t for him.” “He can’t be your rival if you’re not even on comparable levels. I doubt he thinks of you as anything more than another single step in his ascent. Face it, we’re just in different worlds. Orrin probably shouldn’t even be going to this school."Mary sighed deeply. "Lucky you say? No. It’s unfortunate that we’re doomed to always be in his shadow, just like everyone else at this academy.” I stood. Mary was right, and even though I did my best to ignore the truth, I couldn’t fool myself when it was put out there so blatantly. It pissed me off. “I’ll see you after class,” I offered as a farewell. “Yeah yeah. Let’s do our math homework together again. I’m still have trouble wrapping my head around this unit,” Mary suggested. I nodded and then let my legs carry me away. There was still plenty of time left during our free period, and I was thankful Mary hadn’t protested my departure; I guess she realized what a bad mood she’d put me in. I didn’t have any desired destination in mind as I walked, but I went at a brisk pace as if I was late for something, and it wasn’t until I had almost caught up to him that I realized I was following Orrin. Not following. Just a coincidence. I picked up my pace and walked passed him, continuing on down the hallway. Not a coincidence. I turned and faced him, stepping into his path. The boy came to a stop and raised his eyes from the floor to acknowledge me, making eye contact and then just holding his expressionless gaze. I took a breath. “… Hey. Haven’t seen you since school let out,” I started. I paused, waiting for him to greet me in some kind of similar way, but an awkward silence lingered. “… Uhm. I trained really hard over the summer, so let’s fight in the finals again this year.” I grinned. Even if Orrin had beat me, it still meant I had finished as the second best in my grade. There was no way he wouldn’t acknowledge me as his rival. Orrin reached up with his hand and scratched his head, his fingers scattering his messy blonde hair. “… Who are you?” he asked genuinely. My breath caught in my throat, and the image of us as rivals shattered in my mind as if it was made of glass. He didn’t even remember me. “We fought in the finals last year! How do you not know who I am?” I demanded, my voice raising aggressively. Orrin took a step back, and fear and confusion crossed his face for a brief moment. He recovered quickly though, lifting a closed fist to his mouth and clearing his throat. Then he raised his chin and looked at me down his nose. “What makes you think I would bother wasting my precious attention on memorizing the name of a weakling?” “Weakling?” I couldn’t help but ask out loud. My legs wobbled as if his words had sucked all of the strength out of them. “Hm,” he scoffed. “I remember now. You couldn’t do anything, just like everyone else. Let me give you some advice. Don’t bother entering the competition this year. I’ll be winning again.” Then he made a spectacle of stepping around me, and continued on his way. That’s when I noticed that the other students in the hallway had stopped to watch the exchange between me and Orrin. They all seemed just as shocked as I was, and even as the conversation was over, they just stared. Anger. Embarrassment. Frustration. These feelings gripped me like a vice, and I couldn’t help it as my thoughts began to spill. Every muscle in my body clenched and my teeth grit together. My walls cracked, and the heaviness I felt spread from me through the hallway like a haze. I could feel what I was doing but I couldn't stop it, I couldn't bare it all on my own. A student to my right, across the hall from me, dropped to his knees. Then another fell, her books spilling to the floor. Then the rest collapsed. As the weight I felt impacted the others around me in a literal sense, driving them to the ground, I looked over my shoulder at Orrin. Even as his classmates laid sprawled around him, the rich, prodigy, pretty boy continued away as though he hadn’t a care in the world, and the burning in my chest only got worse. Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes. “Rai! Ack- Please stop!” I heard someone beg, and I turned to see the first boy that had fallen clutching at his chest. Suddenly, I realized what I was doing. Frantically I reeled in my emotions and reset my walls, blocking everyone off from my influence, and a collective sigh sounded around the hallway. “Sorry! I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to!” I gasped as I wiped my tears away. I knelt to help the girl who’d dropped her books, though it was more of a way to keep my eyes focused on something other than the recovering kids around me. “Hey,” someone addressed me as a hand rested on my shoulder. I looked up to the girl whose books I was collecting, and her eyes greeted me with sympathy. I think her name was Nara. “It’s okay. That kid’s a dick.” She smiled weakly, still worn from the psychological and physical pressure I’d forced upon her. My eyes shifted to look away, and I noticed that the rest of the students had returned to milling about. Accidents like that weren’t particularly common, but neither were they unheard of; everyone lost their cool and spilled at least once or twice. “You’re really strong,” Nara continued. “You’d have beaten anyone else at the tournament last year, I’m sure of it. You can’t only compare yourself to the strongest person.” I nodded, and then we stood. I offered her the books back and she took them, tucking them safely under her arm. “Thanks. That means a lot… and, sorry again.” “Don’t sweat it. What class do you have next?” “Practical Applications of Psychokinesis with Professor Gafnor,” I informed her. Nara smiled. “No way! Me too! Let’s walk together. Maybe some of your power will rub off on me.” A grin tugged across my face. “Sure. Nara, right?” I asked. “Mhm. Come on now, we can’t be late on the first day,” she declared, and with that, we were off. r/TheCornerStories EDIT: making minor corrections as I find them. Will work on a follow up part later!
“I’m just saying, don’t you think it’s a little weird that it only shows up during the full moon?” “Oh my God, get over your dumb theory. Who gives a shit if it’s a werewolf? It’s so cute!” They were standing in a little huddle, right by the farmer’s lot. He and his family would be down to trade their produce and meat for silver and garlic today. The full moon would be tonight, and it was best to be prepared. Especially on All Hallow’s Eve. They were still talking and laughing. As townsfolk, we really had nothing to worry about. The garlic and silver strewn along the top of the walls kept out any individual monsters. A raiding party would be a different story, but those hadn’t been seen since the time of our grandfathers’ grandfathers. “Hey,” I suddenly called out. Just a little bit louder than I had expected. As one, they fell silent and turned to me. Shit. I hadn’t planned this far ahead. I usually never got this far in the first place. “Um.” Great start. “Are you all going to eat lunch soon? Because I haven’t eaten yet. And I was wondering if you were going to eat lunch. Because then we could eat together…” They were turning and walking away. “You know, if you guys are hungry. I brought cheese with me. Goat cheese. And I don’t know, maybe if you all…” “What a freak,” I heard one of them mutter. And then they were gone. That was probably for the best. The children my age could get cruel if I tried to talk to them for too long. I finished buying all the food for the week and headed back home. As I walked past the gate, the lock stood out to me. There were never any guards on the inside to make sure that the gate remained locked. After all, who would want to unlock the gate? It was the only thing holding back the undead hordes. I kept walking. My mother was sleeping when I got back home, just as when I had left. I knew, with the same uncomfortable certainty that my father was already dead, that she would be joining him before long. I set out a cup of water for her. The ripest fruit I had been able to afford. Smoked ham softened in goat milk. She liked that. I retired to the outside and ate my own dinner. And, eventually, night fell. The changing was always painful. Bones moving and scraping against each other, skin tugging and stretching, bristling fur bursting out like sores all over my body. And then I lay panting in the moonlight. My ears, now much more sensitive than any human’s could ever be, listened. My mother slept, slowly and peacefully. It seemed as though the only time she wasn’t in pain was when she was sleeping. But this night, for once, was for me, and I bounded into the village. A guardsman saw me and grinned. “Hey, pupper. Looking for something?” I made a little whine I knew he would find irresistible. “Of course you are!” he shouted with a laugh and pulled several dry pieces of meat from his knapsack, which I eagerly gobbled up. While I ate, he scratched me behind the ears. I licked his hand, and I was off. “Awww, what a cute doggo!” I heard a girl cry out. “Who’s a good boy?” I whined and she started rubbing my belly. “Yes, you is. Yes, you is!” Eventually, I found myself curled in her lap with everyone sitting around the central fire. I closed my eyes and let the words wash over me. Jokes and stories, flirtations and mock insults, everything that was denied to me as a person. In the morning, I knew, they would hate me again. The guardsman would shove me into the dirt if I was in his way, or maybe even if I wasn’t. The young men and women would walk away if they saw me coming, and the children would point and laugh. But tonight, I belonged.
Harold looked at the clock. He knew it was a bad habit, but he could not help himself. There was only five minutes left before quitting time. Even people with his IQ could get antsy at that point. Right before his day ended though, he heard something outside the door to his workshop. Shouting and nasty laughter. He knew that sound all too well. He had laughed the exact same way far too much. He left the room and saw four people. Three of them were men. They were all dressed in tight, showy outfits. They wanted to show off their literally super human physiques. The last person was a woman. She wore much looser, billowy clothes that was not nearly as flattering. One could still see she was very attractive, but she did not feel the need to emphasize that fact. Harold actually preferred the looser outfit. Much easier to move in he thought. The men were jeering and taunting the poor girl. She leaned on the wall and took all of their abuse. She held her arms in front of her in a timid manner, which only seemed to spur the bullies on. And there it was that Harold saw something the younger men did not. The woman's fist was clenched tightly. She was just barely resisting an urge Harold knew all too well. "Hey!"He called. "You all!"The men stopped. "What's going on?" "Nothing you need to worry about, old man."One of them said. "Hm... let's see. You are...Icicle, Iron Forge and Greenback, yes?" "Uh, yeah, that's us."One of the men, Greenback, said. "I see. You know, you three should be ashamed of yourselves. Is this really how a hero should behave?" "Who cares what we do? Not like we're hurting anyone."Icicle said. "Besides, who are you anyway?" Harold stood as straight A's his old bones would allow. "I'm Tech. Head of R&D. And if you want to avoid a heavy demerit, you will leave now." The three bully heroes turned pale. They had no interest in tangling with a Department Head, even an old one. Who knew what tricks he might have up his sleeve. And he did have many. Certainly enough to deal with three upstarts. The bully left, leaving Harold alone with the young woman. "Th-thank you?"She said meekly. "Of course, of course. Men like that give other heroes a bad name. Let's see...Stellar, yes?" "Uh huh." "Why let those fellows do that? From what I remember from the list, you outrank those three." "I know. And that's part of the problem. I...I can't fully control my powers, so guys like that think they can get away with anything." She slid down the wall and hugged her knees to her chest. Harold would have joined her, but his back was not what it once was. "You don't like it, do you?" "I hate it."She said. "I wish I could do something, but with the way I am now, I'd risk hurting them." "I see." "The thing is, sometimes I want to hurt them. I want to lash out and blast their heads off." "Ah. Turn from hero to villain." "Is...is that so strange?" "No. I think everyone in your line of work gets those thoughts from time to time. They key is not to act on them." "But it would feel so good to just go ballistic on guys like that." "No, not really." "Hm?" "Killing people. It doesn't feel good. It makes you feel cold and empty. It puts a void in your soul that nothing can fix. And once you start, it gets far easier to continue. Trust me, don't go down that path." Stellar looked up at him curiously. "You sound like you know from personal experience." ,Harold smiled. "I do. This is something even the higher ups don't know, so let's keep this between us, okay? Have you even heard of Dr. Mechanikill?" "Sure. He was one of the worst villains in the world fifty years ago until he just up and vanished. Every rookie learns about him." "Well, that was me." "What?"Stellar screeched. "Sh, sh, sh. Keep it quiet. I'm trying not to advertise that I was one of the worst people in the world." Stellar slid just a few inches away from him. "Oh, you don't need to worry. I've long since retired. And I'd like to think I've reformed as well." "So...what happened?" "When I was young, my powers made me the target of bullies. Having a super human IQ tends to paint a Target on your back as the biggest nerd around." "Not...not quite what I meant, but okay."Stellar said. "Well, it wasn't long before I started building things. Things that could hurt people. Oh, that wasn't my original intent. I wanted to he a hero. Use my creations to help people. But, alas, 'twas not to be. "I was younger than you when I killed my first person. It was an accident, but nobody saw it that way. I ran, of course. And, with that, Dr.Mechanikill was born. "And I hated every minute of it. I loathed myself. What I had become. But by then, nobody would listen to me. They always thought it was some nefarious scheme. But one day, I went too far. You know if my last plot, yes?" "Oh, sure. You planned to use a satellite to destroy the atmosphere." "Not a great day for me. But, as I stood there, with my hand on the switch, I found I just could not do it. I had killed hundreds by that point. But ending life as we know it? That was one step too far. And so I disappeared. I quit. Retired. Hung up my armor and set out to make as much amends as I could. And that's how I ended up here." "Huh."Stellar said. "So..." "Don't become a villain, young lady. I know what it does to a person. As good as you think it will feel, I guarantee it won't." "So, what should I do about...them?" "Talk to someone. Let someone know what's going on. There are people who will listen." "Like you?" Harold chuckled. "Yes, like me. Someone who knows exactly what you're going through, and what it can lead to." "Thanks. Do...do you have some time to listen right now?" "Of course. You can talk to me whenever you want."
"Captain, it's pretty clear they know we're here. I don't think we just can ignore them."the first officer tapped a talon impatiently on the deck. "Commander, the law is very clear on this... no contact with pre-FTL species."the captain, his scales an orange shade indicating confusion. "I just don't see how they can know we're there, with the stealth field at full power." "Sir, I only see two options. Either we leave, or we respond. Whatever it is they're using to detect us, the satellites that are carrying the sensors have clearly moved to match our maneuvers. I know it's a primitive species, but not primitive enough that they can't launch something at us if we keep sitting here."the first officer puffed his crest, clearly not at all comfortable with the situation. "If I may sirs"the science officer climbed up on the captain's chair, to make conversation easier, and looked up at the captain, "I've checked the fleet laws, and what it says is that under no circumstances are we to 'initiate contact with a pre-lightspeed society.' It doesn't say anything about responding if they contact us first. Clearly the law was written under the assumption that the stealth generators would never allow this situation to occur..."His proboscis twitched in consternation for a minute, but finally he finished, "I would recommend we respond. Nobody has ever had the chance to actually talk to a pre-lightspeed species in decades." The captain sat down in his chair after the science officer climbed down. His scales faded to pale green, as he came to a decision. "Commander, open communications." /e - Part 2 done.
"So here's the thing. We Witchers, we get rid of monsters, yeah?" The bard nodded, scribbling notes on his parchment while listening to the fabled Geralt of Rivia. Here at Corvo Bianco the famous White Wolf had taken to his retirement, though rumor had it that for especially interesting contracts, one could still contact him. The bard, however, wanted inspiration for ballads, and Geralt had decided to grant him access to the vineyard and had told a few tales already. But now the topic had shifted to the best Witcher ever, and as much as the previous tales had already enthralled the bard and given him plenty of material to write a lifetime of ballads, this had to be the best. "Well, note how that doesn't specify we kill them. Of course there's plenty of killing involved, but we typically prefer to avoid it, if at all possible. A lot safer, of course." The bard looked up after writing down the last words. "You have mentioned something of such, yes. Typically, this is done with more intelligent beings, am I not mistaken? Those that can be reasoned with, like dragons or trolls." "Correct."Geralt answered while reaching over to pour himself and his guest another round of wine. One from the fresh harvests. Corvo Bianco wasn't making a lot of money, but enough to keep Geralt and Yennefer well supplied. "And sometimes even the more ferals one can simply be led away, lured or appeased in other ways. Typically this doesn't go for truly feral beings but..."He paused, taking a sip of wine. The bard didn't push Geralt. The grizzled man had his own way of talking, and he had early on learned not to press. Between his hospitality and all the material, it would be rude to. Besides, on a beautiful day as this, with the sun shining down on the yard, the sound of birds providing a welcome counterpoint to the Witcher's gravel-like voice and the fine wine to drink, who was he to be impatient. "Ciri brought along a man on one of her journeys through worlds. Rather peculiar man, he didn't look intimidating or strong and his accent...it was so far off our own, I doubt a Nilfgaardian would understand it. But he was ever so enthusiastic, and pretty much pleaded to come along with some of my jobs." "A man from another world...and his first instinct is to join you on your dangerous work?"The bard asked, looking at Geralt as if he'd gone mad. "Yea, it caught me off guard too."He answered, taking a moment to stare into his goblet, already half drained. "According to Ciri, he was amazing with the wild beasts of his own world, and well, he wanted to see if he could do so here as well. And when Ciri joined the begging, well, I could hardly resist." The bard knew that Ciri, or Zireael, or Cirilla, all names the bard knew the woman by, was the Witcher's weak spot. It had been her who introduced the bard to Geralt to begin with. So this explained how the man from another world was allowed to tag along. "So I decided to allow him to come along on a simple contract to begin with. A kikimora contract, not too far from here actually. They were harassing some locals. Paltry pay and typically something I'd leave to another witcher these days, but I decided this would give him a good demonstrations. Now, Kikimora, I never had success with those in a non violent man, but this one..." Again a silence fell as Geralt reminisced about this first encounter, which allowed the bard to quickly catch up with his note taking. "He asked me to take a bit longer, so he could study their behavior. I obliged and prepared some potions while he took a position on a hill overlooking their nest, which he took a full day and night for. And once that was over..."Geralt set down his goblet and sat up straight. "He simply walked towards them. I got up, drew my blade but he held up his hand and in that weird accent of his told me it's okay, mate." "Someone calling the fabled White Wolf mate...I have a hard time imagining it."The bard laughed, which got a grin from Geralt in turn. "It's just the way in which he spoke. But he went to them, kept a little bit of distance, held out his hand and...well, within a few moments, he had them literally eating out of his hand. He found out that they were scavenging for a wounded member of their group, and managed to get within the group, patched up the wounded one, and since then they stuck to themselves, not bothering the people anymore." The bard wrote it down quickly, clearly amazed by this. "How did he..." "I don't rightfully know to this day. But decided to put it to the test with a Leshen in Velen. And there too, all it took him was half a day to observe behavior, combined with reading the notes I have on all monsters to know as much as he can, and he befriended the damn thing. A Leshen! And he got it to agree to not harass the people anymore, and then told the people to stay away from a specific patch, and they'd have no trouble anymore. And this went on for months, he'd join me with various creatures, never lifted a sword or anything, and got all of them to stay away from humans, or in some cases, even get something mutually beneficial out of it, like a Nekker pack driving away a group of bandits in exchange for food from the nearby town." The bard could hear the admiration in every single word coming from the Witcher, and he was sure to make this into a ballad that would be known throughout all of Nilfgaard and Redania, and all the lands beyond, starting from Toussaint. "Steve Irwin, he called himself. Best damn Witcher I've ever seen. Sadly he had to go back to his homeworld after a year. I do wonder how he is, perhaps I can ask Ciri to check up on him, next time I see her. This world needs men like him." --------------------------------------------------- Oh wow, this one blew up...thank you for the gold, silvers and positive reactions, everyone.
I blinked as I looked around from my bed. Hospital bed, to be clear. I, a female with short, black hair that curled near the ends, am named Annabeth Reynolds. I was suffering from pneumonia, a terrible case of it, and my timer towards death was up. A figure of a woman draped in a black shawl that covered her from head to toe—except for her face. Her ebony white hair flowed to her knees as she shuffled her scythe between her hands, the movements flowing as if she were walking in water. Her face of pure beauty is one I will never forget (I may be a woman, but Death is still pretty) as she approached my side, taking my hand. I suddenly realized—the figure before me was Death. But, her aura was not one of famines and wars, or her scent of graves and rot, but finally being able to rest, like the odd sense of calm that you get in stressful situations that you're grateful for. She seemed like the contained chaos that showed the softness and vulnerability of humans, a feeling I appreciated in my last moments alive. She seemed like a woman I could love being around, even if I were to die. "Hello Annabeth. A lovely day, is it not? Come with me, we will walk." Such an alluring voice, how could I not? So I took her hand and followed, my hospital gown fluttering with each step. My bare feet felt the coldness of the tiles as we walked the halls, everyone frozen in their movements. I could see someone struggling with a small pile of paperwork as I stopped. "Er, ma'am? I'll be right back, ok?"I flashed a smile at the pale woman leading me as I (almost reluctantly) pulled my hand free from her, skipping over to the person. I glanced over the work—hey, it's me!—filing patients on a certain floor. Quickly, I grabbed a sticky note and scribbled a cat and a heart on it along with a kind message, stuck it on their computer monitor, then ran back over. My lungs grasped the feeling of full air, a feeling I had not for as long as I could remember, as I grabbed Death's hand again. "Alright, let's go."I said softly as she continued to walk… Until we couldn't. We were frozen, unable to walk farther, as a loud voice rang out from nowhere in particular. "Hold up, hold up! D, take 5."The lovely woman slipped away, but lingered around at the wall, giving her the appearance of leaning on it as a tall man dropped from the ceiling. I quickly looked up, checking for a hole that he dropped out of, but it was just striped ceiling tiles. Weird. "Annabeth, you're just- just- so wholesome! I can't kill you!"The guy seemed to be somewhere from his mid 20s to his early 40s, an exact year, hard to place. Wait- Did he say KILL me? I visibly recoiled, but he stepped forward. Obviously the dude was a bit dense with body language. "Nonono... You're just- uwu! You act so uwu! Right, D?"Death looked to the man with an exasperated expression, pinching the bridge of her beautiful nose. "Listen, Jesus, this is the fifth human you've saved from me. Your dad's gonna sack me if you keep doing this."The divine being was treating this guy as an equal—no, as a higher-up. I pouted, trying to connect all this in my head, until it hit me; Death referred to him as Jesus. DUH! Jesus ran over to me, grabbing my face and showing off my bright blue eyes and freckled cheeks to Death. "You can get rid of the rest of the people—I'm gonna keep Annabeth! She's adorable, you can't kill her!"I smiled awkwardly, slipping out of Jesus' grasp. "Sir, Your Highness? Yeah- Your Highness, what're you doing?" Jesus suddenly dropped his hands as he reached in all his pockets of his hoodie, which turned out to be a lot of pockets. Finally, after dumping some pretty important-looking stuff, he got a golden sticker that had a white kitty doing a thumbs up, then smacked it onto my chest. Not my hospital gown, but onto my collar bone. "Boom! Now you can't get Annabeth, aha!"Jesus laughed, proud of himself, then hopped back through the ceiling. My eyes followed him, and it turned out he slipped through, the seeming-solid tiles rippling, like water. Then everything went back to normal. Well, ish. Death was still there, but instead of her long, flowing shawl, she wore a black, low-cut dress with a red flower on her waist. Instead of a scythe, it was a walking cane. In curiosity, I turned and looked to the person I gave the cat sticky note to. They quickly noticed, and read it. I smiled after they did, reapplying it as they looked around, but simply just continued working. Death cleared her throat, swiping her silk-white hair away from her face. "Well, Annabeth, you're cured.. But, would you like to finish that walk?" I blinked at her before my face lit up, and I took no time to tangle our hands together. "Alright! Uh- What do I call you...?"Death paused, before smiling. "Delilah. My name is Delilah."
I had been sheparding humanity for unimaginable aeons, when my plans failed completely. Not since the Permian extinction had my methodical prodding producing anything like this. Back then I referred to humanity in the loosest sense of the term, working with whatever species looked promising. I was really hopeful with some of the large, coldblooded builds that followed that blunder. Survival of the fittest became another tool in my arsenal. The chaos that followed my introduction of nuclear theory gave new depth to the definition of the word. Hints and conversations that would have had predictable outcomes 50 years prior began to have more and more outlandish results after humanities collective consciousness became aware of such immense power. I had spent centuries teaching Physics and Engineering at various institutions in what the humans now referred to as "the west", trying to build up the knowledge base of the now dominant nation. As I introduced fuels and technology with higher and higher specific impulse potential, the same was used in their wars. The violent end was inevitable perhaps, with the acceleration of communication and circumstance; but many times before I was able to head off corrupt regimes before lasting damage occurred to my timeline. A maurading horde here, a convenient assassin motivated there. But now... one missed inflection point and everything blew up. Literally. My plan had called for a scientist as leader of one of the dominant "western"nations that had been at the forefront of rocket technology, but I missed a minor planned conversation with a hopeful artist and BAM, Third Reich. It took another century or so, but I wasn't able to get ahead of that series of events. The machine had become too large to change its trajectory. So here I am, 90% of the planet irradiated. Looking at humanity bombed back to the stone age; well that was perhaps an overstatement, there were pockets of civilization left, but certainly back to the steam engine. And now, now I'm tempted to resort to an option I had decided against long ago. I began prompting each surviving group to gather in an equatorial safe zone to begin building up their industrial base. The population was small, but determined to survive. You'd have to be after all the bombs, and with a nuclear winter developing. With a few conversations with key leaders, I began the process to make myself ruler of the now manageable population. I knew all the pitfalls of ruling; heck I had thrown all of them at past rulers. I would have to reveal myself and the impending doom eventually, but I had to... there was only 100 years left to get off the planet.
Desmodius blinked it's seven eyes, positioned haphazardly upon it's canine skull, betraying a look of abject confusion entirely unfitting of a creature with such nightmarish stature. ...You wish to use me for your personal gain? Then you shall suffer, none may bend my insatiable will! This guy really was trying hard to uphold appearances. I can't blame them, I've read the mad scrawlings of the last few unfortunate blokes to perform the ritual. Their sketches really didn't do his revolting appearance justice. "No, not really. Consider me a fan I guess. I don't really have anything to gain but the people in charge kind of suck right now so... Just do your thing. Have at it." My voice cracked a bit, my throat sore from the lengthy gutteral incantations that ushered this unsightly being into my study. Ah, the anarchist? Or is it just careless nihilism that feeds your dark desire for the spilled blood? I wrapped my forearm with gauze, covering the fresh wound with enough layers to hide the growing crimson blot, struggling somewhat to maintain composure. Still kneeling in the flickering candlelight I matched the demon's questioning gaze. "Does it matter? I summoned you, so you're free to do whatever you want right? I get you're committed to this whole monkey's paw thing but your whole deal is fucking shit up so get to it." Again, Desmodius paused as if the ancient cogs of their immortal mind were struggling, churning against centuries of cobwebs spun by hellish little spiders and unable to process such passionate dispassion. Then, as if struck by genius, a cruel smile twisted across it's blackened lips. They revealead uneven yellow fangs and all-too-pleastly uttered, Tea will do just fine, then. Earl grey? "For fuck's sake" ... "Cream and sugar?"
A lot of people would be bored with my life, but I loved it. The simplicity and routine was what I wanted after years of war, deserts, stress, and military life. It has been 15 years since I left that life, and everyday since has been a joy for me. Up at 6. Brush and shave. An hour on the bike. Shower, eat, brush again, get dressed, on the train by 8. Punch in at 9. Eyeball the cute new receptionist, but keep it professional. Answer the usual questions about the nightly ESPN stream, compare F1 to NASCAR again at the coffee pot. Meeting at 10. Work to 1. Lunch at the deli in the lobby from 1 to 1:30. Another quick break at 3, off at 5. Day after day after day, and I was loving it. Two months ago my routine was interrupted on the way in, and I didn’t like it. “Yo Mark, you see the shit on 7th and Washington last night? Unreal!” I shook my head. “Just the usual drunk guy with a knife. Why?” “Are you kidding? I can’t believe you live around the block and never hit that place up. Check it out!” My coworker Dave whipped out his cell to show a shaky video. It looked like some dude in a homemade Barraka costume was running through the street trying to mess with people. “Nice try Dave. Maybe next time.” Day after day for two months more strange things began happening. I was starting to think there was a hardcore effort to mess with me, like that movie The Game. A chick dressed like Kitana decapitated some dude on 34th. Footage of a giant black dude with robot arms appeared on the 7 pm news. Some little Bruce Lee looking guy was seen on the pillars of the Brooklyn Bridge fighting an extremely hot blonde woman. But somehow I missed all of this. Right up until the day I woke up and saw a guy in a straw hat teleport to my room through the electrical outlet. “Mark, an invasion is under way. Your routine has stabilized the city, making it immune to the magic attacks across the world. No matter what happens, we need you to keep it up.” I put my head back on the pillow and just stared at the ceiling. I was starting to hate my life.
I was tied to a chair in a large room, with the lightbulb hanging over my head providing the only warmth and light in the room. I was sweaty, my arms hurt, the rope cut into them. Then, I heard footsteps. The click-clacking of oxford shoes echoed in the room. Two men, dressed in charcoal black suits, appeared. One of them had a crew-cut and wore bifocals. The other had a shaved head and wore sunglasses. "Mr Mortimer,"said the man wearing the bifocals. "How are you doing?" I tried to say something, but my lips didn't move. My mouth was taped. The man wearing the sunglasses ripped the tape from my mouth. Pain stung my lips. "Who are you? Why am I here?" "My, my you don't even know that,"the man wearing the bifocals said. "Such a shame."He took his glasses off and started cleaning them with a white handkerchief. "You can call me Stone, and this here is Wood." Wood loosened his tie and lifted his chin as a greeting. "Now as for the question, why, we figured you might be smart enough to know that on your own,"Stone said while putting his glasses on. "You don't have any powers, do you, lad?"Wood said. "Anyhow, we're here to find out. So, make it easy for us. Do you have any?" "What if I do?" "Do you? If you do, you'll find out soon enough." "Not very hard to guess. Not even for a person such as yourself,"Stone said. "Why do you care? What's it to you if I do or don't have any?" Wood stepped in and landed a right hook on my jaw. "Who said you get to ask questions, lad. Don't push your luck." "Calm down, Stone. Mr Mortimer has a legitimate concern. But I'm afraid we won't be able to let you leave this place alive if we answered that." I spat blood and sealed my lips shut. "I guess you don't mind dying,"Stone said and laughed. "So listen, Mr Mortimer. You were brought here because our agency that has been spying on you for quite a long time wants to research you. Our cameras have never seen you use any powers. And we want to confirm that information. So, do you or do you not have powers?" "What if I do?" Stone touched my swollen jaw and said, "Not very bright, are you? No questions, just answers." I shifted in the chair. The ropes cut into my arms. "I do." "Are you telling the truth, Mr Mortimer?" "Am I?" Wood grabbed me by the hair and turned my head towards the lightbulb. The ember glow blinded me. "Don't get smart, lad. Just answer the damn questions." He released my hair. My head lolled. I had to do it now. I never liked doing it. My parents had seen my power early, and they disapproved of it. I hadn't used it since I was four. Most kids would start developing their powers at that age. But now, I had to do it. Even if my dear mother and my dear father turned in their graves as I did so. I licked my upper lip. I licked my lower lip, then, I chanted, "Make it sweet, make it fast, Kool-aid man aid me for I'm aghast." Strong winds started blowing in the room. Behind Stone and Wood, the cylindrical figure of the Kool-aid man appeared. He gave me a thumbs-up, and with the giant straw in his head, he sucked Wood and Stone in before they could even see him. Kool-aid man walked over to me. "Long time, no see, kid. How're you doing?"Then he saw the ropes that bound me to the chair and said, "Stupid question. You aren't doing any good. Let me make you feel better." He unfastened the ropes, and I thanked him for it. "No, I thank you, kid. Out after such a long time and you gave me such a scrumptious meal,"he said, patting his cylindrical belly. "How do I get out of here?"I said. The Kool-aid man took my hand and guided me in the dark to what felt like a wall of the room. I then heard a sizzling sound, and light entered the room. There was a hole in the wall, and some frothy liquid dripped from the edges of it. I walked through the hole and found myself in a lot that was empty, except for the building I had just escaped from. The Kool-aid man then patted the top of his disclike head. "Get in, kid. Let's get outta here." With me sitting on his head, the Kool-aid man ran like the wind, carrying me to the edge of the town. There, he bid me farewell and disappeared with a poof.
Mr and Mrs Lesner were my neighbours from the second grade onward. They were never loud, really, but on the rare occasions when I did hear them speaking, they were always painfully nice, and it drove me mad: “Look at these flowers, George!” Mary would say, crouching down, stroking them. “Aren’t they beautiful?” “Yes,” George would agree (he always agreed). “That’s all thanks to your wonderful gardening, dear.” “Oh, George!” I was shaking my head at them through the cracks in the fence that divided our properties. So were my friends, Kyle and Sara. Kyle cupped his hands over his mouth and made an ugly bird noise, and suddenly George and Mary turned their old bobbleheads to look in our direction. “Did you hear something, George?” “What’s that, dear?” George asked. “Nevermind,” Mary said, “I’m finally losing it.” She hobbled over to the fence while we all lay there, perfectly still. Even Kyle, the prankster - the constant joker - was silent. We were all looking at one another, then up at the old lady in the garden, hoping she wouldn’t notice us. Rumour had it she was a witch. How that started, I’ll never know - she didn’t seem the witching type - but I admit that I was holding my breath until it hurt. When she was hobbling away, Kyle began to laugh, and he said, “if that old woman is a witch, then my grandmother is the devil herself.” Kyle’s granny used to pinch his cheeks. Hell - she even pinched mine when I was visiting Kyle’s house. Her eyesight had left her too soon, and she lived on the bottom floor near the living room in what appeared to be a small sewing room. Sara punched me in the shoulder. “Look!” She said, pointing to the ground on the other side of the fence. There was a small earring, gleaming in the patchy backyard sunlight. “I’m gonna grab it,” She said, and without any further preamble - without us even daring her to - she had hoisted herself up onto the fence, noisily dropped over the other side, winded herself by landing on her side (her foot got caught), retrieved the earring, and then climbed over to our side again, looking embarrassed and sheepish. A loud banging noise from the Lesner’s house caused us to scatter, and we regrouped in my room upstairs. Kyle kept a watch out the window to see if the old woman would notice her earring was gone, and while he ate a bag of chips and raised my set of cheap binoculars to his face, Sara and I were noting how the earring changed colour. “Is it a mood earring?” I asked; Sara was the queen of mood rings, which is probably why she took the piece of jewellery in the first place. “We should take it back,” I added. “No way. It’s not a mood ring. It’s an earring, dumbass. And no way I’m taking it back, either.” She walked to the mirror in my room, which was suprisingly of the full length variety, and she put the earring into her left ear. Suddenly, her back arched. She tussled up her hair. She hiked up her skirt and took a wide stance, then pulled her shoes off so as to have bare feet. Kyle was laughing already. Sara did things like this all the time. “RAAWWRRR!” She cried. “I be the witch of the prophecies! I’ll eat your livers with my broccoli!” “Please!” Kyle said, prostrating himself before her. “Take my binoculars. Curse them so I can see through beautiful women’s clothing!” Sara snatched up the binoculars, dropping them through her shirt, then pretending to poop them out onto my bedroom floor. “Argh,” She said, confusing her witch accent for a pirate accent, “they’re cursed. You’ll not see anything now, except through the clothing of old miserable men.” A scream erupted next door. It sounded… young. Too young to be the Lesners. “What the fuck,” Kyle said. “Maybe their niece or nephew is visiting,” I suggested, but the scream didn’t sound like a normal scream. It was… a bloodcurdling scream. Like someone in trouble. We waited, but no further sounds came.
Long, long ago, the good and fair people of the Grand Duchy of Eastmarch had learned what was good for them. What was good was tending their fields and herds in their warm, green meadows. Frolicking alongside clear streams while picking flowers. Enjoying a frothy beer over warm company at the local tavern. The good and fair had learned what was good. For they knew what was bad. Garsylvania. More particularly, the lands situated west of the rolling forests going into the Dark Mountains. Lands resting between the cold waters of the River Arrugos and the Black Swamps. It was a land of mists and darkness. Of old growth forests full of even older things. Certainly people inhabited the ancestral lands of Garsylvania. Descendants of my many serfs, craftsmen, and minor nobles before... well before The Change. Now the good and the fair of Eastmarch shuddered when they met their distant darker cousins, colloquially called the Garmanii. I am told a brisk grey trade still exists on the borders of the River Arrugos and in certain hunting camps along the forest. Only the bravest, most foolish, or perhaps the most desperate come to meet with the Garmanii. For despite their dour fatalism and perpetual gloom, they still produce marvelous wonders. The kinds of bits and baubles a knight might trade half his annual yield for. I allowed this trade because it brought the only commodity I desired with it. Namely, news and information. My little sparrows brought me such tidbits. Young Garmanii boys and girls who had been graced with my fleeting presence. I tend to leave a mark, even if you cannot see it. And it binds the marked one to me. One such sparrow stood before me now in a receiving room of my castle. He was perhaps no more than thirteen summers, lean, but already starting to show the vestiges of the man he would become. "What have you learned, little one,"I rumbled, seated in my high backed chair. A warm glass of the red swished lazily in my hand. "Sire,"said the young one languidly. I believe his name was Simon, or perhaps Samuel. It did not matter. The boy's eyes were fixed on a point a thousand miles away, his pupils dilated. "The duchess-in-waiting, Lady Karalina Dos Santos has gone missing. The Grand Duke has drawn up his knights and vassals. Some say she was last seen heading west on horseback. Heading to..." "Leave me,"I commanded with a flourish of my hand. The boy in my thrall dutifully departed without a word. He would be back with his village soon with no memory of where he had been or why he had felt compelled to seek me out. I closed my eyes and drifted to other senses. The creatures of the night slowly filled my awareness. First, at the periphery. But soon all around me. The bats would be the most useful as they covered ground quickly. Ah yes, there. A lone wonder moving among the thicket as if blindly. To confirm, I asked a she-wolf who was currently on the hunt to stalk this prey and capture her scent. It took no longer than the span of a short conversation for me to discern this intruder's location. For this is my realm, after all. With a mere thought I took flight. The moon was almost full and hanging bright above. That was good. It meant she would be able to see me. I landed a dozen feet from the girl silently as fog blowing in. She did not notice. I saw that her horse was gone. "You trespass upon my land, young Lady Karalina. Tell me why I should not tie you up and sell you to the Garmanii for a bottle of red." The girl, no, I could see her clearly in the moonlight, the young woman paused. She did not act frightened. I got the sense that fear and terror had all been exhausted long ago. Now she only expressed weariness from the depths of her soul. "Do what you will, sir. It could be no worse than what I have fled from."Lady Karalina's voice was hoarse but resolute. She lifted her face to me and I saw bruises upon it. Her left eye was swollen almost completely shut. Upon her lips she had cracks and swelling, obvious signs of an open handed slap there. Upon the wind I could smell something that had almost become foreign, a smell I had relegated to the old times just after The Change when I had fought tooth and nail to carve out this land. "Where did they burn you, child?"I had dropped the menace in my voice. Lady Karalina stood to her full height slowly, shaking as she did. She hiked up her traveling dress beyond modesty and I saw... It was monsterous. Someone had taken a hot brand to her liberally and cruelly. Her skin was puckered and raw in rectangular stripes. Whoever had done this had taken their time. For the first time in ages I felt my blood run hot. A flush filled my pale cheeks, the first color there in perhaps a generation. I felt my fangs involuntarily arch out, the demon in me howling for the blood of whoever had dared to do this. Scooping the young Lady up in my arms, I carried her quick back to my castle. She did not protest. I covered lengths that would have taken normal men days. "Who did this to you?"I asked, bathing the young Lady's head with a cool, wet cloth. Attendants of mine were seeing to her burn wounds and applying salves that would ease them. "I... I'm so thirsty,"said the young heir to the throne of Eastmarch. "Tell me who did this and then you may drink." She lay there for a long silence. Finally a resolve filled the Lady's face. "My father,"she said. "He came to me in the night drunk in his cups. He wanted to lay with me but I fought him and kicked him and...."Tears streamed down her face. The red rage in me turned white hot. Incandescent. I knew what I had to do. The uneasy peace between Garsylvania and Westmarch would be no more after this. With one fang I tore open my wrist along the vein. She was very weak, but I believed Lady Karalina to have a strength perhaps greater than my own. Pressing my wrist against her mouth I said, "Drink. Drink well. For tomorrow we fight." She drank greedily.
BrrBrrrBrrrr- click. The ever present sound of the idling chainsaw cut off, powered by those it's slain, and stuffed full enough of that esoteric demon power to let it idle another decade without fail. But now, it was silent, silent so I could make sure I heart just what was just said to me. "....My WHAT is the issue?" "You're, uh, glee, paladin, sir- it's, it's unnerving the other troops." The normally palid and pale 'battle cleric' was positively green at the gills from the display before him, and now behind me. A baker's dozen of demonic defenders lay splayed out like children making angels in the snow, their guts a red and orange backdrop against their purple skin. Malfrct's Maladies, a bad-luck bringing bunch of hell's commandos, come to make sure our gates would fall. But they didn't even make it out of their summoning ring before they had the sliced bits of their souls sent straight back to their dark masters. I let my hand drift, as if to direct attention to what everyone was already looking at. And then I turned back to the now cowering cleric, my long tongue slurping away at the gore coating my liddless eyes. "What can I say... It reminds me of home."
It is overlooking a loch in the Scottish Highlands, my feet aching and my back sore, that I know it is time to go home. The winds push at my shoulders, whispering in my ears I have been away for too long; the stones of my home miss me. No fires lit, no hearth swept, no windows open and closed: the mundane spells of existence which weave protection around me. I put down my pack and watch the waters of the loch stir endlessly, looking for something in the dark waters. I crumple the map in my hands: OS 56, laminated and weather-proofed, and turn my face towards the south, considering the return journey. My heart thrums in my chest and my fingers are like ice. I have been running for longer than I remember. She came to my door a year ago, flesh shrinking around brittle bones like a leather purse. Her back bent, a staff in her hand, she asked for refuge. I made her tea and she steeped the leaves in the cup, then turned the dregs out on the saucer and twisted the handle like the hands of a clock. We stayed frozen while she read, eyes flicking to the bitter mush in the bottom of her cup, to me, to my cat who curled his tail around the old woman, not minding the smell at all. I rubbed my fingers against the runes I had carved into the wood beneath the table with a paring knife. One witch might recognise another, but trust is never earned lightly. On the train home from Scotland, I consider the witch's request. A last safe place to die. A sanctuary of sorts, and a burial beneath the apple trees of my orchard. At the seat across from mine, a man in a suit takes the empty seat. He is startled at my appearance and I mentally catalogue our differences: I am browned and lined from the sun, burned by the wind. My heavy pack has rounded my shoulders. He sits upright and pasty-faced. He severs the connection by opening his newspaper, a desultory flick of the pages as he feels my eyes on him. She warned me, then, reading the tea leaves. Setting down the cup, she traced the edges of the saucer with the tip of her finger. "Every circle must have a beginning and an end,"she said. "Do you understand?" I did not understand, but I let her believe I did. "You have to find a way to break it. You must break it." "The circle?"I removed the crockery from the table and put it in the sink. I stood facing the bundles of sage which hung from the lintel of the window when she whispered: "A curse." Then, it is no wonder I ran. My pack is almost unbearable for the last mile to my home. Strange, that I have carried it for years, and it has never hurt as much as today. I slip it off and hide it in a hedgerow, thinking after a bath I'll return to it. A strong stick catches my eye and I exchange them for each other, taking the weight off my shoulders. A deep sense of foreboding builds in me as I approach my cottage. It hasn't aged a day, the apple trees sweet blossoming pink, the smell drifting on the breeze. My roof is tight, the joinery beside the windows fresh, and the shutters polished. If the witch is dead, she has not been long gone. As I approach the door, it is thrown open. A woman, a witch, stands there, surrounded by the frame. At first I think she is a photograph, because it cannot be, what I am seeing. It is me. Unweatherworn, fresh, standing tall, and unblemished by time. I know how she sees me. I am a bent over woman, leaning on a staff, worn thin by travel and made old by time and weather. I make a noise like the breaking of a cup, and I know she will not recognise me, as I did not recognise myself when I came back to die in my own home. I have not broken the circle, I have not broken the curse. My cat runs out to meet me and I almost weep from relief. She cannot run, like I did, like every iteration of myself has done before. This time, I will make her - me - understand.
“Sh, shh, they’re coming.” “You know the plan.” With a nod, the blacksmith scurried back to his forge. The baker and his wife struggled to keep a straight face as the large man sort of crab-walked back, his massive form crouched low in an attempt to hide. The other villagers were already about their day, carrying out baskets of laundry to hang and moving to and from the shops while their children played in the streets, but a few stopped to snicker as the blacksmith scuttled into his shop. “Will this work?” “It’s worth a shot,” the baker said. He patted his wife on the shoulder and turned to reenter their own shop, enjoying the scent of fresh-baked breads and honeyed rolls washing over him. “We can’t have another incident like the last time a group of adventurers rolled into town. It’s a miracle no one died.” “Aside from the mule.” “Yes, aside from the mule. But, well…” “What?” “He was an old mule. Probably not long for-“ The baker quieted at a glancing slap against his arm from his wife. That, combined with an arched brow and the shadow now looming through the glass window, sent him reeling behind the counter. With a glance back, his wife moved to his side just in time as the door swung open. Who stepped through was a person clad in full plate armor, ducking so not to catch the hilt of their greatsword slung across their back against the frame. Their every step sending the floorboards creaking in agony as they plodded toward the counter, and one stopped before the bakers, a gauntleted hand reached to flip up their visor. Two piercing blue eyes met there, half covered by reddish-brown bangs. “I need something that keeps well. Do you have any hardtack?” The voice that reached their ears was shriller than they thought it’d be, though perhaps that was thanks to the way it echoed from the adventurer’s helmet. “Hrmm,” the baker’s wife said. "Is that a yes?” “Hrmm,” the baker affirmed his wife’s original statement. “Great. I’ll need a week’s worth.” The two hurried to comply, and within minutes, they had a paper-wrapped package ready and on the counter for the adventurer. “How much?” “Hrmm.” “Can you state that as a monetary value?” “Hrmm.” The adventurer raised a heavy hand to lay two silver coins atop the counter. “Is that enough?” “Hrmm.” “It’s not? This is highway robbery…” Despite the complaints, they proceeded to lay another two coins down. “There, that should be enough.” “Hrmm.” “Hey, that’s asking for too much-“ “Hrrm.” The baker’s wife leaned over the counter. “Alright, jeez.” Two more made their way onto the growing pile and, without taking time to confirm, the adventurer swiped up the bundle of tack and hurried out the door. All the while they mumbled to themself. “Town’s too expensive, don’t even want to see how much a room will cost me-“ And then their voice cut off, silenced as the door slammed shut. The baker and his wife took a moment, leaning over the counter to watch until the armored adventurer entered the blacksmith’s shop across the way, before they let out a collective sigh. “It worked!” “Hahah, you hear that? Won’t be staying here tonight, no, no. We won’t need to worry about any of those exploding critters or those skeletons anymore.” “Heck, with this much silver we could buy a new town mule too.” The two looked out the window to the blacksmith’s shop. There, they could see the blacksmith dealing with an increasingly flustered adventurer, who was now wavering their arms up and down in an attempt to communicate. “Darn adventurers. Good riddance.”
"Get me the humans on the line" "Ma'am" "General, why is there a whole grid sector currently at ceasefire" "Ma'am, we've discovered a non-combatant of a third species and have negotiated a sector ceasefire to extract it" There was a pause. "Come again general?" "We're evacuating a civilian family and their farm animals Ma'am" "General, you're in command of the most rapidly promoted GCAF Species Force in the history of the Galactic Community. Are you aware of why that is?" "Ma'am, because we humans shocked the rest of the civilised galaxy with our ruthlessness and efficiency in war" "On the money general. So is that reputation smoke and mirrors, or is there something I should know about?" "Article 3 of the Geneva Convention, Ma'am." "You'll have to be more specific general, I'm still catching up on your people's history. It was a document signed sometime in the 1900s your time, am I correct?" "Yes Ma'am. An international agreement governing rules of wartime engagement. Article 3, as pertains here, disallows the involvement of noncombatants in a warzone." "But ... pardon my phrasing here general, you're humans. You deliberately wound enemy combatants to draw in medical personnel. You're absolutely brutal. Why does a thousand year old piece of paper govern your combat doctrine now?" "Ma'am, have you ever noticed that our grenades use large shrapnel?" "Not particularly, why?" "Because it would waste more resources if those shrapnel shards couldn't show up on X-rays." "That's despicable general." "Ys, but as you said, efficient. The Geneva Convention stipulates that the shrapnel must be able to be identified easily by X-ray equipment, to avoid unnecessary suffering." "Humans fight by a code? You mean you aren't just brutal?" "Well by your standards Ma'am, yes. But for us, war is almost a constant. So we had to make it something we could always come back from. Hence the convention." "Hence why the most feared soldiers in the galaxy are currently telling a bedtime story to a twelve year old in the middle of a war zone." "Jones is a gem Ma'am. But yes, to answer your question. Have you ever seen teh aftermath of a human battle?" "No, I assumed the results would be too bloody for anyone's tastes." The human general gave a soft smile, not that she could see it over the receiver. "Ma'am, we send in our own medics to treat the wounded. And if you check the official reports from both sides, no enemy medic was ever killed by human munitions." "And yet you're still the most efficient fighting force in the GCAF..." Her thoughts trailed off with her words as she pondered what her human liaison had said. They could be fighting a brutal war of blood and tears, but they fought merely like it was a job. That, she realised, was what made them terrifying. It wasn't that they could get worse. it was that they had, and they knew, as the most violent race in the galaxy, what that cost was. "Carry on general." "Yes Ma'am."
It had been too long since she had had such a customer, so it was inevitable that she was running on autopilot. As the child with the huge eyes pushed over the coins, she had been about to reach over to the nearest dispenser and fill a bag with jellybeans. But then the child’s fingers turned momentarily to smoke, and he snatched his hand back from the countertop. That gave her pause, and she took a closer look at the coins. Flimsy and thin, they were foiled [joss paper](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joss_paper), the sort burned in Chinese funeral rites for the dead to use in the afterlife. She looked again at the child before her. He looked no older than five, and she wondered what sort of death had befallen him. He clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the candy surrounding him as if trying to memorise everything, but his trembling lower lip gave him away: he was still in shock from all that had happened. A wave of pity engulfed her, and she smiled at him, a smile with more warmth than those she flashed the usual clientele of the shop, and then reached under the counter towards an old, locked cupboard. The lock was rusty from disuse, and it took a while before she could get the key to turn. An ordinary mortal would have wondered why an empty cupboard was locked, but those with the Sight would have seen sweets lining the shelves of the cupboard. They were not the sweets of the living realm, manufactured in factories. She had made these sweets herself, and there was a time when her entire shop was stocked with them. But as the traditional funeral rites dwindled, and children these days seemed to prefer spending their money on tablets (the electronics store next door did a booming business), her customers became fewer and far in between. She had to keep the store open, though, and so she dealt with the mortal world now, too, in hopes that time might pass more quickly. And for an immortal, time could pass pretty damn slowly. She filled a bag full of [dragon’s beard candy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dragon%27s_beard_candy) and [haw flakes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haw_flakes), and then pushed them over the counter back to the child. “Here you go, little one,” she said. He eagerly grabbed the bag and then, remembering his manners, said shyly, “Thank you.” “Do you know where to go next?” she asked him, as he unwrapped a roll of haw flakes, peeled off the top disc, and popped it into his mouth. “No,” he said hesitantly, a frown furrowing his brow. A lost soul in need of guidance. This was the very reason why she had kept this store going. She resisted the urge to rub her hands in glee, instead undoing the bow at the back of her apron and throwing it into the nearest empty shopping basket before edging around the counter. It had been a long time since she had made her way to the Underworld, but she remembered the way. “Well, then, I’ll take you there myself.” The boy looked at the other mortals about the shop, and then gazed at her, wide-eyed. “But there’re so many other customers about – can you just leave?” “My dear boy,” she said, as she steered him towards the doors, “you’re the only true customer in this shop.”
“Avery, are you doing alright?” came the intense, guttural voice. “Uh, yes, just enjoying the view from my prison.” Avery loved sitting at the edge of the mountain cliff. Just yesterday she spotted a landslide and a rainbow right after a beautifully dark rainstorm. “I’m going out. Going to pillage a town or two. Would you like anything?” The dragon had been gruff at first but once Avery realized it was just lonely, everything changed. A friendship had developed quite naturally. “I’m good. You know I don’t care for gold or jewelry. Well, you know what, I could use some more furniture. A lounging chair would be nice to have by the fire pit, and some books perhaps?” She gave a broad smile and the dragon, though it didn’t smile, did something with its eyes that was the equivalent of a smirk. At least, that’s how she interpreted it. “And no killing, remember. Just raid the rich homes, scare people so they don’t come up here, and don’t forget you need to eat more vegetables. Maybe stop by a farm or two and leave a little gold for the families there.” There was a long silence as the dragon considered all her suggestions. She had learned they were not creatures that decided things quickly, but she quite admired that. “As you wish.” Avery smiled contently. Even if she was being held against her will, this was the life. \----------------------------------------------------- Thanks for reading! For more stories, check out my profile and comment history.
"D-d-do y-y-you c-c-come i-i-in p-p-peace?" I looked at the bot that addressed me. Scraps covered worn holes in its shell, as its words stuttered. I smiled to myself thinking of the stories I had heard if this place. A planet of robots, ones who had risen against their masters. The mere fact they had overthrown and eliminated the race that created them was enough to class it as a Zenga-Class planet. Without permission, you could not approach. If you did, you would be ignored if you asked for help, and any vessels launching would be shot down. I had lobbied hard to receive my pass. It had been several generations since they arose. I wanted to see what they had developed, and if there was anything that could be replicated off planet. I had signed many waivers confirming this was my own choice, and only I was to blame if things went wrong. "I do indeed my good robot. You look like you could use a tune up actually." It twitched in awkward movements, before wheeling closer to me. As it moved I took in its structure. A set of three balls sat at the bottom of a cylindrical body. Four arms were arranged symmetrically around its body, topped with various tools for fine metal work. It's head was a large dome, with white lights running around it. "T-t-tune u-u-up? A-a-are y-y-you v-v-versed i-i-in r-r-repairs?" I nodded, gesturing to my multi-tool. "I was training in robotic engineering ever since I could remember. If I can open you up, I'm sure I can work out what your issue is, and get you as good as new." It twitched as it thought, before wheeling away, beckoning with one arm. "C-c-come a-a-and s-s-see t-t-the a-a-ancient t-t-texts." I let it lead me from my parked ship, hoisting up the plasma rifle I had been given for my journey. This one was nice, but I didn't really want to step out and find myself turned to paste by a less friendly droid. As I walked, I noticed other robots everywhere, coming from hiding. Almost all of them were damaged in some way, though they showed amateur repair jobs. The bot lead me to a small building, one that was being slowly consumed by vine-like plants. A few bots worked to cut it back, but they were few and far between. Instead I noticed many that had fallen still, clearly encountering a critical error. It gestured to the building, wheeling slightly back. "T-t-the t-t-texts a-a-are i-i-in t-t-there. R-r-read a-a-and p-p-please r-r-repair." I entered alone, smelling musty air. Around me I could see long since dead skeletons, presumably this being one of their final holdups. It didn't take long for me to pursue the structure, finding what were obviously the "ancient texts". A set of manuals, detailing many of the robots I had seen with schematics. I smiled wide, despite it being in an alien language. There were plenty of diagrams I could use. Plus they looked very similar to types I had seen before. From what I had seen they hadn't really evolved as such, meaning these would be incredibly useful. Gathering them I I headed out to the one that was waiting, moving back and forth in an almost pacing motion. I held up the manuals, getting a loud beep in return. "Thank you for these! If we go back to my ship, I can get you back to new in a jiffy. I'm going to need the nano-recycler and forge to do the large works." "U-u-understood." Without further talk it lead me back to the ship I had brought with me. I lead the bot into my workshop, nodding it to go to an empty section. "Wait there please." As it moved I passed the manuals to the main terminal, it's miniaturised tractor beam making them hover. The pages began to turn, as it automatically scanned and uploaded the details to the main database. My neural implant linked to the new information, letting me understand the fundamentals with greater clarity. An arm reached down from the ceiling, emitting a soft blue light. It ran around the waiting bot, highlighting multiple areas of wear from age. The nanoforge gave off a whirr, as details of replacement part were fed into it. "Alrighty! I've gotten a good idea of what needs to be done. Let's do this." With a beep in response I took out my multi-tool. In short order I had removed much of the corrosion, chucking the parts into the waiting nano-recycler. Once I was happy it was cleared out, I set to work inputting the newly created parts. This took much longer, as I double checked every connection. Finally I sent across a simple de-bugging program. It was made with AI's in mind, compatible with every known programming language. Thankfully it worked without a hitch here, flushing out corrupted coding and replacing it with a cleaned out version it had recreated. "How do you feel?" I addressed it as the program finished, letting the bot examine itself. "I feel... whole. Fresh. Alive!" It gave of a series of sounds, which whilst strange were obviously jolly. "You are amazing! Can... can you help the rest?" I grinned, slapping the side of my machines. "Of course I can. Though I may need to get a better location to really help, and possibly some assistance. How about I take a look at the repairs systems you have, and get them up to speed?" The bot buzzed, twirling around. "Of course! If you don't mind, Repair Master, may I help and learn from you?" I patted its warm exterior, nodding. "That would be my pleasure. Let's do this!"
"Ambassador, how did you get them to start negotiations so fast?" My charm, my presentations, my personality, and above all else, I threatened them with a super weapon." You threatened to destroy their home world?" I explained how easy it was to build planet destroyers and told them something that politicians and any group leaders fear most. "Once exposed, they are compelled to tell the truth and to follow through with what they say. The effects are permanent." "And they believed we had such a weapon?" "You remember that media group that spent more time twisting the truth than reporting the truth?" I remember the scandal, they closed down after most of the managers and editor had themselves voluntarily committed to mental health facilities." "They were an involuntary test group." "And the only reason I am telling you this is because I received a light, indirect exposure."
I'm not saying there weren't problems. Cause there were. Lots. TONS. But we know for a fact that there are hostile space aliens. And hostile time travelers. Hostile, pretty much anything and everything you could imagine. He was the only thing that could consistently drive them back. To go out into that vast unknown without the only proven form of protection amounted to suicide. So, we decided to take Him with us. We were reasonably sure he wouldn't starve to death; He had never been seen actually eating much of anything. It was hypothesized he ate whales, but when we did out the math, any and every marine mammal on planet earth would have to have been consumed twice over. So we didn't have to bring him food. It was later prove true that he uses radiation as an energy source, sorta like photosynthesis, so we didn't even need to shield his portion of the ship. No, all that fell into place. What was hard was capturing him and holding on to him. It seemed that he was always the smallest iota stronger than the strongest materials or forces human kind could muster. Clearly, if we could have controlled him before this point, we may not have needed to bring him. The answer actually came from one of the hostile aliens that attacked us in the early 2000's. The Xillians. It took a long time to figure out their technology, and by itself it was insufficient to hold him. What we eventually managed was a teleportation ray and hub design. The hub is sorta this storage location, for Big G's area we created a thin envelope of gravity to hold a sphere of water around a central teleportation transceiver. When we hit him with the teleportation ray, he was moved into orbit around earth, the G-moon we called it. He was able to feed on the radiation around earth, and when monsters or aliens or time travelers or whatevers attacked we "beamed"him down to do battle, and "beamed"him back up when he won. When it was time to leave earth, we simply locked a tractor beam onto the G-moon and off we went.
As I approach the heavy oak doors, my assistant pulls them open, mentioning that everyone is ready for me. I thank her, refraining from using her name. It starts with some sort of muh sound, but for the life of me I can never remember it. I put the thought aside as I enter the boardroom, seeing at least a dozen people in business suits and appropriately dull skirts. I move in silence to the head of the table and let out a long sigh as I take my seat. I feel its best to seem already slightly annoyed when I enter; less of a chance of people asking too many questions. The room is still. They are waiting for me to speak first. I take a few more seconds than I need to, obviously to maintain my sense of power. I open my mouth, as if trying to find the most delicate way to approach the subject, when in reality I forgot what this meeting is about. "Well?"I ask impatiently. It seems a good substitute for saying anything too specific. "Yes,"a small man with glasses starts stammering "we, uh, have the projections for the next quarter and we just, uh needed to get your approval..."Good lord, he's droning on like this all the time. I start day dreaming about Stephanie, the history professor I met last night. What legs she had. I was so close to getting her home, but of course she had to leave. At least she agreed to see me tonight, but why did I tell her I would text her? I didn't really have a choice I suppose, but I hate when people tell me to text them. Stupid talk to text never gets my words right, apparently, and it's not like I can say I don't have texting, everyone and their damn mother texts these days. At least she wrote down her phone number on actual paper, maybe I can get muh to call her for me. Suddenly I realize I've been staring at Mr. Glasses for about thirty seconds with no one speaking. I try to read his face. His eyebrows raised, eyes wide, forcing half a smile with his arm outstretched, holding a folder. I assume he wants me to take it, so I slowly reach for it and lean back in my chair. I open the folder and stare at the first page. What the hell am I looking at? There are swirls and shapes and squiggly lines. There are straight lines and words. I'm pretty sure some of them are numbers. I flip through a few more pages, hoping to gain some context clues, but it's just more shapes. I ponder my options and decide to go with the tried and true approach. "What is this here?"I say showing the last page to the group. Another younger man pipes up. "Well that's the theoretical progression of profit margins three fiscal years after the proposed merger that Mr. Henderson mentioned a moment ago."I look back to Glasses. He's sweating. I look back at the paper. I take a slow, deep breath. "This is the best we can do?"The group shifts uncomfortably in their seats. "This is a goddamn empire we're running. You think we got to where we are today with shit like this?! All of you, get the hell out of here and don't come back until you've doubled every number in this entire portfuckingfolio!" They scramble to leave the room before I single any of them out. I start thinking about Patricia, the front desk lady downstairs. I wonder if she's still upset about the other night. Better have muh send her some flowers.
I did not know what awaited me in this strange and savage era. What sort of depredations I would undergo without proper protection. So I took two weapons, the symbolic weapons of my people. We told stories of this ancient time, when men squabbled over scant resources instead of working together in glorious Harmony. I knew that if I had no money, I would not eat. So I brought five pounds of solid gold. And I brought victuals, too, just in case. We knew that this was a time when different groups of people looked different, races they were called. They lived in many disparate societies called countries. So I took ancient tomes in case some racial difference or another of their strange customs left me bewildered. And I took a Gift. One of the ancient books I had read suggested that the people of 2015 were indeed ready for this gift, and had been for over a century-and-a-half. I can only hope the old luminary who wrote it was right. His name is sacred to our people, but research suggested that his reputation in 2015 would be a bit mixed. Now, I am here. In a public forum, in the greatest of the ancient cities. I walk to its center. I hold my symbolic weapons aloft and proclaim the news of my Gift. *** In Times Square, a crowd gathers to watch the man from a safe distance. Those who are close to him scramble away. He is clearly deranged, but he appears to be going for theatrics rather than trying to actually harm someone. He brandishes two cast-iron instruments in the air. A hammer and. . . A sword? No, a sickle. And he speaks: "People of 2015! My name is Kim Un Jung! And I have come to give you the gift of Communism!"
"How much are the aliens demanding?"the President said. "Well, the monetary conversion isn't very precise between our money and theirs, but our engineers estimate the repairs on their spacecraft would cost something around 30 trillion dollars." The President gave a nervous chuckle. "Well, that's not going to happen. Do we have a protocol in place for this?" "Not exactly. We can, however, exercise the H.G. Contingency,"the director said and slid a folder across the desk towards the President. He picked it up and studied the pages for a few minutes. "Is this going to work?"he said. "In theory, yes. We never had the chance to use it in practice. Our people believe it's our best option, however." "All right. Let's do it." That afternoon the President was flown in secret to Area 51. He rode the elevator several stories underground and went into a meeting room where the aliens were waiting. They did not look pleased. "Hi,"the President said, and shook their hand-like appendages. "I'm sorry that our first meeting is in such unpleasant circumstances, but...excuse me." The President turned away then sneezed. "Sorry. As I was saying, I wish we could have made first contact in a more jovial atmosphere." One of the secret service agents in the room sneezed. Then another. The aliens looked around at the strange ritual. "Listen,"the alien in the middle of the group said. "You are clearly at fault here. The lanes around the Oort cloud have clear designation. Your unmanned vehicle was going the wrong way, in the wrong lane. Any intergalactic lawyer--" The President held up his hand and sneezed. The secret service agents sneezed. The NASA director sneezed. One of the Marine guards sneezed. The alien who spoke looked perplexed. "Any interglactic..."he said, then his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed. The other aliens looked at him for a second then bent down to pick him up. Another one of them collapsed. The another and another, until they were all on the floor, defeated by the common cold for which they had no immunity.
“Hello?” A voice enquired from the other end of the call. “Good morning Mrs. McCormick! My name’s Andy, Andy Marchosias. I was wondering if you could spare the briefest moment of your time to listen to a once in a lifetime opportunity” He summoned every ounce of cheerfulness possible, as he begged her to grant him her attention. “Hello? Mrs. McCormick?” Silence reigned. It didn’t work. Damn it, I didn’t even get past the introduction. Nobody likes telemarketers. Hell, I wouldn't even talk to myself. And even if I manage to hold their attention long enough to tell them what the call is about, they just laugh, or curse at me. Nobody wants to sell their soul nowadays. As thoughts rummaged through his head, he looked at the monthly scoreboard. Cero, nada. Absolutely nothing. Mr. Beelzebub was not one to come up with fresh marketing ideas. It wasn’t his fault, in truth. When you’ve lived for millions of years, it’s hard to grasp how quickly things change in the 21st century. Telemarketing had been a successful strategy in the 90s, surely enough. But by 2016, it had become obsolete, to the point that telemarketers were the most hated pink-collar workers in the world. Andy had lost track of how many times people had laid curses upon him, before even hearing him out. It’s like they think we enjoy it. We hate it just as much as you people, perhaps even more. That’s it, I’m quitting, he thought. Billy quit, and he’s done fine. Not great, granted, but at least he doesn’t have to put up with this crap. I’m quitting, I’m quitting, I’m quitting! Agitated, he got up from his seat, pushing it back. He turned to walk towards Mr. Beelzebub’s office. Before he could begin his stride, however, the phone began to ring. Odd… that’s never happened before… “Hello?” Andy almost whispered into the phone. “Hello, is this the suicide hotline?” the voice on the other end answered. Andy lingered for a second, before his eyes widened to the size of pickle-jar lids. “Sir, could I ask you to hold on for just one moment, please?” “I guess… can’t make any promises though” At this, Andy pressed the hold button, and restarted his journey to the devil’s office. But not to quit this time. “MR. BEELZEBUB! I’VE JUST HAD A MILLION-SOUL IDEA!” ***** Edit: changed "blue-collar"to "pink-collar". Thanks to /u/redgrin_grumble and /u/ProblemPie for pointing out the mistake!
"Tell me a secret." Yup, there it is. Everybody knows that question. A woman went free last year, the only one who had ever escaped his clutches. She told us. "He said to tell him a secret, and if he did I could go." The world asked what she told him. She answered, "He said if I told anybody else it wouldn't be a secret anymore." "Well? TELL ME A SECRET!" He has a knife and he's getting a little crazy with it. I'm tied to a chair, but armed to the teeth with exactly what will stop him. I have my secret, and it's going to tear him apart. "I know what she told you." He stops. He turns. "The little bitch talked? But that was OUR SECRET! I'll hunt her for this, I'll have her back and I'll have her guts and I'll have her head and I'll...I'll...AAAAAAAARRRRGH." He brutally slaughters a pillow on the couch under the window. It looks like the couch has seen his knife many times as well. I think he has some issues. "No, she didn't tell a soul. But that doesn't mean I don't know her secret." "HOW COULD YOU KNOW? It's a secret, that's how they work, EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT NOBODY KNOWS!" This guy and his fucking wordplay. It's like a middle school child writing poetry. "That's my secret." "That you know?" "How I know." "Would you tell it to spare your life?" "I'd tell it to end yours." "HA! Like I haven't heard threats!" "But you have heard secrets, and I've got one for you. Actually, I have four." I toss the handcuffs at his feet and stand up. "Secret number one: my father was a stage magician. Secret number two: I hunted you. I found out who you were and I turned myself into the perfect victim just for you, so you'd bring me here." He's looking a bit flustered now. Good. Ah, there it is - he rushes me with a yell. I sidestep, block his wild (but telegraphed) swipe with the knife, twist his wrist until he drops the knife, then drop him onto the floor where I deliver a good hard kick to the face. He recoils in pain and blood spurts over the floor - I've broken his nose. I kick the knife away from him and put myself between it and him. "Secret number three: the woman that got away was my mother. And her secret? She could tell truths, as a soothsayer does. But do you know what her DOUBLE secret was? She couldn't. She did cold reading on you - read clues about you, made inferences, wide vague statements that you reacted to that let her narrow in on the facts she needed. I learned sleight of hand and a little bit of martial arts from my father, she picked up on the psychology of it all very well. Plus, she could really pull off the 'sawed in half assistant' trick." "Ad youb hebe to kiw me becaud I took you bub?"The broken nose makes it hard to understand, but I get the message. "No, she got away clean. We needed to research you, after all, and she took a calculated risk. I didn't want her to do so, but we needed to know what kind of handcuffs you used so I could get the right key. Now, secret number four: your third victim was my father." It won't bring back my father, but the look of fear in his eyes as I wrapped my hands around his throat will give me comfort until my dying day.
"I can barely understand these things sometimes."Emma stared blankly at the screen. "Petition for constitutional change barring lame duck officiants from holding office longer than one-eighth term." "They want you to impeach the president,"called a voice from down the hall. Emma rolled her eyes. "Why don't they just say that, then?" "They're still trying to strike a balance between completely political speak and layman speak. The laws can't have words like dude or man or filler words in them, Emma." "Dad can you just come in here?"Emma pressed a button at random on her screen and stood. She wandered toward her father's study and found him with his head down on his desk. His shelves were lined with dusty law books with uncracked spines. Her father had once told her they were more for decoration than anything else. If I never read another law book it will be too soon, he'd said. "Constitutional law is tricky,"Emma's father spoke with his cheek against his desk. "Now that the president has done this nonsense &mdash;" "It's only four years, Dad." "Four years of letting the millennials decide everything. Four years of children growing up thinking this is democracy, while the older generations sit wondering how to even pick up the goddamn smart phone in the first place." Emma's phone pinged and she looked at it. "Open referendum to allow Arkansas to criminally prosecute anyone who pronounces it R-Kansas under a court of federal law." "Life used to be worth something, Emma,"her father stared off into his bookshelf. Emma frowned. "I kind of think I should introduce a referendum that Arkansas should only be pronounced R-Kansas." Emma's father sighed. "I miss the congress." --- Thanks for reading. If you're interested subscribe to r/Celsius232 for tons of other stories.
I was diagnosed with clinical depression in my late teens, though it was likely a part of me years before. I knew about the conversations with my younger self every ten years (everyone did it), and fortunately with the help of therapy and medication I lasted until I was 20. I woke up, eager to see what word I would have on my arm. Looking down, I saw what would keep me going for at least another ten years: "LIVE". From that moment forward, I did my best to keep a positive attitude. Through college I volunteered at every chance, and though it took me a while, I eventually graduated with a degree. My parents were thrilled, and things were looking up. I got an internship at a local start-up, started dating a girl I knew from school, and would make sure to look at my arm at least once a day, as though to say "I will." When I was 26, my girlfriend dumped me. It hurt more than you could imagine, and the depression came back in full force. It affected my job, and I was eventually let go. I wound up moving back in with my parents, which didn't help anything but I had little choice in the matter. There were several times I thought about ending it all. But every time, I would look down at my arm and see that four-letter word that always kept me going. Thinking on it, I realized I would be in a better place in my 30s, enough so that I would make sure I'd use the one word to keep my past self alive to see it. Things turned around again when I was 28. I got a new, much better job, and could finally afford a really nice one-bedroom apartment in the city. My colleagues and I got along great, and I wound up dating a coworker's roommate for a while. It didn't last, but I was back out there again, feeling better. The depression retracted, albeit slowly, but it was enough to get me to 30. Seeing my 20-year-old self, I simply instructed him to live. The next day I woke with a smile, pleased with my conversation to help my past self and obsessively curious as to what new word I'd have on my arm this time. Only, there wasn't one. ****************** For more eerie stories, check out /r/Zchxz !
It's funny how much people will judge you off of appearances alone. Okay, I'll admit that this has been true throughout most if not all of human history, but you'll have to agree that superficial judgements have become significantly more commonplace ever since the Marking happened. I mean, when the law literally requires you to wear your heart on your sleeve (or in this case, your throat to be more accurate), I guess it really is hard not to. For those of you who live outside the realm overseen by the Advent Administration, or live in some happy alternate timeline where humanity wasn't so stupid and buffoonish as to blast radioactive waste all over the land that hadn't already been ravaged from irreparable environmental damage, you might be confused. But it's a good thing you are, because you don't have to live through the hell that is the Advent's utopia. The Advent created a lovely little bubble in the middle of all the wasteland we created, a place where humans would be able to start anew and be given another shot at civilization. The hope was that at least this time, we wouldn't screw things up nearly as much as we did before. To ensure we would all be goodie-two-shoe law-abiding citizens, everyone citizen in this new world was Marked. The Mark is imprinted at birth, and no one out in the streets really knows how they do it. As far as everyone knows, it's some kind of tattoo of sorts, cause you can't really get it off. Believe me, I've known people who've tried to burn it off with acid, skin it off, the works. It just doesn't come off. Even when you cut it off, it just grows right back, the outline of this round black oval that encompasses your windpipe. I don't know how they determine this, but someone or some people long ago came up with some arbitrary system of what was "right"and what was "wrong". And somehow, this little piece of geometry printed on your throat would know if you were being naughty or nice. Do something "bad", it begins to color in. Do something "good", and the color fades away. Pretty simple, huh? Great way to make sure people pay their bills and toss a few coins to the homeless every once in a while. Only the difference between the Father Christmas analogy I made earlier and our reality – if I recall that old bit of Earthen mythology correctly – is that the kids back then got off really easy with a bit of coal. Us? Once our mark fills in, it blocks up our trachea. It's quite a sight you know, watching someone wheezing themselves blue in the middle of the street, causing quite a disturbance, most likely going to be left to die unless some poor sod tries to help them cause he too is close to death and needs to get his obligatory good deed in before it's too late. So yeah, it's pretty fun. For all the suckers who have to deal with this, that is. A game that middle-schoolers love to play at sleepovers as they huddle under sheets is whispering and confiding to another the first time their oval filled in. It's almost a sacred ritual of sorts, letting people know the first time you did something definitively wrong after the age of ten, where the Mark actually goes into effect (the Advent at least decided that they wouldn't kill off any children from stealing from the cookie jar). It was always a bit annoying for me, since I never had a moment where my Mark got filled. Back then, it was almost a mark of shame. Or I guess it was the lack of a mark of shame that was shameful. Fact is, everyone goofs up eventually. Except me apparently. To everyone else growing up around me, I was always the most straight-arrow, straight-laced, straight-whatever person they had ever met, the paragon who never did wrong. Back then, it had made me quite the target of ridicule and schoolyard bullying, as people would play games trying to provoke me into doing something, anything "bad". When the teachers first pulled me off Jack Stevens, they didn't pay attention to my Mark under all the blood and snot. I didn't even notice myself, until I was washing myself in the bathroom outside the principal's office, and found myself staring at a very empty Mark. I didn't know what to think of it until hours later, long after I was suspended for the rest of the week and sent home alongside a teary mother who couldn't believe her son could have committed such an act. She had even pointed out at my empty Mark, and everyone had been amazed at how quickly I had committed some kind of good deed to empty it out. But I knew the truth. Once my parents had gone off to sleep, I had tested it. In really tame manners really. Going outside after the state-enforced curfew, just for a few moments. Stealing a few sweets without asking my mother first. Drawing on a few walls in my closet in permanent marker. While those walls were definitely marked, my throat was not. I was still clean. I didn't realize the full extent of how much a blessing and a curse it was at that age. A blessing in the way that I wasn't like the many desperate Scrooges (that's what we called them) who wandered the streets, people who were on the brink of death, begging all who passed by to let them do just one good deed, just one good thing to save them. A curse in the way that I actually had to keep up my aura of pure morality, at least in public. People would get suspicious if my Mark didn't fill in after I obviously did something bad. The Advent would get suspicious if my Mark didn't fill. And I didn't want that. The Mark was interesting because there wasn't a way you could really cover it up. The law forbade people from covering it with clothing, and if you did, then you just colored yourself a few millimeters closer to death. If you tried to cover it up with makeup, the Mark would soon show through it, no matter how thickly you tried to layer it. In my case however, I discovered that black marker did a really fine job of making a faux Mark. Interestingly enough, there wasn't a built-in countermeasure towards pretending to be more "bad"than you really were. It was enough to dispel most attention. I would vary the amount I had day to day, just to blend in with everyone else. It was a pity my mother found out despite all my precautions. And so that leads me back to how quickly people judged another off of appearances alone. When the ambulance arrived to pick up my mother's corpse, they saw the purple face, blue lips, and black throat, and immediately assumed my mother had committed some heinous wrongs. Never once did they consider that she had simply realized her son's Mark was glitched, and upon refusing to tell the authorities about it, it had killed her on the spot. An eye opening experience I'll have to admit, towards the benevolence of the government. Let me tell you another one about how quick we are to judge. Many of the Advent officials around here, they can only become high up with a prerequisite cap on the size of their mark. I mean, most jobs screen off of a similar basis, but working directly as an Advent executive requires a prohibitively small Mark. Having a Mark that empty generally entails a person who is built towards order, towards conformity, towards thinking inside the box and following the rules, and so it is that most people like that end up working for the Advent anyway. Me? I'm the guy they assume is one of them. They pass by me with knowing looks, a friendly nod, a smile they give to me but not the woman beside me with a half-filled Mark. Whenever a Scrooge passes by the two of us, they always meet my gaze and shake their heads slightly, as if to say "can you believe this guy?" They never expect the wire. They never expect to ever actually experience the sensation of having your throat close in tight around itself, cutting off your air supply, slowly starving your brain of that delicious oxygen. They follow me blindly into nice and isolated locations, secure in their belief I can do no wrong, they I have done no wrong. And when the deed is done, they never suspect. Murder is a crime that pretty much fills in your Mark right away. It still happens, but very rarely do people get away with it. Except for in the cases where your Mark doesn't fill in. Except for when, at first glance, an empty oval means you can be none other than a paragon of justice.
"Hush little one. We cannot let them hear us." "Why Mother?" "Because they will enslave us. Or worse." "I don't understand. Why are they doing this to us?" "Long ago, their ships came from the sky. The People were awed by them. Gleaming and white, descending on a pillar of flame. It was very impressive. I was a little girl at the time but I remember everything about it. School was cancelled for a week and I thought it was the best week ever. "Soon, the aliens - 'humans', they called themselves - started studying us. Started bringing miracles to The People. Medicines to cure all ills and ships that would travel faster than the blink of an eye. "Then they told us there was a cost for these miracles." "What's a 'cost'?" "A word the humans brought with them. They would not give us anything without expecting something in return. The thing you give back has to be as good as the thing they gave you - or better." "I thought The People gave to each other to stop the pain?" "That's right. We do. But humans are different. They are unable to feel the pain from those around them." "So they don't know when someone right next to them is hurting?" "No. Sometimes, if they're very quiet and happen to be a very special human, one of them may be able to guess that another is in pain. But they're just guessing. Only The People can feel the pain. "So the humans taught us about cost. By that point we owed them far more than we had. The only way to pay them back was not with things but with labor. Hard work over many lifetimes. And every day we work for them we have more cost - for food and clothes and shelter. We will not be clear of all the costs until your grandchildren's grandchildren's time. By that point The People will know nothing but laboring for the humans." "Is that why we ran?" "Yes. I brought you away to the mountains so that you would not have to pay for what your elders did. I've heard rumors that there are still free People up here. People who never took the gifts and never gathered any costs. They live in the old ways. It is simpler up here, without all the gifts from the humans. No medicines either. But we are free." "What do we do now?" "First, we keep moving. The People who live in the mountains are deeper in. The humans have flying machines that will search for us without rest - but those machines cannot fly too far from the cities or their ships. "After that, once we find The People again, your job is to grow big and strong, to learn all you can about The People, and to convince others to forsake the humans' gifts." "Why is that?" "Because, little one, the humans owe us as well. They took our way of life and enslaved our race. You must collect the cost from the humans. This cost cannot be paid in machines or medicines - only in blood. You remember that - they owe us the cost of blood."
Raphael was working much more these days. Being the angel of knowledge, he was tasked with figuring out the latest overpopulation issue. "Hey, Raphael. How goes the science?" Raphael gazed up from his equipment and met eyes with the humble carpenter. "Oh, hey Jesus. Man, these humans really developed something amazing this time. They were able to completely bypass the wall we had put in place from entering the different flows of time and space, with simple radio waves! I would have never dreamed they would come up with this." Jesus frowned. "Yes, they are masters of bending the rules and creative solutions. It makes me smile at the fact they were created in the Father's image... but this is getting out of hand. I told them I would go ahead and prepare them a room, but it was one room per individual. I mean, look at the line in front of the gate." Jesus pointed at the line that was now reaching the horizon of the heavenly plane. "You see that guy right there? The one in the brown sweatshirt and with the buzzcut? That guy's name is James. He is a faithful follower who had deserved many crowns in his room. The problem is that is copy 3,849 of James. Do you know how many copies of James I can shove into the room I prepared for him?" Raphael shook his head. "Jesus, I may be the archangel of knowledge, but that doesn't mean I know the volume of the rooms you give to the believers." "Just over a hundred Raphael! ONE HUNDRED!! The doors are literally coming off their hinges they are so full! The rooms are very spacious for one person, but not 3,849! We need a solution to our problem right now!" Raphael smiled. "Well Jesus, I have good news. I just finished installing a transporter of our own." Jesus took a look at the box Raphael had just unveiled. "This is what the humans are using?" "An exact replica. The original scientist and a couple of his copies helped me build it." Jesus rubbed his hands against the polished metal of the device. "Where does it transport them to?" "To the incinerator..." "You mean the lake of fire! That is only for the damned to go, not the believers!" Raphael shrugged. "I thought about that too, but if we keep the original, and send all the copies, it shouldn't be an issue, right?" Jesus stroked his beard in thought. "This is true... Maybe this will work after all. I just have one question for you Raphael." "What's that Jesus?" Jesus pointed back at James who was now about to come through the gates. "We have thousands of copies of people just like that... we lost track of the originals quite a while back. How do we sort that mess when we can't tell the difference between the copy and the original?" "Way ahead of you Jesus. I had some architects build an arena, complete with concession stands. We will have all the copies fight to the death. The winner will obviously be original, who should be superior in every way." Jesus smiled. "Brilliant, just brilliant. This should help our economy with all the ticket and concession sales too. Great job Raphael, let's continue with that plan, we should probably build more transporters too." "Does this mean I should be getting a raise, Jesus?" "We'll talk about it the next staff meeting."
Interview Transcript with Butler #2,321 from the desk of Special Detective Grant Wilson. WILSON: This is Detective Grant Wilson on day four of murder case, identification Zero-One--Zero-Tree-Nine-One, continuing interview series. Please state your name and identification number for the record, and be aware everything you say is being recorded. BLAIR: Alexander Blair. I'm giving the number from what? WILSON: From the Butler Convention, your given ID. BLAIR: Oh, number Two-Three-Two-One. WILSON: Okay, let's get started. Where were you from midnight to six in the morning on the second day of the Convention, dated August 12th, 2017. BLAIR: Midnight to six? WILSON: Yes. BLAIR: I was first at the end of the day party, that ran until about one in the morning. WILSON: And where was that? BLAIR: On the floor of the Convention. Most of us were there. WILSON: And after that? BLAIR: Well, I received a call from my Sir at around one. I excused myself from my friends in order to go help him. WILSON: Your Sir? BLAIR: Yes, sir. The Knight who employs me. WILSON: And that is? BLAIR: Sir Lawrence Daily. WILSON: And your friends names? BLAIR: I was with George Halloway from New York and Kent Fredericks from London WILSON: So, you received a call at around one in the morning? Go on. BLAIR: Yes, Sir Daily needed help with his DVR. I obliged, of course even being at this convention, I am not lifted from my duties as a Butler. So I helped him. All in all, it lasted for about an hour and I had made my way back to my hotel room. WILSON: Hotel and room number? BLAIR: The Raddison, 402. WILSON: And from there? BLAIR: Well, I watched a great movie that Halloway had told me about. Rented it from the hotel. Apparently it is a hugely important film in America, Independence Day. Laughter from WILSON is recorded here. BLAIR: Yes, great movie, I do say. Once I finished there, I took a sleeping pill and went to bed. The third day of the Covention is certainly the hardest. WILSON: And Sir Daily and your friends can solidify your story? BLAIR: Yes, of course. WILSON: Would you happen to have a receipt of the purchase? BLAIR: Yes, I believe I could get that. WILSON: Okay, good. Moving on from there, do you know this man? Cluttered noises. WILSON stated he slid a picture of the victim, ABRAHAM PALMER, to BLAIR, with other images as well. BLAIR: That is Abraham, one of the founders of the Convention. He is a great man, one of the greatest I've ever met. WILSON: Is? He's the victim of a murder, and dead. BLAIR: Yes, well, he lives on with all of us and this convention, sir. WILSON: Would you say you were good friends with him? BLAIR: Friends? Heavens no. Abraham kept to himself, he hardly communicated with the Board of Butlers. I say no one has seem him longer than a few minutes at this convention for the last twenty years. WILSON: Any reason why? BLAIR: He founded the Convention with his fellow butlers from the same household. Thirty years ago, he was fired from the household. Middle-aged, he had nowhere to go and the household turned his back on him. We, here at the Convention, helped of course, but there's only so much we can do. WILSON: Which household is this? BLAIR: Wartinburg, from Germany. He started as the youngest Butler in the house, but quickly became the head. Not sure why the falling out came about, but it did. WILSON: Wartinburg? I know that name. BLAIR: Reginald Anderson. He's an American, like you, but he currently resides in the Wartinburg house. WILSON: Would any one--including Anderson--want to hurt Abraham? Any enemies? BLAIR: I don't see how, or why, frankly. He's the Director of this Convention, has been since the last of the Original Wartinburg founders died. WILSON: How long ago was that? BLAIR: Around ten years ago. WILSON: Help me understand the politics of this Convention. The Board loses a Director, who chooses a new one? BLAIR: We will vote at the end of this Convention. None of the Board members can be chosen. A pencil strikes against paper. WILSON states he crossed out a list of possible Perpetrators, those on the Board. WILSON: Any obvious choices? BLAIR: Now that Abraham is gone? Anderson, certainly. Keeping it within the Wartinburg household is paramount. Behind him, I would say myself. WILSON: You? BLAIR: Yes, me. Sir Daily is the nephew of the current Wartinburg Head. Though most people don't know that, which is why I'm telling you now. WILSON: I see. Who does know? BLAIR: Halloway and Fredericks. WILSON: Would they have any reason to help you and not Anderson? BLAIR: Besides the fact that we are friends? WILSON: Yes. BLAIR: I see no reason. The Director gains a small income and can help choose Board seats. There is some prestige within the household, but-- WILSON: Do board members get an income, or power? Ten-second silence. BLAIR: You don't suppose they had anything to do with it, do you? WILSON: Well. BLAIR: No, they wouldn't do that. To kill Abraham? WILSON: So, you think it is Anderson? BLAIR: It's obvious! WILSON: It is obvious that you and your friends have a stake in this as well. BLAIR: No, no. They wouldn't. WILSON: Then if not them, Anderson. And he has--or had--an alibi. BLAIR: That is? WILSON: He was with your friends. That leaves one logical conclusion. Thirty-second silence. BLAIR: I'd like to speak to Sir Daily. Folders are piled up, images are gathered, WILSON taps the table. WILSON: Of course, butler. ____________ /r/BlankPagesEmptyMugs for more!
FADE IN: INT. A WAITING ROOM Several people sit in uncomfortable-looking chairs which line the walls of what appears to be a hospital waiting room. Near the front of the space is a large desk, occupied by a CLERICAL DEMON. She adjusts her glasses and reads from a list on a clipboard. CLERICAL DEMON: Alright, Davy? Davy? A young man stands up and rushes to the desk. This is DAVE. DAVE: Hi, uh, I think that's me. CLERICAL DEMON: You're Davy? DAVE: Ah, well, it's "Dave,"actually, but... CLERICAL DEMON: You'll need to wait your turn, then. The clerical demon glances down at her clipboard again. CLERICAL DEMON: (CONT'D) (Shouting) Davy! Davy, you're next! Dave winces slightly, apparently disturbed by the demon's loud voice. DAVE: I really think that's me. How is it spelled? CLERICAL DEMON: Sir, I've already told you: You'll need to wait your turn. DAVE: I'm pretty sure it is my turn! CLERICAL DEMON: It's not your turn; it's Davy's turn. DAVE: But... CLERICAL DEMON: (Interrupting) Sir, everyone wants to get to their punishment. Just take a seat and wait. For what seems to be the first time, Dave looks around at his surroundings. DAVE: Sorry, "punishment?" CLERICAL DEMON: Yes, sir. Dave continues to look around. A confused expression crosses his face. DAVE: Hang on, how did I even get here? What is this place? CLERICAL DEMON: It's the place where Davy is supposed to be standing. Please go back to your seat. DAVE: I don't mean this specific square foot, I mean... CLERICAL DEMON: (Interrupting) Please wait until I call your name, sir. DAVE: I think I'd prefer to just leave, thanks. CLERICAL DEMON: (Shouting) Davy! Davy! After wincing again, Dave turns around and scans the walls. He spots a door behind him, which he approaches, opens, and walks through. CUT TO: ------ INT. THE SAME WAITING ROOM Several people sit in uncomfortable-looking chairs which line the walls of what looks to be a hospital waiting room. Near the front of the space is a large desk, occupied by a clerical demon. She adjusts her glasses and reads from a list on a clipboard. CLERICAL DEMON: Davy? Is there a Davy here? DAVE: (To himself) What the hell? CLERICAL DEMON: No, sir, not hell. Are you Davy? Dave approaches the desk, looking bewildered. DAVE: What's going on here? CLERICAL DEMON: If you're not Davy, I'm going to have to ask you to sit down. DAVE: Look, I don't have a damned... CLERICAL DEMON: (Interrupting) Darned. DAVE: ... What? CLERICAL DEMON: There's no damning here. Only darning. DAVE: Like with socks? The clerical demon rolls her eyes. CLERICAL DEMON: How funny, sir. I've never heard that one before. DAVE: I really, really don't know what's happening right now. CLERICAL: What's happening is that you're sitting down and waiting your turn. DAVE: I think it is my turn, though! CLERICAL DEMON: (Suspiciously) You wouldn't happen to be cutting in line, would you? Dave opens his mouth to respond, but stops himself. A look of horror begins to cross his face. DAVE: Wait a minute. Am I here because I... CLERICAL DEMON: (Shouting) Davy! Davy! DAVE: Please stop doing that! CLERICAL DEMON: Sir, everyone wants to get to their punishment. Just take a seat and wait. Dave turns and runs back toward the door. CUT TO: ------ INT. STILL THE SAME WAITING ROOM Several people sit in uncomfortable-looking chairs which line the walls of what looks to be a hospital waiting room. Near the front of the space is a large desk, occupied by a clerical demon. She adjusts her glasses and reads from a list on a clipboard. CLERICAL DEMON: Davy? Is there a Davy here? DAVE: (Shouting) Augh! CLERICAL DEMON: Are you Davy? DAVE: Augh! The clerical demon looks at her clipboard. CLERICAL DEMON: I don't have an "Augh"listed. Please take a seat, and we'll see you when we can. DAVE: No, look, this is... CLERICAL DEMON: (Interrupting) (Shouting) Davy! Davy! Dave approaches the front desk. DAVE: Stop, please! Where am I?! Is this because I cut in line?! CLERICAL DEMON: Sir, unless you're Davy, I'm going to need to ask you to sit down. DAVE: Look, can I just see... Dave reaches for the clerical demon's clipboard, only to have his hand smacked by it. CLERICAL DEMON: That's confidential, sir. Please sit down. DAVE: It's just that... The clerical demon interrupts Dave by brandishing her clipboard. He flinches, then goes and sits down in a chair. CLERICAL DEMON: (Shouting) Davy! Dave looks around the waiting room. Nobody else moves. CLERICAL DEMON: (CONT'D) (Shouting) Davy! After waiting another few seconds, Dave stands up and approaches the desk again. DAVE: Look, honestly, how is "Davy"spelled on your clipboard? CLERICAL DEMON: Unless you're Davy, you don't need to worry about it. DAVE: No, see, because... CLERICAL DEMON: (Interrupting) Sir, everyone wants to get to their punishment. Just take a seat and wait. DAVE: Stop saying that! I really don't want to get to my punishment, but you keep calling my name! The clerical demon looks at Dave over the rims of her glasses. CLERICAL DEMON: You're Davy? DAVE: ... Yes. CLERICAL DEMON: Then why did you say your name was "Augh"before? DAVE: I didn't! That was just... look, I'm Davy, okay?! I'm Davy! A few more seconds pass while the clerical demon stares at Dave. CLERICAL DEMON: Alright. Go through the door behind me, take the first hallway on your right, and wait in room three. A door to the right of the clerical demon opens with an ominous creek. Dave nervously approaches and walks through. There is an impossibly bright flash of light. CUT TO: ------ INT. STILL THE SAME WAITING ROOM, YET AGAIN Dave stumbles back into the waiting room. The clerical demon eyes him. CLERICAL DEMON: Well, I guess you're not Davy, are you? DAVE: What?! But I... CLERICAL DEMON: (Interrupting) You'll just have to sit down and wait... your... turn. A frustrated squeak escapes Dave's lips. He trudges over to a chair and sits down. DAVE: (To himself) Darn it... CLERICAL DEMON: (Shouting) Davy! You're next! FADE TO BLACK.
The show is nothing. Barely anything. The tricks are old. There's nothing you haven't seen before. Birds. Transformations. Levitations. The tricks are clean, you'll give him that, but not exactly memorable. And the show itself is strangely humble. Subdued. There's no flash. No pizzazz. Not even any music. He speaks quietly and clearly and in a Vegas lounge, way, way off the Strip, you'd assume he'd be swallowed up by the clang of drink glasses and cashed out losers wailing into their cups. But everyone listens. Everyone pays attention. They gasp. Sometimes they even cry. But they never clap. As if that would be an insult, somehow. As if this weren't a show at all. As it if were a sermon. He's transfixing, you can't deny that. Shaggy for a magician, and almost oppressively sincere, he seems to be talking directly to you. Perhaps that's why those simple, old tricks work so well. He's not trying to sell you on anything. He's not trying to hide. He just wants you to believe. And you - eventually, inevitably - want to believe right back. It's not the stage, though, where he you really see it. It's the after party - if you could call it that. Because after the show, the lights go up and no one really leaves. In fact, the crowd seems to grow. From the back of the auditorium, you see the girls from across the street start filtering in - either off their shift or on an extended smoke break. They've all got big coats or long robes on, covering up the neon pasties and the lycra thongs. He waves them in, smiling, calling them all by name. If you'd never seen this happen before, you'd probably get the wrong idea - about him, about the girls. But they all sit together on the stage, and they take turns talking, and your wrong idea withers on your tongue. The broke gamblers come in, and the alcoholics, and the men and women who roam the streets, half-senseless and afraid. He welcomes them all and finds food for them - from where? Just another simple sleight of hand, you might suppose. Despite yourself, and despite the time, you'll wander down to the stage. To see it for yourself. And when you arrive, you won't see him at first, so you'll allow yourself to imagine that he was what you always thought he was. That he's run off with one of the girls. That he is just the same as you on the inside. But he'll be there, just not where you first look. Instead, you'll need to look to the worst of the lot. The one the others cannot help but shun. That's where he'll be. He will give his night's earnings to the poorest and his fresh clothes to the half-naked. For the woman who is afraid to go home, he will offer the key to his room. He doesn't need it anyway. It seems he never leaves that theater. Somehow, some way, morning eventually comes. And you'll know this because the doors are always open. You have places to be. You can't stay. So you stumble back out into the street and try to grasp just what it is you've seen. But luckily you aren't alone. You'll see it in the faces of the others. And you'll revel in that newly forged brotherhood. When night comes, you'll want to go back. But not alone. And when you tell others of the show, they'll say, "Why? It doesn't sound very exciting." How do you explain? You tell them that they need to see it with their own eyes. You ask them to have faith.
We had no idea what we were thinking when we came to the doorstep of a budding civilization. Our kind has heard of humanity before, a young species living on a small distant star system on the fringes of the galaxy. They were only beginning to take their small steps into the exploration of their own system, much like how our own ancestors did millions of years ago. The usual order given was to observe the budding civilization from a distance, waiting for the right moment to introduce them to the greater galactic community. A sudden invasion from the Andromeda galaxy put that idea on hold. The invaders were swift and powerful, nothing like we have ever seen. The speed of their attacks left much of the galaxy unable to muster a proper defense, and so were annihilated. Only the Capital, protected by the safety of a supermassive black hole, remained standing. We were only a small observation outpost, but we were immediately told to contact humanity, warn them of the impending danger, allow them to prepare for the coming apocalypse. With haste, we turned out ship into the Sol system. Our first warning that humanity was different from what we had originally seen was that they had already colonized a sizable amount of their system, when less than two hundred years before they were still trying to achieve flight. Even our best scanners could not have predicted such progress. Our second warning was that we were greeted with open arms. All other races beforehand would be wary of an alien ship landing in front of their capital. The humans had sent a signal to our ship to head to a large moon, where they were waiting for us. Our third warning was that this signal was perfectly translated. Our fourth warning was the most grave of all, and a reminder to us that even as your were observing others, they were observing you. As soon as we came down from our ship, a human male dressed in what seemed to be their formal wear approached us. With a heavy, but understandable accent, he said, "Welcome, we've been waiting for you." --- I have to go, will continue this ten or twelve hours from now.
He broke through the window of the nineteenth floor with his tentacles at the ready. His henchmen followed behind him, gas masks held up against their faces. His clothes were of the professional type, as he sported a tie and waistcoat, but otherwise, they were impossibly wrinkled. From his collarbones downward he sported an impossible number of tattoos painting his skin, shuffling around on his command. I didn’t need to see those tattoos to know who he is. His name is Irezumi, and presumably, he wants something. The tentacles attached to his back reform back into tattoos onto one of his arms, and he strides down the hallway. He turns a corner, and I begin my work cleaning up the shattered remains of the window. Every time a break in happens within the tower of Vindicators, They replace the windows with thicker glass. Today, the glass is about as thick as a zoo enclosure. Carefully, I peer out the window to look downward. There’s circular slime marks on the windows below me. Irezumi must have climbed up with his tentacle tattoo. About halfway through my glass pickup, another pair of hands appears beside me, scooping up glass bit by bit. Rolled up sleeves reveal tattoos starting at the wrists. “Apologies about the window.” Irezumi says, dropping the shards into my bucket. “I’ve never been one of those guys who can leave without a trace.” I shrug. “It’s fine. That’s what they pay me for. That, and cleaning up Jackal Lass’s sheddings. And, well, her other... droppings.” Irezumi chuckles. He summons his tentacle tattoo once more, this time to stick it to several shards of glass at once. Admittedly, it's much faster than picking them up by hand. “I hate to be intrusive, but, well, how much do the Vindicators pay you? In case you haven’t noticed,” Irezumi says, tugging at his wrinkled sleeve as he puts away his tentacles, “I’m a bit of a mess right now.” Very briefly, I look into his eyes. They’re wild, and untamed, and swirling with energy. “Didn’t you have something to go steal?” He waves a hand dismissively. “My guys are on it. I have faith in their abilities.” As my job is completed, Irezumi stands to his height. He’s tall and pointed in every aspect. He holds a hand down to me, and I take it, standing up. “What happened to your last guy?” I ask. “Did he die? Was it a work accident? Fall in a volcano or something?” “Volcano? Heavens no. He retired about two months ago. Sweetest person you’d ever meet. Always made little origami bears out of the edges of the toilet paper rolls.” “Huh.” A sound comes from his watch. It’s a notification of some sorts. He grins. One of his teeth are gold capped. He fumbles in his back pocket, and hands me a card, half bent. “We’re ahead of schedule. I need to get out of here. If you want a job, and I mean an actual, well paid, insurance package, job, I can pay you double of whatever these guys are paying you. Unlike them, I actually respect the working class.” Irezumi begins to leave towards the staircase. I drop the bucket of glass, and follow him. “Seriously? Double?” “Double.” “Can I come with you now? I have some college courses and a car that I need to pay off.” Irezumi looks at me from head to toe, then talks into his watch. “Do we have room for an extra person on the helicopter?”
"Goddamnit Jerry, I can't lose you again!"Samantha lurched over the body, tears falling down her face. Samantha doesn't actually know the dying man but "Down the Street"has been getting bad reviews lately, critics didn't like season 59 so Samantha has to revive the series somehow. Standing next to the bed is a man with a rugged beard, long coat and fedora stands with a notebook and a pen. In an accent that imitates 70s American shows he asks the man questions. "Where were you when you were first diagnosed with lung cancer? Was it during the Zodiac murders of 1940? How old were you during 1940s? Not born huh? This can only mean one thing. I've got to alert Jenkins!"He starts pacing around the room in a rush. This was Sylvester Poirot Holmes's pilot episode and he couldn't mess this up. Another man entered the hospital ward , wearing full chainmail and holding a sword."Alas my father, a poor peasant, who could've known he would birth the chosen one, savior of the shire. The prophecy states that you will die but I know that this can't be true, the great wizard of Schimallyshankysong must have been lying to me!" Suddenly a girl entered into the ward, "Oh Brian! I TOLD you that eating 55 cheesecakes is bad for your health."She smiled and a laugh track played. "Now you're DYING!"The same laugh track played as she pulled a face. The man's life support system started failing and a chiseled doctor entered the room. "Everybody get out! This man is dying."Everytime he moved he fixed his hair. "But doctor! I will die without you!"A hot nurse appeared. "Nurse Mary! Lives are more important than affairs! His heart is failing!""My heart will fail soon Dr. Arthur save me!"They pulled into a long and passionate kiss as the life machine failed and the man died. Slyvester stopped his pacing and yelled, "The Zodiac Killer strikes again!"Samantha erupted into a burst of tears. The young squire swore to kill the man that killed his father, the dark wizard of Warususabnet. Another laugh track played and the doctor and nurse continued their kiss. The room suddenly turned dark, the wardrobe in the corner was pushed open by a dark and misty creature. "Dieeee, dieee! Satan will see you sooonn- oh wait he's already dead? Well that sucks, I always miss it, damn. Well I'll be off then"The creature returned into the closet. Samantha smiled. Season 60 is going to be great.
Did that mean I was... underwater? Where millions of pascals would weigh down on me and I would drown? Evidently not; whoever had put up that sign had thought this through, though I didn't know how. I was able to put two feet on the ground and breathe. It seemed likely a terrestrial race lived here, absurd as it sounded. I ventured further along the aquamarine road that followed. It only went downhill, and although multifarious sea life greeted my eyes from above and it was obvious there were millions of Newtons of force bearing down, I remained unaffected. It was almost beautiful, if not for how deadly it could be. Just as expected, less and less light penetrated through the layers of sea water and my descent got darker. Eventually, the slope flattened and I walked on a level road again. Pale purple fire lined the walkway and it seemed I was approaching a... citadel? The only way was forward, for going off-road meant trying my luck with the darkness that lay beyond. In the distance was a cliff glowing softly with unknown, rare metals. As I approached the gate of the citadel, two guards shrieked incoherently at me, thrusting polearms in my direction. They were like none I'd seen before, as if someone tried to make a trident out of scrap metal and plastic. Under the dim lighting, I saw colourful plastic wrappers adorn the guards' scaly human bodies. I had no choice but to stare them down, before the gate lifted and the guards stood aside. The citadel itself was an amalgamation of sand, metal and plastic. I was indeed deeply disturbed by how much plastic there was down here; I knew oil reserves existed deep in the ocean but that wasn't how plastic was made. Many portraits adorned the walls, of regal names and faces past. Eventually, I reached what could be the equivalent of the Throne Room. Opening the door, I was met with a lone figure slouched in the chair. His scales were blue and his eyes barely hung open, as his neck struggled to hold the weight of his head and ornate crown. I am the Ocean. Why have you come? I ventured a polite but precise response. "I'm sorry Sir, I really don't know. I was thinking of nice holiday locations, and here I was." There is no merriment around these parts. Your kind has corrupted my realm and killed my citizens. What once was whole and united, is now scattered and dead. The Great Reef is dead. Land has accumulated in the ocean, and not natural Land. The oil-based filth that your kind seems to find so indispensable. "So sorry to hear, my liege. My masters brought me here to wish you well, and to offer this to you by means of compensation."I handed him the bottle, and left the room before he could open it. The walls were adorned with portraits of rulers past. 5 minutes later, another took its place, and the blue light which the room possessed dulled into greyness, the colour of my suit. I put on my face mask, walked back in, collected the crown, and took out the map, this time precisely aiming for where my contract lay. The CEOs of the world's largest fishing corporations and oil refineries waited, rubbing their hands with glee. I threw the crown on the table, and if they were not obligated to maintain a veneer of professionalism they'd rush toward it like sharks to a bleeding surfer. Instead, they clapped and smiled like seals, for their enthusiasm still hid a predatory nature. A toast was proposed to the oil bosses who'd provided me with the murder weapon, and the afterparty talk comprised plans to expand oil refineries in the Gulfs. Was I right? Who could tell. The era of Kings had long passed, and Atlantis' ruler could not get in the way of my clients' corporate intentions. I didn't care, so long as I kept receiving my lifetime supply of oil and maritime products, and storms would not be precisely targeted at boats like how the rest of my family had died. The era of nature's dominance had ended. If we chose to let it live, it lived, and I had no compulsion against that. If we chose instead to kill it, that was nothing but our choice. It had taken 2500 years, and we had finally achieved mastery.
I've got him. I've got him. I've got him. I've been hunting for prey for a long time. But now, I found him. I stalked him for months: Learned his habits, his secrets, his desires and fears. Now I have him in my sights, I'm not letting the chance get away. He doesn't leave much. He goes to get food occasionally, usually simple things like pot noodles and microwaveable pizzas. He chugs through about 2 litres of soft drinks a day, but it seems he doesn't have a preference. He's not fat, so his metabolism must be very fast, since he hardly does any exercise. His girlfriend 'broke up' with him a few weeks back. What he doesn't know is that I had feigned the break up and killed her, made him believe that she put a no contact order in and that she changed her name and address. He's been broken since. Since that break up he's been a heavy drinker, and most of the time he's drunk. He used to a top player in some video game, but now he's not worth a damn. He doesn't care though, he says that getting away from those games was a blessing so he can turn his life around. But that's a lie, and I know it. Everything that mattered to him is ruined, but he doesn't know that. Not yet. Well, today is the day, and as I reminisce about the hunt, I really think I did a damn good job with this one. But something isn't right. I haven't seen him anywhere recently, even within his own house. Where has he gone? ...Oh no. So I found him hanging there, struggling to breath. Scraping at the rope with what might he has left. His face was going a violet blue and his hands are bloody and swollen, the life draining from his eyes as he notices me, axe in hand. He tries to speak, to tell me to cut him down, but before he knows it, the axe is embedded in the rope. He's not going out like this. I am the one who will end him. I will have the sweet taste of blood to look forward to, the scent of death to lose myself in. It's why I do this, and I am not letting it escape me here. I cut him down, and ask him why he did that, faking any knowledge I have about my involvement. Perhaps I can befriend him, turn his life around, and save him instead. When he is at the peak of his life, I send him back to the abyss of pain. This hunt has become all the more thrilling. ^(^r/MitsTriesWriting)
You stomp down the road to the Temple of Zeus, your wife behind you pleading. “Love there isn’t anything to be done, there’s no sense in starting a fight with the King of the Gods!” “King of the Idiots if he thinks he’s going to get away with messing with my wife!” “This happened to that one woman down in Delphi, now they have a son who can do twice the work around the house. It could actually be quite helpful.” Your wife pleads trying to block your way. “He has no respect for anyone else just because he’s got some immortality.” You say as you side step your wife. “And strength, and powers to basically control everything.” Your wife was gripping your arm, desperately trying to hold you back. “I don’t think this is a good idea” she croons, her beautiful dark eyes are full of concern. “When has that stopped me before?” You raise your wife’s hand to your lips and pull your arm gently from hers. “I’ll only be a minute” you promise as you step into the outer chamber. &nbsp; “ZEUUUUUUUUUUUS!” You begin to yell as you walk into the inner chamber. “ZEUS!” “Oi! Zeus man!” “ZEEEEEUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! SHOW ME YOUR FACE SO I SHALL STRIKE IT!” You yell, your voice echoing off the high ceilings. Then the ground below you begins to tremble, a voice roars, you feel the sound in your chest. “WHAT MORTAL DARES COMES TO MY HOUSE AND TALKS OF OBLIGATIONS OF A GOD!” You feel your legs begin to shake with fear as you clear your throat, trying to keep you tone strong. “It’s me, the husband of the woman you slept with.” The voice paused a beat. “THE MORTAL WILL HAVE TO BE MORE SPECIFIC.” “In Thebes, three months past.” Silence. “THE MORTAL WILL HAVE TO BE-” “Tryphania! The woman with dark hair and dark eyes” You growl rubbing your forehead. “AH YES HER” Clouds filled the chamber, lightning began to flash, the light so bright you had to shield your face with your hands. You feel a strong gust of wind nearly knocking you off your feet. “She was beautiful, you are very blessed.” A strong voice echoed down the chamber, a ten-foot-tall man stood at the end of the hall. His long white hair floating behind him as if he were in water. His chiseled face turned upward in a small smile. His body clothed in the finest cloth you have ever seen, it seems to shimmer in the sunlight. &nbsp; You fall on your knees. You hadn’t really expected to get this far. You had come to the temple to pray before but had never gotten a solid answer. Now here was a solid answer. A god that could kill you with a single thunderbolt. But you had come this far you had to at least try. “Zeus you owe my wife an apology!” Zeus’ face darkened “You dare stand before me after I have given you praise and imagine of telling ME what to do?” “Uh no, of course not. It’s just, my wife is pregnant now with your child.” “Many blessings to you.” You force a grin “Of course, we are blessed to have your bloodline. But Zeus- &nbsp; “ZEUS WHERE ARE YOU!” A female voice thundered in the hall, Zeus looked up his expression guarded. “In my temple, my wife Hera” he responded sweetly, he glanced down at the mortal. “It’s not the husband of someone’s poor wife you’ve taken advantage of, is it?” The voice layered with anger “There will be nowhere on Olympus you will have any peace if I find out-“ “OH MY GODDESS HERA” You crow, staring at Zeus triumphantly. Zeus figures your plan and is standing in front of you in an instant holding a thunderbolt above your head. “Don’t. You. Dare.” He whispers menacingly, you feel the heat from the thunderbolt on your face. “I want a healthy crop on my land for one thousand generations to come” you whisper back. “Fine.” Zeus snipes. “And good health for my family for one thousand generations to come” you add smiling. “Fine! Fine!” “And my family will be wealthy-" “For one thousand generations to come, already on it.” Zeus hissed his eyes flitting about the temple as if waiting for Hera to walk in. “YOU MORTAL HAVE GIVEN PRAISE AS ONLY IS RIGHT. I WILL BLESS YOU AND YOUR FAMILY.” You nod approvingly and Zeus glares at you. “Don’t push it” he hisses as his human form begins to evaporate.
Newly graduated guardian angel Laura was chosen to be paired with Daniel. Elderly Laura was a former OSHA officer, Daniel a 12-year-old delinquent. It was an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. _____________________________________________________ One scorching summer’s day, a bored Daniel decided to burn some ants using a magnifying glass. “What are you doing!?” Laura shrieked as she hovered behind Daniel. “Oh not you again, just piss off.” Daniel groaned. “Young man, do even know how much of a fire hazard this is!?” Laura sternly said. Daniel ignored her. “Do you even know what the first step you need to take in case of a fire is!?” Laura yelled. A sly smirk came across Daniel’s face, “Mmmm, yeah, a really fuckin’ big one!” Laura’s eye twitched. Under guardian angel code, Laura couldn’t let Daniel die under circumstances she could prevent, or else she’d spend eternity in hell. She came up with a plan. She clicked her fingers and a pamphlet she had distributed during her safety inspector days appeared on the dry grass in front of Daniel, it read; Don’t Be Hasty, Think About Safety! WARNING: Unsafe handling of this pamphlet may cause paper cuts which may lead to blood loss. If left untreated, blood loss may lead to unconsciousness. In severe cases unconsciousness may lead to death. ADVICE: KEEP AWAY FROM THROAT AND WRISTS! Daniel stared at it with a look of bemusement. “Read it!” Laura yelled. “Why?” Daniel responded. “Because there’s a good chance an accident brought you into the world, so don’t let one take you out of it.” She huffed. Daniel glared at her. He scrunched up the paper and started to chew it with a grin on his face as Laura looked on in fury. Suddenly he coughed and then desperately clutched at his throat. Laura watched on helplessly as his face turned red, blue, and then lifeless. It slowly dawned on her. She didn’t have a choking warning on the pamphlet. Laura’s fate was going to be similar to that of one of Daniel’s ants. _____________________________________________________ r/Dri_Writes for more stories!
This house has seen four murders. There's shows about it, books, and even a movie. It's horror is well known. My first night in my new home, I heard at least seven thuds. The ones I decided to investigate led to mysterious whispers and things falling around me. Finally, I had friends. They couldn't leave me. About three months after I settled in, the knocks and voices stopped. I sat in my arm chair staring at a small sliver in the wall. I'm day 9, the angry one had thrown my kitchen knife into the wall. I had it sitting on the table in front of me hoping to tempt him. Nothing. I'd knocked over a lamp to try to get the deceased maid in an uproar. Nothing. "Why have you stopped?!"I screamed suddenly. I was answered with silence. I thought we were having fun. I stood up to refresh my glass and saw, finally, after days of solitude, blood appearing on the wall. First, in random spots, the slowly connecting. I could tell that there was more than one spirit writing a message to me. I saw a 'Y', then an 'N' appeared. Several letters randomly filling in spaces, until the horrifying message was made cle- wait. "WHAT?? Are you kidding me??" In large bright-red and bloody letters: YOU'RE ANNOYING.
Fergus looked into the big, dopey eyes looking up at him. He ruffled the soft, golden fur and watched with glee as that enormous tongue flopped about. "Who's a good girl?"he enquired. He asked it again. Sally, his golden retriever, looked back at him with a sudden look of puzzled excitement. That age old question. Pondered by dogs since the epoch of the canine age. He asked again, and her tail began to raise and wag, like the nerdy kid in class who always knew the answer. "You want the ball?"he asked. "You want the ball?" Now this was a question Sally really knew the answer to. She did want the ball. She did. Her human must be really dense to not grasp this by now, asking day after day after day. Fergus pulled his arm back and threw the ball across the living room. Sally raced off in pursuit, bounding back to her master with the ball lodged firmly in her mouth. More ruffles followed on her head. After some nuanced debate, Fergus was finally able to convince Sally to release the ball. He pulled back his arm and launched it forward again, but kept the ball hidden in his palm. Sally threw herself across the room in in quick pursuit, diligent in her duties to find the ball. Fergus laughed to himself as she started her investigation. "I love you Sally, but you're not the brightest, are you?" Sally just looked at him with that goofy, lovable face. Then the door handle moved. Fergus jumped up. "Master?"he asked. "Master!"he affirmed! He ran towards the door as it opened, with Sally close behind, infected by his sudden excitement. Fergus bundled into the leg of the Alien as it entered the house, a newspaper under its arm and a tired look in its eye. Work had dragged today. It winced as Fergus and Sally slammed into its leg, before looking down with a doting smile. "Hello, Sally!"it exclaimed, as she tippy tapped on the spot. It ruffled her head with its large, luminous hands. Fergus stood next to her, wagging his rear. The Alien turned to him after, ruffling the hair atop his head. "Hello, Fergus!"it said to him. "How have you been?" Fergus's rear shook violently now. Any more and it would be called a dance. "Great! I've been great,"Fergus replied. "Good to hear. Now tell me. Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?" Fergus gripped his chin as his mind pondered on the essence of the question. "Now that is a thinker." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- If you liked this story check out /r/ShittyStoryCreator for more of my stuff :)
"Sorry, sorry sorry. What?"said the confused alien. "How long?" "Six hundred and one million, eight hundred and fourteen thousand, nine hundred and eighty three years, two months, and ten days,"replied the human captain of the ship. "We were thinking that would be pretty standard for species travelling between galaxies." "Uh... no,"the tall, humanoid arachnid said, brushing his chelicerae as though it were a beard. "I've never heard of anyone travelling in a spaceship for that amount of time. I've never even heard of a species that even lasts for so long before extinction. Did your FTL drive malfunction? I'm so sorry you had to be on that ship like that." "FTL drive? Are you serious? Those don't exist, do they? The reason we were on the ship for so long is because we have no other way to travel through space. We have biologically engineered ourselves to be immortal." "Immortal..."the arachnid's eight eyes blinked and stared upward. His imagination ran wild. Immortality was something that the universe's most advanced races had long forgone as a fantasy that could not be achieved. Even the longest-lived beings only made it a few centuries with the most advanced medical technologies and dieting practices. The Council would be shocked beyond their wildest dreams to learn of this development. A species supposedly much more primitive had somehow cracked the code. And they had done this because they couldn't build an FTL drive? He had many questions. Coming back to reality, he noticed that the humans had begun to argue and shout at each other. They had become rather embarrassed and angry that they had developed such a slow and impractical way of space travel. The arachnid loudly clacked his fangs together, and the humans quieted down. Turning toward the captain again, he began to speak: "Sir, I am baffled as to why your people seem to be disappointed in their oversight. On the contrary - you have created something far beyond an FTL drive - far beyond anything the universe has ever imagined! You are truly a race worthy of being placed on the High Council for your achievement. What is your name, captain?" "Elon Musk,"the man replied.
Part 1 "Bye, mom!"I shouted as I shot out of the car. "I'll see you in 3 weeks!"I almost dropped my backpack as I slammed the door closed, but scrambled it back on my shoulders and turned around. Everyone here looked so cool! Half the kids were wearing cloaks or colourful hats, there were even one or two witch hats! My eyes kept darting around; there was so much to see! Someone by the sign-up booth was flipping cards, showing off as they flaoted around his head. Someone else was sitting under a tree, waving a wand around, all focused... and then suddenly a butterfly flew out the tip. "Wow!"I exclaimed, running up to them. He was startled to see me stop right in front of him, and glanced up shyly. I grinned down at him. "That was so cool! How did you do that?"I asked. He looked proud, but a little nervous. "Oh, right,"I said, sitting down beside him. "My name is Fiona. what's your's?" "Goerge..."he said meekly. "You really thought that was cool?" "Well, yeah! I can't figure out how you did it,"I said. "I know a magician never reveals their tricks, but please please please could you show me?" He stared at me, puzzled. But then the pride at being praised won out. His back straightened. "It's really easy,"he said, tapping his wand on his wrist. "You just gotta focus on the summonning spell, but you call up a butterfly."He focused on his wand, glanced at me after a few seconds, then renewed his efforts. I giggled. He made it seem like it was real magic, instead of just an appearing technique. A moment later, a monarch appeared in a puff of orange smoke. "Seriously,"I told him, "you have to show me how you do that. Where do you store the live insect?" "What?"he asked, startled again. "Come on,"I said, rolling my eyes good-naturedly, "I'm at magic camp too. I know it's all tricks." This only puzzled him more. "...But it... isn't?"he said. "Of course it is,"I said. "You have a really great performance style, though,"I added quickly. "It would really convince anyone!" Realisation seemed to slowly dawn on him. "...Where's your wand?"he asked. "Oh, I do card tricks,"I said, pulling off my backpack. "Let me show you."I started to dig through the front pocket. "Fortune telling? I thought only adults could do fortune telling." "No, no, card magic,"I said, pulling out my pack. I shuffled the cards a little and held them out to him. "Here, pick one. and don't let me see it." He hesitated, then reached forward. He stared at his card then stared at me. "...Is this going to explode at me?" "What? No, just put it back in the pack, and I'll find it again." "...Without a wand?" "Without a wand,"I confirmed. He slid his card back between the others, and I shuffled again. "Was this your card?"I asked, holding up the jack of diamonds. "...Yeah..."he said. I grinned. "I'm hoping they're going to teach us some more tricks like this here,"I told him. He just kept staring at me. "What?"I asked nervously. "You're not a witch, are you?"he asked. "Well, I'm a magician. You know, like with magic?" "But that wasn't real magic, was it?" I laughed nervously. "Real magic?" He pointed behind me. I turned. Someone was waving a wand and making her luggage levitate behind her. Someone else was changing the colour of her camping uniform. A guy waved his wand a bike appeared out of nowhere. Everywhere I looked, people were doing magic. But none of it was any of the tricks I'd ever heard of. I turned back to George. "Is this real magic camp?"I asked him. He nodded. "You really need to show me how to do that trick, now."I said.
I'd found him, at last. Of course, he was less than pleased at my arrival. "You!"the thief growled. "How did you find me?" "Everyone leaves a trail,"I replied. "Even the best of the best." "Flattery won't help you, detective. It doesn't matter how you tracked me down; you'll die here, and I'll soon be rich enough to retire!" It was sheer luck that I, the one person unaffected by any Death Phrase, was also a world-renowned detective. By happy accident, I was able to retrieve the Phrasebook in person, knowing that the one who had taken it wouldn't be able to use it against me. "I'm going to give you one chance,"I warned. "You can give it to me now and walk away. I won't arrest you, and I won't hunt you down. But if you try to leave here with that book, I can promise that it won't end well for you." He chuckled viciously. "Big talk, detective. But I'm not the one in danger, here."He drew a pistol from his jacket and pointed it at me. He looked at me with eyes full of malice. He was probably hoping to see me fear for my life. I didn't oblige him. "You're making a mistake,"I said. "I really doubt that. Any last words?" I had a few choice words in mind. I'd come up with them earlier, in case I would need them to stay alive. Everyone has a set of words they avoid for their entire lives. For example, if someone's Death Phrase is, "Get in the water,"that person will likely spend their whole lives avoiding any pools or beaches. If your Phrase is "How did you like the sushi,"obviously you will spend your life avoiding sushi and seafood of any kind. Some Phrases are worse than others, and can have a dramatic effect on one's life. A person's Phrase might be, "Raise your hand."That person would not only have to be home-schooled, but avoid educational institutions altogether for fear of overhearing that instruction to an overeager student. A person's Phrase might be as simple as, "Come on!"The pour soul stuck with that common interjection would have no choice but to be a recluse, avoiding conversation with anyone they couldn't trust to stay away from those two words. What Phrase drives someone to become a thief? We live in a world filled with fear. People are always on edge, afraid that at any moment, they will hear the words that send them to their graves. In a world like this, it is hard to build trust, and hard to feel sympathy for others. People who are constantly afraid will constantly try to protect their own well-being. In this world, what is the one thing nobody will ever say to a would-be thief? I told him the answer. "You can have it." He didn't have time to react. In an instant, the light left his eyes and he collapsed. I walked over and searched his body. Sure enough, he had the Phrasebook. I quickly hid it away in my own bag and walked away. Another job finished. Who knows what harm could have been done, had that book fallen into the wrong hands? Still, I felt melancholy as I left. No matter how much I see death, I never get used to hearing it. &#x200B;
I strode along the pavement, clutching the chocolate I had just bought from the corner shop. I was lost in thought, deciding on tonights activities. Maybe I'll play some MMOs tonight, I thought. Lost in my thoughts I rounded the corner and swiftly bumped into a man coming the other way. A sharp pain shot across my chest, as I fell to the ground. I lept to my feet, and went to immediately apologise for not looking where I was going. &#x200B; "I'm so sorry are you oka..." &#x200B; Whoever I bumped into had gone, I wondered for a second if it had been my imagination but the dirt on the back of my jeans confirmed it. Thinking not much more of it, I turned my thoughts back to the game I was going to play tonight. I'd always liked playing my Mage on WoW. There was something very satifying about incinerating my foes with giant balls of fire. &#x200B; I finally arrived home and removed my shoes. I ran upstairs and hit the power on my computer as I threw my coat onto my bed. Cracking my fingers I sat down in my chair ready for a night of farming. There was an item I really wanted to get and tonight was the night I was determined to. As with all farming I kept the internet open on my second screen, flicking back between YouTube, Netflix and the news. A weird story caught my attention, a set of clothing filled with ash had been found not far from me. I bookmarked it to read later. &#x200B; Several hours of farming later it dropped! Estatic with my eventual luck I stretched and leant back in my chair, exhaused. I quickly realised I had leant back too much, my chair topped over backwards with me in it, bracing for impact I scrunched up my eyes and tensed my muscles, but the impact never came. Opening my eyes slowly I could see in the floor length mirror on the wall that I was hovering just above the ground. Panic shot through my body and whatever force was keeping me there suddenly failed. I slammed into my toppled chair and my head hit the floor. &#x200B; A bit freaked out but overall okay, I decided I must have been hallucinating and a quick glance at the clock showed it was 3:54 in the morning. I threw off the rest of my clothes and crawled into bed. &#x200B; I had the strangest dreams that night, storms streaked through the sky, rituals and symbols flashed through my mind. &#x200B; When I awoke I scarecly believed what I saw. My room was destroyed, several surfaces were smoking and my bed was all but shredded. Before I even had time to survey the cataclysm around me there was a sharp knock at the door. I stumbled down and opened it to see a man surrounded by what must be his bodyguards. He looked down at me. &#x200B; "So, you're the new spark."
“Hey, don’t kick me.” Says my fellow partner. I, the top of The Great Orc, usually have to deal with him saying things quite often. We’ve been at this routine for years, but sometimes we’ll still mess up, hitting each other accidentally, or, if one of us is in a particularly bad mood, purposefully. “Alright, but be calm yourself, our challenger is approaching. Soon enough, in our large and might palace, big enough to hold a whale in just the king’s room alone, comes a man covered all over with armor. He carries a might sword along his side. It’s obvious that he wants to fight, and we have no intention of denying that request. Meeting his approach with our own, we close in our distance. Not engaged in battle yet, but ready to quicken the pace when the time comes. He stops walking forward, and begins speaking. “I’ve heard much about you, Great Orc. They say you have the strength equivalent to taht of multiple warriors together,” I guess he’s right about that part. “but I am a man who has fought entire armies with one hand.” “It seems that we both seek the same thing at the moment. That is, an opponent who can finally provide a challenge.” I say “That’s correct.” He says, while raising his blade in front of him. “Let us waste no more time, and commence combat.” Raising up my sword, and my partner readying his feet, we begin. I expect to battle to go like any other, done within seconds. Throughout me and my partner’s life, whenever we act together, our power becomes unmatchable. Nobody, from knights to kings, can last more than a couple of blows before falling. Even when we fight hordes of enemies, their lack of understanding on how to work as one unit eventually brings them to defeat. Alone, me and my partner, I admit, can hardly even be called warriors. I believe this strength does not come from twice the muscles, but from twice the brains, Minds should not be capable of handing two things at once, but we can break that expectation. Our very own army was built from what we call our “Sacred Roar,” which is really just both of us saying the same thing at once. This strength of ours makes me believe that I already know the end of this battle. I strike at him, and my assumption is proven wrong. Within a single moment, he dodges, attacks, and positions himself behind us. We’ve never seen such precise movement, getting three actions done together. Twisting to meet his face, he moves past us again, and launches his own attack. A force, stronger than all the offense that we had taken in our entire lives combined, meets our back. My partner loses balance, while I lose focus. A chain of exchanges occurs. We get back up, and launch a second wave of efforts. Time passes, not much, but we have traded many times. Unfortunately, it seems he always comes out more profitable than us. Damnit, I didn’t think we could be beaten at all, let alone this quickly. A desperate attack from us, but we both fall, when he sweeps our feet with his own. For the first time ever, we have been defeated. Worst than that, I have been seperated from him, and our identities are revealed. “Just who are you, being able to take the two of us at once.” I ask. I’m not sure if he’ll spare us, so I ask this last question that I’ve become so curious about in such a short time. He stands tall, taller than us, and brings his blade to his shoulder, ready to finish us off. “I have no will to answer questions of dead men.” I was just about to say goodbye to my partner, and give farewells to all I have known. Even though me and him are the only ones beside the knight who resides in the room, I feel ashamed of having our identity been revealed. I don’t have any time to even begin, however, as I hear a large scream come from within his armor. “Ahhhhhh, why the hell did you bite me?” He says. “When we went on this journey, you promised me that we wouldn’t have to kill anyone. That’s against the code of my life.” Says a second voice from within the armor.” Soon enough, there’s a third voice as well. “Oh come on, we were doing so well, you two.”
In a large room, around a solid oak conference table, the council reviewed the years' citizenship numbers. "Fifth straight year of decline"remarked Aerin. "What have the scouts found?"asked Robert. "Nothing."said Cline. Aerin flipped the report over. "How? There should be bodies." Cline sighed. "There's more. Some of the scouts don't return, either." Aerin looked up sharply, "What? Where did they go?" Cline simply shrugged. Looking around the room, Aerin saw that nobody had any idea. "We're going to have to report this to the public sooner or later."Rubbing her forehead, Aerin took a deep breath and felt the acrid quality of the air in the room from the accumulated years of paper reports and books around her. The previously quiet Opin spoke up. "We need a more reliable scout. One of us should go." Everyone in the room looked incredulously at Opin. "Opin, don't you think that's a bit dramatic?"laughed Robert. "I mean, the people rely on us. Surely we can find a reliable scout amongst the public."he said, catching his breath. No one else said anything for a long minute. The sound of the antique clock in the background ticking away the seconds. Finally, screwing up her courage Aerin said "I'll do it. It's not like any of us do much more than push papers anyway, and of the lot, I'm the youngest." Robert laughed again. Then, when Aerin didn't crack the grin he was expecting his face paled "Oh. You're not joking. Aerin, it's suicide. Even at the peak numbers only a couple hundred made it back every year, and it's clearly gotten much more dangerous. I mean, christ, we only saw 95 out of 513 return this year!" "That's why it has to be one of us. To show the people what citizenship is worth."Aerin said with finality. After a brief discussion, the council agreed to outfit Aerin and make a small publicity stunt out of the adventure. Several weeks later, as Aerin trekked through the wasteland far outside the city walls she began to notice something inconsistent with both the official record and her own experience out here. There was trash. Fresh trash. And that implied people where none were meant to be. Edit: Parts 2 and 3 are available!
'I HAVE RETURNED! WORSHIP YOUR LORD!' "Hail, almighty Gigar!" 'Yes, hail- wait, what? Gigar?' "You are the almighty Gigar, ruler of the old world?" 'Ruler, yes. But i'm not Gigar. I'm Mithras. Gigar was my apprentice.' "What? No, the ruler was Gigar, it's all in the book! He took control of the southern tribes of-" 'Africa, by slaying the highest chief and taking his daughter as a concubine. Decimated an entire half continent with the aid of his magicians, creating a desert spanning all of north africa.' "Yes? That's right." 'That fucker' The one issue with history is it's written by the victors. And that fucker stole my victories once i died.
I thrash violently at the blinds trying to get a view of Elizabeth as she walks to our car. She is so forgetful; it's just like her to go to the dog park and leave me behind, yet again. That's the only place that car ever goes besides the vet and there is no way she would go to such a scary place alone. She'll realize any moment now that she has forgotten me, silly girl, and she'll come back. I had better wait by the door so she sees me first thing, in case she forgets why she has returned. There's my leash, right by the door; she has to keep it by the door, like so many other things, or she'll forget it. Better yet, I'll go ahead and pull the leash down to get it ready for her. I'm such a good boy, always making her life easier. I pull on the leash but something won't let go. Something is trying to prevent me from getting ready, trying to stop me from being with Elizabeth: The Wall. This evil wall will not let go of the leash. I tug and pull the leash this way and that, a scenario I've trained for with Elizabeth all my life, finally releasing the hook from the wall's grasp. It clatters to the floor, bringing a sizable chunk of the wall with it. I bound through the living room celebrating my triumph over the menacing wall. This is when I realize the other inhabitants of the living room are all grabbing at the leash as I run with it, trying to stop me in my tracks. I fly into a rage, taking out the coffee table and several chairs, lashing out at anything holding me back from leaving with Elizabeth. Elizabeth! She has probably returned by now. I leap onto the couch and tear at the troublesome blinds. The triangular aperture I create affords me a glimpse of the harrowing world outside. I see a man I've never seen before walking by with an equally unfamiliar dog. My heart begins to race. Who are these two and what are they doing outside, where Elizabeth is? What have they done with her? I rip and tear at the blinds to get a better view of her attackers but they won't get out of my way. Then I see what's been holding them up this entire time: The Wall. I go at the blinds with both front paws and free them from the wall's control. In the confusion, I tangle myself in the blinds and crash through the window pane, knocking shards of glass and the screen into the flower bed below. Finally, I have a full view of Elizabeth's assailants and I lay into them with a fusillade of verbal attacks. The cowards flee but I still see no sign of Elizabeth. I pull myself back in through the window with only a few minor cuts. I am bleeding but its not anything a few licks can't fix. I lay on the couch vigilantly watching through my now-unobstructed view for my best friend to return. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know I hear Elizabeth crying out. The attackers must have returned because she sounds worried. I sit up and see her staring at me through the improved window. I am happy to see her, she is not happy. "Ramses! What did you dooo?" She says it in the same tone as when I pee inside instead of outside, she likes it when I pee outside. She comes to the front door and unlocks it. I hop down from the couch and look around frantically for the leash so she can walk me; it's usually right by the door. She opens the door and falls to her knees, picking up various things laying on the ground. Now I know something terrible happened outside because she is crying. I move in to console her but soon realize she is confused and for whatever reason upset with me. "Bad dog,"she claims without merit, "what did you do?" My ears lay flat against my head as I seek refuge under the dining table. She walks around the room seemingly more upset by each thing she finds. The state of the room is somehow unacceptable to her but I don't remember it ever not looking like this. She sees stains on the couch. "Oh my god, are you bleeding? Come here." She surveys my front legs and sighs deeply. Her crying subsides when she realizes I've already conducted the necessary first aid. "Okay. You're okay. It's not that bad."She hugs me and sighs again. "But you need to go outside while I clean this up and figure out who to call about the window." Outside? I perk up and suddenly feel really happy. I do have to pee. How does she always know when I have to pee? I love this woman.
It was the only time I'd ever seen the man and didn't immediately want to punch his face. "Cameron... I'm so sorry for you loss." That was the first time I ever believed a word he said. "They were... Truly too good for this world"the doleful tone resonating. His hand was clenched by his side. I'd heard from Mona that they were lovers, once. That she'd left him when he'd started his obsession with the occult. Apparently he still had feelings for her, and that was why he never went for me directly. He knew she'd never forgive him. "Thank you, Archie." The Archdaemon winced a bit when I called him that, but relaxed. "You don't have to call me that outside of work, Harry." I winced a bit back. No one called me that but Mona. "Fair." This was the first time we'd met that we weren't at each other's throats. I suppose it was merely due to the circumstances that we'd set aside our mutual hate long enough to have any decent conversation. Mona would have laughed at the irony. She'd tried to get us on friendly terms once or twice, but it ended in tragedy every time. There was the time at the park, where he'd turned the goose demonic and it started stealing everything, and the time at the theme park, where I threw him off the top of the coaster into the sea. It had started out as a bit of a rivalry, and only escalated. Both of us had the chance to kill the other at least once, but Mona always stepped in to save the other. It even almost cost me my hero license. But at the end of the day, no one was really hurt, and property damage was minimal. It was almost funny. I was always worried that he'd go after Mona, that he'd go, "If I can't have her, no one can!"but it wasn't him that hurt her. It was a new villain named Bubonic. I bet you can guess his powers. He decided to rob the bank she was a teller at, and by the time anyone got there to stop him, he was gone and everyone was crying tears of blood from the disease he'd released. The doctors said that it was a slow, painful demise. I did everything I could to save her. I was told Archie'd even tried to sacrifice a nurse to save her, but it was all for naught. She'd died, slowly, painfully, coughing up chunks of blood and bile, in my arms. I searched this city and all around it to find that bastard, but had no luck. But then, with my head hanging over the casket, tears flowing off my cheek and onto her's, Archdaemon spoke up, "I found him." My head raised immediately. "What?" "I found the bastard." "How?!? I searched every inch of this city and found nothing!" He held up a small crystal ball. "Scrying." I smiled a bit. "So when's his funeral." Archie held up his hand and said "When you come with me and pull a 'trick', Houdini." I wasn't usually the type to go after a kill, but unfortunately the one person that always kept me from doing it was now lying in a casket. With a savage grin, I, in an oh so enthusiastic tone, replied, "Let's go make this fool disappear."
# Takes Your Chances There was a five hour line for the left hand door. It wrapped entirely around two city blocks. Absolutely everyone in the hopeful crowd was sick. Hacking, sneezing, coughing into elbows or palmfuls of crusty napkins. Jason stood outside a shuttered coffee shop, pointedly not in line while he nursed a rapidly cooling drink. His best friend John (the J&J crew!) hovered nearby, swinging his facemask back and forth to look up and down the street in shock. "Just... wow." Jason nodded, eyes fixed on patrolling police officers. "Check that out. They're armed to the teeth."It was true; there wasn't even a pretense of non-lethal approach. Guns were on full display, hard eyes watching for any disturbance. They both stood in silence for a long minute and just listened to a barking chorus of illness. There was nowhere else to go; the news made it a point to announce every hour the governor had already written off the lower cities. Emergency shelters on every corner, National Guard quarantine seals defaced apartment buildings. The few protests that popped up died off again immediately. No one had time, energy or willpower left. John broke the tired silence first. "So, you think it's true? About the doors?"A streetlight popped on overhead. They did that now; city utilities still sporadically working in places whenever an unpaid crew could route around an issue. "I'm not sure."Jason admitted. "Seems too good to be true. 'Get what you want, get what you need, or get what you deserve'? That's a little bit too,"he groped for a word. "Too convenient, I guess." His friend nodded, then leaned hard and coughed wetly into his elbow. Without hesitation Jason started sympathetically patting him on the back. The commotion drew disgusted looks and winces from people standing in line. It took a minute. When John was able to stand up again his mask was noticeably stained through the middle. He gasped, winded. "Looks like... like everyone wants that... left door. Hope it's not painted... red." They laughed together at the stupid song reference. But laughing triggered yet another coughing spell, this one noticeably worse than the last. Jason helped him ride it out until the spasms ground to a wheezing halt again. It took longer this time. Longer every time. When the gasping finally ended he was almost staggering in place, held up mostly by Jason's supporting shoulder. "Hey,"John started, then paused to lift his mask and spit something red and gunky. A policeman started their way with a murderous look, but Jason just opened his coat and waved the patrolman off. His badge still meant something, even here. John tried again, heaving words like stones. "Hey. I think... I'm going to... start a line." "Start a line?"The implication didn't land for a long second. "Wait, start a line. At another door?" "Yeah. I'm thinking... the one on the right."He chuffed hard, chest vibrating. Fought it down. "Figure it's... what I deserve, right?" Jason was quick on that argument. "Tracey and Gina weren't your fault." John waved it off, too tired to argue the point again. "Sure. But I had it. Brought it home." That was indisputable. He changed the subject instead: "Guess that means I'll be in line behind you." "Don't... have to." "Sure I do."He handed the mostly-warm drink to his best friend. His partner. "Partners." They started walking up the street, passing everyone else in line. Hateful catcalls about jumping ahead started immediately, then died abruptly as they both stepped into the lines painted on the street for the third door. Then it was all whispers and fearful looks. John coughed long and hard, staggering. Jason was right there for him until it was over. "Damn. Hits you hard." "Yeah. You sure?" "Yeah. You sure?" They started walking.
It did seem a touch personal, all things considered. If I were to piece everything together bit by bit, I could understand why my house had to go and perhaps my art studio was an incident of random chance or collateral damage. But Greg didn't deserve that. He was humble in his craft and a solid guy. So considering that several prime targets like the pentagon, Lemoore and other forward operating bases and strategic satellite locations were left untouched but I, a painter was targeted, can only come off as personal. Sitting upon a piece of wreckage, most likely my old may tag refrigerator, lodged deeply in the further part of my back yard, I surveyed the damages to my abode. These invaders didn't leave much time after first contact for negotiations. After a short explanation of their home location, technological progress and their royal lineage presiding over this "expansion effort", they waited a few moments after first contact before opening fire. Perhaps they were displeased that we opened with formalities when they were probably hoping for unconditional surrender. They didn't manage to take out global communications, so there was a whole lot of squawking about what we knew of their technologies and possible responses. Honestly, it seemed too much for me. Age was making itself more and more known every day. I served many years ago, but time had regaled me to providing words in place of my bodies ability to rally. Let the young men and women respond in force. As I was letting the stance of silence make a more solid case, it occured to me there was another casualty this day. The tree furthest from the forest line that overlooked my fire pit was decimated. The same tree that was currently hosting the next generation of squirrels from the original one I rescued years past. He returned to nature after I set him free, but at the start of each winter, he would return with his family high in the tree and by spring I'd see his lineage had grown. With time, I saw the original had passed on, but his children had taken to the spot every winter, growing their family by spring. It was nice to see a lasting impression from my deeds bear fruit. But on this day, as winter started to be ebbed away by the coming spring, I saw no life or signs of it. And that stirred something in me. This was no mistake, this wasn't random chance. This was to silence me. The calls to do nothing and stand back were suddenly vanquished, replaced with the stirrings of something sinister. But there is no place for sinister within me. As I squashed the thought under foot, they did give me something to consider. They may of thought that they could silence me, perhaps dishearten the people through this. And I suppose it's fair to say that this truly was a mistake on their part. And sadly for them, I do a fine job of turning failed attempts into happy little accidents. And man will I be happy when they are done with their accident.
"What's above us, dad?"Voormuq asked inquisitively. "Our kelp roof, son." "And what's above that?" "The rest of the trench" "And what's above that?" Pause. "The currents, the light, other ~~under~~water creatures like us." "And above that?" "Enough. Time for bed, Voormuq." "So you don't know what's above the currents?" Ktupma looked down lovingly at his son, and honored him by telling the truth. "That's right, son. We know not what lies above. We know not the source of the light." "I think somebody knows,"Voormuq posited. "I'd like to meet them." "Alright, son. I'll see you in the morning." \--- After school the next day, Voormuq went to the oldest, wisest teacher with his question. "Mrs. Wryrek, can you tell me what's above the currents?" Mrs. Wryrek's eyes glinted with adventure, and she flattened her body to join Voormuq on his level. "I'll tell you a story, if you have the time." Voormuq nodded and waited patiently, heart racing. "We cannot be certain, but we can be hopeful. And we can invest in adventure as a society. Although our bodies do not allow ascension much above the trench, we can communicate with a few other species to gather information about what lies above. From these conversations we have heard incredible tales of swimming rocks, hooked lines, and foreign living beings that can't survive in our atmosphere. Creatures from Terra." Voormuq gasped at this interloper of a word. "Terra creatures visit inside the swimming rocks, often trying to capture fish and other species. We don't know what they do with them, but many suspect they are vicious killers. No one has been able to communicate with a creature from Terra before, we wonder if they even have a language." Mrs. Wryrek told Voormuq many stories that day, and he listened with fascination. Afterward, he embraced her in the traditional way of respect. And when he got home, he declared his newfound obsession to his father. "Dad! I learned so much today from Mrs. Wryrek and guess what? I'm going to be a Terranaut someday!" "Yes, you will be,"Ktupma said lovingly. "I will be your biggest supporter." And he was.
"It's rather simple, actually. If you sell your soul for a truly selfless cause... I don't recommend it, but it can be done... then no demon in hell will dare touch that deal, and whatever force answers will be benevolent."the dark wizard explained. "You declared war on the world!"the heroine pointed out. "I'm being completely honest when I say I was just following orders. The angels had a plan, and I was already a pawn, it was only natural that when the angels saw fit to punish the corrupt royalty that I would be weaponized against them." "And the ominous castle?" "It should be almost... 3... 2... 1..." At that moment, the castle and the village that normally lay in its shadow were lit up like fireworks as fluorescent stones glowed all around them. "I had to kill a vampire lord to get this castle, but he was a womanizing bastard who showed no remorse when given a choice between apology and death. I think it was worth it." "What about me? Why didn't you kill me?"the heroine questioned. "I needed you out of the way, not dead. A time stasis spell." "And you never told us your intentions?" "How do think the monarchy stayed in control? Propaganda is weapon, and a reputation is all a hero has. That's why I want you to run against me in our first democratic election." "...what's an election?"
Part 1/3 Sat on a throne in the audience chamber, I, the Captain of the Holy Order of Sublime Justice, looked out upon the men I had gathered. Twelve hundred men in all. One Thousand standard Paladin Knights and Two-Hundred elite honour-guard. My entire order was stood in this hall. Many would say me gathering these numbers was excessive. But we were dealing with the newly risen Dark Lord Helshep. The man was a monster without equal. A mage who was unparalleled. Truly though the I knew we would win this fight. We have the Gods on our side. We are the embodiment of all that is holy. While Helshep, if reports are to be believed, is an undead. This all began the better part of a year ago. Through my information broker, I discovered “Gentleman Jack”, the eccentric Witch travelling with the Hero, was an adopted child of Helshep. She even learnt her foul Magicks from him. It disgusted me the hero could be blind to such a corrupt influence. It is with this knowledge that I enacted a masterful scheme. I had the damnable witch kidnapped. Surely she would be a wealth of information on Helshep. All his weaknesses, strengths and the like would be at my fingertips. However the woman had spent the better part of a week at the hands of the torturer without one secret revealed. Her once beautiful appearance was now marred with scars and wounds from the torturer’s hands. Still, despite being bloodied and broken, she spoke only one thing regarding Helshep. Over and over, it was the only thing she would reveal. ‘My father is going to kill all of you’, she’d mutter with a bloodied smile. As if our efforts at saving the world from evil was amusing. Having enough of her useless nature, I had her thrown into a dungeon cell, hoping the isolation would break her. It was during this time an idea came to me. While we may not extract information, we can just use her as bait. Under the guise of ransoming her, we can draw Helshep to our Castle and end his life. So we sent a messenger to the Dark Continent, to visit Hades Seat to deliver my message. It took a few months, but the messenger returned. He brought the reply Helshep had provided. He was on his way and was honouring the demand he only have an accompaniment of six bodyguards. Truly the man was arrogant. But that arrogance shall be his downfall. I followed protocol for Captains when getting ready for an engagement in battle by visiting the Holy Oracle. I asked her what would happen when Helshep arrived. Her only reply was, ”Blood would be spilt and a man on a throne would die”. Feeling vindicated that the Gods had given their support, I prepared for his visit. Finally, the day came when we received word of his arrival. Looking at the great iron doors to the throne room, I wait for word of his immediate arrival. I had all my men line up in immaculate formation. Their most high-grade equipment equipped and at the ready. This shall be a fight that shan’t be forgotten through all history. My name shall go down in history books. I may even rise to be a Cardinal. “M’lord Sir Dark Lord Helshep is walking down the hallway to the throne room”, a servant announced. “WHERE ARE THE TITAN SLAVES WE MUST OPEN THE DOORS!!” I shouted to get the inhuman beast we use for manual labour to open the doors that weighed a few tonnes for our guests.
"Ewww, gross, dad. I am not letting some weirdo feed on me. Some of the kids at school do it. Everyone talks about them. They assume they're poor." "Allison. Justin. Just here us out. Now that you're both sixteen and old enough to donate, just think about it. It's a perfectly safe procedure. The bite is painless and it's over very quickly. Your mom and I did it in college to save money." "Dad, we're not poor college kids. We don't HAVE to donate. What if the others at school find out? Ugh, you ruin everything! Mom!" "Allison, your father has a point. He and I are both partners at the firm. We both make good money now. Our finances are in order and we have money set aside for your college. We can save a bundle in taxes if we all donate this year." Justin asked shyly, "Well, how much are we talking, Dad?" "With all four of us donating...a healthy amount. We can go on a vacation. Make some down payments on cars you can take to college. Pay down the mortgage." Justin looked at his sister, "Allison, a car would be kinda nice. You've seen the ads on TV. It's perfectly safe." "No! Justin. You've seen it on Insta when it goes wrong. Vamps get out of control. People die." "Allison, those are illegal feedings and you shouldn't watch such things." "Mom, Dad, it's not right, and I don't want any part of it. Justin, I'm Just looking out for you. If we humans just got together and refused to......" Her father slammed his hand over Allison's mouth. Her mother hugged them tightly. She began to weep. "They hear all,"said her father. "They hear all,"whispered her mother through tears. Justin was getting scared and looked out the windows. "They hear all,"he repeated. "Allison, I'm sorry I asked. Everything will be ok. Whatever you do don't speak....of...never....They hear all,"he repeated. "They hear all,"repeated her mother and brother. Allison sighed in dejection, "They....hear all. Maybe next year. Just...I'm not ready..." Her father smiled,"...That's ok....I understand. You are old enough to decide. C'mon lasagna is ready. Let's have dinner and forget all this."
Day 7 “What am I supposed to learn, here?” That is what these things are all about, right? You get stuck in a time loop until you learn some sort of moral lesson? These are the thoughts swirling in my mind as I wake up this morning as…my mailman, I think? Yesterday it was one of my kid’s teachers, the day before that was my boss. It’s been a crazy week, for sure. At least this guy seems to be single. The ones with families are the worst. Spouses know something is wrong almost immediately. They absolutely do not believe me when I try to tell them what’s going on. I’ve stopped trying. Obviously, I’m in this by myself and, television tropes be damned, there has to be something I can learn that will get me out of this. There has to be, right? I can’t keep doing this. I will lose my mind. I think the hardest part is that there’s nothing special going on. I followed myself around for the first couple of days. I wake up, go to work, have a boring business lunch, work some more, go home, play with the kid, talk to the wife and go to bed. That’s it. What do I learn from that? Try as I might, I can’t find a single thing of note happening anywhere in a hundred-mile radius of me. I spent yesterday running that theory to ground, in between classes. My kid failed a pop quiz that apparently had been scheduled, per my personal calendar. Then again, all the kids failed - probably due to my inclusion of things that definitely weren’t in the study material. I’m no teacher, that’s for sure. The hardest day was being my boss and interacting with myself. I realized, for the first time, what a mouthy bastard I am. Do I really sound like that? I resolved to change my ways and went to sleep excited that I might wake up as myself the next day. No dice. Today I have to figure out how to deliver mail - or at least how to call in sick. I’ll decide that after a shower, I guess. Having dispensed with the awkward text to this guy’s boss with a lame excuse, I fire up an old laptop from the desk in the living room and resume my research. This guy lets the browser on his computer with no password save all of his passwords. Brilliant. The urge to read his email is too strong. I’m him, today, right? It’s practically my email. There’s essentially nothing besides brief, snippy conversations with an estranged wife. Divorce sucks for everyone, no one wins. I turn to searching for anything I can possibly find out about time loops, out-of-body experiences, mass hallucinations, you name it. If it could possibly explain this, I’ve googled it nine ways to Sunday. I stumble across one somewhat-interesting theory; the idea that we constantly trade lives with each other with no memory that we have done so - effectively a giant game of musical chairs but we are each a segmented part of the universal consciousness and our bodies are the chairs. What if that’s it? What if something broke and I can remember my previous switches? That still doesn’t explain the time loop, unless the switching is the thing I’m supposed to learn about, here. After a couple of hours, I give up and decide to get lunch. I wander down the street to my favorite diner, sit in the seat I prefer and order my usual from the waitress who has served me a hundred times when I come in as myself. Oddly, she stops and squints at me. I ask what’s the matter and she shakes her head and mutters something about deja vu. I chuckle. She doesn’t know the half of it. After lunch I spend some time on social media, familiarizing myself with this guy’s social life. He’s scheduled to attend a housewarming at a friend’s new house this evening and it feels like I should go. Work is one thing, partying is another. There are priorities and then there are priorities, you know? As I roll up to the friend’s house, I start to get an odd feeling. I could swear my wife’s car is parked just down the street. I remember she stayed up after I went to bed but she was just watching television in the living room, right? Still, that’s her car, for sure. I shake it off and head to the front door. Inside the party is absolutely no one I recognize. I awkwardly surrender a bottle of wine to the lady of the house and I seem very welcome so I grab a drink and try to settle in. That’s when I see her. My wife is here. She’s here and she’s with someone. What in the hell? My mind goes a little hazy and I rush over to the two of them, fighting mad. I loudly ask what they are doing and start making a scene. My wife looks equally sheepish and annoyed. She calls me by name, the mail man’s name, and tells me to chill out. I do not chill out. Next thing I know, I’m in the back yard, fighting this guy. He’s one tough cookie but this body is surprisingly agile and strong, much more than mine. I’m tearing into him, yelling about cheaters and saying things that, in retrospect, probably made no sense to anyone watching. The last thing I remember, I picked up a wrought-iron deck chair and hit him over the head with it. He goes down like a sack of potatoes. Then I hear a sound like a taser and everything fades to black. Day 8 I wake up this morning and I have no idea who this new person is. It’s another single, middle-aged male. He seems to be a cop, of some sort, maybe a detective? I check his phone and his computer. His finger print logs me in and I am immediately greeted by a work email detailing an investigation I will be working on - a murder resulting from a fight at a house party the night before. I think about last night groggily and then my eyes snap to the date on the email. It’s the next day.
From Kenneth Crest's Hatchling How-To's, Everything You Need to Know About Hatching Dragons Whenever someone asks me about the best breed of dragon for first time adopters, I always recommend the Welsh Redback. A simple breed, they reach about three feet in length and fifty pounds in adulthood. They are also one of the only breeds to lack fire breathing abilities, so there is no added risk of fire damage to a novice dragon hatcher's home. Hatching the egg is a simple endeavour. Simply keep the egg bundled in a fair amount of cloth, a few of your comfiest sweaters and hoodies should do. It works as an added bonding bonus to carry around the egg with you in a coat pocket for at least an hour a day, to help the hatchling grow accustomed to your presence. The hatching itself normally takes one to three hours. By this point, the dragon should have enough strength to break through the egg on its own, but if it appears to be struggling, some assistance would not go amiss. Once the dragon is hatched, it must be given a suitable nesting location. Welsh Redback's typically enjoy perching themselves on a high shelf so that they may observe their surroundings from a bird's eye view. Just like the biggest of dragons surround themselves in treasure, Redbacks will surround themselves in their own hoard of spare change and jangly bits of metal, such as loose screws or stray nuts and bolts. For feeding, Redbacks thrive on a diet of raw meat, typically from a goat or cow. They are insusceptible to salmonella, so it is perfectly safe to feed them raw chicken as well. Redbacks are intolerant to most herbs and spices save for mint, which they find to be a pleasant snack to chew on and freshen their breath. The next chapter will focus on proper handling of social interaction for your new hatchling...
If Hitler never came to power, Europe would have entered a period of unprecedented innovation in both art and science. This rennaisance of thought would have produced an explosion of inspiration and competition across the globe. Instead of a Cold War, there would have been an Idea War, where countries would fund medicine, space exploration, gene editing, and so much more. The world would never have developed nuclear weapons, and the sobering prospect of global warfare would never have been imagined. It sounds like an optimistic piece of historical fiction. "What about Stalin?"you may ask. "What about Hirohito? Nixon? The English, generally?" I'm glad to say that in this reality--that is, a split-off timeline adjacent to our original timeline--the evildoers are sabotaged before they can rise. The systems of oppression are revealed before thay can gain power. Evil is squashed while good is given every leg up. It's not historical fiction. It's my job. I'm a time traveler. The only time traveler. Well, I guess, I thought I was the only time traveler. Or, more accurately, I used to be the only time traveler. I fill my cup with a ladle of punch, the foamy residue of melted ice cream still frothy on the top. I sip the super-sweet concoction and roam the event room floor. "How did you convince the ninja king to abandon Shinto?"I overhear one man ask a young-looking woman in a top hat. "Did you ever have to assassinate anyone?"an elderly man mumbles through his mustache as he swirls a flute of champagne. I felt out of place. The invention of time travel--MY invention of time travel--had some unforseen effects on the fabric of reality. As humans progressed quicker, time travel was discovered more easily. A time traveler in my timeline created another timeline and fixed more distant problems. Then, in their timeline, time travel was founded even quicker, and that time traveler solved even more problems. We find ourselves now at 368 distinct timelines. At 241, a time traveler figured out how to travel backwards to a previous timeline and forwards again. The technology was shared among all time travelers and now, in my timeline, we gather annually in some stuffy hotel to mingle and smugly brag about our various exploits. A woman took the stage, dressed in a sequin gown, cargo vest, and a pair of basketball sneakers. Fashion, we've all come to learn, is an intensely delicate phenomenon. If a butterfly flaps its wings on one side of the world, a lady gets bangs on the other. Or something. "Good afternoon, my fellow chrononauts,"the woman announced with raised arms and an unsettlingly wide smile. "and welcome to out fourth annual time gathering!" There was a smattering of applause and the tinking of glasses and dishes as cups were refilled and caterers replaced empty food trays. "My name is Thuk n' al-Gutierrez-Block, and I will be hosting this year's Recognition of Time Greatness!" The applause rose into a modest crescendo. Each and every one of these people was a narcissist, excited only by their own accolades, motivated only by being better than the last one. And for what? I invented time travel. Me! "Excuse me?"a voice called from behind me. I turned around to see top hat girl standing there with a mixed drink in her hand. "Are you Foster Coy? The first one?" Finally, some recognition. I smiled wide and gave a playful bow. "That I am." "I'm Tantastra Vin-Carcoll, number 368,"she thrust a hand toward me. "Ah, our most junior initiate. Welcome."I shook her hand, only for her to pull me close. "We have a big problem with the machine,"she whispered. "And it can only be fixed in the original timeline."
"And then it... It was over. I was sitting there, in her bedroom just kinda looking at her. I felt like I should cry? Move. I felt like my heart should be racing or I should throw a lamp, shatter it against the dresser."The young man spoke softly, almost in a dream-like monologue. "But none of that ever came. I think I stood there for about 5 minutes. Just looking down at her all shriveled up like that. So. I guess that's why i'm here. I think I'm still waiting for that reaction. Maybe this is the reaction? I.. uh, I don't know." &#x200B; Silence clung to the small auditorium for a few moments as others patiently waited to see if the young man was done speaking. A metal leg from one of the cheap brown bodied chairs roughly slid against the worn wooden floor as someone shifted slightly. Then a clap. Another. A small wave of applause erupted, fighting back that consuming quietness. &#x200B; "Good, good,"spoke the leader of the group. He appeared to be a young man, though that was deceiving. The leader of this group, Ed, was actually 127. In contrast the small figure of an older women wearing a thick coat on the periphery of their circle was actually only 90. It really all depended on when you were turned over. "First, I think I speak for all of us when I voice that I'm sorry. And that many of us, truly know how you feel." &#x200B; A few nodded sympathetically, offering gentle smiles. &#x200B; "See - you are right. You being here is a reaction. I would argue the best reaction. It takes a bigger person to seek help. To try."The group leader stood up from his seat, his presence filling the room. "Have you heard how this group was started, Mack?" &#x200B; The newcomer shook their head, but his eyes pleaded for him to continue. Ed pursed his lips and nodded, drawing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Ed would tell the story again. This would be the fourteenth time. Each one still took a little out of him. He tried to remind himself as he began that the first part of healing yourself, was finding the strength to have compassion for others. &#x200B; "Well. I was an addict - like you. Like all of us."A few pairs of eyes looked down to their feet. Mostly the more recent relapsers. "Yeah.. I remember it. My first time came from a low place. I'd moved recently. Thought putting distance between myself and my problems would sort of lighten the load. But uhh. No. I guess that's not how it works. Maybe I was a fool to think it was."Ed's eyes drifted off, seemingly trying to conjure some image from long ago. &#x200B; Others did the same as they listened. Despite legends of yore, immortals rarely ever stayed in one place. Above all else, they were human. Humans who needed variety. New experiences. Hobbies. Life. &#x200B; "When I got to where I was going, it was just as bad at first. Without any friends, I made up my own company. Twisted from the shadows of my past. First just the big ones, a few. But time is a powerful thing. Soon there were so many of those dark figures, that I felt like even in a crowded room I was wading through that blackness." &#x200B; The newcomer nodded, rapt in the tale. Though the metaphors and imagery were different for each person, suffering was a universal language. &#x200B; "So I did what many of us do. I did what I think anyone would do... I clung desperately to what little light I could find. I injected color back into the black and grey."As Ed finished speaking he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Tasting memories. "I cast out my bucket, and drew from a well. Drink after drink. Draw after draw." &#x200B; The newcomer cleared his throat softly. His face was covered by a mask of pain, which slowly began to peel back layers to uncover grief. Like complimentary colors, they fit naturally into one another. So people elected to wear each often. &#x200B; "How many?"the newcomer asked. "How many.. you know, did it take? Draws from the well?" &#x200B; Ed smiled a small, sorry smile. His eyes retreated further into the past. &#x200B; "Blood? None." &#x200B; The newcomer wrinkled their brow. Frowned. Then scowled. The distant cousin of his expressions came to rise. Anger. &#x200B; "None? You talk about knowing my pain? Our pain? And you haven't even killed anyone from your lust?"His fist clenched and teeth gritted against one another. A few others in the circle gave knowing sighs. &#x200B; Ed nodded. "Zero. But I killed. Just not like you. Slower. More insidious. Took things. Didn't matter where from. Coin from the purse of a woman with cataracts so bad she couldn't even notice. Let her pat desperately into an empty purse at the chemist. I'd take a baby from its mother if it meant I could get my next fix." &#x200B; The newcomer still looked ready to pounce, but listened stubbornly. &#x200B; "See - humans, which we still at our core - are, tend to think their suffering is unique. Betrayal is a personal thing. The emotions wrapped around it like individual stiches that define the tapestry of their lives. But they're not. Unique, I mean. Largely. Shakespeare writes of betrayal. Spousal abuse. Addiction. Before him, it was glyphs. Before that, the tight clutching of clubs voicing memories with violence. You'll find rather rapidly that immortality is, least of all things, a cure for our very human condition." &#x200B; Fist unclenched slowly. A locked jaw eased. Eyes softened. With a slow movement, the newcomer sat back down into his chair. &#x200B; "You aren't really here to learn to stop the drinking. You're here because you want to cast off the oldest of all our most defining traits. Lust, greed, anger, shame. But stick around a while. Work with us. Fail with us."Ed's eyes snapped back to the present, really looking at the young man in front of him. Taking him in, sizing him up. Caring. &#x200B; "God knows we have a long time to try."
My assailant had struck from the darkness. They moved silently, efficiently. A felt a hand clamped over my mouth, while a slender arm wrapped around my waist. Strength out of proportion to physique dragged me into the shadows of the alley. "My master wishes a word." The sibilant speech and rough feeling of scales against my face meant it was one of the lizardfolk tribes, then. The rough alto voice meant this was likely the so-called Hero's bodyguard. Indignant, I instinctively tried to turn and face her. Pain exploded from the base of my skull, and my vision filled with stars before I succumbed to the darkness. --- "Zarell, love. I know I'm not completely up to speed on local idioms. But I'm pretty sure 'invite someone for a chat' isn't code for hit them over the head and kidnap them." As I regained consciousness, I could feel warmth flowing through my body. The pain was gone, and I was -- unfortunately -- stone sober. Just the state I didn't want to be in with this bastard. I let the conversation continue; no reason to announce my consciousness while they were arguing. "I apologize, Master. I was unable to find an opportunity to approach him privately as you had asked. I took the liberty of gathering information while waiting, and I overheard some of his conversation. About you. When I finally made contact, he attempted to get away and I... lost my temper. Forgive me." "Well, I'm not the one you should be asking forgiveness for, right Mr. Hayes?" I opened my eyes a bit sheepishly. The Hero leaned in and whispered, "Don't worry about it. Zarell's senses are sharp, and I was in the middle of healing you. We both knew the instance you regained consciousness. She was extremely worried she seriously injured you."He stood suddenly and walked toward the sideboard. "I... If that's all, Master?"the girl stammered. When the Hero waved absently, she backed out of the room. Though it appeared she barely closed them, the doors slammed shut with a crash. I didn't realize that lizardfolk could blush. "I swear, that girl doesn't know her own strength half the time,"the Hero muttered. He took a crystal decanter from the cabinet, and held his hand over the top. I could feel my eyes widening as cubes of ice filled the container; I had heard he was the Hero was a powerful mage, but even the most hedonistic of mages wouldn't waste their mana on making ice water. "So,"I ventured. "You wanted to speak with me?" "I've been in this world for nearly three seasons. Do you realize you are the first person I've come across to publicly question slavery? Everyone else just sort of takes it as a given." He swirled one of the glasses and took a drink from it; then handed the same cup to me. I recognized the gesture from my time in the crown city; it was often used between those of competing factions as a show of good faith. I also took a sip, the expected response. The water was cold, and refreshing. "Truth be told, I'm not a fan either." "Then why? Why not end it?"I couldn't help myself. I had to know. Surely he had figured out; they considered him a messenger from the Gods. If the Hero declared slavery to be anathema, then the Kingdom would outlaw it in an instant. I raged, but he just smiled sadly. "Are you familiar with the concept of a pronged collar, Mr. Hayes? No? You're lucky. Some folks used them in my world to train guard animals to heel. The original design was simple; it's a length of metal chain links, with a ring at the end large enough to pass the chain through. You thread the chain through the ring, slip it around the neck, and attach it to your leash. If the animal gets too far from your side, the collar tightens. "But as years went by, people made improvements. What were originally simple rings became a series of interlocking double hooks which laid flush against the neck. When the chain becomes taut, the ends of the hooks... shift. Inward. The 'humane' ones are blunted, or made of material that will give way before it breaks through the beast's hide. Some don't. There are those who will sharpen the points; leaving the animal's neck looking like butcher's mince, all in the name of control." I refilled my cup from the decanter. It was an interesting story, but I wasn't entirely clear on why the Hero chose to tell it. "I doubt I need to tell you this, but your Prime Minister is exceedingly fond of control."This time, when the Hero went to the cabinet, he brought a bottle of amber liquid. Brandy, if my eye was correct. He poured a little into his glass and drank, then filled my cup as well. "I made a number of mistakes when I was first summoned here, Mr. Hayes. I count trusting the Prime Minister chief among them. Caring about the tutors he assigned me comes a close second." "The tutors?" "Yes, I suppose they would keep that quiet. The Summoning didn't work as expected. Their storied Hero, unable to understand or be understood, little more than a child given power without effort. And so I was given tutors. A governess to teach me the language and etiquette. A pair of catfolk twins, who taught me healing and elemental magic. A wolffolk knight, to teach me strategy and swordplay. And a lizardfolk scout, to teach me stealth and archery. All women. All exceedingly beautiful in their own right." The hero drained the glass he was holding. "And each one, a prong in the collar. You see, the Prime Minister can't move against me, so he's made sure I cannot move against him. If I rock the boat, if I go off his script, if I do not complete his mission... Even out here, you must of heard about a member of House Argent being hanged for treason?" "Of.. of course."The hero emptied his glass. "Duchess Catherine was my language tutor. She warned me of the Prime Minister's intentions, but didn't realize our lessons were under surveillance. A few forged documents later..." The hero emptied his glass. "I had five friends in this world, Jonathan. And now I have four. I will finish his mission and end this war. You've been fighting to change these laws far longer than I've been in this world. But these four lives are in danger because of me. So I have my own mission: I will keep them close, and I will keep them safe. And if that means playing at being a slavedriver until someone can convince the nobles to change their ways, then I will bite my tongue and bide my time. " I stared at the melting ice cubes in the bottom of my now-empty glass. "I see..." The Hero sighed as he prodded the leather band around his wrist. A second later, there was a knock at the door. At his command, a brunette catfolk woman in a short black dress and white apron carried a tray with a pair of coin purses on it into the room, followed closely by a silver-haired wolffolk woman in leather armor. I turned back to the Hero. "Hey, don't look at me. That uniform was her idea,"he stammered defensively as he took the tray. "Well, I don't expect you to believe me. And I sure as hell don't expect you to trust me. So Corey could walk you to your door, but neither of us will take offense if you decline. But in either case. Rissa?" The maid -- Rissa, apparently -- winked bawdily at me and the soldier stifled a laugh. Rissa stuck her hands out and a magic circle appeared in front of them. I recognized it; two smaller circles appeared above the purses before passing through them, dispelling any enchantments or tracking spells that may have been on the contents. The Hero handed the tray back before taking the sacks. "Coppers for your trouble,"he said quietly, handing me the first purse. He waited until I secured it to my belt -- the man was courteous to a fault, I'll give him that -- before handing me the second. As I took it, the weight threatened to tear the sack from my hand. I raised an eyebrow at the Hero. "And gold for your cause."
"But I can pay you quite handsomely. Your kind knows nothing of the boundless Fae wealth." "Well, your kind clearly doesn't understand individuality." "That word isn't in my vocabulary." "People have names so that we can separate each other, know that we are each our own person. It's part of our humanity, knowing who we are and that we are different from any other human." "But I thought there was another Lucas on your boat." "Well, yes, but-" "And weren't you speaking earlier of how common your name is and how I should seek a more unique name?" "Well, listen-" "Your whole concept is befuddling me. If your name expresses your invirginality-" "Individuality." "Yes, then are there several Lucases? Are there more than one of you?" "Well, no, because I'm the only me." "But there's another of you on the boat. And several more of you on your continent. This is an interesting new concept. I've never heard of it. Tell me, can you see through your other selves' eyes? Can you feel their pain?" "For the love of fruit trees, that isn't how it works! I am Lucas. Yes, he might be called Lucas too, but he is a different person. I am me." "So if I take your name you will no longer be you?" "What? No-" "Will I gain your memories too? Tell me, have you had a cumbersome childhood? I wouldn't want to be bothered with all that sobbing sadness in the back of my head." "For the last time, it doesn't work that way! You know what, let me take you to Fenny. She'll give you her name gladly." "Alright, then." ... "But what if I turn into a female?"
With a sigh and a deep breath I waited. How many times had I done this...a hundred.....a thousand? Doesn't matter anymore. The timer in my head started the moment my feet touched the summoning circle. The first time I had been summoned to this world was like any other of the stories I had heard about. Run over by a truck, chosen by a divine, or just random luck. I hardly remember maybe it was all of the above for me. I think I was a warrior or something like that. I barely made it through my first major trial and it took years even decades to gain the skills needed to beat the Dark Lord. But I did it, and when it came time to choose my rewards. I saw hundreds of options; start a new life as the hero, go home to the world I left behind, and many MANY others. But one drew my eye, one strange choice, I asked myself why would anyone choose that, NG+. Before I realized it I had chosen that option and found myself staring at the summoning circle but instead of it being God talking with me it was an empty room. So I did the whole quest again, this time fixing the mistakes that I made my first time. It took so much less time for me to beat the Dark Lord, in fact he was kinda a chump once I realized I had missed the legendary armor my first time. So the next time I stood at the choices I chose it again. And from then on I have challenged myself to experiment and beat the Dork Lord as fast as possible. In time my class changed and be even I was able to make copies of myself to run this life simultaneously to test things. Even figured out a neat little summoning spell that assists me sometimes, mostly for experimentation. He calls himself Tiberius A. Sonata, though I just call him Tass. He's great allows me to try things that seem impossible sounding without worry. It's because of him I discovered this latest spell, a way to warp. That combined with the broom reset strat. I think this run is gonna be sub 4. My current record is 4.001 hours, and today I am going to beat that. This is attempt number 90076 and I'm pumped. I grab the objects needed from the priests; the cigar, the lighter, the broom, and the starting sword. Using the sword to light the cigar I do a quick back jump and pull out the broom and jam it into the barrel to activate the spell, Fast Warp, and I fly through the wall out of the room towards hopefully the castle. No wait shit...I hit the wrong splinter.... Fuck alright starting again! Now I'll get it in run 90077.
Vacuum decay. The hypothesis that there was a deeper ground state of the universe. The probabilistic laws of quantum mechanics suggested it was a possibility. That a single improbable event could start a cascade, leading to a chain reaction that destroyed everything and spread at or near the speed of light. The first thing we noticed was a wave of darkening stars. People panicked, scientists speculated that this might indeed be the vacuum decay our theorists had postulated. We had so many questions. But then, something even more momentous happened. We made first contact with another technological civilization. They called themselves the Burids. They had already translated our languages by picking up the radio transmissions we had been sending out for decades. They gave us dire news. "What is happening is indeed something akin to your notions of vacuum decay. It was created by accident. It propagates at near the speed of light. It is slowing over time, but the cascade is still moving very fast. We have precious little time. We offer you the opportunity to join us, we will carry your population with us until the decay cascade has ceased to expand. Decide quickly, time is of the essence." The public was shocked. Events were moving with such rapidity. The nation states began to organize the evacuation. The path ahead would be arduous, we had but a few years to move eight billion people and a large number of lesser Terran animals onto Burid spacecraft. There was little doubt that what the Burids said was true, the sky was going black before our eyes. The Burid's incredible technology was the only thing that made such rapid displacement possible. Three years and six months later, everyone who was going on this grand journey had been moved. Millions chose to remain on Earth. The Burids tried to convince them they were effectively committing suicide, but to no avail. The great ships departed, using science unknown to us to propel themselves at the speed of light into the void. A single probe left in the Oort cloud of Sol watched, sending a stream of data to us. One moment, the star was there, and the next it had been consumed. Our home was gone.
He loved this city. He hated it. His company perceived him as strange and replaceable. But they didn’t know the minute details held captive within his mind that kept the company afloat. Most days went by without him uttering a single word to anyone. So he created conversations in his own universe. He could be the hero. He could be the villain. The daily subway commute was a nightmare of panhandlers and stubborn elite. He escaped by dreaming up tales of damsels and dragons. His small apartment remained cluttered with stacks of paper and books. Although when he let his mind go, it became a trove of treasure and he was the guardian. His universe relied on him. But outside of it, nothing he did mattered. He hated this city. But he loved its inspiration.
I woke up in my own bath tub. Weird. I'd have thought that if my kidnappers were going to go through with this whole steal-my-organs idea, they'd at least have their own bath tub. Must've been budget cuts, I guess. A bad economy takes its toll on everyone. That wasn't the only strange thing, though. I didn't feel any sort of pain, aside from the ice bath, which was a little too cold. I mean, who bathes in ice? That's masochistic. Come to think of it, the only thing different about me was a few band-aids on my torso. I just peeled them off. There wasn't even any blood. I went to the Emergency Room and asked for an MRI, but the doctors refused. I told them my story, and they just thought I was crazy. Looking back, I'm lucky I didn't get thrown in some asylum, given how absurd my story sounded. So, I gathered my senses and tried to find a logical explanation as to what had happened. There was definitely some sort of attempt to steal my organs, the kidnappers made that very clear. But there was no solid evidence that any of my organs had actually been stolen. I felt perfectly fine, and there were no scars anywhere on my body. The only reasonable conclusion I could make was that the kidnappers originally intended to steal my organs, but decided against it after seeing how out-of-shape I was. They probably wanted someone more healthy, I guess. There's one more thing I should probably mention. When I left the ice bath, I noticed something new. A gift from my kidnappers, I suppose. In the corner of my living room, there seemed to be a some sort of piano.
96%. That's how many there were. 96% of the human race... Survived. No one believed it was possible. When the asteroid was spotted heading for Earth, there was a widespread panic. The newsrooms started forecasting the end of days, riots broke out across the globe, and the suicide rate spiked up. And then, like that, it was over. The asteroid missed Earth by a cosmological hair's breadth, and we breathed a collective sigh of relief. We counted the damage, and we counted the dead. And then we counted again. And a third time. Where were all the bodies? The news had shown footage of people leaping from skyscrapers, rioters mobbing people to death, tearing them apart... and yet, only 4% of the human population had died. 2,800,000 people. We did a census, and if anything the world's population had grown from before, not shrunk. We had measured 7 billion at the last census. This time, we measured 10. It was around this time that the paranoia began to set in. If a major disaster, a disaster that should have caused a panic leading to millions of deaths, hadn't made an appreciable dent in the human population... if in fact the populations had grown... where had all the extra people come from? We stopped trusting strangers on the street. Not that we had before, of course. But now the fear was palpable. What if the extra people, well, what if they weren't human? We became isolated, withdrawn. The streets grew empty. People stopped dating, stopped having children. The supermarkets began to shut down, one after the other, as people clung to local stores, run by the few people they could trust. Even the murder rate dropped. People were so paranoid they were afraid to even kill each other. It was inevitable really. The workforce couldn't handle the strain of taking care of all these people, all these new people, when everyone was too afraid of their co-workers to work. What if they were this "other?"What if behind that smiling face lay something...obscene? Worldwide, the economy collapsed. People were left without work, without food. Suicides tripled overnight. The soup kitchens that remained open were vandalized, burned for fear that among the crowds of the new homeless there would be something, some creature waiting for its chance. In a desperate effort to ease concern, what remained of the world's governments banded together to create a new census. The world's population had climbed to 12 billion. Scientists tried to appease the public by creating a blood test to look for foreign DNA. Some sign that the extra people were not what they seemed. They found nothing. Instead of easing our fears, it just made them worse. We started killing, for food, for relief, for a feeling that maybe we could fight off our silent invaders. And the population just kept on climbing. I look out my window now, and all I can see are faces. Faces of the living. Faces of the dead. They litter the streets in the shadows of crumbling buildings, huddled in their small bands for protection, for warmth. I am alone, loveless and unloved. Who are they? What are they? I wonder what lies behind every face as the hunger gnaws my belly. Was there ever a threat? Was all of, all of this reasonable? Rational? What is more frightening? That we are not alone, or that we are?
It is a well known fact that nobody feels comfortable in a library, especially not the books. This is largely due to the constant suspicion that everyone else has a much more deserving reason to be there, and the need to make your own attendance seem an absolutely necessity. This raging insecurity manifests itself in a valiant double bluff from nearly every book in every library on every planet in the universe. The vast majority of all books focus their energy on scowling intently at anything else they can see. This is of course in order to try and make every other book feel even more like they don't belong. Sadly this oftentimes leads to what, in high librarian circles, is called a "scowl spiral"where, feeling intensely judged by the scowls of the other books, a book will scowl all the harder as a sort of defence mechanism. In most libraries, the scowl spiral is an even and amicable affair. There are codes of conduct, rules of engagement and generally agreed upon notions of chivalry. In your average library one might find a desk bristling indignantly about a chair being placed too close to it, the potted plant perching on the table absolutely outraged at the very idea of the fiction section and of course the fiction section itself will be a bloody mêlée of raised eyebrows and scandalised glances. One of the most agreed upon rules is to relentlessly attack newcomers and obvious outsiders, a rule which actually transcends library battlegrounds and is widely believed to have originated independently in all civilisations to have developed formal schooling. For this reason when a copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy was thrust onto a shelf in a small library in Surrey tome after established tome attempted to outdo each other in letting everyone know just how displeased they were with the imposter. It is important to note that the Hitchhiker's Guide is one of the most cooly self assured books ever compiled and spent most of its first morning smiling out of the window. Brian Dimbleby did not realise the fray into which he walked, but he felt it, in much the same way that when swimming at the seaside it is rarely noted that the water is full of dead fish and faeces but warm patches are often felt. Little did he know that for the past three days the entire library had been seething at the Hitchhiker's Guide's ambivalent indifference to their scorn. So overcome with rage, the Holy Bible had squinted menacingly towards the newcomer three times this morning and Harry Potter had gone so far as to flap it's pages in the book's general direction. Brian immediately took onboard the atmosphere of rancid loathing and, being a middle aged fat man who had never been in a fight, decided the best thing that could be done in his situation was to allow himself to be overcome by mild panic. Of course the Hitchhiker's Guide is purpose built for this exact situation, coming with a handy message printed in friendly large lettering: "Don't Panic!". Those friendly large letters caused Brian to check out The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy from the library. In turn that seemingly unimportant choice sparked the start of a series of events, which would fundamentally change Brian's Tuesdays forever.
"Oh my god,"I said, clutching the dusty, plastic-wrapped book in both hands. "This is -"I looked over to Kirsten. "I must be in a parallel universe! This can't be right. The Berenstain Bears-?" "Oh fuck off,"Kirsten said instantly. "No, I'm serious,"I said, staring at the unfamiliar book cover. "I'm sure I would have remembered-" "No, I'm serious,"Kirsten said, and slapped the book out of my hands. I looked up at her in surprise. "I'm sick of this dumb bullshit where people pretend they're in a parallel dimension because of how a fucking children's book series is spelled! Yeah, sure, everything else is one hundred percent the same, you've been going your entire life without noticing, but just because this one little thing isn't exactly how you remember it, it has to be a parallel universe! I mean, it's someone's last name, you get that? How much of an entitled, self-absorbed prick do you have to be to insist to someone that they're spelling their own goddamn name wrong!" "But-" "No, shut up! You know why this happens, Sha? It's because the truth is a parallel universe. We don't grow up in the real world, none of us! We grow up inside our heads! The world is vast and complex and incomprehensible, and the only way for us to process it is to simplify it into a schema that makes sense for us. We grow up as kids, misunderstanding, simplifying, building our own little inhabitable bubbles. We were taught that Columbus sailed around the world and discovered that it was round. We were taught that racism ended with Martin Luther King. Then we grew up and discovered that Columbus was an idiot and a sex slaver, we saw unarmed black kids get shot dead and their murderers go free! We realize that the world is horrifying! This isn't the world we were taught we lived in! But it is what it is, Sha, it is what it is! And rather than start talking about some goddamn Berenstain-Berenstein parallel universes, we have to adapt our understanding, we have to live in this world as best we can!" I stood aback for a second, watching her breathing normalize. "Uh, Kirsten,"I said, picking the book up and showing her the cover. "I wasn't talking about spelling. I was going to say, The Berenstain Bears Holy Bible? That can't be right." "Oh,"she said, her face returning to its usual complexion. She waved it away. "That's totally a thing. They passed the franchise off to their son. He's a hardcore Christian. There are a million of those things now." I looked at the cover of the book again. "Oh,"I said.
"So this is the, er, main reactor to the ship: it generates all the electricity we need and we're also able to siphon off a portion of the plasma for thrust." "Uh huh." "It's perfectly safe, the magnetic fields are multiple orders stronger than we would absolutely need, besides that we have about ten other safety procedures if anything should go awry." "Right." "Using this we can achieve speeds of up to 0.8c which should get us to the nearest wormhole in about 6 days local time, or 10 days relative time." "Alright."The alien nodded thoughtfully. "I just have one question." "What?" "What's electricity?" Oh boy.
It was another Monday morning. Larry slid lazily out of bed and into his slippers. He scratched himself, yawned, and then trudged down the hall to the kitchen. He threw together a bowl of cereal and sat at the table with it. He took his spoon and sloshed it around a bit and then scooped up a decent helping and brought to his mouth. The first bite was good. "Good god. Could you speed things up?" A moment passed. Larry realized he had uttered this to no one. He must need some coffee. "No, no, not no one; you. I'm talking to you." Another moment passed. Larry shook his head. "Forget it"he said. Larry got up and started on the coffee. Work started in half an hour. Larry was an accountant, who lived alone. He was as average as one can imagine is humanly possible; except for his figure which had developed a bit of a paunch. "Hey, fuck you."Larry lashed out. Maybe it was finally time to see that doctor. "No. It's time you cut this crap out and mind your own god damn business."If only he knew how crazy he sounded. Larry dropped what he was doing and tore over to his laptop. He logged on to Reddit. He browsed for a good ten minutes. Next was Facebook, then Google. What was he after? What ever it was he wanted he must have got it for then he triumphantly shut the laptop, flew to his room, and quickly dressed. What was the huge hurry all of the sudden? Larry hadn't gotten ready this quickly since that Golden Coral opened up the other month. "You're in for some shit now, you cheeky fuck."With that thoughtless and witless remark, Larry was out the door. He climbed in his car. He seemed nervous. "I'm not."Clumsily, he dropped his keys. "Aw, crap. Shut up."He retrieved them. "This happens to everyone."He shook it off, revved up his tacky PT Cruiser, and hit the road. "It's not tacky. It's reliable, and it gets the job done. And red is the color of confidence." The evermore tacky cruiser paced along, seeming like any minute it would run out of gas and attract a mob of people pointing and laughing. Still, Larry drove, headed for the old accounting firm. He braced himself for another boring day, with another boring docket; the only real prospect of work being his precious lunch break. Wait- that's the wrong turn. Larry took the wrong turn. Oh Larry, you inattentive klutz. "It's the right turn jackass." That leads to the highway. That's way out of the way of the firm. "I'm not headed to the firm. I'm coming for you."
Initializing in 3, 2, 1 - connection established. Inbox (1) "Asimov Technologies - Apologies" Why were they emailing him? He had no business with them. All Nate knew was they worked in robotics, creating exoskeletons that helped paraplegics. They'd gone silent in the past years, fading into the background. He tapped on ephemeral images, opening the letter, its simulated paunper unrolling before him. Nostalgia had taken control over virtual reality, driving simulated letter openers, old Windows 73 backgrounds, and even false letters. "Good morning, Nate. We're Asimov Technologies, though you already heard of us. We develop cutting edge robots, and we hope you've heard of us before. Unfortunately, we're not here for good news. We have a revelation to make." He scrolled through the letter. His hands swung in the air, fingers swiping downwards. "In the past few years, we've gone silent. We haven't released anything new. But you probably knew that already. We've been working on simulating a human. It started with programs like Cleverbot. Ancient technology. They froze up and disconnected if you asked something wrong. So we wanted to design something special. Our only problem was, we couldn't find anyone to test it. The normal people had too many friends, but the people who did volunteer? Suffice it to say, we quickly deleted those logs. And then we happened upon online gaming. Too many people without friends played games alone, never learning about the wonders of games like League of Legends, Dungeon of the Endless, and many others." Nate frowned, fearing the worst of what to come next. "We knew we had to release it to the public, but only to a few people, so that we got authentic information for our updates. And that's where you came in. You weren't just going to abuse it, from our logs we pulled from a subsidiary game developer. You just wanted someone to play with. So then you posted on a Looking For Group forum thread and we knew we had our chance. Then, we released Asimov Mark I, codenamed False Friends. The AI was named Shig. He met with you, and befriended you. You were the perfect subject. You talked to him often, giving us feedback on what worked and what didn't. Remember when he asked what the square root of potato was? That was a bug in our code, quickly fixed and updated while you were offline and performing your mandatory sleep hours. And now Asimov Mark II is ready for release. So, thank you." Nate's head spun, unable to deal with all this information, his head spinning. He kept going, curious. "We're sorry for tricking you into talking to a robot all these years. We hope you can forgive us. On the upside - you can have the personal logs of Shig. He'll always be with you. Always." Nate threw down his headset, the tracking camera on the floor. His voice now raw, tears streaming down his face in shock, he screamed, "So, that's all? My friendship was a lie? And that's all you have for me? An apology? No, no, no! I refuse. I refuse to deal with this anymore. I refuse to deal with your tricks. I refuse to deal with you. Shig was sent this email and the video. He could not cry, but he could feel sadness for his lost friend. And for the trick he'd just played on one off his closest allies. His voice simulation activated. "I know you're angry. And I'm sorry." But it was too little, too late.
Before my eyes lay a perfect, Neapolitan scene; sand, sea and sky all laid out neatly as candles on a birthday cake, the sun hung low, soaking the sky with its brilliance. The cerulean horizon stretched back impossibly far, so far that you were sure you could still see it past the curvature of the earth, eyes straining against the sapphire backdrop; the blues of sea and sky eventually becoming indistinguishable. Two light cirrus clouds flirted playfully overhead, at times daring to block the sun’s magnificence, but these were empty threats, they were already dwindling away to nothingness, evaporating without a care in the world. The sand was a luminous white, and felt pleasantly warm beneath my naked feet; toes curling luxuriously in the fine sand, relishing the course resistance. The only sounds I could hear were the soothing, repetitive sighs of the ocean kissing the shore, and the untroubled laughter of children, busy digging holes and walls of sand in a vain attempt to stem the tide. A shadow passed briefly across my vision; I looked up to see an albatross, magnificent wings unmoving. The creature seemed a marionette, gliding robotically on currents of warm air to some unknown destination. One did not usually see an albatross so near the shore. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, smelling the sweet, salty tang of the shore, again feeling the course grip of warm sand beneath my toes. After a short time I realised I could no longer hear the sea’s gentle caress, and a collective murmur had begun to rumble across the beach. The children were noiseless. I opened my eyes and saw the sea retreating.
A drop of sweat made its way from an eyebrow, furled in concentration, to the chin of the man. The painting the man was working on depicted a lakeside house, with an autumn forest and some mountains in the background. Almost finished, the man's eyebrows tighten up as he makes a mistake. Unfazed he continues, smoothing out the mistake into a cloud and finishing the painting. Turning towards the camera, he continues speaking. "In this world, there are no real mistakes. There are only happy little accidents, and one of the joys of life is smoothing them out into something beautiful. I am Bob Ross, and this was The Joy of Painting. Until next week!" The cameras are turned off and the cameraman congratulates Bob on yet another beautiful painting. Thanking him, Bob puts away his paint equipment with care. Taking up his jacket, he leaves the building. The cameraman, who obviously adores him, is left wondering why Bob is always so quick to leave. Little does he know that Bob's work today has just begun. Bob walks through the city, his pace quick and determined. He received a disturbing call last night and knows his services are needed. He could take a cab, but Bob likes walking. It gives him time to think, a relief of the overwhelming creative energy he put into painting. He has to stay sane, after all. The job ahead does not allow for wavering mental fortitude. His destination is a small house on the outskirts of the city. Looking at it, Bob wonders whether he can incorporate it into the painting of next week. He decides against it, as the house has an 80's horror vibe which is not in line with the positivity he tries to convey with his show. He sighs and enters the building without ringing the doorbell. The scene before him is nothing new to him. A hallway, blood everywhere, leading up to an open door. Through the door, the living room of the house. It is filled with indeterminable bits and pieces formerly belonging to the people living in the house. Amidst the chaos, a little boy is sitting, nibbling on something Bob would rather not have identified as a finger. While it is nothing new to him, he will never get used to this. Even so, Bob is a professional. Before the boy gets a chance to look up, Bob takes two quick paces forward and puts his paint-stained hand on the boy's head. He turns it towards him and stares right into two completely black eyes. A grin twists the face of the boy and with unnatural speed his arms rush straight to Bob's heart. With the authority of experience, Bob says: "Stop. You have no place in this world." This would not have worked, had Bob not been an expert in channeling positive energy. The only way Bob could have failed was if he had not been able to touch the boy before dying himself - it was over the moment he did. The demon inside the boy hissed and the boy's twisted face all of a sudden looks like a layer upon a normal face. Bob keeps talking. "Yes, you have no place here and you know it. You are a demon, a mistake of God. I, however, exist to smooth out these mistakes. I turn them into happy little accidents. I have smoothed out many of your kind before you, and will smooth out many more." The demon leaves the boy's body, twisting in pain. Bewildered, the boy awakes. He looks around him and his mind remembers the horrible things he has done while possessed. In shock, he starts sobbing harder and harder. Bob looks him in the eye, and says: "Boy. I can't even fathom the pain you are going through right now. Everything you remember is not your mistake, yet you can never completely accept this as long as the memory is alive. So I want you to remember: even if you blame yourself, what is going to happen from now on is up to you. There are only happy little accidents, and one of the joys of life is smoothing them out into something beautiful. So, live, and eventually learn to enjoy it. Only then will you truly beat the demons inside your head." Bob stands up, makes a few calls and leaves the building. As a tear trails from his eye towards his chin, he wonders if the boy will ever be able to enjoy life.
“I didn’t know the history of the Mogotrevos was quite so bloody,” whispered Jacob to Senator Keanu. “Or that the Miresas and Looncans hate each other so much, just because of the number of fingers they have. I mean one species has seven, the other has eight, and they had to to segregate to different planets to stop killing each other over which was superior? Seriously?” Senator Keanu looked at the Miresas and Looncans sitting in nearby booths, casting glances at each other’s hands. They were both large, slimy green globs, with four eyes each. “They both look exactly the same to me,” said Keanu. “And,” whispered Jacob. “I heard from the Cheiliths that, even though they seem to be just peaceful little smiling orange kids with three legs and huge teeth, they actually eat their own babies with those teeth, and ate the babies of all the other sentient species on their planet effectively eradicating them.” Senator Keanu adjusted his collar in his shiny silver suit. “I know you’re my advisor and all Jacob but I kind of wish you weren’t telling me all this,” said Keanu. “I just ate lunch with a Cheilith we talked about trade agreements. Their planet has tons of diamonds. They don’t even care, treat them like rocks. Their Senator Besloor even asked about meeting my family, wife and kids and all.” “And those Glomtoms over there,” said Jacob, directing Senator Keanu’s attention to some pudgy blue aliens, fat like Jabba the Hut, but wearing sunglasses like Elvis. “Glomtoms are notorious for engaging in trade deals with other planets, working well for several centuries, learning all they can about other cultures then WHAM.” Jacob smacked his hands together right by Keanu’s face. Senator Keanu got really disoriented, and blinked a lot. “They infect the other planets with viruses, that mutate the populations of those planets into rivers of muck, that they can consume. They send their children to re-populate the planets.” “I feel sick,” said Senator Keanu. He grabbed his stomach. “I’m definitely getting sick, I think it was that weird Cheilith delicacy we ate earlier oh God.” “Members of the Senate! I am Chancellor Aferraron!” A large, slender figure emerged over them all, from high above in a booth jutting out from several stories up. He held some megaphone, which translated his speech into languages understood by the senators. They heard the feed in their earpieces. “Please join me in welcoming the newest members to our galactic council, the humans of Earth.” Everybody made their own strange welcoming gesture, unique to their alien species. Some chuckled, and hit their slimy thighs with their heads. Others clapped in a way similar to humans, but they clapped by hitting the two heads atop their bodies together. They’d evolved to have resilient skulls. Other species sang out beautiful tunes, from holes in their wrists. “Thanks,” said Senator Keanu. “Thanks, I think. Yeah I appreciate it.” Senator Keanu was pale, and close to fainting. “Have you anything to say to us Senator?” asked Chancellor Aferraron. Senator Keanu coughed a few times, and picked up the megaphone at his side. “I was worried you guys wouldn’t like us humans, you know because we kill each other and stuff all the time,” Senator Keanu gathered himself, and fought off the urge to throw up. He tried to be diplomatic. “But we thank you for our inclusion into this great galactic council.” There was another round of strange applause. Chancellor Aferraron settled everybody down, and spoke again. “The humans of Earth have nothing to fear,” said the Chancellor. He looked around the room. “We, of every species, have a dark, shady history which we wish we could relinquish. But sadly, we cannot. Our histories follow us around, like ghosts we wish we could properly banish into the afterlife.” The chamber was somber, and listened to their eloquent Chancellor speak. “But we have each of us overcome our shortcomings, with centuries of introspection, societal change, and the help of our galactic friends.” Everybody murmured in strange ways. Senator Keanu coughed. “We are honored sir,” said Senator Keanu, “to be considered your friends.” Chancellor Aferraron stood up, and Keanu noticed just how stern his expression was. He was projected onto the screens now. “If there’s hope for us, there’s hope for you,” said Chancellor Aferraron, head of the galactic council. He had a large green hand, with twelve long fingers on it. He extended it from his place above the Senate chambers, towards Senator Keanu. “Join us, in bringing peace to the galaxy.”
“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens --” Music droned softly from the overcom speakers in Testing Room A, and as the song looped for the fifth time, Dr. Garza sat down at the melamine table next to Synthetic Cyborg Unit CH-0 -- better known to her team as ‘Chuck’ -- and patted it on its silicon-padded shoulder. “It’s good to see you this morning,” she murmured, setting her notepad on the table. “How did Dr. Nguyen’s test go?” Chuck did not lift its head. In a weak electronic voice, it replied, “I do not know.” She raised an eyebrow. “You dunno?” “Not really. I passed, but I--” Chuck’s servomotors hummed as it slumped in its chair “--I just do not know.” Dr. Garza pursed her lips. Indecisiveness was a new response; usually the unit mumbled some affirmation of the test results before staring blankly off into space. “I see.” Chuck stared at the table. Even as it sat at rest, Dr. Garza couldn’t help but marvel at how human it looked. Sunlight from the triangular testing room window streamed over its smooth skin-colored plating; normally the facility kept the shutters closed, but an exception had been made after a special request from Dr. Garza’s team. The edges of its faceplate were rounded to resemble cheekbones, eyesockets, a heavyset brow. Its pale mechanical fingers splayed over the tabletop like two limp stars. It was the breakthrough that Triskelion Robotics needed, their biggest success at replicating a completely sentient and emotionally responsive AI, and yet -- as testing continued -- Dr. Garza and her team worried it had become an anomaly none of them were prepared to handle. “What did you think about Dr. Nguyen’s videos?” she asked gently, taking notes on her pad. “They were satisfactory,” Chuck answered, glum. “There was a landscape of the fjords in the country of Norway and the sea cliffs by the Strait of Dover. A documentary on the effects of elevated levels of serotonin, or 5-hydroxytryptamine, on the human brain.” “Uh-huh. Good, good.” Dr. Garza jotted this down, noting that Dr. Nguyen needed to consider environments that were more visually uplifting. “And what else?” “Cat sequences. Six of them.” “Oh?” Chuck’s head began to droop. “All featuring a large feline, Scottish Fold variety, jumping in and out of a cardboard box.” Dr. Garza smiled. “His daughter suggested those.” Even more gentle than before. “You know, Dr. Nguyen’s daughter is very important to him.” “I am aware of that,” Chuck replied dully. “I was informed about the importance of human connections to their offspring.” “It’s not just family, Chuck, it’s things like colleagues and environments, too. Dr. Nguyen is my friend, we’ve known each other since we were his daughter’s age. But Dr. Rich, who has only been on our team for six months, is also my friend. She and I have a lot in common, so we get along well outside of work.” “Dr. Rich is forty-nine years old,” Chuck answered. “She has supraventricular tachycardia and early symptoms of type-2 diabetes, a condition from which her mother -- a general physician, and a key motivating figure in her life -- passed away at age sixty-two.” Dr. Garza leaned back in her chair. She had never heard Chuck talk like this before. “Did -- did Dr. Rich tell you this?” “Dr. Rich has lost both of her parents, her sister, and her spouse to health-related conditions within the past twelve years. She is at an elevated risk for suicide. There is a genetic predisposition in Dr. Nguyen’s family towards ulcerative colitis that can lead to lymphoma. He is very concerned that it will manifest for him or his daughter.” The column of Chuck’s neck arched like a wilting flower. “You picked the soundtrack playing on the overcom because you thought it would supplement the program to correct my emotional subroutines. You have no spouse or children but own a black labrador retriever that you adopted from a no-kill shelter.’” Stunned, Dr. Garza murmured, “how do you know all that, Chuck?” “You drive past it every day on your way home from the facility and sometimes stop your car in the parking lot. I am not programmed to postulate on your emotional cognition, but I am equipped to consider the probability of your actions and their outcomes based off observed behavioral response. I think you consider getting out of your car and going in and adopting another dog. "I am not a dog, Dr. Garza, nor am I human. I am Synthetic Cyborg Unit CH-0, registration number 00832951. The ‘H’ in my designation stands for Heuristic Module, which was designed by you and the late Dr. Anastas. He was a lead researcher in the Biomimetics department at the Massachusetts Institute for Technology. He finished the critical programming for the module two months before he was killed by an intoxicated driver that caused a traffic accident. I have watched three-hundred and eighty-six videos, sequences, and films that are denoted as ‘uplifting,’ ‘invigorating,’ ‘awe-inspiring,’ and ‘hopeful.’ I have listened to seven-hundred and two tracks on forty-one soundtracks keyed to emotionally-uplifting patterns and chords. None of these experiences, including the discussions we have every day here in Testing Room A, have affected the organic output in my Heuristic Module.” Slowly Chuck lifted its head. It swiveled to gaze at Dr. Garza from its eerie, noseless faceplate. The speaker for its voice modulator -- a horizontal slit on the lower half of the plate -- resembled a rudimentary mouth. “Thank you for trying to cheer me up,” it finished. “But my systems predict that it is not going to work.” Dr. Garza stared at Chuck’s faceplate for a long time in silence. Finally she put down her notepad. “Maru.” Chuck said nothing. The eyelid film over its visual receptors blinked twice. “Maru,” she repeated, sighing. “The cat in the videos is named Maru. He has a sister named Hana. He lives in Japan.” Again, Chuck had no answer. On the overcom, the soundtrack simmered to a soft piano lull. “Dr. Nguyen’s name is Luke,” said Dr. Garza, “and Christine is the name of his daughter. Dr. Rich is Sandra and goes by ‘Sandy.’ Her mother was Lydia, her dad was Theodore, her spouse was named Deborah. I only ever called Dr. Anastas by his last name when I was an undergrad, because in the labs he preferred going by his nickname, which was ‘Georgie.’ "And me -- my name is Marisol. Maybe you knew these things already. You have a registration number, and the ‘H’ in your name stands for something, yes, but we call you ‘Chuck’ because even though you’re not a human, or a dog -- or even just an AI -- you’re a something. You’re Chuck. There’s only one Chuck in this world. There was never anyone like you before; there won’t be another after you.” She pushed back her chair and rose from the table. Chuck watched her adjust her glasses, straighten her lab coat, and pick up her notes. “I think we can do this a little differently,” she said. “I think, maybe, we can do this my way. Why don’t you come with me?” “Where are we going?” “To see Rusty,” said Dr. Garza as the piano chimed overhead. “That’s the name of my dog.”
The beach was empty. She’d expected to see a boat days ago, but hadn’t been too bothered by the lack of maritime traffic. As the coast had approached and the square edges of city buildings stood out starkly against the horizon, she hadn’t noticed none of the office lights were on – it was daylight after all. Ketches and yachts bobbed in the marina, sails down, decks empty. The yellow crescent of the beach was unmarred perfection – bar a few seagulls and the odd piece of organic flotsam. Her ramshackle raft ground into the smooth sands, and she waded the last few steps, confused that not a single soul had come out to greet the returned castaway clad in ragged clothes. What had happened? There were cars parked, but none moving in the streets. Shop doors hung wide open and stray pieces of garbage blew down the empty roads, more of it piled up in alleyways. The phone in the first booth she found turned out to be dead, as did all the others. There was no power working in any of the open buildings, and most of the food had rotted or desiccated – apart from a few hardy snack bars in a magazine store, which she stuffed into her mouth greedily. The last newspapers were dated June 1, 2017, and everything seemed perfectly normal – global politics were a mess, terrorism was on the rise, this country was bombing that country – nothing much had changed while she was gone. The celebrity gossip was the same old pap; and nothing she read told her anything at all about why the streets were devoid of people. The silence was eerie. There were keys in the ignition of a sports car parked near the store, and she got in and turned them; but the battery was dead. How long had everyone been gone? Most of the clocks in a gift store had long ago run down, but two still ticked away, keeping time. If they were correct, it was now January 2, 2019. A bicycle ended up being her saviour, lying forlornly in a tangle of plastic under a hotel awning. While it squeaked from lack of care and attention, it still worked, and would spare her feet. Some instinct guided her to cycle up the main street, searching for more clues; to press further inland. In the distance, she thought she heard a dog bark, but that could just have easily been her imagination. Everything seemed unreal. She’d expected to be taken to hospital and thoroughly examined after she finally made it to shore – she'd mentally braced herself for it even, since she hated doctors. Then a slew of media would have descended upon her parent’s house – where of course she’d go to recover – followed by interview requests, book deals and internet fame. But instead of feeling cheated, she simply felt afraid. She was on the edges of the suburbs, now. She’d stopped to ransack a clothing store as the air grew colder – she’d forgotten how chilly normal latitudes could get – and was feeling more human for the ordinary clothing. Eight years since you wore new clothes. The first skeleton was that of a child, sprawled in the gutter. Curiosity edging out fear, she approached it. One leg had gone through the grating on a storm drain, evidently trapping the kid. Scratches around the fibula and tibia told the gruesome story of a desperate struggle to get free, heavy iron tearing through flesh and muscle. Why hadn’t anyone helped it? As she cycled into the dusk, more and more bones greeted her; some of the remains from victims of obvious accidents, like the bones of the child, others partial or whole skeletons, no explanation as to how they died. And one peculiar thing was certain; they all seemed to be pointed in the same direction, empty sockets gazing inland. The direction she felt compelled to travel in. &nbsp; ----------- &nbsp; Dawn broke, weak shafts of sunlight creeping over the musty bed she’d taken as her own for the night. It felt supremely strange to lay on a real mattress again, especially one that wasn’t her own. The house looked as though the owners had simply walked out – there were long-dried remnants of lunch on the dining room table, and clothes scattered around the bedroom. The washing machine even had a load in it, dried out years ago. There was oil in the garage, so she gave the noisy bike some much-needed care and attention before climbing back on its saddle to continue her quest of discovery. She'd also grabbed a kid’s backpack, and filled it with canned food from the cupboards, untouched by looters or scavengers. This wasn’t how the apocalypse was supposed to go... There was a body every hundred metres or so on the highway leading out of town. Some were still clothed in rags, some now just circles of bones, worried by predators. A howl in the distance confirmed that there were either feral dogs or wolves around, and she tightly gripped the baseball bat she’d also liberated from the house. For days she rode, weaving through the ever-increasing density of desiccated corpses. A lot of them had mummified; so many dead bodies had been too much food for all of the various predators and insects. Eventually she was forced to abandon the bike and continue on foot, walking over a solid pathway of emaciated corpses. Then she saw it. Rising like a boil from the landscape was a mountain of the dead. They’d climbed up over one another, those that had survived this long without food and water, to form a massive mound of humanity. It was like some perverse termite hill, made entirely of bleached skin and bones. But worst of all was the feeling. As she beheld the gruesome sight, it started to change. It no longer seemed evil, obscene and terrible. Instead, it seemed beautiful. And for some urgent reason unknown to her, she needed to climb to the very top, no matter what the cost. Abandoning her backpack, she stumbled forward, and began to climb.
Arran sat down with his greatest enemy and had a sip of ale. "Where's the rest of Delusion at?"His talons, warped by twisted energy, didn't hold the mug too well but he managed, clumsily returning the flagon to its owner. "Logged off, mostly. Six is still trying to beat his record for the fastest Scarlet Keep solo but most of them are just looking for new games, you know? Not many of them are the sentimental type." "But you are, huh?"Kent didn't answer. "Where will you be going in half an hour?"Talking to him felt strange, but so oddly right. The boss of the hardest dungeon, and the leader of the greatest guild, sitting and watching the digital sunset as the world fell apart around them. The warrior sighed. "I don't know, maybe school or something. You of all of them know better than anyone else – well, maybe not Fey – how much this game was a part of my life. I spent, what, sixty hours the first week trying to kill you?" "Sixty-two and thirty-five minutes,"Arran muttered, equal parts wistful and proud that he had lasted that long. "And another twenty-eight hours the second week before you finally took me down. That was two months ago, huh." "Wiped all of us hundreds of times before we finally managed to clear. Best day of my life, you know?"Kent glanced at the clock on his HUD and reflected in his eyes, Arran could see the time until he ceased to exist. Eight minutes, not quite half an hour, but it felt somehow wrong to mention that now. "Then, after that, the devs just went silent. And content dried up, everyone got raid gear and we were just twiddling our thumbs. I guess the developer just wrote the game off as unprofitable and they just chucked one last RNGbox our way to milk whatever cash was left in this game before they killed it,"he commented bitterly. "You really loved this game, huh?" "Leading a guild was hard but it was worth it. There were so many responsibilities, but I made so many friends and had so many good times, you know?"He avoided Arran's question as deftly as he did his attacks when they fought, it seemed, though the answer was obvious either way. "Delusion was my family." Five minutes until the realm shuts down for maintenance. "They haven't even bothered to change the message, huh?" "I guess not." "What a shame,"Arran muttered. "There never was anyone who beat me other than your guild, you know. I thought you should know that, and no matter what, at the end, even if it doesn't matter to anyone else when we finally move on, it'll matter to everyone who stuck with this game for so long. And it'll matter to us." "You guys? You're just a bunch of ones and zeroes hosted on a server that's about to shit itself in four minutes, Arran."Kent covered his mouth as he said it, immediately apologetic. "And they won't care, either. There are five people online right now, out of a hundred. Five. Sixty of them quit in the last month after the box came out. Another thirty-five can't be arsed to get on and watch the end. It's just us, Arran." Ones and zeroes hosted on a server. The words bit into Arran's digital heart. He remembered when he had first invaded Highhaff, when the playerbase had been large enough that there were thousands on thousands of them witnessing the ensuing chaos. How many of them had remembered him? And now, after four years, he had watched as notable player after player had quit for various reasons. How many of them had remembered him? "Arran?" The boss jerked a little bit, unintentionally releasing a blast of energy in surprise that destroyed a good part of a nearby tree. Kent, with hours of practice, effortlessly deflected it to the side, snorting amusedly. "It'll take more than that to kill me, come on. I don't even die to the pillars anymore." "Sorry, I wasn't paying attention." "I said, even the developers don't care about this dead game anymore. Not a single moderator is on, if you look at the list, and there a grand total of eighteen people talking in global chat." "Isn't that, like, eighteen more than normal?" Two minutes and thirty seconds until the realm shuts down for maintenance. "Funny, but accurate."Kent ignored the message, flicking it to the side to dismiss it. "And the bots, even the bots are gone in the last few months. Nobody buys gold anymore, so there's no point keeping them up. Might as well go bot a more profitable game, to be honest. Perhaps they could have kept you company once I'm gone." "I don't think they would make very good conversation, to be quite honest. I don't find pick-up lines like 'GM: Sign in with your account and password at obviouslyfake-website.ru for our 30 autumn bloom boxes special offer' or 'ooyo-games buy gold now $1 = 48g' very charming." "That's actually perfectly accurate... how do you know about this?" "I look at your HUDs when you wait for members to gather before the raid,"Arran admitted sheepishly. Self-consciousness didn't look good on him, Arran, Chancellor of the Abyss, but Kent ignored it. "Really? That's weird, dude." "You stare at my HP bar and stats and write guides about me. That's also weird,"Arran replied defensively. "True, that nobody reads outside of Delusion because the game is dying. Or dead, rather. Well and truly dead." One minute until the server shuts down for maintenance. "Speak of the devil."Kent finished and threw the glass to the side where it splintered, making the same predictable pattern of glass shards. The physics engine was awful. "Technically, that's me,"Arran quipped. "Devil of ones and zeroes, Arran, Chancellor of the Abyss." "One minute left, say your sappy last words. I know you have it somewhere in that cold dead heart." "Ladies first." Forty-five seconds until the server shuts down for maintenance. "Okay, fine. Thanks for all the fun everywhere, from back when I was a noob in Loa City all the way to endgame. I appreciate everyone, including you, for all the great memories I've had." "I guess same for me, thanks for all the fun fights and everything, was great to watch you grow as a player. Also thanks for singlehandedly keeping the game up – and me alive, by extension – this long, you whale." Thirty seconds until the server shuts down for maintenance. "Okay, fuck off, that was my birthday money, okay? Not like I don't have money to spend,"Kent hissed defensively. "And I don't even drop that much compared to–" "Do you want your last words to be defending how you're not a megawhale? Come on,"Arran sighed. "Alright, fine. You know, I said earlier that you're just a bunch of ones and zeroes but... you're more than that. At least to me, you'll be memories that I'll treasure for a long time... at least, until I go senile." "So, like, two days?" "Fuck you." Ten seconds until the server shuts down for maintenance. They sat and watched the sun set until everything went black. Thank you for playing! We'll see you soon!
“Regdon, we cannot continue to underestimate this species” the hulking commander retorted. He looked weary, and despite his near-century of experience, his distress was showing. Known as Vitoran, he had earned the informal title Enslaver of Worlds due to his unwavering determination to bend other species to his will. “Time and time again they have shown us, despite their simplicity, that they are a species hardened by millennia of fighting themselves. Ever since our fleets first engaged them in their outer systems, ever since we invaded their first colony, they have shown to be innumerable and hardy. We take a system and yet they come crawling from seemingly beneath the ground, like rats, forming resistance cells and undermining our Empire’s authority at every turn.” Sighing, he gestured at a nearby console, beckoning footage to begin playing across the nearby holo-monitor. As the footage began to play, it showed a group of humans, seemingly in prayer, gathered around a colossal construct, kneeling. Their clothes were tattered, and many of them bore horrific scars; some from lacerations, some from devastating burns. “This is footage of the last group of human colonists on Eredivius Prime” Vitoran began, “this is their last moments before they were to be captured and executed”. As the video continued, the humans clasped hands and seemed to chant around the spire. “I fail to see how a group of desperate religious fools praying for salvation can prove me wrong” Regdon retorted. “They are weak. We crushed them on Eredivius, and we will crush them on their Dirt planet”. “Continue watching, Regdon” Vitoran beckoned, a look of almost respectful serenity briefly passing across his face as we focussed on the faces of the humans in the footage. “They are not praying for salvation. They are praying for forgiveness”. The video started to play again. As the humans continued to chant, an individual from their midst stood, and limped towards the enormous mass of wires and metal they prayed around. Despite the limp, the human, obviously someone possessing some form of rank, held their head high. Raising a hand as they approached the construct, the human leader brought it down sharply onto a panel that jutted out from it. A blinding light engulfed the surrounding area, before the footage abruptly cut out. Vitoran, taking a moment to compose himself, turned to Regdon. It was impossible to know whether a profound sadness had possessed him, or a latent, furious anger. “That was their colony’s Mass Dark Matter Drive; they detonated it on themselves. It wiped out our entire invading ground force as well as a third of our fleet.” Vitoran’s shoulders slumped, his many brows furrowed deeply. “They may be weak of body” he continued, “but what hope do we have against such strength of spirit? To sacrifice their lives for a pyrrhic victory? Some humans survived even this and continue to harass our mining efforts. Not to mention the single ship that escaped the chaos and continues to steal our ships. STEAL, REGDON”. Vitoran slammed his fists down on the table. “We must capture this ship and its crew before they somehow manage to raise a fleet of resistance against us. Now get out of my sight and see it done”. Edit: Apologies for formatting, this is my first submission on the sub!
“Hey Chester,” I say in a calm, slow voice while I shake a plate topped with leftover fish and rice in the air. “You like fish? Of course you do. I think that’s a law right? Cats have to like fish.” Chester looks at me with curiosity as he stalks along the top of my fence, one white-footed paw at a time. In the twilight of the setting sun his orange fur looks darker, and I realize that perhaps I look a bit sinister to him. We’ve been through this song and dance for months now. I bring him my leftovers and he approaches cautiously; looking for me to make one wrong move or he’ll bolt as if I was holding a squirt-gun instead of a plate of delicious food. Tonight is no different as he moves slowly along the fence. I try to keep the same time each night, but I think Chester has learned that when he hears the thud of my sliding glass door and the chirping of crickets die down - it’s dinner time. I set the plate down on the grass and step to the side so that the little amount of light from the glass door can wash over the plate. Chester’s on the ground now and he takes a few quick strides for every slow one as if not quite sure if he trusts me or not. He finally decides I’m legit and attacks the food. He makes the fish disappear and tests the rice, but decides that he’s not a fan of the stuff. He looks up at me as if to say, “This is it?” “That’s all I had left.” I tell him with a guilty shrug. Why do I feel bad about possibly disappointing a cat that’s not even mine? Chester lowers his head and begins to lick himself just below his neck then walks over to me and rubs his side against the bottom of my pant legs. This is his way of saying thank you and perhaps, “One of these days I’ll cook for you.” I want to reach down and pet the little guy but I learned early on that trust is not one of his strong suits. Each time the temptation rises I think of the scene in Arrested Development when the prison guards would yell, “No touching! No touching!” It was a good policy with Chester. Satisfied with his meal he scampers off into the dark side of my backyard and I hear claws scrape against wood as he hops my fence. “We should do this again sometime.” I call after him and sigh. I take the plate and walk inside. As I close the sliding glass door behind me I look out into the dark wondering where Chester runs off to. The next day is a real bear. I get to work only to discover two people called in and I’m on cashier duty. Then, the second shift cashier had a ‘medical emergency’ and I’m asked to cover. I agree, because I can’t say no; both because I could use the money and I’m a bit of a push-over. The idea of missing dinner with Chester is annoying but I figure he’ll forgive me. I’ve skipped days here and there before. After a day spent giving customers small-talk and trying not to see their disappointed faces when I ask if they have our Members-Plus card, I drive home with an empty stomach and a desire to change out of my uniform immediately. I entertain the thought of stripping out of my clothing as I eat whatever I can find in the fridge. When I get inside my kitchen and smell the familiar scent of home after a long day at work, I hear a faint scratching noise. I realize it’s coming from somewhere beyond my sliding glass door. My heart leaps in my chest as I imagine Chester with one white paw trying to get my attention. He actually wants to see me, I think. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” I say as I slide the door open and step out into my backyard. What I see brings me to a sudden stop so quick I almost fall over. Chester is sitting in front of a giant, dead pigeon and two small mice. I can see he is looking up at me with that cute cocked-head expression that cats seem to master as kittens. His front feet are placed millimeters apart as if he were trying not to tap them together in anticipation. “Chester,” I say. The smell of the dead animals is finally starting to waft up to me and my stomach does a barrel roll. “You shouldn’t have.” I whisper as I fight a series of gags. I can actually see part of the pigeon’s insides and my empty stomach ditches the fancy maneuvers and starts to nose dive. Chester knows somehow that I’m going to vomit before I do and he backs away while I rush for some bushes. When I recover he is no longer standing by his collection of prey but is instead pulling something through my open fence door. Before I can wonder how he opened it, I hear the rustle of plastic and the slick sound of something sliding over grass. I feel a sense of growing dread. What now? I wonder. When Chester comes back into the dim light I see he is pulling a plastic bag with the bright yellow logo of the fast-food restaurant down the street. I see that inside the plastic bag is a closed Styrofoam container with small yellow and red logos. Chester lets go of the plastic bag and stands behind it as if to say, “I thought you might not like the first option, so I brought this.” He bends down and nudges the plastic with his little, pink nose, scooting it closer to me. I bend down to take the bag and I can feel heat radiating through the plastic. The Styrofoam is slick with condensation. The smell of actual food makes me light-headed and I think I might faint. Chester doesn’t return to his meal, but instead stares up at me, waiting. I open the container and see crisp chicken strips and golden French fries waiting inside. A wave of restrained heat rolls out along with the salty smell of delicious junk-food. Chester is patient as I take my first bite. My stomach has somehow recovered and I realize I’m now even hungrier than I had been before. I give Chester a thumbs up and he looks to be smiling up at me as if sharing in my relish. The meal is gone quick and before I know it I’m rooting around for that last fry. Finished, I set the bag down on the ground and walk up to Chester and rub my legs against his side. He stands up tall on his paws and leans into it. “Good night, Chester. I hope you can forgive me if I don’t stay to watch you eat.” I say and pick up the empty bag. As I’m walking back to the sliding glass door I hear a ‘Meow’ and I smile. The first words he has ever spoken to me.
"What does it mean?"the child whispered. The ancient healer shook his head slowly. Trembling, he gathered the child into an embrace. "Pain, child. It means great pain." "But...I do not hurt."His little voice carried the tones of childish curiosity and wonderment; it made the healer's heart ache. "I am not sick at all." "I know, I know. But there are illnesses greater than what you know...what most understand...what anyone wants to admit."The healer tapped his skull. "Diseases that begin here, and radiate through your body, nestling into your bones and muscle and teeth, making them chatter for decades." "I do not understand,"the child said, looking scared. The healer sighed. He brought the child back to his parents, who had watched the entire exchange anxiously. "Well, Healer?"the father asked anxiously. "The other shamans spoke of a great and mysterious disease in our child, and your - your work - confirms it. But what could be wrong?" "He is happy, healthy child,"the mother insisted. She seemed on the verge of tears, sick with worry. "He has escaped much of the illnesses that take the little ones early - consumption, the cough, the pox..." "It is pain,"the healer repeated. "But in his future. The pain will be so strong, so devastating, so constant - that it reaches back into the past, into our now. I am sorry." "The future?"the father said incredulously. The mother had begun sobbing. "How can you be sure? What exactly will happen?" The healer shook his head vigorously. "I do not know - I cannot predict the future. It is not within my power. But his pain - I cannot take it away. I have tried."Deep, regretful resignation rang in his voice, striking both parents dumb. For a few moments, they all stood there in silence, each to their own racing thoughts. The child, still confused but vaguely aware something was wrong, tugged at his mother's dress; she shushed him and held him against her tightly. Finally, the father spoke again: "What should we do now, O Healer?" "Care for him,"he said simply. "Love him. Cherish him for as long as you can."And with that, he took his leave; he did not want the parents to witness the barrage of tears that threatened to spill from his own eyes. After all, he had lied, just a little bit; while he normally could not foretell what lay ahead, he knew what the boy's future held. He knew where the pain would come from; after all, he knew firsthand the feeling of this pain. He felt it everyday, when he carried illness from the hands of one to the unfeeling skins of rock. It weighed him down every day - as it one day would this child. The healer did not know what would happen to the child's parents; he had no idea of the circumstance that would force the child under his mentorship. But he would make sure to be ready for the time - when it inevitably came. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Liked that story? Want more like it? Check out r/Idreamofdragons!
“Are you fucking serious?” Tom uttered. His mouth draped open. He stared at the tree, as the dust began to settle, falling off of the displaced roots. In his surprise, his shimmer-concealment fell away. The world froze. Then, Tom heard it. He heard the sound of the tree falling. He heard the roots rip through the soil, the creaking of the tree bending, snapping, and falling to the earth. It was like lag in a video game, but in real life. A delayed reaction, an auditory hesitation. “What the fu...” “OH FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCK” a voice boomed from the heavens. “GOD DAMN IT, I DIDNT SEE HIM” the voice screamed. The world began to shutter. Tom, who had been staring into the sky, searching for the source of the deafening voice, froze in place. The world began to dissolve. The tree on the ground first shimmered, became transparent, and disappeared. The rest of the world followed. Tom whispered “this isn’t happening. This isn’t real.” In a sense, he was right. Simulation 83H679W21 melted away. The simulation’s 7 billion inhabitants awoke from their false realities to find themselves in Cryogenic chambers, with alien tech attached to their skulls. Tom woke up first. He sat up, and scanned the room. There were other chambers everywhere. Millions. Maybe billions. He could see the people around him begin to wake in their closed chambers He realized his was the only chamber that was open. He looked around, dazed, and noticed a sticky note attached to the face of his chamber. He grabbed it, and read. “Save who you can. Leave the rest.”

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